One More Imposition
“Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in!”
Frank has hardly taken two steps inside before Melody pokes her head out of the kitchen.
“Fitting choice of words Mel, seeing as you’re the cat doing the dragging.” He snaps back, not fully annoyed but not really playful either.
Melody shrugs, “Listen, if the mouse takes the only keys into his lil hidey-hole, the cat is gonna come a-knockin’!”
“Yeah, yeah. Won’t make that mistake twice!” Frank sidesteps his sister and heads for the stairs. He doesn't get the chance to ascend them though, not before his father can intercept him.
"Jesus, you couldn't have rang the hotel this morning?! I thought you were in some kind of trouble!" Zach pulls him into a tight hug, one that Frank doesn't have the heart to resist.
"Causin' trouble is more like it!" And here comes Steve, a ripe scowl on his face. "Your sister fuckin' robbed me, ya know!"
"Ha, yeah, and I suppose you say the same things about the slot machines in Vegas." Melody is quick on the draw, rolling her eyes in Steve's direction. "Don't play the game if you're not prepared to lose, Stevie boy!"
"Serves you right, takin' bets on my life." As Zach finally releases him, Frank turns to Steve and Melody. It's difficult to actually be angry with them, but he's not quite ready to let them off the hook.
"Hey, I was giving you the benefit of the doubt – I thought you were in here, just having a really, really good sleep!" Steve's tone is only half-joking, and Frank can tell he's sore about the money. Or maybe he just resents being wrong.
Usually, Frank would have countered with something along the lines of, ‘And how do you know I wasn’t having a really, really good sleep?’ But, in this case, it just feels like an invitation for an unwarranted conversation.
So, he settles for, “Oh, really? How kind of you to consider me while you were exploiting me.”
“Not my fault you’re so exploitable.” Steve shoots back, wrinkling his nose.
“Big fan of playful banter, truly. But can we quip and work at the same time?” At some point, Jeff had entered the hall and started collecting sealed boxes. Despite sporting his usual cheery demeanor, Frank thinks Jeff looks extra worn out.
For the first time that day, his exasperation gives way to a pang of guilt.
As he leans down to help with the boxes, Frank notes how Melody and Steve follow suit without so much as a smart comment. There's still a lot of work to do, and it isn't going to take care of itself.
By the time six o'clock rolls around, Frank is so caked in sweat and dust, he feels like he's been rolling around in dryer lint for multiple cycles. All he wants is a shower and a change of clothes, but the universe seems intent on denying him even that.
"Anyone see my suitcase?"
He's answered by a chorus of 'no's from the peanut gallery.
"Where's the last place you saw it?" Erika asks, without looking up; she's more focused on digging the dirt out from beneath her fingernails.
"The guest room? Same place it's been all week…"
Erika tilts her head towards Melody, who's sprawled out on the couch beside her. "Mel and Steve did the guest room as soon as we got in."
Upon hearing her name, Melody lifts her head and gives Frank a shrug. "I didn't see a suitcase, only a stinky bag of laundry. Cross my heart!"
Frank sighs and looks over at Steve. He's seated on the folding chair beside the couch, shoveling salt and vinegar chips into his mouth.
They make eye contact and Steve grins as convincingly as he can with his chipmunk cheeks. Then, he shakes his head and continues munching away.
"Whatever. I'll go to the damn boutique if I have to." Exacerbated, Frank goes back to the guest room to give it one last sweep.
Besides the unmade bed and his "stinky" bag of laundry, it's relatively empty now. He pokes his head under the bed, finding nothing but dust bunnies and one long-forgotten sock. He also checks the bathroom for good measure, finding it similarly empty and devoid of any semblance of its former personality.
Suddenly light-headed, be it from exhaustion or dust-inhalation, Frank sits on the edge of the tub. He’s sick of being here, especially now that he can’t even find the few personal belongings he’d brought with him. This house does not feel like the former home he’s supposed to be bidding farewell. Clearing it out has not brought closure nor catharsis. And though Frank knows things often have to get worse to get better (at least as far as healing goes,) he cannot bring himself to believe it.
His reflection stares back at him from the bathroom mirror, distorted by the murky surface. Frank hardly recognizes himself, and it’s not to be blamed on the overcoat of grime.
