Morning
Frank wakes to sunlight streaking his face and the scent of coffee teasing his nostrils.
His surroundings are not immediately familiar and Frank sits up, groggily assembling the events of the night prior in his mind’s eye.
He becomes aware of several things at once.
Most pressing, he really needs to piss. Doesn’t have an inkling of where the bathroom is though.
Runner-up goes to his stiff neck and tweaked back. Guess it’s what he gets for falling asleep on the couch. Ugh.
And then, of course, Frank recognizes the familiar presence of the plush quilt, now gathered around his hips. It makes him smile, as he distinctly remembers leaving said quilt in the kitchen the night before.
After standing and stretching as much as he can tolerate, Frank shuffles out into the hall.
He tugs open the first door to his right – supply closet, boo!
The next door, beneath the stairs on his left, is locked (because of course it is!)
The door next to that one leads to the kitchen. Frank knows this because Bill had used it last night, but also because the smell of coffee is unmistakably stronger at the end of the hall.
Finally, he tries the door across from the kitchen. It leads to a cluttered room with bare walls and a bed in the center, stripped of its sheets and topped with boxes.
Frank takes a couple steps into the room, trying not to bang his shins.
Bingo!
To the side of the bed, and just beyond an obstacle course of boxes, he spots a doorway clearly leading to a bathroom.
Once his bladder no longer demands all processing power, Frank pays a bit more attention on the way out.
Shower chair in the corner, much too dusty to have been used recently. Photo-frames leaning against the walls, just beneath the faint outlines of where they’d once hung. Sealed cardboard boxes with no obvious labels. Even more cardboard boxes, unsealed, filled past their brims with books, and fabrics, and miscellaneous trinkets.
The room is organized chaos; everything in a place, but those places seem wrong.
Frank shivers suddenly, struck with an urgent need to leave. It feels too close to what waits for him in the husk next door – a space full of possessions, consumed by emptiness all the same.
Emptiness which threatens to consume him, too.
Frank swiftly weaves his way towards the exit, taking care not to knock anything over. The door stands slightly ajar, and he grabs it easily prior to those final couple steps.
The door shifts a touch further than anticipated and nudges a stack of boxes in its path, almost toppling Frank’s clean sweep. Luckily, his reflexes are quick. Frank catches the boxes with his arms and chest, even managing to seize the large book that attempts to slide off the top.
However, he is unable to stop the photographs that slip free, abruptly shaken from their leather-bound home.
Frank sighs, mostly in relief, since things could have been a whole hell of a lot worse. Once he’s steadied the boxes, he leans down to collect the stray photos.
The first few look like family pictures; aged and quite faded, Frank guesses they're of one (or both) of Bill's parents' families. Then, much to his delight, he finds one of Bill's baby pictures. It's the eyes that give him away; even in sepia, they're unmistakably large and inquisitive.
As he stacks the photographs atop the album, Frank spots a straggler under the door. He picks it up and studies it curiously.
The photo is of two children, boy and girl – they look six, maybe seven? (It’s always hard to tell with kids.)
Given their similar features, Frank reckons they must be related. He’s pretty sure the boy is – has to be – Bill, but Frank doesn’t recognize the girl. A cousin?
Bill has never mentioned her. But then, there are a lot of things Bill has never mentioned about himself or his life.
Frank flips the photo around carefully. His eyes are automatically drawn to the bottom-left corner, where he finds a message scrawled in small, sharp cursive:
William and Rebecca, 7 years – July 4th, 1963
He looks it over again, front and back, puzzled.
On closer examination, they look more like siblings than cousins.
But, as far as Frank knows, Bill is an only child.
The door across the hall rattles, startling him.
Frank quickly adds the photograph to the pile and wheels around, hands pressed to his hips.
Bill is staring at Frank from the hall, his stunned expression soon shifting to one of wariness. There’s a plate of food in his left hand and a TV tray tucked under his right arm.
“G'morning.” Frank beams, momentarily forgetting his indignity as the smell of breakfast wafts up to his nose.
"Morning." Bill responds after a moment, trying (and failing) to look behind Frank without acting blatantly suspicious.
Frank steps out of the room. "Sorry if I was intruding; couldn't remember where to find the guest bathroom." He chuckles and adds, "Been a while, ya know?"
Bill relaxes a little, nods. Still, he seems at a loss for how to proceed.
Smiling with an edge of mischief, Frank looks down at the plate and the tray, then back up at Bill.
“Oh, have some breakfast for ya,” Bill furrows his brow, “i-if you’re hungry and have time, that is.”
And Frank really does find it charming, the way Bill announces things already implied; eliminates the guesswork. Frank never considered how much of his life consists of guesswork until he’s met with dazzling directness.
