Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Frank sighs and rebalances the stack of boxes in his arms. It sways precariously, towering over his head as he tries to free a hand to start restocking the shelf in front of him. The store is quiet, nothing but the ambient hum of the air system and the distant rustle of footsteps in the next aisle over. Overhead, the fluorescent light buzzes and flickers, making shadows around him seem to stretch and warp strangely.

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to focus, but the last few boxes fall from his grip, scattering across the scuffed linoleum floor.

“Goddamn it,” Frank grumbles, crouching to collect them. He stretches for the last one, just out of reach, and overbalances, tipping forward and catching himself hard on his knees with a gasp of pain. 

The lights flicker again and he fumbles out blindly for the book, where it’s fallen half underneath the shelf opposite. 

No.

Wait.

That’s not right.

It was a box, not a–

Frank looks around at the trees stretching away in every direction. Old, gnarled, reaching up, up all around him toward a sky too far away beyond their canopy to see. 

It’s dusk, or maybe dawn? He tries to remember, tries to focus, but things keep slipping away like the dry leaves under his feet. The trees are so dense it could be late evening or midday, for all he can tell; the air thick and heavy with the smells of plants and dirt and decay and somewhere nearby, water. The rustle of footsteps sounds again, somewhere behind him.

Frank!

Frank jumps a mile, whirling on the spot so fast he nearly loses his footing, heart hammering. The voice had sounded harsh and desperate, right in his ear, but even as he turns in a full circle the woods around him remain empty.

“Hello?” he calls, and his voice sounds small and thin, stretched through the dark spaces between trees. 

These woods are strange and familiar all at once. Frank finds himself moving along what might be a path, or maybe just the natural space between fallen logs and tangled blackberry bushes stripped bare of everything except a few shriveled late-season berries. He can hear the stream now, trickling away in a gully to his left. 

Frank, the voice says again, and he stumbles, craning around but still seeing nothing. Nobody. Not even deer or rabbits or birds. Only huge, old trees standing still as sentinels all around. 

“What the fuck,” Frank mutters, inching closer to the nearest tree and peering up at it. “Did you just talk?”

Come back to me!

Something flickers in the corner of his vision and for the third time Frank whips around, this time barely catching movement between two enormous old oaks down the path, leaves crunching under hasty, shuffled footsteps. “Hey, wait! I’m right here!”

He hurtles after, careening down the path sending leaves and bits of half-decayed detritus flying as his heart thunders and his thoughts race with a frantic desperation he doesn’t understand. Not knowing why, only knowing that he has to catch up with the figure ahead of him, or something–something terrible will happen. 

Another glimpse of movement ahead, there, to the left! He stumbles but keeps his footing, trying in vain to see through the low, shifting light. Ahead of him, whatever it is he’s chasing stays just far enough ahead, always just out of sight, but leading him on and on until the tree trunks around him are just brownish-gray blurs, their footfalls dulled by the wheezing of his own breath and pulse pounding in his ears. 

“Wait!” he calls again, voice ragged, and this time the figure pauses. 

It is a person, or, person-shaped, a small voice in the dark recesses of his spinning mind supplies helpfully. Hooded, cloaked by the shadows of the trees, he can’t make out any features. Frank takes a step toward it. He doesn’t remember stopping his pursuit, only that now they’re standing thirty feet apart across a clearing watching each other and if Frank could just get close enough he could–

He takes another step and loses his footing, falling ass over elbows down a slippery embankment he hadn’t even noticed toward the clearing where he lands with a bone-jarring thud.

Frank hears familiar laughter and it feels like stepping out his front door only to realize he’s forgotten something important. He aches with it, clinging to the sound, trying to remember what he’s forgotten. 

He opens his eyes and sees firelight. It flickers and dances, casting long leaping shadows up the trunks hemming in the clearing and turning the fall leaves into a silent inferno reaching skyward. He’s still in the clearing. He can’t move.

Something shifts at his periphery but Frank can’t turn his head to see what. He hears muttering, shuffling like pages, and a dry sob. There doesn’t seem to be anything holding him down, but his body might as well be made of stone, and all he can do is stare up at the sky above him through a gap in the canopy. Stars, there are so many stars.

Frank strains against whatever’s holding him, trying to thrash or scream or even just turn his head to try and see what the hooded figure is doing next to him. His heart is beating frantically like a trapped moth between his ribs as he hears another sob, and then the unmistakable sound of something metal being drawn from a sheath. He tries again to scream, but no sound escapes him, as at last the figure looms back into his field of view, blocking out the stars and bending low over his body. Frank can’t see its face, just a fall of dark, tangled hair and a pale hand that raises a wicked-looking dagger high above him and–

“FRANK!”

Frank sits bolt upright, gasping for air and feeling like his lungs might explode, and nearly headbutts the figure leaning over him.

“What the fuck–Gabe?” he manages, looking up at the tall, gangly shape of his roommate silhouetted against his bedroom window. 

His bedroom. His safe, normal, cluttered bedroom, with its stacks of books on the desk and the laundry pile in the corner and the sheets his mom gave him as a birthday present tangled up around his legs. He can move and he can talk and he’s definitely not paralyzed on his back in the woods with some psycho about to Michael Myers his ass for a satanic ritual. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Gabe asks, peering at him skeptically. “I came in ‘cause I thought you’d missed your alarm for work, but you were having some kind of crazyass nightmare or something, thrashing around. It took forever to wake you up.”

“Nightmare,” Frank echoes, weakly. “Yeah.” 

He kicks the tangled blankets off and stretches. Already the dream is fading, the intensity waning as the first threads of embarrassment at Gabe coming in and finding him like that start to take its place. 

Gabe snorts. “I tried to tell you, man, all that horror movie shit’s not good for your psyche. Maybe now you’ll let me pick what we watch once in a while.”