His frame appears more gaunt than naturally slender, and his shoulders sag like an empty burlap sack. He doesn’t even need to see his features clearly to comprehend the condemning gloom which has settled on his lips and brow.
Frank reckons he must have looked even more pitiful last n–
No.
He's not going to touch last night or this morning – won't dare soil it with his sour mood. Because this doesn't have anything to do with Bill, who's been nothing but good to him.
These feelings were bound to catch up with him – the helplessness, the anger, the fear – given how long he's shoved them down.
Frank doesn't want to let himself think about the real reason he hates being in this house. It's walls, once alive with colorful paint and bright decor, now filthy, and faded, and forgotten.
He hates how it makes him think of his mother.
Frank remembers how vibrant and beautiful she was; headstrong and loving, and fucking petty too (his father joked that she wore it like a badge of honor.)
And he remembers how illness had stripped everything away from her before the end; her energy, her agency, and finally, her consciousness, until she had gone from this world.
The same way her influence has gone from this house – once a home, now a husk.
Frank glances at his watch – thankfully he'd left it on the bedside table instead of inside his missing suitcase – 6:48pm. He sighs, looks back at the tub, and climbs to his feet.
Fuck it. What's one more imposition?
-
Bill steps out of the shower, towel drying each foot before making contact with the bath mat.
Once he's dry enough not to leave a puddle, he wraps a towel around his waist and moseys over to the sink for his usual post-shower rituals.
Bill brushes his teeth with a mixture of coconut oil and baking soda, following up with a warm sea salt gargle. Then, he fluffs his beard with a brush and makes sure to get rid of any residual powder and oil stuck around his mouth. He combs back his damp hair, tight and out of his face. And finally, he pats on some homemade deodorant, composed of baking soda, coconut oil, corn starch, and subtly scented with clove and bergamot.
For the first time since entering the bathroom, Bill really looks at himself in the mirror. He's never been one to fuss over his appearance, not even when he was younger, but at this moment, he feels incredibly self-conscious.
Should he trim his beard? Should he just shave completely? Should he do something different with his hair? Does any of this even matter?!
No.
It doesn’t matter.
Because Frank had kissed him already, in the morning, when his breath was bitter with coffee, and his lips were sticky with the remnants of hollandaise sauce. Frank hadn’t cared about his frizzy beard or how he’d parted his hair, or any of that shit.
Bill knows it doesn’t matter, but he agonizes all the same.
Huffing softly, Bill wipes his already-sweaty palms off on the towel. He's been a bundle of nerves all day, and it's no wonder why – the anticipation that comes with expecting company is still very new to him. It isn't a particularly pleasant feeling either, no matter how fond he is of Frank.
How strange it is, to feel genuine fondness towards someone. Fucking frightening too, since he now has to worry about how that someone feels about him.
Meer hours separate him from that moment – the moment that changed everything – yet it already seems like a hazy dream. Bill can't stop thinking about it, can't stop thinking about him.
Silly as it is, Bill wonders if Frank is thinking about him too.
Of course, he doesn't need to wonder for very long. A few minutes after Bill has changed into a fresh set of clothes, just as he steps into the hall, he hears a familiar knocking downstairs.
And, for the second time that day, Bill answers the door without checking his cameras.
-
Frank is genuinely surprised when the door opens after his first knock, but he certainly isn’t complaining. He can tell by the way Bill’s hair lays – slicked straight back with a few rebellious strays falling in front of his ears – that he’d caught him right out of the shower. This fact alone is enough to make Frank grin in impish delight.
If he didn’t feel like a mothball personified, Frank may have continued his impulsive streak here and now. But alas, he’s in desperate need of a shower himself. And it would be a fucking crime to squander Bill’s efforts with his grubby, lecherous hands.
“Hey there, neighbor!” Frank greets with an air of playfulness.
Like clockwork, Bill’s cheeks flush a deep crimson. “Hey.” His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, shoulders slightly hunched beneath a crisp hickory button-up – not quite closed off, but still cautious. Always cautious.
“I know I’ve probably surpassed my hospitality quota, but can I trouble ya for one more favor?”
“Sure.” Bill surprises him again with how quickly he agrees, and without hearing what the favor entails. (Although, it’s probably obvious.) Then, he steps back and beckons Frank inside with a small nod.