#ew!request

Frank had a hard time deciding whether he preferred the taste of blood or that disgusting beer. He wasn't particularly picky about alcohol, but the beers this bar served were sickening. Yet he returned often, probably because it was the only one within a kilometer of his house, and also because no one asked too many questions there. No "Is that blood on your boots?", just shifty glances, not wanting to get into trouble with the wrong person.

He'd honestly had a bad day. Full of jerks and idiots, the kind who spoke with their heads held high and drank ice-cold whiskey on their way home at night.

Ultimately, Frank still preferred the sock juice he was drinking right now.

"I already told you to leave," the bartender's voice echoed.

Instinctively, Frank turned his head toward the altercation. He was almost surprised to see a guy slumped over the bar but fully conscious—things that usually didn't go together here.

"Come on, man," you said, "just one drink."

You'd had a bad day too. A long, boring day, which had led you to this rather seedy bar to try to relieve the stress from your tense shoulders.

You straightened up slightly, enough to rest your head in the palm of your hand and stare straight into the eyes of the bartender across from you.

"I pay for drinks, what's the problem? I'm not violent or drunk, am I?" you declared calmly. "And this place could really use some money, so let me have a drink, okay?"

Frank couldn't help but blow amusedly into his beer bottle, which immediately drew your attention to him.

A six-foot-one man, dark-haired, freshly shaved, with a several-times-broken nose. This guy was definitely your type. He stood with his arms crossed on the wooden bar, his shoulders stiff enough to indicate "I don't want to talk," one hand around his half-drunk beer. You easily swallowed your "do you have a problem?" in favor of a more sympathetic phrase.

"Is it your habit to listen to conversations?" you asked, your body now fully turning toward Frank.

You took advantage of his brief reaction time to examine his profile. He had a nice jawline and lively eyes.

Frank vaguely shook his head, a slight smile playing on the corners of his lips as he took yet another sip of alcohol. You thought he was going to just ignore you, but finally his lips parted to answer you.

"Shouldn't speak so loudly if ‘ya don't want to be heard."

His deep, cracked voice made you unashamedly bite your lower lip. Absolutely my type, you thought. The bartender, having given up on your friendly argument, returned with your full glass in his hands. He placed it next to your elbow, waited for a thank you, but seeing your gaze completely fixed on the customer next to you, abandoned the idea and went back to his business.

This guy's body language screamed something along the lines of "don't come near me," with an undertone of "I'm dangerous," but surely implying "I'm afraid of getting attached to someone, of suffering, and of making them suffer, so I stay alone and bare my teeth." You were pretty good at reading people's natures, especially since this guy clearly embodied the stereotype of the supposedly-lonely-and-dangerous guy. You'd always been attracted to these men, there was something so exciting about the idea of ​​changing their minds, of seeing, for just a second, a hint of doubt in their usually closed faces. You knew yourself that well, and you knew this game was risky. But the reward was always worth it.

"You live anywhere near here?" you continued.

Frank gave an almost imperceptible frown, an infallible reflex from a life punctuated by mistrust. He didn't answer right away, hoping you'd give up and go back to annoying the bartender. Except he didn't know you, and you were extremely stubborn once a target had caught your attention.

"Just so you know, I'm the determined type, and the lack of response turns me on even more."

Despite himself, Frank cracked a second smile, quickly hidden behind the gulp of his bottle. You were a case, the kind he didn't run into often. He got hit on more than he'd like, and honestly, he was good at dodging that kind of thing. But a little voice told him it wouldn't be the same with you.

He barely straightened up, just enough to crack his knotted neck. You watched him with eyes that were probably a little too wide. He was attractive, and you could have seen the muscles flexing beneath those unnecessary layers of clothing from a mile away.

"I'm not interested, kid," he finally declared.

A thoughtful smile lit up your face at his response. He'd just fallen into your clutches, without even realizing it. A lack of response could have made you give up—you weren't a creep—but he'd answered you.

