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intheorangebedroom · 2 years ago

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Pleased to meet you, epilogue

Summary: It's the dawn of a new life for you and Frankie, amidst the ruins of your former respective lives. He made a promise to you, and to himself: that he would fix everything. But can everything be fixed? Are you ready to let go, and let him? And how will you deal with your homesickness?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

TW: non-descriptive allusions to past abuse and self-harm

A/N: Dear orange besties 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday ❤️‍🔥 This is the end. I am sorry it took me so long, and if anyone is still hanging in the orange bedroom, I am sorry this is so long. It's most likely bad planning on my behalf; it's also because Gabrielle was never meant to stay. I'm so scared I'll never be able to write anything else because this story fucking drained me. It's one thing to smash the keyboard and reblog unhinged gifs, but I'm very uncomfortable expressing my feelings publicly, mainly but not only on account of my ass getting very gothic, very fast. So if I've hidden some dedications at the end 🧡 But I want to say here, to anyone who's ever read and/or interacted with me and/or this story (likes, comments, reblogs, asks): THANK YOU 🧡 From the bottom of my gothic orange heart. Thank you 🧡 I really hope you like this. *presses post now and runs to hide*

Word count: 20k (I– listen, I'm sorry)

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Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

The summer is laced with sawdust. It’s everywhere.

In your nostrils, the blond, warm, toffee-like scent blending with the smell of the overworked electric sander’s gear. It’s in the sound of his boots scraping the kitchen tiles when he comes in through the backyard screen door to get a beer in the late afternoon sun. It’s in the texture of his tanned, freckled skin, soaked in with his sweat, catching at your fingertips when you run your hands over his forearms, before you lead him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up.

It’s in the longer curls of his hair, on his cap and all of his clothes, and more often than not, it’s on your clothes too, when you join him outside the toolshed, to make sure he’s wearing the protection goggles you bought, and the dust mask he takes off the minute you look the other way.

And you don’t know it yet, but you will forever associate it with his kisses. Languid, unhurried, they don’t lead to anything more than simply kissing. His hold on your body loose, his large hands spanning the expanse of your skin, his plush lips teasing yours, tongue swirling inside your mouth. You float together for what feels like hours, until you’re left deliciously disoriented.

And no matter what you do, it always ends up in the bed, dusted between the celadon sheets he chose for you. It scrapes at your shoulders and the round of your ass when you arch up from the bed, bucking your hips into his face.

But that’s August.

July is spent mostly at your place.

Your first days together are lost to the haze of your brain. Wrapped in the hushed, draped atmosphere of your small apartment, you let him take all that he needs. His lips only ever leaving your lips for your skin, sucking in harshly, leaving new marks, his kisses more teeth than tongue.

His body moulded around yours, inside yours. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. His palms relentless, roaming your body. Restless fingers digging into your curves.

On Monday morning, the drive to the bookstore is tense and silent, his brow deeply creased, that tick of the jaw you haven’t forgotten. But there’s a life for you, here. One that you are looking forward to living. One you have to be able to afford.

In short, you need to go back to work.

Out in the street, by the double-parked truck in front of the store, his emotions bleed into his kiss, fingers threaded in your hair holding you still in their grip, his bite on your lower lip nearly drawing blood, and you have to whine yourself out of it.

You offer Suzanne a short apology, disarming in its sincerity.

“I’ve been very ill, but I’m better now,” you say, and she silently nods because it is quite plain to see. You are better. There is life in your face and light in your eyes. She can’t possibly miss the marks on your skin, but as usual, she chooses to keep to herself and you carry on with your tasks and your day, quietly humming.

Going through the backlog that built up during your absence, your mind wanders back to his kiss, its urgency contrasting with your relief. Beyond the tiredness weighing down your bones, deep down, you had been waiting for him. Like you always did. Sitting at the pitch-dark bottom of your exhausted heart, the knowledge that he’d be coming.

When you leave the store in the late afternoon, you find him there, standing across the street, arms folded over his chest, his tall figure, dark and intense, leaned against the truck’s hood.

Goosebumps break out along your arms when you step together into your apartment, chilled air hitting your skin. On one of the bedroom window sills, the ancient AC unit is softly droning. Behind you, Frankie leans down to kiss the raised skin on your nape, whispering, “I fixed it, hope you don’t mind.” Not giving you time to answer, he nips at your neck and tugs at your shirt, but you turn around and stop him with your searching gaze.

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

The night slips away in whispers, two quiet voices rising from under the baby-blue sheets in the cool darkness. What went down at the bar, who said what, how he got hit. When he’s done, you press him further than you think yourself able to handle, for his sake, but all he gives you is, “I don’t regret anything” and “I will fix it.” You believe him.

In the silence between his words, you lie still. You listen, you understand. His needs, the proximity of your body and the soothing contact of your skin, to be cooped up with you in the smallest possible space for as long as it takes for him to absorb the fact that he hasn’t lost you. That he never did. That he never could.

So, the days pass. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. Stifling heat and sleepless nights.

You bite your tongue every time you look at his weary face, every time you want to argue that the daily three hour commute to his workplace is far too long. He’s not flying yet. So you let him.

Until July 23rd.

Off on weekends, he picks you up on Saturdays, but today is Thursday and a quick shudder of panic runs down your spine when you step outside into the scorching heat and find him parked there. You scrape your knuckles in your haste to roll down the iron shutters, but it’s only when you join him that you realise what’s different: he’s waiting inside the truck.

Elbow propped on the door through the rolled down window, he starts the engine as soon as you get in and the entire hold lights up with his smile.

“Hey baby, how was your day?” he beams from underneath the brim of his cap, “Wanna go for a ride?”

When he pulls out an hour later onto a Brooklyn street you don’t recognise, your heart is pounding too fast, already. You have a notion of what this might be about, but you can’t bring yourself to hope you are right, even when he turns to look at you with that smug grin you haven’t seen in a long while.

“Where are we?” you rasp, your voice cracking around the words.

“Climb here, baby, you’ll get a better view,” he smiles, tilting his head down and slapping a hand on his thigh. His smile deepens, to his dimple and to his eyes hidden behind his aviators, at the familiar, tell-tale sight of your pulse thrumming wild under the soft skin of your neck.

But your chest feels too heavy, it’s pinning you down, tears prickling your eyes at what you’ll see, so he unfastens your seatbelt, then his, and reaches to haul you onto his lap with that easy strength, that surprising softness.

The steering wheel bites into your lower back and you can’t peer out the window, instead you crumble onto his chest, your fingers twisting his shirt and your face buried in his neck, your own personal safe place. And anyway, you don’t need to look, you know what’s out there.

A tall brick building, its brown facade streaked with iron fire escapes.

A dry sob quakes your frame, and you feel the pressure of his large hands on your back, their warmth flowing through you. You remain limp in his embrace until he can talk around the memory choking him. That of a young man, driving up to basic training in his sister’s VW, wondering where he would have taken you if you only had more time to spend together. Daydreaming on the promise of later.

More time then. Now years to erase. Rewrite and live again.

“Alright baby, alright,” he breathes into your hair, “how ‘bout we go to Coney Island?”

It’s bright and busy and loud. It’s rowdy teenagers laughing over the crashing ocean’s waves. It’s neon rainbows and blaring pop music and kids’ high-pitched screams on convoluted rides. It’s his hand splayed wide and protective in the small of your back, steering you through the crowd. It’s cotton candy on his lips, and sticky sugar on your fingertips; it’s a black and white photo booth stripe underneath the Wonder Wheel, split up in two, the upper half tucked inside your wallet, where a torn paper with faded ink used to be.

It’s your life, now, and for the second time, you’re not standing warily on the outside.

That night, he drives back to his place. That night, he’s out of the truck in a beat and you barely have time to climb down before he grabs the back of your head and the swell of your ass. He tastes of candy apple, sweet and sour, licking into your mouth, and his scent fills your lungs. He carries you inside with your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the strong plane of his back.

That night, in many regards the first, you don’t make it to the bedroom. He puts you down in the living-room and he throws a couch cushion on the floor, shoving you down onto it, kneeling between your thighs, tugging roughly at your clothes and you scramble on the smooth leather to undress him.

Leant over you, his grip on your wrists a bruising one as he pins your arms along your sides, fucking into you at a blinding pace, sweat dripping down his sideburns, your legs entwined around his, your breasts bouncing with each thorough trust.

“Fucking look at you,” he grunts, again and again and again, and you come so fast, so hard, your back arching off the leather at a painful angle, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through your high, and when you come down he’s already asking for “another one, give me another one.”

—

The phone keeps sliding down between your sweaty fingers. You swap hands, waiting for Dolores to pick up through what feels like a thousand ringing tones.

The relief in her voice is audible, which confirms what you expected: she’s heard about the fall-out between you and Rosie. And soon enough she’s scolding you as if you were still the schoolgirl she first met 20 years earlier, and you realise you missed the mother nearly as much as you did the daughter.

“Dolores, I just need to find out if she’s working next Tuesday. We need to talk, but I’m scared she won’t answer if I just call her. I need to see her, Dolores.”

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone.

“Just come home for dinner on Monday night, ok?”

You get there half an hour early and wait, sitting on the edge of the couch, the back of your thighs sweating on the crocheted quilt draped over the cushions.

A whole month without talking to each other, the longest ever you’ve spent without communicating in a way or another. Even back when you had no money to spare for transatlantic phone calls, you had never let such a long stretch of time come between you.

You shoot up at the sound of her keys in the lock, looking at Dolores with sheer panic, and it doesn’t help that she reciprocates your look.

Rosie darts inside the cramped apartment, grumbling in Spanish about parking in the Lower East Side, and stops short on the living-room threshold at the sight of you.

Your rehearsed speech remains stuck in your dry throat. She crosses the room in two strides, dropping her bag to the floor, rushing to hug you with all of her strength.

You breathe in her scent, shea butter, white musk, eyes shut to hold back your tears.

“Oh, Gabbi! I thought you went back home, I got so fucking scared,” she whispers, and under your clenched fists, her back is heaving.

Home. Did you always have so many of those?

There’s a lot to unpack, but neither of you will let the other one talk, let alone apologise. Strongheaded as ever, Rosie, however, makes sure you listen. The panic that triggered what she calls her “disproportionate reaction.” The guilt and regrets behind her silence. Her misplaced pride.

Atoning has always been easy for you, too easy, in fact, but you offer her words that have never passed your lips before. Words you now feel confident enough to fathom, and pronounce out loud: “I do need you.”

The two of you speak in turns until Dolores sits you down at the dining table, and then you keep talking with your mouths full. She’s cooked enough food to feed you both for a month, but you still eat most of it.

It’s past 11pm when the chatter subsides. Stifling a yawn, she offers to drive you home.

“I’m not sure, Rosie,” you start, uncertain, apologetic, “it’s quite the detour. He lives way up north,” you add as a way of explanation.

“And is he going to succeed where we all failed and get you to drive your own car, Gabrielle?”

You giggle with sheer delight because everything is different but nothing has changed, her beautiful black eyes alight with a mischievous flicker when she pulls out her phone to type in your new address.

—

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just buy a table from Ikea or something?” you risk, putting on the construction gloves he’s handing you. You look down at the solid oak planks sticking out of the truck’s tailgate the two of you are about to carry to the backyard through the kitchen.

He huffs and pauses dramatically, with an ostentatious roll of his eyes.

“It would be cheaper, Gabrielle, but it wouldn’t be good. My girl is not eating off some cheap wooden melamine in her own home.”

Considering his frugal lifestyle, you were surprised to find out money is not really an issue. His pilot income, while not extravagant, is still sufficient by most standards, and it adds up to his veteran pension, making for a comfortable living. However, you know there are monthly installments for the mortgage. There’s food, electricity, gasoline and all this goodman premium quality wood.

You’ve offered to pay him a rent and share the common expenses, which has earned you another huff, followed by a sarcastic, “sure, I’m gonna have you pay fucking rent. How about you keep your money and get a car, big girl from a big city?”

