Quickly thought abt frank, and idk who else to ask but u doctor :(
pairing: frank x gn! reader
a/n: this could be a continuation of my last oneshot but it doesn’t have to be. you can read this one on its on tbh. i am considering making this a two parter but dont quote me on that. also title is inspired by radiohead so listen if you want lol, just reminded me of reader in a way.
cw: situationship from hell, fwb, you have shit luck, loads of self sabotage, you circle around so much its really bad, emotional avoidance, will they wont they, mutual pinning but its really messy, bad decisions while under the influence, jealousy, suggestive content but not smut (sorry), alcohol usage, underage drinking but theyre about 19-20, crossfaded, physical injury, risky behavior, idk what else
Your shoes slip on pine needles and loose dirt, and the air smells of wet leaves and lake water, with a faint metallic note. Somewhere behind you, someone from the party yells something unintelligible with follow-up cheering, but it gets swallowed by the sound of swaying trees and the bass still thudding faintly from the house.
And, of course, Frank is ahead of you.
“C’mon!” he shouts over his shoulder, voice wrecked from screaming lyrics into a mic only a few hours ago. “You’re so slow!”
“I got kicked in the face today!” you yell back, breathless, half-tripping over a root.
“You’re fine!” he laughs, not slowing down.
You are fine…technically. Your nose had bled as if you were part of some low-budget horror movie during the breakdown of a new song. You hadn’t even seen Frank coming– all you saw was a flash of someone’s boot and then white-hot pain with the immediate copper taste in your mouth to follow up. The pit had only grown in size right after, only spitting you out after the drums had died out. When you staggered to the side, blinking through tears, Frank’s face had gone completely pale. He knew he had kicked someone, he felt it in the sole of his boots. But he didn’t fucking know it was you. Especially your face of all things…
“Holyshitholyshit. I’m so fucking sorry, oh my god–”
He’d dragged you to the bathroom of the venue, which was basically a really narrow hallway with a sink that barely worked. He sat you down on the spray-painted toilet lid, with both hands on your shoulders as he looked over the aftermath. He couldn’t help but wince, sucking his teeth before looking around for a roll of toilet paper.
There didn’t seem to be any in the dispenser; only an empty tube was there instead. He sighed in frustration, brows furrowing as he kneeled beneath the sink. Sometimes, the venue had some cheap rolls or paper towels lying around in the cabinets. And thankfully, there seemed to be a roll of paper towels waiting inside.
His fingers fumbled with the paper, hands slightly shaking as he held the paper under your nose while you tilted your head forward.
“Don’t lean back so much,” he kept saying. “You’ll swallow it…That’s gross.”
“You’re the worst medic ever,” you’d mumbled through blood, some of it catching the top of your lip. He was sure to wipe it off when he caught it, chuckling at your comment.
After a few more minutes, the bleeding finally slows to nothing. He keeps dabbing gently anyway, like he doesn’t fully trust it to stay stopped, brows still pulled tight in concentration. When he’s satisfied, he crumples the last of the paper towels and tosses them aside, hands hovering near your face for a second longer than necessary.
“Okay,” he murmurs, softer now. “You’re good.”
And then, without really thinking about it, he leans down and presses a quick, careful kiss to the top of your head.
You blink up at him, stunned more by that than the kick. He’s already pulling back, pretending to be busy, wiping his hands on his jeans like he didn’t just cross the invisible line you guys “carefully” built. You don’t know what to do with that. Or with him.
So you don’t say anything.
You can still feel the faint tenderness now when you scrunch your nose, running through the woods in Lakewood like you don’t have class in ten hours and a tuition envelope waiting for you back home. And you still don’t fully understand how you ended up here.
This morning you were in North Jersey, freezing outside a coffee shop while Frank complained about how cold his hands were and how he definitely didn’t need regular gloves because they were “lame.” Then you were in his car on the way to Trenton because Pencey Prep had a show that he swore was going to be “the one.”
You hadn’t even planned on stopping as you got on the road. The gas light had been on since Belleville, but he kept insisting it had “at least another twenty miles in it” while you watched the needle inch dangerously close to empty. Somewhere past the turnpike exit, the car gave that subtle, pathetic shudder it does when it’s running on fumes, and you just looked at him.
“Told you,” you breathed out.
“I know, I know,” he muttered, already signaling into the nearest exit like it was his idea all along.
The gas station was one of those sad, half-lit ones off the highway with flickering fluorescent lights and a vending machine that looked older than both of you. He hopped out confidently, until he patted his back pocket. Then the other one. Then his front pockets.
You were still in the passenger seat when he leaned back down to the open window, wincing.
“You’re kidding,” you’d said, staring at him.
“I promise I will this time.”
He probably wouldn’t. He didn’t even seem to remember the last ten bucks he owed you. But you handed him the cash anyway, because if the car died on the side of the highway, you’d both be stranded. And because it’s easier just to give in than argue with him when he’s already found a way to charm you. Yet you tell yourself it’s practicality, definitely not about him. It’s just…logical.
It’s easier to frame it like that than to sit with the reality that Frank has always had this way about him. Loud where you’re quiet, reckless where you hesitate, all sharp edges and crooked grins and too much energy packed into one body while you sit and stare. Being around him is like standing too close to something that runs hot– you don’t mean to lean in, you just sort of do.
Which is why you try not to think about it too hard.
…The show had been good, though.
It wasn’t just a show, really. It was one of those all-day hardcore fests crammed into an old lounge that smelled of dust, sweat, and cigarette ash. A dozen bands stacked back-to-back with barely enough time to retune between sets, cables snaking across the floor like tripwires. You paid what you could at the door– no wristbands, no barcodes, just a cardboard box and someone’s Sharpie-scrawled sign: All proceeds to UNRWA Emergency Appeal.
Frank had told you about it as if it were obvious you’d come. “You should,” he’d said, “We’re playing second.” And because you were on the list, and someone at the door waved you in with a nod, you didn’t have to pay anything to get in. You could’ve slipped past the box leaving it untouched, but of course, you didn’t. You dropped in what you had. It wasn’t really enough to change the world, but it served better than leaving nothing.
Inside, the air felt different from the first downbeat. Bands didn’t so much end as collide into each other. One would peel offstage still ringing with feedback while the next stepped over pedalboards and counted off without ceremony. It felt less like a lineup and more like a relay race, pronounced when Pencey Prep finally made it onstage.
Frank had his guitar slung low against his hips, the strap biting into his shoulder as he tore through the opening riff. Pencey’s songs weren’t polished; they were pretty sharp-edged and a little impatient, built on touches of distortion and momentum. He usually played like he was trying to outrun the tempo, fingers dragging noise out of the strings instead of coaxing it. When he leaned into the mic to scream, it wasn’t pretty, nor did it sound like it was exactly meant to be. But it was raw-throated, breathless, and almost ugly in the way real things are. And that’s what made it so fucking beautiful.
He’d jump onto the monitor without warning, nearly knocking it sideways. He, of course, shoved shoulders with the bassist mid-song just to rile him up and lean back into the drum kit so hard that it almost toppled. But regardless of how reckless he could be, he gave the crowd life with the philosophy embedded in every distorted chord: You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.
And he screamed like he truly, in his soul, believed that.
Bodies ended up slammed into each other, some guy had lost a nose ring and people climbed halfway onto the stage before diving back into the crowd. When the final chord of one song bled into feedback, he didn’t wait for it to die clean. He let it scream, handed his guitar off in one fluid motion, without hesitation, and threw himself into the crowd.