You stepped down from the stool you'd sat on a good thirty minutes ago, your hand fluidly grasping the wooden base of the seat, pulling it up until you were a little less than a meter from your target. Frank turned his head towards you in spite of himself, frowning as he saw that you were doing everything but listening to what he'd just said. You sat down again, your body still turned and open towards a completely withdrawn Frank.

Your cheerful voice resumed your conversation. You told him your name, and Frank sorely regretted ever speaking to you. I put a coin in the machine, he thought, trying to swallow it with a large gulp of sock-juice beer.

"So, now, you're supposed to tell me your name, Handsome," you incited, "or maybe you secretly like pet names? I can deal with that, 'ya know."

You noticed the chain around his neck. It was the type of metal the army issued to its kind soldiers. Their names were inscribed on a piece of metal, along with a series of numbers, and like good puppy dogs, they were told, "Here's our appreciation for your efforts," meaning, "Here's a piece of scrap metal to make you forget the horrors of war, good luck!" Your gaze softened at the thought. This guy, as handsome as he was, had been to war in one way or another, which meant you were going to take it easier. You weren't a monster either, and you had a soft spot for war survivors—literally or not.

Although, the more you looked at his face, the more familiar it seemed.

"What regiment?" you asked, your voice lower than usual.

You immediately saw the difference. The handsome stranger was back with you, his attention granting you a few minutes of interest.

"Marine Corps."

Frank vaguely wondered how you'd guessed he'd been in the military, but he assumed it was something obvious about him, something he gave off, since people often pointed it out to him.

"I knew a guy there, we grew up together," you began, "the kind of relationship you stay close to even as adults, you know? He joined the Marine, but after a year he was discharged."

You noticed a very slight movement from the man in front of you, probably unconscious.

"Injured?" he asked.

You took a sip from your freshly poured glass, savoring the taste of your drink for two seconds before answering.

"Not in the way we mean it, he's lost his mind," you almost whispered, putting the glass down. "What he saw was... well, he couldn't take it, and one night he shot his boss. Luckily, the guy didn't have anything serious, but my friend was diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder or something like that, and now he's living in a psychiatric ward because of his violent crisis."

Frank put down his beer and turned a little closer to you, this time consciously. You looked upset even if you didn't show it, and he could only understand. Maybe you weren't so far removed from him after all.

"Sorry for him," he said, "war’s hell."

You took a few seconds to try to take in the shape of his collar under his t-shirt, but you quickly brought your piercing gaze back up to his chocolate-brown eyes.

"I guess, yeah," you declared with a raspy, ironic chuckle, "but enough about that." You sat up a little straighter, “let's talk about how stupid you were to have that beer."

Frank cracked a smile as he glanced at the empty bottle next to him. Apparently, you were a regular at the bar, or at least you came more often than he did.

"Either you have a really shitty palate, or you're afraid to try new things, so you stick with this infection."

Your mischievous voice pleased him more than he would have liked right now, and besides, maybe he appreciated how easily you seemed to guess things about him.

A discussion ensued. You advised him to get a blonde next time because they were better here. He thanked you with a nod. And then the words gradually found their way into his throat. You spoke more than he did, but that was often the case in your daily life, so it wasn't a problem. As you explained a part of your bad day, you thought of a metaphor that perfectly represented the—a little less—stranger you were talking to: it was a bit like dealing with an old machine or car. The more you took care of it, the more you talked to it and made it feel comfortable, the more its engine started to roar again, and in the end, it ended up running at the sound of your voice.

Frank required time, attention, and a lot of determination. But you were patient, caring, and far too determined.

So the evening turned into night, the bar emptying and filling up with the hours ticking by on the creaky old clock at the entrance. You forgot to ask for another drink when you finished your previous one, and Frank didn't really want alcohol anymore as your conversation filled his mind. He hadn't talked this much in... a long time, actually, further than he dared to think. Of course, a little voice was begging him to stop right there and run away, but it seemed like this was the day of the year he decided to ignore it. Maybe you also made things easier, with your slightly too charming smile and your charismatic attitude, it was easier to let himself go. No need to make people laugh since you did it, no need to maintain the upper hand on the discussion since you led it without problem. It was borderline dizzying, Frank thought. He was completely unused to being guided so much, even if it was only words. And the idea that he actually appreciated it made his poor brain feel like a knot. But luckily you were there to unravel it all, with provocative remarks and prolonged eye contact.