“For the last time, I’m not watching Top Gun with you again. Tom Cruise is worse for my psyche than Evil Dead ever could be. Fuck,” he adds, smacking the clock radio on the nightstand. He tries the lamp next to it, flipping the switch off and on a few times. Nothing. “Did the fucking power go out again?”

“That’s what I was saying!” Gabe steps aside just in time as Frank nearly crashes into him in his hurry to dig his phone out from yesterday’s pants. “Your alarm didn’t go off, dude. It’s 2006, why don’t you just use your phone like a normal person?”

“Because the radio is less stressful than the annoying shit my phone plays,” Frank grumbles, swearing again when he flips his phone open to a dark screen. “And my phone’s dead, too. God dammit, Gabe, what time is it?”

Gabe checks his own phone, frowning. “Uh, well, assuming we’re factoring in the time it would take you to put on pants, you’ll probably only be twenty minutes late? Twenty three, if you decide you need shoes, which really I don’t see–”

“Out!” Frank orders, marching him toward the door. “Get the fuck out so I can change. Oh my God, Brian is going to kill me!”

“No he’s not,” Gabe scoffs, as Frank slams the door in his face and starts tearing around his room trying to find his uniform shirt. “He loves you!” comes Gabe’s muffled voice, from the other side of the door. “You’re employee of the fucking month every month! I’m just surprised he still hasn’t popped the question.”

“You’re not funny!” Frank grabs a pair of pants off the back of his desk chair, giving them a sniff before tugging them on. He’s got a free day on Wednesday, he can do laundry then. Whatever. 

“I’m hilarious,” Gabe replies. “Hey, so since you’re gonna be late anyway, what do you think about giving me a ride to campus on your way?”

“Oh no, you’re right,” Frank says, throwing the door back open to Gabe’s leering grin and shoving past him into the kitchen. “You are hilarious, if you think I’m making myself more late giving your ass a ride.”

“But I woke you up when your alarm didn’t go off!”

“My hero. If I give you a ride now, how’re you gonna get home tonight?”

“I’ll take the bus. C’mon baby, I just don’t wanna deal with that fucking school parking lot! You know it’s already full. What if I give you a ride tomorrow morning? Tradesies!” 

Frank raises his eyebrows. “To my eight o’clock class? Really?”

Gabe balks at this, grimacing. 

“Hah.” Frank reaches around him, liberating a pack of Pop-Tarts from the box on the counter. “Knew it, fucker. Now outta my way, stop making me more late.”

He’s nearly out the door, Pop-Tarts, wallet, and keys in hand, when Gabe sing-songs, “But I made coffee.”

Frank freezes, hand on the doorknob. 

“And,” Gabe continues, “we both know you’re gonna hit that drive-through Starbucks on your way. But if you just take the rest of mine you won’t have to waste time on that, and you could drop me off at campus. C’mon, Frankie, it’s right here. Hot, steamy, fresh drip coffee, just how you like–”

“Oh my fucking God if I say okay will you stop talking? Please?” Frank begs, but Gabe is snickering, already holding out the travel mug for Frank to fill. “Jesus fuck, how do you make even coffee sound dirty?”

“It’s all in how you say ‘drip’,” Gabe says, over-enunciating the p with a conspiratorial wink. “C’mon, you beautiful piece of shit, I’ll meet you at the car!”

He snatches his book bag off the counter and bounds out the door, leaving Frank to stare after him, still holding the steaming pot. 

“Drip,” he says to himself. “Drip .” 

Frank shrugs, screws the lid onto his mug, and follows Gabe out into the bright, clear autumn day.

*

The rest of Frank’s morning is calm by comparison. Actually, Frank would like to use the term mind-numbing, except for how numbness sounds vastly preferable to hours of boredom punctuated by dealing with the occasional asshole customer. He really needs to talk to Brian about changing their signage to something more informative. Maybe Staples Copy Center: No, We Don’t Offer Shipping, Kindly Go Fuck Yourself. 

He groans and slouches further forward on the counter. He could be at home sleeping right now. Or at the school library studying for his stats midterm. Or literally anywhere else. Doing literally anything else. But instead, his best-case scenario is that a customer needs something laminated and he gets to play with the industrial-sized machine in the back. At least that’s a good time. 

It’s more of a good time when he and Gabe actually get scheduled on shift together, but after the last incident where a xerox of Gabe’s butt got left in the copy tray, there’ve been noticeably fewer overlaps. 

“Frank?”

Feeling a weird sense of deja vu, Frank jerks upright at the sound of his name, barely stifling a yelp as the steely eyes of his manager bore into him across the counter. 

“Whoa hey, you good?” Brian asks, expression wavering from disapproval to concern. “You seem kinda jumpy.”

“‘M fine,” Frank mumbles, trying to ignore how for a second his mind had flashed back to that scene from his dream, lying immobile while someone sobbed his name. “Hey, what’s up?”

He half expects to hear about how he was nearly half an hour late this morning, work shirt a crumpled mess and hair sticking up all over his head, but Brian just gives him a long, searching look. “You know where the label maker went?”

“Behind the color printer, I think. On the shelf with the extra ink.”

“Thanks.” Brian breezes past him and comes back a moment later with the label maker in hand. “Frank the Magic GPS strikes again. Next you wanna tell me where last month’s inventory report disappeared to? I swear it was on my desk, but then,” he makes a vague gesture, and shrugs.

“Try the cubby with the extra file folders,” Frank tells him, before he realizes the words are coming out of his mouth. He rolls his eyes with an awkward laugh. “Or with Colonel Mustard in the home theater, or…something,” he finishes, lamely. 

Brian just gives him a weird look and disappears in the direction of the back office. 

Gabe’s shift starts at three, so Frank is ready for it when he comes bounding up to the copy counter, somehow buttoning his shirt and cramming the end of a sandwich into his face at the same time, and not doing well at either. What he’s not ready for is the attempt at beseeching puppy eyes Gabe fixes him with, before he’s even swallowed his last mouthful of veggie sub. 

