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wide-nose-and-wonderful · 1 month ago

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SNOWFALL SEASON 4 Franklin.

Pairing: Franklin Saint x Black Fem OC!

Warnings/Type: Established Relationship. Reader Request follow up to Brother Ain't Havin' It. ONE SHOT!

Summary: Pleasure would take a back seat, that and personal desires. Maybe in another life he could chase them. But it wasn't another life. Survival now depended upon caution and precision. Taking three bullets to the body gives a lot of time for reflection. In the midst of his recovery, Franklin Saint thinks back on his actions, and what it would mean going forward in the new world he created.

Word count: 7,524k / Please consider leaving a comment to tell me what you thought of the story and to show some love and support. Like this story? To read other works please check out the Masterlist.

Claudia had been on his radar ever since Louie’s omissions of their past. For the most part she’d presented herself as a respectable business woman, aside from the few times she made those subtle advances. That hadn’t been the first time older women had taken an interest in him. Still, there was so much he did not know about the woman, and maybe things that Louie wasn’t ready to reveal could have aided him. Nonetheless, Clauida was all he could think about as the next kick to his side damn near took his breath away.

Had it all been a set up orchestrated by her? Some way or other to take control and gain the upper hand? To what end though? She already had the dope.

Pain. The epitome of clinging to life. Or, that’s how Franklin Saint chose to categorize it. At least in the moment under the dim lamp overhead that illuminated his orchestrated beating, he felt that way. Maybe the truth was a different matter entirely, but Franklin had his fair share of pains the past few months, both mentally and physically, which presented itself in different choices and decisions he’d found himself making. Some external, but most in the private caverns of his own brain. He was being tested for better or worse. Funny how the mind could run rampant with scenarios and destinations. He knew that this certain path would be his only chance at a different kind of life. Otherwise, he’d be working at Cho’s corner store forever, under someone else, taking orders. It didn’t matter how comfortable he’d gotten, or how good he may have had it there doing basically whatever he wanted as long as the work got done, that sort of life wasn’t too far from a slave’s. Or how Leon once put it, a house nigga.

Franklin imagined such a life as the most grusome type of torture fathomable, with no possible means of escape. Chains you couldn’t see.

Franklin wanted more for himself. He thought about his mother Cissy, how every day must have felt for her to keep going. Still, he should have seen this coming. He’d gotten too comfortable, picking up the key of cocaine the way he had. Like he’d held some type of protection. Those eyes were on him. The one guy, a little taller than the other one that was with him, hadn't even tried to pretend to stare in a nonchalant way. Bold. Since he’d been the same guy to place the gun, finger on the trigger so intimately that one wrong move could mean the end of things. Or, Franklin sighed, at least for his eye. He may very well survive it.

But, there was a moment looking down that barrel Franklin reconsidered if all this was really what he wanted wholeheartedly and sincerely. Deep down he held a strong feeling that guns getting pointed at him would become a recurring thing. Call it luck, Avi hadn’t shot him the day he told him to put on the vest to prove himself to the game. He had heart and gut to grit through it although he was scared shitless. But that time was different from now. After all, this had been the first time he’d actually looked death in the face, close up. Definitely way too close for comfort. He’d learned early on that the drug game wasn’t kind to naivety, and soon discovered with the first punch delivered as he fell from his bike and hit the ground, he had a lot of catching up to do. After this little encounter, no one could be above suspicion in Franklin's mind.

That had been his weakness. Not looking over his shoulder at all times.

He should have known that something was coming. He’d failed to pay attention to the little details. The looks and glances. The fact that he’d come alone. Claudia Crane's unwillingness to speak freely without code and contention spoke volumes on her knowledge of the do’s and don’ts, but he did not heed the example. Due to the cunning nature Franklin had detected in her, the banter that took place kept the femme interested. That was what he needed, her interest. Her interest in him was what kept him around. Her entertaining the idea of doing business meant he had time to grow his own with strategy. He hadn’t even known that he was making a name for himself, so early.

When Franklin made the decision to choose the path presented before him with the promise of freedom and financial security, he never expected the shift to turn his life completely upside down as quickly as it had. Enemies had grown substantially, and his outer nerd-like facade no longer made him inconspicuous to suspicion. That tall lanky kid with the backpack. It was like the role flipped. Now he stood out like a sore thumb. Someone no one really paid attention to had become a curious affair. Really, what would he be doing in a club talking to someone with Claudia’s reputation. He should have expected more eyes than those belonging to the taller and shorter males that had robbed him.