Another hour passed. Your voices naturally grew muffled by the sound of the pitch-black night outside.

"Guess you’d like to go home?" you asked softly.

Your gaze was perfectly fixed on Frank's, your features filled with an implied tenderness that made his stomach ache—butterflies in his stomach, if he remembered the expression.

"Yeah, I should," his voice declared, tinged with the opposite.

You took the lead, getting up first and paying for your two drinks. Frank wanted to protest, to pay his share, but he only nodded—almost shyly—in "thank you."

You offered your hand, and he took it in a firm grip. Your smile widened slightly as you leaned toward him and whispered a few last words.

"I hope you enjoyed this evening, Frank. I come here every Tuesday night if you ever want to see me again."

You could hear the catch in his breath as you straightened up and disappeared into the dark night.

He hadn't told you his name, you hadn't been able to read it on his dog tag. But you knew Frank Castle.

Who didn't know the Punisher?

And something told you that you were going to see him more often than he himself would dare imagine.

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It was a habit, a trait that had been drawn at birth with marker across the thinnest layers of your being. You liked following people, learning juicy tiny details about their lives.

As a child, you always watched the neighbors. As a teenager, you searched through your teachers’ bags. And now that you were an adult, you latched onto a few people from time to time. There was something terribly exciting about carrying fragments of strangers’ lives inside your mind—or inside a notebook. You could have grown tired of it, abandoned this obscene hobby, but even if you had wanted to, it was you. It was engraved into you, indelible.

There didn’t even need to be feelings involved, everything could simply be seen as a game. And in the end, you weren’t hurting anyone, since none of your targets had ever noticed your presence scribbled into their lives.

Well, that was the case until the day you set your sights on a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. And while you thought you were peacefully admiring his smooth features, he had already caught the scent of your gun barrel.

Benjamin Leonard Poindexter, nicknamed Dex, vigilante Bullseye, and hated being called Ben. That was the sweet lamb you had fixed your eyes on.

Your footsteps landed with that featherlight weight you had learned to control. Each foot slipping perfectly into the concrete squares lining the street you walked through.

Poindexter was out tonight. So were you.

He had gone to buy a large iced cappuccino, the same one slowly cooling your own hand—numbing your skin. The coffee wasn’t particularly good, far too bitter in your opinion, but you drank it anyway. The cold liquid slid down your throat, dried out by the excessive wind tearing through New York today. Your gaze, however, never left Dex’s bluish silhouette for a single second. You had noticed that—even if from afar his clothes looked black, they were actually almost always some shade of blue, no matter how dark it was meant to be.

He turned left, and a few seconds later, you turned left too.

The bluish jacket you wore protected your body from the occasional gusts of wind while you watched the blond man turn left again, disappearing into a space that looked far too narrow. Frowning, you quickened your pace slightly to catch up before he vanished completely. You reached the corner where he had disappeared—a narrow alley trapped between two residential buildings. Your shoes struck a shard of broken glass, making you grimace at the sharp sound. It was dark, and the clouds blanketing the sky did nothing to help visibility. It was a dead end leading to a staircase crawling up the side of one building, and that was it. No Dex.

Before you could even open your mouth, a hand grabbed the back of your neck without restraint. Your body was violently shoved against one of the walls, the metal stairs barely vibrating from the impact.

It was him.

The force in his grip did not lessen despite your pained grunt. You could feel the impact of his body behind yours, towering over you by only a few inches and yet somehow seeming capable of swallowing you whole. There was no intention of sparing you, you knew that—you had pages filled with notes about him, about his traits, actions, behaviors.

“You think it’s funny? To follow me?” he murmured in that naturally broken voice of his. “How reckless you are.”

Your barely touched coffee spilled across the ground, its warm-colored liquid spreading like blood at your feet—a premonition of a possible outcome awaiting you. His own drink rested comfortably on the staircase to your right, a sign of his presence you could have noticed if you had been paying attention.

