fic: Please Return To:
Title: Please Return To:
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rated: R-ish
Summary: Frank gets caught in a rain storm at the bus stop. A red-headed stranger lends him a poncho. AU.
Warnings: Unbetaed, language
Notes: Written for manuanya's Bandom Poncho Fic Meme, for gala_apples's prompt, Frank is stuck waiting for a bus in the rain. A redheaded guy comes walking up, and normally Frank probably wouldn't ask, but guys in their late twenties(? Frank's bad at that game) with candy apple red hair are probably more open minded than most. So he asks if he can share the umbrella. The guy grins and pulls open his backpack and passes him a poncho. His reaction is mostly WTF, but Frank takes it, because what else can you do? I hope you like it! Approx. 3,200 words. Original text can be found here.Stupid fucking rain. It had been sunny when he went to work, what the fuck. And now it’s raining, fucking downpouring, actually, and Frank had so not dressed in preparation for this. And this bus stop doesn’t have an awning or anything to block it, so he just gets to huddle by the bus stop sign while the wind buffets his stupid fucking t-shirt. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why didn’t he bring a sweater? He has, like, eighty billion, he could’ve brought one, it hadn’t been that sunny that he couldn’t even bring a sweater with him to work.
And the bus is late. Frank is sure of it. This has to be some sort of karmic kick in the nuts. This is what happens when you cheat on your third grade science test, kids. You get stuck in an inexplicable rain storm in clothes meant more for Not Fucking Raining type weather.
There’s a sudden interruption in the amount of raindrops hitting him, and Frank looks up from where he’s been glowering at the toes of his sneakers in time to see bright red hair and the silver glint of an umbrella handle. The guy holding it stands midway between Frank and the bitchy office woman who’d glared at Frank when he’d asked if she minded sharing her umbrella. And, okay, Frank knows he doesn’t exactly look like All-American John fucking Doe or whatever, but he doesn’t look like the punk kid he used to be in high school, either, so that dirty look had been totally fucking uncalled for. She’d deserved the little ‘well fuck you too’ he’d shot back, even if it had meant she’d gone and stood ten feet away and left him completely exposed. But now this new guy is standing not so far away, and Frank thinks that maybe he could actually talk to him. He’s got a nice face, and, okay, bright red hair? Not, like, ginger, either, but bright fucking red - the kind that makes stop signs go ‘damn, that’s red.’ He’s wearing this shit-brown suit jacket over an Iron Maiden t-shirt, and he’s got these ridiculous mud boots on over his jeans, and a back pack on his back like he just got out of school, except his boots are muddy as hell. And his hair is bright red.
And he’s got an umbrella.
Frank shivers when another little gust of wind shoves against his back, and cool rain hits like a thousand evil needles Jesus fucking Christ, Frank hates rain. And normally he wouldn’t ask, not after being shot down by a stranger once before, but he’s miserable and he’s pretty sure if he deals with this for much longer, he’ll get sick.
“Hey, Guy,” he offers, before he can lose his nerve. The guy looks over at him, eyebrows shooting up expectantly. He’s actually kinda cute. Fuck, focus Frank. “Um.” He hesitates, then unlocks one arm from around his own waist and gestures at the umbrella. “M-mind sharing?”
And, okay, that stammer had been totally accidental and because of the chill, but it’s totally well-timed and evidently just what Frank needed, because Cute Umbrella Guy’s eyebrows crease up all tragic and he shrugs his backpack down. He rifles through it, murmuring to himself in a tone too low for Frank to make out. Then he lets out an ‘Aha!’ and hands Frank a plastic package with a proud grin.
This . . . is not an umbrella. But Frank doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he fumbles it open. It’s a poncho. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen one in real life before, but that’s exactly what it is. He stares at it, then looks up at the guy who offered it to him; he’s still smiling, all cute and expectant.
Frank puts it on. It’s raining, it’s cold, and this thing will at least stop him from getting wetter than he already is. And it’s warm from being pressed against Cute Umbrella Guy’s back through his bag. He tugs up the hood and huddles down into it, and Cute Umbrella Guy looks ridiculously pleased, so Frank grins back.
“Thanks.”
They stand in a silence that feels awkward, at least on Frank’s end, for a few minutes. Cute Umbrella Guy is bopping his head and humming a tune despite not wearing any earbuds, and he taps the toes of his rubber boots on the concrete of the sidewalk. Frank watches him, like a total creeper, and tries to think of something to say.
