Fic: Everyone Comes To Pan's Part Two
Everyone Comes To Pan’s
Part Two
Gerard, that was his name, but everyone called him Gee. He was the head waiter, and sometimes he played Santa for charity, and everyone loved him. These were the things Frank found out as deftly as he could the next morning when he began work.
He was Brandon's mentor, kind of, or so Brandon kept saying while looking all starry eyed. Frank figured maybe Gerard had that effect on everyone.
Frank cringed. Just thinking of the way his body had been pressed to Gerard’s made his cheeks get hot. It was about the most action Frank had seen in a year, maybe longer, and it was never to be repeated. Because Frank was never going to talk to or look at Gerard again, if he could possibly help it.
He honestly thought he’d lost the job before he’d even started, which would have been a record, even for him. But Brandon seemed to think it was the best thing he’d ever seen in his life, and even Ray, who was kind of an intimidating hard ass, had been laughing as he swept up some of the broken china.
No one had seemed pissed at him at all. Even Gerard, whom Frank had accidentally dry humped practically -sweet withering Christ - had waved off his apology with a flick of his slender wrist and a bat of his insanely long eyelashes.
Frank was kind of fucked.
“Seriously Brandon, I want to pay for the breakages,” Frank said, standing in the storeroom with his hands on his hips as Brandon searched through boxes.
“Okay, you can like...” Brandon stood up and looked around the storeroom, before running a dusty hand through his hair and grinning at Frank. “I’ll tell you what. You can straighten this place up, and we’ll call it even. Actually, the storeroom can officially be your domain, or whatever.” He gave Frank a level look. “It’s a pretty full on job keeping this place in order. We haven’t had someone who could do it for a year and a day, at least. Think you’re up to it? “
Frank stood back and surveyed the state of the storeroom. The shelves were all crammed with spices and jars and cans in no particular order. Boxes of every size were stacked precariously all the way to the roof, and more lay up-ended or spilling their contents over the floor. There were piles everywhere, stacks of paper and, well, crap, basically, on every surface. Frank’s hands itched.
He grinned. “Thanks, man,” he said. Brandon dived back into the boxes.
He emerged a few minutes later waving some kind of golden flag. “Okay! Here it is!” He handed the flag to Frank. “This one is for you.”
“Um,” said Frank, holding up the flashy scrap of fabric as Brandon handed it to him. “A golden, um, thing? For dishwashing duty?”
“Yep,” Brandon smacked his hands together, dusting them off. “Pan said he didn’t want people doing the more mundane jobs to get blue, and lamé always cheers him up so...” Brandon waved a hand up and down.
“Ri-ight,” said Frank, slipping the neck band over his head. He looked up at Brandon. “And the ostrich feather accented elbow length washing up gloves are for...?"
Brandon turned away and shrugged. "Just coz."
Frank shook his head. Okay.
When he’d arrived that morning Brandon had gleefully informed him that, despite Ray’s insistence he start in prep, Frank should really learn all the jobs, starting at the bottom, so they were putting him on dish duty.
Ray didn’t start until three and maybe Frank could get on the prep table after that. But until then, suds up.
Frank didn’t mind. He was just happy to be working. And now he had a domain too. A thing that was just his to do. And looking round the room, he could see how much they needed him.
"So, when do I get to meet this guy?” Frank asked, snapping on the long washing up gloves.
“Who?” Brandon said, turning back to Frank and tugging on a crease in the lamé apron and smoothing it out.
“Pan,” Frank said. He reached behind himself to tie the apron on.
“Oh, you know. He’ll be around. Eventually.”
Frank was getting a picture of the guy, kind of frivolous, and maybe a little neglectful. Maybe the café was more of a vanity thing than a real passion. Maybe he just liked seeing his name up in glittery sequins when he brought his buddies over to show off. Frank had worked in places like that before. Kind of made things easier, the boss not being around much.
“Okay, so, how do I look?” Frank held his arms out. Brendon stood back and looked Frank over. He lifted a finger and twirled it. Frank rolled his eyes, but spun on his heel anyway.
“Fabbo!” Brandon said, clapping. “Now, lets go scrub some pots!”
*
If it wasn’t Keenan’s booming voice demanding a clean saucier within the next ten seconds, it was Brandon asking him to taste some bouillabaisse he thought might be too fishy (it was chili sauce), or Zach trying to send him out from some fallopian tubes (“You know? For icing?”) . Clearly, some of the guys in the kitchen felt Frank had come down in the last shower. But man, the work was good. He hardly noticed the time ticking by until an angular looking guy with faintly fogged up glasses sidled up to him and said, “Brandon said I should tell you to take you break with me.”
“Um, okay?” Frank said, pulled his hands out of the water, and stripping off the gloves.
“So, you should take you break now,” the guy said, pushing his misted up glasses up his nose. “Like, with me.”
“Well, who am I to turn down and invitation like that?” Frank said, and followed the guy into the café.
