ily in ways u can’t understand @heartpatch - Tumblr Blog

Holding Pattern part 6

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.rated 18+ for later chapters

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Happy Frankie ... Wednesday! It's funny, when I started this story I had no idea how much it would come to mean to me. I think the formatting, the storyline, the characters, it all just fell together. Like this is a story waiting to be told in the universe and I happened to be the one putting it into words. A vessel if you will. It is quickly climbing the ranks as being my most beloved story to write. I might take a little break after this - my fingers are tired writing two intense stories at once!

This is my favorite chapter so far and for reasons I think you'll see. Don't forget to comment!

Your mother doesn't get out of bed the next day. She's exhausted, likely from last night's ordeal that she does not remember, even as she flexes her bandaged hand.

She's always a bit more lucid in the mornings, so you take the opportunity to ask her what she needs, making sure she's comfortable enough.

"I'm fine, honey," she says patting your hand, trying to hide a wince. She's in a lot of pain today. You know you'll have to prepare the morphine tablet soon. You give her a sponge bath and brush her hair.

"Is Hilary coming to visit?" She asks as you wipe under her arms. "I feel like she hasn't been here lately."

"Maybe soon."

No point telling her it's been about two months since your sister took off for a new life in Canada.

After the sponge bath you give her a cup of tepid tea when she refuses breakfast.

"I wish there was vodka in it," she jokes when you pass it her way.

You can't really smile back when she says that. Jokes of her alcoholism aren't funny to you. Not when they dominated most of your childhood.

You feel the first twist of the knife in your gut.

"I was just remembering when you got sick as a little girl. You were always so sweet," your mom says, holding the cup.

Her teeth are yellowed at the top when she smiles your way. The same hue as the former whiteness of her eyes.

"I used to love when I was sick and you took care of me," you admit quietly.

The simpering look she shoots you only serves to increase your ire. That she could lay there and pretend your childhood wasn't a blur of screaming at Hilary and drinking until she passed out.

"My friends would talk about how horrible their kids were when they were ill," your mom says with a fond look your way. "But not you. You never kicked up a fuss. Just thanked me over and over for taking care of you."

You shouldn't rise to the anger that storms within you. Shouldn't let that sweet comment from her be twisted.

Let it go. Let it go.

But you can't.

"That's because it's when you felt like a real mom."

It goes quiet for a second, the room stuffy. You study the marked walls; you note the edge of the curtain looks dingy, that you should change her pillowcase. Anything that distracts you from what you've said, but more importantly, what your mother hasn't.

"I was always a real mom," she finally says. Her voice is ragged, and her narrow chest wheezes with the effort. "I was always a real person too. It’s my first time on earth too, honey. I made mistakes just trying to figure it out. Same as you."

"You made a helluva lot more mistakes than I did," you snap back, unable to stop yourself.

And she flinches, hurt. But no satisfaction comes from that. No closure, no acceptance. It's just a cold cruelty you've thrown at a woman too weak to fight back.

It makes you feel sick to your stomach.

"I hope one day you forgive me," she says, eyes on the window.

"I do forgive you," you say with a sigh.

Her face turns your way, creased and so old. You don't remember her ever looking this old. She's not angry. Just quiet and sad. It makes you hate yourself for not controlling your temper.

"I don't know that you ever will. But you need to know that no matter what, I always loved you and your sister. I will until the day I die."

THEN

Frankie is twenty one when he returns from the army to attend his parent's funeral. He stands at the front of the church in one of his father's old suits, looking everywhere but people's faces.

Frankie's parents were in a plane crash coming back from Argentina. Their first international trip alone together since they got married. Santi relayed all of this information to you the second he got back into town.

You stare at Frankie from the pews, both taken aback at his physical change and devastated to see your friend so broken.

His hair is shorter now, his curls shorn into a slightly grown out buzz cut. It makes his face look so angular, so mature. It's taken away that sweet, soft appearance you always equated him with.

Gone is the lanky boy with long legs. Now he's muscled, solid. His shoulders have always been broad but now they fill out properly with bulging arms. Like he's a puppy who finally grew into his oversized paws.

He turns now as his aunt approaches. She's a wreck, sobbing into his shoulder, her mascara smudging on his white shirt collar. It looks like a mournful spider nearing his throat.

"¡Oh, mi dulce Francisco, el mundo es tan injusto!

She is loud and draws the attention of many attendees. Frankie doesn't seem to notice, his eyes look far away.

Of course you, Santi and and Travis are in attendance along with Hilary. Your mom is at work, unable to pass up the shift. Santi's dad is out of town. You wear a black sweater over a long black skirt you found in your mom's closet. It's too warm for a day like this, but it was the only thing that seemed appropriate.

Despite being eighteen and starting college in the fall, you feel even younger watching this display of grief. You can't help wondering how Frankie is going to manage this all himself.

You sit several pews back with your family, watching the boy - now a man - give the eulogy for his parents. You've never seen Frankie cry and even now as he stands speaking of his parents virtues, his eyes remain dry.

"My parents taught me the value of loyalty, of being brave. They showed me that love conquers all."

It's a surprisingly sweet sentiment considering the complicated relationship he had with his father.

The elder Morales often used fists instead of words while his wife sat by, ignoring it all. Frankie never spoke about it much. Not to you anyway. He always was more of a private person.

He only talked about wanting to be like his dad and joining the army. That his mom made him his favorite cake every birthday from scratch. That his dad played football with him in their backyard.

He stuck with idyllic memories and judging by the eulogy, clearly lives in them now. You can understand that.

Afterwards the reception is held at the Morales home, now solely Frankie's, you realize as you walk up the driveway with a casserole your mother made the night previous.

It's not too busy, just as the funeral wasn't. A few of his mother's friends from bridge are scattered around refilling sandwich plates and replacing beer cans.

Some of his dad's army buddies are there too, but they're really just there to drink free booze and reminisce about basic and dumb army shit.

His aunt welcomes people in, taking their food with thanks and adding it to the long table they brought in.

She kisses your cheek and says something in Spanish that you don't catch. Her floral perfume is cloying, fighting for dominance over the bouquets that line the space.

Santi is talking with Travis by the food table, their faces drawn. You move slowly through the line, grazing on sandwiches and pickles. They're sour on your tongue, the crunch satisfying.

You move to an empty spot on the wall, spine pressing against the cool stucco. You don't want to be drawn into conversation with strangers. You've always been more comfortable people watching.

You glance up, and can see where Frankie's mom stenciled some green flowers around the arch of the kitchen. Something about that personal touch makes your heart hurt.

"The mortgage is paid off, but I worry how he'll get on," an elderly woman says to another. "How will Francisco afford the taxes?"

She's got crumbs on one downy cheek, speaking softly as to not be overheard. She doesn't notice you clinging to the wall holding a cup of lemonade, your ear tilted to hear better.

"I mean, he just finished his flight training," she says. "He's still got years of service ahead of him."

