Avoiding real life, real hard

He tends to follow other people’s lead. His mom has always been pretty effusive in her love for her kids—hugs to greet them and say goodbye, squeezes to the shoulder when she walks by them in the kitchen, gentle pats on the back when they’re under the weather or feeling down—so he initiates hugs and swings his arm around her shoulders when he sees her. Frank can genuinely not remember a single time he and his dad have touched. He must have clapped him on the shoulder, right? At graduation or his wedding or something? Whatever. He’s not going to rock that boat. His siblings aren’t particularly touchy: maybe a hug when they see each other at the holidays, but probably not even that.

He can’t remember having many friendships that featured much touching. His track and cross country teams had none of the homoerotic butt slapping or locker room horseplay he saw from the football or baseball or hockey teams, which he was grateful for. He probably knocked knees on the couch during COD marathons with his high school friends, but they tended to do the bro hug or clap or whatever when they saw each other.

He had one girlfriend in high school who was always touching him, wanting to hold hands in the cafeteria and sit in his lap when they studied in the library and make out behind the PE building. He went along with it, because he really wanted to get laid and it didn’t seem like that big a deal, but he definitely wouldn’t have started any of that without her encouragement. Same with his first girlfriend in college, who really liked going to parties and then ostentatiously making out with him on the dance floor or against the wall or in the line for the bathroom. If he had been more in charge, less of a pushover, he probably would have shut that down, but she was super hot and he had no idea why she was even looking at him, let alone regularly having sex with him, so he pushed his discomfort down instead of her away.

It was kind of a relief to start dating Abby, who’s not big on PDA or maybe any displays of affection towards him. He got to do what felt a little more natural to him, an arm around her shoulder or a hand to her back or a kiss on the cheek, and Abby didn’t like even that much attention, most of the time. Low maintenance, she said in the beginning, which. A lot to unpack, there, in the end.

It’s completely different with Tanner and Penny, of course, because hugging them and smoothing their hair back and feeling the weight of them against his chest is the best feeling in the world, probably. It’s so easy, too, to know that they want some kind of affection, to meet that need, and to watch their little bodies relax and lean into him, feeling safer and regulated by something so simple.

He never really knew just how much little kids like to touch other people—he was the first in his family or friend group to have kids and he’d never spent that much time with them before becoming a dad, which is kind of crazy in retrospect, just like so most of what happened around Tanner’s conception and birth and early childhood—but he loves being their jungle gym, pudgy hands grabbing whatever part of him is available for better leverage, or mattress, chests rising and falling against him in that twitchy sleep of a kid napping when they didn’t want to, or canvas, little fingers painting his face or tying his hair into crazy ponytails.

He ignores the way Abby’s parents stiffen and frown when the kids throw their arms around their shins or tug on their hands. He loves how open Tanner and Penny are in their love and doesn’t want their WASP bullshit interfering with that. Luckily, it’s something he and Abby actually agree on, so at least that is one thing they don’t argue about or have to hash out in front of lawyers or therapists or extended family.

He only realized when he saw his mom for the first time after his second stint in rehab and she gave him an enormous hug that he probably hadn’t really touched anyone in months, not since he last saw Tanner and Penny, and it settled something, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders and smelling the hint of perfume she’s worn his whole life.

Anyway, if asked, which he hasn’t been, Frank would probably say that he didn’t care all that much about touch, one way or another, which is why it’s weirding him out that he keeps noticing and cataloguing how Mel seems to react to touch.

Looking back, he can say it started his first day back on the Fourth, when he was the one trusted to look her over after that asshole knocked her to the ground. It wasn’t when he ignored how soft her hair was, how fragile her head felt in his hand, as he examined her, barely knowing what he was looking for, but when he went to lay a hand on her leg before thinking better of it, drawing his hand back at the last second. As he left the room, lights turned off behind him, he wondered why he had the instinct to touch his colleague’s thigh and also what stopped him, hand flexed an inch away from her scrubs.

Mel probably doesn’t like people touching her, he thought, which seemed to vibe with everything he’d learned about her up to that point. That seemed like a normal, perhaps even thoughtful or useful, thing to observe about somebody he was hoping would become, at the very least, a work friend, maybe even a real friend.

