Palm Reading For Dummies
Everyone's born with two names written on the palms of their hands. One is the name of your true love. The other's supposed to be your mortal enemy. Frank wouldn't know. He was born without any names.
Because originality can go fuck itself. Also, I don't even have enough tags for all these pairings. Franky/Everyone. Written for trinityscar.
Everyone’s born with two names written on the palms of their hands. One is the name of your true love. Nobody’s quite sure what the other name means anymore. It used to be your mortal enemy. Most people still say it is. Some say it’s your best friend. Some people even say it’s the person who will one day save your life.
Frank wouldn’t know. He was born without a name on either hand. It’s not completely unheard of. Every population has anomalies. About 13% of the human population is born without one name or the other. Most people consider it a sign of good fortune. It means you have no enemies. Mean kids like to say it means no one will ever love you.
Another 4% of the population has three or more names. These people are typically exquisitely beautiful or incredibly famous, or horribly dangerous.
About 1% has no names at all. At least that’s what Frank’s parents always told him. The numbers might have changed in the last twenty years. Frank’s not so good with numbers.
It’s not like these things are easy to figure out. The names are private for a lot of people, and most everyone wears fingerless gloves in public, even when it’s oppressively hot.
He’s not all that weird, Frank reminds himself in the morning when he wakes up and brushes his teeth, looks in the mirror and decides whether he’s going to wear gloves that day. Linke only has one name. It’s on his left hand: Jan Werner.
There are worse things than no names. Much, much worse. Jan’s got Timo’s name on his left hand. Timo doesn’t have Jan’s name on either. His left hand is covered in a tattoo, but it’s faded. Frank’s seen Timo’s palms enough times to know David’s name is on one hand…and Jan’s isn’t.
Most people say that the name on your right hand is your true love. No one’s a hundred percent sure, of course, but almost every happy couple has matching names on their right hands. It could just be chance, like Linke says, the same way most people are right-handed but some are left-handed. But Frank doesn’t think Linke believes that, not when he sees the way Linke looks at Jan sometimes.
Mama always said Frank’s hands mean he had to go out and find his own true love. He couldn’t wait around for someone to come find him. His destiny wasn’t set in stone.
Frank would maybe like his destiny to be set in stone.
Like most everyone, he’s a little obsessed with the names and their meanings. He’s gotten good at telling when someone’s met their people and liked them or hated them. It’s all in the hand movements, all in the eyes. Some people are all too proud to show off that they belong to someone, and others are terrified of anyone ever finding out. There’s a reason some people say “truest love” and not true love. You can find your people and spend the rest of your life alone.
They don’t bother him anymore, his blank palms. They confuse him, sure, but he’s not sad or angry that there’s nothing to tell him where to go next, who to meet, or who to look out for. Mama always said it gave him a freedom other people didn’t get to have. No guilt, no fear of consequences. He wouldn’t ever be held down by someone he barely knew.
Frank misses Mama. She always gave such good advice.
ØØØ
When he was little, Frank used to write different names on his palms every day. He did it to fit in. He doesn’t do that anymore.
There was a one-hander celebrity when Frank was about ten who had a fake name tattooed on her blank hand. It was a generic name, Thomas Schneider, could have been anyone. It was the sort of name Frank would choose because it could be anyone.
She died. Thomas Schneider, a fan of a rival celebrity, kidnapped her, tortured her, and killed her. He went to jail for life, but she was still gone. It was all over the news for months, a huge tragedy. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
These days most one-handers- and others- stick to gloves. It’s dangerous to do otherwise, to pretend to be something you’re not. People are too curious, too focused on the names. It’s better to be honest than to chance it. The gloves are a shield, anyhow, a way to fit in when you don’t.
A crazy man on a bus once told Frank the names don’t mean anything. It’s all in your head. If you want someone- anyone- to love you forever, is it so hard to look at your hands and say there, that’s the answer to all my problems?
Frank needs to stop listening to crazy people. And Linke. All these theories make his head hurt. They don’t even make things clearer.
ØØØ
Only weeks since Frank last saw him and the first thing he does is throw his arms around Juri and plant a wet one right on his lips. Juri gives him an amused look, and Frank’s whole body lights up because Juri is the greatest.
He’s seen Juri’s hands. His name is not on them. That does not bother him. What do names matter to someone who hasn’t any? And Juri’s willing, always so willing.
Frank loves all his bandmates, but Juri is by far the one he likes the best.
Because Juri is always relaxed and willing to do what everyone else wants.
Because Juri thinks about the band first and not one specific person.
Because Juri doesn’t focus on the names the way Jan or Linke or Timo does. He doesn’t hide his names like Jan or Timo or David, and he doesn’t pine over them like Jan or Linke or Timo does.
Juri’s got two names because Juri is nice and normal like that. His left hand has a long name in Cyrillic and his right has two short lines of Japanese or Chinese writing (Frank doesn’t know the difference). Juri, of course, can read both of them and has done so for Frank multiple times. They’re elegant and exotic, women’s names. Juri hasn’t met either of them, knows where to look but doesn’t worry enough to try. If they’re important enough, they’ll find him. If not, well…Juri can find someone else.
That’s what’s great about Juri: he’s so easygoing. He’s not concerned about the lack of names on Frank’s hands any more than he is about the two on his own. He doesn’t look at Frank as something secondary, a holdover until he finds who he’s meant to have.
Instead, they have fun. They have fun, and it’s amazing, and Frank never wants to give Juri up until he gets distracted by Linke’s pale throat or Jan’s long fingers, or Timo’s cheekbones or David’s pretty hair.
Frank’s not very good at the whole monogamy thing.
ØØØ
Frank used to wonder whether his names were just late in showing up, like maybe one day he would wake up and they’d be right there, telling the whole world he belonged to somebody. He used to stare at his hands, thinking if he wanted it hard enough, they would show up. He looked pretty stupid doing it, so he stopped. Along the way, he stopped wondering, too. Names are there at birth or they’re not.
He doesn’t have to wear the gloves now that they’re away from their old management. If he wants, he can go gloveless every day. It’s not even like he’s trying to hide it anymore.
It feels weird the first day he doesn’t wear them. Everyone looks at him, tries to catch a glimpse at his palms. Frank smiles sunnily at them and keeps walking, resisting the urge to shove his hands into his pockets.
In the end, he puts his gloves back on. Not because he’s trying to hide, but because he doesn’t think it’s very polite, shoving something personal like that in everyone’s faces. You’re not supposed to look at other people’s palms unless they show you or say you can- it’s rude. Frank doesn’t want to be rude.
It makes for a better pick up line, anyway, when they don’t know beforehand.
ØØØ
Jan’s name is on Linke’s hand. Timo’s name is on Jan’s. David’s is on Timo’s. Timo’s might be written on David’s. Frank wouldn’t know. He’s never seen David’s palms. He likes to think Linke’s name is on one of David’s, just to make things fair, make the names mean something else or nothing at all. Their hands are the stuff of soap operas.
It’s not crazy, them having each other’s names. A lot of childhood friends are like that. Parents start their kids out early because who knows which name is which and what the other means. Teachers are always complaining about parents badgering them for classroom changes because this kid has that kid’s name. No, the crazy, soap opera part of this is that the names don’t match up. That’s not normal.
Frank has fooled around with all four of them. It was cool once they found out he had no names. They do it because he’s not the end of the road. He’s practice. That’s what everyone thinks.
Frank’s not bitter. He has his fun, then sits back with Juri, and they laugh about the circles the others run ‘round each other. Juri laughs all the harder when he hears about Frank’s theories, of which Frank has many. Juri never asks how Frank knows what’s written on their bandmates’ palms- and they’re covered almost all the time, even Timo’s, just laughs along with him. Maybe it’s cruel, but it is silly how much people get caught up in the names.
When Frank does feel down about letting himself be used, he goes to Juri. Juri’s always glad to see him. He’s also got a dick like a ruler, and hell if they don’t put that to good use.
ØØØ
Frank once met someone whose hands were littered with names. She was achingly beautiful and gloriously kind, and she fucked like a succubus. She may or may not have been a prostitute. She said people tried to read every name sometimes, searching for their own in the graffiti that was her hands. Frank told her he couldn’t read, kissed the name curled around her pinky, and heard her laugh for the first time all night.