The other woman is a tall slender thing with eyes like Frankie's. She must be a relative. And she looks concerned.

"Do you think he'll actually go back?"

"Of course he will."

"I'm not so sure." Her voice gets even softer. "I mean, with his father gone he doesn't have to worry about impressing him anymore."

You want to listen to more but Hilary arrives at your side, the scent of cigarettes clinging to her clothes. She has a rumpled look about her, like she slept in her clothes. For all you know she did - she's barely at home anymore.

She comes to stand beside you, both your backs pressed against the wall. She surveys the space along with you, sighing.

"Damn, this is bleak."

"It's a funeral, Hil."

"Still," she mutters, shaking her head before she looks your way. "You ready to go?"

Your eyes move around the room, landing on Frankie. He's sitting on his lumpy couch, nodding shallowly at some relatives. He looks broken.

You turn to your sister. "I'll meet you at home."

She doesn't seem surprised. She just gives a nod, murmuring that she's going to grab dinner on the way home. You wave in her direction but your focus is on the defeated looking man across the room. His eyes lift briefly, catching yours before moving back to the floor. Your heart cracks at the sadness in his expression.

You stay long after everyone else files out, helping to clean empty bowls, wiping down tables with Santi.

Eventually only you, Santi and Frankie remain at the Morales home tidying the place and moving furniture back into place. His aunt wanted to stay as well but Frankie was firm in needing space.

"You guys don't have to do this," Frankie says, voice tired. He's not wearing that suit jacket anymore, the tie loosened at his neck.

"It's fine," Santi insists, handing you a plate to be placed into the dishwasher. "We're almost done here. You go take a load off."

You focus on the task at hand, listening to Frankie's receding footsteps. When he's safely out of the room Santi speaks under his breath, his eyes bloodshot.

"I have to go to a meeting downtown, but do you mind sticking around for a bit longer? I'm worried about him."

His gaze is over your shoulder and your eyes follow. From where you stand in the kitchen you can see into the living room. Something about Frankie's downturned face, the way he sits on the couch backlit by the dying sun is heartbreaking to watch.

"I can stay," you murmur to Santi as he grabs his car keys.

"You sure?"

You nod, giving him a tight hug.

"Try to get him to eat," he murmurs. "He didn't touch anything today."

You wave him off before preparing a small plate of leftovers. You grab a beer from the fridge and carry both over.

"You're still here? I thought I heard the door close."

"Santi had to go." You place the plate on the coffee table along with the beer. “But I still have time to hang out.”

He takes only the drink, taking a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He makes no attempt to touch the food on the plate. He just sits there staring at it with a distant look on his face, rubbing his fingers on his black dress pants

"You need to eat, Frankie."

"Not hungry."

You slide next to him on the couch, fixing him with what you hope is a leveling look.

"I'm not leaving until you eat something. So either choke down a sandwich or set up the futon."

A twitch of his lips, a resigned huff. He shifts forward, taking a sandwich half and bringing it to his mouth. You watch his jaw flex, bare of facial hair, shaved for the army. Your eyes travel the expanse of him now that you're actually sitting next to him. He's gotten so much bigger since his time away.

"I miss your hair," you murmur. Your fingers twitch, eager to run themselves through the shorn curls even though you know better.

"Me too," he says ruefully running his palm along the top of his head. "I feel naked."

"It's because you don't have your hat either."

He smirks. "I miss being able to wear my own shit."

He manages the other half of the sandwich and some pasta salad before he gives up, telling you that he's not taking another bite. You play with your keychain, feeling the hemp braid rasp under your fingertips while he finishes. His eyes cast to it briefly.

"Still got that."

"Mhm."

You don't have a car of course. Those cost money, money you don't have since everything you've earned while at part time jobs is going towards school.

He tilts back the beer bottle and you watch his plump lips rest against the rim as he takes a long lingering sip.

"So you're officially flying huh? Is it everything you wanted it to be?"

"Better," he replies, lowering the bottle to the table. "When I'm up there it's like everything makes sense."

"I wish I could ride in one," you offer, leaning back into the couch as you imagine it. "It must be amazing."

"There's flight places around here that offer rides."

"Expensive," you remind him. "And besides I only want to ride if..."

You stop yourself before it slips out. The admission that makes your heart throb in your chest.

You only want to ride if Frankie's the one flying.

You've had fantasies of exactly that, of seeing Frankie in his element. You have imagined him taking you over mountains, soaring through the sky.

And sometimes you even fantasize that he'll take you somewhere quiet, landing in gorgeous empty fields with flowers and soft grass. You picture him declaring his long hidden love for you, of taking you right there in the open, his muscled body over yours as he groans your names between sweet promises of forever.

"I'll take you up one day," he says and not because he's in love with you. He says it because you're his friend and that will have to be enough.

You hum thoughtfully in response.

The years without him have been hard. His sporadic visits, his poor communication. Despite your heated assurance that you'd never write to him you tracked his address down from Santi a week after Frankie boarded that flight to Texas.

You sent him letters for a full three months, well wishes, catching him up on developments back home, sincere hopes that he was flying happily. You asked him question upon question about his time in basic.

His replies were inconsistent, full of smudged ink and short replies. You don't know why you were that surprised, it's not as if he'd been a loquacious person before. So you stopped. He never mentioned it. Never sent another letter your way.

"You must be eager to get back to base," you say tightly.

"Not really."

Your face betrays your surprise, a lift to the corner of your mouth in delight. He doesn't want to go back. Maybe his aunts were right.

"So you won't be heading back for more training?" You ask, hands folded over your belly.

"Of course I will. It's just I've got a few weeks of furlough on account of, well," he makes a vague motion to the house. "You know."

You try to hide your disappointment behind a weak smile. A large part of you had been hoping that he was returning for good. That was his father out of the picture he wouldn't feel the need to remain over there.

But he's always wanted to fly, always wanted to escape this town, this house. And now he's been dragged back in the worst possible way.

"Your first year of college is coming up in a few weeks, right?" Frankie asks, looking a little more upbeat as he intentionally changes the topic.

You give a genuine smile in your response. "Yep. I can't wait."

Mom. Hilary. Drinking, fighting, screaming. Thoughts of living on campus a few hours away brings you peace of mind knowing you'll be escaping it all.

He goes quiet, nodding his head. His fingers tap tap tap against his thigh, he's deep in thought.

You like this quiet moment with him, you enjoy the familiar peace his presence brings. Your anxiety immediately goes to the question of when it will end. When will he be tugged away from you again?

"Santi told me your mom had some rule about not letting you date until you were eighteen." Frankie laugh is low and rumbling like distant thunder. "Is that actually true?"

He gives you a tired smile, clearly thankful to talk about something light, something not about dead parents and mortgages and what he's going to do with the rest of his life.

"Uh huh."