Sometimes late at night when he could be alone with his own secret thoughts, he would contemplate on a different path. One less violent. He figured doubting was natural in the growing process. The things he’d done plagued his conscience like an aching wound. But then, he would think of Cissy, always.

His mother looked so beat down by the everyday pressures of life that he felt it his duty to repay her for all the hard work it took to raise him. Cissy couldn’t take all the credit. Jerome had every bit of influence where Alton’s absence was heavily felt. But still. Although Franklin hardly ever agreed one hundred percent on how Jerome chose to live, he never outright judged any decisions made by him or Louie. His preferences alone kept it all from rubbing off on him personally. That was their life. He undoubtedly had his own to worry about. The only time their two lifestyles intersected was when Franklin had begun selling weed for some extra cash. But selling weed and cocaine were two very different things.

What was next for the prep school bound kid from South Central?

The question came up several times after the blowout at Claremont Mckenna. A brief intermission did not mean that no return was ever possible, at least according to Cissy. Franklin had concluded otherwise. She wasn’t there for the experience. Didn’t know how it felt to be undermined and made to feel like nothing under the guise of white folk who couldn’t give a damn anyway. Or, maybe she did. Her boss was an outright piece of shit. In the end, Franklin made up his mind that he would never step foot on the campus again, but he regarded her sentiment as something that all mothers carried when it came to their children. She only wanted the best for him, something more than she had. So, this had to work.

Franklin marveled at how he could lay on the cold bum piss infested ground in the alley thinking about everything as he held his stomach that might fold with the shortest push for breath. They could have killed him, and that thought was paralyzing. Why hadn’t they? Perhaps his outer appearance had given the impression that he wasn’t as threatening as the typical drug dealer. Maybe they thought killing him was too much trouble? Or, it could be that someone was looking out for him up there in the sky somewhere. A much simpler resolution. According to the other guy, he wasn’t worth the bullet. He knew deep down the two men were Lenny and Ray Ray. Two names that would cause him more strife then he needed later on, but this time he couldn't make out faces to go with each. All that remained of them both were black holes. Empty. Franklin wouldn’t argue that much. Pretty soon, they'd left him cradling his sides and bent in the fetal position. So be it. The last thing he wanted was for his mama to get that call that would take her from an already troubled sleep. He would realize much later, that wouldn't be something he could avoid. Only, it wasn't her waking up in the middle of the night, but running to their next door neighbors house to find him in a pool of his own blood, although he still couldn't get the look she held when he'd been picked up by police and thrown in the back of one of those hellish cars with the red winding lights after he shot Kevin.

Getting beat within an inch of one’s life wasn’t exactly merciful, but he survived it. Or maybe it hadn't been that literal, just that it felt like he was dying, if that was what death felt like in some capacity. But he knew to his better judgment that he was walking back in his memories in a dream. None of which was pleasant, but at the same time not in the present either.

All these things had already happened.

The thought alone made him pick himself up with all the strength he could muster. Maybe, he thought, if he could continue, he could wake up.

A stumble to the feet brought on a wave of nausea that rushed over him with a sudden urgency. He neared stairs in a wobble and with a stroke of breath he’d leaned over to discard blood, garnered up saliva that had gotten stuck in his throat, and something he’d eaten earlier. Once he became empty, he outstretched a hand to latch onto the mental railing of the stairs that would lead him back into a door, the same way he’d remembered walking out. The first time he’d had every intention of being discreet when leaving, but they’d calculated his moves.

The ascent became complicated after the fourth step and he had to stop a couple times before he managed himself to make it to that particular door that he pulled open and maneuvered himself through.

His vision spined and leveled up and down in and out as the lights presented a difficulty in locating Claudia, until he noticed her mingling with a few patriots. This was odd too, because Claudia had since long been dead. That was Louie's story to tell. Either way, she'd gotten what she was after. Claudia's club.

“Yo’ young blood. They fuck up yo shit already?”

He grinned. He remembered her saying that.

“Saw you talkin' to um.” He answered back to play along.

“You be real careful bout’ what you say.”

“Be real easy settin’ me up.”

She hadn't, and he knew that now.

“You a smooth talker, but you don't know shit about business. You porch customers you gonna get blow back. I imagine your connect aint gon be to happy but uh, question is what you willing to do about it?”

“Who are they?”

“And why the fuck would I tell you that?”

Anger rose up in his belly. That same anger he had when he bought Cissy the house only for her to deny it, or the time Leon, Kevin and Jerome thought it was a good idea to wage a war with the Mexicans, even the same anger when Melody told him to stop, that he and his family were provoking the police, right after Jerome's heinous beating and his return from the hospital. Every time he saw Alton stumbling down the streets in a drunken stupor.