You watched him disappear into a mess of raised arms and flailing hands, boots kicking once before steadying as he adjusted his weight. For a second, he was horizontal above everyone, laughing like he was born to do. The lights hit him slightly wrong– too bright, too haloed, and you hated how cinematic it looked. How could he look so natural to be held up like that?
You really (emphasis on really) should’ve been watching for stray elbows, guarding your ribs and your face. But instead, you were looking up at him, letting the people around you press tighter because it all felt worth it. Who cares if someone's shoulder grinds into your collarbone? Who really gives a shit when there’s this stronger kind of ache that isn’t physical?
That single ache could really destroy a human heart if it carried enough means. It just sits lower than any regular shove or pull you’ve experienced. It’s quieter and almost always sneaks up on you. It opens up and unleashes when you’re looking at someone who looks most like themselves when they’re not looking at you, not belonging to you.
He looked so him up there. So untethered, living in the freedom he craves. And you can’t help the treacherous thought that maybe that version of him, the one lit from below by stage lights, sweat, and noise, would wither if it had to orbit something as quiet and heavy as you. Maybe he would feel it as a tether, and loving you would feel like being pinned down. So you keep that thin, necessary line between you intact. It’s kinder this way. If wanting him means risking the velocity he needs to survive, you would rather starve the wanting and focus on being the audience.
So you force your eyes to track the whole band instead of just him and roll your shoulders like you’re loosening up for the pit, like that’s all this is. You snap yourself out of it the way you always do: Don’t romanticize it, don’t assign meaning, he’s just playing a set. But the feeling always creeps too far up your throat to where you have to force yourself to catch it and swallow it back.
Yet, you don’t even register how hard you’re being crushed until someone shoves forward and your back hits another body. Your lungs compress and your foot slips, but you just laugh at it anyway. Because he’s still up there, fucking golden, it’s so sickening and unfair. The music continues to swell, and the bodies around you surge in answer, and for a second it feels far less like you’re in a crowd and more like in a room full of packed atoms. You’re inside it and you allow yourself to be carried by it.
Eventually, he does drop back down and doesn’t retreat backstage or anything. You know he never goes to cool off, or to towel down, or let the adrenaline drain out properly. He just vaults back onto the stage, snatches his guitar for the last chorus, screams it like he’s splitting himself open. When the set ends for real this time, the amps cut and the next band is already hauling gear into position. Frank does what he always does, and hops straight off the stage and into the pit.
The festival-day rhythm takes over as per usual. You were used to it, expecting another adrenaline rush after another, one band bleeding into the next. Someone shouts into a mic to test it and the drums start again, a little heavier this time.
You move without thinking. Ducking under an arm, throwing your shoulder into someone’s chest, and then pin away. There’s a rhythm to it if you let yourself surrender to it. You stop being an observer and become part of the mechanism. And maybe that’s safer– to be a body in motion instead of a person with longing, to dissolve into impact instead of standing still long enough to admit that you want something you’ve already decided you can’t have. If you’re just another pair of boots on the warped wooden floor, another elbow cutting through the air, then there’s no room for softness.
And that’s when, mid-spin, you get a flash of denim and boot– immediate impact.
It would be easier if it were anyone else.
But the moment he realizes it’s you, something in his face fractures. He looked so fucking horrified that his voice lost all its stability and cracked after seeing blood trip down your nose. And you hate, God, you hate, that your heart reacts to that. Why does it stutter at the sight of his horror? Are you really that selfish that you glow at the evidence that hurting you is different? You shouldn't be different.
Different implies significance, significance implies attachment, and attachment feels like the first step toward clipping his wings. So you swallow it down as you always do, and reframe it. Of course, he was horrified, he’s not a monster. That doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t get to mean anything.
So instead of thinking about the way his hands trembled, or the way his mouth softened when he spoke, you latch onto the tangible thing possible: dinner.
You’d insisted on driving to this restaurant you remembered from a middle school field trip. You’d described the mozzarella sticks like they were sourced straight from Italian saints.
“They’re not just mozzarella sticks, y’know?” you’d said, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like you were defending a thesis. “They’re, like, insane. Life-altering. And the cheese pull…You don’t even understand.”
Frank, slouched in the passenger seat, had snorted. “You’re pitching fried dairy like it changed your whole life trajectory.”
“It did,” you shot back. “Seventh grade, post-museum field trip. I realized I deserved good things. Specifically, fried good things.”
He grinned at that, glancing over at you. “That’s real beautiful. Really inspiring.”
You kept going anyway, about the red vinyl booths that made that embarrassing suction noise when you stood up, along with the neon beer sign that buzzed like a lazy wasp in the corner, and the marinara that came in those little plastic ramekins that were always slightly cracked at the rim.
He laughed, teased you about your oddly specific descriptions, but nonetheless, listened.
…And then you pulled into the parking lot.
There were boarded windows at the front, and a sun-faded banner sagging across the now dead OPEN neon sign: CLOSED.
You got out anyway, walking a few steps toward the dark glass as if proximity might have something to do with it. A plywood board had been drilled crookedly across the door, and a paper sign was taped inside, edges curled: Closed permanently. Thank you for the memories.
It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. It’s just a restaurant. Just a stupid strip-mall Italian place with sticky menus and too-sweet marinara sauce.
But something in your chest tugged at your heart. You’d already spent too much on gas getting here, already bled through half a roll of paper towels in a venue bathroom, and you tried not to feel the shape of Frank’s mouth pressing against your hair. And now this, this small, stupid landmark of your childhood, gone without a proper goodbye.
You let out a hollow laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Frank stepped up beside you, hands shoved into his back pockets. “Shit,” he muttered. “This is the sacred site?”
“Don’t,” you warned weakly.
He leaned closer to the glass, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer in. “Damn. They even took the fake grapevine decorations down. That’s how you know it’s serious.”
You folded your arms, staring at the sign like it had personally betrayed you. “They didn’t even tell me.”
“Oh yeah? You two were close?”
He bumped his shoulder lightly into yours. “Hey. I’m sorry.” And this time he isn’t joking. His voice dips, softer around the edges. “Meant a lot right?”
You huff. “It’s fine. It’s just mozzarella sticks.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “You look like someone pissed on your childhood.”
You hesitate. Then, quieter, “It just…sucks. Like, when something you thought would always be there isn’t.”
Frank glances at you, something flickering behind his eyes, like he hears the other thing you’re not saying. About him, and the way you’re trying to keep everything temporary so it won’t hurt when it inevitably disappears.
He clears his throat and digs into his pocket, pulling out his beat-up Nokia. The casing’s scratched to hell, antenna slightly bent. He flips it open with his thumb like he’s trying to look decisive.
“Okay,” he says, forcing brightness back into his voice. “Plan B.”
You watch him pace a little across the cracked asphalt, phone pressed to his ear. He turns slightly away from you when it starts ringing, free hand raking through his hair.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters while it rings.
He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “You’re not hungry for another sad restaurant shut down right?”
You cross your arms, leaning back against the car. “I don’t think my heart could take another loss tonight.”
He huffs a quiet laugh just as someone picks up.
“Yo– yeah, it’s Frank. Nah, we just went to get dinner but it’s dead. Like, boarded-up.” He listens, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, tonight? Lakewood?…How many people?” A pause. Then a grin starts pulling at his mouth. “No, that sounds insane– that’s why I’m asking.”
He turns fully toward you now, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. “Lake house party,” he mumbles to you, “Friend of a friend.”
You raise a brow, “Is it sketchy?”
He shrugs, then speaks back into the phone, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll come. You said it’s by Nelson’s, right?” He pulls the phone away long enough to mouth, I’m driving.