"So are you gonna go out and find a boyfriend then? Or are you gonna wait to find yourself a college boy in September?"

"I've dated before Frankie," you say with a roll of your eyes. "I'm not a total loser."

"Since when?"

"Since last year when my mom started drinking in the morning." You scowl. "She's too wasted to remember her own name most days, let alone get mad at me for dating."

His brows rise. "How am I just learning about this now?"

"You haven't been here for years," you remind him. "Been off flying helicopters, remember?"

It's said breezily, but there is a weight to the edges. The words you think but never say out loud. That you miss him, that no boy kissing you even comes close to how you feel with Frankie just sitting on a couch.

"Guess I'll have to knock off my v-card before September, though" you joke, feeling your face heat up. "Don't want to start school the only virgin."

He blinks slowly, a beat passing. "I thought you just said you dated."

"I have."

"And you've never slept with anyone?" Frankie asks in a husky whisper, gaze skipping to your mouth and back to your eyes.

"No."

You think of Hilary only last week laughing herself silly over the fact that you're still a virgin. She herself lost her v-card the day after her fifteenth birthday. She thinks it’s hilarious that you're still a virgin at the ancient age of eighteen.

"Really? No one?"

"Jesus, why is that such a big deal?" You say, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've slept with a ton of girls but-"

"No."

You pause at the interruption, brows knitting together. "Huh?"

"I haven't slept with a bunch of girls. Who told you I slept with a bunch of girls?"

"I...I guess I just assumed. I mean, Santi isn't exactly at church every night."

You stare at him, mapping his dark eyes glassy from the beer, his full lips he keeps swiping his tongue over.

"How many girls have you slept with?"

You watch as Frankie's chest and cheeks begin to flush.

"Like, one. One time."

This pulls you up short. You know for a fact that Santi has slept with at least four girls already. He doesn't go into details, but you've heard rumblings of it when he talks to Travis.

"But... You're twenty one."

"I'm aware."

Frankie is not an ugly man by any stretch of the imagination. He's also kind and patient and... How has he only slept with one girl? And only once?

"So many girls at school had crushes on you."

Frankie groans, sliding a hand down his face. "No they didn't."

"They did. And I know plenty that still do."

"Well even if they do I can't exactly do anything about it," Frankie mumbles.

"Why not? You have your own place now."

You cringe as you realize what you've said. But Frankie doesn't seem to notice because if he was pink before he's absolutely tomato red now.

"It's not that. It's... "

"It's what?"

"It's just; I can barely talk to girls."

"You talk to me."

"You know what I mean," he grumbles.

Yeah, you know what he means. You're not romantic interests to one another. You're just one of the boys.

"But, that one girl," you offer gently. "You must've talked to her."

Frankie gives a dark huff of amusement through his nose, voice taking on a bitter quality.

"She only came to talk to me because she saw my uniform. I could've been anyone, she just wanted to fuck someone in service."

He begins flinching as if it's happening that very moment.

"I couldn't even enjoy it. I was so paranoid I was doing it wrong and that she'd tell all her friends."

"You really think a person would do that?"

"Of course they would. But I just wanted to get it over with. I didn't want to be the only virgin at basic anymore."

You feel yourself starting to falter. You never considered that possibility. Frankie is smart, he's good at everything he tries from electronics to driving. You bet he's good at sex too.

"I'm sure you didn't have anything to worry about. I'm sure you were great," you tell him, because you believe this to be true.

"Yeah but what would you know, virgin?"

He grins wider when you laugh in surprise. The two of you lapse into quiet, eyes on the near darkening room. The sun has started to set, the space growing dim.

"So are you gonna sell this place?"

He shakes his head, his own eyes moving slowly around the room, landing on pieces of furniture, photos on the wall.

"No. It doesn't feel right to do that. This is the only home I've lived at for more than six months."

You nod and remain silent even though you want to pepper him with questions. How will he afford it? Will he actually want to live in the house by himself? Doesn’t it feel like living with ghosts?

You want to just be present and comfort your friend, but something he said earlier won't leave your mind. Something that needles your insides until you can't help but turn to face him.

"Do you think a guy would do that too?"

"Do what?"

"Like, do you think he'd tell his friends if the girl was bad at sex? Or a bad kisser?"

Frankie looks at you skeptically. "I dunno. I wouldn't but..." He shrugs, "you never know I guess."

A fear you'd never even considered starts to play in the back of your head. An ugly thought that makes your stomach drop.

Was I a good kisser?

You return to your mother's room that afternoon to open her windows so she can enjoy the sunny day and feel the balmy breeze that teases the trees.

You position a TV tray over her lap, putting a few crackers with peanut butter on a plate in hopes it will whet her appetite, but to no avail. You bring her another tea and a glass of water which she thanks you for. You hope that the bitterness of this morning has faded.

You sit by her bed, watching her sip the tea and listen to the birds that chatter outside. As you do this your eyes blur, mind on last night.

Frankie's patience with your mother, the way he tidied the kitchen for you. And before that, the way he apologized. Frankie has never apologized like that to you.

It makes something in your stomach shift. This acknowledgement of his kindness. It's been so long since you've seen that from him. It unnerves you.

"I've thought about my funeral and I don't want one."

You drift back into alert focus, brows knitted. "Huh?"

"I don't want one," she repeats firmly. "Just scatter my ashes and be done with it."

Something about her firmness makes you feel queasy. The thought that one could think about their own mortality with such a detachment boggles your mind.

But she is your mother, she has told you what she wants. And it would be arrogant of you to assume you know better. So you sit up straight, voice soft.

"Where do you want them scattered?"

"Anywhere," she says, about to shrug when she suddenly stops herself.

"Wait, actually, I know where."

Her eyes go bright, something within them reminding you of youth. She's traveling through time; you can see it in the way her face softens, as if the lines are disappearing before your eyes.

"I used to go camping at this really beautiful spot in the keys," she says with the kind of breathless excitement you can imagine she had as a girl. "My mother took me every year."

"Grandma camped?"

You can barely recall her from your youth, who passed when you were barely 6 years old. The memories that you do have of her are of severe woman who didn't like to get dirty.

"Yes. My father was away working so often and we didn't have much money. Camping was free and we'd go with other families in the neighborhood."

She swallows, throat dry. You pass her a cup of water which she drinks greedily. You wipe the small trickles that escape at the corner of her mouth with a bundled bit of tissue.

"Most of my summers were spent swimming and eating hot dogs, telling scary stories around a campfire."

She gets a shy look on her face, eyes dropping to her teacup.

"It's where I had my first kiss."

You sit there trying to imagine the aged woman in the bed as a young girl with pigtails and a blush across her cheeks as she kissed the boy she fancied. It makes a soft smile overtake your expression, heart swelling.

"It sounds amazing," you finally say, fascinated by the change in your mother's voice. "Why didn't you ever take us?"

"They did some renovations to it. Made it more privatized so I couldn't afford it."