They found a spot in one of the alcove tables, tucked as far away from the customers - man, was this place ever quiet? - as they could get.
“Hey,” Frank said sliding into the booth opposite the guy.
“Hey,” said the guy, and he reached over and plucked up a menu, opening it in front of his face.
Right, thought Frank. He hadn’t seen the guy in the kitchens, and if Brandon was telling him what to do he was probably a waiter, so, like, he probably knew the menu by heart. And yet he was still staring at it like he needed a place to look. Frank felt a little awkward.
“So, you been working here long?” Frank tried.
“Mmhmm,” the guy said.
“It’s pretty great,” Frank sallied forth again.
The guy shrugged and turned the page.
Frank set his jaw. “I just jacked off in the storeroom,” he said lightly. “Later I’d like to shave Ray’s hair off and make it into soup.” ‘Bitches get slapped’ was one of Frank’s personal life mottos. Bob had taught him it.
“No, you didn’t,” Angular Guy said, looking up and narrowing his eyes at Frank. “And no, you don’t.” he sat forward in the seat and pinned Frank with a stare. “Do you know who I am?”
Shit. Frank swallowed. “Please tell me you’re not Pan.”
The angular guy blinked, the merest hint of a frown creasing his brow. He sat back in his seat.
Frank went cold and hot all at once. God, he just told his boss he’d jacked off in the storeroom and wanted to shave his head chef. Way to go, jerkwad!
“I’m not Pan,” the guy said with a deep sigh, pushing the tips of his fingers up under his glasses and into his eyes. “I just thought...”
Frank blew out a breath. “Well, you know I’m fucking new, right?” he said, poking at the menu on the table between them. “How the fuck should I know who you are?”
Angular Guy shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to be a tool. I just thought -” He stopped and looked Frank in the eye for a couple of seconds longer than was comfortable. Frank looked away.
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Never mind.” He took a deep breath. “Let's start over, okay? I’m - I’m Mikey, I’m a waiter here.”
“And my brother,” a voice chimed from next to their table.
Frank cringed. Gerard. God, Frank hadn’t been near him since yesterday’s catastrophe, except for a few times when he’d dropped dishes at Frank’s station, but Frank had hidden among the bubbles and pretended not see him.
Mikey rolled his eyes. “Hey Gee.”
“Hey Mikey,” Gerard said, although his eyes were on Frank, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lunch?”
"The usual please," Mikey said, popping the menu back in the holder.
"And what would our resident acrobat like?" Gerard, said, raising an eyebrow at Frank. Frank’s mouth went quite dry.
Mikey kissed his teeth. "Can't you tell?" He asked.
Gerard turned to Mikey and gave him a tight smile. Frank git the feeling there was an old conversation going on and he’d just blundered into the middle of it. Maybe they were in the middle of some kind of sibling fight? Siblings did that, right? Frank had no idea.
He looked between the brothers, he could see a kind of resemblance, but Gerard was round where Mikey was all flat planes. Although they had the same gold flecked eyes and aquiline nose. Their lips matched too, and Frank really should not be staring at the guy’s lips, for the love of God.
"It's like his thing," Mikey said, still playing ‘who’ll blink first?’ with Gerard. "He can tell what you want before you even know you want it."
"Right," Frank laughed.
Gerard shook back his shaggy red hair and took a deep breath. “Veggie cheese burger and fries.” Gerard said narrowing his eyes at Frank. He smirked and turned to go.
“I kind of wanted the pasta,” Frank said before Gerard could get too far away.
Gerard turned back and tilted his head. “No, you don’t.”
Frank raised his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure I do.”
Gerard’s eyes narrowed. He blinked. “It’s your lunch hour,” he said with a graceful flick of his hand. “Feel free to screw it up however you want.”
“Thanks,” Frank called. Asshole. He actually kind of did want a burger and fries now that Gerard had mentioned it. But he’d be damned if some, some part-time Santa was gonna tell him what to eat. Fuck that noise. He rolled his shoulders. God, he felt so tense all of sudden. Like he was on the verge of screwing up. But he’d had the best morning of his working life. Nothing could possibly go wrong now.
Mikey tapped him on the back of the hand. “So,” he said. “You know the lamé apron is a joke, right? Ditto the feather gloves. The real aprons are under the commis’ station. Anyway, I guess you’d better, like, tell me about yourself. Or whatever.”
Oh Jesus, thought Frank. Lunch was going to be painful.
*
“Your uniform is gold lamé? And you’re in love with some guy called Gerard?” Bob said, one eye on the TV screen and the other on the cardboard carton on noodles in his lap. He scooped up a mouth full and stuffed them in his mouth.
Frank sputtered out his rice and beans. “In love with... where the hell did you get that from?”
Bob put down his fork and squinted at Frank. To celebrate his first day at his new job, and not just the freak who lived in Bob’s basement (“You’ll always be a freak,” Bob had said, so Frank had climbed him until he relented), Frank had bought dinner.