The suggestion punctuated by a nonchalant wink, before his plush lips found the slope of your shoulder, with a sharp scrape of teeth.

You’re Alice, falling down the white rabbit hole, discovering him all over again, only everything feels safe because you know you’re landing in your own private wonderland.

His quiet confidence, his occasional cockiness. His deadpan jokes quietly delivered under his breath. And the deeper you dive, the more you learn, the more you melt.

His humble selflessness, his kind attention to others. His practical, methodical, efficient thinking. His sharp mind and keen eye. His determination. What little remains of the hermetically sealed lid, and the hard shell underneath the soft one. The limits to his patience, too. A threshold not to be crossed, but only where others are concerned.

His playfulness when he whispers filth into your ear at the most unexpected moment, in the most inappropriate places.

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar.

You’re like a flower seed that has lain dormant for years, finally blooming under his benevolent care.

Nights are short and the right kind of exhausting, and you’ve never felt better. You dress in colourful shades: daffodil yellow, marigold orange, poppy red.

As soon as you moved in, at the end of July, it started with shelves for your numerous books to join his collection. Most of the novels in two editions: one in French and one in Spanish. The Master and Margarita now standing in view, next to Le Maître et Marguerite.

More shelves in the bedroom closet for your clothes and shoes, and a large standing mirror to check your outfit in the morning.

Electric shutters installed on the bedroom window, so you can sleep in the dark – your shocked gasp met by another soft huff, when you found out about the price.

And one Sunday morning, a dusty cardboard box he brought in from the garage. The orange curtains flowed out of it in a musty puff of air, dust particles floating in a sunbeam and you smiled at each other in silence, crossed-legged on the hardwood bedroom floor.

You closed the distance between you to straddle his lap, the position quickly becoming a habit to deal with just about anything, from joy to frustration to fear to contentment.

At the bottom of the box sat a green plaid shirt. He pulled it out as you wrapped yourself around him.

“Doesn’t fit me anymore,” he murmured against your temple. “You can have it back, baby.”

You handwashed the shirt and the curtains with unnecessary care, and helped him hang the latter on the bedroom window.

They clashed violently with the rest of the room, and you stood in silence, wrapped in their orange glow, Frankie’s chest pressed to your back.

Just like your grandmother, his mother was a seamstress. She’d sewn them.

“It was her favourite colour,“ he’d said. And he’d never mentioned her again.

You looked at them, unsure. Hadn’t you already lived too much of your life in the past?

“The colour’s really– loud, Frankie. Are you sure about this?” you murmured.

He lowered his face into the crook of your neck, as he so often did, and his lips brushed at the shell of your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing with the rush of air when he spoke.

“I can’t wait to fuck you in this light, baby.”

He pressed his body harder at your back so you would feel just how much he meant it, expertly unfastening your button fly, his hand inside your jeans shorts, travelling down your belly where heat spread in its wake like a wildfire.

You leaned back into him, closing your eyes and smiling at his appreciative grunt when the tips of his fingers met the dampness pooling in your sensible underwear.

“You’re gonna sit on my cock now, Gabrielle. I want to watch you come in the orange.”

Afterwards, as you basked, naked, sated, exhausted, in the familiar glow, you tried and failed to affect a casual tone to ask him about the one thing that had been taunting you since you’d first been in this room, back in June.

“Why is this bed so big, Morales? How many women have you fucked in here?”

He’d scrunched up his face, feigning hurt before flashing his dimple.

“Believe it or not, just the one with the French accent.”

—

Some time around mid-August, you come home from work to a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the house. The loud, now familiar buzzing rumble of the Makita guides you to the small office next to the master bedroom, where you find him looking dishevelled and bright, his grey t-shirt stained with white paint, the power-drill cooling in his hand.

The walls are clean, freshly painted in a luminous white. Underneath the single window overlooking the backyard, where he’s hung the blue drapes, a small wicker sofa is covered with a plastic screen he hastily lifts off and starts folding. Your two Modotti prints hanging on each side of the room, one over a tiny desk where he’s placed your laptop and a round cactus in a blue china plant pot, and the other over a breathtakingly beautiful mahogany display cabinet, that already contains all your photographic treasures.

“I didn’t make this,” he explains sheepishly, tilting his chin toward the piece of furniture as you run your fingers over the sophisticated marquetry work. “Izzy helped me find it. D’you like it, baby?” his left hand twitching nervously, the plastic screen creasing noisily.

You shake your head awkwardly in the middle of the cosy room. It looks like you. A refuge of your own. Love and gratitude swelling in your chest, laying heavy on your lungs. At a loss for the proper words to express a feeling so simple and earnest.

“Frankie, I never… I never had anything so beautiful. Why– what is this all for?” you murmur, your voice unsteady.

“For when you need space,” he simply answers with a sweet, puppy-eyed face.

—

With early September comes the relief of cooler nights, and Frankie launches himself into yet another building project: lounging chairs for the backyard.

“Who taught you how to do all that?” you keep asking, and he grins bashfully, the shadow of another dimple on his left cheek, his answer always the same.

“I don’t know, baby, I just taught myself.”

Of the two wide, sturdy chairs he’s crafted, you only use one. Evenings are spent stargazing, sipping beers and talking, your bodies intertwined, sunk into each other’s scent. Oblivious to the street noises, hiding away in a world of your own.

When you join him in the backyard with two beers on a chilly Friday evening, nothing indicates it will be any different. Until you lay your head on his chest and feel the constricting tension inside it.

Is it because of your insatiable fascination with everything that touches him? Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would always tell you, enough that you ended up living your life forever treading on the edge of most relationships.

Is it because he found his own equilibrium readjusting your imbalance?

Whatever the reason, from the moment you curl up into Frankie’s side, you can tell something’s off.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you slide your hand under the hem of his t-shirt and bring it to rest over his scar, grounding him with your touch.

Only then, Frankie starts talking.

His childhood in San Diego, growing up with a hot-tempered sibling and the shadow of a mother, her melancholy, her obsession, her passing… all the way back to his parents getting married. The happy memories only borrowed, reimagined through faded photographs. Absence, forever unanswered, hanging over him like a chiming mobile. The father he never met.

Holding your breath, intently listening to a story he had so far only ever told in scraps, you’re struck by the realisation that both of you grew up without a father. Gone, already, before you were born.

Under the canopy of the purple urban night sky, Frankie, at last, confides in you about his ghosts, his fears, his rage. About the strangeness of moving through life with questions in lieu of bearings, of being older than his father will ever be.

And when he’s done talking, when his words have run dry, you take the hand he runs over his face and bring his palm to your lips. You hold on to it tight for balance as you climb on top of him. Vulnerability altering his face and it carries you back to a windy Brooklyn street on a forever ago Monday morning, it slices through your heart, bittersweet, sharp-edged. You once felt so helpless to erase the crease of his brow. But that was forever ago.

You lower your lips to it, and with a kiss you absorb all the pain it withholds. In the still of the night, in the near darkness, a fleeting light glimmers in his dark eyes, the sliver of a swelling tear.

You cup his face, and you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Francisco Morales. My man.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. It trickles down your spine.

You tug lightly at his shirt and he offers no resistance, sitting up and letting you slide it off above his head.

Another kiss to the side of his nose, to the edge of his jaw, to the heart-shaped bare patch of his beard. Down along his neck, and he’s the pliant one, for once. Over the slope of his shoulder and to the dip between his collarbone, his suprasternal notch, where you lick and linger. Your palm pressed to his scar.

A scrape of your teeth over his nipple and you feel him thicken between your hips, until his hands grab hold of your legs and he rasps, “Not here.”

He carries you back inside your home, through your kitchen and down the hallway to your bedroom, your legs hitched around his waist. Lays you down onto the bed where he spent too many nights avoiding sleep so he wouldn’t dream of you.

In the heat of your mouth, under the caress of your hands, with the sway of your hips, Frankie is whole again.

—

Autumn

Your happiness makes him giddy. A grown man, a veteran, and every time he looks at you, shuffling over to the bedroom, a dance in your steps, or when he hears you sing along some classic rock tune as you prepare coffee on Sunday mornings, he’s fucking giggling.

He’s done some things he would have deemed ridiculous, no, downright crazy, only a few months ago. He’s picked his T-shirt from the laundry basket after you’d slept in it a couple of nights, and wore it to work. He washed his hair with your shampoo to carry the scent of you; he kept it long because you asked him to. He’s taken this colourful thing you tie your hair with, and wore it on his wrist all day, breathing it in every time he’s alone.

He, who’s never been late anywhere, can’t make it on time to work anymore, despite waking up earlier than ever before, because he can’t tear himself away from the sight of your tranquil, sleeping face.

And in the evenings, he brushes your hair. He’s discovered a birthmark on your nape, a little red fleck hidden in your hairline. On some days, he can’t think of anything else, counting down the hours until he can see it again. Press his lips to it, eyes closed in rapture.

He doesn’t give a fuck how it looks, or what his friends or anyone would think if they knew. He’s longed all his life to experience that blissful balance with you. The one you two settled in so rapidly, with such ease.

By 4pm, he’s done with his working day and he drives home. This once was a dreaded hour, but not anymore. Evidences of your presence are scattered all over the house.

In the bathroom of course, your French cosmetics and lotions neatly aligned in the small cabinet, two towels, two robes. The small room constantly smells of you.

In the bedroom, in the way you leave the bed open when you leave after him in the morning, the comforter folded over, in stark contrast with his military bed-making habits.

In the living-room, whatever book you’re currently reading lying on the coffee table. Framed pictures of you and Rosie smiling at him from the bookshelves.

Foul smelling cheeses in the fridge. Your tin mug drying on the rack next to the sink. Two knives, two plates, two forks.

A house that feels like home, at last.

Instinctively, he understood your need for independence and learnt to navigate it. A big girl from a big city indeed, he’s known it all along. You’ve only had yourself to rely on for most of your life. And he gets it.

So in spite of his primitive impulse to provide for you in every way, he refrained from protesting when you expressed the will to pay for food, and gas whenever you get the chance. You can be stubborn, if you need to be. He’s learnt that too.

You sometimes go to the movies alone, or visit art exhibitions, and there are the occasional girls' nights out in the city.

When you come back home afterwards, it’s a real treat, one he can’t get enough of. He feasts on your buoyant tales of what you’ve seen, experienced, discovered or learned, on your eagerness to share it with him. He could listen to you for hours. He does.

Some other times, however, you feel small, your anxiety crawling back out from within, settling to the forefront. You’re still the same girl he met, vulnerable, incredibly courageous. Seeking his reassurance.

And he’s equally happy to make sure you get both space and safety. The single most important purpose he could ever be entrusted with.

Out in public, in the street or amongst friends, you two never hold hands. There’s a modesty about you and him.

Still, it’s always his hand in the small of your back before crossing the street or going through thick crowds. It’s brief, stolen knowing glances, fingers intertwined under a diner’s table.

When you think no one is watching, you tuck yourself into his side, his large hand gripping your hip. As if you can’t live in the open, yet. As if you’d rather hide your happiness from the rest of the universe, lest it be taken away again.

And there are his eyes; they always find yours. Watchful and intent, years of training and acquired instinct put to use to protect you, keep you close.

But your behaviour doesn’t matter, anyway. The organic pull between your two bodies is far too obvious to conceal.

He hasn’t stopped, he never will, leaving marks on your skin. Blooming flecks of his love peeking out just barely from under the collar of your shirts, for you to carry and never forget you are his. You squirm in his hold when he pulls in your skin, hard suck, sharp teeth, squirm and whine in pleasure-plain.

He brands you. He admits it now. His love flushes your blood to the surface of your skin. He does that to you. You let him.

Something alien, unbridled, something he can only identify as pride has him puff out his chest whenever he sees you in his clothes.