“Oh God, now what,” Frank demands, closing the copy of AP he’d been thumbing through. 

“Aw, buddy, don’t do me like that,” Gabe croons. He leans over the counter into Frank’s space until Frank swats him with the magazine. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna ask.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I do know that I’m off in less than half an hour and I will be taking myself and my car home, not stopping to run any errands, and doing nothing but that paper we have for Carter until my eyes bleed. Did you start it yet? Do you remember how he said he wants the bibliography formatted?”

“Nope, but I know it’s in the syllabus. Anyway,” Gabe says, undeterred and sauntering around the counter to throw an arm across Frank’s shoulders. “You know that kid I mentioned from my Mid Century American Poetry class?”

“You may have mentioned him a couple dozen times, yeah,” Frank sighs. He can already sense that this conversation is going to end in some John Hughes-level nonsense that he doesn’t have the bail money for, but on the plus side he’s tired as fuck and Gabe is a lot more comfortable to lean against than the counter, so he lets him keep talking.

“Right right, mister too-cool-for-crushes, we’re all very impressed. I, however, would like to get some this decade, and it just so happens that Bill is headed here to this very mall, at this very moment, and I know which store he’s going to.”

“Bill?” Frank asks, already halfway distracted, paging through the magazine again.

“Hot poet guy!” Gabe groans, yanking the magazine back out of Frank’s hands and jabbing him with it. “Keep up, because this is where you come in. I need you to take a little stroll with me across the mall to the north wing so we can, uh. Run into Bill at the crystal shop there, you feel me? Get your shit, let’s go!”

“Dude, I’m not off yet, and you literally just got here,” Frank says, extricating himself from Gabe’s tentacle-like hold to stare up at him. “What the fuck, do you want to get fired?”

“Gosh, what assholes we’d be for leaving Brian to deal with these crowds all on his own,” Gabe deadpans, casting a significant look out over the empty, fluorescent-lit aisles. It might as well be a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The kid digging half-heartedly through the discount DVD bin up front could even be a wayward zombie. That might actually be kinda cool, and at least give them something interesting to do. “Look, you don’t wanna go out the front entrance, anyway. Those creepy skinhead dudes are hanging around out there again, this’ll give you an excuse to avoid them. C’mon, baby, I need my wingman!”

Frank hates the creepy skinhead dudes. They’re all about eight feet tall and like to stand around leering at him when he sneaks out for smoke breaks. 

Heaving the most dramatic sigh he can manage, he slides off his stool. “Remind me why we’re best friends again?” 

Gabe crows, pumping a fist in the air triumphantly and nearly knocking Frank over with an exuberant hip-check. “Fuck yeah, that’s the attitude I’m looking for! You just keep that reluctant, skeptical stick in the mud thing going, and Bill will be unable to resist my comparative charms.”

Frank punches him in the arm, snickering when Gabe winces and makes a big show of rubbing it. He clocks out and they grab hot pretzels from the kiosk near the food court, Frank pretending not to notice how the cute girl ringing them up is so busy making googly eyes at him she almost miscounts their change. 

“Man, I can’t remember the last time I came down here,” he muses through a mouthful of pretzel as they round the bend to the north wing. “So like, Bill’s into rocks or something?”

“Crystals,” Gabe corrects, with altogether too much confidence for a guy who used Frank’s notes to pass Earth Science in ninth grade. “He’s like, into all that witchy stuff. But not in a creepy way,” he adds hastily, like he can read Frank’s thoughts. “He’s totally a season four Willow.”

“Uh…huh,” Frank says, trying to hide his smirk. “Well good thing he has you to make up the creepy quota, then, huh?”

“Dick.” Gabe jostles Frank with an elbow, but he’s smirking. Frank elbows him back.

“Ass.”

“Nutsack.”

“Dipshit.”

Sure enough, there’s totally a crystal shop that Frank had never even heard about tucked away in the very back of the mall’s north wing. He’s not sure what he'd been expecting, exactly, but his first thought is to be surprised at how nice it is, with warm lighting and gleaming glass display cases, shelves of books lining the walls floor-to-ceiling. He’s struck by a jerk of something almost like familiarity tugging at the back of his mind, way deep down and just out of reach.  

In one corner there’s a shelf set up with UV lights for the forest of little plants for sale that Frank feels himself gravitating toward before one of the bookshelves catches his eye. 

“Dude,” he hisses, trying to catch Gabe’s attention where he’s ogling one of the display cases full of what look like really convincing replica daggers. “Dude, check it out, they sell comics, too!” 

“Cool,” Gabe says without turning. 

Frank rolls his eyes and selects a Hellboy trade, flipping it open and paging to his favorite part, where Hellboy goes out to the woods to talk to Baba Yaga. He traces a finger over the bold lines of the illustration, the skulls on spikes and the gnarly-looking witch in her magic hut, and thinks that given half a chance he’d totally go for something like that. A creepy house in the woods running around on giant chicken legs would be metal as fuck.

He’s drawn back to reality by the tinkling of the bell above the door, and turns just in time to see Gabe nearly knock over a display of crystal skulls as a tall, spindly, very pretty guy saunters in. Seeing them next to each other, Frank thinks that if they actually do hook up, it’s going to look like a couple of hat racks caught in a hurricane, and he hastily has to fake a coughing fit to cover his snickering. 

“Oh my God, hi!” Gabe calls, way too loudly for a store where they appear to be the only three customers. “Bill! What a surprise running into you. I had no idea you were talking about this crystal shop!”

Frank raises the comic book in front of his face and resists the urge to smack himself with it. 

“Hey, Gabe,” Bill says shyly. “Um, yeah, I meant this one.” And point scored for Gabe, this kid looks like he’s got the same little cartoon hearts popping over his head that Gabe does, taking a step toward him and tugging at a lock of his fashionably shaggy hair in the universal talking-to-my-crush pose probably visible from space. “Wait, are there others in town? I totally have to check them out!”