ØØØ
Frank gets along great with the Halbigs from the moment he first meets them. They’re a bit strange, very colorful and bouncy, but they like to have fun. The little one isn’t allowed to drink, but the older can.
This is a very important fact because this is why Frank ends up nursing a dark brew with Jo Halbig on a Friday night, Jo with his face in his ungloved hands.
“Look,” Jo tells Frank, showing the other singer his palms. His gloves lie beside him, checkered black, blue, and pink cloth over the palms and black mesh everywhere else. Jo has many pairs of gloves, different ones to match whatever he’s wearing. Frank is a bit jealous. His old management never gave him enough to afford more than one pair and, now that he’s away from them, he doesn’t have enough money lying around to color-coordinate more than one or two outfits.
Frank shakes his head. “I don’t know them.”
He should recognize them, but no one tells Frank these sorts of things, that Jo’s bandmates don’t go by their real names, that Schlagi is part of a last name and Mäx is a diminutive, and Fabi is short for something else. It might have been obvious to everyone else, but Frank isn’t up-to-date on what Bavarians call themselves. Frank’s band uses their real names. Even Linke goes by a full part of his own name.
No one ever accuses Frank of being overly inquisitive.
“That’s not the point,” Jo groans. “Names- fuck- names don’t mean you can’t fall in love with anyone else.” He looks down at his palms, at the names written there. “I wanted it to be her. I still want it to be her. But she’s not on here. Fuck, I just wish they would stop.”
“What would stop?”
“These feelings. If someone isn’t on your palms, what’s the point, right?” He grabs Frank’s shirt and pulls him close. “Right?”
“I don’t have any names,” Frank tells him.
Jo looks surprised. He releases Frank’s shirt.
“Really?”
Frank pulls off his gloves- soft, brown leather with black stitching- and shows him. There’s a second when it looks like Jo’s stopped breathing, then he sucks in a harsh breath.
“Write your name,” Frank tells the singer, “and tonight I’ll be your somebody.” The words fall from his lips easily. He’s said them so many times. The formula’s so perfect. It gets him laid every time.
Every time.
ØØØ
All the old stories, the classics, and the fairy tales say it’s your true love on your right hand and your archenemy on your left. Macbeth had Lady Macbeth on his right and Banquo on his left. Faust had Gretchen and Mephistopheles. Karl had Amalia and Franz. Even Simba had Nala and Scar, and they were lions.
It’s always the true love on your right and your archenemy on your left. It never changes, not in the old stories. Everything is so simple, so straightforward. But nowadays? No one has archenemies these days. And what about the normal people who never upset anyone? Did they have archenemies back then, too?
It’s all really, really silly when you think about it. The world would be a much simpler place if your true love was on your right hand and your archenemy on your left.
It would be a much simpler place if there weren’t any names at all.
ØØØ
Linke’s one of his favorites because Linke is so easy to figure out. In love, at least. Linke’s one of that 13% born with only one name, and it’d be pretty ridiculous to call Jan his archenemy.
Secretly, Frank thinks the name Jan tattooed over on his right hand is Linke’s and not just because it makes things fair. The game might be silly, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt people. Frank doesn’t like to see his friends get hurt.
The problem is Jan and his other hand, the one he’s tattooed over to keep anyone from seeing. If Timo’s on one hand, who’s Jan hiding from? Jan’s naturally guarded, and Timo’s got a tattoo on one hand, too, but…it hurts Frank’s head to think too hard about Jan’s tattoo hiding any name but Linke’s. That’s easy. It makes sense.
Linke’s so caught up in Jan and Jan’s dilemma, it’s frustrating. He agrees with Frank that it’s not fair for Timo Sonnenschein to be scrawled across Jan’s palm, but he came to that conclusion on his own because Frank doesn’t talk about fair and not fair with the guy who complains he takes inconceivably long in the bathroom. It took Frank a while, but now he thinks Linke was implying that he knows what’s on Timo’s other hand, and it’s not Jan’s name.
Frank always thought Linke was above that sort of thing. Sure, he jokes around, but that’s not the same as being the romantic type. Yet he pays inordinate attention to palms, particularly those of his friends.
ØØØ
Tonight Linke kisses his palms, then the inside of his knuckles, all the way up to Frank’s fingertips.
“I always wished my hands were blank,” he tells Frank softly, “when I didn’t wish I had another name.” Frank doesn’t protest, doesn’t say how he doesn’t understand how it’s not obvious to Linke. Love’s always been so easy for Frank to understand.
“You can pass,” Frank offers. “You can be whichever one you want.” Two-hander or none.
Linke laughs. It sounds painful. “Passing’s not the same as being a two-hander.” Two-hander. It doesn’t even sound like a real word when Linke says it.
Frank flips Linke onto his back. He straddles the bassist and grins at him.
“What about Jan?” he asks, not needing to spread Linke’s hand to see the name written there. Jan Werner, plain as anything. Every name is written in the same font even when they’re in other languages, the letters shaped the same way in Gambia as in Mongolia as in Paraguay as in Tunisia. No one knows where the names came from any more than they know why some people have too many and some too few.
Frank’s heard Linke’s arguments before, how Jan Werner’s not like Timo Sonnenschein. The name on Linke’s palm, Linke says, could be someone else. It probably is someone else, he likes to add quietly.
Frank, frankly, thinks that’s stupid.
Linke doesn’t argue this time.
“What about him?” he asks instead, like tonight isn’t about Jan. Like tonight is about them. The lights are on bright. They’re not hiding anything.
Frank smiles prettily. It’s never about just them.
“You know what I think?” he asks Linke, grasping the bassist’s left hand between both of his. He turns it over, uncurling Linke’s long fingers from his palm. Jan Werner. He traces the name with his index finger. There’s no difference where skin meets name. They’re one and the same. Nothing short of acid can get rid of a name. What would it feel like to have someone’s name forever branded in your skin? “I think he’s your true love. You like him, don’t you? He’s your friend, isn’t he? What could be simpler than that?”
Frank curls Linke’s hand back up. Sometimes it hurts more than other times, seeing a name, knowing the bearer knows their person, likes their person. He holds his smile. It’s easy to hide behind a smile.
Then he lowers himself onto Linke’s cock and thanks God there are some thing’s Linke isn’t too smart about.
ØØØ
Timo is harder to deal with than Linke. He’s so guilt-ridden that Frank has to drag kisses out of him, has to work to get the sounds he wants. It’s David this and David that, what would David think, and what do you think David’s thinking about now. He’s so distracted. It’s all very sad. Why? Because David doesn’t feel the same way, else Frank would never get to fool around with the guitarist’s best friend.
That’s what started the theories spinning in Frank’s head. Or hypotheses, whatever, since Juri and Linke have corrected him enough times for Frank to know he’s using the wrong word. Timo’s hands tell him so much about what is and what can’t be. There’s no way there’s another Timo Sonnenschein out there. With Jan’s name you can wonder and say, it might be someone else, but not with Timo Sonnenschein. It’s too unique a name. If Jan has Timo’s name and Timo doesn’t have Jan’s, then the names can’t be your true love and your archenemy. You can’t be someone’s true love and that person not be yours, too. It’s the same with archenemies. That’s what those words mean: there’s only one. Except for those people that have multiple names on one hand. Frank doesn’t know what’s up with them.
In any case, the names mean something else, like your truest love or your worst enemy, or something altogether different.
For all that Frank feels sorry for Jan, he doesn’t blame Timo, doesn’t hold it against him in any way. Timo feels guilty about Jan, as much as he feels guilty about being with Frank. And Frank likes him, anyway. They’re almost matched in height and build, yet Timo’s thinner, less muscular. Wiry. Frank knows he’s good-looking, but Timo…Timo has something sculpted about him. His lips are shockingly beautiful, his cheekbones high and sharp. It’s a nice contrast, the two of them. Timo’s nice. He’s a good man, if a bit too passionate about some things. Frank likes passion, but Timo’s sort is angry and that’s not always very nice.
Don’t think Frank forces Timo. He doesn’t. Timo wants it as much as Frank does. He wakes Frank up sometimes, pulls him aside in plain view of David because it’s all part of the game. Sometimes Frank is a knight, come to rescue Timo, and other times he’s a pawn, just a piece in the game between Timo and David.
