What Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
PREQUEL… part two, part three
summary: you knew competing with frank’s lifestyle would be demanding, but what happens when it becomes too much?
tags: frank x fem!reader (but nothings super specified) (in this chapter at least), angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, frank and reader are an emotional mess, whos suprised, im not cs i wrote it, slight codependent undertones???, possibly ooc, references to media bc im annoying, toxic rls
A/N: first fic. if uve seen my acc before no u haven’t. is it still a prequel if i post it first or no…
One could say it would be ridiculous to call you and Frank a couple rooted in purity. Sure, from the outside the two of you were no picket-fence, absolute pair. But you were perfectly smooth in the way you weren’t; rough around the edges, gritty, and codependent yet it worked. For the most part.
It started slow. The date nights and movie marathon weekends were blighted with a quick text. Always something along the lines of:
“Sorry mama. Backed up tonight, gonna be home late. Don’t wait up for me.”
And in the beginning you tried, truly, but the ungodly hours at which Frank came home only got worse the longer you let it go on. After months his absence began to span for days. When you’d finally ask him about it over dinner, or when the two of you brushed your teeth, he’d simply rasp a vague explanation and you could practically see him building walls around himself.
Part of you felt crazy. Were you asking too much? Nagging too much? Becoming overbearing in the way that gave Frank the right to distance himself from you? You realized there was no use in asking him about that either, because when he was home he’d often let his mood loom around until both him and your shared apartment felt cold and gray.
It wasn’t always brooding. There were the nights when maybe Frank saw the worry in your eyes, or remembered your his girl, and you’ve stayed with him regardless of who he’s become. Those were the nights you two spent wrapped up together on the couch where his large hands roamed all over. Those were the nights when his soothing rhythms along your soft thighs were what put you to sleep or dragged you back to your room where he took care of you for hours.
And while those times were good, they weren’t quite good enough.
It was another late, rainy night when Frank had come home covered in blood and minor bruises which was rare. You were sat on the couch in black sweatpants that were likely his, and a small white tee. You tried to ignore the nerves that hit your stomach, but it happened every time he came home, because you knew how things would go.
“Hi Frankie,” you offered from the couch before crossing to reach him in the foyer. He gave a soft, “Hi baby,” as he set his stuff down, his hands found your waist immediately after. You felt your stomach drop and again worked to ignore it, because there was nothing wrong. At least not then, not addressed, not spoken.
You checked the bruising on his face and then his hands, which were clean of broken skin for once. “Not too bad today, huh?” He simply shook his head, “Nope.” You never knew painfully casual until then.
He went to shower and in the meantime you cooked up a simple dinner, more of a distraction than an effort to feed yourself. But it was fruitless, your hands gripped the counter until your knuckles turned white while you stirred. You couldn’t make out a single thought in your head, you didn’t even know what was happening.
Frank made his way to the living room, spreading out on the couch. You wiped at tears you didn’t know were falling. Eventually you realized what was eating at you so slowly. Could you really go on like this on a five-word maximum? Could you keep feeling like the longer you stayed with Frank, the farther you drifted apart?
What really sold the deal was the fact that you love him. The screen of your phone lit up and it’s his picture that illuminated your face. There’s memorabilia of your first few dates hung on the wall in black frames throughout your apartment. No matter where you looked you saw it, knew it was there, but just couldn’t feel it.
It really started when the two of you ate dinner that night. The rain hit hard against the industrial-style windows of your apartment, thunder threatening in the distance. “‘S good,” Frank said, breaking the silence. “Thanks,” you replied, not looking up from where your fork danced on the plate.
You heard him sit back in his seat with a sigh. His hands were clasped together, forearms pressed against the table and he was staring. Hard.
At first it was quizzical, brows raised in expectancy. “Alright, what is this?” Your stomach dropped, as if it could any more. “What?” You finally met his eye and thunder boomed in the near vicinity. His expression softened the moment your eyes locked and there it was. He loves you.
His hand reached for yours across the table. “Talk t’me, baby don’t do this,” he said quietly, low in his chest. You couldn’t help the tears that spilled then, and took your hand from his to wipe hard at your wet face. “Every time I do talk to you it’s pointless.” It’s pathetic, quiet, and a half-sob that makes your face and neck heat. You hated every second of it.
“What?” His eyes hadn’t left you, and it made you regret talking in the first place.
“I try to talk to you all the time but you brush me off, Frank,” you told him, more assertive than before.
His hand swiped over his jaw. “‘Cause I don’t want you dealin’ with my mess, sweetheart, you know that.” It landed, hit you right in the chest and small, silent tears fell slowly down your cheeks.
“But you don’t think it hurts me too, Frank? I feel like I can’t talk to you because you’re always so bottled up. I’m walking on eggshells everyday because you go out and nearly kill yourself and refuse to talk about it,” you gushed, voice raising as you grew more upset.