Gabe makes an unfortunate spluttering noise and mutters something about thinking there was one on the other side of town, but by some miracle Bill is already distracted by the display case with the daggers.

“Ooh, these are new,” he gushes, leaning way over to inspect. “Wow, look at the carvings on the handle there.”

“I think I saw something like that for sale in Chinatown last time I was in the city,” Gabe says, but Bill is already shaking his head, pointing.

“No, see? It’s got a little card with the date and stuff on it. The owner’s always finding cool stuff like this, original pieces. I bet they’re really expensive,” he sighs. 

Frank returns Hellboy and leaves them to swoon at each other, gross, continuing his perusal of the shelves. A lot of the books look at least as old as the daggers, safely sequestered behind locked glass cabinets, and he finds himself longing to drag his finger over the faded gold lettering on a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum that looks like it’s being held together by spit and prayer. It’s sandwiched between a much newer-looking Greek and Roman Necromancy and something so ancient he has to lean in and squint to make out the title Key to Captive Thoughts scrawled down the spine. 

A thrill of familiar excitement runs down his spine and he itches to take it out and hold it; to feel the leather binding in his hands, the familiar weight–

Frank steps hastily back from the case, shaking his head to clear it. That was fucking weird. Definitely maybe time to consider watching something besides horror movies.

The plants in the corner seem harmless enough, with little labels identifying rosemary, catnip, mint, and chamomile. They all look bright and cheerful, and he’s strongly considering buying one to add to his own little windowsill garden when one near the back catches his eye. It has its own clear plastic cover, marked hyoscyamus nigra, with big bold handwritten letters warning DO NOT TOUCH! PLEASE ASK STAFF FOR ASSISTANCE. 

Frank snorts. Some of the shit in here is cool, but it comes off as a bit over the top, gilding the lily or whatever, to try and make some sprouts seem ominous. The hyoscyamus thing is kinda cute, even, with a couple of soft-looking yellow buds and ripply leaves. Maybe it’s carnivorous and he’d have to find bugs for it to eat, that would be pretty badass, like his own little Audrey II.

With the same sense of curious urgency he’d felt looking at the books, Frank casts a cursory glance toward the back of the store where the front desk is as deserted as it was when they came in, and reaches out to remove the plastic cover. 

A distant part of his mind is clamoring a chorus of WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING, but another, much more calm and purposeful part reminds him that that’s just silly, he knows what he’s doing. Even the faint, unpleasant smell is familiar, conjuring the image of heaps and heaps of drying flowers on an old, scrubbed wooden table. 

“Hey, you’re Gabe’s room mate, right?” Frank hadn’t even heard Bill approaching until he’s leaning over Frank’s shoulder, looking at the plants with a skeptical frown. “He talks about you a lot. I’m Bill.”

“Frank,” says Frank, holding his hand out to shake. It’s weird, he has a really hard time not going right back to the plants, like they’ve got some kind of magnetic force drawing him back in. Something he can feel under his skin, the faintest tickle of an electric pulse.

“Are you sure that’s safe to touch?” Bill asks, and Frank looks down to find himself reaching out, fingers brushing the soft, waxy little leaves.

“I don’t think it’s gonna bite me,” he says defensively. Season four Willow his ass. More like book one Hermione.

“But wasn’t that the one with a lid on it?” Case and point.

Frank resists the urge to glare at Bill, snapping the lid back over the plant with maybe more force than necessary and taking a step back. He stuffs his hands into his pockets for good measure, since apparently today his body has decided to be completely insane. “Dude chill, I was just looking.”

Bill snorts a laugh, expression going from haughty to twinkling in a dizzying instant. “You’re lucky the owner didn’t catch you. The first time I came in I wanted to try on one of those amulets over there,” he points at a hanging cluster across the room, “and he nearly took my hand off. He’s actually really sweet, but like, kinda weird about the merchandise.”

“Okay, but a big warning sign for some little plant?” Gabe says, strolling over to inspect. “Seems like overkill to me.”

“That’s because you have the psychic presence of peanut butter,” Bill tells him kindly. Somehow this makes Gabe’s ears go pink. Frank quietly gags. “That’s black henbane, it’s seriously powerful like, all throughout history. Supposedly medieval witches used it for protection against each other, and the smoke from the dried flowers was the main ingredient in spells conjuring up spirits of the dead, or even demons.”

“Also for sexy stuff,” Gabe adds, grinning when Frank stares incredulously at him and holding up a little placard he’d completely missed next to the lidded container. “Ancient witches were super horny, apparently. Look, it says they used mint for sexy stuff, too.”

Bill is suddenly extremely interested in a display of tarot cards, but even at this angle Frank can tell his ears have gone just as pink as Gabe’s. 

More as a distraction than anything else Frank grabs the nearest non-demonic plant off the shelf and heads for the register. “Well this has been fun,” he announces in the general direction of where Gabe and Bill are making stupid cartoon eyes at each other again, “but I’ve got shit to do. You kids be good, now.”

The counter is as deserted as ever. Frank sets his plant down and tries to peer around the corner of the door to the back room, mostly blocked off by an array of hanging scarves. “Hello?” he calls tentatively, and then again, “Hellooo?” 

There’s a bell on the counter, the kind you usually see at takeout restaurants, and after a moments’ pause he gives it a couple firm taps. 

He’s seriously debating just putting the plant back and saving himself the hassle of human interaction when there’s a scuffling and a thud followed by a muffled curse. The scarf curtain gets pushed aside to reveal a guy with wild dark hair and a ratty old Simon and Garfunkel t-shirt rubbing his elbow and trying to extricate one of his seriously sweet worn leather boots from a crumpled cardboard box. He’s even got his nails painted a dark, glittery blue, like he’s trying to hit every single one of Frank’s buttons at once. Frank thinks, Oh, wow.

