Old Times' Sake
Bill doesn’t answer the door on the first knock.
Frank gives it a few minutes, then knocks again, a bit more erratically than intended.
Without the warmth of the sun, the evening air has quickly become cold and icy. He allows himself one last knock (third times the charm, right?) and then steps back, shivering against the biting wind.
Frank folds his arms across his chest, tucking his numb fingers into his armpits.
Absent-mindedly, he wonders if he'll be able to get any sleep in the rental car's backseat.
–
Bill watches Frank approach on his security feed long before he hears the barrage of knocks at his door. He can practically identify the man solely from the direction he approaches (and by his silhouette, but that's not something Bill will ever admit.)
At the first knock, Bill considers waiting him out. It's cold outside and, even on the small black-and-white screen, it’s apparent that Frank is only wearing a thin dress shirt.
After the second knock, Bill wonders how long Frank’s going to wait there. Maybe he's here about something important? What if stalling is a mistake?
And by knock three, Bill is already on his way up and out of the bunker.
–
Quaking quite visibly now in the cold, Frank decides to call it quits. It was kind of a longshot anyway; he can’t just expect Bill to be available when he needs him at his whim. Still, the disappointment sits heavy on his chest.
–
As quick as he’d been to approach the door, Bill hesitates to actually open it, his hand hovering over the knob. It’s in these unforeseen moments that anxiety grips him in a chokehold.
He thinks of the funeral, of Frank’s face when he'd approached, of the shared embrace…
And he just can’t be kidding himself, can he? That Frank looked happy to see him, even said he’d missed him… why would he be here now if not?
Bill huffs a sigh out his nose and places his hand on the doorknob.
–
Frank has just turned around to leave when he hears the front door open behind him. His breath hitches in his throat and, for a second, he closes his eyes in silent gratitude.
When he turns back to see Bill standing in the doorway, illuminated dimly by the warm entryway light, Frank has an overwhelming urge to hug him again.
He doesn't, though.
–
“O-Oh, hey! S-Sorry to bother ya…”
Bill can only make out the ghost of Frank’s features in the soft light that spills through the doorway.
“I uh, I realized we ne-never set a t-time ‘r place for tomorrow. Made s-sense t’ ask…”
And Bill isn’t sure if it’s the way the shadows fall across his face, or the tremor in his voice (or maybe it’s just his very own apprehension,) but he thinks there’s something different in Frank now – a terrible restlessness that Bill can’t quite place.
"Come inside." Bill says it quietly; too quietly, but he means it.
Frank looks at him inquisitively, "Huh?"
Goddammit, open your mouth when you talk, Bill!
Because Frank is shaking like a goddamned leaf in the wind - the same wind that Bill can feel now, biting at his own nose and cheeks.
He clears his throat awkwardly and tries again, "Uh, we can talk inside."
It’s only once Bill has closed the door and turns to face Frank – now huddled close to him in the compact entryway – that he wonders if he’s really ready for this kind of commitment.
The commitment of letting another person into his home, of opening himself up to their scrutiny – something he is and has been actively avoiding for practically his entire life.
"Th-Thanks," Frank offers a sheepish smile, rubbing his arms stiffly, “‘s a lot better ‘n here."
Even chilled and likely bone-tired, Frank sounds so earnest.
As Bill wheels around and heads in the direction of the dining room, he thinks that, regardless of his own level of preparedness, perhaps Frank is worth the risk.
–
Frank hums in contentment, leaning in closer to the fireplace. He’s sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, draped in a puffy, hand-crafted quilt. After a few flourishing moments, Frank finds that he’s a tad too warm, and what a delightful problem it is to have!
Bundling the quilt up around his shoulders, Frank finds the nearest chair and straddles it, so that his chest is against the backrest. From his new perch, he can easily see the rest of the kitchen, previously obscured by the island counter.
Bill has his back to the island, shoulders hunched. The room is quiet apart from the crackle of the fire and clink of a metal spoon against a tin container.
From the stovetop, the kettle releases a sharp, resounding whistle.
Bill flinches, accidentally flicking his carefully-packed spoon of tea leaves all over. Frank titters softly, as the sudden shrill screech had startled him a bit too.