Strangely, fear had not settled inside you. It had not dragged in its screeching chair, had not sat down. No, the tremors shaking your muscles were symptoms of excitement instead—squirming deeper beneath your skin with every breath, like a balloon inflating until it burst.

The sound of glass rang far too close to you. Reflexively, your eyes searched for the source, and found it to your left. Bullseye had just kicked the broken neck of a bottle up from the ground, catching it in his free hand. “So, you have something to tell me?” The fragile sound of glass sent a shiver through your eardrums.

Thoughts raced through your poor mind, torn between primal human fear and the unnatural euphoria that came from you. “I— I admire you,” were the only words capable of forming, using alchemy to turn the chaos in your brain into something concrete.

Dex’s brows furrowed while an annoyed smile spread across his lips. You admired him, no one had ever used that excuse to avoid death before.

His hand expertly spun the shard of glass before suddenly lunging toward your carotid artery. “No no wait!” you blurted out louder than intended. “I’m not kidding, I really do admire you Dex. That’s why I’ve been following you since—” The bottle neck shattered into pieces above your head, making you flinch. The hand that had not stopped gripping your neck until now finally released you completely. No force held you against the wall anymore, no imminent threat pressed against your throat.

A heavy sigh echoed behind you, and when you turned around, you saw Dex leaning against the opposite wall—arms crossed. “Go on, I’m listening.”

Your hand brushed over the top of your head, trying to shake loose the sharp fragments of glass that had settled there like birds. The situation was absurd, yet perfectly coherent with the notes you had taken about him. Unstable, impulsive, playful.

“Well I think your aim is fucking impressive, and you also make the right choice with AVTF agents and—”

Dex’s eyes examined you while you spoke. He was not really listening to your words, in fact, maybe he was simply curious—and who wasn’t? But something else bothered him. Your case carried a disturbance he needed to solve before finishing you off. Like sanding down a puzzle piece before completing the frame. His gaze lingered longer on your outfit, and the answer came to him as easily as the problem had appeared.

Your jacket, your pants, your shoes.

His eyes lowered to his own clothes—his jacket, his pants, his shoes.

And the more realization settled in, the deeper his frown became. Then he watched your gestures. He listened to your vocabulary. And something about it sounded familiar, the kind of familiarity you found in a stranger without asking for it—the kind an annoying cousin would point out with: “Oh look, we have matching clothes!”

You were copying him.

His back peeled away from the damp wall. Your eyes settled once more on his silhouette—your mouth finally stopping its useless stream of words. He approached you dangerously slowly, and you instinctively stepped backward until your spine met the opposite wall.

“You’re a copycat,” his voice stated calmly, as though that sentence alone could not become the reason for your death.

“I’d preferably say that we matched? Like— a pair?”

“A pair?” his voice smiled threateningly. “So you really are an idiot. With logic.”

“So are you?” you dared answer.

A faint silence drifted between you, the coffee at your feet beginning to dry against the warm concrete. Dex looked at you without you being able to understand what was happening behind his fixed stare.

Then he stepped back and retrieved the coffee he had left sheltered away.

“Stop following me,” was the last thing you heard before he resumed his walk, disappearing around the corner of the alley.

He left you alone, with a small cut on your forehead from the glass and a spilled coffee at your feet. The prey had bared its teeth, bitten the hunter as a warning, then walked away. Your blood had not tasted the way he expected, but blood was still blood, and a wolf that felt threatened would bite no matter the taste of the meat.

Once, not two.

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FIRST MEETING :

He was..surprised to see you, walking through the Daily Planet offices. It had to be said that most of the staff were looking at you too, with eyes that mixed curiosity with incomprehension – because there are always idiots –. You stood out from the crowd, and Clark could only see it with the look of a deer caught in the headlights of car.

He may have been Superman, but at first he was just a little guy who grew up on a farm in the middle of fields. His parents were great, but at school he had seen all too well how cruel kids could be to each other. So it was this idea that pushed him to talk to you for the first time, yet another proof of his constant heroism.