“Motherfucking ow, piece of shit! Sorry,” says the prettiest guy Frank’s ever seen, presumably to Frank as he continues to yank on it. “Just got a new shipment of inventory last night and the back’s still a me–”

He breaks off abruptly as he looks up at Frank, mouth opening and closing several times before making a choked sort of wheezing sound. He takes a step back, but has apparently forgotten about the box still trapping his foot and stumbles, overbalancing and falling into a stool stacked high with old books and ledgers, sending them flying. 

“Holy shit, dude, are you okay?” Frank yelps. He reaches out to try and help, but the guy jerks away like Frank might leap over the counter at any moment and attack. Back pressed to the wall behind him, the guy continues to stare at Frank with enormous dark eyes. 

Frank has absolutely no idea what to do, especially since he can feel Gabe and Bill’s curious stares on them now, attracted by the commotion. 

The guy’s mouth opens again, glancing from Frank over to Gabe and Bill and back, and swallows dryly before managing, “We’re closed.”

Frank blinks. “Uh, what?”

“I said we’re closed,” the guy repeats, louder this time. He stands up as straight as the box on his shoe will let him and squares his shoulders, eyes sliding away to stare fixedly at some point above Frank’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you have to go. Right now.”

“What the fuck,” Gabe demands at the same time Frank says, “I just wanted to pay for this.” He pushes the plant toward the hot, crazy box-foot guy, digging in his pocket for the crumpled bills he knows he left there. 

“We’re closed,” the guy says again, still not looking at him. “The register’s locked. Go to a plant store. Goodbye.”

Okay, fuck this. He takes it all back. This guy is a weird looking asshole with a stupid pointy nose, wearing too much mascara on his stupid long eyelashes. Frank’s always had terrible taste, anyway.

For a long, flabbergasted moment, Frank just stands and stares at him. Then he says, “What the fuck, fine. Asshole,” and turns and stomps toward the entrance without waiting for Gabe, leaving the plant at the counter.

After the quiet crystal shop, the mall itself is overwhelming, with its piped in muzak and screeching kids and speed walking senior citizens. Frank’s head feels swimmy, even through the anger still threatening to overwhelm him. 

That weirdass motherfucker, who does he think he is, kicking Frank out like that? Frank’s used to getting looks from professors, or friends’ parents, or random professional-type people, thanks to the tattoos and face metal and whatever he’s decided to do to his hair that week. But some dude looking like he’s dressed for a grunge show a decade ago and running a goddamn rock store–full offense intended–hardly seems like he should be allowed to flip out in the face of a little counter culture. 

The door swings open again seconds later, bell jangling chaotically as Gabe and Bill tumble out, Gabe looking irate and Bill twisting his hands in front of him and tugging anxiously at his cuffs saying, “He’s just not usually like that, I swear!”

“A complete asshole, you mean?” Gabe grumbles, glaring over his shoulder before refocusing on Frank. “Dude, you okay? What the fuck even happened?”

“Hell if I know,” Frank snorts, shooting another glare around Gabe’s shoulder to where he can see the silhouette of BoxFoot McFuckface locking the door and turning the sign around in the window to read SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. “Maybe he saw my Our Lady tattoo and thought I was some religious freak in there to yell about burning witches or something, I dunno. I was just trying to pay for my plant!”

The corner of Gabe’s mouth twitches. “Maybe he could sense your hookup record with his psychic presence or whatever, and decided selling you a horny witch plant was a bad idea.”

“Ha ha.” Frank aims a kick at his ankle that Gabe deftly avoids. “It wasn’t anything weird, just mint.”

“Horny mint.”

“Actually,” Bill muses, before Frank can come up with an appropriate rebuttal, or throw his shoe at Gabe’s head (about one in three of their arguments has historically ended in flying footwear), “the hostility was definitely new, but it’s not really that surprising he wouldn’t sell you the plant. I swear like half the time I try to buy stuff, Gerard either straight up refuses, or swaps it out for something else at the last minute. I’ve seen him do it to other people, too, while I was there. But nothing like just now,” he adds wonderingly, wide eyes searching Frank like he might suddenly manifest horns or start speaking in tongues or something. 

Gabe raises his eyebrows. “Gerard?”

“I’m in there kind of a lot,” Bill says, a little defensively. “Sometimes we end up talking for a while. I think…I dunno. I get the feeling that he’s lonely.”

Frank’s lip curls. “I can see why, treating random strangers–customers–that way. Shit, I hope his business tanks.”

“Easy, killer,” Gabe says, slinging an arm around Frank’s shoulders and marching him forward while Bill looks quietly scandalized. “Hey, wanna come hang out and watch me laminate shit?”

“Fuck no, I’m going home,” Frank says, ducking out from under his arm as they near the pretzel cart. He’s got a date with a cold beer and some leftover spaghetti and, fuck, a huge fucking paper. Ugh. 

“I was talking to Bill,” Gabe elbows him, casting a hopeful glance toward Bill, who shakes his head.

“Nah, I have a bunch of stuff due tomorrow and I’m way behind.” Catching Gabe’s expression, he adds, “But maybe next week?”

Seriously, how Gabe manages to find these people is beyond Frank. 

It’s not until he’s home, clomping down into the basement of their little rental to reset the breaker for his room, that Frank lets himself think back over the interaction with the crystal store guy. 

In the bright, glaring lights of the mall, surrounded by normal people all going about their normal days, it was easy to write off as just some uptight weirdo being a dick. It wouldn’t’ve been the first time Frank got a reaction like that, he was always getting into fights at shows because some fuckwad decided to run his mouth. Life provided Frank with no shortage of fuckwads. 

But Frank can’t shake the memory of the look on the guy’s–Gerard’s–face. It wasn’t revulsion, or scorn, or any of the usual bigoted shit. It looked like recognition.