As if he hadn’t built rows of shelves to accommodate yours, it seems you’re always wearing his. None of his plaid shirts are safe, you even wear them to work, only to change into one of his t-shirts the minute you come home.

He pretends to mind, knowing you love that game. Only one day, in early October, you dig up a military tin trunk containing his army stuff in the garage, and you start wearing the things you find in there too.

The first glimpse of you in a green jersey has his stomach turn. Too upset to speak, he watches you leave with it for the day, willing his disapproving glances to be eloquent enough.

But a portrait of him in his dress uniform pops up on your desk, next, in a brand new fancy frame. And a little over a week later, on a Sunday morning, he walks in from the backyard to find you in a US Air Force shirt, one of his early ones, and the fact that it actually suits you, fits you like one of your own thrift store swag, oversized in just the right way, has his temper simmer.

He walks straight to the stove where you’re cooking scrambled eggs, his boots thumping heavily on the tiles. A sweet smile curls your lips when you turn around to face him. However sweet, it doesn’t stop the words from shooting out of him, nor contains the anger in his warning.

“Ok look, I don’t want you to wear those– things, Gabrielle. I don’t want any of it to touch you, entiendes?”

The Spanish slips right out of him, but you hold up your smile, and hand him a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

“I really love the Morales name tag,” you simply state.

He grabs the mug by reflex, thrown off by your unfazed reaction. Raising on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on the bare patch of his jaw.

“I’m proud of everything you ever did, Francisco,” you add in earnest. “But I’ll take it off, if you don’t like it.”

The blunt honesty of your answer immediately deflates him, and he swallows thickly at the first sliver of your skin when you unbutton the shirt to reveal your naked breasts.

—

Familiarity hasn't killed this miracle. Even when, in the intimacy of your house, you’re never more than two feet apart. Skin on skin from the moment you rush home at night until the moment he ruefully passes the door in the morning.

On his lap is where you sit most of the time, and he fucking loves it, sliding his hand underneath the hem of your clothes, pecking kisses in the curve of your neck, under your ear, where the scent of you is heady, feeling the weight of you shift against his body when you talk.

Your hand on his thigh when he drives, his arm on the back of the seat when you take the wheel. Brushing your teeth side by side before bed. Curled into his chest, slouched on a pile of pillows to watch movies on his computer (he’s offered to buy a television, but you declined). Your legs propped over his when you read together on the couch.

At night, in the ridiculously oversized bed, your bodies lie entwined. You need him around you to fall asleep, need him to crush you with his weight, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You run so hot,” you mumble with delight, seconds before tipping over into unconsciousness, your voice heavy with your day.

You taste so good, he murmurs against that spot he likes too much under your ear, his kisses rippling in shivers along your skin; you taste so good, he moans into your mouth, never sated, never pulling back first; you taste so fucking good, he grunts into your cunt, pinning you down on the rumpled linen.

You’re here, at last, for him to love and to revere, for him to taste, taste, taste.

He had you in his truck, pulled over to the side of the road in a rainstorm, on the way to an upstate farmers market. He had you in the garage, against the hood cooling down. He had you in a bathroom stall in the Guggenheim, his mouth fastened over yours to keep you quiet, his fingers buried inside your cunt.

He has you in the storage room in the back of the bookstore, more often than he should, when Suzanne’s not there on Saturday afternoons and he can’t wait for you to come home. When you come around him, he calls you his good girl.

He had you in your room; you sat him down on the wicker sofa, rucked up your pretty dress and rode his thigh clad in raw denim, “Remember the first time you made me come, Francisco?”

He gripped your ass so forcefully your skin bore bruises for days, and you gave him that sound, that two-tone moan, straight into his ear and then you dragged your teeth along the column of his throat. He flung you down on the carpeted floor and fucked you limp.

He had you in the bathroom, more times than he can count, and in there, whether rough or languid, he always fucks you with a delightful, ironic revenge.

He ate your cunt on the dining table like you were the main course in a fancy dinner, and then he flipped you over and fucked you so hard you cried out his name.

He brought your shoulders up against his chest, clasped his hand over your mouth and fucked you harder.

You bit his fingers and clung onto his arms, your nails carving lovely pink crescents into his flesh, your entire body jerking when you came again, your cunt gripping him and you sobbed as he filled you up.

He dropped to the floor, exhausted, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and you crawled over him, curling into his side.

When he fucks you with such feral rage, you’re soft for days afterwards, as if relieved by the reminder of his intensity. And just like with everything you need, he’s only too happy to provide.

“Frankie—” you breathed out, but you trailed off and you hugged him tighter, and he thought you were about to say it, those three little words you spoke daily in a million different ways but never with actual words.

But you stopped short, once again.

He often wonders if you’ve ever told them to anyone. To Rosie, you might have, even Will, perhaps. To Ben, he’s now certain you didn’t.

He can’t tell why it’s so important to him to hear them. After all, he’s never pronounced them either. Not in English. Not when you’re awake.

But this isn’t only about a shared feeling. He knows your family never taught you how, and the thought makes his body ache.

—

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, you grow more and more excited, decorating the house, scheming about matching costumes. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny you any of it, he’d dress as a pink bunny if you asked him to. Even though, given what you have labelled “your fascination for all things morbid,” he can tell a bunny isn’t in store.

Here he is, falling in love with you all over again. Your childlike enthusiasm, your unabashed enjoyment, your bubbling excitement. These are the things he lives for.

At long last, he gets to introduce you to his sister on Halloween’s eve. Out of town for most of the summer, Izzy’s invited over you for dinner, but the evening doesn’t play out in the least the way he thought it would.

You pretend otherwise, but your silence betrays your nervousness on the drive to Manhattan. His doesn’t talk either, tense and anxious until you get out of the truck and he can splay his hand on your back, feel you loosen under his touch.

For weeks, months, he imagined the two of you vibrantly sharing your similar views on politics, when in fact the interaction remains polite and policed, at first, nearly distant.

Until you zero in on a couple of old pictures displayed in his sister's apartment, in the hallway to the bathroom.

Izzy’s entire demeanour shifts. She’s delighted to provide you with embarrassing anecdotes on “babyface Frankie.”

“Look at this lanky teenage boy,” she grins, and Frankie, a grown man, a veteran, Frankie feels his heart skip a beat and trip over the sight of your wide eyes filling with tears.

Back at home, in the dark bedroom, you open up. Tucked under the comforter, wrapped in his arms, with your head resting on his chest. Those are the moments in which the words you had to swallow down all your life come easy.

“It’s because of the dead,” you begin. “It’s almost like a promise. That they can come back and walk amongst us for one night. I know it’s childish of me, but I would— I would like to see my grandparents again. Especially now. I can’t even lay flowers on their grave.”

He pulls you in closer. Waits for you to keep going, hoping you will. Guessing you are being mindful about his own ghosts. Adamant not to press, he simply gives your hip a light squeeze.

When you resume, your voice drops lower. And you tell him everything.

Your mother got pregnant during her senior year in high school, and sought an abortion her mother didn’t let her get. Taking you in when you were born, she watched as your mother left home in rebellion.

“It was wrong of her. My mother had the right to decide,” you say in a little voice, and the implication makes him physically sick, a foul taste sitting in the back of his throat at your resignation.

You go on to describe your happy, albeit short years with your grandparents. The orange curtains, summer vacations by the ocean, your grandfather teaching you how to read a map and ride a bike.

And how it all ended abruptly with your grandmother's death.

You had to go live with your mother, then, and as you briefly recount some of your most difficult moments, you make excuses for her. It wasn’t that bad. I was too sensitive as a kid. I wasn’t her choice. She was only 23 then.

Your father had long bailed, and again you provide reasons and excuses. You chuckle sadly when you mention two half-sisters. “Strangers,” you say.

You’ve long severed ties, with all of them, and it’s probably better, you say. For your mother, anyway. For you too, you have to believe. Some days, some days still, you can’t help it. You look her up on social media. Just to see. Make sure she’s ok.

Frankie listens. His heart bleeds inside his hallowed chest. Pieces of you falling into place to the muted sound of your voice, your words crawling under his skin.

I’m sorry.

Please.

I never had anything so beautiful.

And when your voice dwindles at the evocation of a step-father coming into your life when you were seven, when you finally fall quiet, what Frankie hears in your silence makes his inside curl and burn up with a vengeful rage.

But you’re done talking for the night. You circle his waist and soon, your breathing evens out, your body easing into sleep with little, jerky movements.

Frankie lies in the opaque darkness of the room, clenching his jaw until the physical pain takes off a bit of the edge. Eyes wide open to the memory of the first time he touched your breasts, on loop in his brain.

Is the man still alive? You certainly are wise to keep that part to yourself. You really do know him well. Because that would be the one kill he would never regret.

The following morning, he stays in bed until you wake up, and you don’t question his presence, even if he should already have left.

He follows you into the bathroom, steps with you into the tub and washes your body, towels you off, brushes your hair.

You let him.

—

“How old is Santi, again?” you ask from the bedroom.

Frankie spits the mouthwash into the sink and straightens up with a heavy sigh.

You know how old Santi is. But there’s something else on your mind, something that’s been eating at you, causing you to be distracted since the invitation to the party arrived in the mail. Something that’s compelled you to avoid eye contact since you came back from work, today. Something you’re keeping to yourself, probably trying to protect him, if he had to guess.

“He’s turning 37, baby,” he answers, imperturbable, buttoning up his worn denim shirt, leaving the last two buttons open.

“Oh yeah, right. Yovanna told me she invited Rosie,” you continue, “but she didn’t mention who else’ll be there—” you trail off.

There it is. Who else will be there. Or rather, who won’t be.

“Too many people for comfort, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, stepping out of the bathroom to join you.

Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror he’s built for you, you’re fiddling with the little strings tying your dress at the waist, and the sight of your silhouette in profile has his breath hitching. You don’t often dress up, but tonight you’re wearing a black wrap dress that looks like an oversized smoking jacket, with a plunging neckline and a whole lot of leg.

You wore dresses all summer, short or long, but as the days got shorter and the air got cooler, you went back to jeans and pants only.

“I don’t like tights,” you explained once.

And whatever you wear is fine; he can snap your fly open with two fingers, but seeing your legs clad in the sheer black material does something to him. Something that shoots straight to his cock.

“Damn, baby,” he whispers, and it’s all he manages.

“I don’t know,” you wince, “I have those smart black trousers, perhaps I should chan–” but you fall quiet because he’s come to stand behind you, his broad frame towering over your tall one, his head dipping into your neck.

His mouth stops half an inch short of your throat, and the magnetic pull it exerts on your skin lifts his lips in a satisfied grin. He draws back, the movement imperceptible, and it’s as though your skin reaches out. Like witchcraft.

“Frankie, would you like me to wear fancier clothes?” you ask in a small voice, finally looking him in the eyes through the looking glass.

You lean your head back to rest against his shoulder, and he reaches for your legs, his palms lightly trailing down over the smooth fabric.

“No, baby” he starts, and he watches the goosebumps breaking along your neck at the sound of his voice. “What I want is irrelevant, you wear whatever makes you feel good. Only tonight, I won’t mind if you decide to wear that,” he finishes.

His calloused fingers span up your thighs, catching at the thin material, all the way to your mound. The tights press into it, and it’s fucking delicious. When you close your eyes, two of his fingers travel downward along your constrained folds, and the low grunt that rumbles from his chest is met by a whimpering sound you can’t hold back.

His left hand slithers under the side of your dress to find the swell of your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb.

“We’re gonna go to this party, and everyone there will be looking at you in this dress. Your breasts… your legs… your eyes… your smile…” a stroke over your seam with each word whispered into your ear, and your eyes flicker, you buck into him, “and I’m gonna look at them looking at you while I decide how I’m gonna ruin you and these fucking tights the minute we come home.”

He dives into your neck, pressing his plush lips to your soft skin, giving it a hard suck for good measure.

Santi and Yovanna’s place stands out from the row of neatly aligned houses. Light pouring out from every window, music, warmth and laughter spilling into the bleak November night.

