Endure & Survive

"Me or the pie?" You always managed to fall into an easy rapport with him. Your back and forth always seemed to turn from teasing to flirting, honestly? You loved it.

"Oh, you brought pie? I didn't even notice," your cheeks warmed up at his response. You shook your head and sighed playfully at him. He stepped aside and motioned for you to follow him, "do you want to come in?"

"I suppose I can spare you a few minutes of my precious time," you flashed him a pretty smile as you flounced past him. Making your way into the kitchen, you set the pie down before uncovering it to show him, "I even made your favorite."

"You spoil me," he practically groaned at the sight of the delicious treat. He immediately turned to the cabinets to grab some plates, "what's the occasion?"

"There's none," you grabbed some forks and knives, "the trees produced so many apples we couldn't use them fast enough. I figured pie was a good solution and I know you love it. So here we are."

"Here we are," he agreed softly, "thank you, darlin'."

"No need to thank me," you sat down and cut into the pie, "you just owe me now."

"I am forever in your debt," he down across from you, a knowing little look in his pretty brown eyes. You made a small sound of agreement as you passed him a slice, "whatever you want, just name it."

"I'll take you up on that offer."

"Good."

"Good."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You should tell her you know,” Ellie broke the silence over dinner as she looked over at Joel from across the table. He froze with his fork about halfway to his mouth. He stuffed the bite into his mouth and took his sweet time swallowing it before sighing and raising an eyebrow at her, “don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” he admitted, figuring it was better to admit to the truth rather than lie to her. She looked so pleased with herself as she leaned back in her seat, “but I ain’t doing anything about anything. Get that into your head, kiddo.”

“Why not?” she huffed, waving her hand dismissively at him, “you’re so lame. Ugh.”

“Maybe I am,” he agreed with a nod of his head, “but your opinion isn’t going to change anything. I am okay with how things are right now. There’s no need to go and change things up.”

“But she feels the same way!” and it really was obvious; everyone knew. You also knew that everyone knew. It was like the worst kept secret in Jackson, “one of you has to make a move eventually.”

“Ellie-”

“Joel,” she looked at him seriously, her small face taking on a dire expression, “you’re being stupid.”

“Ellie.”

“You’re denying yourself potential happiness,” Joel had to admit that she had a point, regardless of whether or not he would act on it. He was so happy around you, you made him feel so alive and carefree and loved. You were like his very own ray of sunshine. He could only imagine what it would be like if the two of you added romance to the equation. It wasn’t hard to imagine what it would be like to kiss you and touch you and make love to you. It really would have been like a dream, “and her. Plus you’d be so cute together!”

“With that logic, she’s also denying herself happiness,” he wondered if you thought about him the way he thought about you. He’d be lucky if you even spared him more than a passing thought, “so, have you given her this speech?”

“Not yet,” she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders, “I was going to try you first. She’s usually the more logical one…so.”

“So,” Joel mirrored Ellie’s position and crossed his arms over his broad chest, “you’ll leave her alone and drop this.”

“Not a chance!”

“I didn’t think so,” the girl shoved the last mouthful of food into her mouth, “I’m going to her.”

“I know,” Joel drummed his fingers along the table and let out a resigned sigh, “I know.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Despite Ellie's insistence that he tell you how he feels, he didn't do anything about it. Namely, he couldn't manage to work up the courage to do so. To him, admitting that he had feelings for you was akin to admitting he was weak. Feelings made people soft and made things harder when, inevitably, the relationship would end one way or another. Why would he willing put himself through that again? It had almost killed him when he'd lost Sarah and later when the same happened with Tess. If it hadn't been for Ellie, he wasn't sure he'd have made it. But Ellie was going to be around forever either.

It was a complicated tangle of emotions, and the best solution for him had to been to keep a few people, currently Tommy and Ellie, close while others remained behind a wall. 

You, meanwhile, loved and cared for people so openly. It was easy to see that in everything you said and did. You had a giant heart, but you were just setting yourself for failure. One day something bad would happen and you'd fall apart. Joel wasn't sure he could handle that. 