She winces again, hand drifting to her belly. She doesn't have to say anything, you give her the morphine tablet, watching her chase it with a cup of water.

"What was the name of it?" you ask, curious.

She purses her wrinkled lips in thought, eyes bleary.

"It was called ... Oh goodness...What was it?"

You wait patiently, noting when she finally recalls and her eyes twinkle.

"Blue... Blue Bird....Heron! Blue Heron campground. Yes. That's right." She looks your way with a serious expression, her mind clearly settled.

"That's where I want my ashes to be scattered. Blue Heron campground."

"Okay, Mom," you say, trying to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. "I can do that."

Hey. How's Canada?

HIL: cold.

HIL: also Justin is a fucking asshole. Being married sucks, I don't recommend it.

Noted.

HIL: how's Mom?

Still dying.

HIL: that tracks.

She told me she wants to be buried in some old campground she went to as a in kid.

HIL: Blue Heron?

How the fuck do you know that??

HIL: she mentioned it a couple years ago. We were talking about camping and she told me about it.

She never mentioned it to me.

HIL: you weren't around.

Do you think you might come back to see Mom?

HIL: not sure. . kind of feel like I did my daughterly duty keeping her alive until you got there.

Right...

Look what I did. [nose.jpeg]

HIL: Fuck off is that a nose ring?? 😲😲😲😲

HIL: it looks infected.

It might be. I took it out this morning. It wasn't really me.

HIL: couldn't agree more. I'm the rebel remember? 😈 You were always the good one. 👼

Look how that turned out. I just had a fight with a woman about to die.

HIL: about time!!! you always had to play good daughter when we were kids.

I didn't really have a choice. You had the bad daughter title firmly in your grasp. haha Sorry that came out wrong.

HIL: it's fine.

HIL: someone had to be the family fuck up. 🤷

You were never a fuck up, Hil.

HIL: Sure I was.

No. You were the one who had to grow up too fast. You were the one who took care of me even though you had your own shit going on. I don’t think I ever said thank you for that.

HIL: ew stfu don’t thank me. HIL: it’s just what sisters do.

THEN

"Frankie, was I a good kisser?"

It bursts out of you; the thought playing on loop the last five minutes is unable to be silenced any longer.

Frankie tilts his head to the left, frowning at you. The eleven lines between his brows deepen.

"Huh?"

"You remember that party you had at your place years back? You kissed me, remember? In the kitchen. Was I a good kisser?"

For a moment he appears deep in thought, like he can't remember what you're talking about. And then suddenly recognition flashes in his eyes and he starts to chuckle softly.

"Pip, that barely counted as a kiss."

"Still."

"You didn't even kiss me back," Frankie says gently. "You just stood there."

"I didn't have time," you mumble, embarrassed.

"I didn't want you to kiss me back," Frankie corrects. "You were thirteen."

You feel like you're thrown through time, transported back into your awkward 13-year-old body. You remember the way Frankie had looked at you then, a mixture of piteous disdain.

But tonight he's not looking at you that same way. His look is inscrutable, impossible to read and so you just shrug.

"I'm eighteen now."

He takes a slow measured breath.

"I know."

The way Frankie's eyes rake up and down your body let's you know the barely three years that always seemed to separate the two of you has faded.

He lowers his half full beer bottle to the coffee, fingertips grazing it to ensure it stays upright.

It's like a thick tension has settled over top the two of you, your breathing synchronizing before Frankie stands abruptly.

He carries his mostly empty plate to the kitchen and you're thankful for the reprieve. Blood is roaring so loudly in your ears that you're having trouble hearing anything aside from the running water of the sink.

When he returns your face is so warm it makes your eyes water. Frankie settles in next to you on the couch, closer than before you notice.

His shoulder rests against yours, his body warm next to you. His hands rest on his legs, the dress pants stretched taut over his muscular thighs.

You shift on the lumpy couch that you've spent countless days on watching movies or playing games with the guys when Frankie's parents were out of the house. You're convinced that you could point out every bumpy spot from memory alone.

"You ever do other stuff with guys?"

Your head snaps up to see Frankie staring at you with an open look.

Something in the husky way he says it makes your insides quiver. "Other stuff?"

"Yeah. Third base?"

Your cheeks flames as you hide your face against your shoulder, wishing you had another topic of which to divert him. But another part of you, a hungry part deep in your belly wants more. More of Frankie's eyes burning black, more of his shoulder pressing against yours.

"Yeah," you mutter, unable to look at him when you answer.

He looks surprised, eyes narrowed on you.

"Who?"

"Some guy I met at a party Hilary threw with Poppy. Kevin." You clear your throat. "And you? You do any of that stuff with other girls?"

Even if Frankie has only had sex with one girl, that didn't mean that he hadn't fooled around with plenty. That thought makes your nose flare, vision blurry.

"Of course."

"A lot of girls?"

His full lips purse, brows knitted. He looks like he's really taking your question to heart.

"About six?" He looks into the distance. "Yeah. Six. At least I know I do that stuff right."

White hot jealousy surges through your body at the comment. Images of Frankie with faceless women, his mouth between their legs, his wide fingers knuckles deep as they keen his name invade your thoughts.

Your hands curl in your lap, nails digging into the fleshy part of your palm. They leave little angry crescents in your flesh.

"Did you like doing stuff with Kevin?"

You keep your eyes on your hand, watching the crescents go from blanched white to a rosy pink.

"Yeah, it was fine."

"He make you come?"

The two of you don't have conversations like this. You talk about flying and play cards and go swimming. You don't talk about sex. That's stuff he saves for Santi and Travis.

You suck in a sharp breath, tripping over your words.

"Um. No, I don't- no... No he didn't."

Kevin was perfectly nice, but he was lazy. He didn't pay attention to the signals your body was giving. His fingers just jabbed as he asked you if you were close.

When he spread you out in his bed his mouth was sloppy, too wet and his tongue was as sharp and clumsy as his fingers.

You'd wanted to get the experience, tired of hearing Hilary talk about her dalliances, giving you a piteous look when you didn't understand and couldn't relate.

But now sitting next to Frankie you can feel arousal pooling between your thighs, the hot flames that go up your neck, that deliciously deep pull below your navel.

And he hasn't even done anything but talk.

He's quiet for a long time. You still can't look at him for too long; especially since you’re not sure you could avoid staring at his mouth.

"I bet I could make you come."

He says this with a casual nonchalance, as if he's mentioning the two of you should get ice cream tomorrow afternoon. Instinctively your thighs clench. Thoughts of Frankie's mouth between your legs has you jumping out of your skin.

Your voice comes out breathy and wobbling. "What?"

"I bet I could make you come" he repeats, not embarrassed at all. "Can I?"

You're on fire both from intense embarrassment and even more intense arousal. There's fear there as well, of the unknown.

"I don't think I can..." You pause, feeling mortified. "I can only do it myself. Uh, alone."