Knight or pawn, Frank will be whatever his friends want him to be, because being friends with someone is all about making that person feel good about himself. At least, that’s what Frank thinks.
ØØØ
David doesn’t take his gloves off even when he’s completely naked. He’s cautious, doesn’t want Frank to know what he’s hiding.
One name is Timo’s. Frank knows that. You can’t have a best friend like that and not have their name scrawled on one palm. Close siblings sometimes have each other’s names, their bond broadcast at birth, but it’s almost never assumed to be, um, incestuous. Because that’s illegal, Frank reminds himself. It’s rare that names don’t match up. It honestly is. If someone’s name is on your palm, you can pretty much bet that person has your name on his. That’s why Jan is so weird.
David denies he has Timo Sonnenschein hidden anywhere under those gloves. Frank lets him. What’s a no-namer know about love or fate, or any of that?
David can be cruel that way. He’s a genius, a master at his craft, and Frank is little more than an instrument to him. A proxy, he calls Frank when Frank gets too close to something meaningful, nothing more than a stand-in.
Frank’s got a thick skull, though- he’s stubborn as anything when he wants to be- and David has such pretty hair and such nice hips. He doesn’t bug or badger Frank, just stays off in his own world most of the time so that any attention is surprising, welcome, wonderful.
Those little bits of attention are addictive. A compliment from David, who doesn’t think twice about calling you an idiot for not getting something that’s so obvious to him, feels like sunshine after weeks of rain.
ØØØ
Palm tattoos fade. They just do. The names, of course, don’t. Nothing short of acid or cutting the skin off can make them go away. Even then, the names will come back if the skin heals enough. But tattoos on top of them? They don’t last long.
Frank’s not a deductive genius. But he knows about love, and he knows how bizarre people can get about it. He banks on it all the time. When the world’s out looking for their soul mates, you gotta be creative and more than a bit crafty to get attention.
If you try hard enough, you can see right through the tattoo on Timo’s hand to the name underneath. It’s old, never been refreshed. Because hiding the name doesn’t matter to him.
Jan’s, though, Jan’s palm is a mess of scar tissue from all the times he’s had it redone. The same symbol etched again and again because the name keeps reappearing. Jan might just think it’s reappearing, actually, since Frank’s never been able to read it.
And that speaks volumes.
Jan always says he got the idea from Timo, that they got their tattoos together. They alone know the names on each other’s palms. Frank’s not sure that’s true. The part about Jan copying Timo. Timo might have voiced it, but it’s Jan who cares so much about covering up.
Which means it’s someone he knows and someone who stands a good chance of seeing their name if the tattoo faded too much.
Frank can’t think of many people that would fit for. But he does know that tattoo’s been there longer than he’s known Jan.
ØØØ
Bill Kaulitz of Tokio Hotel has lace gloves. Feminine, inky black, star-patterned lace. Frank’s never been with him but he would, just to touch those gloves. It’s a bit of a fetish.
Tokio Hotel is always in the news, an article coming out every couple of months discussing who may or may not be on Bill’s palms. Frank always gets a little too absorbed in these stories, snatching up a copy of the latest issue of Bild or perching in front of the TV, drawing his knees up to his chest, enrapt. Linke makes fun of him for it. Timo just looks at him in disgust.
So Tokio Hotel isn’t a favorite of his bandmates’. Frank doesn’t care too much for some of their favorite things, either.
The thing is, he has this theory about Bill Kaulitz and what names are written on his palms. If he can just get definitive proof that Bill has his twin brother’s name, it will change everything. Because Tom Kaulitz can’t be Bill’s true love, and he can’t be Bill’s mortal enemy. It’ll mean the names aren’t a one-two thing, a dichotomy as Linke says.
If Bill has Tom on one hand, it means Jan’s dilemma isn’t such a dilemma after all.
ØØØ
They’ve been over this before, been through every bit of this conversation. Frank is still surprised Linke’s so hung up on Jan.
He doesn’t want to admit he’s bored, but Frank’s certainly not giving this conversation his full attention. For whatever reason, Linke thinks he can confide in Frank, so Frank will let him talk. He will glance out the window at the clouds passing across the sky, and he will pretend to be fascinated by things he’s heard countless times before.
“What if it’s another Jan Werner, and that’s why-” Linke cuts himself off. What if it’s another Jan Werner, and that’s why he’s never mentioned it? Frank finishes for him. “Timo doesn’t have his name.”
“Jan is pretty weird.” It isn’t normal for someone not to have your name. That’s the point of the names. So you can find each other.
“You don’t know what’s on Jan’s other palm?” It sounds like a question, but Frank’s asked it so many times it’s just a statement by now. He’s just going through the motions with his usual sunny cheer.
Linke shakes his head curtly. “I guess I’m not a good enough friend for him to tell me.”
ØØØ
Jan’s due to get his tattoo redone. Frank can tell because he’s getting antsy. Jan’s normally somewhat twitchy, laughing a little too hard at some jokes and hugging his arms close to his body for no reason, head and eyes always moving as he pays close attention to anything that moves. It’s a bit like a scared bunny rabbit, which might be why Frank wants to pet Jan sometimes and cuddle him close just to get his heart to slow down for a second.
But when his explosive material (it’s pretty cool, just like the sign; makes Frank think of things going boom!! every time he sees it) tattoo fades, he starts hiding his hand. He wears gloves incessantly, tucks his hand under his arm- just the right-, pulls his sleeve down, even starts scratching at his palm. Scratching at his palm. Frank doesn’t know much about tattoo care, but he can’t imagine scratching the skin away will help keep the ink there.
“Can I go with you?” Frank asks when Jan mentions he’s going to a tattoo place. He smiles winningly. “I’ve never seen anyone get a tattoo done.”
Jan agrees because Jan’s about as suspicious as a newborn baby when it comes to Frank.
The place is dark and a bit smoky, walls covered in designs and artwork. There’s an ATM in the corner and a glass-front refrigerator. This makes it feel somewhat more legit to Frank.
“What are you getting done this time?” he asks. He knows what it’s going to be, but conversation is nice.
“Same one,” Jan says, more relaxed now that they’re away from the others. He flashes Frank his palm. The explosion’s doing a fine job of cover-up in Frank’s opinion, since he can’t see what’s underneath. Oh, well. If Jan wants to tattoo half his face, that’s his decision.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Frank asks when Jan’s sitting in front of the tattoo artist, palm extended upwards. Frank never thought about it, but he guesses a couple tattoo artists must know Jan’s secret, too.
“A bit.”
The tattoo artist, a gorgeous dyed brunette with forest green eyes, smiles up at Frank. He smiles back.
“Do you want me to add a line here?” She points to a line just left of the middle of Jan’s palm. “You can make out a few letters there.”
Jan flinches. It’s just a little flinch, but Frank catches it.
“Yes,” he agrees quickly. “That’s a great idea.”
Frank watches as she does Jan’s palm. He pretends to be interested in the process- it’s not hard, since he hasn’t seen a tattoo done before- but he’s really looking for those letters she mentioned. It takes almost half an hour before he finds the shapes of a string of letters: ris.
Ris. It isn’t the most common combination. Frank flicks through names in his head, coming up with only one. It has to be Linke’s first name. It has to be.
Jan’s tugging at his arm, which means Frank’s gone off in his own head again. People tell him he does that a lot.
“I’m done,” he tells Frank.
“Okay,” Frank chirps brightly. “Let me see.”
Frank can’t even tell where the new line is.
“Did you want to set up an appointment, too?” the tattoo artist asks as she rings Jan up, glancing at Frank’s palms.
“Oh, I don’t have any names,” Frank says, showing her both palms. Jan giggles at the stunned surprise on her face.
They walk out laughing, the bell on the door jangling behind them.
ØØØ
It’s not drunkenness that makes Jan tell him- it’s desperation.
Jan’s always been anxious. Well, as long as Frank’s know him, at least. Maybe he wasn’t before they met. Maybe Frank makes him nervous. Frank hopes that’s not the case.
Jan’s scratching at his palm again. It’s a nervous habit, one of the many Jan has. This one crops up seemingly randomly, but Frank doesn’t think he would be wrong to say it’s when he’s thinking about that name.