But he just kept noticing more about Mel’s reactions to touch, little interactions and microexpressions. More than that, he was inexplicably holding onto them. Her enthusiastic high fives after close saves. The awkward pat she bestowed to Jesse when he returned to work, followed immediately by a wince and a hasty retreat from the interaction. Her flinch when Dana clapped a hand on her shoulder at the end of a shift; her smile when Perlah did the same. Her nonreaction when somebody brushed their hand against hers in a trauma bay. The competent, steady exams she performed on patients, palpating tender injuries or rubbing sternums hard, usually accompanied by an explanation of what she was about to do in her calm, reassuring voice. The six inches or more she seemed to leave between herself and Santos during rounds or when they leaned against the counter under the board. The two inches she left between herself and Samira on the break room couch or during huddles. (The half an inch or less she left between herself and Frank in the ambulance bay.)

And sure, he knew he was collecting little facts about her in general, anecdotes tossed aside casually while charting—she once started what was meant to be a two-sentence memory by saying, “Back when my parents were alive—” which was an insane way for him to learn about her family, Jesus—and rambling stories shared on break. Like: She’s an Aquarius. She took Latin as her foreign language in high school, but wishes she’d taken Spanish (“It would be so much more helpful with patients!”) or French (“I could read the actual primary sources about 17th-century fashion in France, instead of relying on translations of variable quality”). She hates eggs. She’s been on-and-off anemic since high school, so she’s always trying to add more iron to her diet. She wishes she could have a dog, but she wouldn’t feel right about leaving them alone so often. She looks cute in a braid and devastatingly hot in a ponytail.

Just, you know, normal friend stuff to notice about your favorite coworker.

Anyway, he tries to be a little more careful, a little more thoughtful, with how he touches her, outside of the rush of a trauma or when they spend time together (thrillingly) outside the hospital. He stops himself from actually touching her when his hand automatically goes to her lower back as they’re leaving somewhere, wondering why he has some bizarre urge to escort or guide her. He asks if she wants a hug when he tracks her down in the stairwell and holds her gently, loosely, when she nods and collapses against his chest. He leaves his hand a careful distance from her head when he finds himself stretching an arm along the back of the couch as they watch something, even though his fingers itch to reach out and play with her hair.

He’s surprised when she brings it up, a few months after his return. He probably shouldn’t be, though, since she’s always honest and direct, two qualities he both admires and appreciates about her.

“Frank, we’re friends, right?” she asks, a night that he’s moping on her couch, not wanting to return to his depressingly quiet apartment quite yet. (The dog travels with the kids, something they’d landed on after a fair amount of trial and error and, helpfully, an article from Mel about co-regulation and pets. It’s definitely for the best, but it means that Frank alternates between having a full house and a completely empty one. It sucks.) He doesn’t have to think about his response.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry if this is too forward,” she says, which she continues to use as a preface to almost every question she asks him, for topics that are both completely normal (what’s the custody arrangement between him and Abby?) and completely unexpected (how and when did he lose his virginity?). “But do you dislike physical touch in your friendships?”

Frank frowns.

“Uh.” He’s not entirely sure how to answer, particularly since his “friendship” with her exists somewhere outside all the other relationships in his life, somehow both more terrifying and more precious. “No?”

Mel nods, like she has a hypothesis or research question and is simply collecting data before she can arrive at a conclusion.

“Are you uncomfortable touching or being touched by me?”

He stares blankly at her for a minute. The combination of hearing the phrase being touched by me in her low voice while she stares at him expectantly, glasses reflecting the warm fairy lights in her living room and hair hanging loose around her shoulders, sends his brain straight to some places it should not go. He swallows and tries to remember how talking works.

“Uh, no?” he says, then feels stupid when he realizes it’s the exact same thing he just said.

“Is there a reason that you avoid touching me directly?”

“I just thought it seemed like you probably don’t like other people touching you?” he hazards, wincing. He should have known that she would be tracking him the way he notices him, and he hadn’t thought what she might think about how he gives Dana a quick hug at the end of a hard shift or knocks shoulders with Donnie when they’re messing around while trying to keep himself outside the bubble he imagines around her. “Especially since you have to do it so much and it’s usually outside your control.”