He didn't want to lose you; he loved you, he really did, but he also didn't want his heart to break.

Ellie had come to you as well and pushed you to profess your feelings. While not as in denial about everything as Joel, you weren't about to make that first leap. What if you overstepped and pushed him away? You didn't want that; you'd rather keep him as a friend than lose him entirely.

You'd noticed over the last couple of weeks that something had been nagging at Joel. You didn't push the issue, but hoped he'd trust you enough to confide in you at some point.

It turned out that some point didn't come as you expected.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Joel had come over to your house, and the two of you were making dinner together. It was a routine you'd often fall into and it felt so blissfully domestic. You'd never really made a comment about it before, but something caused you to feel a certain amount of bravado and led you to actually pointing it out.

"You know, this is so much like playing house," you teased softly as you nudged his side with your elbow.

"It does," he agreed with a small smile. He liked the idea of living with you permanently. If he was being honest, the thought of sleeping with you and waking up to you in his arms, of spending lazy evenings in a tangle of limbs was something that crossed his mind more than he cared to admit. In another life, he'd have made those moves already and might have even called you this wife, "kinda nice."

"Mhmm," you continued chopping away at the fresh vegetables that you'd picked for dinner, "all that's missing now is a couple of kids running around."

He stiffened for a moment, his mind first going to the image of you round and pregnant with his child and then to sheer terror. Kids were all well and good, but something just told him they would be a bad idea. He remained silent and kept his gaze on the stove.

"You ever think about having kids in  the future?" you had hesitated for a moment before asking but, how did that old saying go? Curiosity killed the cat?

"No," he said without a second thought. It was a lie, of course it was. He'd thought about it a lot, especially since he'd met you. 

"Oh," your breath hitched in your throat at the sudden shift in emotion. You focused on what was in front of you rather than anything else. Something was off and you could immediately sense that you might have said the wrong thing. It was still hard for you too sometimes, "I'm sure that it's still…hard. Losing your daughter….I'm sure it was the hardest thing ever. I l-"

“Don’t,” there was a furious look on his face and you couldn’t help the way you recoiled away from him. He’d gone through such a shift in emotions that it was a little scary - you’d never seen him like this before, “don’t fucking talk about my daughter.”

“Joel, I didn’t mean anything by it,” you felt a few hot, salty tears run down your cheeks. You took a step back to create a distance between yourself, wiping the tears away with the sleeve of your sweater, “I was just saying-”

“You don’t know shit,” he stormed towards the door and threw it open harshly. You were surprised that it didn’t fall off the hinges, “you have no clue what it’s like to lose a child.”

With that, he stormed off, leaving you there staring in shock. Your mind was still trying to process what was going on as you closed the door. Your whole body felt like it was trembling as you leaned against the counter and took a few deep breaths. 

That wasn’t him, is what you tried to keep telling yourself. That wasn’t your Joel…he would never have talked to you like that. A sensitive topic had been brought up and he was hurting…anyone could have responded in such a manner. 

But, you decided, you’d give him some space. Maybe seeing you wasn’t the best thing for him right now….you were sure he’d come to you when he was ready to. Until then you would just love and support him from a distance; but that was the thing and you hoped he knew it too - you’d always love him. Not matter what happened, Joel Miller had your heart.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Hey big brother,” Tommy caught Joel’s attention as he walked into the tavern, flashing him a meek smile. Joel looked up and offered a wave in a sign of acknowledgment. Before he could say anything else, Tommy’s fist collided with his face, causing him to stumble off his stool. He clutched at his face, surprised by the sudden attack, “heard you were being an asshole.”

“What the fuck!?” Joel clutched at his face in shock as he took in Tommy's angry expression. And here he thought that they were getting along well these days. But then he said - your name, "listen-"

"No, you listen," Tommy grabbed by the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer so only he could hear his next words, "I can't believe you yelled at her. And you told her she doesn't know what it's like to lose a child? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?" Joel's brows furrowed in confusion. Yes, he hated himself for yelling at you, but it had all been in the moment. He agreed with that part anyway, "what are you talking about?"