“Thank you,” He laughs a bit, because what a luxury it is to wake up to breakfast, “I’m really hungry.” His stomach rumbles painfully, begging for something more substantial than the snack foods, and protein shakes, and coffee he’s been surviving on for the last week. May have just been coffee (and tea) for the last couple of days, actually.
Bill returns to the kitchen to grab a few more things, while Frank settles back on the couch. The breakfast platter before him consists of a beautiful display of Eggs Benedict, plated with halved roma tomatoes and a gracious helping of roasted potatoes.
Unable to help himself, Frank snags a piece of potato and pops it in his mouth, relishing in the rich taste of garlic and rosemary. He quickly folds his hands in his lap to keep from devouring the whole plate at once.
When Bill reemerges, he has a second plate and a TV tray for himself, as well as a mug of coffee, which he sets on Frank’s tray.
“Silverware.” Bill murmurs (probably to himself,) and he leaves the room again.
Perhaps he should feel a bit guilty, with all the trouble Bill’s gone through for him between last night and this morning. But, more than anything else, Frank just feels smitten.
No one’s cooked for him in ages, much less brought him what’s essentially breakfast in bed.
And to think, they hadn’t even fucked last night.
A thrill thrums in his chest, a special brand that only shows up when Frank imagines (or attempts) something he knows he shouldn’t. He bites his lip and starts smoothing out the quilt hanging over the arm of the couch.
Slow. Down.
As Bill reenters the room, Frank scoots left to make space on the couch. For a second, he wonders if Bill’s going to set up his tray at the piano bench instead, the way he’s lingering there. But then, Bill hands Frank the silverware and sits down beside him.
Frank eagerly cuts into the open-faced English muffin and slides that first piece through the resulting gush of egg yolk. He takes extra care not to spill on himself as he takes a bite – the silverware hadn’t included napkins, and Bill certainly doesn’t need another excuse to go back to the kitchen.
“Holy shit!”
Flavorful and creamy, the food’s taste absolutely lives up to its presentation; no, surpasses it.
“ Please tell me your became a chef because, what the fuck ?!”
Bill hasn’t started eating yet. He looks at Frank bashfully. “Nah. Just a private contractor.”
“You need t’ make a career change! Seriously Bill, you’d run that Coyote joint right outta business!”
“Mm, pretty sure yer just hungry.”
“Oh yeah? I was hungry there too. Food was fine; still didn’t eat a damn thing. But this–” Frank gestures to the glorious spread before him. Bill’s looking down at his plate now, cheeks properly red.
Pleased, both by the meal and by Bill’s reactivity, Frank reaches for the mug of coffee next.
Except, it isn’t just coffee.
He takes a sip.
His eyes widen with delight.
“You even steamed the milk!”
Bill side-eyes Frank cautiously, “I know I don’t seem like the type.”
Frank looks at Bill for a moment, intrigued but sincere, "No, you do."
Bill averts his eyes and Frank sees him physically gulp as he starts cutting up his food.
Frankie, you still got it!
Stifling a smirk, Frank turns his attention back to his own meal. His next bites aren't quite as graceful as that first one, but he can't help but indulge.
Bill finally starts eating too. He's blatantly distracted though and ends up with a notable amount of food in his beard.
Bill huffs softly and fishes a hand into his pocket, pulling out a pair of stashed cloth napkins. He quickly dabs his face with one and offers the second napkin to Frank, who takes it gratefully.
"Oh, missed a spot," Frank grazes a thumb over his own face, indicating where a bit of yolk still clings to Bill's beard. Bill blinks, perpetually blushing, and raises the napkin to his mouth again.
His attempts to eliminate the straggler are fruitless.
"Here," Frank holds up his still unused napkin and leans over, lingering just short of Bill's jaw, "it's a stubborn one."
Bill eyes him with that same wariness as before. However, when given the chance, he doesn't pull away either.
Tentative, Frank presses the napkin to Bill's beard and thumbs the remaining yolk away.
Bill looks up and off to the side. Even without skin-to-skin contact, Frank can feel him trembling – a fact he finds absolutely irresistible.
"There we go." Smiling, Frank lowers the napkin. He does not, however, lean away.
Their eyes meet again and, this time, Bill holds the gaze. Even so, his eyes are wide, bubbling with something frantic and terrified.
Careful…
Frank drops the napkin in his lap and raises his hand again, hyper-aware of the way Bill's breath hitches as he cups his cheek.
They're close enough now that their noses brush. Frank slips his hand down to lift Bill's chin, encouraged by the way the other man leans into his touch.
The moment is desperate and perfect.
And then it is shattered by a knock at the door.