His hand finds your back when you climb out of the truck and join him on the sidewalk. You’re wearing shiny black heels he didn’t even know you had. They make you taller, slightly shifting the familiar landmarks of your body at his side, and he thinks the entire party will be able to see it on his face.

Pride, like the sun reverberating over the surface of a placid ocean.

It’s that ability of yours to overcome your fear, to go headstrong against it. He won’t ever get over it. You’re more courageous than some men he’s fought alongside, and he often wonders if this could be the main reason why Will held you in such high regards.

And yet, you’ve chosen him to be the one who gets to hold you when you can’t be brave. Most of his life now revolves around being worthy of that.

But tonight, you carry your head high.

All of Pope’s friends and colleagues will be here, save for three of them, and their absence will, most certainly, noticeably stand out.

Yovanna personally called Frankie to inform him she had taken it upon herself not to invite Tom. Ever the suave diplomat, Santi kept loosely in touch with him after the incident at the bar. But he knows from Santi that Yovanna strongly disapproves of the lasting bond between them.

On the subject of the Millers, however, Santi remains tight-lipped. Frankie assumes they still hang out on a regular basis, probably on Friday evenings, at the bar, where himself has become persona non grata. And he bears no resentment for that, not towards anyone.

However, and even if he would never admit it to you, he misses the two men. He misses the bar, and perhaps most of all, he misses the fight nights. Benny’s jokes and Will’s expressive silence.

He’s texted Benny. Back in September, for his birthday, and his message remained not only unanswered, but unread. He tried again, a week later, and then a third time, to no avail.

He tried Will, next, and the phone rang out for what felt like a whole minute before he got sent to voicemail. The next morning, Will called him back during his morning commute. A smooth move for a clever man, Frankie thought. He hung his head as he listened to the short, non-committal voicemail that didn’t require any follow-up. Not exactly a rejection. Definitely nothing of an invitation.

He can tell you miss him too. Miss them. Small telling details permeating your daily life. You change the station every time CCR comes up on the radio. A wistful sigh that punctuates your impressions of an art exhibition.

So when the invitation came, he picked up his phone again.

But he knows your presence tonight implies a choice on Pope’s behalf. You’re smart enough to have it figured out, and he doesn’t need to ask you how you feel about it. He hears it in your short replies, sees it in the taut line between your shoulder blades, feels it in the tight squeeze of your small hand around his —a first, in public.

And yet you step into that party with your chin up and he wills his confidence to seep into you through his touch, to convey it with the pride lighting up his eyes whenever they set on your beautiful face.

Trust me. I will fix it.

The front door is open and you step together into the crowded living-room, where the furniture has been taken out or pushed against the walls to make space.

Santi rapidly walks up to you to greet you warmly. Beaming, clean-shaven, sharply dressed in a black suit, black shirt, no tie, he looks perfectly at ease in this social setting. But then again, he’s at ease everywhere, whether it is a luxuriant jungle or a parched desert.

Behind him, Yovanna flutters from guest to guest, shining bright as a Tuscan summer sun with all the standing lamps bouncing over the golden sequins of her short, long-sleeved dress. In his peripheral vision, Frankie catches your relieved smile. When she rushes to hug you, you hand her the bottle of champagne you bought two days ago.

“I don’t know the first thing about champagne,” you’d said, “I just took the most expensive one,” an apologetic shrug he eased up with a lingering kiss.

Yovanna takes your jackets, complimenting your outfit, and you slowly small talk your way through the crowd over to the other side of the room, where a bar has been set up and a young woman with short dark hair and tattooed hands mixes drinks. Frankie recognises her from the bar, where she sometimes works as an extra.

He watches over you, intently, through the endless parade of familiar faces coming up to him for a chat. Veterans, friends, vague acquaintances, and nearly all of them enquire about Benny’s whereabouts.

Your tense body feels small, pressed up against his side, and your grip on your glass is white knuckled. Every so often, he gives your waist a discreet but hard squeeze, and flashes you a reassuring wink.

Rosie walks in about an hour later, cheerful and bright in her deep-green jumpsuit, moving with confidence through the room to join you and turning heads along the way, as if it were her own birthday.

A quick peck on your lips, on Frankie’s, and she turns her attention to the barmaid to order a mojito. You untangle yourself from him, and begin to sound more like yourself as you chat with your friend. Soon, you’re too absorbed in your conversation to notice his glance darting toward the front door across the room every time someone steps in.

A couple of hours into the evening, the alcohol helping, people get loser and louder, and Pope cranks up the stereo. Frankie hangs down his head to hide his grin at the familiar, aggressive playlist, that Yovanna promptly changes.

Rosie has left your small group and is chatting animatedly with a young officer he’s seen working with Will at the VA, confirming Pope’s invited everyone he’s ever met.

You’ve already had two whiskeys while he’s still sipping on his first beer, when he feels your hand travelling down from his side and sliding into the back pocket of his jeans.

Your gentle grasp on his ass broadens his dimpled smile, and he basks in your gaze for a brief moment, before he turns to you.

“You’re so pretty, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, and he gets the feeling that you waited for him to look at you to tell him just that.

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little bit,” you concede. “But I don’t need to be drunk to appreciate what I see.” Your voice drops along with your smile when you continue, “I— I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine. Are you really mine?”

Frankie takes your glass and puts it down on the bar next to his bottle, so he can grip your hips and steer you toward the wall. You may be a couple of inches taller than usual, but he still towers over you, and his broad shoulders hide you from the rest of the room.

“I’m yours, baby,” he murmurs. “All yours.”

His lips brush your cheekbone, and he cherishes the slight tremor of your skin under the tickle of his whiskers. It is new. It belongs to your new life together.

“Would you still ask me to leave with you?” you ask again, bunching his shirts with shaky hands.

“I would ask you over and over again a million times, Gabrielle,” and he presses his forehead against yours, “I wouldn’t change anything. Except for the rain.”

He places his palm over your collarbone and his thumb comes to rest on your pulse.

His fingers slide and curl around your nape. Time stills, fading out the sounds and lights of the room around you. He presses his lips to yours, pulling you flush to his chest, and you immediately open up for your man.

The smooth, malty taste of the whiskey blends in with yours, it goes up to his head and shoots right down to his cock as he licks into you with the same need and hunger he once did on the fire escape, swallowing your doubts along with your moans.

He does want to leave with you, he wants to leave with you right now, spare you the pressure and the plastered smiles, take you home, brush your hair, feed you. Massage your body from your feet up to the crown of your head, rub your legs through those goddamn tights, feel your slick dampening them, have you come in them once, twice, if he can pace himself, watch your legs twitch in pleasure in the sheer black fabric.

But he has to wait. Wait just a little longer. There might still be a chance.

His self-control wears thinner yet when you push away from the wall to mould your body into his, when you whine as you meet the growing bulge in his pants, your leg hitching up along his. Is it a trick of the mind, that he can feel the smoothness of your tights through the thickness of his denim?

Fuck he can’t give in, he has to wait, stall for more time, the injunction coming from the back of his brain, barely reaching his consciousness.

He’s already fucking your mouth with his tongue when Pope’s voice rings out on his right, music and lights leaping back into focus, like sandpaper grating his senses.

“¿Qué haces, pendejo? Jesus! Get a room! It’s not that kind of party.”

Frankie quickly pulls away from you with a gritted “fuck,” but not so far that you can’t bury your face into his neck.

Pope’s smug laughter drums on his nerves, adding to his frustration, and he’s about to lash out when he feels you giggling.

As if summoned by Pope’s sarcasm, Rosie appears beside him.

“They’re unmanageable,” she quips, “you just can’t leave them unattended.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk!” you retort with a smirk.

Drawing away from you, he’s reaching for your glass when he sees your features drop. Your eyes widen, strained on the front door, and in an instant, it’s all over your face. Your mouth falls open, you suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t need to turn around to check what —who— you’re looking at. He knows. He understands. He no longer has to wait.

Rosie and Pope see it too, whipping their heads to the left to follow your gaze, but you're already walking forward, quick, steady steps. Frankie pivots slowly, in time to see you fling yourself into Will’s open arms.

Oblivious to the couple of men coming to greet him, he picks you up with ease, splayed fingers across your back, and one of your heels drops to the floor. He closes his eyes, for the briefest moment, squeezing you tight in his brawny embrace.

Frankie doesn’t hear you, but he catches his friend’s answer, spoken through a wistful, brotherly smile that transforms his entire face.

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

The dam breaks. The minute he parks in the driveway, the fucking dam gives.

“Keep your seatbelt fastened,” he orders and he kills the engine.

With a quick, deft gesture, he unbuckles and slides next to you over the truck’s bench, caging you with his upper body, sinking his face into the curve of your neck to inhale, deeply. His breath pushes back out of him with a grunt like a threat. It rumbles in his chest first, before it rattles inside his throat and fans over your skin. Your skin that raises and reaches out for him. It’s your scent, your smell, and he wants it to be his.

In your sitting position, your folds feel denser, trapped inside the black nylon material of your tights, and you grab the door handle when he starts rubbing fast circles over your clit, threatening grunts into your neck, scraping teeth, lapping tongue.

You come in a matter of minutes, head shoved into the headrest, lips pinched to bite down your throaty moans, breathing heavily through your nose, the windows blurred with a transluscent fog.

He carries you inside, swung over his shoulder, it’s playful but it’s not, it’s a want, it’s a need, a fire that flares in his loins, a dam that finally gives.

He tosses you onto the bed and you bounce with a little shriek. He takes off his boots and climbs onto the mattress, kneeled before you, strips you down to your tights, knocking your hands away every time you try to undress him, until you understand what he needs and you lay back on the bed, become soft and pliant and let him take it.

There’s an indentation at the base of your throat where he sank his teeth while you came under his hand in the truck, and the heat in his loins settles down a bit.

The nylon of your tights brushes smooth and sleek when you rub your legs together, pressed knees, shifting hips.

Framed by the dark halo of your hair, your face looks pale and eerie, like the slippery ghost he used to dream of, sunk into a restless sleep after rage-fucking women he did not see.

He parts your legs with his frame, spreads your hips with his breadth. The nylon is dense and brushes louder under his calloused palms and digits, heavy and hot and underneath, your skin too is burning.

The need to feel you is too heavy, the scent of you heady, he wants it to be his, his scent oozing off your skin, organic evidence that you’re his. He slides off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt to ease off the pressure of the scorching hunger, it burns in bright anger between his hips, he doesn’t know how to tame it.

He crawls above you, dives onto you, teeth and tongue and spit and need, scraping your earlobe, your jaw, your lips, biting into the column of your throat, biting new marks and new indentations, would you still ask me to leave with you?

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality.

Between his lips, the hardened peak of your nipple is hot, still cooler than his mouth when he wraps it around the hard bud and sucks it in, squeezing your other breast, calloused palm, calloused fingers, his.

His teeth find your hip, the soft swell of your flesh, the hard bone underneath and you writhe and arch up into it, his name rumples your lips, the K rips from your throat, ripe, hot, thorny.

His forehead presses through your tights and into your belly, the little swell of it below your navel, sweat dampened curls of his hair leaving a sweat dampened spot, his scent permeating the fabric, infusing your skin.

He pulls back, calloused fingers hooked under the back of your knees catching at the nylon, sliding your calves over his shoulders, smooth fabric, hot skin, bright need. He spits on your clothed cunt and rubs it in, blends his saliva with your slick, hot, liquid, sticky.

His strokes are not gentle, they’re rough and needy, your fingers gripping his wrist to ease the roughness and he frees it with a twist, strong hand raising your arms above your head to pin them into the soft mattress. His face right above yours, sweat beading at your temples, on your pinched brow, his sweat dripping into your mouth, opened slack, your tongue pulled out and greedy.

You come as rough and hard as his strokes, your head trashed back, corded neck, folded in two, twitching legs like squirming snakes of nylon wrapped over his shoulders.