"You're an idiot and an asshole," Tommy shook his head, "you're not the only one who's lost everything. You're not the only one who's lost their child."

"W-what?"

"She lost her son," Joel's face fell as realization crashed over him like an icy wave, "to one of those clicker bastards. It almost got her too. You ever notice that scar on her face? Now you know where it comes from."

"Tommy-"

"Next time don't assume you know everything," he shoved him and put a bit of distance between themselves, "don't ever be a dick to her again. It won't end well."

With that, Tommy left Joel sitting there with a sore face and aching heart. Not that it was undeserved, but still. Joel knew what he had to do, but he wasn't sure you'd give him the time of day. But you were so good and kind that he realistically knew that you'd let him explain. 

All those things that he thought had made you weak actually made you so stronger. Much stronger than he was apparently.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late in the evening a couple of days later when he knocked at your door. You were both surprised but in a way had been expecting him. It was Joel after all, and the two of you shared a special bond; it wouldn’t be so easily broken. 

“H-hi,” his cheeks immediately pinked when he saw your pretty face and he felt like either running away and never looking back or throwing up then and there. You offered him a small smile in return but otherwise remained silent, “I, uh, I wanted to…I came to…apologize. I’m sorry for the other day. It doesn’t excuse it, but I was just wanted to let you know. So…yeah.”

“Do you want to come in?” you asked softly, causing him to look at you in pure awe. 

"I-what?"

"I just made some tea," you stepped aside and beckoned for him to follow, "I couldn't sleep so I thought it might help."

He was incredulous as he stepped into your kitchen and watched you make him a cup. In the warm yellow light of the kitchen, he studied you intently. He noticed the scar running from your cheek and disappearing into your temple. It wasn't the first time he spotted the scar but it was the first time he made the connection.

"Why?" He asked as he sat down across from you, pulling the cup of tea closer, "why aren't you telling me to go fuck myself and leave?"

"There's no reason to," you shrugged before taking a long, thoughtful sip of your tea, "I assume Tommy told you by now."

"How'd you know?"

"I can see the bruising on your face," you reached over and gently ghosted your finger along his skin, "and no one would dare to hit you besides him. Or maybe Ellie."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and giving it a squeeze, "I had no clue."

"It's not something I usually go and advertise," you sat back in your seat and exhaled slowly, "losing a child isn't easy. It doesn't really get easier but time lessens the sting. I can tell you more about…him and everything that happened sometime. If you want to hear it, but not tonight. Tonight we can just…just be."

"Yes," he reached for your hand and put his hand on top of yours, "I know it doesn't seem like it but I…care for you. Very deeply."

"I know you do, Joel," your assurance made him feel so much lighter; it felt like the weight of the world was off his shoulders, "I care for you too. There's a lot we still have to learn about each other Joel, but I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here."

The trail that winds around the water and throughout the park is quiet, only a few passersby giving him a polite wave or a tight smile as they jog or walk past during their workout. He watches each one approach, looking for the familiar face of you that he’s been waiting for at this spot, for this time and day of the week every week since he’s come home from his last deployment with Special Forces. It was your idea, forcing him to check in at least weekly in person to make sure he was doing alright adjusting back home. You both knew that he couldn’t say no to you. You thought it was because you were best friends since the start of high school, your long history creating an unbreakable bond. The real reason, that only he and the boys knew after they coerced the confession out of him on a mission, was because he was in love with you. Has been for years.

This week feels different though. Part of him isn’t sure that you’ll show up after what happened the night before last. Anxiety swirls in his gut and his fingers twitch for some nicotine, his hands patting his pockets to pull out the crumpled packet of cigarettes and Bic lighter. The colored end rests between his lips while he clicks the lighter until the flame appears, holding it to the small roll of tobacco and inhaling around it to catch the dried leaves alight. He puffs out a few drags, billowy, thin smoke surrounding him as his muscles relax and his mind calls back to the night he last saw you.