The anger rested, but even in a dream he managed to keep it from reaching his features, although his eyes pleaded for answers, the same way they had back then.

“Cause I'm askin’ you. Nicely.”

Claudia's expression eased, either from pity or the fact that he was young. He still didn't care for the reason.

“I tell you who they are. Next time I'm buying from you, you be real nice to me you feel me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Melody and Wanda. Ask around. You'll find them. Happy hunting baby.”

Something changed. Those were of course the wrong names. The dream shifted. Franklin no longer found himself in Claudia's club, but the skate rink he used to frequent. With all that had happened, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been there to enjoy himself.

The rink had always been a beautiful mess of color, with disco balls twinkling overhead and the smooth rhythm of roller skates gliding over the wooden floor with that familiar thick scent of popcorn locked onto laughter that echoed against the walls. It seemed all the black youth in South Central were on wheels every Friday night to display moves that were a mixture of practiced choreography and spontaneous improvisation. That had been the way it always was, but that was not the view he currently held.

The glassy surface of the rink, surrounded by crumbling brick walls adorned with wild vines, glistened like a diamond among ruins now mostly shattered. Beneath the cracked roof, reflections danced under flickering lights. The outer parts of the rink were dark. Franklin thought about the blacked out faces of Lenny and RayRay. How similar that same bleakness appeared. A memory but not a memory. Almost like a future thing. The silence had to be the worst of it. No longer did the music bump against the walls as a tantalizing enchantress. In fact, what he heard now was Leon's voice in a terrifying repetition.

‘Keep Wanda out the cook house.’

The phrase could become its own shadow. Pretty soon it took shape and the Wanda that was flesh and blood skated past him with wild hair and big eyes, a small clear pipe edged between her two large and cracked lips that bled some. The hairs on the back of his neck stood. If he’d seen Wanda, then he was sure he would see…

“Killed my daddy.”

It was Melody’s voice that came out next. He searched for her through the darkness, and no sooner did she walk from it, the same wild hair as Wanda right along with the big eyes, and dry cracking lips greeted him.

Only on Melody, were the eyes angry.

“How you feel now Franklin. I killed you.”

“No you didn’t. I'm not dead Mel.”

A smirk emerged to expose her yellow teeth. “You sure about that. I shot you three good times just to make sure.”

Someone else came from the darkness. Dried blood caked at the side of the man's face, one eye rolled back but the other neared toward franklin. The man walked to stand beside Melody.

“Aundre,” Franklin breathed out.

“Here sweetheart. Let me show you how it's done.”

Aundre, or the one dead, raised his hand. A pistol in it. One that Franklin couldn’t figure out how and where it had gotten into the former officer’s possession, but nonetheless aimed in his direction. His nostrils flared.

“Stop acting like this shit is my fault. I gave you an out. You should have taken it!” He yelled this, his voice strong, filled with defiance. The words hung, heavy with their meaning.

“How ya’ feeling, Saint?”

Yet another voice called behind. Startled, Franklin turned to find a familiar face rushing to catch up to the present. A frantic reminder of the urgency of the moment.

“Kev,” he replied, heart racing. He suddenly felt the weight of his decisions standing in the form of his dead friend.

“Miss you man. Seems like it's been a long time since we last talked,” Kevin said, his expression both serious and empathetic. “I thought you were gonna join me? What happened? You get cold feet or something? Lotta company over on this side.”

Franklin swallowed hard. “Nah man. I don't. I didn't wanna die.”

Kevin sighed. “Yeah. I get that Saint. I do. Because Neither did I.”

Anguish surged through him. “So what. You gonna haunt my dreams forever now? Don't put all this on me. You were gonna get us all killed Kev. You wanted to start a whole war, and for what, ego, pride and all that shit. Nah, I couldn't let that happen!” He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, the anger pouring out of his mouth, a culmination of all the confusion and guilt feeling inside. Franklin stepped away, retreating deeper into the darkness.

“Okay Saint. What you say we call a truce. You come with us. Make things even,” Kevin countered gently.

Those words washed over. For a moment, silence enveloped. The world moved forward as he stood frozen, faced with the harsh reality of his future. Time slowed as Franklin considered his choices, the weight of his past pressing firmly upon him. He had a chance to rebuild his life, but it felt like stepping into the abyss. With every moment he spent in limbo, he was losing himself even more.

“I didn’t want to die,” he whispered, the realization dawning on him. “Not then, not now. Besides, I can't leave it the way it is. I need to wake up. Go back. Make shit right.”