Now they were sitting in the lounge eating it and playing Call of Duty while Frank tried explaining to Bob what Pan’s was like. Nothing he said did it justice though and he’d kind of given up after his fifth attempt at describing it more eloquently than “fucking awesome!”
Bob had asked him a few questions, and somehow he’d come up with L-O-V-E for Frank and Gerard. Like, What the actual fuck?
Frank put his empty carton on the coffee table and Peppers immediately leaped up into his arms.
Treat?
Frank picked out a little red bean an held it out for her. She licked it and sneezed. Frank rubbed behind her ears.
“I dunno,” Bob said, scratching his beard and then his tummy. “Just you’ve mentioned him thirty one times this evening.” He shrugged. “I made an assumption based on the statistical evidence.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “He’s just this guy, you know.”
Bob arched an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, holding out a finger to Peppers and letting her lick it. “I know.”
He stood up and started collecting the cartons and stacking them back in their plastic carried bag. Frank fought for a couple of seconds, trying to stay sitting down, before putting Peppers on the floor and jumping up to push Bob away from the coffee table. “I’ll do it!” he said, a little forcefully.
“Dude,” Bob said. “You payed for it. I should - ”
Frank had already cleared all the cartons and tied the bag up. “You hate washing dishes. It’s cool. Let me. I like it.”
Bob held up his hands and backed off. “Whatever you say, Frankie.”
God, that look on Bob’s face said it all. Frank really was a freak. A washing, cleaning and tidying freak. He took the trash into the kitchen, scooped Peppers up in his arms and scurried down to the basement. What the hell was wrong with him?
*
The next day, it turned out that Ray was deadly serious about Frank never washing dishes again. Within minutes of Frank arriving Ray’d set him up at the prep table with Adam and Zach and told him not to leave it until he could chop a carrot forty different ways and knew exactly how to skin an eggplant blindfolded. He’d threatened Zach with death by mouli if he so much as suggested Frank wash dishes ever again.
Over the course of the day Zach kept trying to get Frank to stuff chili seeds down the sous chef’s shirt neck, or swap Ray’s baking powder for corn flour. But Frank was way too careful with his job to go pulling stunts like that already. Although, no one seemed to give a shit when Brandon wrote swear words on the plates in gravy, or when Adam replaced the soaked gelatin for the aspic with plain old boiled water. Even Ray had laughed when the commis chef up-turned a mould of beef flavoured water on himself half an hour later.
Frank had to admit, watching the Phillips boys prank on every single person in the kitchen was pretty hilarious. He hoped he’d feel relaxed enough to pull stunts like that one day.
Mikey came and fetched him for lunch again, and this time they talked about books and bands and the people they worked with.
It turned out that Mikey was actually a pretty alright guy, with excellent taste in music and a dry, dour kind of wit that had Frank in stitches a couple of times over lunch - “Some chefs end up looking exactly like the food. Look at the patissiere. Have you ever seen a man look more like a croissant in your life? Neither have I.”
He had more that a few stories about the clandestine romances going on in the kitchen too, and was more than happy to share his insights with Frank.
According to Mikey, Keenan had a crush on Zach that defied reason. Frank looked through the kitchen doors and saw Keenan straighten Zach’s chef hat and smile at him dopily. Mikey raised an eyebrow at Frank as if to say see what I mean? and Frank giggled into his smoothie.
Ray had come into the café not long after that, waving his ladle at Brandon emphatically. Dinner prep clearly wasn’t going smoothly.
“What about Ray?” Frank had asked. “Who’s he bumping hot potatoes with?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Mikey replied, glancing at Ray. “Hey, let’s write him a secret admirer note and leaving stuck to his ladle. He’d fucking freak out.”
“Dude, that’s just mean,” Frank said with a giggle. Mean, and also, Frank was kind of in awe of Ray. If he was gonna start pranking, it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be with him and his ladle. “What’s with all the pranking anyway?” Frank asked nonchalantly. He chased a cherry around the bottom of his glass and speared it with his straw.
Mikey gave him a shrewd look. “Try it. You might like it,” he said, and stole a fry off Frank’s plate.
After lunch Frank put the gold lamé apron in a pot of consommé and asked Brandon if he would mind tasting it.
When Brandon’s ladle came up wrapped in gold fabric and dripping soup all over the place, Zach and Adam had cheered which made Frank puff up like a rooster. He’d accepted their high fives with glee. No one had ever high fived him in the kitchen before. He was pretty stoked.
*
Frank wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the store room, tidying for all he was worth, when he heard the door open.
The sound of his own name roused him from a bit of a stacking trance he’d been in and he came round the end of the boxes to see who it was. There were a couple of evening staff guys there Frank had seen, but never really talked to. He slunk back into he shadows so he could listen to what they had to say about him.
"Thank fuck they've got one of the littlies in the storeroom again,” one of them said. “It's been fucking chaos in here for months."