“It’s Linke,” he tells Frank without preamble. Then he drops his head and mumbles something Frank can’t make out, face flushed.
“What’s Linke?” Frank asks because what Frank’s thinking about and what other people are doesn’t always match up. He would rather not make assumptions.
“Th- the name- the name on my right hand.” Jan shows him, but there’s nothing to see. The explosive material symbol covers everything. “You have to be wondering. I know you saw something when you went with me to the tattoo shop. I shouldn’t have let you come. I know you’ve been thinking about it. I know,” he protests when Frank tries to say something. “I know you saw something.”
Frank’s always known the DJ was full of anxiety, but he never realized he was paranoid, too. It’s the truth, though. Frank saw something, and he has been thinking about it. He’s just been thinking about it a lot longer than Jan thinks.
“I did see something,” he agrees. Lying would be pointless. Jan would know if Frank lied. He’s so reluctant to trust people that Frank couldn’t abuse that and expect to remain his friend. It’s not so important, anyhow, keeping it a secret.
“What was it?”
Frank shrugs, smiles uncertainly. “A couple of letters.”
“Which ones?” Jan presses.
“’R’…‘i’…‘s’,” Frank tells him slowly, reluctantly.
Jan looks devastated.
“Then you know,” he says, thunking his head down on the nearest flat surface- in this case, the back of a chair. “You know and you’re going to tell him, and it’s all over and now- now- he’s going to hate me forever.”
Frank thinks he puts it rather succinctly when he says, “What.”
ØØØ
“He’s going to hate me forever,” Jan repeats because he doesn’t understand Frankspeak, and he has the emotional vocabulary of a preteen girl.
“He is not going to hate you forever,” Frank contradicts. That’s just stupid. “Why would he? He’s your friend.”
Jan looks startled. “But- but I have two names.”
“And the other one’s Timo. You’ve never tried to hide that.”
“So you understand why I can’t tell Linke.”
“Uh…no.” Frank doesn’t understand. Frank doesn’t understand at all.
“What don’t you get? Frank, I have to choose one. One’s my true love and the other’s my mortal enemy.” And, wow, that sounds incredibly stupid when Jan says it.
“Do you truly think you have a mortal enemy, Jan?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Look at you!” Frank bursts out, spreading his hands to encompass Jan and all his Jan-ness. “Who could hate you?”
Jan flushes at the compliment. He’s very cute when he flushes. Frank wonders if he should really be helping Jan with this, considering that, if it works out, he’ll lose not just one sex partner but two. He must be a very good friend.
Or a secret romantic like Linke. God.
“I don’t know,” Jan says softly. He turns his hands over, looks at his palms.
“No one, that’s who. You’re too cute.” Frank swipes a thumb over Jan’s cheek, watches him smile.
“Shut up,” Jan mumbles.
“It’s true. I’d like to think I have good taste.”
“Frank,” Jan says, his voice serious, “you would sleep with anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have favorites.” Frank feels the need to defend his, um, honor. Which is something that he does have.
“I’m your favorite, then?” Jan asks. His voice is shy, the way he is when they’re alone together. He steps closer.
Frank leans their heads together.
“One of them,” he admits because lying to Jan when he’s like this is like lying to a puppy that trusts you with its whole being. It’s impossible and leaves you horribly guilt-ridden if you even try.
Jan laughs half in disbelief and pulls away, though not far. Their hands brush, and Frank wonders why nobody ever asks him what it feels like to have no names. Are they such a burden that the question is unthinkable or does he just happen to know miserable people?
“Do you really think no one hates me?” Jan asks, interrupting Frank’s albeit not-so-deep thoughts.
Always so unsure, Jan is. It’s okay. He’ll forget his insecurities soon enough.
ØØØ
Frank’s only met Max a handful of times, but he adores him for no reason anyone can figure. The drummer-turned-cinematographer annoys the crap out of most people but not Frank. Possibly it’s because Frank sees Max as a way to fill in all the gaps he has about the members of Panik. Max was there before Frank and Juri. He’s known Linke and Jan and Timo and David for years and years, before the band was even created.
That makes him a very valuable source of information. Besides, Max has eyes that ooze into your soul and cheekbones that make Timo’s look dull. Frank likes cheekbones.
Frank is shocked the first time he sees Max’s hands, because there, opposite Craig Something (Something isn’t the actual last name- Frank just can’t remember what it is) is Christian Linke. His eyes must have bugged out because Max laughs and laughs, and tells him not to strain his pretty little head trying to figure it out.
That night, Frank traces the names on Max’s palms and realizes one is lighter than the other. Christian Linke is two or three shades lighter than the other name. He puzzles over that, tracing his friend’s name again and again, Max’s half-crazed grin growing broader all the while.
It finally strikes him the third time they are together why one name is darker than the other. Juri had been patient in the interim, letting Frank study his palms over and over again, Timo and Linke less so. Frank could only catch glimpses of others, looking at the Searching For ads in the newspapers and the palms of happy couples announcing their engagements. Never, ever, ever were the names different shades. Ever. They were always a perfect match.
“This one’s a tattoo, isn’t it?” Frank asks that third time, spreading the hand with Linke’s name on it wide. He can see himself in the restroom mirror, both hands grasping Max’s one.
Max laughs, throws back his head and laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Took you a bit,” Max says, though not unkindly. He’s never unkind to Frank. He leans back against the towel dispenser, watching Frank do up his fly.
“Why?” Why would Max do something like that?
“Because-” Max says, picking one of his gloves up from the where it’s fallen into the sink and yanking it on. He’s suddenly self-conscious about something he never was before. “-if Jan doesn’t figure it out, at least Linke will have someone to turn to.”
Right then, Frank resolves to make Jan figure it out. If Linke’s good enough for Max to do that, to mark his hand for everyone to see, to pretend he is something he’s not for someone he almost never sees, Jan must be missing out on something incredible.
ØØØ
After that, Frank hounds Jan, makes the DJ rue ever telling him his secret. He tells Jan that Bill Kaulitz has his brother’s name on his right hand (which is not a blatant lie; that one video made it look like Kaulitz was part of the last name), and there’s no way Tom’s Bill’s soul mate or his enemy, right? Right? Or what about Beyoncé or Christina Aguilera, or J. Lo? Huh? Huh?!
In the end, Jan gets so frustrated with Frank and his endless knowledge of the names and love lives of pop culture icons that he splutters out something like an agreement. Which is when Frank springs him on Linke. Because Frank is a great friend like that.
This means that Frank is there to hear Jan tell Linke, and he’s there to see the emotions overwhelm Linke’s face (Juri is there, too, as are quite a few other people who were hanging around when Frank dragged Jan into the rehearsal room, but that’s not important). The two of them- Jan and Linke- stand there after Jan’s pronouncement, neither saying a word. Jan’s eyes are the size of Frank’s fists.
Then Linke grasps Jan’s face between his palms and tilts Jan’s chin up until their eyes meet, the height difference alone making the awkward-looking angle a necessity. Jan squirms.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Linke asks, his voice low. Frank can’t tell if he’s furious or terribly, terribly calm.
“I- I thought it didn’t mean anything to you,” Jan says uncertainly, clearly uncomfortable looking Linke straight in the eyes. Is it Linke he’s uncomfortable with or just honesty? Jan keeps his true feelings close. He always has.
“What are you talking about?” Linke’s eyes are fierce, brutal. His grip on Jan turns painful. “It- you- mean everything to me.”
And just like that, Frank knows he’s lost them. They’re together now or will be soon enough.
An ache blooms in Frank’s chest, first one, then another. He thinks hard about other things, things that don’t involve miniscule blondes or tall bassists, or the painful sores opening up all over his heart. They’ll fade quickly enough. They always do.
“Good call,” Juri tells him, clapping him on the shoulder. Frank, pushing the pain away, beams. It was a very good call.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell.
ØØØ
It’s all very silly. So much distress and heartbreak over a couple of symbols.
Frank’s not prone to thinking too deeply about many things, so it takes him ages to realize this.
He likes warm days and cold days, summer and winter, swimming and skiing. He likes pretty girls and handsome boys, long hair and short. He likes making love slowly as much as he likes a quick fuck. Why would he ever settle for just one person? His hands, they’re blank because there could never be enough room to write all the names of the people he loves.