With a deep, fortifying breath, Franklin squared his shoulders. For the first time, it felt less like a surrender and more like a declaration. He turned from the three of them and began to run, his feet pounding against hard iron. Cold seeped through the thin blue shirt he now wore brought on by another shift in the dream, but the chill was nothing compared to the terror coursing through him. The scene had changed once again. This time it was the rusted bars of a prison cell that closed in on him. Shadows flickered at the periphery of his vision, teasing his mind, hitting at things best left unseen. Each glance over his shoulder felt like an invitation for the darkness to catch him. The bars prevented him from going left or right. The only way was forward. The path twisted and turned, wrapped by nightmares that clawed at his sanity. Memories flashed before him. Faces and voices of the people he loved, distorted and twisted. His mother’s laughter became a screech, his uncle's smile morphed into a haunting grin. They urged him to come closer, but Franklin knew better than to succumb to their lure. Instead he pushed on, driven by a primal instinct to escape whatever lurked behind him. Melody and Andre? Kevin? Or something worse.

His breath grew ragged, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. Was it just his imagination? A trick of the mind? Or something really following him? He could hear it now, a low growl, steadily gaining ground. Panic bubbled to the surface, his brain racing with the thoughts of what might be chasing him. With newfound determination, he surged, pushing himself harder than he ever thought possible. The growl transformed into a guttural roar, echoing through the air. The siren call of light faded into muffled screams, blending with the cacophony that began to assault his ears. The nightmare spun out of control. His hands were clammy, perspiration dripped from his brow, and all he could hear was that monstrous sound drawing out everything else.

At the edge of his vision, the light shifted, revealing a figure wrapped in shadows. It hunched low, its shared teeth glinting as it turned its gaze toward him. At that moment Franklin realized that what had been chasing him was none other than himself. He wanted to scream, but the sound lodged in his throat. In that instant, time slowed. The world around him melted away, and all that mattered was the desperate need to escape. Franklin summoned every ounce of strength he had left and bolted, driven by the primal urge to survive.

With each step, the floor creaked ominous beneath his feet. Or Franklin thought they had been his feet. His breath hitched when he peered downward. Limbs twisted, joints swollen and out of alignment. The grotesque sight reminded him of old horror movies, when bodies defined the laws of nature and horror lurked in every corner. He’d often enjoyed horror films. Just not his own. With newfound adrenaline, he fought against the pain, urging his body to move. But as he pushed himself down the hallway, his legs crumbled beneath his weight, snapping like brittle twigs. Each step resulted in another fracture. Panic clawed its way up his chest as he desperately crawled, dragging his broken limbs behind him. Just as he reached the next door, his resolve faltered as the sounds of gunfire filled in behind. The scene changed again and the image of a graveyard filled his view. Melody, Kevin and Aundre remained but they were not alone. There came a gathering of people, almost zombie like, matching both Wanda and Melody in appearance. Mouths hung, and arms outstretched, hungry begging to be satisfied and fed. Wanda came around again and laughed, “Give us some of that good ol roc Franklin,” she said. Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet gave way, and he found himself tumbling. The walls of earth and stone rushing past. The world above became a small dot of light until it disappeared completely.

Franklin jolted awake, heart pounding. A frantic rapid beat that wouldn’t slow. The remnants of his nightmare clung as shadows, vivid and relentless. He sat up gasping for breath. The familiar surroundings of his room blurred for a moment, suffocating.

The quiet hung like an oppressive weight and an overwhelming sense of dread crept into his bones. Could this be the plane of reality? Or just another spiral into a different part of his nightmare?

Hot. He felt very hot, although the window near his bed sat open and he lay shirtless. He reached down to touch his legs to make sure they were still both attached to his torso. They were. He breathed out, relieved.

Franklin wiped the perspiration from his forehead. A futile action, since it showed up all over. A faint indent where he’d positioned himself lingered beneath with his sweat woven into the fabric of the sheets. The hallway outside his door shadowed. The scent of antiseptic stayed heavy. He hated the smell, but the wounds needed constant cleaning to heal. Once his entire body plunged in a serving agony of soreness brought on by the three new holes in the different areas of his aching flesh once he moved, he decided to lay deadly still.

He’d been lucky. Every bullet was extracted, and none had broken. Pain, again, his saving grace while remaining his greatest of torments. He sprang free from the horrible hallucination he’d been locked into like the fingers of a clock frozen in place that catapulted forward into remission. A prison that his mind condemned him to.

The ringing in his ears subsided little by little, only to be replaced by a knocking coming from the living room.

Someone at the door.