“Too right,” the other voice replied. There was the sound of heavy things being lifted. “Here’s to the little guys, I say!”
The sound of the storeroom door closing behind them released Frank, and he let out a long breath. Littlie? How did being short make him better at cleaning up a storeroom? If anything it made the job way harder. How the hell was he supposed to get up to the top shelves?
Frank cast around and found and step ladder against one wall. There would be a bunch of dangerous climbing in his future, that was for sure. Still, they were pleased he was here.
The storeroom door opened and Mikey stuck his head in. “Evening prep, Keenan wanted me to tell you.”
“Oh hey, yeah, cool. I’ll be right out.” Frank tested the ladder against one of the shelves. It was kind of rickety and not very stable. Sheesh.
“Hey,” Mikey said, coming all the way into the storeroom. “Sup?”
“I’m short,” Frank said, looking up the many, many rungs on the ladder, disappearing into the dark recesses of the storeroom ceiling.
Mikey blinked at him.
Frank snorted. “Yeah, newsflash, right? It’s just, I heard a couple of the guys say it was good there was a littlie in here.”
Mikey blinked some more.
Frank nodded. “That’s what they’re calling me, huh? Littlie?
Mikey shook his head. “No, they’re calling you Eyebrows, on account of...” Mikey waved a hand at Frank’s face. “And because Keenan’s insisting.”
“So what’s with the little thing?” Frank hopped up a few steps, well, three, to get to Mikey’s eye line.
Mikey rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t imagine,” he said. “Honestly.”
*
Keenan loomed over Frank, a meat cleaver in one hand and the head of chicken in the other.
There was a red chili poking out of the chicken’s mouth. Keenan’s face was deadly serious. “Frank,” he said, shaking the chicken’s head. “I want you to go over there, stealth mode, little brother, and put this red chili in that bowl of pastry creme. Can you do that for me?”
Behind him Zach snickered. “Chili in the pastry creme,” he said. “Priceless.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Dude, come on. I’m not getting fired over a fucking chili.”
Frank busied himself tearing open the sack of potatoes he’d just dragged out of the storeroom to prep for dinner. The chili did not belong in the pastry creme, Frank knew that; Keenan knew that. Frank suspected that even Zach knew that, although some of the things that kid got up to in the kitchen, Frank wasn’t so sure. It was kind of a wonder anything got cooked here at all.
“Who said anything about gittin’ burned, Frankie Uncanny Valley,” Keenan drawled back.
Frank frowned, what the hell did that even mean? Jesus, Keenan was a weirdo. He shook his head. Frank thought of Gerard, suddenly. He never seemed to bother with the pranks, and no one pranked him. Farnk wondered what he thought of it all. Gerard seemed above that kind of thing, aloof..well, maybe not aloof, but definitely above having his apron pocket filled with cumin seeds, or the pages of his order note book covered in lipstick kisses.
Keenan rolled his eyes. “That po faced mother fucker over there ne-eds this goddamn chili in his cream,” Keenan said, poking Frank in the cheek, disgustingly, with the chicken head. “Look at him, Look.”
Frank looked. The creme belonged to the pastry chef, a tall, long faced man who Frank realized he had not seen smile once in the kitchen since Frank’d arrived.
“Ryland does need cheering up,” Gerard said appearing as if out of nowhere next to the prep table. Frank and Keenan both jumped.
“Jesus, Way, you will give a man a heart attack one day,” Keenan said, waving his meat cleaver at him.
Gerard smiled, his eyes on Frank. “I hope not,” he said.
Keenan tsked. “Make noise when you walk!” He said, whacking the cleaver into the chopping board and using his free hand to slick back his hair. “You’ve zombified poor Iero here. Lookit, boy’s speechless!”
Frank realized suddenly, and with a great deal of heat flooding into his cheeks, that it was true. He’d just been standing there, staring at Gerard, a dopey half smile on his stupid face.
“Oh, Frankie’s no zombie,” Gerard said, leaning into Frank’s space a little and smiling. “He looks more - ” and Gerard’s eyes cut away to Keenan. “Ensorcelled don’t you think, Big K?”
Keenan laughed. “He looks terrified, Way. Leave him alone.”
But that was not what Frank wanted Gerard to do at all. Not at fucking all.
“Wait,” Frank said, too quietly to be heard, as Gerard, also laughing, pulled back and sauntered out of the kitchen, balancing his empty tray on the tips of his fingers.
When Frank looked back at Keenan, the chef was smirking. “Fear is a terrible thing, Eyebrows,” Keenan said. “It can destroy worlds, deflate souflees, break hearts.”
“Um... okay?” Frank was nonplussed.
Keenan nodded. “Now, go and put this mother loving chili in the goddamn creme, or so help me Jesus, I will make you peel every Po-ta-ta in Chicago. Come on!”
Frank had no idea what Keenan was talking about, with the fear and all. Well, not in the kitchen context anyway. But in the Gerard context? Yeah, maybe the chef was right. Frank had never really believed in that whole ‘going non verbal’ thing when confronted by someone you thought was hot. But that had been before he met Gerard.