All those mean kids in school were wrong. It’s not that nobody loves him.
It’s that Frank loves everybody.
Because originality can go fuck itself. Also, I don't even have enough tags for all these pairings. Franky/Everyone. Written for trinityscar.
Everyone’s born with two names written on the palms of their hands. One is the name of your true love. Nobody’s quite sure what the other name means anymore. It used to be your mortal enemy. Most people still say it is. Some say it’s your best friend. Some people even say it’s the person who will one day save your life.
Frank wouldn’t know. He was born without a name on either hand. It’s not completely unheard of. Every population has anomalies. About 13% of the human population is born without one name or the other. Most people consider it a sign of good fortune. It means you have no enemies. Mean kids like to say it means no one will ever love you.
Another 4% of the population has three or more names. These people are typically exquisitely beautiful or incredibly famous, or horribly dangerous.
About 1% has no names at all. At least that’s what Frank’s parents always told him. The numbers might have changed in the last twenty years. Frank’s not so good with numbers.
It’s not like these things are easy to figure out. The names are private for a lot of people, and most everyone wears fingerless gloves in public, even when it’s oppressively hot.
He’s not all that weird, Frank reminds himself in the morning when he wakes up and brushes his teeth, looks in the mirror and decides whether he’s going to wear gloves that day. Linke only has one name. It’s on his left hand: Jan Werner.
There are worse things than no names. Much, much worse. Jan’s got Timo’s name on his left hand. Timo doesn’t have Jan’s name on either. His left hand is covered in a tattoo, but it’s faded. Frank’s seen Timo’s palms enough times to know David’s name is on one hand…and Jan’s isn’t.
Most people say that the name on your right hand is your true love. No one’s a hundred percent sure, of course, but almost every happy couple has matching names on their right hands. It could just be chance, like Linke says, the same way most people are right-handed but some are left-handed. But Frank doesn’t think Linke believes that, not when he sees the way Linke looks at Jan sometimes.
Mama always said Frank’s hands mean he had to go out and find his own true love. He couldn’t wait around for someone to come find him. His destiny wasn’t set in stone.
Frank would maybe like his destiny to be set in stone.
Like most everyone, he’s a little obsessed with the names and their meanings. He’s gotten good at telling when someone’s met their people and liked them or hated them. It’s all in the hand movements, all in the eyes. Some people are all too proud to show off that they belong to someone, and others are terrified of anyone ever finding out. There’s a reason some people say “truest love” and not true love. You can find your people and spend the rest of your life alone.
They don’t bother him anymore, his blank palms. They confuse him, sure, but he’s not sad or angry that there’s nothing to tell him where to go next, who to meet, or who to look out for. Mama always said it gave him a freedom other people didn’t get to have. No guilt, no fear of consequences. He wouldn’t ever be held down by someone he barely knew.
Frank misses Mama. She always gave such good advice.
ØØØ
When he was little, Frank used to write different names on his palms every day. He did it to fit in. He doesn’t do that anymore.
There was a one-hander celebrity when Frank was about ten who had a fake name tattooed on her blank hand. It was a generic name, Thomas Schneider, could have been anyone. It was the sort of name Frank would choose because it could be anyone.
She died. Thomas Schneider, a fan of a rival celebrity, kidnapped her, tortured her, and killed her. He went to jail for life, but she was still gone. It was all over the news for months, a huge tragedy. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
These days most one-handers- and others- stick to gloves. It’s dangerous to do otherwise, to pretend to be something you’re not. People are too curious, too focused on the names. It’s better to be honest than to chance it. The gloves are a shield, anyhow, a way to fit in when you don’t.
A crazy man on a bus once told Frank the names don’t mean anything. It’s all in your head. If you want someone- anyone- to love you forever, is it so hard to look at your hands and say there, that’s the answer to all my problems?
Frank needs to stop listening to crazy people. And Linke. All these theories make his head hurt. They don’t even make things clearer.
ØØØ
Only weeks since Frank last saw him and the first thing he does is throw his arms around Juri and plant a wet one right on his lips. Juri gives him an amused look, and Frank’s whole body lights up because Juri is the greatest.
He’s seen Juri’s hands. His name is not on them. That does not bother him. What do names matter to someone who hasn’t any? And Juri’s willing, always so willing.
Frank loves all his bandmates, but Juri is by far the one he likes the best.
Because Juri is always relaxed and willing to do what everyone else wants.
Because Juri thinks about the band first and not one specific person.
Because Juri doesn’t focus on the names the way Jan or Linke or Timo does. He doesn’t hide his names like Jan or Timo or David, and he doesn’t pine over them like Jan or Linke or Timo does.
Juri’s got two names because Juri is nice and normal like that. His left hand has a long name in Cyrillic and his right has two short lines of Japanese or Chinese writing (Frank doesn’t know the difference). Juri, of course, can read both of them and has done so for Frank multiple times. They’re elegant and exotic, women’s names. Juri hasn’t met either of them, knows where to look but doesn’t worry enough to try. If they’re important enough, they’ll find him. If not, well…Juri can find someone else.
That’s what’s great about Juri: he’s so easygoing. He’s not concerned about the lack of names on Frank’s hands any more than he is about the two on his own. He doesn’t look at Frank as something secondary, a holdover until he finds who he’s meant to have.
Instead, they have fun. They have fun, and it’s amazing, and Frank never wants to give Juri up until he gets distracted by Linke’s pale throat or Jan’s long fingers, or Timo’s cheekbones or David’s pretty hair.
Frank’s not very good at the whole monogamy thing.
ØØØ
Frank used to wonder whether his names were just late in showing up, like maybe one day he would wake up and they’d be right there, telling the whole world he belonged to somebody. He used to stare at his hands, thinking if he wanted it hard enough, they would show up. He looked pretty stupid doing it, so he stopped. Along the way, he stopped wondering, too. Names are there at birth or they’re not.
He doesn’t have to wear the gloves now that they’re away from their old management. If he wants, he can go gloveless every day. It’s not even like he’s trying to hide it anymore.
It feels weird the first day he doesn’t wear them. Everyone looks at him, tries to catch a glimpse at his palms. Frank smiles sunnily at them and keeps walking, resisting the urge to shove his hands into his pockets.
In the end, he puts his gloves back on. Not because he’s trying to hide, but because he doesn’t think it’s very polite, shoving something personal like that in everyone’s faces. You’re not supposed to look at other people’s palms unless they show you or say you can- it’s rude. Frank doesn’t want to be rude.
It makes for a better pick up line, anyway, when they don’t know beforehand.
ØØØ
Jan’s name is on Linke’s hand. Timo’s name is on Jan’s. David’s is on Timo’s. Timo’s might be written on David’s. Frank wouldn’t know. He’s never seen David’s palms. He likes to think Linke’s name is on one of David’s, just to make things fair, make the names mean something else or nothing at all. Their hands are the stuff of soap operas.
It’s not crazy, them having each other’s names. A lot of childhood friends are like that. Parents start their kids out early because who knows which name is which and what the other means. Teachers are always complaining about parents badgering them for classroom changes because this kid has that kid’s name. No, the crazy, soap opera part of this is that the names don’t match up. That’s not normal.
Frank has fooled around with all four of them. It was cool once they found out he had no names. They do it because he’s not the end of the road. He’s practice. That’s what everyone thinks.
Frank’s not bitter. He has his fun, then sits back with Juri, and they laugh about the circles the others run ‘round each other. Juri laughs all the harder when he hears about Frank’s theories, of which Frank has many. Juri never asks how Frank knows what’s written on their bandmates’ palms- and they’re covered almost all the time, even Timo’s, just laughs along with him. Maybe it’s cruel, but it is silly how much people get caught up in the names.
When Frank does feel down about letting himself be used, he goes to Juri. Juri’s always glad to see him. He’s also got a dick like a ruler, and hell if they don’t put that to good use.
ØØØ
Frank once met someone whose hands were littered with names. She was achingly beautiful and gloriously kind, and she fucked like a succubus. She may or may not have been a prostitute. She said people tried to read every name sometimes, searching for their own in the graffiti that was her hands. Frank told her he couldn’t read, kissed the name curled around her pinky, and heard her laugh for the first time all night.