He snaps the phone shut after saying his goodbyes and exhales, hands moving to tuck the device back into his pocket. “Congratulations,” he says, already heading for the driver’s side. “We’re going to party in South Jersey.”
You end up not arguing about it and circle to the passenger seat while he catches the keys that you toss over to him. The car door groans when he yanks it open and drops into the seat, shoving the key into the ignition, with the engine rattling awake in that familiar, slightly concerning hum.
He pulls out of the parking lot, looking back while the tires crunch over loose gravel before hitting the main road. The sky is doing that late-summer fade with gold thinning into pink, then slowly bruising purple at the edges.
“Nelson still lives over in Lakewood,” Frank says, one hand loose on the wheel. “Same neighborhood as before. Remember those basement shows he used to throw when his parents went down the shore?”
You glance over. “The ones where the ceiling pipes would drip on people?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “That's the spot.”
“He almost electrocuted three people.”
“Yeah, but they were sick shows.”
He adjusts the rearview mirror, merging onto the highway east. The road opens up in front of you, long and flat, green exit signs flashing overhead in steady intervals. Trenton slips behind you without much resistance as the hum of the tires settles into something hypnotic.
“He said it’s right by the lake,” Frank continues. “Same streets as Nelson’s place. You won’t miss it. Apparently, half the county’s gonna be there.”
“That sounds safe,” you say dryly.
“Since when do you care? Anyway, it’ll be obvious,” he adds. “Just look for, like, fifteen cars parked illegally.”
Frank continues to drive solely on muscle memory and vague directions given over a crackling cell call. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel at red lights and flips through radio stations when commercials drag too long. Fields start to replace tighter clusters of buildings and tree lines crowd closer to the road the farther east you go. The air through the cracked window smells different out here, a little less asphalt, more damp earth.
“Nelson’s house is like…three streets over from the lake,” Frank says, mostly to himself now. “If it’s in that neighborhood, it’ll be easy to find.”
He glances at you briefly. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you answer, adjusting the vent so the air isn’t blasting directly at your face. “Just a little tired.”
“Mhm…” he hums, eyeing your expression before his eyes return toward the road. “Well, wake up. Because I’m not missing this.” You roll your eyes, “I’m not that tired.”
The sun dips lower as the miles tick by, the sky finally surrendering to dusk. Streetlights flicker on one by one when you hit Lakewood proper. Frank slows a little, scanning the residential streets as he turns off the main road. Then, faintly in the distance, you can already see clusters of headlights lining both sides of a quiet suburban block and a low, distant thud of bass drifting through the air.
Cars line on both sides of the block in crooked, weird rows with some halfway on lawns and others shoved up against curbs like whoever parked them didn’t bother trying twice. Music leaks out into the night in strong, pulsing waves but it’s not loud enough to be a real big show-out. Though, it is loud enough that the bass travels through the pavement and under your shoes.
Frank kills the engine and leans back for a second, scanning the house. It’s one of those lake houses that probably looks nice during the day. Right now it’s just glowing with too many lights and moving shadows with the front door wide open. People spill out onto the porch and down the steps, cups in hand, cigarette tips burning like small floating embers in the dark.
Frank takes one look at the crowd and shoots you a sideways glance. His eyebrows lift just slightly and his mouth pulls into that crooked grin that usually means he’s about to do something questionable. He leans a little closer as you both start walking toward the house.
“We are absolutely raiding them,” he whispers.
“You’re disgusting,” you exaggerate.
“Listen, they have like–” he gestures vaguely toward the house “At least four different coolers from what I can see just from out here.”
“That’s not their alcohol either,” he counters easily. “It’s a community effort, you should know this.” He smiles.
Frank bumps his shoulder lightly into yours as you start up the driveway, gravel crunching under your shoes. The closer you get, the more everything comes into focus. The hum of overlapping conversations comes clearer, the occasional burst of laughter gets a little too loud for the space, and the sharp hiss of someone cracking open a can is right by your ear. There’s a group crowded around the garage, someone perched on the hood of a car, another person crouched near a cooler digging through it like they’re searching for buried treasure.
Further back, half-hidden near the side yard like someone tried to be slick about it. Better bottles. Less picked through and your mouth tilts slightly.
“Oh, you see it too,” he murmurs, low and pleased.
“I’m just saying,” you start, stepping up onto the porch as it creaks under the weight of too many people, “if you’re gonna steal, at least don’t go for the obvious ones. That’s how you get caught.”
He snorts. “I’m not the one with the strategy.”
“Yeah, because you’d get caught in like two seconds.”
“Aw, don’t do me like that. I still have instincts.”
You push past someone lingering in the doorway, the smell hitting you immediately. It was definitely a mix of alcohol, cheap perfume, sweat, and something faintly citrusy trying and failing to mask it all. Someone brushes your shoulder on the way out, muttering a quick “sorry,” while another person nearly trips over the step behind you, laughing it off while your gaze flicks back toward the coolers again, mentally mapping it out
Stepping closer inside, the living room is packed wall to wall with people dancing, some yelling over the music, and others sitting on the floor passing around cups filled with things that smell aggressively like vodka and orange juice.
Someone near the door recognizes Frank immediately.
“Yo!” a guy calls from the couch, “Frankie!”
Frank points at him like he’s been caught mid-crime. “Hey, man!”
They clasp hands in that quick half-hug handshake that people who see each other as close friends always do. The guy’s already shoving a red plastic cup into Frank’s hand before the conversation even really starts.
“What’s this?” Frank asks, sniffing it.
“Don’t ask,” the guy says.
Frank takes a cautious sip and his face twists for half a second.
“Okay…yeah, that’s mostly vodka– Jesus.”
The guy laughs, “You’re welcome.”
Frank takes another drink anyway, shrugging like it’s nothing. He leans casually against the wall, already falling into conversation, probably talking about the show earlier, like who played after them, or some band that apparently drove all the way from Connecticut.
While he’s distracted, he glances at you again. One eyebrow tilts upward just slightly, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl. It’s the same look he used in situations like these, right before doing something mildly illegal or deeply stupid.
You press your lips together, trying not to laugh, because it’s ridiculous how easy it is to understand him without a single word being said.
The kitchen is loud and almost overstimulating, like everyone’s conversations are overlapping and dissolving into each other to become one shitty solution. Someone near the fridge is passionately arguing about whether Minor Threat counts as “real punk” while another guy is crouched by the sink attempting to pry open a bottle cap with the flame of his lighter while two girls with widened pupils lean against the counter beside him, watching like it’s a revolutionary magic trick.
Well, nobody seems to be paying attention to you…
Which is perfect when you’re planning to snatch somebody's most expensive bottle.
The counter itself is a graveyard of plastic cups and half-drunk bottles. Some dyed-brunette had spilled something sticky near the edge which was maybe rum, or soda. Your fingers nearly catch as you lean forward to inspect the lineup. There seemed to be cheap, watered-down rum in a cloudy plastic bottle, and right beside it, there was something neon that might be cheap blue curaçao. And without fail, there is a massive handle of vodka that already looks like everyone in the room took three shots from it.
But the real treasure is in the coolers.
There are three of them shoved against the far wall like treasure chests. One of them is one of those big red Coleman ones with a cracked lid, another is blue and dented like it’s been kicked down a flight of stairs at least once today, and the third one is smaller, white plastic with someone’s faded high school lacrosse sticker from ‘94 peeling off the side.
You crouch down beside the biggest cooler and lift the lid. Cold air immediately rolls out against your face along with the sharp smell of beer and melting ice. Inside is exactly what you’d expect, telling from the smell alone– cans stacked, half-submerged in cloudy ice water with some bottles buried inside. There’s some Bud Light, Coors, and other generic shit that might as well just be labeled ‘beer.’ A few bottles float sideways between the cans as you dig through, their labels wrinkled from the water. The ice clinks softly as you push a few cans aside, your fingers going numb almost immediately from the cold.