He was going to have to man up and talk to Gerard sensibly. And he was gonna have to relax a little at Pan’s.
They liked him here, and he liked them. And maybe, maybe, Gerard liked him too? Maybe.
Frank plucked the chili out of the chicken’s beak, winked at Keenan and snuck across the kitchen.
*
The only downside of living with Bob was Bob’s workmates coming over all the time and annoying the crap out of Frank.
“Jepha and Quinn haven’t been here for months; what the hell are you talking about?” Bob said, turning his back on Frank and emptying the packet of chips into the big bowl.
Frank sighed. “I guess, but like... do they have to come over tonight?”
Bob turned and raised an eyebrow at Frank.
“Okay, well, do I have to pretend I like them?”
Bob shut the fridge door and put his hands on his hips. “You never pretend you like them.”
Frank shrugged, sulkily.
“One time, Jepha asked me if you had aspergers, on account of you always slinking out of the room when they come in,” Bob said, opening the fridge again and retrieving a sixer from the shelf. “I had to explain that you’re just shy, and kind of an asshole around new people.”
Frank scuffed his toe on the lino. “I just like my space,” Frank said, and he could hear how petulant he sounded. “What can I say?”
“You can say you’ll stay and play a few rounds of Left 4 Dead with us, eat some chips and sink a few cans.”
“Okay,” Frank said reluctantly and carried the bowl out to the living room.
An hour later, Frank was ready to stuff the bowl down Bob’s neck and leave him for dead. Only, it wasn’t really his fault his buddies were giving him the third degree.
“I cannot believe you’re working at Pan’s,” Quinn said, standing by the DVD shelf, and Frank scowled. Quinn was definitely judging them based on their DVD selection. He had a nasty looking sneer etched on his face and he kept pulling out the cases, reading the covers and wincing.
Bob had gone out for another sixer, leaving him alone with Quinn and Jepha - a fact Frank was not going to let him forget anytime soon.
Jepha nodded earnestly. “I have heard some,” he exchanged a look with Quinn. “Bad shit about that place.”
Frank closed the book he was trying to hide behind and looked up at them. “Bad shit? That place is awesome, man. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
He wished Bob would come back so he could leave, or that they would all decide to go out. Yeah, that would be perfect, because Frank wanted to clean the skirting boards, and knew Bob would be all weird about it if Frank started while they had guests. Bob hated when he did that.
“Yeah,” Jepha said, sitting down next to Frank, thanks for nothing, and putting his hand on Frank’s knee. “Frank, that’s like, like a pretty fucked up gig.” He exchanged another forboding look with Quinn.
Quinn snorted. “Fucked up, alright,” he said giving Frank the once over. Frank raised his eyebrows. What the fuck?
Frank opened his book and stared down at the page determinedly. “I met a guy,” he said. “Told me they were hiring. They hired me. I love it.” He hated feeling like he was explaining himself to these jerks. He didn’t need to tell them shit about his job. If they wanted to believe the best café in Chicago was fucked up, that was their stupid business.
Frank’d been at Pan’s for six weeks now. Nothing had blown up, caught fire, spoiled, curdled or been set free accidentally on purpose so far. It was the best job he’d ever had.
Jephas scrunched up his face. “It doesn’t really sound like your kind of gig, though, man,” he said, smiling sheepishly, like he was itching to say more, but really wanted Frank to ask first. Oh man, Frank was so not at home to that particular brand of passive aggressive crap tonight.
As far as Frank was concerned, his gig was one where he wasn’t getting fired and people talked to him like he meant something. Like say, oh, his gig at Pan’s.
“I mean,” Jepha gestured to Frank, undeterred by Frank’s silence. “I mean, they’re freaks over there, right? Like, it’s some kind of fetish bar?”
Against his better judgment, Frank looked up from the page. “What the actual fuck?”
Quinn nodded. “That’s what I heard, too. And I heard the owner is some kind of recluse freakshow.”
Frank snorted. Okay, so that might be kind of true. Frank’d heard all sorts of things about Pan too and he still hadn’t met the guy since he’d started there. But Mikey called him a “sweet little dude,” and Brandon talked about him like he invented rock’n’roll, so Frank figured he must be alright.
“Pan’s, it’s for weirdos,” Jepha said, wrinkling his nose? “Like, why would you work in a place like that? You’re not, you know, like that.”
Frank shook his head. “Well, you’d know, Jepha,” Frank said. He would have thought they were making fun of him, pranking even, only Quinn didn’t have a sense of humor that Frank had ever detected, and Jepha was too nervous of pissing anyone off to joke around.
Jepha shrugged. “Well, we know Bob. And he’s a good guy. Straight up. And he’d never work in a place like that. It’s kind of infamous in Chicago. Everyone says they know someone who’s worked at Pan’s. But I never met someone who actually worked there. Like, that’s mega.” Jepha frowned. “It’s in Willmette, right?”