*

The rest of the week passes in a haze of midterms that keep Frank so busy he doesn’t have time to think much more about the weird crystal shop incident. Unfortunately, he’s got to sleep once in a while, and his subconscious seems to have its own agenda entirely. 

He dreams about the trees again, the deep, silent forest that flickers around him and transforms into a thick jungle from one blink to the next. The sound of fighting echoes nearby, and when he turns his head the guy from the crystal shop is walking beside him wearing some kind of army uniform, eyes locked straight ahead. Frank opens his mouth to try and get his attention, but his alarm clock is suddenly blaring right next to his head, and the dream fades quickly.

The first time is weird, but by the fourth morning waking up exhausted from a long night of running terrified through thick, swampy jungles where crystal store guy wanders in and out in eerily detailed period dress, Frank is over it. It feels extra stupid to be this pissed off about whatever dumb way his sleeping brain has decided to process midterm stress, but after waking himself up screaming at four-thirty in the morning with the sounds of explosions still making his head pound, only to find that the fucking breaker in his room flipped again, he’s starting to take it personally. 

Gabe stumbles out of his room a couple hours later to find Frank glaring into his fourth cup of coffee, Intermediate Sound Design notes open and ignored on the table in front of him. 

“Do I even wanna know?” he yawns, fishing around in the drying rack for a clean mug.

“Nnh,” says Frank, with a noncommittal shrug. He takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing upon the realization that it’s long-since gone tepid. “Hey, you ever die in your dreams?”

“Uh.” Gabe pauses, midway through scratching his belly. He’s wearing a bright pink t-shirt with glittery pterodactyls all over it. “Isn’t that supposed to not be possible or something? Did I read that somewhere?”

“It’s possible,” Frank says, in a tone that causes Gabe’s eyebrows to migrate gently toward his hairline. “Man, I didn’t think this semester was too stressful, but it must be getting to me more than I thought. Whatever.” He straightens up, shaking his shoulders out and taking another gulp of room temperature coffee. “You have the property manager’s number, right? I gotta get him to fix the breakers, I’m sick of all my lightbulbs frying every other week from the power surges.”

“Fucking old-ass shitty house,” Gabe says, sympathetically. “I’ll deal with it. I was gonna call him anyway because the dryer started smoking last night and burned the fuck out of my last two work shirts. Gonna have to hit Brian up for new ones, he’s gonna love that.”

“Old-ass shitty fucking house.”

*

The next day Frank wakes up in a cold sweat again, still sick with fear from crawling on his belly through mud and blood. His neck is sore, like he was sleeping at a weird angle, and his mouth tastes like something crawled into it and died. He rolls out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom, only to find Gabe already in there, frowning as he turns this way and that in front of the mirror.

“You’re still the fairest of them all,” Frank tells him. “But you need to get out of here unless you wanna watch me piss.”

“Okay, yeah. Sorry.” Gabe steps back from the mirror and rubs a hand over his neck, still frowning.

Frank stares at him. “Dude, are you okay? I can’t remember the last time I threatened to piss in front of you and you didn’t tell me not to offer you a good time.”

There’s a momentary pause and then Gabe says, “We’ve been roommates too long, haven’t we?”

Frank shrugs. “Eh. Other people are boring. For real, though, get out before I have to ruin the magic.”

When he emerges a few minutes later, Gabe is making toast and scratching his neck again. 

“Seriously man, are you okay?” Frank asks. “You look all tweaky.”

“I’m getting this fucking itchy rash thing that will not quit,” Gabe whines, coming over and yanking the neck of his shirt down for Frank to inspect. “It’s all over my front, and I think now it’s on my back, too, can you see anything?”

“Yeah, it’s all red and bumpy,” Frank tells him, standing on tiptoe to see better. “You think it could be allergies or something?”

“It’s whatever Staples treats their new uniforms with, I swear. I’m going to sue,” Gabe groans, resuming his scratching. “Don’t we have Benadryl cream around here somewhere?”

“Yeah, you let me know how that goes for you,” Frank says. He digs around in one of the kitchen drawers and passes Gabe the little tube of cream. “Dude, you should seriously go to the school clinic, this shit seems like no joke.”

“It feels like no joke,” Gabe grumbles. “I look like I have fucking leprosy or something. People are gonna think I have some crazy disease.”

“You’re worried about what people think, huh?” Frank smirks. “How is Bill, anyway?”

“You’re not cute,” Gabe informs him, elbowing past him on the way to the fridge while Frank tries to take up as much space as possible. “And I’m sure he’s fine, because his midterm project for our class was fucking beautiful, and I can’t wait for him to never speak to me again once he finds out I straight up failed mine.”

Frank gapes, following him into their cramped little living room where Gabe collapses onto the sagging loveseat with a moan of despair. “Wait, for real? I thought you liked that class!”

“For real,” Gabe confirms, muffled by his hands over his face. “And I’m pretty sure I bombed the test in stats, too. I dunno, I just haven’t been able to focus, and being itchy as fuck doesn’t help.”

He looks so miserable about it that Frank doesn’t even have it in him to give Gabe shit like he normally would. It also throws the continued nightmares into perspective. Frank had pulled a B+ on the stats test yesterday, and he’s pretty sure he kicked ass in sound design, too, so he’s really ready for his subconscious to calm the fuck down already with the stress dreams.

His subconscious, however, seems reluctant to get the message, and a strange, disembodied sense of fear and dread dogs him through his morning classes and follows him to work in the afternoon, even as the creepy dream fades. 

It’s maddening, like he’s forgotten something really important but no matter how much he racks his thoughts, he can’t figure out what the fuck he missed. On his break, Frank even goes online to check back through the syllabi for each of his classes for any looming assignments. He looks at the sticker on the inside of his windshield to make sure his car isn’t due for an oil change for another thousand miles. He calls his mom and has a really weird conversation where she confirms that no, none of their relatives are in mortal peril, yes, the dog is fine, and is Frank sure he’s okay? Is he sure he doesn’t want to drive home for a visit this weekend and maybe go to church with her, for old times’ sake?