He waited, and it continued. Cissy had left. He remembered her saying something about going out. Oh yeah, to a movie with Alton, he told himself. She’d been hesitant at first, scared to leave him, but he’d assured her of only sleep. Now, he became afraid to close his eyes.

He regarded the dresser closest to the bed. The orange-colored bottle that sat just at its edge, with the label that held his full name across it. Way past the hours of instruction, he noticed the clock. The knocks from the living room battled for his attention.

A short wave of dizziness clung when he got up. He fought through it, passed the bottle, and the cane Alton purchased for him. The object reminded him of a serpent ready to bite.

He held on to anything, leaning weight on walls long and wide. One foot at a time, he planned to put an end to the knocking.

He made it, annoyed, damn near in tears, and sweating more than in the nightmare, and pulled the door open just enough to peer out with its familiar squeak echoing in the stillness.

“Beanz…”

He hadn’t seen her since the day of Audre’s funeral. The Day Melody shot him and left him for dead. Cissy’s doing, no doubt. He remembered after waking up, for a long time, only she sat beside the hospital bed. No Jerome, Louie or Leon to visit.

The drifting in and out of consequences in her arms while she screamed, waiting for medics with the possible complications of an induced coma, had terrified her. Keeping everyone else away. Irrational behavior maybe, but he could have died that day, and death was never an easy thing to stare in the face. No nightmare would compare to the horror of the real thing.

What last thoughts did Aundre Wright have? Did he regret not taking Melody and starting a brand new life somewhere else?

Franklin damn sure remembered his last thoughts when the final bullet shot through his back.

Please. Not yet. I’m not ready. I need more time.

Eyes stayed locked until uneasiness made it uncomfortable that one of them had to say something.

“My mama wanted me to bring this. For Alton and Cissy. They home?”

Tone’s matched. Shock mingled with hesitancy and excretion. One that soothed against mental turmoil. He lowered his gaze to her grip on the red pot, nodded, and with a clench of the jaw, bit back anguish.

“Went to a movie or sumthin’. You can leave it for her. She’ll get it later.”

When she made her way inside, her passion twist sung. She wore an off the shoulder sweater paired with high-waisted acid-wash denim jeans. High tops in a bold pattern that complimented her sweater because of the speckles of teal throughout. Dramatic eyeliner, and two chunky gold bracelets on her left wrist. She smelled amazing. The perfume from the amusement park.

As he wandered to the counter, he watched Beanz. Bright yellow paint adorned the walls, a sunny kind of hue. A mismatched collection of magnets clung to the refrigerator. Franklin stepped onto the cool tile floor, a sensation grounding him in a swirl of memories. She pulled a small white envelope and laid it against the side of the pot in full view for Cissy and Alton to find upon their return, avoiding his eyes while her fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the kitchen table. A wide, round piece that had accommodated countless meals.

Part of him wanted to feel reassured. For her to stay, talk a while, catch him up. Other parts longed for freedom. For the ability to breathe without the weight of their unresolved issues pressing down.

“Thanks for letting me in.”

She finished swiftly, back in the living room, eagerly moving toward the door.

“Man. Beanz, Damnit hold up! Can we just-”

A lightning of shock rocked down his back and legs. The sudden surge made him cry out, eyes pressed tightly together as he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself.

“Oh, my God. You’re bleeding!”

The nightmares hadn’t been kind to his bandages. All the thrashing and fighting he’d been doing disturbed his injuries. Now on his knees hunched over rocking back and forth in an effort to calm the whaling that encompassed his body, he found praying might bring an end to the pain.

“You should have a crutch or a cane to walk with Franklin.”

“I do have a cane,” he gritted out. “Alton bought it for me. Don’t need it. I can walk fine.”

“Right. Tell me where and I’ll go get it.”

“Just help me back to my room B. I’ll be fine once I sit down.”

Briefly, she reminded him of his mother, Cissy.

Through Hell or High Water, they made it.

She’d noticed the cane and the prescription.

“I see this isn’t the only thing you’re not following orders about.”

She picked up the bottle, appearing to read the back instructions before a small smack of the teeth made him cautious of her disappointment.

“You need to take some of these?”

He only touched alcohol once. Weed had never been his thing. A time or two, Kevin and Leon gave him shit for it. Once they found out that his resolve would not waver, they left it alone. Pills were like those things.

“Naw.” He protested. “Don’t want um. They mess with my mind. Fuck with my dreams.”

Obviously, she disagreed. Uncomfortable with her expression, he breathed out, already exhausted by what she might say.

“Has nothing to do with your dreams. Sounds more like your conscience is accusing you, Frank.”