“I heard it was Cicero,” Quinn cut in.
“Well, you’re both wrong, about, like, everything. It’s in Oak Park, and it’s a fucking café, not a sex club, for fuck’s sake. And I am exactly that type,” Frank said through gritted teeth. “And so is fucking Bob for that matter.”
Jepha shrugged. “Whatever, bro. I just want something healthy for you, you know?”
“Man,” Frank said shaking his head. “Are you serious?”
Jepha patted Frank’s knee. “I just want you to think about it Frankie.”
Frank took a deep breath. He closed his book, tucked it under his arm and stood up. “You’ve got a point,” he said. “Like, why be happy, when you can be normal, right?”
Jepha shrugged. “You might not be able to get other work when you get fired from this one,” he said. “And sometimes, it’s better not to do the stuff that’s fun,” he made air quotes round that word. “Because you’re not getting anywhere, you know? I mean, I’ve been in this business a long time Frankie. I know how it goes.”
Frank thought about Zach giving him lessons on how to tie water balloons; he thought about Brandon and the lamé apron; he thought about the way Gerard sometimes looked at him, all focused and attentive. Frank smiled.
He took a deep breath and patted Quinn on the shoulder as he passed him. “Jepha, Quinn,” he said, walking out into the hall and clicking his fingers for Peppers to follow him.
“Yeah, Frankie?” Jepha said.
“Go fuck yourselves.”
Frank strolled down the hall to the basement stairs and bounced down to the basement, slamming his door behind him. He threw himself on his bed where Peppers immediately bounded into his lap from her basket under the bed.
Love Frank! Love Frank! Good Frank!
Frank buried his nose in her golden fur and smiled.
*
“I want three over easy with a side of pig, burn that fucker, and shake that shit.” Frank had no idea what Brandon had just said, but apparently it was something to do with food. Food Frank was supposed to prepare in some way.
“Nope,” Frank said, shoulders sinking. “I got nothin’.”
“It’s okay,” Brandon said, patting Frank on the shoulder. “You’ll get it eventually.”
“I want three fried eggs flipped once, with crispy bacon, and a side order of hash browns,” Gerard said, coming up to the service hatch and leaning in.
Frank looked at Brandon. “Why can’t you just say that?”
Brandon blinked. “I did just say that.”
Gerard looked at Frank. “He did just say that.”
“Yeah, but not like, in English.”
Gerard giggled, which made Frank’s cheeks heat up.
“Gerard,” Brandon said with a smirk. “I’ll leave Frankie here in your capable hands. Maybe you can help him learn to translate, yeah?” And disappeared into the café.
Frank felt the heat spread down his chest. God damnit.
“You’re all on your own on the grill today?”
“Keenan’s sick,” Frank said, and flipped one of the eggs onto a plate.
Gerard smiled, one eyebrow arched. “Keenan’s faking. Zach’s sick.”
Frank looked up sharply. “Please tell me you’re joking. I’m freaking out here!” Frank flipped the last two eggs and scrapped the bacon of the back of the grill. “Yuck,” he whined.
“Hey, that looks great,” Gerard said as Frank put the plate in front of him.
“It looks burnt,” Frank sighed.
“Exactly!” Gerard chimed. He looped his fingers around Frank’s wrist. “You’re doing great, Frankie. Really great.”
Frank swallowed. His skin tingled where Gerard touched him, and he realized with a flush of arousal that he wanted that feeling in more places than just his wrist.
Gerard darted away with the plate and Frank stood watching him disappear amidst the tables.
“Um, hello? Order up, Eyebrows.” Frank blinked and saw Brandon’s brother Adam, the one who Keenan wasn’t soft on, flapping an order at him.
Frank grabbed it and stuck it in the wire over the grill.
“Sunny day rain account, flipped on a shingle with frofro,” Adam said, and leaned on the counter examining his nails. “And go easy on the lallies this time.”
Frank took a deep breath, started cracking eggs, and hoped like hell that’s what Adam had just ordered.
*
At the end of his shift Frank stood in the alley, lit a smoke and inhaled deeply. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a cigarette that tasted so good. It had been a while since he’d felt this shitty about his performance, but the heavy feeling in his chest was familiar. He’d fucking sucked in there today. In front of Gerard too. Jesus, that guy just messed with Frank’s calm, but in a way Frank was already desperate to have more of.
“Man, you make smoking look good, Frankie.” Gerard said stepping out of the shadows, a cigarette in his own hand and a grin on his face.
Frank choked a little on his smoke. “Huh?” Smooth, Iero.
Gerard laughed. “I just mean, people who work the grill, you know, when they get a break they really enjoy their smoke. Right?”
Frank looked at the burning cherry on his cigarette. “I guess.”
Gerard leaned on the wall next to him, the long arch of his body from his shoulders down, angled towards Frank. He rubbed his thigh slowly and sucked on his bottom lip.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I worked the grill?” He said, looking up at Frank from under his lashes.