ØØØ
Frank gets along great with the Halbigs from the moment he first meets them. They’re a bit strange, very colorful and bouncy, but they like to have fun. The little one isn’t allowed to drink, but the older can.
This is a very important fact because this is why Frank ends up nursing a dark brew with Jo Halbig on a Friday night, Jo with his face in his ungloved hands.
“Look,” Jo tells Frank, showing the other singer his palms. His gloves lie beside him, checkered black, blue, and pink cloth over the palms and black mesh everywhere else. Jo has many pairs of gloves, different ones to match whatever he’s wearing. Frank is a bit jealous. His old management never gave him enough to afford more than one pair and, now that he’s away from them, he doesn’t have enough money lying around to color-coordinate more than one or two outfits.
Frank shakes his head. “I don’t know them.”
He should recognize them, but no one tells Frank these sorts of things, that Jo’s bandmates don’t go by their real names, that Schlagi is part of a last name and Mäx is a diminutive, and Fabi is short for something else. It might have been obvious to everyone else, but Frank isn’t up-to-date on what Bavarians call themselves. Frank’s band uses their real names. Even Linke goes by a full part of his own name.
No one ever accuses Frank of being overly inquisitive.
“That’s not the point,” Jo groans. “Names- fuck- names don’t mean you can’t fall in love with anyone else.” He looks down at his palms, at the names written there. “I wanted it to be her. I still want it to be her. But she’s not on here. Fuck, I just wish they would stop.”
“What would stop?”
“These feelings. If someone isn’t on your palms, what’s the point, right?” He grabs Frank’s shirt and pulls him close. “Right?”
“I don’t have any names,” Frank tells him.
Jo looks surprised. He releases Frank’s shirt.
“Really?”
Frank pulls off his gloves- soft, brown leather with black stitching- and shows him. There’s a second when it looks like Jo’s stopped breathing, then he sucks in a harsh breath.
“Write your name,” Frank tells the singer, “and tonight I’ll be your somebody.” The words fall from his lips easily. He’s said them so many times. The formula’s so perfect. It gets him laid every time.
Every time.
ØØØ
All the old stories, the classics, and the fairy tales say it’s your true love on your right hand and your archenemy on your left. Macbeth had Lady Macbeth on his right and Banquo on his left. Faust had Gretchen and Mephistopheles. Karl had Amalia and Franz. Even Simba had Nala and Scar, and they were lions.
It’s always the true love on your right and your archenemy on your left. It never changes, not in the old stories. Everything is so simple, so straightforward. But nowadays? No one has archenemies these days. And what about the normal people who never upset anyone? Did they have archenemies back then, too?
It’s all really, really silly when you think about it. The world would be a much simpler place if your true love was on your right hand and your archenemy on your left.
It would be a much simpler place if there weren’t any names at all.
ØØØ
Linke’s one of his favorites because Linke is so easy to figure out. In love, at least. Linke’s one of that 13% born with only one name, and it’d be pretty ridiculous to call Jan his archenemy.
Secretly, Frank thinks the name Jan tattooed over on his right hand is Linke’s and not just because it makes things fair. The game might be silly, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt people. Frank doesn’t like to see his friends get hurt.
The problem is Jan and his other hand, the one he’s tattooed over to keep anyone from seeing. If Timo’s on one hand, who’s Jan hiding from? Jan’s naturally guarded, and Timo’s got a tattoo on one hand, too, but…it hurts Frank’s head to think too hard about Jan’s tattoo hiding any name but Linke’s. That’s easy. It makes sense.
Linke’s so caught up in Jan and Jan’s dilemma, it’s frustrating. He agrees with Frank that it’s not fair for Timo Sonnenschein to be scrawled across Jan’s palm, but he came to that conclusion on his own because Frank doesn’t talk about fair and not fair with the guy who complains he takes inconceivably long in the bathroom. It took Frank a while, but now he thinks Linke was implying that he knows what’s on Timo’s other hand, and it’s not Jan’s name.
Frank always thought Linke was above that sort of thing. Sure, he jokes around, but that’s not the same as being the romantic type. Yet he pays inordinate attention to palms, particularly those of his friends.
ØØØ
Tonight Linke kisses his palms, then the inside of his knuckles, all the way up to Frank’s fingertips.
“I always wished my hands were blank,” he tells Frank softly, “when I didn’t wish I had another name.” Frank doesn’t protest, doesn’t say how he doesn’t understand how it’s not obvious to Linke. Love’s always been so easy for Frank to understand.
“You can pass,” Frank offers. “You can be whichever one you want.” Two-hander or none.
Linke laughs. It sounds painful. “Passing’s not the same as being a two-hander.” Two-hander. It doesn’t even sound like a real word when Linke says it.
Frank flips Linke onto his back. He straddles the bassist and grins at him.
“What about Jan?” he asks, not needing to spread Linke’s hand to see the name written there. Jan Werner, plain as anything. Every name is written in the same font even when they’re in other languages, the letters shaped the same way in Gambia as in Mongolia as in Paraguay as in Tunisia. No one knows where the names came from any more than they know why some people have too many and some too few.
Frank’s heard Linke’s arguments before, how Jan Werner’s not like Timo Sonnenschein. The name on Linke’s palm, Linke says, could be someone else. It probably is someone else, he likes to add quietly.
Frank, frankly, thinks that’s stupid.
Linke doesn’t argue this time.
“What about him?” he asks instead, like tonight isn’t about Jan. Like tonight is about them. The lights are on bright. They’re not hiding anything.
Frank smiles prettily. It’s never about just them.
“You know what I think?” he asks Linke, grasping the bassist’s left hand between both of his. He turns it over, uncurling Linke’s long fingers from his palm. Jan Werner. He traces the name with his index finger. There’s no difference where skin meets name. They’re one and the same. Nothing short of acid can get rid of a name. What would it feel like to have someone’s name forever branded in your skin? “I think he’s your true love. You like him, don’t you? He’s your friend, isn’t he? What could be simpler than that?”
Frank curls Linke’s hand back up. Sometimes it hurts more than other times, seeing a name, knowing the bearer knows their person, likes their person. He holds his smile. It’s easy to hide behind a smile.
Then he lowers himself onto Linke’s cock and thanks God there are some thing’s Linke isn’t too smart about.
ØØØ
Timo is harder to deal with than Linke. He’s so guilt-ridden that Frank has to drag kisses out of him, has to work to get the sounds he wants. It’s David this and David that, what would David think, and what do you think David’s thinking about now. He’s so distracted. It’s all very sad. Why? Because David doesn’t feel the same way, else Frank would never get to fool around with the guitarist’s best friend.
That’s what started the theories spinning in Frank’s head. Or hypotheses, whatever, since Juri and Linke have corrected him enough times for Frank to know he’s using the wrong word. Timo’s hands tell him so much about what is and what can’t be. There’s no way there’s another Timo Sonnenschein out there. With Jan’s name you can wonder and say, it might be someone else, but not with Timo Sonnenschein. It’s too unique a name. If Jan has Timo’s name and Timo doesn’t have Jan’s, then the names can’t be your true love and your archenemy. You can’t be someone’s true love and that person not be yours, too. It’s the same with archenemies. That’s what those words mean: there’s only one. Except for those people that have multiple names on one hand. Frank doesn’t know what’s up with them.
In any case, the names mean something else, like your truest love or your worst enemy, or something altogether different.
For all that Frank feels sorry for Jan, he doesn’t blame Timo, doesn’t hold it against him in any way. Timo feels guilty about Jan, as much as he feels guilty about being with Frank. And Frank likes him, anyway. They’re almost matched in height and build, yet Timo’s thinner, less muscular. Wiry. Frank knows he’s good-looking, but Timo…Timo has something sculpted about him. His lips are shockingly beautiful, his cheekbones high and sharp. It’s a nice contrast, the two of them. Timo’s nice. He’s a good man, if a bit too passionate about some things. Frank likes passion, but Timo’s sort is angry and that’s not always very nice.
Don’t think Frank forces Timo. He doesn’t. Timo wants it as much as Frank does. He wakes Frank up sometimes, pulls him aside in plain view of David because it’s all part of the game. Sometimes Frank is a knight, come to rescue Timo, and other times he’s a pawn, just a piece in the game between Timo and David.