Frankie shoots you a smug look now, brow arching. "I could do it."

You take in how his eyes travel down the length of your body, moving between your legs and settling.

You feel your panties dampening further, humiliated that you're so eager. He just lost his parents and you're sitting here getting turned on.

"I guess I want the distraction," he explains when you don't respond

Guilt suffuses you. You're supposed to be here to help your friend, to distract him from the ugliness of today.

"You don't have to do that Frankie. We can distract you in other-"

"I like doing it," he interrupts. "A lot."

Fuck. Your breath leaves you when he shifts closer to you, big hand coming to rest on your kneecap.

"I miss doing it."

You can't quite breathe evenly; it's coming out in short little huffs. He removes his hand, moving back.

"Only if you want to," he adds, his eyes looking worriedly to your face. "You don't have to say y-."

"Yes."

It comes out quickly, expelled from your lungs like a scream even though it's barely a squeak.

"I want it," you say clearly to avoid any misunderstanding.

I've wanted it for years. I've dreamed about it. Touched myself to the thought of it. I want nothing more than for you to make me come.

He grins a soft, shy thing that makes him look boyish and gentle. The Frankie you've always known.

And then it begins.

Still seated beside you, Frankie's leans forward and his wide fingers go to the hem of the long black skirt you wore for the funeral. The fabric bunches up slowly and you watch the ascent, face slack as it ends in wrinkled layers across your hips.

He suddenly pauses, brows knitting.

"You can't tell Santi," he says, dark eyes wide. "You can't tell anyone."

"Duh."

No one can know what's about to happen. Not just for Frankie's sake but for yours. Travis' mockery would be relentless. Santi would feel betrayed by both of you.

No, tonight is for you and Frankie alone.

"You tell me if you need me to stop."

You're shivering when his palm slips under the fabric, warm skin on your legs, squeezing gently before tracing slow lines along your inner thighs.

"Don't stop."

He bites back a smile. The dimple in his cheek pops out, making you swoon.

Warm fingers tickle along the outside of your panties gusset, surely feeling the heat and the damp there. You bite down harshly on your lower lip to hold in the whimper building in your throat.

He doesn't look away from your face when he does it, if anything he looks closer. It makes you feel studied and you flush as you duck your head, embarrassed. Those same searching fingers curve around, slowly inching themselves inside the cotton, finding the slick seam of your sex.

You gasp, eyes going huge as dinner plates as you gaze up at him. You're taken aback to see the open desire on his face.

"Just relax," he murmurs voice soft.

You go to nod, mouth dropping open when you feel that first swipe of his fingers dance along the seam, grazing your clit. Your hips jump and Frankie grins.

"Easy there, Pip."

You give a breathless laugh, giddy and terrified. You've wanted this for so long and you don't know how to act now that it's finally happening. Your hands are at your sides, loosely placed on the cushion. Your thighs are spread and Frankie's hand is hidden under the thick fabric of your skirt.

When his fingers finally breach you, you feel your eyes blow wide, stuck on Frankie's face as your jaw drops. It feels intense, so much more intense than it was with Kevin.

Frankie's fingers are long and thick and they move within you slowly. They don't force themselves, they take their time as they stretch your honeyed walls. You savor the steady work of the two fingers that sink into you, curling as his thumb circles your clit.

You're barely able to focus on anything outside of Frankie's hitched breathing and the way he's tucked you up close to him. He's warm; his shirt damp from sweat and it makes your head spin.

You can't help but make soft little noises, and when Frankie leans closer, head tilted you realize it's because he wants to hear them. This realization makes the throb between your legs intensify.

When he curls his fingers into a come hither motion, your back bows, stomach clenching before everything in you turns liquid.

"Oh fuck," you groan, grabbing him by the collar as he works at you. "Fuck fuck."

He's smiling, you can hear it when he breathes your name, your real name, not Pip. But you're too focused to open your eyes, hips rutting, chasing after the pleasure that suddenly bursts behind your eyes in white sparks.

"F-Frankie," you gasp, eyes flying open as you come on his fingers, your core spasming as he continues his steady thrusts, the tempo never changing.

"C'mon, c'mon," he chants under his breath over and over like a mantra watching as you shatter for him.

It feels like it goes on forever. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt, holding tight as your voice cracks and you finally flop back, spent.

His hand shifts back from under your skirt, glossy fingers leaving a shiny trail down your inner thigh. Your eyes track them, mouth going dry when Frankie pops his glossy digits between his lips.

You can only stare as he closes his eyes, savoring the flavor of you on his tongue. Your body burns for him in that moment, shocked and needy, speechless when he removes them from his mouth and his eyes are pitched black.

You surprise yourself by leaning forward and slanting your mouth against his - curious to see if you can taste yourself, eager to feel his warm lips properly. A proper kiss.

He doesn't pull back, doesn't even flinch. He just remains in place, mouth parting, tongue brushing yours. You taste only him.

The kiss is deep, slow and tender. He doesn't rush it, he just moves to hold

your face and lets you discover him. Shivers run the length of your body.

This was the kiss you wanted all those years ago. The searching kind, the gentle type. The kind where a man holds you gently and kisses you like you mean something to him.

You do this for a while, until your lips are swollen and the sun has started to set. Only then do you pull apart, shocked to find that somewhere in the process you ended up half in his lap.

His eyes flutter open, pupils still dominating his lusty gaze.

"Did you like that?" He murmurs, face dangerously close to yours.

"Yes," you breathe quietly. Your heart flutters.

He grins, teeth gleaming like sunshine and then it's him who moves forward to capture your mouth. He begins making soft little groaning noises when you crook your arms around his neck.

Suddenly he's pushing you backwards on the couch before following after. The kissing moves to groping you over your clothes, hilariously chaste considering he had his fingers buried within you only minutes before.

Your thighs are around his hips, whimpering as you feel him swollen between the layers of fabric.

"Frankie," you moan between kisses, "I want you to fuck me."

He gives a dry laugh, assuming you're joking. But when you're face remains fixed his breathing elevates.

"You don't want to do that with me," he says, chiding. "I barely have any experience."

"I know."

"You might hate it."

"I know."

"You might not come."

"Frankie!" You snap, getting angry. "I just want to lose my virginity okay? Stop making it such a big deal."

It is a big deal. It's a very big deal, but you have a feeling if Frankie knows how big a deal it is he won't even consider it.

But this is something you've wanted for a long time. The only boy in the world that you'd feel comfortable doing this with.

He takes his time to survey you, likely going over an internal tally of why this is a good idea and why it's a terrible one. He must settle on the former though.

"We should do it in my bed," he says huskily. "What do you think?"

You stand eagerly, nodding.

"Yes. Let's go."

"You’re really sure?"

“Yes.”

You've always been sure of Frankie.

Rosalita arrives for her overnight shift, giving you a small hug as she sees you. She's smells like coconut, her hair tied back from her face.