You could take one of these, honestly. You probably should. That would be the normal thing to do at any party.
But Frank didn’t just casually drink a single bottle of beer with you, it was an experience.
So you shut that cooler and move on to the next. This one has less generic stuff and instead has more…experimental drinks. Someone’s dumped in the usual couple of bottles of cheap vodka, some plastic jug of orange juice, and what looks suspiciously like half a bottle of cranberry cocktail just floating around together with pieces of slimy candy. You make a face, already envisioning a bad hangover, and close it again.
The last cooler is smaller, but the ice in it hasn’t melted as much. When you lift the lid this time, the contents look…different– at least from the last you’ve seen. In this one, there are fewer cans and more glass.
Someone brought some actual bottles.
There’s a dark bottle of rum resting against the side, the label peeling from the condensation, a cool-looking squat bottle of something amber-colored that might be whiskey, and a clear bottle, having something of a silver cap that looks far too expensive for the general vibe of this party.
You stay there for a second, thinking– staring at the melting ice cubes and the unopened bottles.
Drinking with Frank is always fun…
Because somewhere between the first sip and the last, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, almost easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention but you always are. There’s a pull that forms, like gravity tightening its hold without either of you ever noticing. The world around you blurs at the edges with all its little details of music, voices, bodies packed too close together. Somehow it always narrows back down to just him and you. Whether it’s him grabbing you by the hips, you leaning into his neck as you suck on it or him pulling your head back as your bodies crash into one another in someone’s bathroom sink.
And the worst part? You never talk about how you feel. Not after. Not ever. It doesn’t matter where the night leaves you– crowded basements thick with sweat and noise, unfamiliar couches that smell like other people’s lives, dim bedrooms with flickering lights and locked doors…it all gets swallowed by morning. Like it was never meant to survive daylight. There’s this unspoken rule stitched into both of you that says whatever happens under the influence of dim lights and bad decisions stays there.
There was a moment that almost broke this unspoken agreement though. It was at Leo’s (some guy that Frank met in his psych class) place, where you’d both ended up sitting on the edge of the bathtub sharing a bottle of something strong enough to strip paint. You'd nearly gotten caught because someone tried to open the bathroom door while Frank was panting in your ear because your hand was down his pants.
And the next morning, you kind of expected some sort of debrief.
Like it never even happened.
You’d both wake up, drink bad coffee, and fall back into the same roles you always play: Best friends, partners in crime, two peas in a pod…Just two people who definitely, absolutely, positively don’t cross any lines.
Because sometimes it feels like those lines exist solely so the two of you can step over them when you’re drunk and pretend they weren’t there, only to defend them when you’re sober. Like it’s some game.
You stare down at the bottles again.
Your luck really is incredible.
Of course, the night will probably end with alcohol and Frank sucking on your neck.
You reach into the ice, your fingers wrapping around the neck of the whiskey bottle, slick with condensation. The glass is cold when you lift it out, droplets of water running down your wrist as you push the cooler lid shut again. For a second you just stand there holding it, listening to the music thudding through the house and the noise of strangers laughing around you.
Part of you considers putting it back. Again, the smarter part.
But you imagine Frank’s stupid, delighted face when you hand it to him like you just pulled off sneaking a whole Macallan 1926…That thought alone ruins any chance of turning back.
So you straighten up, tuck the bottle loosely inside your zip-up, and head for the back door before anyone decides to question why you’re walking away with what is very clearly someone else’s unopened liquor.
The door is propped open with a muddy sneaker, letting in a stream of cooler night air. Music spills out onto the back deck along with the smell of lake water and wet grass. Once you step outside, the noise drops by about half-ish. The party continues behind you, but it feels farther away as you edge closer toward the stretch of yard sloping down toward the dark water beyond. The lake glints faintly in the distance, catching pieces of moonlight through the trees. The woods surrounding it look thick and shadowy, the kind that swallows sound once you step too far inside its story.
You lean against the railing that prevents people from falling in and twist the cap off the bottle, the metal scrapes softly as it loosens. For a moment you just look at it before sighing and taking a quick swig. The whiskey hits your tongue like a warning shot– a little sharp, smoky, somewhat strong. It burns its way down your throat with zero mercy, making you cough once under your breath but you manage to swallow it. For a second you just stand there, breathing out slowly through your nose while the warmth spreads around your chest.
You then hear the door shut with a soft thud and Frank’s shoes scrape across the wood as he walks over. You hear the jangle of the chain on his wallet against his jeans, the faint sound of him cracking his knuckles the way he always does after holding a cup too long.
“Please tell me you didn’t grab vodka,” Frank says as he steps out onto the deck, making you glance over your shoulder.
He’s halfway through a plastic cup of something light-orange that smells aggressively like citrus and worse than bottom-shelf alcohol. His hair is a little messier than it was earlier, the stage-sweat from the show long dried but still doing that thing where it curls at the edges. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and there’s a faint condensation of something dark along his forearm, probably someone else’s drink from inside.
You lift the bottle in silent answer and his eyes widen immediately, making him place the red solo cup on a flat surface before he could drop it.
You toss it to him before he can even ask. He catches it against his chest with a soft thunk, then pulls it away to inspect the label under the porch light.
“Holy shit,” he laughs. “You robbed them blind.”
It’s not top-shelf by any stretch of imagination, but in a room full of cheap vodka and plastic-bottle rum, it might as well be a millionaire's wet dream. Someone clearly brought it with good intentions, perhaps imagining slow, polite pours into cups.
“You’re incredible,” he says as he looks at you in slight awe. Who said you can’t mix clear and dark spirits? Frank thinks that’s bullshit, you're an angel and this is his gift sent from the heavens.
He takes a long drink straight from the bottle, tilting his head back without hesitation. When he lowers it again he winces slightly, sucking air through his teeth.
“Oh man,” he mutters. “That’s…actually really good.”
Frank eventually passes it back, making you take another smaller sip this time, already feeling the first one settling into your bloodstream. Frank jerks his head toward the more open space after he watched you cap off the bottle.
The wood feels slightly wet under your shoes as you both wander down toward the end of the pier. The party noise fades with every step, the music becoming a dull thump behind the house while the night air grows quieter, thicker with the smell of damp dirt and algae. The woodwork looks a little uneven on the edges, clearly all made by someone’s dad. There are also patches of dirt tracked in with mixed tufts of grass and scattered rocks, leaving a few dragged marks. Someone earlier must’ve dragged a couple of old lawn chairs down here, but one of them is missing a leg once you turn your left and the other on the back-right is half-sunk into the grass, right before you’re welcomed to the wooden padding.
Frank drops down onto the ground, crossing his legs and placing the dark liquor beside him. You sit next to it, but it’s still close enough that your shoulders brush against his. The lake stretches out in front of you like a sheet of black glass, moonlight scattering across the surface whenever the water moves.
Frank reaches for the bottle again. “So,” he says, taking another drink. “You wanna hear some absolute bullshit?”
“Sure.” You say as you eye the liquid sloshing inside its casing.
He hands the bottle back and leans back on his hands, staring out toward the water. “Okay, so apparently,” he starts, already sounding mildly offended on behalf of the entire hardcore scene, “that band from fucking Dover? The ones with the singer who always wears those nasty camo shorts?”
You groan, “Oh my god, that guy?”
“Yeah. That guy.” There’s a beat where his jaw shifts, like he’s chewing on the words before he says them.