“Hey! Are you new here? Oh, and I love your style, by the way,” were his first words to you, though due to his stress-induced awkwardness, it sounded more like this: “H-hey ! You were huh, I mean are you new here ? Oh and..by the way, I euh really love how you look”.

You immediately fell for his dimpled smile, how could you not?

FIRST STEPS OF THE RELATIONSHIP :

Clark was not subtle at all, even though he believed he was.

He always brought you a cold drink before everyone else, greeted you at eight in the morning with his voice going a little too high, held all the doors for you – even the fridge one – during the day, and so on.

Of course, he hoped you would be receptive to him, that you liked men. But that anxiety quickly left him as soon as you laid your dark-lined eyes on him.

Let's talk about makeup. He loved it. And you'd have to be blind not to notice.

The second you walked into the office, with a new makeup routinely changing, Clark would melt in place. No, but literally, you'd see him slump in his chair or lean on a piece of furniture to support his suddenly fragile frame. When someone pointed this out, he'd quickly come up with an excuse—the worst—like "my back hurts" or "drank too much coffee."

When you two were talking, he had to fight—so hard—to keep his gaze on yours. The black of your eyelashes was so deep, the touches of color around them made him dizzy, and your lips, oh your lips, he sometimes took advantage of your attention being elsewhere to just devour them with his gaze.

This little game lasted several weeks, a little over a month to be exact, before one evening after work you suggested to go for a drink somewhere “to celebrate the success of your article,” you said.

Once together, you naively thought Clark would be a little less obsessed with you, but you were wrong. Now he had constant permission to have his hands and eyes on you.

He was less shy, even though at first he asked a lot of permission to touch you: “Can I here?” “Can I kiss you?” “Does it feel wrong if I hug you like this?” But that was also why you had fallen for him.

He researched as much as he could about transgender people. In fact, he did it as soon as he found out you were, because the thought of doing or saying something that might make you uncomfortable scared the hell out of him.

He memorized all the medical and social terms, explored the most famous transgender figures, and was surprised to discover how many had existed for hundreds of years. He even learned the meanings of the colors of the trans flag—just in case you were wondering.

If you were taking hormones or planning to have surgery, he would have read absolutely every article on the subject. He’d have used his reporter skills to find the best specialists. And of course, he would probably be more stressed than you at every appointment.

About Superman.

He had been sure of one thing when you first kissed: you had to know.

He didn't want to lie to you about it, he couldn't see himself repeatedly inventing lies to justify his absences.

So, right after your first kiss, he slipped in an “I’m Superman.”

He could have said it differently, I agree, but he was so stressed about you leaving him because of that.

“You’re Superman?” you repeated puzzledly, and then he clumsily took off his magic glasses. Your eyes immediately widened, your brain associating the shy and kind Clark with the life-saving superhero.

“Wow, you beat me there,” you replied, “my ‘oh, by the way, I’m trans’ announcement looks out of place.” And you burst out laughing, Clark’s stress evaporating and your love growing.

ESTABLISHED RELATION :

You steal his clothes, how can you not? The farmer-style shirts he has look so good with the right accessories.

Clark loves seeing how you transform simple clothes into a perfect and complex outfit, especially when the centerpiece is one of his t-shirts or pants.

He sometimes asks you to show him how you do your makeup, so he can understand and possibly do it again for you if one day you don't feel good.

And of course, you do his makeup. He doesn't feel like going out with it yet, but he's always happy to see his reflection when you're done.

Clark is like your outfit approver. You show him several versions of the same outfit and he gives you his opinion. He's actually quite good at it.

There are days when you wear tights, for example, but as the day goes on you end up feeling dysphoric. Clark is there to save you. He always keeps an oversized sweater and sweatpants nearby, just in case.

One habit he's gotten into with you is pulling you into a kiss by tugging – gently – on one or all of the necklaces you're wearing.

He enjoys searching for you with his super hearing when you have to meet somewhere or when you come home after him. He would recognize among a thousand the distinctive metallic sound of some of your jewelry, the rubbing of the layers of fabric you wear, or the leather’s soft creak of your belt.