She hangs up her jacket, looking over her shoulder to see you placing a tea for her on the table along with some recently purchased cookies.

"How lovely," she says with a genuine smile.

She moves to you slowly, her movements soundless. Despite her age she moves like a young woman, silent and delicate. She settles herself across from you, taking a cookie and breaking it in half then gives you a conspiratorial wink.

"Shouldn't have too much sugar."

You warm your hands with your own tea, watching the steam move lazily above the water. She chews quietly, taking stock of the cleared table the two of you sit at.

"You cleaned."

You glance around the tidied area, thoughts of Frankie in your head. His actions last night haven't left your mind.

"How are you?" You ask, looking at her with a strained expression. She returns it with a serene look, one shoulder rising.

"Completely fine."

"I kind of thought you might not want to come back."

She gives you a chirpy laugh; shaking her head and placing a hand overtop your own.

"My dear, this is my job. I have seen much worse. I have been through much worse."

"Like what?"

She looks thoughtful up at the ceiling, lips pursed.

"One woman pushed me down the stairs. Another sprained my wrist. I had a gentleman that threw his feces once. But that was an extreme case."

You can't understand it. How a woman can be treated so terribly day after day and still rise with the sun, still smile as if the world isn't a cesspool of miscreants.

"How do you stay so... Kind? So positive?"

"I think of myself as very fortunate to take care of the elderly." She takes another sip of tea from her mug. "Your mother has lived a long life and she deserves to end it with dignity."

You're suddenly aware that your cheeks are getting warm. The kinder she is the worse it gets.

"How do you not get angry? I feel so... Angry."

You haven't admitted that out loud to anyone. The very sentence makes you feel drenched with guilt.

"Because I know they react out of fear or frustration. It's never cruelty for the sake of it."

For not the first time, you think Rosalita might actually be an angel. An honest to goodness cherub sent to earth because who else could approach it that way?

You think of last night. Of Rosalita's stressed expression, of the blood on her cheek.

"I just..." You feel your brows saddle. "I'm just so humiliated that it happened. Which is so dumb because I know she didn't do it on purpose. I know she was just genuinely afraid but... I'm just so embarrassed she did it."

"Please don't be," Rosalita says. "I care for your mother. I hold nothing against her. It's the disease, not her."

You've heard this before. During a group therapy session that Greg suggested when you were together. A chance to talk with other children of alcoholics.

"Alcoholism is a disease," a thin woman leading the meeting said. "Just like diabetes or heart disease."

Your fingers curled in your lap, teeth gnashing.

How can it be a disease when she chose to pick up the bottle time and time again?

You'd left at the smoke break, not even bothering to finish the meeting. When Greg asked you that evening how it went, you'd shrugged and said you didn't get much out of it.

Rosalita finishes her tea, pushing it slightly back.

"How is your mother today?"

"Really good," you say and now you find it possible to smile. "Like, she was so lucid this morning."

"Wonderful."

"We talked about her life as a kid and... It's like she's getting better. I mean, I know that's insane. Like, dementia doesn't go away, but-"

Rosalita lightly shakes her head, the look in her eyes heavy. You feel a flutter start in your chest. A bad one.

"My dear we are nearing the end and you must prepare yourself."

You know. You know that. But maybe, just maybe, a silly part of you wondered if the doctors got it wrong. If she wasn't as sick as they thought.

"She was just so with it today," you say, chin quivering. "Talking about her childhood and...I only had to give her one morphine tablet."

You trail off when you're voice starts to shake. Rosalita looks like she hates herself for having to reply.

"Have you ever heard the term terminal lucidity?"

"No."

Your mom makes a moaning noise from the next room and Rosalita's attention is immediately diverted. She stands giving you a soft smile and then she moves into the hallway to check on your mother.

Terminal lucidity.

You bring up your phone, typing the words into Google and reading at an intense speed.

"Terminal lucidity is the sudden, unexpected return of mental clarity, memory, and cognitive alertness in patients suffering from severe dementia, brain damage, or other terminal illnesses shortly before death. Known as "the last goodbye," this rare phenomenon allows nonverbal or unresponsive individuals to communicate clearly, often lasting from minutes to hours."

You don't know why this but this has your fingers shaking so hard that you drop your phone onto the table. It clatters loudly, the sound setting you on edge. You push yourself up from the table, suddenly needing fresh air. Needing to breathe.

You need to leave.

THEN

You've never really been in Frankie's room before. Frankie's parents never really liked him having friends over and definitely not in his bedroom. His hand is sweaty holding yours, so warm it feels like he's on fire. You stare at his profile, noting the way his throat bobs nervously.

As he leads you inside you can't help but survey the clean and neatly stacked shelves, the model planes made with such attention to detail.

He releases your hand as he moves over to bed made up so tightly you could bounce a quarter on it. He pulls back the sheets, plumping his pillow before walking back over to you.

His eyes trail along your collar, down over your breasts, lingering at your skirt. He's drinking you in like water.

"Can I undress you?"

You feel shy at that, hesitating. You don't know about Frankie seeing your body with all its imperfections. You thought you might do it with all your clothes on.

"I'll go first?" He offers, fingers fumbling at his belt. "Maybe that would help?"

You give a half shrug, still not sure.

You watch in quiet fascination as Frankie strips down, stepping out of his pants, socks and unbuttoning his white shirt. He tosses it all in the corner of the room.

His cheeks are pink, his chest flushing as well. You see the extent of it when he removes his undershirt and tosses it into the same corner.

He's breathing a little more heavily now, and you can see his arousal bulging in his blue boxer briefs. It's intimidating as much as it is exciting.

"Now you," he says, indicating you should do the same. You figure he's abandoned the idea of undressing you, sensing it's too overwhelming.

You glance around at the room, feeling like the light is vivid despite the setting sun outside his window.

"Can we close the curtains?"

"Sure."

He moves across the room, tugging the pale grey fabric across his bedroom window. Its better, the light dimmed but everything is still visible.

"That okay?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to turn around?" He offers gently. "You can get into the bed and under the covers?"

Relief nearly makes you dizzy.

"Yeah. Don't turn around until I say."

He turns and you tear the clothes from your body, curling them into a ball. You don't want him to see your panties or bra. Something about the thought too intimate despite the fact that he's going to see you naked in mere moments.

You place them on the chair beside his desk, looking over your shoulder to make sure he's still not looking.

He isn't. His body faces away from you, his hands flexing at his sides. You scurry back over to the bed sliding under the covers and plumping up the pillow behind your head.

"Okay."

He turns around, eyes trailing over you in bed. You have the blankets held up under your chin, your eyes wide. You hope you look sort of appealing and not like a scared mouse.

He moves over to his desk, pulling a small wood box from the shelf overtop it. You watch as he produces a small foil packet from inside. A condom.

He stares at it for a long time, not looking your way.

"You can say no any time," he reminds you.