He told the cab driver your address.

Of course, he didn’t realize he’d rambled it off until the guy kicked him out at the curb, turning around to get his bearings, and seeing the small three-bed townhome you shared with your roommates. The screen of his phone showed him the time, a slurred curse slipping from his lips when it registers how late it was.

1:02 AM

You would definitely be asleep by now. You had been texting him all night recapping stupid things your roommates’ friends said during a girls’ movie night at your place, making him smile at his phone often while out with the boys at the bar. Your messages slowed down and then stopped altogether around 11:30 pm, cluing him in that you’d fallen asleep. Their incessant teasing and the ache of his unrequited love drove him to drink a little too much, and he must have been so drunk that his subconscious took him to you.

He should go home. Back to his empty house, where he’d pass out alone and cold.

He always felt warm around you.

And his phone is about to die, which meant there was no chance he could call a cab or order an Uber.

Guilt crawled in between his ribs with each step he took down your front path, sighing softly to himself and lifting his hat to run a hand through his hair before he knocked on your door.

There’s no answer, so he succumbs to finding your contact through his messages, pressing the call button and holding the phone up to his ear. It rings three time before he hears a rustle on the other end, your sleepy voice coming over the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, solecita.”

“Frankie? What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Uh, not really? Well, kinda. ‘M a lil’ tipsy, actually more than tipsy, and accidentally told the cab driver your address instead of mine so I’m outside your house right now. And my phone’s abouta die.”

You take a slow inhale before exhaling a short chuckle.

“Hold on.”

You don’t hang up the phone and he listens to the sounds of you climbing out of bed and your footsteps echoing in the wood-floored hallway. The front door swings open in front of him, your drowsy grin calming his anxiety immediately. Butterflies kick around in his stomach and a grin pulls the corners of his mouth up when he sees you in your matching pajama set, white cotton with dainty pink flowers. You hang up the phone in front of him, and he drops his own hand to his side again while giving you a cringed expression.

“‘M so sorry, solecita. Woulda called another Uber if I could.”

“‘S fine, Francisco. C’mon, just stay here for the night.”

You wave him in, quietly shutting the door and locking it again, turning back to him and nodding up the stairs. He follows your silent order, climbing the stairs ahead of you and stumbling only a few times from his slightly impaired depth perception. Your soft hands find his shoulders at the top of the stairs, guiding him to your room. The door closes behind you and he turns to face you, a small hiccup escaping his mouth.

“I can sleep on the couch, mi mejor. Don’t wanna take up your bed.”

“Frankie, you’re like six feet tall. You’re not gonna be comfortable on that tiny ass couch. Just get in the bed, I’ll be right back.”

From across the small room, he watches you slip out of the doorway, shutting it behind you. He takes the chance to slip out of his jeans, discarding his Standard Oil hat on your dresser. He knows what side to lay on from the countless times he’s stayed the night after getting wine drunk with you or when you’d stayed at his after it’d gotten too late to drive home, insisting you use the same side you do at home. He plugs his phone into the extra charger you have, laying back against the headboard as he covers his face with his hands and drags them down.

“God, fucking idiot, Frankie,” he mumbles to himself, knowing you’ll probably sweetly retell this story at the next dinner with the guys and dreading the shit he is going to get from them. They all rag on him like brothers around you, and you laugh along when Frankie does, encouraging him to let it roll off his back when he gets annoyed. All he hopes is that you don’t think he’s as bad as what you’ve been told in the last few years. The pain of his heartache around you would only be compounded if you thought any less of him ‘cause of the stupid shit he’d done. Including showing up at your house drunk at one o’clock in the morning.

The door clicking close again pulls his hands from his face, an exhausted sigh expanding and compressing his chest. You cross over to the bed with your “backup emotional support water bottle” (your words, not his) in your hand, passing it over to him.

“Drink half now. Other half in the morning. And here’s ibuprofen for the morning, too.”