Mel looks pleased, not offended, and Frank feels his shoulders relax.

“That’s very thoughtful, Frank.” He clenches his jaw, trying, as always, to ignore how much he likes how his name sounds when she’s the one saying it. “And you’re right, I usually don’t like people touching me, especially strangers or people I’m not comfortable with. But you’re not people.”

Frank nods, a little light headed, and sees how this distinction aligns with his observations. He’s a little curious what it is about Dana that makes Mel feel uncomfortable, where Jesse lands on that spectrum. He doesn’t want to touch the Santos of it all with a hundred-foot pole.

“Do you, um, want me to...touch you more?” Frank asks, mostly because he always wants to make her feel comfortable, but also because he’s an idiot.

Mel bites her lip and studies him for a moment, her forehead and nose scrunching up thoughtfully (and adorably).

“Do you want to touch me more?”

Frank’s mouth is drier than the Sahara, probably. He nods, not trusting his voice, and continues watching her as she scrutinizes him, wondering what she’s looking for and what he should be doing to help.

“Do you want to touch me in...ways that a friend doesn’t usually touch someone?” Mel asks, starting out strong but rushing by the end, bravery spent. Frank isn’t sure what answer she’s looking for, but he never wants to lie to her, so he nods, still not confident he can actually form words, and braces himself for whatever will come next.

“Thank goodness,” Mel sighs, launching herself at him. Between one blink and the next, she goes from sitting calmly on her side of the couch to straddling his lap, arms hooked around his neck, face expectant. “Can I kiss you, then?”

It’s never been a question of whether he wants to touch Mel, of course, but whether she wants him to touch her, so he’s not surprised that kissing her is his new favorite pastime, a better rush than the adrenaline after a perfect STEMI. (And then, of course, he keeps discovering new favorite pastimes: biting her neck, thumbing her nipple, making her come on his fingers and mouth and dick, hearing her moan his name, leaving hickeys where nobody but him will see.)

Frank was wrong, as he so often is. Mel really likes physical touch, when it’s coming from him.

She tucks herself into his back, forehead against his scapula, while he brushes his teeth in the morning or cooks. She plops down in his lap and wraps her legs around him like a koala when she finds him on the couch after a shower, hair tucked in her little microfiber hair towel. All the tension in her body bleeds away when he hugs her against him at the end of a long day, one hand rubbing up and down her back while the other cradles the back of her head. She loves absent-mindedly rubbing her feet against his shins (which he learns is called “cricketing,” and which she prefers to do against his legs than her own).

(All of this is only at home, of course. They touch at home or in the park or at a restaurant, but never at PTMC.)

(Ok, sometimes in the back staircase, only if nobody else is around.)

(Maybe in the ambulance bay, if it’s a really bad day. But only if nobody’s around.)

(...They get caught their second week together.)

It’s like she sees Frank as a human extension of her fidgets and lava lamp app and white noise machine with the bonus that he can apply pressure. She likes to stretch out on the couch and stick her feet underneath him, rubbing her toes together and erratically pressing against him, or bring his hands to the sides of her head so he can squeeze, first on the sides and then front-to-back, or drag him on top of her, telling him to let all his weight go even though he feels like he’ll crush her.

It’s a heady power, the ability to relax Mel with a single, well-placed touch, but it’s not one he takes lightly. It’s a lot more physical contact than he’s used to from another adult, but he feels himself settling, his own body and brain going quiet, each time her shoulders sink lower and her forehead smooths out and she smiles, that soft, secret smile just for him.

What Frank failed to take into account, though, is that Mel is one of the strangest people he’s ever had the honor to know. Which, to be clear, he loves. (How soon is too soon to say that?) He alternates between feeling like he understands her on a deep level and being completely baffled by her behavior, in the best way, and some of her most surprising behavior centers around touch. Or, more broadly, how she interacts with his body.

Sometimes she just sits right next to him and stares at the side of his face, whether he’s reading or scrolling on his phone or watching something. When he looks back, she smiles, unabashed, and continues her study.