His forehead pushes down on your collarbone, infusing you with his sweat and his scent, where he can feel your orgasm blazing through your bones and your flesh and your skin.

The heat grows brighter between his legs, angrier, consuming, swelling along his cock, thickening. The urge to taste, and he pushes up from your heaving chest, releases your arms, your fingers a frantic scrabble over the white sheets. He’s pulled back in, instantly, drawn to the wet spot between your legs, dark and leaking nylon covering your cunt.

He dives in to cup it in his mouth, too hot and burning, to taste it, claim you, and it’s a bite, instead, rough and needy, and you jolt, his name scratching your throat like sand, “Frankie!” and he sucks in, rough and needy, saliva and slick, too hot and burning, would you still ask me to leave with you?

He sits back to undress your legs, the nylon a smooth drag along your skin when he peels it. He’s holding his breath, holding his spit, the taste of you and him swirling around his tongue, coating his palate.

His mouth travels up your leg from ankle to hip, in bites and licks, your skin hot, hot and smooth and tense between his lips, hot skin and hot lips, and he bites into it, sharp, unrestrained.

He sees it flicker across your face and in your eyes, wide and glazed, the moment you register what he’s doing, when he twists the sheer black fabric around your wrists, tugs on it, elastic, raising your arms above your head, shuffling along your body, your head caged between his thighs, and ties it to the headboard.

He hears it from the outside, the voice that comes from the back of his skull to ask you if “You ok with this?” and when you nod, the voice insists.

“Words, Gabrielle,” a warning and a need.

“I’m ok, I want it, please–” you breathe, sand in your throat.

“You don’t ever have to say ‘please’ to me.”

He steps off the bed to get rid of the rest of his clothes, eyes strained on you, hot and flushed and tied up and burning under the dark halo of your hair, bruises and marks of bright red scattered over your skin, you can leave all the marks, high-pitched two-tone moans of your want and your need carving his chest, his.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” more growls than words, kneeling between your spread legs, spread folds shining and slick, pressing on your knees, down on the mattress with both hands, calloused palms, calloused fingers, smooth, burning skin.

The back of his two middle fingers slides along your seam, liquid and sticky and it’s an easy glide into your pretty cunt, hot and burning, deep and slow and then rough and curling, dark eyes sunk into your dilated pupils.

“Wanna taste how good you did for me, baby?”

You nod and he growls, curling deeper inside, so you nod again and you “Please, please Frankie please—“

“Don’t fucking say please to me, Gabrielle, I’ll give you everything you need,” and he pushes his fingers into the heat of your mouth to smother the word, calloused fingers, hot tongue gliding and swirling, a sharp bite of your teeth and he hisses, would you still ask me to leave with you?

“I got you, I got you,” more grunts than words, and he lines himself up, doesn’t wait and sinks in, sinks his thick cock into your tight cunt, down to his base, rough and needy, sweat dripping down his back, high-pitched moans.

Large hands framing your hips, keeping you still under his thrusts, bruising, sliding over your belly where he’s shoving his cock into you, Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Slowing down just enough to feel you trembling around him, soft walls, warm cunt, grinding deeper inside under his palms.

“You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle, I can feel your sweet pussy fucking squeezing me,” his eyes drawn to the odd angle of your shoulder blades poking under your skin.

His hands find the headboard, bracing forward, lying heavy into you and he thrusts in and out, rough and needy, your legs bracketed around his waist, your knees hitched along his torso, hot, smooth burning skin, sweat dripping, “oh god, Frankie.”

“That what you needed, baby? For me to fuck you like this?” ramming into your cervix, tight cunt clenching, hot, wet, his.

Your head pressing into the pillow, you push away from the comforter, clutching his cock, hard and thick and ramming, and you nod, and you remember, you say “yes, Francisco,” and he’s fucking losing it, pounding harder, sinking deeper.

Calloused fingers curled around the headboard, white knuckled, taut muscles shifting under his skin.

Your high rips through you, through a cry, two-tone moan, eyes rolling, empty bound fists clenching, arms jerking against their binding, hot tight cunt gripping him in its endless flutter.

“Frankie, Frankie—“

“That’s it baby, just like that,” growls and grunts and words, “just like that.”

Years spent and wasted wishing he could carry you inside him, before he started wishing he could rip you out like a poisonous seed.

Your heartbeat pulsating under his chest and your cunt thrumming around his cock, the air you draw in gulps filling his own lungs, limbs entangled, sweat on sweat. This is as close as it gets to slicing his chest open to fit you inside it.

Static fills his brain, the room spins around him in orange waves and he comes like a whip, hot, liquid and sticky, pumping his seed into you, further, deeper, teeth clenched, eyes shut, a hissed curse in Spanish, through waves of orange.

His.

—

Winter

Everything you once dreaded, everything he once hated, you are now looking forward to experiencing, side by side.

It’s not your first Christmas with Dolores and Rosie, but it’s the first time you don’t feel like a rescue puppy, stepping inside the camped apartment with your arms full of presents and your man at your side.

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate.

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease.

For once, Izzy’s in town for New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t think twice before accepting her invitation to what she promises will be a quiet and cosy family dinner at her place.

She ends up so drunk, Frankie has to put her to bed before you can go home.

Fairly tipsy yourself, you sober up fast when he carries you over to the bedroom and bluntly declares he’s going to fuck you into the next year.

“Which one?” you joke, “cos technically it’s already next year, big man Morales.”

“2050, baby,” he answers with a cocky grin, unbuckling his belt. “Now get naked and spread those legs. I wanna see everything.”

January brings snow and icy northern winds along with the prospect of flying again, his six-month probation drawing to an end.

And one evening, it brings you home late, freezing cold, and particularly irritated.

“I had to wait 15 minutes for that damn bus because of the snow,” you fume, hanging your damp coat on the wall rack by the door. “How does this fucking country get so fucking hot in the summer, and so unbearably cold in the winter?”

He briefly considers arguing it’s not as much the whole country as just some states, but he wisely opts for compassionate silence.

You turn to face him, pointing a menacing index in his direction.

“You know what, America? You win. I’m getting a fucking car.”

“Don’t call me America in front of Izzy, if you wanna live long enough to drive that car,” he advises you with a raised eyebrow, his smile widening to his dimple.

He takes the following Tuesday off, and the two of you head back to Autoland, where a blond woman about your age welcomes you and introduces herself as Julie.

A brief conversation is all it takes to ascertain that Julie is far more competent than Gary could ever dream to be, but the sheer idea of having to explain what you’re looking for once again prompts you to enquire about him.

“Oh, Gary’s in jail,” she tells you with a hint of a smile. “Embezzlement. Didn’t end well,” she adds, and her lips stretch into a satisfied grin.

Twenty minutes later, you leave the dealership with a decent bargain and a pre-owned Ford Fiesta in forest green.

It’s only when you come home the next evening, your hands warm and your clothes dry, that Frankie measures just how relieved he actually is.

And you won’t admit it, in fact, he’s fairly certain you make a point of complaining about finding a place to park near the bookstore, but he can tell you’re happy too. Happy and proud, because the following weekend, he catches you calling Will to tell him you’ll be picking him up at his place to drive together to the Met.

A four-month hiatus hasn’t altered the tightly woven fabric of your relationship with Will. You fall right back into your cosy routine of monthly trips to the city to visit exhibitions, followed by drinks and endless talks at McSorley.

Emboldened by his blunt questioning habits, you don’t walk on eggshells the first time you find yourself alone with him.

“How is Benny doing? Does he know we’re seeing each other, today? How does he feel about it?” you ask after quickly gulping down your first half-pint.

His steel blue eyes dive into yours and you do your very best not to shrink on your wooden chair.

“Benny’s fine, ok? He’s good. He–” he seems to consider his next words before he continues, “We had a few conversations about it. It’s not easy, he doesn’t really wanna talk. I told him about your history with Fish. He’s still a bit angry, but he’s coming around. I think deep down he understands.”

He pauses, and when you don’t say anything, he keeps going.

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to hang out with him for another couple of months, at least.”

Hang out with him. No mention of you, there. As often with Will, what lies within the silence matters as much as his spoken words.

You get it. You can’t have it all. But you are genuinely relieved to know he’s doing well. And that there’s hope for the two of them.

It doesn’t occur to you that you only hear what you want to hear.

—

The first banging noise jolts you out of sleep. You sit upright in the bed, dishevelled, confused, not quite awake. Your heart is pounding painfully inside your rib cage, pulsating in your eardrums.

Instinctively, you reach for Frankie. Your hand fumbles under the comforter, only to find an empty spot where he should be lying next to you, and you whip your head around to his side of the bed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet it’s not as dark as it should be. The living-room lamp is on, casting a feeble light inside the bedroom, enough for you to distinguish Frankie’s dark silhouette standing awkwardly by the bed, slowly opening the drawer of his night stand.

Another rattling sound comes in from the kitchen. Metal on tiles. Your sleep-dazed brain identifies the noise as that of one of the bar stools being dragged across the floor. Frankie tilts his head in your direction and silently brings his index finger to his lips.

Now you’re wide awake.

Panic trickles down your lungs in icy streaks at the realisation that someone has broken into the house, but it doesn’t compare to the horror that seizes you when Frankie stealthily pulls out a gun from the open drawer.

He’s still looking at you, the yellow glint from the hallway reflected in his ink-black eyes, his finger pressed to his lips.

Before you can process what’s happening, Frankie’s moving toward the corridor, his gait precise and absolutely silent, broad shoulders hunched and tense in his downward hold of the gun with two hands. You want to protest, tell him to stay here with you, but your entire body has gone rigid, disconnected from your brain. You’re glued into place.

Eyes opened so wide they might pop out of your skull, you watch him disappear into the hallway, and in the dead of the night, you can hear the door of the fridge being opened.

Years from now, you will still remember thinking that this is a fucking nightmare.

You brace yourself for gunshots, a fight, more clatter, but it’s Frankie’s voice that comes in next, resounding into the January night, angry, loud and… surprised?

“What the fuck, man?”

It snaps you out of your trance. Untangling your legs from the heavy comforter, you climb down the bed and slip on your sleeping shorts before you dash towards the kitchen, and you’re still walking down the short hallway when you hear him.

“Oh fuck, ‘m sorry, Fish, ‘d’ I wake you up?”

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced.

You see Frankie first, standing in his black boxer briefs, his gun hanging from his hand. Following his angered stare, your eyes fall on Benny, who’s tall silhouette is partly hidden behind the opened fridge door. His face peeks out from above it, a nasty-looking bruise blooming red and purple around his right eye, accentuated by the angled shadows.

His gaze is unfocused, dazed, and when he sees you, an unfamiliar melancholy blurs it a deeper shade of blue. He closes the fridge, a tall boy of IPA in his hand, and he straightens up like a little boy at Sunday school, his lips curling around a drunken smile.

“Hey, baby. How are you?” he slowly slurs.

“Jesus fuck,” Frankie grits, hanging his head, and your mind reels, you’re not sure how to handle the situation. In fact, you have no idea how to deal with it.

Walking up to your man, you curl your fingers around his forearm, and the tension you find under your touch does very little to temper down the alarm flaring in your chest. Your hand slides to his wrist, his own hand a tight grasp around his weapon. You don’t dare lower your eyes to it. And it’s probably just a trick of the mind, the way you can see it shine from the corner of your eyes under the crude ceiling light.

You don’t dare look at Frankie either, so you keep your eyes strained on Benny, who’s swaying on his legs, and ask in a shaky voice you don’t recognise, “Hey Ben. What are you doing here?”

“He still got a spare key,” Frankie growls in his direction, and you hold on to his wrist a little tighter.

“Won my fight, tonight,” Benny drawls with pride, as if this were a perfectly rational explanation for his presence in your kitchen at 3 am, and, visibly satisfied, he proceeds to crack his beer open.