He narrowed his eyes. Whether a dismissal or an accusation, he remembered the time he rode with Andre. How do you sleep at night? Knowing all the things he’d done, a small chuckle left him. A little joke between himself and that conscience that she mentioned. Whether she caught on or not, he didn’t know. At the moment, it wasn’t the most important aspect of her statement. Perhaps in a small taste of revenge, Aundre called his bluff, despite the snarky rebuttal to the question that he gave so callously, Like a baby. The truth was, he had hardly had a restless sleep since.

When She held out her hand with the two green pills sitting nicely on her palm, he regarded her eyes.

“Hm.”

A slight shake of the head, he shifted his position on the bed. “No thank you,” he shot back.

She only moved her hand closer. “It’s not a request, Franklin Saint. So here. Take them.”

He sat still, this time silent, curtly before he leaned forward with a grunt, grabbed the two pills, and tossed them in his mouth. The horrible feeling of swallowing them down without water only lasted a second before they were gone.

“Now. Where’s the stuff so I can get you cleaned up?”

He made a head gesture toward the hallway.

“Bathroom.”

A well-used tote bag slung over her shoulder upon return to his room. It’s contents, crinkling with the promise of relief, but also despair. Franklin had encountered many dualities of late. He looked at the plastic, then at her.

For the most part, he closed his eyes, taking on the sensations of the cold and dry things that touched his skin. She inquired, tugged at the ends of his shirt and he helped her get it off, hating the entire process as it worsened the levels to a staggering degree. With the removal of the previous coverings, her facial expression changed.

“Franklin,” she murmured. “What kind of dreams?”

He sighed heavily as the coolness of the cleaning product ran over a raw area of the wound. “You mean the nightmares? I’ve had a lot. None ever really the same. Except the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yeah. I’d be running down the street. My block. Flames chase me. Igniting trees. When I wake up, I’m always hot. I’m running in my own personal hell.”

He noticed she had stopped working.

“Sit up a bit,” she instructed gently, helping to adjust against the pillows.

He held back the grimace through a toothy grin. When the grin left, he replaced it with a hum. Still pissed off, he thought. Maybe not outright, but the passive aggressiveness was evident. He couldn’t really blame her for keeping an emotional distance. His near death experience hadn’t rendered his memories useless. Unfortunately for her, up close, he read a person pretty well. She was desperate to ignore the tremors beneath her facade of strength. The Beanz that cleaned his wounds was not the Beanz he knew.

“Why Franklin?”

The question came unexpectedly.

“Why what?” He replied, weariness evident in his tone.

“Why did you say those things? Is that how you really feel? Nothing at all…”

“You want the truth?”

“I do. I deserve it.”

He nodded, keeping her in his view. “Then the truth is this. I was selfish.”

A pause came after, but nothing followed. It really was that simple. He couldn’t explain it away or dress it up.

“Okay. That’s fair.”

She didn’t sound satisfied with the answer, but she didn’t press him to give her any more than what he provided by the time she’d finished up and began to gather all the solid cotton.

“It was real. I did feel something Beanz. And it scared me.”

He looked in her direction.

Her pressing questions at the repass had made him angry. Almost as angry as the conversation with Reed had those couple of days after he’d shot Aundre. Neither Beanz nor the white man who’d become his cocaine supplier much by force than an exchange of respectable businessmen, spoke with a pestering temper. The conversations mirrored one another, each pulling for answers from him. The result, unfortunately, had been his detached coldness. She got all the pent up poignancy he’d been bottling up.

“You really hurt me, Franklin.”

The weight of guilt settled on his shoulders. The statement haunted him as he memorized the expression on her face. “That’s why I’m asking for your forgiveness.” He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper, reaching out as if drawn by an invisible thread of reason. His fingers brushed against hers. “Forgive me.”

He’d lost his composure at the amusement park. That, he admitted to himself. The boundaries between the older brother’s best friend and potential lover blurred with a single kiss. It wasn’t that he hadn’t meant to kiss her with her favorite song playing. He had. It came at the perfect opportunity to express feelings he’d been battling with.

The making of a moment she described when speaking about Darnell, the dance, and the dress.

The kiss in front of the Ferris wheel, their moment.

Later that night, he’d made a quick trip up to Darnell’s after picking up Peaches. Although it hadn’t been his own fist to caution any more involvement with her, Franklin was certain that Darnell had got the message loud and clear. No action on Leon’s part needed. The prior Vietnam war vet’s hand was so bruised the next day he’d wrapped up his wailing knuckles by the time the afternoon came around. Franklin guessed Darnell’s face would take at least a month to heal. But that was the point. What he loved, he protected.