“So after their set last weekend,” he continues, tone flattening into something sharper, “they’re all hanging around outside, right? Just people smoking, talking, whatever. And there’s this kid there, like, whose actually straight edge. Not fake about it. He’s been around a bit, keeps to himself, doesn’t bother anyone.”
You take a small sip from the bottle, slower now. Listening. Frank exhales through his nose. “And this asshole, this absolute fucking idiot, starts giving him shit for it. Calling him boring, saying he’s not ‘really part of the scene’ if he doesn’t drink.”
“Right?” Frank says, sitting up a little now, agitation starting to creep into his movements. “Like, okay, you don’t agree with it, whatever, be a motherfucker. But then it gets worse.”
You already feel your stomach tighten, “How?”
Frank looks over at you briefly, eyes sharper now. “He hands the kid a drink,” he says before taking a small pause to let some of his anger simmer down. “And at first it’s just annoying, but then he doesn’t drop it. Keeps pushing. Gets a couple of his friends in on it.”
Your grip tightens slightly around the bottle. “…you’re kidding.”
“I wish I were...” His voice drops slightly lower. “They corner him. And this guy, grown ass man, grabs the back of his neck and tries to force the cup to his mouth.”
For a second, the only sound is the water while something in your chest goes cold.
“Yeah,” Frank mutters, running a hand through his hair.
His posture has changed completely. He’s not lounging anymore, there’s tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, and his fingers flex like they’re itching for something to hit.
“No,” Frank cuts in quickly. “Someone stepped in before it got that far. Knocked the cup out of his hand. But still.”
You shake your head slowly, anger simmering up in a way that feels heavier than the alcohol. “That’s so fucked.”
“Like actually fucked. That’s not even scene drama, that’s just–”
“Being a piece of shit,” Frank finishes for you.
He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, staring down at the ground like he’s replaying it in his head even though he wasn’t there.
“If I see him,” he says, voice quieter, “I’m not even joking, I will beat his ass.”
You pass the bottle back to him, noting the way his hand attempts to reach for it while he’s not looking. “He deserves it.”
Frank takes it, nodding once. “He fucking does.”
He drinks again, bigger swig this time, like he’s trying to burn off the frustration sitting under his skin. A little bit spills at the corner of his mouth, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand without thinking.
“People like that ruin it,” he mutters. “Like, this whole thing is supposed to be about morals, y’know? How can you call yourself punk when you’re not even acting like it?”
You hum in agreement, pulling your knees in slightly. There’s a pause, lingering and a little heavy but not uncomfortable.
Then, quieter, “I hate people like that,” he adds.
You glance at him. There’s still anger there, simmering just under the surface. You nudge your shoulder into his lightly.
“Well,” you say, softer now, “if you see him, I’ll help you.”
That pulls a small laugh out of him. Not much, but enough to break the tension. “Yeah?” he says, glancing at you.
“Yeah,” you add, a little more firmly this time, “consider it a team effort.”
And it isn’t even a joke, because it’s not like this would be the first time the two of you have decided, wordlessly or otherwise, that someone deserved to get knocked down a few pegs.
Back in high school, you built quite a reputation for it. Nothing that could be easily pinned, just a pattern of people who ran their mouths a little too far ending up shoved into lockers, cornered behind the gym, or walking away with bruised skin and pride. It was always the same aftermath: sitting side by side in stiff wooden chairs outside the principal’s office, or stuck in detention scratching out lines about discipline and morality, or doing some bizarre penance assignment about forgiveness while trying not to laugh.
You never really talked about it then either, that sort of stuff just happened. That same instinct, that same shared, unspoken agreement that if someone crossed a line, you’d both be there to meet them on the other side of it.
He shakes his head, a faint grin tugging at his mouth now. “God, we are pretty scrappy.”
“Only when it’s justified.”
He hands the bottle back to you. “Mm, true.”
You take another drink, the whiskey warmer now, less shocking as it goes down.
Your conversation eventually drifts naturally into the past, like high school, as it always does when the night gets long enough and the alcohol starts softening the edges of everything. Not about the sappy senior quotes or neat little back-and-forths, but it’s half-finished thoughts and shared recollections that don’t need explaining because the other person was already there. The uniforms come up first and how stiff they were, also how you’d both find ways to wear them just slightly wrong out of spite. Then the teachers, the ones who took themselves too seriously, the ones who clearly gave up years ago.
There’s a kind of humor in it now, in hindsight, but it’s laced with something else too but you can’t exactly put your finger on it. You both end up remembering what it felt like to be there– trapped, restless, already halfway out the door even when you were sitting in class. You remember the way everything felt so immediate back then, how every slight or insult or moment of boredom demanded a reaction. And how easy it was to find each other in the middle of it all, like an unspoken constant.
The bottle keeps moving between your hands as those memories blur together. At some point, neither of you is really pacing yourselves anymore.
The whiskey doesn’t bite the same way it did at first, it slides down easier now, warmth spreading faster, looser in your chest. Your words start to overlap more, laughter coming quicker and lasting longer than it should. The lake in front of you looks softer somehow, less sharp at the edges, like the whole world has dipped slightly out of focus.
By the time you tilt the bottle again and realize how light it’s gotten, you pause. “…Wait,” you mutter, squinting at it.
Frank leans in immediately, shoulder knocking into yours as he tries to look.
You shake it once and the liquid inside barely shifts.
“Dude,” you say, half-laughing already, “we basically killed it.”
Frank stares at the bottle like it were some sort of anomaly. “Yeah, you need help.”
“You were the one double-sipping,” you shoot back.
“I was not– okay, maybe once,” he admits, already grinning.
“Alright, whatever. It’s fine.” He takes it from you, tipping it back for one last attempt. A few stubborn drops make it out, and he makes a face like he’s been robbed.
“It was really good…” he mutters.
You laugh, louder than necessary, the sound echoing a little too far out over the water. For a second, everything just sits there in this easy, loose, unsteady energy that doesn’t feel quite dangerous yet. Just light and feathery.
Then Frank suddenly pushes himself up. “Okay,” he says, like he’s just come to a very important conclusion.
You blink up at him. “…What?”
“I don’t know,” he says, already reaching down to grab your wrist. “We just can’t.”
“That’s not a reason, Frankie.”
But he’s already pulling you up. “Hey, don’t be lame now.”
You stumble slightly as he yanks you to your feet, your balance a half-second behind where it should be. The world tilts just enough to make you laugh again.
And before you can question it, he takes off. Your shoes hit the wood in uneven, echoing thuds as you both bolt back the way you came, laughter breaking out mid-step because neither of you is running in a straight line. The boards creak under the sudden weight, the sound sharp and hollow beneath you. By the time you hit the grass again, you’re already out of breath.
“Where are we even going?” you manage, half-laughing, half-gasping.
“Other side,” he throws over his shoulder, not slowing down.
The ground slopes unevenly beneath your feet, grass slick and slightly damp, making every step feel just unstable enough to keep things interesting. The lake stays to your right, a constant dark presence flickering between the trees as you cut around it. The house and the party fade even further behind you, the noise dissolving into nothing but distant echoes.
Branches start to crowd in as you move farther out. The air feels different here like it’s cooler, thicker, carrying the scent of dirt and leaves instead of smoke and spilled alcohol.
The lake flashes silver through the gaps in the branches. The moon is bright enough to make the water look like it’s glowing, rippling softly near the shore. You can still see the house behind you through the woods like a loose constellation of string lights strung along the deck, silhouettes shifting in the windows, someone shouting over the music as it might actually reach this far.