Frank shook his head.
Gerard lent in, his shoulder brushing Frank’s. “I broke forty five eggs,” he said, his voice low and secretive.
Frank laughed. “Yeah, well, you gotta break ‘em the cook ‘em,” he said, thorwing his cigarette, on the ground and grinding it in to the concrete.
Gerard scrunched up his nose. “True, but I broke them on Brandon,” Gerard said with a shrug. He cut a look at Frank out the corner of his eye, and Frank cracked up. Gerard nudged him lightly with his elbow.
“Okay, okay, I get it. We all have bad days,” Frank said with a giggle. “I think you win in the ‘crap at the grill’ stakes though. Jesus.”
Gerard grinned. “Hey, your shift is over, right?” He tugged a little on Frank’s sleeve.
Frank nodded. “Yeah, I was gonna have a crack at the back of the storeroom. I haven’t even taken a look past the second row of shelves yet.”
Gerard shook his head. “Leave it,” he said, cupping Frank’s elbow and squeezing. “Let’s go get some ice cream. What do you say? It’s spring. The sun is shining, and like,” he shrugged again. “I wanna.”
Frank smiled, it was kind of hot out, now that Gerard mentioned it. And he was done for the day. Besides, Frank was pretty into how pleased and hopeful Gerard looked, the way he kept touching Frank. He wanted to keep him close, keep that look on his face a little while longer.
Gerard ducked inside, and came back a few seconds later with the little dark brown pug in tow.
“Oh!” Frank said, squatting down and holding out his hand to the pug. “He’s yours?”
Gerard grinned. “For my sins,” he said, rolling his eyes.
The pug came up and sniffed Frank’s fingers. “Hey, little guy,” Frank said. “Who’s so cute? Who’s so cute? What’s your name, little dude?”
The pug sat and looked up at Gerard and back at Frank.
“Raisin,” Gerard said. “The Angry Raisin.”
Oh you did not just call me that, you over grown, lilly livered, flower fairy -
Frank frowned. “He kinda does look angry, now you mention it.”
The pug growled, trotted over to the wall by Gerard and cocked it’s leg. Gerard made an appalled face. “Nice, buddy. Thanks.”
You started it.
“Well, come on, let’s hit the park?” Gerard looked down at the pug, who woofled back. “Yeah, that park,” Gerard said. The pug yapped and yapped.
“Man, you make me wish I had a dog.”
Raisin stopped yapping and stared at Frank. It was kind of un-nerving. Gerard picked him up and tucked him under his arm. “Um, you - you don’t have one?” Gerard asked, and he scritched behind Raisin’s ears.
“Yeah, my roommate has one. And, like, I love her to bits. But, she’s not mine,” Frank said with a shrug. Even if sometimes she feels like she’s mine, he didn’t say. Because it was weird, and kind of mean to Bob. Frank always felt a little crummy for stealing her love from him.
“Well, they love who they love,” Gerard said. “Right Raisin?” The little dog yapped and licked Gerard’s mouth. “Yueach!”
Frank giggled, and the way the little dog panted at him it was almost as if Raisin giggled back.
*
The three of them took the El into the city and Gerard led them down back alleys and side streets to the park in front of the City Library.
Just inside the gates was a guy with an old fashioned ice cream cart, painted with dancing ice cream cones. The guy had a pleasant, round-cheeked face, scruffy with whiskers. He also had a monkey sitting on his shoulder. Frank was used to people with weird pets by now. It was like Pan’s attracted the city’s craziest pet owners.
As it happened, Frank recognized the ice cream seller from the café. And then when Gerard chatted with him, Frank realized he must be a regular. It was a nice feeling, Frank thought, to know people, to be connected. He’d never really had that before.
He frowned, only he must have once, right? Back home, with his - his family and friends? But Frank couldn’t recall ever having felt part of a community, not like this. Not where you could bump into someone in the park and have something to say to them.
“Ray said we’re all on for B&A tonight, if you’re still keen?” Gerard said to the seller, whose name was apparently Spencer.
“Count me and Bden in. Eight?” Spencer said, accepting the handful of coins Gerard offered him before Frank could protest about Gerard paying. But maybe they were in some kind of barter thing, because Gerard had paid with odd shaped coins like the ones he’d given Frank just before Christmas.
After Spencer handed them their cones and they’d wondered a little way along the path, Frank turned to Gerard and said, “You probably don’t remember, but, like, you gave me a bunch of those funny coins once. And it kind of saved my ass.”
Gerard looked startled. “Yeah, I did.”
“You remember?”
Gerard looked sheepish, and Frank felt sheepish. It was weird they were only bringing it up now. It was weird that Frank was bringing it up at all. But Maybe not, because clearly it had made as much of an impression on Gerard as it had on Frank. Frank’s stomach flipped.