“And how the fuck did you get here, Benjamin?” Frankie asks, his tone so aggressive it makes you jump.

Benny takes a long sip before he simply shrugs, “Drove my car, the fuck is this question…”

“Oh god,” you breathe out, and between your clutching fingers, Frankie’s muscles loosen.

Finally looking up at him, you’re shaken by the emotions playing across his face, far more complex than the upfront annoyance in his voice.

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels.

Relieved, at first, to find Benny instead of someone else, something worse. Fuck knows he could have shot down a stranger on sight, had they tried to come anywhere near you, and he’d rather you never see what he’s capable of with a gun.

Why, then, is he shaking with anger? Is it, deep down, the relief to see him at all? Could it be because Benny came to see you, and not him?

Most of his jealousy and resentment towards his friend had been drained out of him when you curled up on his naked chest, back in your apartment, over half a year ago.

He’s well aware of the lasting affection you continue to harbour for his friend, that the concern plainly etched on your face at the moment only serves to demonstrate further. And if it’s not exactly pleasant to think about, his confidence and the daily evidence of your shared love sweetens that bitter knowledge.

What’s a lot more difficult to stomach, however, are Ben’s lingering feelings for you. He can’t blame the man, he himself never got over you, and he had fifteen years to try to.

“He’ll come around,” Will had promised. Only Ben’s little stunt tonight makes it impossible to ignore any longer the one thought he has so far deliberately avoided. He broke his best friend’s heart, with a self-righteous determination, without an ounce of regret.

Benny takes a step in your direction, beer dripping on the tiles from the can, askew in his bruised hand, and Frankie sighs heavily.

As you release his arm to go to Benny, he tries to slide the gun in the back of his jeans before realising he’s in his underwear. He sets it down on the kitchen table, where it hits the wooden surface with a muted thud.

“Aww baby, I really missed your face,” Benny mumbles as you grab the can from him, handing it to Frankie.

“Ok, let’s get some water into you,” you answer, holding his shoulders straight to deflect the incoming hug.

You lead him to the couch on the other side of the room where you sit him down, while Frankie fills up a tall glass with tap water, and you wait for him to join you to whisper, “We can’t let him go home like that, baby.”

Benny’s muttering incoherently, and Frankie bends over him, taking his legs to pivot him into a sleeping position, his feet sticking out of the couch.

“No, of course, not. He’s gonna sleep here. I’ll drive him home in the morning.”

He lets you take off Benny’s sneakers while he returns his gun to the night stand drawer, but when you don’t come back to the bedroom, he can’t resist the urge to go see what’s going on.

He’s still in the hallway when he stops short at the scene before him. You’ve draped a plaid over Benny, already fast asleep, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. A token of your affection, a tender gesture he saw you demonstrate before. In public. You lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and when you stand up and turn around, your eyes find his, instantly.

He doesn’t wait for you, he can’t, not when he knows you’re seeing right through his gritted teeth, right through the nauseating guilt sitting at the back of his throat, and he goes back to bed, where you soon join him.

He opens the comforter to let you in next to him, and as you slide underneath it, you tell him, “Scoot over, Frankie baby, tonight I’m the big spoon.”

—

If there’s one thing Frankie has always envied Ben for, it’s the speed at which he pulls through any type of hangover. Mild, brutal, soul-destroying, it makes no difference. The man’s up at the crack of dawn, and by 8am sharp, he’s out the door for his daily run.

Maybe it’s the age difference. But Frankie was never this prompt to recover, even when he was younger. Maybe it’s good genes. He’s seen Ironhead getting shot and still complete the mission with dashing excellence.

Today, however, as Frankie leaves the safe-heaven of your body, warmly tucked under the duvet, and walks into the living-room with a pack of Tylenol, a little after 6 am, he finds Benny quietly snoring.

His bruised eye has turned a violent shade of purple, bloody crusts flacking around his injured knuckles.

Frankie knows exactly who Ben was up against last night. A bulky giant of a man, a force of nature, a major household name in the MMA circuit.

He’s been keeping track of Ben’s defeats and successes. This victory is one that counts. Important enough for him to get hammered in celebration. So important, he had to get behind the wheel and come to tell you about it in person.

It’s another two hours of aimless silent roaming around the house, brooding, mulling over what he’ll tell him when he wakes up, if anything, before he decides to start cooking breakfast.

When Benny begins to stir on the couch to the clanking noise of the frying pan, Frankie focuses on the stove, keeping his nervousness in check. In his peripheral vision, Ben sits up with a hissed curse, and gulps down two tablets with water.

He’s just done lacing his boots when Frankie places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him on the coffee table.

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Benny mumbles in a thick voice, “Thanks, but I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s answer shoots out of him before he can think it through. “She’s gonna want to know you ate something.”

Benny tilts up his head toward him in slow motion. He meets his eyes with a cold, hard stare, and Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt from the couch to take another swing at his face.

He holds up his gaze, until Benny lowers his head and starts eating up. Cleans up his plate in complete silence and drinks up to the last drop the mild coffee Frankie’s prepared for him.

And when he’s finished, he gets up without a word and walks towards the front door to pick his jacket from the floor. Fiddling with the breast pocket, he pulls out a keychain and places it on the kitchen table as Frankie observes him, jaw cocked to the side, arms folded over his chest.

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

“You had 5 hours of sleep, man. I don’t think you’re sober enough to drive,” he says, pushing up from the counter.

“Yeah, right,” Ben huffs, “I’m not leaving my car here. Not coming back to pick it up.”

“Alright, let’s take your car, I can ride the bus home,” Frankie says, grabbing his cap from the coat rack.

—

Somehow, he can always tell whether you’re awake or asleep if he’s with you inside the house. Today, he knows you hear them leave together.

The drive is tense, to say the least, Ben’s leg bouncing up and down nervously as he shifts, restless, in the passenger’s seat, darting sideways glances at him, most likely waiting for an opportunity to lash out.

But the early Sunday traffic is fluid, and Frankie a smooth driver, leaving him nothing to grasp.

When Frankie pulls out in front of his house, Ben’s out of the car before he kills the engine.

In turn, Frankie unfolds slowly from the low seat. The crisp January cold bites his cheeks when he gets out and locks the door. He risks a glance in Ben’s direction.

“Hey, Ben, wait up,” he calls, white puffs of his breath swirling from his lips.

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

“Congrats on your win, last night,” he offers.

Ben answers with a dismissive, “Sure,” and Frankie throws him the keys across the roof of the Mustang.

He snatches them mid-hair in a smooth catch. A bittersweet reminder of their past synchronicity. Their ability to communicate wordlessly.

“You wanna talk about it?” Frankie asks quietly.

“What, the fight? Which one?” Benny sniggers.

“Ok,” he nods, ducking his head under the brim of his cap.

Ben takes a step towards his front door, but immediately turns around.

“You wanna know what really hurts?” he barks, his loud baritone thundering in the empty street. “Why didn’t you say anything? After that first night at the bar? You let me fucking parade her to you, guys, and you didn’t say shit.”

“Yea, I don't know, Ben,” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“That’s all you gotta say? I’m sorry?” Ben retorts, crossing his arms.

“Look, it’s complicated—“ he starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“I was supposed to be your best friend, that’s pretty fucking simple to me.”

“Ok, listen,” Frankie counters, raising his head and looking straight at him, “I don't know what you know, or what Will told you, but I thought she’d forsaken me. I guess I didn’t see the point of telling you. And by the time she–” he reconsiders, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, careful not to imply your responsibility, “by the time I found out what really happened, it was already too late.”

“Yeah, well, it still doesn’t add up, Fish,” he argues, prepping his forearms on top of the car roof. “If a girl ghosts you, why wouldn’t you warn your best friend?”

Because she’s not that kind of person. Because she seemed happy with you and you with her. Because I never quit loving her.

Because I could never give her up.

“Like I said, man, it’s more complicated than–” he tries again, but Ben cuts him off, again, adamant to get it all off his chest, and if his tone is not exactly aggressive, it’s not particularly friendly either.

“Ten years. Ten years we’ve known each other. We went through fucking hell together, and you still fucking chose her over me. Twice.”

“Yea well, I went through another kind of hell for losing her, Ben, you just gotta take my word for it,” Frankie states with a pointed finger at him and a warning in his rising voice that Ben seems to hear, because he leans back just a bit.

He softens up to add, “But it’s done. So now what?”

“Fuck, Fish,” Benny answers, softer, “if it was that bad, why’d you never say anything? You never mentioned her, not once! I’ve seen you wasted, high as a kite, buried in pussy and you don’t share that?”

“No, Benjamin, I do not share that. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

He marks a pause, inhaling the cold morning air to maintain control before he can continue.

“Look, I'm sorry I did you in like that. I let you down and I feel shitty for handling the whole situation like I did. You were my best friend. You still are. But I’d do it all over again to get her.”

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology.

Benny remains still for a beat before he leans again over the car roof, joining his hands.

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

“Yea. True love and shit,” Frankie nods.

“Well, this I understand,” Ben concedes, unusually quiet. “She’s something. You lucky son of a gun.”

—

Everything you once dreaded…

Well, you’ve always dreaded January. It once freed you from Éric, but you still associate the dark, short days with loneliness, and a fast, spinning downward fall into depression. This year, however, you haven’t thought about it once. Not until this morning, that is, when the looming dread rose anew, expanding inside your constricted chest, hindering your breathing.

The fluffy duvet drawn up to your chin, you’ve lied still as the dead, your ears strained to the sounds coming from the other side of the house.

You fully woke up when Frankie left the bed, depriving you of his reassuring heat, after three hours oscillating between sleep and consciousness, always acutely aware of his unnaturally stiff body lying wide awake between your arms.

You mentally followed his barefoot stride, amplified by the early morning peace, the events from the previous night flooding back to your tired brain like rising waters.

Listened to nothing but silence for an excruciating long time, the growing tension emanating from him thrumming along the walls all the way to your hiding place.

Hiding, is what you were, and once more your mother’s reproachful tone rang out in your head, “tu ne fais que t’enfuir.”

“I’m a big girl from a big city,” you murmured to yourself. You were not hiding, they needed to talk, you were merely giving them the necessary space, but nothing you told yourself could ward off your anxiety.

When you walked into the living-room, after they’d left, you scrunched up your nose at the acrid smell of alcohol. And something else. Something you didn’t want to remember, so you pulled the curtains and opened the two large windows to let in the brisk winter air.

That’s when you noticed his phone, face down on the console by the front door, where he leaves it when he comes home.

You disposed of the leftover coffee in the sink and prepared a fresh pot, strong, to your taste.

While it brewed, you folded the plaid and straightened the couch cushions. You cleaned the stove and washed the dishes, wiped them dry and returned them to their cabinets.

When there were no more traces of Ben’s presence in your home, you stood by the counter, staring blankly at the microwave, double dots blinking between the red digits.

Now, it’s nearing 11am. You’ve been alone for three hours.

Uncertain about the distance between Frankie’s house and Benny’s place, you’ve no idea whether Frankie’s absence is too long or perfectly normal. You could put your mind at rest, even just a bit, if you only checked it out on your phone, but the idea itself irritates you. You’ve lived here just a few months shy of three years. When will you be as capable of navigating the city as you are in Paris, going about the metro and streets on sheer instinct, visualising entire neighbourhoods and calculating routes without the support of technology?

Driving your own car is bound to achieve that, you tell yourself, stepping gingerly into the tub.

Why does the entire house feel colder when he’s not there? This is nothing unusual, he’s rarely home when you get ready for work on weekdays, and it’s a beat before you realise you’ve left the living-room windows opened.

The water runs over your face, set to scalding hot and high-pressure, and you wish it could drain out your thoughts. Perhaps, if you’d see them floating at your feet, you might be able to sort out your feelings.

When he pulls out in the driveway 20 minutes later, he steps in through the front door to find you sitting by the kitchen table, arms crossed and shivering in one of his sweaters. There’s little to no difference in temperature between outside and the room, he notes with a frown, and his eyes land on the table in front of you, where his black gun stands out against the clear wooden top.