Knight or pawn, Frank will be whatever his friends want him to be, because being friends with someone is all about making that person feel good about himself. At least, that’s what Frank thinks.
ØØØ
David doesn’t take his gloves off even when he’s completely naked. He’s cautious, doesn’t want Frank to know what he’s hiding.
One name is Timo’s. Frank knows that. You can’t have a best friend like that and not have their name scrawled on one palm. Close siblings sometimes have each other’s names, their bond broadcast at birth, but it’s almost never assumed to be, um, incestuous. Because that’s illegal, Frank reminds himself. It’s rare that names don’t match up. It honestly is. If someone’s name is on your palm, you can pretty much bet that person has your name on his. That’s why Jan is so weird.
David denies he has Timo Sonnenschein hidden anywhere under those gloves. Frank lets him. What’s a no-namer know about love or fate, or any of that?
David can be cruel that way. He’s a genius, a master at his craft, and Frank is little more than an instrument to him. A proxy, he calls Frank when Frank gets too close to something meaningful, nothing more than a stand-in.
Frank’s got a thick skull, though- he’s stubborn as anything when he wants to be- and David has such pretty hair and such nice hips. He doesn’t bug or badger Frank, just stays off in his own world most of the time so that any attention is surprising, welcome, wonderful.
Those little bits of attention are addictive. A compliment from David, who doesn’t think twice about calling you an idiot for not getting something that’s so obvious to him, feels like sunshine after weeks of rain.
ØØØ
Palm tattoos fade. They just do. The names, of course, don’t. Nothing short of acid or cutting the skin off can make them go away. Even then, the names will come back if the skin heals enough. But tattoos on top of them? They don’t last long.
Frank’s not a deductive genius. But he knows about love, and he knows how bizarre people can get about it. He banks on it all the time. When the world’s out looking for their soul mates, you gotta be creative and more than a bit crafty to get attention.
If you try hard enough, you can see right through the tattoo on Timo’s hand to the name underneath. It’s old, never been refreshed. Because hiding the name doesn’t matter to him.
Jan’s, though, Jan’s palm is a mess of scar tissue from all the times he’s had it redone. The same symbol etched again and again because the name keeps reappearing. Jan might just think it’s reappearing, actually, since Frank’s never been able to read it.
And that speaks volumes.
Jan always says he got the idea from Timo, that they got their tattoos together. They alone know the names on each other’s palms. Frank’s not sure that’s true. The part about Jan copying Timo. Timo might have voiced it, but it’s Jan who cares so much about covering up.
Which means it’s someone he knows and someone who stands a good chance of seeing their name if the tattoo faded too much.
Frank can’t think of many people that would fit for. But he does know that tattoo’s been there longer than he’s known Jan.
ØØØ
Bill Kaulitz of Tokio Hotel has lace gloves. Feminine, inky black, star-patterned lace. Frank’s never been with him but he would, just to touch those gloves. It’s a bit of a fetish.
Tokio Hotel is always in the news, an article coming out every couple of months discussing who may or may not be on Bill’s palms. Frank always gets a little too absorbed in these stories, snatching up a copy of the latest issue of Bild or perching in front of the TV, drawing his knees up to his chest, enrapt. Linke makes fun of him for it. Timo just looks at him in disgust.
So Tokio Hotel isn’t a favorite of his bandmates’. Frank doesn’t care too much for some of their favorite things, either.
The thing is, he has this theory about Bill Kaulitz and what names are written on his palms. If he can just get definitive proof that Bill has his twin brother’s name, it will change everything. Because Tom Kaulitz can’t be Bill’s true love, and he can’t be Bill’s mortal enemy. It’ll mean the names aren’t a one-two thing, a dichotomy as Linke says.
If Bill has Tom on one hand, it means Jan’s dilemma isn’t such a dilemma after all.
ØØØ
They’ve been over this before, been through every bit of this conversation. Frank is still surprised Linke’s so hung up on Jan.
He doesn’t want to admit he’s bored, but Frank’s certainly not giving this conversation his full attention. For whatever reason, Linke thinks he can confide in Frank, so Frank will let him talk. He will glance out the window at the clouds passing across the sky, and he will pretend to be fascinated by things he’s heard countless times before.
“What if it’s another Jan Werner, and that’s why-” Linke cuts himself off. What if it’s another Jan Werner, and that’s why he’s never mentioned it? Frank finishes for him. “Timo doesn’t have his name.”
“Jan is pretty weird.” It isn’t normal for someone not to have your name. That’s the point of the names. So you can find each other.
“You don’t know what’s on Jan’s other palm?” It sounds like a question, but Frank’s asked it so many times it’s just a statement by now. He’s just going through the motions with his usual sunny cheer.
Linke shakes his head curtly. “I guess I’m not a good enough friend for him to tell me.”
ØØØ
Jan’s due to get his tattoo redone. Frank can tell because he’s getting antsy. Jan’s normally somewhat twitchy, laughing a little too hard at some jokes and hugging his arms close to his body for no reason, head and eyes always moving as he pays close attention to anything that moves. It’s a bit like a scared bunny rabbit, which might be why Frank wants to pet Jan sometimes and cuddle him close just to get his heart to slow down for a second.
But when his explosive material (it’s pretty cool, just like the sign; makes Frank think of things going boom!! every time he sees it) tattoo fades, he starts hiding his hand. He wears gloves incessantly, tucks his hand under his arm- just the right-, pulls his sleeve down, even starts scratching at his palm. Scratching at his palm. Frank doesn’t know much about tattoo care, but he can’t imagine scratching the skin away will help keep the ink there.
“Can I go with you?” Frank asks when Jan mentions he’s going to a tattoo place. He smiles winningly. “I’ve never seen anyone get a tattoo done.”
Jan agrees because Jan’s about as suspicious as a newborn baby when it comes to Frank.
The place is dark and a bit smoky, walls covered in designs and artwork. There’s an ATM in the corner and a glass-front refrigerator. This makes it feel somewhat more legit to Frank.
“What are you getting done this time?” he asks. He knows what it’s going to be, but conversation is nice.
“Same one,” Jan says, more relaxed now that they’re away from the others. He flashes Frank his palm. The explosion’s doing a fine job of cover-up in Frank’s opinion, since he can’t see what’s underneath. Oh, well. If Jan wants to tattoo half his face, that’s his decision.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Frank asks when Jan’s sitting in front of the tattoo artist, palm extended upwards. Frank never thought about it, but he guesses a couple tattoo artists must know Jan’s secret, too.
“A bit.”
The tattoo artist, a gorgeous dyed brunette with forest green eyes, smiles up at Frank. He smiles back.
“Do you want me to add a line here?” She points to a line just left of the middle of Jan’s palm. “You can make out a few letters there.”
Jan flinches. It’s just a little flinch, but Frank catches it.
“Yes,” he agrees quickly. “That’s a great idea.”
Frank watches as she does Jan’s palm. He pretends to be interested in the process- it’s not hard, since he hasn’t seen a tattoo done before- but he’s really looking for those letters she mentioned. It takes almost half an hour before he finds the shapes of a string of letters: ris.
Ris. It isn’t the most common combination. Frank flicks through names in his head, coming up with only one. It has to be Linke’s first name. It has to be.
Jan’s tugging at his arm, which means Frank’s gone off in his own head again. People tell him he does that a lot.
“I’m done,” he tells Frank.
“Okay,” Frank chirps brightly. “Let me see.”
Frank can’t even tell where the new line is.
“Did you want to set up an appointment, too?” the tattoo artist asks as she rings Jan up, glancing at Frank’s palms.
“Oh, I don’t have any names,” Frank says, showing her both palms. Jan giggles at the stunned surprise on her face.
They walk out laughing, the bell on the door jangling behind them.
ØØØ
It’s not drunkenness that makes Jan tell him- it’s desperation.
Jan’s always been anxious. Well, as long as Frank’s know him, at least. Maybe he wasn’t before they met. Maybe Frank makes him nervous. Frank hopes that’s not the case.
Jan’s scratching at his palm again. It’s a nervous habit, one of the many Jan has. This one crops up seemingly randomly, but Frank doesn’t think he would be wrong to say it’s when he’s thinking about that name.
“It’s Linke,” he tells Frank without preamble. Then he drops his head and mumbles something Frank can’t make out, face flushed.