As Bill silences the kettle, Frank hears him murmur a quick fuck! under his breath.
And – oh no – he probably thinks Frank was laughing at him, because Bill turns around now, red-faced and flustered.
Fighting the adolescent urge to tug the quilt over his head, Frank smiles instead, affable and apologetic. “That scared the crap outta me! I forgot, you have one of those kettles that bypasses whistling and goes straight to screaming.”
“...Yeah, guess so.” Before Bill turns away (no doubt to address the scattered tea leaves,) Frank catches the way his expression softens into dewy-eyed relief.
–
When he turns around to find Frank sweeping the tea leaves from the floor, Bill almost jumps out of his skin a second time.
Though Bill recognizes his own broom and dustpan, he still instinctively checks the bare spot on the wall where it usually hangs. Sure, it isn’t exactly hidden… But how Frank had managed to snag the broom, and get across the room so quickly and silently that he had not even noticed; that might keep Bill up tonight.
He certainly has his reservations about letting Frank join him in the kitchen – as in, it was never part of the plan (not that any of this day is going as planned, to be fair.)
Bill was actually going to light the fireplace in the dining room. However, when he'd gone into the kitchen to set that goddamned, blasted kettle, Frank followed him.
And can Bill really blame him?
It's not like he's said anything else since inviting Frank in.
What was he even supposed to say?
Oh, sorry, I need you to stay in the other room; kinda in the middle of freaking the fuck out right now!
Part of him knows that he couldn't have banished Frank from the kitchen anyway, even if he had found the words…
Not when Frank is watching Bill with those irresistibly hopeful eyes and his perpetually kind smile.
So, Bill had simply added kindling to the kitchen fireplace and grabbed the quilt out of the room across the hall.
He cannot match Frank's energy with words, nor can he express such intense sentiment in his own features. He can't even really offer good company...
But the safety of shelter, the heat of a fire – these are things Bill can offer.
Secretly, he hopes these physical comforts will give Frank even a fraction of the warmth that Bill feels while in his presence.
–
“Mmm…”
The tea tastes of mostly lavender, but Frank notes some hints of chamomile as well. He basks in the steam as it drifts up from the cup, his lips curling into a tiny, satisfied smile.
"Thank you, this is amazing." He means it.
Bill nods, shrugs a bit. He’s sitting across from Frank at the small, round table.
Frank can’t remember the last time he'd felt so…okay?
Tonight feels like the closest he's had to normal in months (maybe years, if he’s honest.)
Even with his family, there is a lurking undercurrent of disenchantment; a heaviness to having one less seat at an otherwise-full table.
Here, in Bill’s time-capsule of a house, it feels different – familiar enough to keep him grounded in reality, but not so close that the accompanying pain feels unbearable.
There is kinship too. He doesn’t need to ask Bill about his mother; Frank can tell by the deafening stillness and faint smell of dust in the air that he’s probably lived alone for years now.
The two of them sit in silence, free of the customary obligation to fill the room with unnecessary chatter. It is nice to feel like he fits in a space for a little while, in contrast to trying exhaustively to compensate for the void in his own life.
Sipping his tea with intentional slowness, Frank glances at the clock on the opposite wall.
9:40pm
He’s acutely aware that, at some point tonight, he’ll need to leave; he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome. But just the thought of returning to the shell of his own childhood home makes Frank’s stomach churn.
Frank wonders then, if he asks to stay, would Bill oblige out of politeness? Or worse, pity?
No. Frank doesn't think so.
Maybe he should just be honest about it.
He looks over at Bill, who's staring into his cup as if reading tea leaves. Frank takes another small sip, opting to savor the comforting silence for just a little longer.
–
“Well, I’d better get going.”
It's past midnight by the time Frank stands to leave. Despite the hour (and the fact that he has things to do at 6am,) Bill doesn’t pressure him to go. He doesn’t really want Frank to go, but he doesn’t have a good reason to ask him to stay either.
So, Bill nods. And then – definitely a beat too late – he rises to follow Frank out of the kitchen.
Bill absolutely hates it; the way he can’t decide if he feels relief (that he didn’t have to ask Frank to leave) or dread (that Frank is leaving just the same,) or something else entirely.