He stills, fingers on the brim of his cap, elbow raised mid-air.

He’s in so much fucking trouble.

“Hey, baby, how–” he starts, before you cut him off sharply.

“Are you ok?” you ask, more briskly than you intended.

You clear your throat, willing your hoarse morning voice to sound softer when you ask again, “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” he answers, taking a few long strides towards you. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you before I got on the bus, but I think I left my phone here. And the ride home took forever, I don’t know how you had the patience to…”

He trails off, standing in front of you in his jacket, awkward and rigid. For the first time ever, he’s not certain of what you need. And something tells him he’d better step back until you’ve expressed it yourself.

The tension hangs heavy between you, but once your eyes have scanned his face and confirmed he’s alright, your lungs open up just a notch.

Unfolding your arms, you lower your hands onto your lap, rubbing your clammy palms dry over your denim.

His eyes quickly flicker to his gun and back to your face, and he takes another step closer.

“Ok,” you shoot, straightening up in your chair, your gaze plunging into his, “can you please tell me why we have a gun in the house?”

It’s not the question that’s driven you mad since they left the house earlier, but this one is considerably easier to formulate.

His demeanour shifts immediately. He straightens up, planting his hands on his hips.

“Listen, baby, it’s perfectly legal, alright? I got a permit, and you know I know how to use it.”

He has the good sense not to point out the gap between your respective cultures, fully aware of your position on the matter of gun control anywhere in the world, but you’re standing up already, stubbornly facing him.

“Whether or not you got a permit doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me, Frankie. I want it gone.”

He lifts off his cap, slowly runs his fingers through his hair, and you falter.

This is not going the way you imagined, you didn’t intend to come at him with such aggressiveness, and your tone doesn’t reflect your confusion, certainly none of your fears, it only gives away your conflicted feelings.

Sucking his teeth in, he tilts down his head, and his eyes disappear.

“The gun’s not going anywhere, Gabrielle,” he hears himself state, and his point-blank refusal to comply derails you completely.

“What kind of threat is there that requires that you keep this thing in here?”

“Intruders, burglars, some junky high on bath salts…” he enumerates, shaking his head.

You mirror the movement before you counter with what you expect to be a foolproof argument.

“And what if Benny did something stupid? He was drunk, what if he’d jumped you, for a joke? What if you’d hurt him?”

Frankie's head shoots up, dark eyes devoid of all light staring you down with a hard gaze that has you swaying on your feet. He’s never looked at you like that, except… Except that first night at the bar.

And like that first night at the bar, he can’t stop his mind from reeling into the wrong direction, despite your face telling him something entirely different.

“Is this what this is about? You’re concerned I might have hurt him?”

“Of course I am!” you answer, puzzled by his reaction. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a gun. If ever someone breaks in, you can probably subdue them–“

“That’s Ironhead’s thing,” he cuts in.

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

“That’d be Ben,” he all but spits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

You throw your palms up in irritation, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes that only fuel your exasperation.

Back in June, in his truck, he’d told you that he’d been too quick on the trigger, more often than not. Is that what you’re hinting at? Are you doubting his ability to keep you safe?

“Gabrielle, just drop it, ok? I’m asking you to drop it,” he warns, his voice a low threat that brooks no argument, and in turn you dig your heels in.

“I can’t just drop it, Frankie, I’m sorry but–”

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw.

Something gets stuck in your throat. You’re trying to breathe underwater. It’s escalating too quickly.

You try to blink the tears off your prickling eyelids before they start running down your cheeks, you want to stab your nails into the back of your arms and draw blood, but the urge to touch him overthrows everything and you place your hands on his chest, palms down, splayed fingers, anchoring your body to his, grounding him to yours.

“Frankie what’s happening, are we fighting?” you articulate around a repressed sob.

His hands go to yours instinctively, covering them entirely, and he can’t tell which one of you is shaking, can’t explain how what he means to say is so far removed from the way he expresses it.

“No– no baby, no we’re not fighting, I just need you to understand–” he tries, but it’s too late, your words spill out in moving waves.

“Please, I don’t wanna fight, please, Frankie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Benny barged in like that, I’m sorry, I don’t want him to hurt you anymore, I don’t want you to hurt yourself—“

“Baby, I’m fine, I’m ok,” he says, comprehension downing on him as your first tears roll down in rivulets to hang from the line of your jaw.

He closes the distance between you, cupping your face to rub them off with a stroke of his thumbs, standing so close your eyes flicker between his.

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“Fuck no! You didn’t over— hey, listen to me Gabrielle, you didn’t overreact, I did,” he says, holding your head up when you try to hide.

Your hands slide underneath his jacket and find the plane of his back, you bunch up his t-shit in your fists.

“You just gotta let me watch over you the way I know how, baby, that’s all I ask, that’s all I need, for you to let me take care of you. I know you’re a big girl from a big city—“

“Oh but I’m not,” you cry, pressing your face into his neck, your next words muffled against his collarbone, “I’m scared, you left the room and I got so scared, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in here, there’s always something to remind me I don’t belong—“

The spectre of your departure resurfaces and Frankie hisses a sharp breath, a Pavlovian reaction to a pain stimulus. He focuses on the shape of you between his arms, the scent of you enveloping him, the taste of you only a kiss away.

Broad hand cradling the crown of your head, he leans into your ear, his voice dropping to a low, soft murmur.

“Last night was scary. You’re exhausted, we both are. We can talk about it later, ok?”

“Don’t leave me, Frankie, don’t leave me alone, I need—” you sob. “Merde, I feel so fucking stupid.”

His lips brush a smile against your temple, eyes closing at the contact of your skin.

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says. “How about we take a trip to Paris, this spring? You can show me around the city? What do you say?”

He’s been thinking about it for a while, but has so far found himself physically unable to discuss it with you. The whole idea could backfire. What if going back there reminds you of everything you still miss?

You’d said a purpose. And a goal.

Between his large cupping hands, your face feels like an evocation, and he’s drawn in, endlessly, on a loop, back to you, to your skin.

To the way it trembles between his pursed lips. A peek of his tongue to harvest the salty beads of your tears, to swallow the fear and sadness he vowed to see disappear, and you cling onto him with a murmured plea.

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growls, and he crashes his mouth onto yours. You open up for him, sliding the thick jacket off his frame, knocking the worn-out cap off his head.

—

The weak January sun, white and crisp through the treasured curtains, fills the bedroom with a hushed shade of orange, weaving together past and present.

His first thrust inches into your tight warmth slow and measured, and he pauses between your hips to let you adjust.

His hand a gentle grip around your jaw, he turns your face to the side and traces open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, a tender suck at the base of your neck, a hard bite on the slope of your shoulder, it makes you writhe underneath his body, crushed into the mattress by his weight, and you keen, legs bracketed around his waist, knees folded high around his torso, heels digging into the meat of his ass, urging him deeper.

You need him rough and you need him now, you want to feel sore tomorrow and the day after, you want his girth remodelling you into the shape of him, only him, forever him.

But he controls the pace. Attuned to your reactions and the sensation of your clenching walls around him, clutching him, blending pain and pleasure, your entrance catching along his length.

He shifts above you, tilting your head further to the side, the hardened tips of your nipples a soft drag against his skin, and you can’t breathe with his chest crushing your chest and he knows it, knows you want it this way. He moves inside you. Just a bit, not enough. You moan and you hear it through your need, through your want, like you’re running a fever, like a tiny, needy animal.

“Shhh baby,” he purrs in your ear, forehead to your temple, “I can’t move, I have to open you up for me.”

The words scorch your skin. You burrow your nails into the taut muscles of his back, eyes shut so tight under your pinched brow you see stars, his lips raising goosebumps all over your body on their trail along your jawline.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie–” you say Frankie like you say please, and your cheek sinks deeper into the pillow.

“Shhh, you're gonna get it, baby, you're gonna get it.”

Your hips buck against the restraint of his mass, and it slips out of you, inaudible, weak and quick, too quick for you to stop it.

“You looked so hot with that fucking gun, I–”

He stills with your earlobe trapped between his teeth, licks it better before he lets go.

“What did you say?”

The unwilling confession, making sense of your earlier fury. You shy away from the truth, a whining “non” stuck inside your throat, you try to hide from it, from him, the heels of your hands covering your eyes when you breathe out, “Nothing.”

His smile curls into your skin through a scrape of his whiskers, and he sinks into you, sudden, rough, deep, all the way down to the centre of you.

You bite down your moan, pleasure-pain, head trashed back into the pillow, clenched teeth corded neck, pinned down underneath the overwhelming weight of him and everything he means to you.

“I heard you,” he groans, grinding into your heat, “I heard everything.”

Everything you once dreaded. The contour of your fears, retraced, redefined. Innocuous, beyond the confines of his arms.

—

Spring

“Can you fly this plane?” you whisper excitedly, adjusting your seatbelt.

His eyebrows disappear in the overgrown curls hanging low on his forehead. He stills in his seat to stare at you.

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?”

The stewardess announces the imminent take-off for Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, her words nearly unintelligible through the buzzing noise of the overhead speakers.

“No, I can fly military aircraft, like C-12 Huron or MH-60 Black Hawk or–”

“So you could probably fly this one too?” you cut in.

“No, Gabrielle, I can’t,” he huffs in disbelief.

“Have you ever tried?”

The crease between his brow deepens, his eyes searching yours, scanning your face for any trace of teasing.

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

“Aha!” you exclaim, triumphant. “So you probably can. You just don’t know it.”

He watches you bend forward to place a thick book in the seat-back pocket in front of you, and shifts his hips once again, trying to accommodate his breadth into the seat, before his eyes fly back to your face.

His heart leaps into a painful somersault, like a punch in the sternum that radiates up to his neck and down to his gut. Backlit by the plane’s oval window, your dark profile looks like the Victorian cutout portraits in your treasure cabinet, and it’s like he’s known you his whole life and the ones before, like he’d find you in every reality he’s ever known, and all the ones he hasn’t.

He lowers down his head, remembering to breathe. Something settles down inside him. A gnawing anxiety that had been steadily flaring since he’d book the tickets. He’d find you. In every reality.

“Do you really need to be this fucking cute?” he mutters.

“I’m not cute, Frankie, I’m serious! Now tell me, how do you feel about spending the next 7 hours crammed into this seat?”

A flash of pink as the tip of his tongue peeks between his parted lips. A wink.

“It’s ok. I’m used to fitting into tight spaces.”

—

Small.

Everything looks small.

The entire city has changed. New, modern infrastructures, subway lines extensions, bicycle lanes everywhere, roadworks on every corner and a new mayor.

All of it, small.

The streets are too narrow, the ceilings hang too low, the cars look like toys and the buildings like doll houses frozen in time because nothing measures up to Frankie’s height, breadth, or dimple.

The man shrunk your old world when he expanded your horizon.

You walk down the streets that saw you becoming who you are through happiness, loss and pain, strutting about like you know something no one else does.

The Airbnb you picked is on the south side of the place Gambetta. The Marais was appealing. More expensive but more central, fancy but not too much, but you finally decided against it. The 20e arrondissement is your neighbourhood, your home. It’s where your grandparents are buried.

There’s something incongruous, bordering on comical, about playing house with him in the tiny, typically Parisian apartment overlooking the Père Lachaise. The kitchen’s a corridor, and there’s no way for him to fit comfortably inside the shower cubicle. The bed is a full size, and if you knew not to expect anything bigger, Frankie’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the doll-sized bedding.

“Gonna break that thing,” he grunted, testing the mattress.

The first time you step into the métro, you take in the particular stench, and the realisation that you missed even that pulls at your chest with a sharp pang. But the nostalgia is smothered by the sight of Frankie squeezing into one of the narrow seats of the line 3.