Frank’s just starting to feel like maybe he’s warming up, like he won’t die of hypothermia or pneumonia or SARS or something, when the bus finally - fucking finally - pulls up. Cute Umbrella Guy lets Bitchy Office Lady get on first, then lowers his umbrella, shakes it out, and folds it up before climbing on the bus. Frank follows last.
*
By the time he’s paid his fare, Cute Umbrella Guy is already seated. He has earbuds in, and he’s focused on his lap, or something in it. The bus is over half-empty, but Frank sits in front of him anyway. He would’ve sat next to him, would’ve tried to strike up conversation even despite the earbuds, but Cute Umbrella Guy had fortified his seat with his backpack. Frank’s outgoing, but he’s not enough of a dick to actually move the guy’s bag just to sit by him. So, in front it is.
Once he’s seated, he pulls the poncho off and shakes it out to get the water off it. He almost falls out of the damn seat when the bus starts moving, and it’s about then that he realizes he left the plastic bag it came in on the fucking sidewalk. Jesus fucking Christ, Frank is an asshole. And with that wind, there’s no way it’s going to be there by the morning.
He actually slaps his own forehead.
Frank takes a moment of self-loathing, then folds up the poncho. He turns so his back is against the window and he can see Cute Umbrella Guy without craning his neck. He looks really busy. Frank leans enough to look over the seat and sees a sketchpad in Cute Umbrella Guy’s lap. He’s still humming low in his throat, and Frank thinks he recognizes the Misfits. He can’t help but smile a little. And he hates to interrupt him, but . . .
He reaches over the back of the seat and pokes the guy’s shoulder. And it’s not like he tried to bruise him, but he definitely wasn’t gentle and . . . nothing. The guy doesn’t skip a beat. Frank clears his throat, but apparently not loudly enough to be heard over the music.
Bitchy Office Lady coughs pointedly at him and shoots him a dirty look. Frank unabashedly flips her the fuck off. Then he goes back to trying to get Cute Umbrella Guy’s attention.
It takes Frank actually tugging one earbud out of the guy’s ear (and normally he wouldn’t do that, either, he’s not an asshole, but his stop is coming up soon and this is important, okay) for Cute Umbrella Guy to look up. When he does, he looks like he just woke up from a nap, or something.
“What? Oh. Hi!”
Frank manages not to sigh. “Hey,” he says. “Um. Thanks for the poncho?” He hates how it sounds like a question, but Cute Umbrella Guy’s face lights up anyway. Frank doesn’t blush, but it’s a near thing. “But I, uh, I think I forgot the bag it came in.” Cute Umbrella Guy blinks at him. “At the bus stop.” Cute Umbrella Guy blinks at him some more. Frank adds, “On the street.”
“Oh!” Frank starts to nod, but Cute Umbrella Guy just says, “It’s okay. You don’t need to actually keep it in a bag, it just makes it more travel-sized, is all.”
Frank doesn’t think Cute Umbrella Guy understands his point at all, but before he can actually say that, he tucks his earbud back in his ear, and the bus comes to a stop, and Frank has to get off or end up walking two extra blocks back to his apartment. And it’s still pouring. Before he can talk himself out of it, he tugs the poncho back on and gets off the bus.
*
When Frank gets home, the poncho is drenched (but he isn’t!) so he strips it off and sticks it in his dirty laundry, then takes a shower and changes into warm, dry clothes. He calls up his buddy Ray to bitch about the rain and the day and Bitchy Office Lady, and he tells him about Cute Umbrella Guy (although he manfully doesn’t call him that) and the poncho and how he sorta accidentally stole it. And Ray laughs at him, because Ray’s a dick but Frank loves him anyway.
And then he sorta forgets about it. He goes on about his life and goes to work and doesn’t see Cute Umbrella Guy again. It’s not until almost a week later, when he’s doing laundry because he’s out of clean underwear and there are just some lines Frank won’t cross, that he finds the poncho.
It’s dried, but it’s actually really smelly after just sitting at the bottom of his laundry basket for a week. He makes a face and turns to the tag for its care instructions. It’d suck if he had to dry-clean it. Turns out it’s some kind of cotton/poly/rayon blend, and doesn’t need anything special. On the backside of the tag is someone’s writing in Sharpie. It says ‘please return to’ in all capital letters, and then a phone number. No name or anything else.