She does things he doesn’t think are weird so much as not something he would ever think to do. She rubs her hand along his jaw in the evening, when his cheeks are a little stubbled from a five o’clock shadow, completely lost in the texture. She separates each of the toes on their right feet from their neighbors, ignoring his squirming because he’s more ticklish than he wants to admit, and hooks their toes around each other, beaming at him and explaining that she’s always wanted to hold feet with someone. She likes how soft his ears are, which isn’t feedback he’s ever received before, and reaches out to just hold on to an ear sometimes, softly rubbing his earlobe between her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger.

She’s doing her staring thing one day, but instead of smiling when he looks at her, she slowly inches closer and closer to his face. (He’s reminded of the knock knock joke she recently showed Tanner about the interrupting sloth.) She stops an inch or so away from his face, her sweet breath fanning against his lips when she exhales, so he leans forward to meet her. She draws back, then ducks back to rub their noses together, mouths almost touching but not quite. He has no idea what’s going on.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, when it’s been at least a minute of extreme proximity but no kissing.

Mel’s eyes start to crinkle and he braces himself for something absurd to happen.

“I’m edging you,” she whispers before falling back against the couch, laughing.

And that’s the thing he keeps finding about it: he has so much fun with Mel. He’s never laughed so much in bed—when he slips out of her or they’re switching positions and their elbows knock into each other or she starts nibbling on his bicep, but also when they’re whispering before bed or she leans over to show him something absurd in the romantasy she’s reading or she scrunches up her nose at his morning breath. He feels like everything is just a little looser, like he lets go of some of the tension and guilt and uncertainty he’s been carrying for the past couple years each day he gets with.

His favorite is probably the way she sometimes completely lets go, like her brain has finally shut off because she knows she’s safe and in good hands. It’s the most obvious right after she comes, eyes closed and chest heaving, completely limp and boneless, but he sees it other places: the shower, when she tilts her head back for him to brush her hair or lather shampoo or wash it out; in bed, when she reaches her hands or legs out so he can rub lotion into her outrageously soft skin; on the couch, when he hugs her with the right amount of pressure for the day and all the stress in her body ebbs away.

As they spend more time together, falling asleep and waking up side by side, clothes migrating between their apartments, sharing grocery lists and Google Calendars, Mel becomes more and more comfortable just being her unmasked self, with a corresponding rise in what Frank starts thinking of as silly Mel.

She starts a game with herself to surprise him by suddenly sticking her tongue into his mouth, a quick peck on the cheek turning into a shock of there-and-gone-again tongue. It’s not kissing. He’s not sure what it is. The spiritual cousin of a wet willy but wildly more intimate?

She hates it when he does the same back.

“How is it a game, if it’s just you doing that and then giggling about it?” Frank asks, a little perplexed but mostly, as always, charmed, the fifth or sixth time he’s been blindsided by her tongue and then sudden absence. “Is there a points system? A winner?”

Mel shrugs. She’s wearing the smirk that only comes out when she thinks she’s being very sneaky and mischievous. It makes Frank worry that his heart will burst straight out of his chest from the force of his affection for her.

“I can stop if you want,” she says, her smirk dimming. “I know it’s not fair to do something to you that I don’t want you to do to me.”

Frank huffs, sure he’s still smiling like an idiot. She’s just so cute.

“Honey, that’s not how it works. We’re different people who have different preferences. It’s not about fairness. I love when you’re happy, even if I don’t always understand it, so please, continue your game-that’s-not-a-game.”

Mel’s smirk melts into a real smile and she tugs him closer by the shirt.

“I love you,” she says, and Frank wonders for a second if he’s actually going to cry, what the fuck. It’s so much more than he thought he’d get, just a year and a half ago, staring at the walls of his detox room for the second time and convinced that he’d be alone and depressed forever because that’s what he deserved.

(Also, he can’t believe she said it first. And not even in the middle of sex or something! He’s been stopping himself from saying it since, like, day four of them dating.)

“I love you, too.”

He leans down to close the distance between them, heart still feeling too big for his body. He should expect it, he really should, but somehow he doesn’t: she sticks her tongue directly in his mouth and runs away, cackling, leaving him spluttering in surprise.

But he knows she’ll come back, probably to stick her feet under him or cricket against his legs or just stare at the side of his face, and his whole being feels impossibly calm and settled and present.