The trees thin out as you push through, branches catching at your sleeves, leaves brushing against your arms, until the ground levels out again and gives way to another stretch of shoreline. There’s a second pier here though it’s smaller, a little rougher, and possibly half-forgotten. The wood is darker, more worn down, like it’s been sitting here longer than the one on the other side and one of the posts leans slightly, just enough to make the whole thing look off-balance.
“Man,” he says, breathless but grinning, like he’s just discovered something instead of stumbled onto it. “No one’s even over here.”
“Yeah, because it looks like your lung might collapse,” you shoot back, but you’re already following him out onto it.
The boards creak louder here, more dramatic under your weight, like they’re announcing every step. The lake laps quietly against the sides, closer now, the sound sharper without the noise of the party bleeding into it. Frank walks all the way to the end and turns back toward you, arms spreading out slightly like he’s presenting it.
“Private property,” he declares.
You snort. “Real exclusive.”
He laughs, stepping back just enough that you have to adjust your footing to avoid bumping into him which, of course, means you bump into him anyway. Your shoulder knocks into his chest, and you both stumble half a step before catching yourselves, sending you both into another round of laughter.
Frank crouches suddenly, peering over the edge of the pier like he’s about to inspect something important.
“Think it’s deep?” he asks.
“Don’t even think about it,” you say immediately.
He glances back at you, a grin already giving him away. He ends up laughing eventually, pushing himself back up instead of committing to it (thankfully) and flops down onto the wood instead, stretching out like he owns the place. You sit beside him, legs dangling off the edge this time. The water moves slowly beneath you, dark and endless, reflecting just enough light to remind you it’s there.
The running for no reason, the bad decisions, the way the night stretches out like it doesn’t have an end yet. The way being around him makes everything feel a little less complicated than it actually is.
It reminds you of being fourteen.
That summer before everything started counting and before high school turned everything into something you had to survive instead of just exist in. Nobody had prepared for people to start expecting big things from you and that mistakes were like tons of weight on your value instead of just consequences you could laugh off later.
But the best part of being fourteen, was meeting him.
It was a random day that didn’t feel significant at the time. It was just another day, another person but somehow it stuck. And then it kept sticking, through everything after that.
You glance over at him and his hazel eyes look hazy, staring up at the sky, arms folded behind his head, completely at ease like the world hasn’t changed at all. Your eyes end up just looking back out at the water, the faint glow of the house across the lake, the distance between here and there.
Things aren’t as simple as they used to be.
But sitting here, a little drunk, with the night stretched out around you like it might last forever…
It almost feels like they are.
Frank, who somehow always exists at the center of things. Who knows everyone, or at least knows someone who knows someone. Whose life seems to move in fast, loud bursts with basement shows, late-night drives, random fights, stories that sound unreal until you realize he actually lived them. There’s always something happening around him, always some new chaos waiting just around the corner.
It’s part of why you’ve never really questioned your place next to him.
You just…ended up there. Stayed there.
Moments like these? They can’t possibly mean the same thing to him.
You catch a glimpse of the way he’s laid out on the wood, completely at ease, like this is just another night, another story he’ll forget or replace with something louder, something bigger. And when he turns his head slightly, just enough that his gaze drifts toward you, lingers there for a second too long, you feel something in your chest pull tight.
Don’t let yourself indulge.
There’s no way that looks that’s so soft, almost absent-minded, like he’s seeing something he likes more than he expected could actually be meant for you. Not in any way that matters anyway.
For him, this has to be normal.
This closeness, this ease, this…whatever this is. It has to be something he does with other people, in other places, on different nights just like this one.
“You good?” he asks, studying your face in the dim light.
“Yeah,” you say, and for once you don’t immediately ruin it with a joke.
He reaches out and brushes his thumb lightly under your nose, checking for blood like he doesn’t fully trust that you stopped bleeding hours ago.
“You’d tell me if it was broken, right?” he says.
“You’re kind of dumb sometimes.”
You huff quietly, more out of habit than anything. A you literally kicked me in the face was sitting right at the edge of your tongue, ready to slip out in the same careless, joking tone you use for everything else. But you remember his expression, like something inside him dropped out all at once, and whatever careless momentum he’d been moving in just…collapsed the second he realized it was you. God, how can you forget the color draining from his skin, his hands hovering like he didn’t know where it was safe to touch, and how he was afraid he might make it worse just by standing too close.
How can you fucking forget how careful he was? Gentle?
God, you really hate this. You hate how instinctively you wanted to hold onto that softness and to turn it into something meaningful before you could stop yourself.
You swallow the thought before it has the chance to reshape itself and before it turns itself into a question you don’t want to answer. Because if you say it, if you bring it up, even as a joke, you risk pulling that version of him back into this daydream you have. You risk crumbling again, even worse now that you’re intoxicated and can let anything slip out. Thankfully, you have whatever sobriety you have left to maintain yourself and dignity.
You both then glance back toward the house. Thank god. The music shifts to something louder, heavier. A cheer goes up from inside, like someone just did something incredibly stupid and somehow managed to survive.
“You wanna go back?” he asks.
You look at the lake instead. The water is calm and the trees around you continue to flutter gently, leaves rustling. It feels like you stepped into a different world just by running thirty yards from the house.
He nods, his eyes narrowing down at the ripples of water. You sit there together, catching your breath, your shoulders occasionally brushing when one of you sways slightly.
Frank shifts beside you on the edge of the pier, the wood creaking faintly under both your weight. The lake laps softly a few feet below your shoes, dark water nudging the posts in slow, lazy rhythms. For a minute, neither of you say anything.
Then you hear the familiar crinkle. You glance over just as Frank digs into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a soft, half-crushed pack of cigarettes. The cardboard is worn at the corners like it’s been living in his pocket all week. He taps the bottom of it against his palm once, twice, out of habit and not thinking much of it.
“Want one?” he asks, already flipping the lid open.
A drunk cig sounds…really fucking good right now.
“Yeah,” you say immediately, voice a little softer than you meant it to be.
He angles the pack toward himself first, peering inside. His fingers don’t think much as he grabs one, sliding it into the corner of his mouth before diving back to the box. But now, they hover just a second too long. His expression shifts, not enough that anyone else would probably clock it, but you know that face. You know all his little tell-tale signs.
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
But he still hasn’t pulled a single cigarette out.
You lean back on your hands, legs dangling off the pier, sneakers scuffing lightly against the wood as you kick your feet over the water. The lake reflects the moon in broken ripples as you swing close by, air smelling damp and faintly like smoke already clinging to his clothes.
Still no hand movement, no indication of a cigarette for you. If he didn’t want to share at least one with you, he could’ve just said it…
You squint sideways at him. “Dude.”
Your brows knit together. The lighter isn’t even out. He’s just…staring into the pack. You shift closer, curiosity winning, and tip your head just enough to see inside.
Your stomach does a weird little flip of recognition.
You’ve seen him do it a hundred times with fresh packs. He always has one cigarette flipped, following the whole smoker superstition. Lucky stick. Save it for last, make a wish. Bad luck if you smoke it early and worse luck if you give it away.
Your eyes flick back to his face.
For a second, neither of you say anything. He’ll probably light it somewhere in secret and later make some offhand comment, or maybe not, but either way, it’ll stay his. Because that’s the whole point, right? You don’t give that one away, you don’t mess with it, and you’re okay with that. Superstitions are superstitions.
So you lean back a little more, putting your weight onto your hands again, gaze drifting back out toward the water like you’ve already decided not to make it a thing. Your sneakers tap lightly against the side of the pier, slow, idle movements that fill the space without asking anything from him.