Frank shrugs and gives it a shot. As he’s listening to the ringback he realizes he has no idea how to even handle the impending conversation. Before he can hang up, though, there’s a voice on the other end.
“Hello? I know you’re there, I can hear background noise. Hellooo? Mikey, did you ass-dial me again? Mikey? I’m hanging up in three seconds if you don’t answer. Mikey! That’s it: one . . . twooooo . . .”
“Wait!” Frank yelps, and actually winces at the sound of his own voice. “Uh, I’m not Mikey. I don’t even know who that is.”
“He’s my kid brother. Who’s this?”
“Frank,” Frank says. “Um, I really hope this is who I think it is. You gave me a poncho the other day? Er, like, last week, I mean.”
“Oh!” And Frank recognizes that, at least. “Hi! How’s the poncho working out for you?”
“Actually, Dude, I’m getting ready to wash it right now. I found your number on the tag? I figured once I had it clean maybe we could meet up and I could give it back.”
And that totally hadn’t been the plan - Frank hadn’t even had a fucking plan - but it sounds good, anyway. There’s a long pause, then Cute Umbrella Guy says,
“. . . Oh. You don’t like it?”
He sounds disappointed, fucking heartbroken, actually, and Frank feels like a dick. For wanting to return someone’s fucking belongings. What the fuck.
“What? No, it’s super cool!” Frank winces again. ‘Super cool’? Seriously? “I mean, it’s great, really, but it’s, y’know, it’s yours, I mean, you should, like, have it, y’know? In case of, like, emergency.”
There’s another long pause. Frank clears his throat and offers, “It said ‘please return to’ so, like.”
“Oh, no, I know,” Cute Umbrella Guy says. He doesn’t sound any less heartbroken, but he adds, “No, we can totally meet up. I’m free around six? There’s this great coffee place, we can go there? I’ll be the one with the coffee.”
Frank wants to point out that Cute Umbrella Guy’s hair would likely point him out to Frank faster than his coffee, especially since it’s a coffee place, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says,
“Okay, cool. Around six?”
Cute Umbrella Guy confirms, and he tells him where to find the coffee place, then hangs up. Frank still doesn’t know his name.
*
The coffee place turns out to be one that Frank goes to on Sundays with his mom after she gets out of church. He recognizes a couple of the employees and smiles politely, then turns to survey the little tables in the place. He sees plenty of people with coffee, but none of them have bright red hair or ponchos. He picks a corner table and slides onto the stool. After a moment’s indecision, he sets the poncho on his lap. He’d stuffed it into a Ziploc bag after it had been dried.
He’s there for over half an hour before deciding Cute Umbrella Guy is probably a no-show. Frank can’t decide if the guy forgot, or if he just really wants Frank to keep the damn poncho. Ten minutes later, Frank decides ‘fuck it’ and slides off his stool. He’ll at least grab a coffee to go, then head back home. It’s not like he has anything special to do, but it’s better than sitting alone in a coffee shop looking like a tool. Maybe. Probably.
He’s just stood when a voice says “Frank?” all hopeful and tentative. Frank turns and sees Cute Umbrella Guy, sans umbrella, smiling at him. Frank smiles back.
“Hey! I didn’t think you were gonna show.”
The guy frowns and looks at his wrist, but there’s no watch there. He looks around and spots the clock on the wall. It reads 7:10. Frank had been late. Cute Umbrella Guy flinches.
“Fuck, sorry. I mean- shit. I totally thought I said seven. I said six, didn’t I.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees gently. “It’s cool, though, I was late.” He doesn’t say just how late, but it seems to calm the guy a little.
“Still, that was kinda douchey.” He bites his lip and realizes that Frank’s standing. “Are you leaving?”
“What?” Frank doesn’t want to see the heartbroken look that matches the heartbroken tone he heard on the phone, so he says, “No way! I was just gonna grab a coffee.”
Cute Umbrella Guy looks relieved. “I’ll buy!”