“I thought you died.”

Franklin hadn’t expected her to say that, nor had he expected arms to circle around his neck to offer any warmth. It hurt briefly, the initial contact, but there was nothing that would make him break the hug she provided him.

Seconds past, his own arms wrapped over the lower part of her back. The way she hugged him might have exposed true desires all along. She’d disciplined herself while cleaning his wounds, but Franklin knew the resolve would wane, eventually. Her body trembled against his chest momentarily, and he realized she had started to cry.

The Beanz he’d been with on the Ferris wheel. The one vulnerable and open resurfaced.

“There was so much blood on the floor. On you,” she said. A note of trepidation in her voice. “I was mad. Mad at you for how you treated me. I’d made up my mind that I wouldn't talk to you. It was different when it all became the real thing. That you could, actually die on Aundre Wright’s living room floor. That I’d never get the chance to tell you I didn’t mean it. That I was sorry. That my anger got the best of me.”

He frowned, the memories flooding back in vivid detail. The gun, Mel and utter darkness.

“I didn’t know what to do. If I did enough, if I made it worse…”

He removed her arms, so they faced one another. Her eyeliner still presented well despite the circumstances. Franklin stared into brown eyes, mixed with empathy and resolve. They were at war. The real reason he pushed her away. Casualties happened in war all the time. He would never be able to live with himself, knowing he had something to do with his best friend’s little sister getting hurt, or worse. Leon wouldn’t forgive him. As long as he himself obtained such war scars, he’d never feel sorry. It all boiled down to choices. He’d chosen to shoot Kevin, and he chose to shoot Andre. He wouldn’t walk away unharmed. Just his turn, that was all.

He moved, intention clear as he leaned closer.

“You saved my life, Beanz. That was more than enough.” He told her, voice steady. “I probably would have bled out, completely alone. But because of you, I didn’t. I’m alive. And I’m thankful.”

He felt himself drawn in, and it happened with a nervous exhale from her, as he closed the distance, tension before their lips met softly, tentative and unsure, then deepening as heads moved. Was it the sting of tragedy pulling toward this need? He deliberated. Or was he hoping to provide her assurance?

They separated, but never very far, foreheads pressed against the other. Oddly, perhaps scared or cautious like children trying not to get caught doing something they shouldn’t, they both waited.

Franklin remembered how the first kiss tasted: a mixture of ice cream and funnel cake. All the makings of the night they shared together, laced with heavy conversation and comfort. The kiss this time was nothing but her, raw and unfiltered. He found that he liked this one the best.

Damn, why did temptation offer all the sweet nothings? A hesitant kiss blooming into something deeper and more passionate. He thought long and hard about it all the days of his recovery.

What if South Central hadn’t been burning from the inside?

What if Leon gave his blessing?

What if everyone walked away happy?

What if he could really have the life he wanted?

What if…

The pills started to take effect. Maybe he still wavered on the low plains of a dream. His own imagination, slipping into another sweet moment of comfort. He couldn’t make the distinction. Either way, she’d brought him back, standing as she prepared herself to leave him.

“I should probably go. Girls’ night at Tiara’s. I’m already late.”

He reached out to grab onto her wrist, firmly but not unkind. The pain flared anew with such a daring action since the medication had not dulled the aching completely, but he ignored its rage.

“Leshanda…”

He watched her stop abruptly in place and stare at him. He never used her name. Hadn’t in years.

“Do you? Do you forgive me?”

“Yes.” Her expression shifted, with some form of condolence to it. “I do. Anything you’ve done, you’ve paid for it and then some.”

With the bite of tears on the rise, those words made his gaze divert. He didn’t deserve forgiveness, but was glad at least to have hers. A grin came and went. He nodded and he let her go.

“So, uh where y’all going? Skating or sumthin?”

She shook her head and lowered it. “No uh. Just to Tiara’s. Me, Charisma, Moe Moe, and Jaz. In Fact I really should call them. Let them know I’m on my way.”

One of his eyebrows rose in earnest. “Staying in. On a Friday night?”

“Uh, huh. That’s bout’ the only place my mama let me go these days. It’s gotten real bad with the gangs and all that. Lotta shootings lately. Everybody’s on edge. With good reason I guess.”

He sighed and settled back on the cushions of his pillows inviting a quieting of their voices before she spoke.

“Franklin. I gotta ask something of you.”

He focused on her.

“Maybe that’s the most logical decision. Walking away. After what you been through. But Lee needs you.”