But he still hasn’t stopped looking inside the carton and he still hasn’t even put it away. Was he so drunk that he randomly started disassociating??
Your brows knit slightly as you focus a little more on his face. To be fair, you were a little worried for his well-being. If he started to act like this, that usually meant you had to prepare yourself for some drunken sways before he emptied his guts out.
Then his fingers finally move, pinching the upside-down cigarette between two fingers and sliding it carefully out of the pack. Your stomach drops a little.
You blink at it like it might jump up and bite you just like his grandmother's dog did back in sophomore year.
“No,” you repeat, a little quieter now. “That’s your–”
“You’re supposed to save that one,” you say. “That’s like…the whole point. You always smoke it.”
He shrugs one shoulder, “Yeah, well.”
His hand nudges closer to yours, cigarette still offered, unwavering.
“You could use the luck more than me.”
Your chest tightens in a way the alcohol definitely isn’t responsible for.
Now he finally looks at you fully, head tilted slightly, eyes a little glassy from the alcohol but still way too aware. Way too focused. Frank looks at people like this all the time– like he’s trying to see past whatever’s on the surface, like there’s always something just out of reach that he’s hoping to catch if he stares long enough. There’s a kind of wanderlust yearning in it, something open and searching, like he’s never quite satisfied with what’s right in front of him. You’ve seen it directed at strangers, friends, and fleeting moments that don’t mean anything at all. He could be looking at you retching over some grimy alleyway in Newark and still have that same look on his face.
Well, okay, this is just alcohol talking. And maybe his eyes are just glassy from the lightning or the water's reflections making shit look all wrong.
“I know shit’s been kicking your ass lately,” he says, quieter now. “So just…take it, alright?”
For a second, all you can do is stare at him.
Because he knows the superstition. He knows exactly what he’s handing over. And he’s doing it anyway like it doesn’t even matter, like bad luck is just another thing he’s willing to shoulder if it means…
“…You’re so stupid,” you mutter weakly.
“Yeah, yeah. Take the cigarette.”
You hesitate one more second. Then your fingers finally reach out and take it from his hand.
He doesn’t make a big deal out of it after that. Doesn’t tease you, doesn’t joke. He just fishes the lighter out of his other pocket and attempts to flick it open with his usual practiced snap. Frank leans in, close enough that you can smell the mix of smoke, lake air, and that cheap cologne he always overuses. His hand comes up automatically to cup around the expected flame, shielding it from the breeze off the water as he continues to flick the lighter.
“C’mon,” he murmurs as his own cigarette starts sogging in his mouth.
On the third flick, the flame blooms small, gold, wavering in the dark, and the heat from the lighter brushes warm against your lips as you lean in. The lake air moves sharply and cool across your cheeks, as you take a slow drag, the cigarette tip flaring to life, its ember glowing bright enough to briefly paint Frank’s face in soft orange. His eyes are on you, and something in your chest wrenches before you can stop it.
You lean back, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the night. You don’t even dare look him in the eye. But you can feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze still lingering, the way it hasn’t quite left you even after the flame dies down and the moment should’ve passed. It sits there, heavy and quiet, like it’s waiting for you to meet it again.
Your chest doesn’t feel right.
Fuck, it’s too tight, warm, fuzzy even. Your pulse is a little too loud in your ears, a little too fast for such a platonic moment in your friendship's history. So…you focus on something else again.
Your gaze drops to the cigarette between your fingers and the thin curl of smoke twisting up into the night air, and brings it back to your lips again. It’s less nicotine addiction and more so has to do with something like control. So you take another drag that’s slower this time, like you can regulate everything else in your body if you just get that part right. The taste hits your tongue and it is familiar immediately. Harsh, a little bitter, that same dry burn you’ve had a hundred times before. Marlboro Reds. Nothing special. Nothing new.
There’s something off about it, not in a bad way, just…different. Softer around the edges, maybe. Or maybe it’s just that you’re paying too much attention now, hyperaware of every little detail because you’re trying not to think about why your hands feel slightly unsteady.
Your grip tightens just a little around it.
Maybe it’s because of how you got it. Because this wasn’t just pulled from a fresh pack, wasn’t offered casually, wasn’t something he handed over without thinking. You know what this one was, you know exactly what it was supposed to be.
The thought settles somewhere low in your chest, warm and uncomfortable, and you exhale a little sharper than you meant to, smoke slipping past your lips in a thin, uneven stream. And your shoulders loosen a fraction.
You hadn’t realized how tight they were.
“…Thanks,” you murmur after a second, voice softer than you mean for it to be.
Frank huffs lightly through his nose, like it’s nothing, “S’just a cigarette.”
You decide to glance over at him for just another second (because you truly cannot help yourself), and he’s looking at you like that again. You've seen him look at people like they’re interesting, that they’re fun, or like they’re worth his time for a night or a conversation or whatever comes after. But this isn’t that. It makes your mind wander again, going through the ins and outs of your own logical fallacy.
What would it be like if this weren’t just…this?
What if it wasn’t half-drunk nights, shared cigarettes, and this kind of closeness that disappears the second the sun comes up? If it didn’t get brushed off with jokes or buried under whatever new story he has about whoever he ended up with last weekend like some girl, guy, or a name you pretend not to remember but always do?
You even feel so sick deep in your guts just thinking about that.
Your stomach always drops every time he mentions that kind of stuff so casually, like it doesn’t mean anything. Does he not realize how much he means to you? How much just this moment, intimate and close, means so fucking much to you?
Because sitting here, right now, with the lake stretching out black and endless and the smoke curling slowly between you, it doesn’t feel like nothing.
No other names, no half-heard stories, no quiet resentment.
Just him, looking at you like that.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette, breath catching somewhere shallow in your chest, because the feeling that follows is worse than the wanting. It spreads, greedy and insistent, like it’s been waiting for you to slip up.
And then your gaze catches on his mouth.
The silver of his lip ring catches what little light there is, glinting faintly every time he tilts his head slightly, his lips part just slightly around the cigarette still hanging loose at the corner of his mouth.
You narrow your eyes slightly at it, as that will help.
You immediately try to shove it down.
Frank is just your friend.
Your friend who buys you overpriced drinks when you’re stressed. Your friend who notices things you don’t say out loud. Your friend who, apparently, will take your bad luck and turn it into nothing but a bad joke.
You take another drag to ignore the sudden flip in your stomach. Jesus, you might as well just throw up with how queasy you’ve felt around him. It’s unfair, why doesn't he get to feel the same and instead gets to act so…cocky?
Because he still hasn’t stopped looking at you, a smug smile settles on his lips after catching you looking at his lips. Fuck, why can’t he be polite and do the decent thing of just looking away for once??
Your fingers tighten just slightly around the cigarette, ash threatening to fall if you’re not careful, but you barely notice because all of your attention is caught in that look. No way in hell you can deflect this.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly.
Heat rushes up the back of your neck so fast it makes your head spin, crawling up into your ears, your face, everywhere all at once. It’s immediate and impossible to hide, and you hate how obvious it feels even if he can’t actually see it in the dark.
“Yeah, can I not look?” you shoot back automatically, but the words come out weaker than intended, slightly blurred at the edges from the alcohol still softening your thoughts.
His mouth twitches but it’s not a full grin. The corner lifts like he knows something you don’t want him to.
“Sure,” he says, voice lower now, softer in a way that doesn’t match the words at all. “All you want.”
His gaze continues to linger. But instead of your eyes or your face, he’s narrowed all his focus on your lips.
And just like that, your pulse goes rogue, hammering against your ribs like a drumline gone completely off tempo. Your stomach twists into some impossible knot that’s half panic, half desire.