The corner of Gerard’s mouth twitched and he flapped a hand at Frank. “I recognized you that day,” Gerard said, and Frank felt his face heat up. “I mean, the day you came in. Just because you have, you know, your face is - um...” Gerard trailed off and concentrated on his ice cream.
“My face is what, dude?” Frank said, stopping Gerard with a hand on his elbow. “Jesus, don’t leave me hanging like that. What’s wrong with my face?”
“Nothing!” Gerard replied, appalled. “Nothing is wrong with your face. I like your face. I love - love that people call you Eyebrows.” Gerard trailed off.
Frank hid his grin in his chocolate chip and pretended not to see Gerard wince and shake his head, as if he was embarrassed at himself.
“I like your face too,” Frank said quietly.
“Well,” said Gerard, just as quietly. “Good.”
They both concentrated on their double scoops in companionable silence as they strolled through the park, amid the dappled sunlight, the chittering chattering of the birds, and the Angry Raisin’s little yips and yaps, telling the birds to fuck off.
“Man, I love this place,” Frank said, grinning at Gerard as they made their way towards the Library. “It’s like, my favorite building in the city.”
Frank turned to see Gerard looking at him, a strange little half smile on his face. “It is?”
“Totally, I mean, look at those fucking gargoyles, man. It’s insane. And, like, these steps, up to the massive fucking door, with the studs and the Latin. Or whatever the hell that is. Crazy assed.”
“It’s Gaelic,” Gerard said. Looking up at the words above the library lintel. They both sat on the steps, Gerard a couple down from Frank so his shoulder was paralelle with Frank’s knee.
“Yeah? Well, it’s fucking cool,” Frank said “Like something from a horror movie, or something.”
Gerard craned his ead back to see the lintel. “Do you - you can’t read it?”
Frank frowned, took a bite of his waffle cone and munched on it. “No,” he laughed. “I’m Italian- American, from New Jersey. We do garlic, not Gaelic.”
Gerard laughed. “It says: ‘Here is the doorway to all the worlds.’”
Gerard wasn’t making it up, Frank could tell. “Holy shit dude. You can read that?”
Gerard crumbled up the rest of his cone and threw it to the birds that strutted across the steps.
Flee! No feed! But then flee! But feeding first! With a mind to flee!
The Angry Raisin took off after the flock, yipping and yapping, and the birds cawed as they rose in the air. Flee!!!! Right the fuck now!!
Frank felt a funny little giggle rise up in him.
“Sure. My great-grandmother claimed decent from Mab, the Queen of the Fairies. Nanna taught me to speak the old language when I was just a little sprite.” He gave Frank a level look.
“Wha - seriously?” Frank stuttered.
“Nah,” said Gerard, dusting crumbs off his hands and quirking a smile. “There’s a translation on the plaque over there.”
Frank let the little giggle out and Gerard grinned back.
“So what else does it say, the plaque?”
Gerard leaned back and sprawled down the steps, closing his eyes and tilting his face up into the sun.
Frank couldn’t help but let himself look at Gerard, the long lean planes of his body, the delicate arch of his wrists, the curve of his neck. He was so... It was as if he were carved in marble, or cast in bronze. He was, Frank could admit it, he was fucking beautiful. His skin had this lustre, creamy and smooth. And he seemed at once so young, and so much older than Frank. The kind of guy people called an ‘old soul,’ Frank guessed. He let his gaze linger over Gerard’s long legs, and the way his tight jeans left, well, pretty much nothing to Frank’s imagination.
Gerard hmmed, and Frank’s eyes darted to his face to see him watching Frank, one eye open.
Frank swallowed. Jesus, Frank could be such a fucking creeper sometimes.
“It says the guy who made this building fled Ireland in the famines,” Gerard said, “And wanted to create a place where all people could be free. So be built a library. Because knowledge is freedom.”
Frank grinned. “Yeah?”
Gerard nodded.
Frank lay back and put his hands behind his head. “That? Is fucking awesome. I mean, I know exactly what he means, because books can transport you, man. They, they’re little gateways to other lives you’ve never gotten to live, other places and people. Yeah, that is so cool.”
He looked back up the steps the doors, and the carved masonry above it. “Awesome.”
“You like to read?” Gerard asked, his head still thrown back, soaking up the sun.
“I like libraries,” Frank said, leaning back himself. “I like this one particularly.”
Gerard squinted one eye open again. Raisin trotted over and Gerard made an ‘unf’ sound when the little pug unceremoniously leaped up on his midriff, scrambled around in a circle for a few seconds and plonked himself down for a nap.
“Because it’s a kind of a gateway?” he asked, stroking Rasin’s rippling fur. Frank nodded. Gerard lifted his head and looked straight at Frank. “But what if it was real?”
“What if what was real?” Frank asked, unable to look away from Gerard’s fingers stroking Rasin.
“Everything,” Gerard said, and closed his eyes into the sunlight again.
*
Part One/ Part Three/ Part Four/ Part Five/ Masterpost