#q'd.

frankie's laugh came quick and bright at that, completely delighted with herself. "see? THAT'S what i'm saying." they pointed at vico like they'd just won an argument nobody else had been aware they were having. "you get it." the grin on her face only widened as she leaned her elbows onto the bar, chin settling into her hands. there was something unfairly satisfying about getting that reaction out of her every single time. "god, listen to yourself." they shook their head, amusement written all over their freckles. "most people get coffee when they're tired. YOU want to get bitten." frankie tilted her head, studying them for a second before reaching over to flick the side of vico's arm with two fingers. "maybe you're the weird one here, baby. ever think about that?" the accusation carried absolutely NO weight behind it coming from frankie knox of all people. "though," she added, unable to stop smiling, "i am pretty generous. could probably be convinced."

frankie had just kicked the door to the green room shut with the heel of her boot when she saw the flowers sitting on the vanity. not the cheap gas station kind either, but an ACTUAL bouquet, wrapped in brown paper and tied off like whoever bought them had taken the time to pick them out instead of panic-grabbing whatever was closest to the register. for a second, the redhead only stared at them, brow pinched like they were trying to solve a crime. then she spotted archer leaning against the wall with that stupid little look on his face, camera hanging from his neck like he hadn’t just committed an act of emotional terrorism. “oh, ABSOLUTELY not,” they said, pointing at him immediately. “you don’t get to be cute and thoughtful. pick a lane.” but the complaint didn’t land the way she wanted it to, mostly because her mouth was already betraying her, tugging into a smile she couldn’t quite kill. archer had a habit of doing that — getting past all their defenses before they even knew he was trying. somewhere along the way, between late-night tour stops, terrible diner coffee, bruised ribs after shows, and him catching every version of her through a lens without EVER making her feel exposed, he had become FAMILY. not the kind they were born into, obviously. the better kind. the chosen kind. the sibling she never got but somehow ended up needing more than she liked admitting. frankie set their guitar down and crossed the room, trying VERY hard to look annoyed as they took the flowers from the vanity. “you know,” she muttered, glancing down at them before looking back at him, “if you make me cry before soundcheck, i’m telling everyone you’re a deeply manipulative little freak.”

frankie had been yelled at by managers, security, venue owners, drunk fans, and pissed-off bandmates; none of it ever made them do anything but dig their heels in HARDER. but charlie’s voice cracking over the words made frankie’s stomach TWIST. charlie, who usually seemed to shrink before asking for anything. charlie, whose anger sounded more like fear dragging itself out into the open. it cut through the adrenaline better than any towel could have. for a second, frankie forgot the crowd chanting from the other side of the curtain, forgot the blood slicking her palm and dripping down her chin. all they could think about was how BADLY charlie had to mean it to sound like that. “jesus, charlie,” she muttered, but the bite was gone. a breath almost turned into a laugh before it sent another hot spill of blood over their lip, and frankie grimaced. “okay. fuck. point made.” still, sitting felt like admitting defeat, and frankie HATED that almost as much as she hated the way the floor kept shifting whenever she moved too fast. the stage was right there. the set wasn’t done. their body still wanted the noise, the lights, and the violent rush of throwing themself back into it — but charlie was looking at them like the music could wait, like frankie mattered BEFORE the show did, and that was harder to argue with. “you’re really not gonna let this go, huh?” she asked, quieter now, already knowing. with a sharp, irritated exhale, frankie slid down the concrete wall until they hit the floor, boots planted, head tipped back. “fine. but if anyone starts acting like i’m dying, i’m getting back up out of SPITE.” a beat passed before her eyes flickered toward charlie again. “and don’t look so smug. i’m only listening because you said please.”

the apartment feels wrong in a way frankie can't quite name; too quiet, too still, like the walls are holding their breath and waiting for her to do something she can't bring herself to do. their suitcase is still half-open on the floor where they dropped it days ago, clothes spilling out in soft, wrinkled heaps they haven't touched. she hasn't touched much of anything, really, if she's being honest. time has gone strange; hours slipping past without shape, without meaning. they've been in bed long enough that the sheets have molded around them, trapping heat and the faint smell of stale sleep. her hair — usually so deliberate and bright it feels like armor — is tangled and dull against the pillow, red gone uneven where it's been rubbed into knots. there's a hollow ache under their ribs that they know is hunger, but it feels distant. ignorable. the sound of the door unlocking cuts through it anyway. her body tenses before her mind catches up, breath catching somewhere high in her throat. they hadn't expected him — not now, not like this — and suddenly the quiet doesn't feel protective anymore. it feels exposed. footsteps, familiar, moving through the apartment like he belongs here (he does, he always has), and panic blooms slow and heavy in her chest. they push themself up just enough to sit against the headboard, pulling the blanket tighter around them like it can hide the worst of it — the way their arms feel too light, the way their shirt hangs looser than it should, and hasn't been able to bring themself to fix anything. "luke—" her voice comes out rough, unused, and she swallows hard like she can smooth it over. it doesn't work. their fingers curl into the fabric, grip tightening as his presence gets closer, as the distance between them disappears whether they're ready or not. she shakes her head before he even fully sees her, eyes flickering away, unable to hold his. "don't—" a breath, shallow, uneven. "i don't… i don't want you to see me like this."

the door barely clicks shut behind them before rory's leaning back against it, breath catching in a way he hopes passes for a laugh. "y'know," he manages, voice a little thin around the edges, "usually i at least buy someone a drink before i get this kind of service." it's automatic, the charm — something he reaches for like a reflex — but it doesn't quite land the way it normally does. his shoulder protests the second he shifts, sharp and immediate, and it pulls a quieter sound out of him before he can swallow it down. still, he tilts his head, grin crooked, trying. "don't get shy on me now, vanek. you've already seen me at my worst. might as well make it memorable." he lets noah guide him, which might be the strangest part of all of this. rory isn't good at at being handled, or letting someone else take over, but the second noah's hands find the hem of his shirt, careful and deliberate, it's like his body decides for him. his arms don't want to cooperate; one of them barely does, the other shaking with the effort of staying lifted long enough to get the fabric up. "jesus—" it slips out under his breath, more exhale than word, and he huffs a laugh right after, like he can cover it. "yeah, this is—this is real hot, by the way. me, half-dead, can't even take my own shirt off. you're having a great time, i can tell." but his gaze keeps flickering back to noah anyway, softer than he means it to be, like he's checking, as if he needs to know noah's still there, not pulling away from the mess of it. when the shirt finally comes free, rory drops his arm too fast, a wince breaking through before he can stop it, teeth catching his bottom lip hard enough to ground him. for a second, he goes quiet, with his head tipping forward as he breathes through it, something unguarded slipping into the space between them. then, because he can't sit in that for long, he looks back up, forcing the corner of his mouth to lift. "you gonna help with the rest," he asks, softer now but still edged with that same teasing thread, "or you just wanted an excuse to get me shirtless?" there's a beat, his eyes lingering on noah's face a fraction too long. "not that i'm complaining. just... next time, we pick a version of this where i'm not actively falling apart, yeah?"