He doesn’t even let Frank argue, just grabs his wrist and leads him up to the counter. Frank wants to kick himself for noticing that his hand is soft and warm. Cute Umbrella Guy orders himself a coffee that sounds like it has a lot of caffeine and a lot of sugar in the largest size they offer, then looks expectantly at Frank. Frank stammers out his own order, and the guy giggles - giggles, like he’s the biggest dork on the planet (never mind that Frank giggles, too, shut up, that’s not the point) - and pays just like he promised he would.
When they’re sitting back at the little table, Frank says,
“You didn’t have to do that, Man.”
The guy shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says. “I felt bad for being late. Or, like, lying to you about the time.”
Frank smiles, because he sounds genuinely remorseful about that. He opens his mouth to tell him it’s cool, it’s no big deal, it’s not like he had anything important going on, but what comes out is,
“I don’t even know your name.”
The guy blinks at him for a moment, coffee halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”
Frank gestures at him. “You never told me your name. You’re in my contacts list as ‘Poncho Guy’.” That’s not true, he’s in there as Cute Umbrella Guy. But there is no fucking way in hell Frank’s about to admit that. Cute Umbrella Guy grins almost shyly.
“Oh. It’s Gerard. Way.”
Frank offers his hand with a smile. “Hi, Gerard. Nice to finally meet you.”
*
As it turns out, Gerard is an incredibly interesting person. Frank learns quickly that he can say one brief sentence, make a vague opinion about something, and Gerard can run with it in the most fascinating ways. They end up talking for hours, long enough that they’re actually asked to leave by the staff so the place can close.
They pack up their things, and they’re still talking as they start walking down the sidewalk together. Frank’s sorta starving - Gerard’s topics are all starting to revolve around food, so he figures he’s not the only one - so Frank suggests going to an all-night diner down the block. The coffee’s not as good, but the food is cheap, and pretty tasty, considering.
Gerard learns that Frank is working a dead-end job as a movie store clerk, but that his dream is to write a screen-play and then do the makeup and costuming for it when it becomes a film. Frank learns that Gerard is a comic book writer, and he does his own art, and that’s what he’d been working on before coming to meet Frank. Frank loves comic books sort of a lot, and they launch into a discussion about them that Frank is 100% involved in.
It’s pushing one AM when they finally leave the diner, and it’s raining. They stand on the stoop, where there’s this awning to shield them, and stare at the falling rain.
“I don’t have my umbrella,” Gerard says mournfully. Frank looks up at him and almost laughs.
“Dude. You’ve got your poncho, though!”
Gerard blinks at him, then brightens. “Oh yeah!”
He lifts the plastic bag it’s in and unzips it, then tugs out the poncho. He seems to realize belatedly that Frank’s screwed, and looks between Frank and the poncho for a moment. Then he nods decisively.
“We’ll share,” he declares.
It takes some adjusting, and some comical ‘wtf?’ style staring on Frank’s part, but they manage to huddle under the poncho together. The neck hole is actually big enough to fit both of their heads, but the hood is all stretched out. When they start walking, Frank can’t stop giggling. They trip over each other way too many times, almost fall, and only get about ten feet before Frank stops them.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, still giggling. “Three-legged raced, Dude, you ever done one?”
Gerard’s face screws up in confusion. “No?”
Frank snickers. “Oh God, this’ll be fun.”
He wraps his arm around Gerard’s waist and tugs them snugly together. Gerard is pleasantly warm through their clothes. Focus, Frank. He presses his right leg to Gerard’s left, then directs him to step when Frank does. It takes some practice, but eventually, they manage a rhythm that works.
They decide to go to Frank’s apartment first, that way Gerard can just wear the poncho home. When they reach the steps, though, Frank doesn’t want to let him go. He just stands there, arm around Gerard’s waist, and looks up at the door. At some point, the hood slipped off, so their heads are wet. Gerard’s hair tickles at Frank’s temple a little bit, and it’s enough to spur the question from his mouth.
“D’you wanna come inside?”
His voice comes out way softer than he’d planned, but he can’t help it. Gerard’s washed in the light from the stoop, and his hair kinda looks like it’s glowing, and his eyelashes are wet from the rain, and he’s got this freckle or mole or something on the end of his nose that Frank has the irrational urge to lick. The guy just looks beautiful.
Gerard doesn’t answer at first, and Frank worries that maybe he overstepped his bounds or something. But then Gerard smiles and nods and whispers,
“Yeah.”
*
Frank wakes up the next morning smushed up against Gerard. They’re both naked, except for that stupid poncho.