You drop the few pills in his hand and he twists to set them on the nightstand, unscrewing the lid of the bottle to chug half the contents. He closes it again, setting it down to the side next to the pills. The mattress sinks when you climb in on your side, returning your own phone to it’s charger and laying down on your side facing him. He mirrors your actions, laying down to look at you tenderly.

“Thank you.”

“Always, Frankie.”

You’ve never not been there for him. You’ve left work earlier to find him at home in the middle of a panic attack when Pope’s called you, picked him up from bars and random house parties. Even been his friend when he’d been using.

You’ve never not been there, and that is exactly why he can’t bring himself to tell you that he’s in love with you. He can’t imagine his life without you.

“Can we cuddle?” He sounds like a little kid, feeling his face fall into an involuntary pout.

A faint laugh hits his ears in the dark room, no direct answer comes from you. Instead, you scoot closer to him on the mattress, hands grabbing either side of his shoulders and shifting him to face the wall with your windows. An arm slides under his neck, the other pushing between his bicep and his ribcage to wrap him up as the little spoon. He relaxes against you, breathing in your scent from your arm under his head.

No other words are exchanged, your breathing evening out against his back when you’ve fallen back asleep and then he finally closes his eyes to rest.

He dreams of you. Not sure what exactly, but the warm fuzzy feeling he’s got told him you were around.

The next morning, early sunlight filters through the sheer curtains covering the windows. Frankie’s eyes slowly open from the brightness, a pounding headache immediately throbbing in his skull and radiating pain all over his body. The two of you have moved throughout the night, your head on his chest and his arm under you. The sight of you peaceful, relaxed, angelic tears at his heart, the pain doubling at the thought of facing you this morning.

He slips out of your bed, cowardly slinking out of the house and avoiding any possible situation that he would have to tell you how he feels about you. Outside of your house, he waits at the curb after he calls Santi to come to get him, shooting a message to you that he left to head home and sleep off the hangover for the rest of the day, but he would see you tomorrow morning for coffee like always.

When he’s about to give up and head back to his car with his tail between his legs, he spots you speed-walking up the path and waving wildly to him. He smiles to himself, taking one last puff of his cigarette before putting it out on the rock next to him.

He stands, stepping to the edge to offer you a hand to help you up, steadying you as you catch your balance. Wordlessly, the two of you sit next to each other, the small bag of duck food that you always bring set down between your sides.

“Morning, Francisco. How’re ya feeling today? Better than yesterday?”

Teasing is evident in your voice, a sly smirk on your lips. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, hitting his shoulder against yours.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am, solecita. So no need for the smugness. Took care of you way more drunk and hungover than I was so you got no room to talk.”

“Hey! I was asking out of the kindness of my heart. Someone’s sassy this morning. What’s got your undies in a twist?”

He laughs softly, looking out at the water in front of him and shaking his head as he shrugs.

“Nothin’ much, I guess. Reason I got drunk on Friday was ‘cause I had another shitty day at work. I really don’t wanna work at the airport anymore.”

Your head nods in understanding, swallowing your sip of coffee.

“Well, what would you wanna do instead?”

He peels at the seam of the cardboard sleeve on his cup, eyes not daring to look over at you as he quietly admits what has been toying over in his mind for the last few months, not spoken out loud to anyone.

“I wanna do private charters again. Be up in the air, flying,” a tired sigh escapes his lips, head dropping in shame as he turns it to look at you, “But can’t do that with a suspended license.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But the key word there is ‘suspended’, Frankie. Didn’t they send you instructions to schedule a hearing to start the reinstatement process? Have you done anything for that?”

All he can do is shake his head, turning back to the trail and the pond to people watch.

“We can take a look at it all together if you want. Maybe my brother can offer some legal advice,” his skin burns from your hand resting on his back, even through his sweatshirt and t-shirt over it, “We’ll get it figured out. You’ll be up in the air in no time.”

His heart sings at your use of “we”, his mind clearing his anxious haze and giving him the nerve to spill his guts to you at that moment.