His gaze moved, traveling the places in his room that held the most light. A desperation swung on her words. One he didn’t like.

“I’m scared for him,” she continued. “He can be hotheaded. You know him. He’s not gonna back down. You need each other. So please, try your best to fix this. For all our sake.”

His eyes came back on hers, a flicker of resistance crossing his face right before he lifted his chin and a grin met his lips while he nodded.

“I will.”

She nodded. The place between them stretched far and before tears could hit her pretty brown eyes, he heard the urgency fill her voice.

“Kay. Yeah, phone call right, let me.” She stopped, not finishing her sentence, as something in the far corner of the bed seemed to catch her attention. “Wait, is that…”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, taking in the pink and purple fur that held a distinct shine.

“That’s my bear.” She confirmed. “The one from the…”

“Yep.”

“Ha, I kinda thought I wouldn’t see it again. You kept it?”

That film of tears surfaced in her eyes for the second time.

“Course.” A soft chuckle escaped. “Took me like three tries. No way I was leaving it behind.”

She blinked a few times and the tears never fell. “Three. Right. More like ten and some change.”

His smile grew. “You gonna do me like that?”

They both laughed and when the laughter settled, so did some of the pain.

“This got me through the healing process. I had something to hold on to.” He gave the stuffed animal a squeeze before he lifted the teddy bear in her direction. “But, it doesn't belong to me. Won this for you.”

She stretched out her hand, only to pull back slowly and rest it at her side.

“No. You keep it Franklin.”

He lowered the teddy bear back in its place on the edge of the bed.

She took a shaky breath. “Well, what are you gonna do?”

“Let these pills kick in. Probably post up in the living room. Watch cartoons. Them ol’ funny ones from the 1940s.”

“1940’s, huh?”

“Yeah. A marathon with no commercials.”

“Well. Sounds like a good night. You and some cartoons. Mind if I use the phone?”

“Course. You know where it is.”

“Thanks.”

His heart sat heavy as she turned the corner down the hall. He’d watched her the same way the day of Andre’s funeral. Pretty soon he heard her voice, faintly. He offered the empty room a bittersweet smile, preparing his mind for the walk to the living room and old cartoon marathon. From the window the stars outside blinked awake, scattered jewels across the canvas of dark sky. Beauty amidst his ache.

When she reemerged at the door frame, he sat up.

“Hope you don’t mind. But. Change of plans.” She laid her jacket over the top of the chair at his desk. “Thought you could use some company.” A little smirk grew on her. “Just so happens. I like old cartoons.” She drew up one of her fingers eagerly with a sense of playful glee. “Annnd, that stew my mama made sounds so good right now. Thought we might eat us a bowl.”

He sat still, looking and quiet, the bite rose up again and he lifted his chin. The smile that came this time filled him with gratefulness. She wasn't leaving.

“Thanks Beanz. For sticking around.”

“Don't mention it.” She smacked her hands down on her legs and made her way over to him. “Whelp. Let's get this show on the road then.”

“Alright.” He reached over to his drawer and took out one of his clean t-shirts and put it on. “Help me up so I can lean on that wall right there.”

With a roll of the eyes, she shook her head at the request. “Nun uh,” she countered, taking a step back to grab the cane. Just like the pills, she offered it. “You use this thing.”

“Man B come on. Just help me,” he ventured, eyes searching as he pushed it away.

“No. I’m serious. So here, come on.” She offered a second time.

He took a deep breath and lowered his head. “I don't wanna depend on that thing for the rest of my life. Shouldn't get used to it.”

“Look. Don’t you remember? Lee walked with a cane for a lil’ bit after he got shot. And he doesn’t walk with it now. Does he?”

He let a few seconds pass before he answered. “He doesn't.”

“Well then. Pretty soon you won’t either. It's only for a lil bit Frank. Come on. Please…”

He sighed, reached out, and took the cane. As he positioned his weight, she encouraged the process, standing close enough that he could lean in if he lost balance. He took it slowly, step by step, awkward and unsteady. A hint of a grin played on the corner of his lips as her words filled in his ears.

“You got this, easy, that’s good, one after the other, keep taking those steps forward.”

He drew in a deep breath and continued to lift the cane ahead of him. You got one job in this life Saint, he surmised. So do it, with all you have.

A/N: To my wonderful reader @vile-harlot who requested this part three of the Franklin Saint and Beanz Simmons saga! I actually really got into this one. All in all, I hope you enjoyed the read! Thanks for all the support.

PLEASE DO NOT COPY OR CLAIM ANY OF MY WRITING. -Wide Nose And Wonderful.

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