"I know."

He gives a relieved exhale, coming towards you. He's still wearing his boxers and your curiosity is overwhelming. Kevin's dick had been nothing to write home about, fairly normal, no weird marks.

But you want to see what lies between Frankie's thighs. You've thought about it more times than you care to mention.

He's still standing beside the bed, about to climb in next to you when you hold up a hand. Interpreting it as you needing to slow down or stop Frankie immediately jumps back.

"Sorry, too fast or?"

"It's not that," you whisper, voice hoarse. "It's just, can I see you first?"

Frankie isn't as shy as you are. He nods, tugging down his boxers and kicking them behind him. Then he stands there, chest puffed and lets you take him in.

You stare at his stiff member, utterly fascinated. His is so... Pretty. Bigger than Kevin’s. So perfectly proportioned, the color golden with a pinkish tip. It makes you bend forward on the mattress, tongue extended.

His cock twitches aggressively at the sight and Frankie nearly jumps out of his skin, stepping back with a shaky laugh.

"You can't do that."

You cock your head, puzzled at his reaction.

Kevin loved blow jobs. He couldn't be more enthusiastic enough about them. And you've read enough magazines to know that no guy turns down head.

"Do you not like blow jobs?"

Frankie flushes, shaking his head.

"I like em too much."

You shrug. Whatever.

You re-position the pillow behind your head and lean back, watching Frankie slide the condom over his erection. He's panting through parted lips, eyes fixated on his fingers. When it's secured he glances over at you.

He's going to see all of you now, the thought making your body tingle. He was brave enough to show you his naked body, so you lay your hands palm down on the mattress.

He peels back the sheets slowly, as if he's savoring the sight. You watch his eyes rake down your naked form, lingering over the curves and valleys of your body and you tense up when he just blinks.

"Holy shit," he finally whispers.

You remain watching his reaction, only fully relaxing when you see the hungry look in his eyes intensify.

"Get into bed," you say plainly. You don't want to wait anymore.

Frankie is flushed, his ears a bright pink when he crawls in next to you. His body is warm, the hair on his legs rasping against your calves.

"Ready?"

You grin widely. "Yeah."

He pushes himself to his knees, clumsily positioning himself between your legs. He looks like he's going to explode out of the condom.

You take in a deep breath, letting your thighs fall open, indicating to him that you're ready when he is. His eyes immediately move to your glistening sex fully bared to him and his brows saddle.

"Jesus, Pip," he groans, covering his eyes.

You snap your thighs together, mortified. What did you do wrong?

He looks in pain. Kevin never looked at you like that. Are you ugly down there? It's always looked normal to you. But maybe to Frankie it's repulsive. He's seen a lot of vaginas. At least six.

This was a huge mistake.

You go to roll away, off the bed and he peels his fingers from his face, holding you by the shoulder.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Just forget it okay?" You snap, one arm covering your bare chest. "Clearly I fucked up and you don't want to do this anymore."

He frowns. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You covered your eyes," you say, tears turning him into a watercolor blur. You wipe them away, jerking your head to the side.

"I told you I didn't know what I was doing," you sniffle. "You didn't have to be an asshole about it."

You pause when his big hands come to cup your face, forcing your eyes to his. He looks surprisingly amused. The sight infuriates you enough to attempt and jerk your head away. But he holds you in place, waiting for you to settle.

"Pip. It wasn't a bad thing," he breathes. "You just looked so damn good I was worried I wasn't gonna be able to last."

Oh.

"You don't need to know what you're doing," he continues, voice soft. "I'll take care of you."

Then he moves forward and presses a kiss to your mouth. Sweet, tender and innocent. A kiss that conveys that he's got you, you're safe. You kiss him back, sighing softly.

"Let me see again," he whispers against your mouth, voice husky. "Please?"

He leans back, eyes on your lower belly in anticipation.

You swallow, thighs falling open once again. He sucks in a breath, eyes fixated between your spread legs. You know the pose must be lurid, but now you like how it makes Frankie go all pink.

"Can I go down on you first?" he asks raggedly. "Please?"

You can only nod, too eager to feel embarrassed when he shimmies down the mattress, laying on his belly and, urging your thighs to part for him.

They relax, unhinging to spread widely for him. Your face burns but you don't let yourself look away from his reaction. He gives a low groan when he peers between your legs, face going slack as he sees the mess you both created there earlier on the couch.

You watch, fascinated as he moves forward, inhaling deeply before groaning again.

His eyes move lazily up your body, meeting your steady gaze with his own. Before you do or say anything more, his mouth descends.

What happens feels quick despite Frankie tasting you at his leisure; licking and making obscene noises that make your body break into goose bumps.

When you come in an absurdly quick fashion he raises his head as you go limp on the mattress, breathing raggedly. He looks absolutely ruined and you wonder if you appear the same.

"That was so fucking hot," Frankie pants, his mouth glossy as he crawls back up next to you on the bed.

You pull him towards you and he kisses you feverishly, excitement palpable as he nestles between your thighs, notching himself at your entrance.

"Ready?"

You nod, holding your breath.

"Tell me if you need to stop,"

Now he holds his breath, watching your face as he feeds himself into you slowly. You feel the first sting of it when he's halfway in, sucking in a lungful of air. He immediately stills, eyes searching your face.

"It's okay," you assure him. "Keep going."

You smell the old spice of his deodorant, the soapy laundry scent of his skin. For the rest of your life those scents combined will take you back to this moment.

It will take you back to Frankie working his way inside you with a delicate balance of arousal and tentativeness. It will take you back to that first moment his body settles within you to the hilt. To the blown out black of his pupils.

It will take you back to the gentle, rhythmic rocking of his body over yours, to the gentle creak of the mattress, to the building pressure that began to morph into pleasure when Frankie begins to kiss your neck.

It will make you smile at the sweetness of your combined youth, at the clumsy way your teeth clack when he starts to kiss you during it. Or the way your leg cramps partway.

"Fuck," Frankie grunts, his face buried in your neck. His hands fist in the blankets, his shoulders rolling. "Fuck, baby, you feel too good."

You smile to yourself, perversely proud of something you didn't even know you were doing.

But then you parse his words, eyes blowing wide.

Baby.

He called you baby.

He's never done that before. In the decade you've known him Frankie has never called you anything but your name or Pip. Something about this makes your skin burn in the best way. Like you want to run around the block with the sudden glory you feel.

Sex is nothing like you read about in cosmopolitan, nothing like the porn you've giggled over while watching on the school computers with your friends during free period.

This is sweet and slow, punctuated with soft grunts and moans as the mattress creaks. Frankie doesn't look away from you for a moment. He checks in with you periodically if you've been too quiet for too long or if he thinks he's hurting you.

He never is.

His left hand goes to find yours on the bed, fingers lacing. He presses it down into the mattress, mouth on yours as he slowly thrusts.