“What’s Linke?” Frank asks because what Frank’s thinking about and what other people are doesn’t always match up. He would rather not make assumptions.
“Th- the name- the name on my right hand.” Jan shows him, but there’s nothing to see. The explosive material symbol covers everything. “You have to be wondering. I know you saw something when you went with me to the tattoo shop. I shouldn’t have let you come. I know you’ve been thinking about it. I know,” he protests when Frank tries to say something. “I know you saw something.”
Frank’s always known the DJ was full of anxiety, but he never realized he was paranoid, too. It’s the truth, though. Frank saw something, and he has been thinking about it. He’s just been thinking about it a lot longer than Jan thinks.
“I did see something,” he agrees. Lying would be pointless. Jan would know if Frank lied. He’s so reluctant to trust people that Frank couldn’t abuse that and expect to remain his friend. It’s not so important, anyhow, keeping it a secret.
“What was it?”
Frank shrugs, smiles uncertainly. “A couple of letters.”
“Which ones?” Jan presses.
“’R’…‘i’…‘s’,” Frank tells him slowly, reluctantly.
Jan looks devastated.
“Then you know,” he says, thunking his head down on the nearest flat surface- in this case, the back of a chair. “You know and you’re going to tell him, and it’s all over and now- now- he’s going to hate me forever.”
Frank thinks he puts it rather succinctly when he says, “What.”
ØØØ
“He’s going to hate me forever,” Jan repeats because he doesn’t understand Frankspeak, and he has the emotional vocabulary of a preteen girl.
“He is not going to hate you forever,” Frank contradicts. That’s just stupid. “Why would he? He’s your friend.”
Jan looks startled. “But- but I have two names.”
“And the other one’s Timo. You’ve never tried to hide that.”
“So you understand why I can’t tell Linke.”
“Uh…no.” Frank doesn’t understand. Frank doesn’t understand at all.
“What don’t you get? Frank, I have to choose one. One’s my true love and the other’s my mortal enemy.” And, wow, that sounds incredibly stupid when Jan says it.
“Do you truly think you have a mortal enemy, Jan?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Look at you!” Frank bursts out, spreading his hands to encompass Jan and all his Jan-ness. “Who could hate you?”
Jan flushes at the compliment. He’s very cute when he flushes. Frank wonders if he should really be helping Jan with this, considering that, if it works out, he’ll lose not just one sex partner but two. He must be a very good friend.
Or a secret romantic like Linke. God.
“I don’t know,” Jan says softly. He turns his hands over, looks at his palms.
“No one, that’s who. You’re too cute.” Frank swipes a thumb over Jan’s cheek, watches him smile.
“Shut up,” Jan mumbles.
“It’s true. I’d like to think I have good taste.”
“Frank,” Jan says, his voice serious, “you would sleep with anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t have favorites.” Frank feels the need to defend his, um, honor. Which is something that he does have.
“I’m your favorite, then?” Jan asks. His voice is shy, the way he is when they’re alone together. He steps closer.
Frank leans their heads together.
“One of them,” he admits because lying to Jan when he’s like this is like lying to a puppy that trusts you with its whole being. It’s impossible and leaves you horribly guilt-ridden if you even try.
Jan laughs half in disbelief and pulls away, though not far. Their hands brush, and Frank wonders why nobody ever asks him what it feels like to have no names. Are they such a burden that the question is unthinkable or does he just happen to know miserable people?
“Do you really think no one hates me?” Jan asks, interrupting Frank’s albeit not-so-deep thoughts.
Always so unsure, Jan is. It’s okay. He’ll forget his insecurities soon enough.
ØØØ
Frank’s only met Max a handful of times, but he adores him for no reason anyone can figure. The drummer-turned-cinematographer annoys the crap out of most people but not Frank. Possibly it’s because Frank sees Max as a way to fill in all the gaps he has about the members of Panik. Max was there before Frank and Juri. He’s known Linke and Jan and Timo and David for years and years, before the band was even created.
That makes him a very valuable source of information. Besides, Max has eyes that ooze into your soul and cheekbones that make Timo’s look dull. Frank likes cheekbones.
Frank is shocked the first time he sees Max’s hands, because there, opposite Craig Something (Something isn’t the actual last name- Frank just can’t remember what it is) is Christian Linke. His eyes must have bugged out because Max laughs and laughs, and tells him not to strain his pretty little head trying to figure it out.
That night, Frank traces the names on Max’s palms and realizes one is lighter than the other. Christian Linke is two or three shades lighter than the other name. He puzzles over that, tracing his friend’s name again and again, Max’s half-crazed grin growing broader all the while.
It finally strikes him the third time they are together why one name is darker than the other. Juri had been patient in the interim, letting Frank study his palms over and over again, Timo and Linke less so. Frank could only catch glimpses of others, looking at the Searching For ads in the newspapers and the palms of happy couples announcing their engagements. Never, ever, ever were the names different shades. Ever. They were always a perfect match.
“This one’s a tattoo, isn’t it?” Frank asks that third time, spreading the hand with Linke’s name on it wide. He can see himself in the restroom mirror, both hands grasping Max’s one.
Max laughs, throws back his head and laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.
“Took you a bit,” Max says, though not unkindly. He’s never unkind to Frank. He leans back against the towel dispenser, watching Frank do up his fly.
“Why?” Why would Max do something like that?
“Because-” Max says, picking one of his gloves up from the where it’s fallen into the sink and yanking it on. He’s suddenly self-conscious about something he never was before. “-if Jan doesn’t figure it out, at least Linke will have someone to turn to.”
Right then, Frank resolves to make Jan figure it out. If Linke’s good enough for Max to do that, to mark his hand for everyone to see, to pretend he is something he’s not for someone he almost never sees, Jan must be missing out on something incredible.
ØØØ
After that, Frank hounds Jan, makes the DJ rue ever telling him his secret. He tells Jan that Bill Kaulitz has his brother’s name on his right hand (which is not a blatant lie; that one video made it look like Kaulitz was part of the last name), and there’s no way Tom’s Bill’s soul mate or his enemy, right? Right? Or what about Beyoncé or Christina Aguilera, or J. Lo? Huh? Huh?!
In the end, Jan gets so frustrated with Frank and his endless knowledge of the names and love lives of pop culture icons that he splutters out something like an agreement. Which is when Frank springs him on Linke. Because Frank is a great friend like that.
This means that Frank is there to hear Jan tell Linke, and he’s there to see the emotions overwhelm Linke’s face (Juri is there, too, as are quite a few other people who were hanging around when Frank dragged Jan into the rehearsal room, but that’s not important). The two of them- Jan and Linke- stand there after Jan’s pronouncement, neither saying a word. Jan’s eyes are the size of Frank’s fists.
Then Linke grasps Jan’s face between his palms and tilts Jan’s chin up until their eyes meet, the height difference alone making the awkward-looking angle a necessity. Jan squirms.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Linke asks, his voice low. Frank can’t tell if he’s furious or terribly, terribly calm.
“I- I thought it didn’t mean anything to you,” Jan says uncertainly, clearly uncomfortable looking Linke straight in the eyes. Is it Linke he’s uncomfortable with or just honesty? Jan keeps his true feelings close. He always has.
“What are you talking about?” Linke’s eyes are fierce, brutal. His grip on Jan turns painful. “It- you- mean everything to me.”
And just like that, Frank knows he’s lost them. They’re together now or will be soon enough.
An ache blooms in Frank’s chest, first one, then another. He thinks hard about other things, things that don’t involve miniscule blondes or tall bassists, or the painful sores opening up all over his heart. They’ll fade quickly enough. They always do.
“Good call,” Juri tells him, clapping him on the shoulder. Frank, pushing the pain away, beams. It was a very good call.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell.
ØØØ
It’s all very silly. So much distress and heartbreak over a couple of symbols.
Frank’s not prone to thinking too deeply about many things, so it takes him ages to realize this.
He likes warm days and cold days, summer and winter, swimming and skiing. He likes pretty girls and handsome boys, long hair and short. He likes making love slowly as much as he likes a quick fuck. Why would he ever settle for just one person? His hands, they’re blank because there could never be enough room to write all the names of the people he loves.
All those mean kids in school were wrong. It’s not that nobody loves him.
It’s that Frank loves everybody.