The unbidden mental image of waking up screaming again right across the hall from his mom’s bedroom floats through his mind at this, and he ends the call as gracefully as he can manage to avoid hanging up on his own mother. She still sounds worried when they say goodbye, and despite whatever else he tells her, fuck if he doesn’t want to take her up on her offer and crawl home and hide in his old bedroom and eat her food and cling to her like when he was little, when it felt like no matter how bad or weird or scary things were, his mom would always be able to fix it. 

He heads back to the copy center counter, reminding himself that this is the lack of decent sleep talking; everything will feel a whole fuck of a lot less dramatic once things settle out and he can dream about crabs on rollerskates or playing spoons for The Misfits or whatever bullshit again. He’s a whole-ass grownup, this is fucking embarrassing. 

Luckily a distraction arrives halfway through his shift in the form of Gabe, for one of their rare closing shifts together. Frank has to stifle a snort of laughter as he shuffles in, peeling off his jacket but keeping the oversized hoodie and what looks like at least two scarves wrapped up to his chin. 

“Seriously, dude? You know Brian’s gonna flip if he sees you out of uniform,” Frank says, handing over the stack of documents they’re supposed to be laminating for some accounting business downtown. 

“Brian already left, I passed him in the parking lot,” Gabe replies, half muffled by one of the scarves that’s trying to migrate up over his chin. “And fucking frankly I don’t even care anymore. This rash shit keeps spreading and it’s starting to hurt, man. I went to the clinic and they just gave me calamine lotion and said to go to urgent care if it gets worse.”

He sighs and Frank worries his lip ring with his tongue, chancing a glance at Gabe’s dejected expression between trimming pages. He knows they’re both thinking about how the college’s shitty student insurance doesn’t cover urgent care visits, or much of anything that isn’t an STD test, generic antibiotics, or six free counseling sessions with an intern from the psych department. 

“Hey, I’m sure the calamine’ll help,” Frank tells him with a fair try at his usual pep. “It’s probably just stress making everything worse. By next week it’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

God, he really hopes he’s not full of shit, for both their sake’s. 

“Yeah,” Gabe says, perking up a little. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Man, when you had the bright idea to go back to school I never would’ve agreed if I knew it’d kick my ass this hard.”

“When I had the bright idea?” Frank splutters, fumbling the cutter and nearly chopping one of Gabe’s carefully laminated documents in half. “I’m sorry, motherfucker, if we hadn’t had this idea, we would both still be working at shitty local dives with the same shitty bands, talking about how fucking cool it’d be to actually produce shit. And then in forty years we’d be those sad, drunk fucks working the karaoke rig after getting off shift from Walmart. So fuck you, you’re fucking welcome.”

Gabe frowns. “I don’t know if that’s all true,” he says, ignoring Frank’s incredulous scoff. “No, I’m sure we’d also be in the shitty bands!” 

They work their way through most of the pile of documents before the silence between them takes on a heavy, awkward quality, Gabe glancing over at him when he thinks Frank won’t notice and shifting foot to foot. When he gets fidgety enough to knock a stack of finished pages flying so they have to be collected from the far corners of the copy room and completely reorganized, Frank finally loses patience. 

“Dude, what is with you? If you’re itching that bad go check on stock or something and let me finish here.”

Gabe worries over his bottom lip with his teeth, and Frank wants to shake him and yell SPIT IT OUT ALREADY, but he knows from long experience that this will just drag things out even more. 

“Okay,” Gabe says finally, once Frank has started sorting paperclips just to keep his hands busy. “You’re gonna think I’m insane.”

“Buddy I hate to break it to you, but that is not a future-tense statement.”

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. No, okay, I need you to tell me this shit is in my head, okay?”

Frank sets the paper clips aside and waits expectantly. “O…kay. What shit?”

“Do you–I mean. You don’t think I’m cursed, do you?” Gabe blurts, and then flinches, like he’s waiting for Frank to laugh or something. 

Frank blinks. “Uh. Well seeing as curses aren’t real , no I don’t think you’re cursed. But…even if they were, who would have cursed you? Why would they–well okay, no. Maybe it’s a good thing for you that curses aren’t real.”

“Frank,” Gabe heaves a beleaguered sigh and shoves Frank’s shoulder. “I’m being for real! Could you, like, I don’t know. Humor me or some shit, I’m kinda freaking out here.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, chill!” Frank fends him off. He hops up on the stool and leans his elbows back on the counter behind him until his back lets out a satisfying crack. “Tell me. Why do you think you’re cursed?”

Gabe hesitates, worrying at his lower lip some more. Finally he mumbles, “Crystal shop guy.”

Of the many different options Frank may have guessed, he can honestly say that crystal shop guy, Gerard or whatever, would not have crossed his mind. “Uh huh. So you think that just because some asshole has a new age shop in the mall he’s just running around looking for unsuspecting victims to curse with a weird rash.”

“And the dryer!” Gabe protests. “And failing like all my fucking midterms!”

“That’s one weirdly specific curse.”

“You are not helping!” Gabe hisses, punctuating each word with a punch to Frank’s arm until he has to slide off the stool and out of range.

“You told me to tell you you’re crazy, so that’s what I’m doing!” Frank hisses back, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no customers are within earshot. “He’s a bag of dicks, not the Wicked Witch of the East! Why would you be so special, anyway? Bill said he’s been going there for ages and he seemed pretty rash-free to me.”

Another pause during which Gabe looks, if possible, even shiftier than before. He cuts his eyes away from Frank and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Dude, what?”

Gabe sighs, taking a step forward and hissing in Frank’s ear, “Because I might’ve stolen one of his rocks.”

Frank has to take one very deep, steadying breath, in and out. “You stole one of his rocks.”