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rated: R-ish
Summary: Frank gets caught in a rain storm at the bus stop. A red-headed stranger lends him a poncho. AU.
Warnings: Unbetaed, language
Notes: Written for manuanya's Bandom Poncho Fic Meme, for gala_apples's prompt, Frank is stuck waiting for a bus in the rain. A redheaded guy comes walking up, and normally Frank probably wouldn't ask, but guys in their late twenties(? Frank's bad at that game) with candy apple red hair are probably more open minded than most. So he asks if he can share the umbrella. The guy grins and pulls open his backpack and passes him a poncho. His reaction is mostly WTF, but Frank takes it, because what else can you do? I hope you like it! Approx. 3,200 words. Original text can be found here.Stupid fucking rain. It had been sunny when he went to work, what the fuck. And now it’s raining, fucking downpouring, actually, and Frank had so not dressed in preparation for this. And this bus stop doesn’t have an awning or anything to block it, so he just gets to huddle by the bus stop sign while the wind buffets his stupid fucking t-shirt. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why didn’t he bring a sweater? He has, like, eighty billion, he could’ve brought one, it hadn’t been that sunny that he couldn’t even bring a sweater with him to work.
And the bus is late. Frank is sure of it. This has to be some sort of karmic kick in the nuts. This is what happens when you cheat on your third grade science test, kids. You get stuck in an inexplicable rain storm in clothes meant more for Not Fucking Raining type weather.
There’s a sudden interruption in the amount of raindrops hitting him, and Frank looks up from where he’s been glowering at the toes of his sneakers in time to see bright red hair and the silver glint of an umbrella handle. The guy holding it stands midway between Frank and the bitchy office woman who’d glared at Frank when he’d asked if she minded sharing her umbrella. And, okay, Frank knows he doesn’t exactly look like All-American John fucking Doe or whatever, but he doesn’t look like the punk kid he used to be in high school, either, so that dirty look had been totally fucking uncalled for. She’d deserved the little ‘well fuck you too’ he’d shot back, even if it had meant she’d gone and stood ten feet away and left him completely exposed. But now this new guy is standing not so far away, and Frank thinks that maybe he could actually talk to him. He’s got a nice face, and, okay, bright red hair? Not, like, ginger, either, but bright fucking red - the kind that makes stop signs go ‘damn, that’s red.’ He’s wearing this shit-brown suit jacket over an Iron Maiden t-shirt, and he’s got these ridiculous mud boots on over his jeans, and a back pack on his back like he just got out of school, except his boots are muddy as hell. And his hair is bright red.
And he’s got an umbrella.
Frank shivers when another little gust of wind shoves against his back, and cool rain hits like a thousand evil needles Jesus fucking Christ, Frank hates rain. And normally he wouldn’t ask, not after being shot down by a stranger once before, but he’s miserable and he’s pretty sure if he deals with this for much longer, he’ll get sick.
“Hey, Guy,” he offers, before he can lose his nerve. The guy looks over at him, eyebrows shooting up expectantly. He’s actually kinda cute. Fuck, focus Frank. “Um.” He hesitates, then unlocks one arm from around his own waist and gestures at the umbrella. “M-mind sharing?”
And, okay, that stammer had been totally accidental and because of the chill, but it’s totally well-timed and evidently just what Frank needed, because Cute Umbrella Guy’s eyebrows crease up all tragic and he shrugs his backpack down. He rifles through it, murmuring to himself in a tone too low for Frank to make out. Then he lets out an ‘Aha!’ and hands Frank a plastic package with a proud grin.
This . . . is not an umbrella. But Frank doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he fumbles it open. It’s a poncho. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen one in real life before, but that’s exactly what it is. He stares at it, then looks up at the guy who offered it to him; he’s still smiling, all cute and expectant.
Frank puts it on. It’s raining, it’s cold, and this thing will at least stop him from getting wetter than he already is. And it’s warm from being pressed against Cute Umbrella Guy’s back through his bag. He tugs up the hood and huddles down into it, and Cute Umbrella Guy looks ridiculously pleased, so Frank grins back.
“Thanks.”
They stand in a silence that feels awkward, at least on Frank’s end, for a few minutes. Cute Umbrella Guy is bopping his head and humming a tune despite not wearing any earbuds, and he taps the toes of his rubber boots on the concrete of the sidewalk. Frank watches him, like a total creeper, and tries to think of something to say.