Oh god oh god oh god this is not reality help help help we are going to mess everything up if we are this intimate.
Your foot bounces nervously over the edge of the pier, toes just brushing the water. You think maybe the motion will ground you, keep your thoughts from spiraling. It doesn’t. Not really. It just makes the sensation of closeness more immediate. Every inch he leans forward, or doesn’t lean forward, and yet somehow still invades your space.
Your fingers curl into the wood beneath you, nails scraping lightly, because the more you try to stay still, the more aware you are of how precariously perched you are. The edge of the pier is inches from your shins, the water dark and waiting beneath you like it’s breathing, waiting for something to slip, to falter. And all you can do is freeze.
And then his hand is on your ankle. His touch is light yet deliberate, brushing against your skin. Your heart stutters, screaming at you to pull back but the motion of your leg only gives him easier access, nudging you slightly forward. Your free foot scrapes against the edge of the pier, nearly catching the slick wood. Your arms tense, ready to push off, scramble, and throw yourself backward into the unknown. Your breath hitches as you try to focus on the cigarette and the smoke curling lazily into the night, but it’s impossible. Your eyes keep snapping up, snapping back down, trying and failing to resist the magnet of him. He’s patient but you can tell he’s guiding you, shifting you subtly, not enough to be obvious, but it’s pretty telling.
His mouth ends up brushing yours.
Holy shit he’s teasing you. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Frank exhales softly against your mouth, somewhat of a laugh, but gentler. Then somehow, you say “you only live once” and press your lips firmly against his own.
Your free hand finds the front of his shirt without thinking, fingers bunching into the fabric as your balance shifts forward. Frank makes a low, surprised sound when you tug him closer, but he doesn’t pull back. In fact, his hand slides from your ankle up to your calf, steadying you both in a way that only makes the warmth in your chest spread wider.
His knee presses in against your crotch, making you softly whimper against his mouth. It was pleasurable, sure, but what wasn’t was when your heart dropped to your ass when you felt yourself being pressed further into the end of the goddamn pier and almost dunked into the water.
Your grip on his shirt tightens instinctively, fingers twisting hard into the fabric as your body lurches forward. The cigarette is long forgotten, slipping from your hand somewhere between panic and the impact that hasn’t even happened yet.
“Whoa, shit, hold on–“ Frank’s hand tightens around your leg, trying to anchor you and to correct it but there’s no room because he’s just as close to the edge as you are. So instead, he does the only thing he can do and twists.
The wood beneath him gives nothing back in return. His foot slips right off the edge, and there's this half-second where his weight yanks against your grip, your hand still fisted in his shirt, fabric pulling tight between you. For a terrifying moment, it feels like he’s going to take you with him.
Your heart stops and your body jerks forward, making the fabric slip through your fingers.
The sound is loud and shatters the quiet of the lake, water crashing and breaking apart where he disappears beneath the surface. Cold droplets kick up onto your legs, your hands, your face. Your chest heaves, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and genuine panic as you stare down at the water, heart still racing like you’re the one who almost went under.
For about two beats, you think your heart might actually stop. But Frank’s head breaks the surface with a sharp inhale, wet hair plastered to his forehead, lip ring catching the dock light in quick, flashing glints.
“Oh my god, oh my god, are you…Frank!“, Your voice cracks hard on his name, panic clawing up your throat before you can shove it down. You’re halfway to climbing down after him when he sputters, blinking water from his eyes.
“I’m–“ cough “I’m fine, Jesus–”
“Give me your hand, Frank, seriously!” The words come out sharper than you mean them to, as if you don’t get them out quick enough something worse is going to happen. Your brain is already running ahead of you; you should’ve grabbed him sooner, you should’ve leaned back, you should’ve– all these useless, sobering thoughts stacking up on top of each other while your chest still hasn’t settled from the drop.
You’re usually the one who does better. The one who thinks two steps ahead, who doesn’t freeze, and doesn’t get caught up in dumb, impulsive shit like this. But you weren’t thinking this time, you were too busy…
He could’ve actually gotten hurt.
And yeah, it’s just a lake, yeah, he’s fine, he’s clearly fine, but your heart hasn’t caught up to that yet. It’s still stuck in that split second where he slipped, where his weight yanked forward and vanished. You swallow hard, trying to force it down, but it doesn’t fully go away.
“You’re really freaking out,” he says, a little breathless, but quieter than usual, like he’s trying not to push it while his expression softens.
Your chest pulls tight in an almost embarrassing way. “Just… grab my hand.”
His hand lifts out of the water, dripping, fingers flexing once before sliding into yours. His palm is cold and slick, but his grip is solid, grounding in a way that steadies something in you just a little.
You tighten your hold immediately. “Okay, okay, c’mon–!”
You lean back, bracing your weight, sneakers slipping slightly against the damp wood as you try to pull him up. It’s definitely not graceful. Not even close. Your arm strains, your shoulder pulling as you drag against dead weight and soaked clothes, the fabric of your sleeve bunching in your grip.
For a second, it feels like it’s not going to work and that he's going to slip right back in.
He kicks against the side of the pier, finally getting enough leverage, his other hand scrambling for the edge. Between your pulling, his pushing– he manages to haul himself up just enough to hook an elbow over the wood.
Frank collapses onto the pier with a wet, heavy thud that sends water splashing outward again and you barely have enough time to react when he tips right into you.
The impact knocks into your shoulder, his full weight hitting you before you can brace properly, and suddenly his shirt pressed cold against yours and water seeps through your fabric instantly, chilling your skin as it spreads, dripping from his sleeves, his hair, everywhere.
Frank shifts forward slightly where he’s half-braced over you, one knee nudging between yours for balance as he steadies himself with one hand on the wood beside your hip. Water still clings to the line of his jaw, dripping slowly down his neck.
Your pulse jumps. “What…?”
His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your wrist where it’s still resting near his sleeve, then he tilts his head just slightly, lip ring catching the light again.
“You feelin’ lucky tonight?” His voice drops just enough to make your throat tighten up.
His hand drifts down and it pauses first at his own waist, fingers hooking briefly at the hem of his soaked shirt, tugging it away from his skin like he’s just uncomfortable from being drenched. His other hand shifts too, brushing near the waistband of his jeans, thumb catching lightly on the zipper like he’s about to fix it, fidgeting more than anything.
Eventually, he travels to your front and his brush against the waistband like it’s nothing. His thumb hooks lightly near one of the buttons, not undoing anything, just resting there, feeling the shape of it, the tension.
Your pulse is so loud it’s ridiculous.
Your fingers twitch uselessly at his sleeve, like you’re going to grab him again or push him back or do something, but you don’t know what that something is anymore.
His thumb presses just slightly firmer against the waistband of your jeans, enough to make your breath hitch again. A quiet huff of a laugh slips out of him, softer now, almost disbelieving, and his head dips just slightly as his grip loosens, but not pulling away entirely. He just eases the pressure, grounding the moment before it tips.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.
And then, like he can’t help himself, his mouth quirks just enough to bring that familiar edge back.
“Guess that cigarette’s already working, huh?”
Your eyes flick down to where his own seemed to set, and you see his bulge. Your heart stutters, your legs crossing but your eyes seem to catch the faint, stitched lettering near the fly of his jeans, saying:
© xraypains 2026 🥼
A/N: ohhh its been so long my beloved patients! i missed you all so dearly…ive had this one in the works for awhile and mainly because ive been so busy with life in general. i cant make too many promises because i am very booked and busy right now but i will still continue to fulfill requests and keep working on my drafts! hopefully my next work will be perhaps ray related…