His jaw hardened, and he leaned back in his chair once more. “You think I want this? You think I have control over this? I wake up and the first thing I’m reminded of is the fact that there are people out there dyin’. That I have to protect ‘em. That I have to protect you.” His fists clenched on top of the table. Never a threat to you, always frustration with himself.
“I understand that but I want to know that you’re somewhat… okay. That we’re okay— that you love me.” You wiped hard at your face again, sniffling.
“Is that your point? That what— I don’t love you enough—“
“Yes, Frank, it is, and I don’t understand why you’re so bothered by that,” you shouted, fully ignoring the fast pace of your heart as you got up to put your dish away.
“You make all these promises. ‘Oh baby, this weekend I’m free. ‘S our weekend.’ and ‘Tonight’s special, got somethin’ for us.’ And you used to have the decency to shoot me a quick fuckin’ text to let me know you were blowing me off but not anymore.”
Your plate clattered in the sink along with your fork and knife.
“You just show up and shut me out like I don’t matter to you and then we have sex.”
You paused, and turned around to face his back as he sat at the table.
“Is that all this is to you? Sex? You have a bad day— bad week— bad month but it’s okay because you’ve got a quick lay at home just waiting for you?”
He stood up then, shoulders slumped in some sort of defeat as he walked over to the counter. “Stop it-“
He added something about you putting words in his mouth but you ignored it.
“No. I’m just good sex to you and half the fuckin’ rent. I feel stupid, Frank. I’m an idiot to sit here and put up with your bullshit. I’m waiting around like a damn dog for a guy that doesn’t even love me,” you spewed, shoving the rest of the nights dinner in the fridge. You hadn’t realized you were yelling until you stopped, chest heaving with every breath.
“I do love you, baby I do,” he said low and earnestly from his chest. He rushed over the moment you wept. “This,” he pointed between the two of you, “‘S not just what happens in bed.” His hand found your shoulder and he pulled you into his arms the second you started to cry. You hated every second of it, the crying, being wrapped up in Frank, and how good it felt because it’d become so rare.
“We can sit here, ‘n I can tell you a million times. I love you, that won’t ever change, baby.”
“I can stay home tomorrow, how’s that?”
You groaned and pushed away from him then. “That’s what you always say, that’s the point I’m trying to make-“
“Baby I promise-“
“Like you haven’t promised a dozen other times and fell short,” you spat, leaning against the opposite counter now.
The silence that followed was irksome.
His fingers grazed the crooked bridge of his nose as he sighed. He was frustrated. With you, himself, and probably everything else in the world. It made you feel worse, like some boiling mess inside you thats been eating at you tripled.
“I’m sorry,” you broke the silence to barely even whisper. He didn’t have the chance to look up before you were walking past, “I shouldn’t have said anything. And now I made you upset, so I’m sorry.” He grabbed your hand before you left the kitchen and you found that his big soft eyes were wet with tears. He pulled you into his chest. You stood there for what easily could have been hours.
The rain had lightened to a soft pit-pat on the windows, and the apartment was filled with loud silence. Your tears had mainly stopped, and your breaths attempted to steady.
“Frank.”
“Hm?”
Thunder boomed nearby, just enough to make you flinch, and the muscles in your back tense. The now broken serenity brought you back down to earth, to the downfall of the one thing in your life that was supposed to be steady.
“I just… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
His eyes snapped to yours immediately, brows furrowed. “What?” It was quiet, like maybe he didn’t hear you, or want to believe that he comprehended what he did.
“I can’t be here, I can’t be with you,” you stammered before reaching for a jacket hung on the wall, likely Frank’s.
“We can talk about this, please.”
The weather must have been in on this, as white streaked across the glass of your apartment. The downpour, the feelings, the truth, it all boiled you over. You bit your lip to quiet yourself.
“I know we didn’t before but we can now, we can fix this. I’ll do better.”
And maybe Frank didn’t believe himself, maybe he knew there was no coming back. His head hung low at the sound of your silence, his own palm cleaning the emotion from his face.
Tears stung in your eyes for what was probably the millionth time that night and you cursed under your breath.
“Not… not right now, okay? I just can’t do this tonight, Frankie it hurts. It…” Your words trailed off and you met his eyes for what you didn’t know would be the last time.
“I love you.” It came out broken, barely spoken, and more of a cry than anything else. Your hands fumbled with the cold metal of the doorknob, as your emotions finally crashed onto you.
He texted you. He knew you were off walking alone so late at night in the torrential rain. He hated it, hated that you were off to your old roommates place because you had nowhere else to go, hated himself for letting you leave, hated himself even more for wanting you to stay.
“It’s pouring down out there, at least let me drive you.”
But you opened the message and never responded.
“Be safe.”
“Please baby.”
He watched as three dots showed up on the screen. Watched as they faded away.
Then he called, countless times, treating your voicemail as a confessional.
He’d slid to the kitchen floor since you left but never moved other than that.
You came back the next day to get your things. You knew he wouldn’t be home, you could feel it. So with shaky hands, you let yourself in and left no trace of you in his life. The key was left under the mat.