Frank’s just starting to feel like maybe he’s warming up, like he won’t die of hypothermia or pneumonia or SARS or something, when the bus finally - fucking finally - pulls up. Cute Umbrella Guy lets Bitchy Office Lady get on first, then lowers his umbrella, shakes it out, and folds it up before climbing on the bus. Frank follows last.
*
By the time he’s paid his fare, Cute Umbrella Guy is already seated. He has earbuds in, and he’s focused on his lap, or something in it. The bus is over half-empty, but Frank sits in front of him anyway. He would’ve sat next to him, would’ve tried to strike up conversation even despite the earbuds, but Cute Umbrella Guy had fortified his seat with his backpack. Frank’s outgoing, but he’s not enough of a dick to actually move the guy’s bag just to sit by him. So, in front it is.
Once he’s seated, he pulls the poncho off and shakes it out to get the water off it. He almost falls out of the damn seat when the bus starts moving, and it’s about then that he realizes he left the plastic bag it came in on the fucking sidewalk. Jesus fucking Christ, Frank is an asshole. And with that wind, there’s no way it’s going to be there by the morning.
He actually slaps his own forehead.
Frank takes a moment of self-loathing, then folds up the poncho. He turns so his back is against the window and he can see Cute Umbrella Guy without craning his neck. He looks really busy. Frank leans enough to look over the seat and sees a sketchpad in Cute Umbrella Guy’s lap. He’s still humming low in his throat, and Frank thinks he recognizes the Misfits. He can’t help but smile a little. And he hates to interrupt him, but . . .
He reaches over the back of the seat and pokes the guy’s shoulder. And it’s not like he tried to bruise him, but he definitely wasn’t gentle and . . . nothing. The guy doesn’t skip a beat. Frank clears his throat, but apparently not loudly enough to be heard over the music.
Bitchy Office Lady coughs pointedly at him and shoots him a dirty look. Frank unabashedly flips her the fuck off. Then he goes back to trying to get Cute Umbrella Guy’s attention.
It takes Frank actually tugging one earbud out of the guy’s ear (and normally he wouldn’t do that, either, he’s not an asshole, but his stop is coming up soon and this is important, okay) for Cute Umbrella Guy to look up. When he does, he looks like he just woke up from a nap, or something.
“What? Oh. Hi!”
Frank manages not to sigh. “Hey,” he says. “Um. Thanks for the poncho?” He hates how it sounds like a question, but Cute Umbrella Guy’s face lights up anyway. Frank doesn’t blush, but it’s a near thing. “But I, uh, I think I forgot the bag it came in.” Cute Umbrella Guy blinks at him. “At the bus stop.” Cute Umbrella Guy blinks at him some more. Frank adds, “On the street.”
“Oh!” Frank starts to nod, but Cute Umbrella Guy just says, “It’s okay. You don’t need to actually keep it in a bag, it just makes it more travel-sized, is all.”
Frank doesn’t think Cute Umbrella Guy understands his point at all, but before he can actually say that, he tucks his earbud back in his ear, and the bus comes to a stop, and Frank has to get off or end up walking two extra blocks back to his apartment. And it’s still pouring. Before he can talk himself out of it, he tugs the poncho back on and gets off the bus.
*
When Frank gets home, the poncho is drenched (but he isn’t!) so he strips it off and sticks it in his dirty laundry, then takes a shower and changes into warm, dry clothes. He calls up his buddy Ray to bitch about the rain and the day and Bitchy Office Lady, and he tells him about Cute Umbrella Guy (although he manfully doesn’t call him that) and the poncho and how he sorta accidentally stole it. And Ray laughs at him, because Ray’s a dick but Frank loves him anyway.
And then he sorta forgets about it. He goes on about his life and goes to work and doesn’t see Cute Umbrella Guy again. It’s not until almost a week later, when he’s doing laundry because he’s out of clean underwear and there are just some lines Frank won’t cross, that he finds the poncho.
It’s dried, but it’s actually really smelly after just sitting at the bottom of his laundry basket for a week. He makes a face and turns to the tag for its care instructions. It’d suck if he had to dry-clean it. Turns out it’s some kind of cotton/poly/rayon blend, and doesn’t need anything special. On the backside of the tag is someone’s writing in Sharpie. It says ‘please return to’ in all capital letters, and then a phone number. No name or anything else.