ANGST :

You only had one argument.

You were walking home from shopping when a man deliberately bumped into you, causing you to drop your bag of food. You opened your mouth, but you were cut off by a comment about your clothing style. You were unfortunately used to it, but it still hurt, and when you got home you started crying in the hallway.

Clark came running, having heard your shortness of breath, and you explained everything to him. Of course, he reassured you, he listened to you as he always did. But that wasn't enough for you at that moment. You wanted someone to approve your anger towards this man and humans in general. Except that Clark has always loved humans, and he desperately clings to hope.

So that's when the argument started.

“Don’t you see the rottenness of human beings? How can you still defend people capable of such horrors?” you told him.

He tried to hold on to his ideas, to his faith, but hearing your voice break under your sobs, he finally gave in.

“You’re right,” he told you, letting his head fall back against the wall with a sigh. “Humans are cruel, so cruel to people who aren’t like them.”

The conversation goes then a little more calmly, you explained to him more kindly that you obviously liked his optimism, but that the idea that he remained stubborn about it when you, next to him, experienced transphobia and xenophobia on a daily basis was unbearable for you.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it that way, forgive me please” were the words that concluded your one and only argument.

Ever since a similar event happened, Clark was there for you more than for humanity. He defended you.

NSFW :

He didn't want to be too clingy at first in intimacy. He wanted you to feel comfortable, and above all, he was terrified of doing something wrong that would make you feel dysphoric. So he held back, enjoying every other moment with you. Until you made the first move—once again.

“I don’t want to seem starving or too needy,” he explained to you, a little embarrassed, to which you replied with a small smile, “I actually like it, I find it sexy and flattering.”

From then on, he couldn't hold back. Perhaps also because he simply couldn't do it anymore.

Clark, who, no matter how much he dreams of fucking you right now, absolutely wants to remove all your layers of clothing without damaging them.

One day you were so impatient that you ripped one of your tights yourself while trying to take them off. Clark immediately fell to his knees at the hole and said something like "no baby! I loved this one, it looked so good on you with the denim shorts" but you just responded by pulling him into a long kiss, interspersed with "it gives it style, ‘like it" to reassure him a little.

When he found out about leather harnesses that could be worn over tops, that was all he could think about. Until the day you surprised him by buying one and putting it on. Needless to say, you kept it on as your only "item of clothing" throughout the night.

One thing he loves: seeing your ruined makeup.

If that's what you like, he'll fuck you so good until he makes you cry over and over again, just to see your makeup completely ruined because of him.

He loves holding you close, seeing the eyeshadow marks on his chest or in the palm of his hand.

If you wear rings, you have to keep them on when he goes down on you. He wants to feel your hand pulling his hair, your rings getting caught in his brown curls, and the weight of your rings on his scalp as you push his head down even further.

Most of the time, he knows when you're feeling more dysphoric than normal. He hears the change in your heartbeat, your throat tightening, and your shortness of breath. So he always avoids the risky areas, focusing on the gentle ones.

“I know my love, sensitive here huh ? It is not a problem, we can still have fun, do you want that darling ?”

Lots of words of affirmation with him.

“Such a good boy for me” “I’m so proud of you angel” “Look at you, you are so brave”.

You discovered that he also really liked to be praised. In everyday life: “Don’t listen to what they say, you’re great Clark.” Just like in bed: “Make me feel so good love,” “Please do that again, love it,” “You’re good at this Kent.”

SENTENCES SCREAMING “CLARK KENT” :

❝ - You look so cool darling ! - How do I take this off? No wait, I don't want to ruin it, this top is so beautiful.. - I don't understand how you manage to put pencil in your eye, it doesn't hurt you’re sure? - Come in my arms, let me hold you strong boy. ❞

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Eyes moving from point A to point B at lightning speed, as if struck by an electric shock, a flashing lightbulb in the back of a troubled mind. Frank knew that. He constantly had that crackling light in his head. A light as white as lightning at one point, then yellow as a sunflower.