Bill finds his emotions to be absurd. They overwhelm him so much, he can't even really feel them, and doesn't that defeat the purpose of having fucking emotions? Most of the time, he's just left drained, confused, and vaguely disgruntled.
And he wonders how he can possibly have so many feelings for someone he hasn't spoken to since –
Bill stops abruptly.
Just inches away, Frank stands motionless in front of the stairs. His back is to Bill, and he's staring ahead into the living room. Bill doesn't have to see Frank’s eyes to know he's looking at the piano.
That piano is the first real gift Bill ever bought for himself – a replacement for his mother's ancient grand, which had always been too large for the room. When she died, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of her music books, even though he knew he would never play them again. But Bill was glad to part with the piano, with its scratched-up wood and clunky keys.
"Do you still play?"
Bill is surprised by Frank's question, even though he knows shouldn't be.
"Yeah – Yes. Sometimes."
But Bill is even more surprised by his own answer, which bumbles out of his mouth on its own accord.
Frank turns enough to beam at him, then makes for the piano with a sudden burst of energy. Bill follows to the doorway, watching in a daze as Frank leans over to run his fingers softly over the keys.
Again, Frank turns to look at him, eyes wide and excited. Bill feels his face grow hot, and he tries extra hard to keep a neutral expression.
"Will you play something for me?" Despite his forward request, Frank seems almost bashful now. "Ya know, for old times' sake?"
Bill blinks. "Uh…l-like what?"
"Dealer’s choice!"
Of course, Bill's mind is absolutely blank. He's spent years practicing and memorizing his favorite music. And yet, a lifetime of information flees from his grasp the instant someone else shows interest.
What the fuck is going on with him?
Bill should say he's too tired. Frank will understand – after all, it's almost one in the morning now.
But he doesn't say that he's too tired, and he doesn't admit that he can't think of anything to play either.
Instead, he approaches the piano slowly.
Frank steps aside and Bill sits at the bench, staring dumbly at the keys.
He takes a breath and wipes his clammy palms against his shirt.
–
“You…wanna sit?”
Frank tilts his head, “Oh. Yeah, I can sit.”
“Uh, just thought the couch might be more comfortable…” Bill answers without looking up, fanning his fingers over the piano keys. And it makes Frank smile, the way his shoulders seem to stay magnetized to his ears. Bill really hasn’t changed, has he?
–
Bill’s nerves settle slightly as he listens to Frank pad towards the couch, his lagging mind finally catching-up with his muscle memory. He plays the opening chords now, which means he’s committed.
Bill only hopes he isn’t too rusty for his own song choice.
–
As Frank sits, the couch groans softly, and he feels his body groan right along with it.
Back in the kitchen – warmed by the kindling and rekindling of flames – the day’s events hadn’t quite caught up to him yet. But now, Frank sags under exhaustion’s sudden, crushing weight.
The sound of the piano swells, pleasant and playful, and notably familiar. He can’t quite recall where he’s heard it before…
Frank’s head dips and he jolts upright, startled out of blissful sleep.
He draws in a sharp breath and settles back into the couch. Resting his cheek in his hand, Frank quickly becomes enthralled in the music again.
The tune is jaunty and carefree – feigned simplicity floating atop an intricate undercurrent. Bill is not singing, but whispers of lyrics echo from somewhere in Frank’s mind.
…I know
The blues they…
…Won't defeat me…
…won't be long
'Till happiness
Steps up to greet me
Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head
Frank smiles as he identifies the song at last, chest brimming with tender affection. He closes his eyes.
Again, the sensation of falling wakes him abruptly.
And that’s it, screw politeness and orthodoxy then! He’s already here, not even twenty-four-hours after laying his mother to rest, indulging in a one am piano serenade he’d requested from someone he hasn’t properly spoken to in thirty years. They are well beyond conventional already.
But then, isn’t this exactly what Frank has always liked about Bill – he’s not one for platitudes.
Frank kicks his shoes off and draws his feet up, shifting so as to lean his head against the armrest. Already gripped by thick tendrils of fatigue, he succumbs quickly, allowing the melodic stream to carry him somewhere far away…
…I'm free
Nothing's worrying me