Frank shrugs and gives it a shot. As he’s listening to the ringback he realizes he has no idea how to even handle the impending conversation. Before he can hang up, though, there’s a voice on the other end.
“Hello? I know you’re there, I can hear background noise. Hellooo? Mikey, did you ass-dial me again? Mikey? I’m hanging up in three seconds if you don’t answer. Mikey! That’s it: one . . . twooooo . . .”
“Wait!” Frank yelps, and actually winces at the sound of his own voice. “Uh, I’m not Mikey. I don’t even know who that is.”
“He’s my kid brother. Who’s this?”
“Frank,” Frank says. “Um, I really hope this is who I think it is. You gave me a poncho the other day? Er, like, last week, I mean.”
“Oh!” And Frank recognizes that, at least. “Hi! How’s the poncho working out for you?”
“Actually, Dude, I’m getting ready to wash it right now. I found your number on the tag? I figured once I had it clean maybe we could meet up and I could give it back.”
And that totally hadn’t been the plan - Frank hadn’t even had a fucking plan - but it sounds good, anyway. There’s a long pause, then Cute Umbrella Guy says,
“. . . Oh. You don’t like it?”
He sounds disappointed, fucking heartbroken, actually, and Frank feels like a dick. For wanting to return someone’s fucking belongings. What the fuck.
“What? No, it’s super cool!” Frank winces again. ‘Super cool’? Seriously? “I mean, it’s great, really, but it’s, y’know, it’s yours, I mean, you should, like, have it, y’know? In case of, like, emergency.”
There’s another long pause. Frank clears his throat and offers, “It said ‘please return to’ so, like.”
“Oh, no, I know,” Cute Umbrella Guy says. He doesn’t sound any less heartbroken, but he adds, “No, we can totally meet up. I’m free around six? There’s this great coffee place, we can go there? I’ll be the one with the coffee.”
Frank wants to point out that Cute Umbrella Guy’s hair would likely point him out to Frank faster than his coffee, especially since it’s a coffee place, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says,
“Okay, cool. Around six?”
Cute Umbrella Guy confirms, and he tells him where to find the coffee place, then hangs up. Frank still doesn’t know his name.
*
The coffee place turns out to be one that Frank goes to on Sundays with his mom after she gets out of church. He recognizes a couple of the employees and smiles politely, then turns to survey the little tables in the place. He sees plenty of people with coffee, but none of them have bright red hair or ponchos. He picks a corner table and slides onto the stool. After a moment’s indecision, he sets the poncho on his lap. He’d stuffed it into a Ziploc bag after it had been dried.
He’s there for over half an hour before deciding Cute Umbrella Guy is probably a no-show. Frank can’t decide if the guy forgot, or if he just really wants Frank to keep the damn poncho. Ten minutes later, Frank decides ‘fuck it’ and slides off his stool. He’ll at least grab a coffee to go, then head back home. It’s not like he has anything special to do, but it’s better than sitting alone in a coffee shop looking like a tool. Maybe. Probably.
He’s just stood when a voice says “Frank?” all hopeful and tentative. Frank turns and sees Cute Umbrella Guy, sans umbrella, smiling at him. Frank smiles back.
“Hey! I didn’t think you were gonna show.”
The guy frowns and looks at his wrist, but there’s no watch there. He looks around and spots the clock on the wall. It reads 7:10. Frank had been late. Cute Umbrella Guy flinches.
“Fuck, sorry. I mean- shit. I totally thought I said seven. I said six, didn’t I.”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees gently. “It’s cool, though, I was late.” He doesn’t say just how late, but it seems to calm the guy a little.
“Still, that was kinda douchey.” He bites his lip and realizes that Frank’s standing. “Are you leaving?”
“What?” Frank doesn’t want to see the heartbroken look that matches the heartbroken tone he heard on the phone, so he says, “No way! I was just gonna grab a coffee.”
Cute Umbrella Guy looks relieved. “I’ll buy!”
He doesn’t even let Frank argue, just grabs his wrist and leads him up to the counter. Frank wants to kick himself for noticing that his hand is soft and warm. Cute Umbrella Guy orders himself a coffee that sounds like it has a lot of caffeine and a lot of sugar in the largest size they offer, then looks expectantly at Frank. Frank stammers out his own order, and the guy giggles - giggles, like he’s the biggest dork on the planet (never mind that Frank giggles, too, shut up, that’s not the point) - and pays just like he promised he would.