The wobbly leg, yet you had hardly moved it, having immediately registered this distinctive sign of your nervousness. But Frank knew those—signs—that few saw on a body inhabited by excessive anxiety. Tremors so subtle and internal that only the owner felt swarming in his muscles.

Frank knew all that, he knew anxiety, stress, nervousness. He knew visceral anguish, the kind that gripped your gut with an iron fist.

And Frank also knew self-destruction. A longtime friend who left him only to come back stronger every day.

Then there was the disgust. He felt it when he saw his hands, as if even on acid, the flesh surrounding those two limbs would still be just as dirty, full of blood, impregnated with Death itself.

So yes, it had only taken him three seconds to see all that in you. Sitting alone on a bench, you stared at the puddle in front of you as if you would find answers there.

Frank had decided to go for a walk, an activity he hadn't thought he would do for a long time, but the air in his apartment was starting to make him dizzy. He naturally headed to the park two blocks away. A poorly maintained place that repelled tourists and children, attracting people wanting to be alone. He'd seen you from afar at first. You'd entered his field of vision at the turn of a small path, damp from the recently stopped rain. He'd almost slowed down, a reflex testifying to his shyness hidden behind a steely gaze, but he'd quickly realized you hadn't even noticed him.

Your gaze locked within the diameter of that puddle. Your mind screaming without the slightest echo being heard outside.

You'd looked tired, and that had touched Frank because he'd been carrying that fatigue with him since he was sixteen. So he'd approached. His black boots hitting the muddy ground with their weight, you'd finally raised your head. Your eyes met, and it was as if your two crackling light bulbs had slowed down for a moment. A second that, in a children's book, could have been illustrated with a lightning bolt shooting from your pupils to meet in a strangely silent hubbub.

Frank cut the contact first, perhaps he'd been electrocuted by it.

You straightened nervously, cracking your spine and neck.

That day, you exchanged a few words, cut off too quickly when Frank's phone rang faintly in his pants pocket. He apologized and took the call. You watched him take three long steps away, and an inward smile came over you when you noticed the little glances he threw your way, as if he was still trying to make contact.

In the end, he had to leave, and you thought you'd never see him again.

But your voice resonated too deeply with Frank for him to ignore it. So once Curtis's problem was solved, he did some research on you, enough to guess that you often went to the park where you'd met. So he went back there and "accidentally" ran into you.

"Hey," his gritty voice simply stated.

"Hi," yours replied, less serene.

This time, Frank hadn't picked up his cell phone, to avoid any interruptions to your discussions. Because yes, there were discussions. You tried to lead the conversation like everyone else would, with "Do you come here often?" and "It's cold today." But nervous laughter quickly cut through both of your throats, and Frank decided to take the reins of the conversation.

“Coming here to forget?" was his first question.

You understood what he meant faster than you could have imagined. Forget, cover up, silence. You dreamed of this. You dreamed of erasing the aggressive phrases your brain kept repeating to you, or even just making your anxieties less intense, less oppressive.

"I'm trying," you confessed.

Your discussions centered on that, on anxieties, difficulties, and what soothed them. You had to admit that at first you hadn't really imagined Frank, a big guy, haunted by anxiety attacks—or anything close to it—but ultimately, he was much more sensitive than he let on at first glance. Sure, he wasn't afraid of crowds like you were, but he was afraid of silence. Where you feared losing yourself in the gaze of strangers, he found relief in it.

He told you what he felt when a room was full of just him. His heart racing, his breath short, the urge to leave. You laughed weakly as you told him that you felt all that when, on the contrary, there were too many people around you.

"Opposites attract," he had said without a second thought.

You had given him advice on how to enjoy his own company, and in exchange, he had given you the addresses of less-frequented places. This dynamic, this exchange, became like the foundation of your relationship, a reassuring brick where you could each set foot without fear of falling.

Your walk continued until night began to fall and the rain began to pour. Frank offered to drive you home, and on the way, you felt compelled to ask for his phone number.

"Your advices are too valuable," had been your weak excuse.

He had given it to you with that smile that was already making your poor heart beat a little too fast.

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