When he turns to face you, he’s met with your wide, optimistic grin and it only swells his heart against his ribs even more, feeling as if the vital organ is going to explode out of his chest unless he says something.

Frankie opens his mouth, inhaling a sharp breath as he formulates the words to start with; as he’s about to speak, your smile grows brighter, eyes lighting up.

“Oh! I didn’t get to tell you last night cause we fell asleep so quick, but, um, I started seeing this new guy. We’ve been on a few dates, but it’s gone really well so far and I really like him…”

Frankie half listens as you continue to recount each date, a dull buzzing noise covering the sound of your voice in his ears as his stare unfocuses in front of him. The courage dies in his throat, feeling as if the lump there is blocking his airway and slowly suffocating him. He’s quiet for the rest of the catch-up, and if you noticed, you never said anything. The two of you part ways at your cars, you heading home to get ready for another date with this guy and him heading home to have a date with the twelve-pack of beers sitting in his fridge.

The next week, Frankie only leaves his house to show up for his shifts at work. When he skips out on guys’ night on Friday, Santi stops at his on his way home from the bar, pounding on the door until Frankie answers.

“You look like shit.”

Pope barges in and gives Frankie a once-over, shaking his head and flopping down on his couch, picking up one of the cans of beer on the coffee table and popping the tab. Frankie sighs, closing the front door and sitting at the opposite end.

“What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t show up tonight, haven’t returned any texts or calls all week. Needed to make sure you were alive, cretino.”

“Well, I’m alive. Now you can leave me alone.”

Santi shakes his head, clearing his throat and giving Frankie a sympathetic look.

“Did something happen on Sunday morning? Did you do something stupid and she’s not talking to you?”

Frankie stews silently, glaring at Pope before breaking in the silence.

“She’s got a guy she’s seeing. Been on a few dates with him.”

“Ahh. Makes sense why you’re been moping then.”

“She couldn’t stop gushing over this new pendejo. And the worst part is she told me right as I was about to tell her how I felt.”

“Why can’t you still tell her?”

Frankie looks at Santiago like he’s got two heads, scoffing at the ridiculous thought.

“Cause she’s happy?”

“You said they’ve only been on a few dates. Not like she’s married, or even engaged,” Santi says with a casual shrug, “You’ve been in love with her for years, estúpido. I think that trumps a few dates. She deserves to know. And you deserve to know if she feels any ounce of the same way.”

The two men sit with each other, watching the movie Frankie had on while he mulls over Pope’s words. After Santiago leaves, Frankie shuffles into his room and finds the shirt he wore last week at your house, picking it up and switching it out with the one he was wearing. As he pulls it over his head, all he can smell is you. He holds the collar up to his face a takes a deep breath, battling with his thoughts into the early hours of the morning before he finally decides to call you and confess everything.

1:02 AM

You pick up on the second ring, the same sleepy voice you had last Saturday morning muffling over the phone.

“Frankie? Are you outside my house again?”

He laughs softly, biting his lip before he responds.

“No, no. ‘M sorry to wake you, solecita. Just wanted to talk to you. Been thinkin’ a lot tonight.”

“About what?”

“I dunno. Life, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.”

He stalls, chatting with you and rambling about the proceeding forms he’d dug out from his desk for how to move forward reinstating his license. You listen intently, offering supportive comments, asking questions, and giving him advice. The conversation falls into a lull, and like last week, as Frankie works up the courage to say what he really called about, you speak first.

“Can I tell you what happened on my date tonight? It was really nice.”

The pain in his chest brings his hand up to press against it, a burning lump growing in his throat.

Frankie clears his throat and responds with a quiet ‘yeah’. You tell him everything, and all he can think about is how this has to be some sign from the universe or God or whatever’s out there that it’s not meant to be between the two of you.

You start to yawn repeatedly, and he lets you off the hook with a tender goodnight, thumb smashing the red ‘end’ button and burying his head in his hands while he sits at the edge of his bed.

After a few moments of silent tears, he picks up his phone, sending one last message before he goes to sleep.

TO: Cabrón

It’s never gonna happen.