When they’re sitting back at the little table, Frank says,
“You didn’t have to do that, Man.”
The guy shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says. “I felt bad for being late. Or, like, lying to you about the time.”
Frank smiles, because he sounds genuinely remorseful about that. He opens his mouth to tell him it’s cool, it’s no big deal, it’s not like he had anything important going on, but what comes out is,
“I don’t even know your name.”
The guy blinks at him for a moment, coffee halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”
Frank gestures at him. “You never told me your name. You’re in my contacts list as ‘Poncho Guy’.” That’s not true, he’s in there as Cute Umbrella Guy. But there is no fucking way in hell Frank’s about to admit that. Cute Umbrella Guy grins almost shyly.
“Oh. It’s Gerard. Way.”
Frank offers his hand with a smile. “Hi, Gerard. Nice to finally meet you.”
*
As it turns out, Gerard is an incredibly interesting person. Frank learns quickly that he can say one brief sentence, make a vague opinion about something, and Gerard can run with it in the most fascinating ways. They end up talking for hours, long enough that they’re actually asked to leave by the staff so the place can close.
They pack up their things, and they’re still talking as they start walking down the sidewalk together. Frank’s sorta starving - Gerard’s topics are all starting to revolve around food, so he figures he’s not the only one - so Frank suggests going to an all-night diner down the block. The coffee’s not as good, but the food is cheap, and pretty tasty, considering.
Gerard learns that Frank is working a dead-end job as a movie store clerk, but that his dream is to write a screen-play and then do the makeup and costuming for it when it becomes a film. Frank learns that Gerard is a comic book writer, and he does his own art, and that’s what he’d been working on before coming to meet Frank. Frank loves comic books sort of a lot, and they launch into a discussion about them that Frank is 100% involved in.
It’s pushing one AM when they finally leave the diner, and it’s raining. They stand on the stoop, where there’s this awning to shield them, and stare at the falling rain.
“I don’t have my umbrella,” Gerard says mournfully. Frank looks up at him and almost laughs.
“Dude. You’ve got your poncho, though!”
Gerard blinks at him, then brightens. “Oh yeah!”
He lifts the plastic bag it’s in and unzips it, then tugs out the poncho. He seems to realize belatedly that Frank’s screwed, and looks between Frank and the poncho for a moment. Then he nods decisively.
“We’ll share,” he declares.
It takes some adjusting, and some comical ‘wtf?’ style staring on Frank’s part, but they manage to huddle under the poncho together. The neck hole is actually big enough to fit both of their heads, but the hood is all stretched out. When they start walking, Frank can’t stop giggling. They trip over each other way too many times, almost fall, and only get about ten feet before Frank stops them.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, still giggling. “Three-legged raced, Dude, you ever done one?”
Gerard’s face screws up in confusion. “No?”
Frank snickers. “Oh God, this’ll be fun.”
He wraps his arm around Gerard’s waist and tugs them snugly together. Gerard is pleasantly warm through their clothes. Focus, Frank. He presses his right leg to Gerard’s left, then directs him to step when Frank does. It takes some practice, but eventually, they manage a rhythm that works.
They decide to go to Frank’s apartment first, that way Gerard can just wear the poncho home. When they reach the steps, though, Frank doesn’t want to let him go. He just stands there, arm around Gerard’s waist, and looks up at the door. At some point, the hood slipped off, so their heads are wet. Gerard’s hair tickles at Frank’s temple a little bit, and it’s enough to spur the question from his mouth.
“D’you wanna come inside?”
His voice comes out way softer than he’d planned, but he can’t help it. Gerard’s washed in the light from the stoop, and his hair kinda looks like it’s glowing, and his eyelashes are wet from the rain, and he’s got this freckle or mole or something on the end of his nose that Frank has the irrational urge to lick. The guy just looks beautiful.
Gerard doesn’t answer at first, and Frank worries that maybe he overstepped his bounds or something. But then Gerard smiles and nods and whispers,
“Yeah.”
*
Frank wakes up the next morning smushed up against Gerard. They’re both naked, except for that stupid poncho.