And when you finally climax it isn't some big, loud screaming thing. It's your body arching, voice a cracked moan of his name.

"I've got you," Frankie's rumbling voice tells you. "Go ahead. Let go. I've got you."

The words, his touch, and the way his mouth finds yours. It's all so good, your hips rolling against his until you’re sweaty and spent, trying not to give a disbelieving laugh.

Now it's Frankie's turn and you watch in fascination as his brows saddle when you grab his middle.

"Harder," you insist, wanting to feel just how powerful he can be. "Deeper."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

Frankie could never hurt you.

You feel the weight of him pressing down on your pelvis, reveling in the way he moans your name. And then you watch his eyes squeeze shut, his thrusts pounding into you as you feel him release.

Your magazines prepared you for pain, for blood on the sheets and some out of body pleasure. None of that occurs. There is no blood, no intense pain. The pleasure you felt was good, but not the kind you read about. You don't even know if that kind of pleasure is realistic.

No, it's nothing like you read about or prepared yourself for and you couldn't be more thankful. It was real and it was Frankie and that makes it perfect.

He licks his lips, eyes bouncing between yours before he extends his neck and kissing your mouth. Its so feather soft, so perfectly sweet.

He pulls himself from you slowly, gauging when you wince. It feels a bit sore between your legs but nothing overwhelming. Frankie rolls off of you to land onto the mattress beside you. You both breathe heavily, shoulders touching.

"Was that okay?"

You give a satisfied hum, nodding. “Yeah.”

You’re not a virgin anymore.

"Be right back."

You don't glance after him as he throws the blanket off of him, for modesty's sake. You hear running water, the sound of rustling.

You remain laying there so uncertain of yourself. Frankie gave you what you wanted, so should you leave? You tense up, uncertain as you glance around for your clothes.

Your panties are beside the bed and you tug them on quickly. You're still glancing around for your t-shirt but throw yourself back when you hear the bathroom door in the hallway creak open.

Frankie pads back into the bedroom pulling on fresh pyjama pants. You remain laying there, totally thrown. Why isn't he saying anything? You watch him pull a T-shirt from the dresser before he's crawling back into the bed next to you.

"Here."

He hands you the soft shirt with some obscure band on the front. You stare at it for a moment, figuring perhaps he thinks you'll need it for the walk home. You sit up, curling forward as you hurriedly tug it down over you. Now that you both have finished, the thought of him seeing your bare chest makes you shy.

The shirt is oversized on you of course, and it smells like his laundry detergent. You notice he's watching you, one arm behind his head, the other between the two of you.

You wait for him to ask you to leave now that you've had sex. When he doesn't you worry he's extending this to be kind, maybe he thinks you need this emotional aftercare.

“Thanks for that.”

You prepare to take the blankets off from over your legs but you stop when you see the concerned look in Frankie's eyes.

"You don't have to leave," he whispers. "You can stay over if you want."

His vulnerability touches something in you. That big strong Frankie who has always been the one to save you now needs saving. The affection you've always held for him seems to multiply, making the answer you give him instinctive.

"I'll stay."

You slowly lower yourself back down beside him, watching him settle into the bed with a soft exhale. It sounds like relief.

Your shoulders touch his and you think that this is how you'll sleep, side by side, breathing slow. But his hand is sliding over your belly to tug you towards him. He urges you onto your side, pulling your spine against his front.

You feel as he curls around you, long legs and arms holding you like a sentry before tucking you under his chin. You've never been held like this. Not with one's entire body, with this warm calm that floods your body. When he kisses the top of your head you believe you might actually melt.

"Night, Pip."

"Night, Frankie."

The night air is a welcome balm to the burning despair in your chest. You propel yourself along the cracked sidewalks with tears in your eyes.

You forgot your phone back at home and you don't want to go back for it. You just want to be free, away from all of this, away from the pain.

Santi is too far away and you can't call him. Payphones don't exist anymore. So much of your youth has been decimated, revamped, killed off. Gentrification of the nearby homes, the local bodegas gone, all to make way for a city you don’t recognize anymore.

You turn the corner and realize the only home nearby is the one you've unconsciously been walking to this entire time. The house you can never forget. Its still in the quiet of night, the distant sound of buzzing insects the only sound.

You're not actually expecting him to be home. It's not even seven - he's probably out with the guys or –

"Pip? What're you doing here?”

The door opens abruptly and his eyes widen when he takes in that it's you. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt. When you see the Standard Oil hat perched on his head your lower lip starts to wobble.

“Is your mom okay?" Frankie's voice isn't hard and neither is his gaze. He's genuinely curious.

"It's... It's...I needed to be away..."

He doesn't wait for you to finish trying to find the words. He just gives you an inscrutable look and then steps backwards motioning behind him.

"Do you want to come in?"

You hesitate. The thought of going inside Frankie's house right now seems too overwhelming. You want to remain here on his step, still able to breathe the fresh air.

“I don’t know.”

He nods, not rushing you, not upset. He folds his arms over his chest but not in a defensive mode, more like he's holding himself, like he's bracing himself for something you're going to say.

"My mom..." You manage to whisper. "It's... She doesn't have..."

You can't say the words. Can't commit then to the air. If you don't say them out loud then maybe they won't come true. She can't leave. Not when things looked like they could be changed. Not when forgiveness feels possible.

And suddenly the words are getting trapped in your chest, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think, making it hard to do anything other than gasp for lungfuls of air. You struggle, eyes frenzied, brows shooting to your hairline when it doesn’t come. You’re stuttering, unable to stop.

“Breathe, Pip.”

Frankie's hands are there at your shoulder, broad and gentle. They ground you as he squeezes his fingers into your skin lightly. He crouches slightly, trying to catch your eyes with his.

"Take a breath.”

He models this, slow and deep, making you copy him.

In.... And out.... In.... And out.

His hands are gently removed from your shoulders only when you're breathing grows even.

"Okay. Try again. What’s going on?"

Your face crumples, and you're not sure how you can say the words. But his steady voice and the way he stands there, waiting with such openness, makes it possible to answer.

"My mom doesn't have much time. I thought she was doing better but that's just something that can happen right before the end."

And for once you want that familiar comforting feeling Frankie used to bring you. Whether it was pulling you from trees or holding you in bed. You want him to chase away all the ugly fears that you can’t.

And like some kind of miracle he nods like he knows this, somehow he senses it and he holds out his arms to you. It's a simple gesture, soft and welcoming. His arms, strong and golden remain there, waiting.

You go willingly, the action natural, easy, familiar. And the second you hit his chest and inhale that familiar old spice and laundry scent you feel a ragged cry cleave from your throat.

"She can't leave me."

One of Frankie's big hands cups the back of your head, the other holding you against him. He murmurs your name, that he's got you. You sob quietly into his chest, tears soaking the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He rocks you slowly, soothingly.

"I'm here, I've got you," he rasps when your sobs quiet. "I've got you, baby."

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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