The first couple of days are spent sightseeing the touristic landmarks of the capital, following the military schedule you’ve drafted. You don’t even try to hold back as you recount the many anecdotes behind every famous church, park or building, giving him what you self-derisively label, “the leftist historical tour of Paris.”

If there’s one place where you’ve always had enough space to be you, unapologetically so, it’s with him.

Here, you don’t need any maps, apps or directions, and Frankie diligently follows, listens, asks follow-up questions that prompt more thorough explanations, drinking up your self-confidence.

Sure, Paris is nice. But it’s not the buildings he's looking at.

His big girl. Growing up on her own in this big city.

Hiding, yet standing tall on that fire escape, your heart rabbiting under the pulse point of your neck, bravely withholding his gaze. Leaving the party with him, your smaller hand squeezing his bigger one as he parted the crowd for you, for the two of you.

He’s only ever had eyes for you. From the very beginning.

With his preference for modern art in mind, you’ve arranged the third day around the visit of Beaubourg, then the MaM halfway across town, which will bring you near the Eiffel Tower, you announce over breakfast, and that’s when he gently puts his foot down.

“Baby, take me to Orsay, will you?” he asks softly. “I wanna see that blurry painting you told me about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a— I don’t really care about the Eiffel Tower and all that stuff. I’d rather go to the cemetery. Or see your high school.”

You look up from your tartine, a toasted piece of bread stuck in your throat that you try to gulp down, and you stare at him blankly. A fixed, intense gaze that has him flinching, creasing his brow, has he fucked up the whole thing now?

“You wanna see my high school?” you repeat, and when he nods, you add quietly, “Do you really need to be this fucking cute, Morales?”

Your high school, your university, the bars in Pigalle and Ménilmontant where you hung out as a student, your favourite bookstores, antique stores, bridges, museums, artist’s studios, paintings…

It’s been decades since you’ve walked the narrow, quiet lane where your grandparents rented a three-room apartment. Years of repressed emotions have confused your recollection, and you breathe uneasy and short because you don’t recognise the grey stone building where you supposedly spent your first years.

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it.

Later, walking in silence towards the family grave along the pebbles alleys on the east side of the Père Lachaise, you keep your head down and the tendon in Frankie’s jaw is pulled taut, ready to snap.

But his gaze, strained on you, is warmer than the late March sun that draws pale, ephemeral patterns under your feet through the lush green foliage of the century-old chestnut and lime trees.

His arm wraps around the haunched slope of your shoulders. It’s heavy. Grounding. He draws you in to his side, and pecks a kiss on the crown of your head, your hand sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans.

You look up at his sharp profile, and he’s more beautiful than any of the works of art you’ve shown him this past week, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

The bare-patch on his jaw calls to your lips, but instead you reassure him, “I’m good, Frankie,” because his bashful, dimpled smile makes you, because in his arms, you are.

The sprawling, romantic necropolis has remained the same to you, a place of solace, a refuge, a hideout.

The wardens are blowing their whistles to signal closing time when you reluctantly leave the cemetery. It’s cold now, the sun has given up and recessed behind pearly grey clouds.

Back in the small rental, Frankie follows you to the cramped bathroom when you go wash your hands. He watches you, leaning against the sink counter, crossed ankles, crossed arms. Tense muscles and knots.

“Where’s your mother now? Does she still live in Paris?”

Your eyes dart to the door frame on your left, on instinct, but Frankie’s massive frame is preventing any form of deflection or escape. Your body stiffens, you focus on your hands.

“Last I heard, they moved to a new fancy apartment they bought in les Batignolles. That’s in the 17e arrondissement,” you add, like that means anything to him. “But I’m not taking you there, Frankie, I can’t.”

“Not asking you to, baby. I want to know if he is still around.”

Your chest hollows under his words, hands clutching the beige towel. The faded scar tissues on the back of your arms itching like a million microscopic blades picking them open.

Everything you never said, never told anyone. Everything you convinced yourself never really happened, or wasn’t really that bad. Everything you kept inside, thickening the walls of your heart, weighing you down, because the only person you needed, and who you asked for help, had called you a liar.

Under his creased brow, his eyes are black as midnight sky. They’re looking straight into you. Contemplating that thing you lost, like a constituent piece that fell off and you replaced with something else. Aloofness, distance. Orange curtains.

He pushes himself up to his intimidating full height and you recoil involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you. He grips your face with both hands, his palms scorching your cold skin, and between them, you’re fully exposed, bared, left with nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your secrets.

“I will hurt anyone who tries to hurt you, Gabrielle. Do you understand? Say that you understand.”

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected.

“I understand,” you whisper, and you clasp his wrists so you won't feel the ghost weight of his gun between your hands. “I want you to.”

He nods.

“You are mine.”

You nod.

You know you are.

—

Everything looks smaller.

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes.

The city hasn’t changed. But you have. You know something no one else does.

—

The day before you fly back, you meet for lunch with Laura outside the Hôtel de Ville.

She hadn’t minced her words –she never does– expressing her disappointment when you’d announced you wouldn’t come back at the end of your hiatus. But everything has long since been forgiven.

Sitting across the dark-haired woman in her early fifties, you chat excitedly over sushi you forget to eat. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny metal chair on your left, he feels the bespectacled gaze of your former boss scrutinising him.

Within hours after you landed in Roissy, your accent had thickened. Today, it has reached an all-time high. It’s the longest Frankie has ever heard you speak in your native language.

Your voice sounds higher, in French. You speak so much faster, with a lot of hand gestures punctuating the throaty sounds cascading from your pretty lips. He focuses on his chopstick skills, trying his very best to ignore the growing bulge in his pants.

It’s clear the two of you are more friends than colleagues. You had described her as your mentor. And from the dynamics he observes, there is obvious mutual respect. Which partly explains your instant hatred for Tom.

Laura thinks you look different. You might have put on some weight, you say. She shakes her head, grinning knowingly. That’s not what she meant.

Under your shirt, nested in the curve of your neck, sits a bruise in the shape of his teeth, blood underneath the surface of your skin blooming like a red peony.

The waiter clears the dishes and Frankie walks up to the counter to pick up the tab.

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table.

“Je comprends que tu n’aies pas voulu rentrer [I understand why you didn’t want to come home],” she starts, and with a tilt of her chin towards Frankie’s solid figure, she adds, “Bien joué, Miss Tourneur [Well done, Miss Tourneur].”

She gladly agrees to give Frankie a tour of the Bibliothèque, a historical institution situated on the fourth floor of the central city hall. In the elevator, your heartbeat gallops up your throat. The life you chose, the life you once led.

The spacious reading room’s concave wooden ceiling is like the upside-down hull of a ship. When you step in, you’re overwhelmed by the faint musty smell of old books, mingled with that of the dusty carpets. You missed that too, but the feeling no longer tears at your chest.

A few former colleagues come to greet you, and you watch Frankie and Laura from the corner of your eye as she explains, in her approximate English, what your work as a librarian entailed, praising your skills and knowledge.

Frankie watches you too. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his pride. He couldn’t care less.

Before you leave, you lead him up to the rooftop of the building through narrow metal stairs. Culminating at a 48 metres height, in the very heart of Paris, the vantage point offers a breathtaking 360° view over the urban canopy of tin roofs.

“Whenever I’d get a chance,” you tell him, “I’d come here for my lunch break.”

“Hiding again?” he grins.

“Hiding again,” you admit, “but not only. I’d look up at the clouds, and if I was lucky enough to see a plane fly by, I would pretend you were flying it.”

Years of chasing the shadow of him, years of searching for traces of you.

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

Rosie’s attempt at casualness is not fooling either of you. Frankie flashes a mock military salute and hauls the luggage into Rosie’s car trunk, hiding his grin behind the decklid. In all fairness to Rosie, he wasn’t so smug himself, on the day Pope drove you to the airport.

It’s not a long drive from Newark, but the car progresses slowly through the late afternoon traffic. The New York City skyline stands out in orange hues. Everything is too big again. Too large. Too tall. But it’s fine. Everything’s on scale.

The keys to the house jingle in your hand before Rosie exists the New Jersey turnpike, and you’re first to pass the front door, Frankie heaving the luggage behind you.

You’re so exhausted you could sleep for days, but you’ll have to open the store tomorrow at 10am.

Frankie goes straight to the bedroom and you hear the heavy thud of your suitcase hitting the floor, followed by the softer one of his rucksack.

When you join him, bringing two glasses of water, you find him lying on the gigantic bed, arms sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling.

On scale.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask him, crawling onto the bed next to him, curling into his side. His arm wraps around you.

“I sure did. That tour guide really knew her shit. Easy on the eyes, too.”

You chuckle tiredly, his chest rising and falling slowly under the palm of your hand.

“Could we go to Rome, next year?” you ask.

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers.

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

You scoot closer to tuck your face into his neck, and you lie together in silence for a little while. A pleasant heaviness is slowly claiming your weary limbs.

“Why does the trip back always feel longer?” you mumble.

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head, a smile in his voice, “You slept the whole flight.”

Your cheek resting against the slope of his shoulder, your hand on his thigh, one day he would tell you, that being airborne with you had been the best part.

“It’s true,” you shrug, “I guess I just couldn’t wait to come back home.”

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

Kelli. You started all this, but where do I start? I don't know if you remember the first letter you ever sent me, and what it said, and I don't know if you remember when I first told you about this orange bedroom idea, last summer. But I do. You’ve held my hand, like you always do. Your guidance and validation and support saw me through. Because you’re impossibly generous, with your time and patience and advice, you’re unbelievably kind, intelligent, talented and insightful. I’ve learnt so much from you already, about writing, about myself. You inspire me to reach higher. It's exhausting, but I love you for it. Oh yeah, and you beta-read this fucking monster too! Everything that is good in me this story, is good thanks to you. You turned my black heart orange. Kelli, I love you 🧡 @frannyzooey

Dreamy bby, my purple beauty, my beloved, my angst master genius, how many times have I come to you crying and whining and complaining, telling you I was giving up? Please don’t answer, it’s too fucking embarrassing. You kept my head above water, with love, kindness and humour. What did I do to deserve you? Beats me. Also I'm sorry but I love you more. Ha! Thank you 🧡 @dreamymyrrh

Ren, you’ve pulled me out of the ditch in a heartbeat more times than I care to count, because you are a genius and a wonderful friend. You are the reason I found a home in this fandom. You are my Reine, and I adore you. Thank you 🧡 @the-ginger-hedge-witch

Nicole my love, I know I’m repeating myself, but you are the first person ever to read the first chapter of PTMY. I sent it to you for your opinion, but really for your encouragement because I was absolutely terrified, and you delivered, you always do, you beautiful, beautiful friend. Thank you for your investment in this story and its characters. Watching you go from team Benny to team Frankie to team Benny and team Frankie again is seriously one of the greatest achievements of my life! Thank you 🧡 @nicolethered

Cee my darling. You gave me the final push to press post and you haven’t stopped encouraging me and supporting me since. You've lent a patient and kind ear to my doubts and fears, you’ve given me the most thoughtful feedbacks a friend could ask for, you let me stand on your shoulders, you give me strength to stand up for myself. In many ways, I carried on because you gave me the validation and self-confidence I so desperately need(ed). Thank you 🧡 @fuckyeahdindjarin

Deadmantis. Girl, Frankie really owes you one, because Gabriele stayed mainly thanks to you! I owe you an even bigger one for the love you’ve given them, and the orange bedroom. You know them like no one else. Your asks have fuelled me, they still do. I could never repay you, but please know that I am infinitely grateful to you. Thank you 🧡 @deadmantis

Lua. You rascal. You gave me the levity I so badly needed in a thick river of ANGST. I’m very selfishly hoping you never stop making me guilty by dropping Benny into my ask box. A million thank you 🧡 @pedrit0-pascalit0

And to my two favourite Anons, 🍻 and 🥖, I fucking love you to pieces. Thank you thank you thank you 🧡🧡🧡

****

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks

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