“Shh!” Gabe hisses, flapping his hands. “Not so loud!”

“You stole one of his rocks!” Frank says again, as close to shouting as he can get while keeping his voice at a whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Saporta? We’re not 16 anymore! We can go to jail and shit now, and you stole from the guy in the crystal shop who clearly would love nothing better than to have my ass busted by the mall cops, never mind putting a curse on our dryer!”

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to pause, rewind, and start from the beginning,” says a new voice behind them, making both Frank and Gabe jump and whirl around. 

The guy who spoke tugs at a lock of his wild, curly hair, watching them with polite concern.

“Hey, Ray,” says Frank. “Thanks for the heart attack.”

“You’re right, it was real shitty of me to sneak up on you like that, right out here in the open, with all these lights on. Seriously, though, you stole from Gerard so he cursed your dryer?”

Gabe glares at Frank, who raises both hands in front of him defensively. “Gerard?” he demands, turning to gawk at Ray. “You know that dick, too?”

“I mean yeah,” Ray says, hesitantly. “But he’s never seemed like a dick, to me. He’s usually really nice. He comes into the music store all the time. Got great taste in old records.”

“Well we went in there the other day and he was a total asshole for no reason to Frankie,” Gabe grumbles, not looking at either of them. “I was pissed, I wasn’t like, planning it or anything. There was this one rock on a display table so I just…grabbed it. I wasn’t thinking.”

Frank is suddenly overcome with conflicting urges to hug Gabe and punch him in the throat. He settles for elbowing him in the side, which Gabe halfheartedly returns.

“And now, to recap, you think he’s put a curse on your home appliances,” Ray says, corners of his mouth twitching. “Dude is more powerful than I thought, damn.”

Gabe hesitates before tugging the scarves down from around his face. “Also this.”

Frank has to resist the urge to flinch, the rash has significantly progressed since he’d seen it this morning, creeping up along Gabe’s jawline. Some of the bumps have begun turning an angry, bruised sort of purple. It does not look good. 

“Holy shit,” Ray yelps, taking an involuntary step back. 

Gabe hastily re-wraps the scarves, ducking his head self-consciously. “See what I mean? Totally fucking cursed.”

“Or,” Frank says, resenting the slightly desperate note in his voice, “you’re super allergic to something. Probably just that.”

“Or you stole from a witch and he totally cursed your ass,” Ray counters. “What? I’ve heard crazier things. And if anyone was gonna end up cursed, it’d be Saporta here. I’m honestly a little surprised it’s taken this long.”

“I’m going to give your picture to security,” Gabe tells him. “I’m going to get you banned from every Staples in the state.”

Ray shrugs. “Then you’ll be cursed and bored.”

“Dude, you get that you aren’t helping, right?” Frank snaps, making them both turn toward him in surprise. He’s he’s been riding an edge all week, and the more they talk about a curse the more he can’t stop thinking about his weird dreams. 

But no…those had begun before they went to the crystal shop, right? He tries to think back. He’d had one weird nightmare before the crystal shop, but it feels distant and foggy now, buried under the more recent escalations. It would also explain the feeling of looming dread: the itching under his skin, not like Gabe’s rash, but like he can’t focus or sit still or concentrate without it feeling like something is trying to claw its way up from the depths of his subconscious. 

No. No, what the fuck. He’s totally getting into his own head, this is ridiculous. “This is ridiculous,” he says aloud, realizing they’re still gawking at him while his mind races. “Gabe needs to go back to the clinic tomorrow and get some industrial-strength allergy medication, and you need to stop freaking him out.”

“I don’t know if Gabe is the one freaking out right now,” Gabe says mildly, just shrugging when Frank glowers at him. 

“Maybe just, I dunno, try returning the crystal?” Ray adds, with a hesitant look at Frank. “And also go to the clinic. Cover all your bases.”

Gabe looks shifty. “I guess, yeah. I could try that.”

“Do you have it with you now?” Ray asks, looking hopeful. 

“Nah, it’s at home in my drawer,” Gabe says, with a sigh. “I dunno, all joking aside this is ridiculous, right?”

Ray’s eyes widen and he clasps his hands in front of his chest. “Oh no, I would never joke about the curse of the neck rash and exploding dryer. How dare you imply–” He cracks up, dancing out of range as Gabe aims another swat at him. “Man, go to the clinic and call your super. And maybe don’t jack stuff from the mall where you work, dingus.”

“You’re a dingus,” Gabe mutters, tugging his scarves back up around his chin.

Ray makes a kissy face at him. “I’ve gotta get back, but let me know how it turns out?”

“Yeah,” says Frank. He forces himself to take a deep breath. “I’m closing alone tomorrow and the next day, please come keep me from dying of boredom?”

Ray throws him a two-fingered salute. “Roger that. Take pictures if Saporta’s neck syphilis does anything interesting?”

Frank salutes back.

Once he’s gone and Frank and Gabe have returned to the laminator to finish their order Gabe says, “He’s right, right? The curse thing is ridiculous. This has totally got to be allergies or something.”

He doesn’t look up, eyes boring holes through the page he’s preparing, and Frank keeps his own focus intently on lining up the newest sheet for the trimmer. “Yeah, I think so. Ray’s totally right.”

“Cool,” says Gabe, feeding the prepared sheet through. “I’ll go back to the clinic tomorrow.”

“Cool,” says Frank. 

An hour later the store is closed and they’ve both clocked out, spilling into the parking lot as Alex locks the doors behind them. Frank tips his head back, watching his breath form clouds in the crisp, dark November night. Leaves rattle in the wind, pushed across the pavement in the far corner lot butting up against the woods, and it all feels deliciously atmospheric compared to the sterile aisles and garish lighting he’s been subject to for the last seven hours. 

“See you at home?” Gabe asks, fishing his car keys out of his jacket pocket.

“See you at home,” Frank confirms, doing the same. 

They’re parked three stalls apart, and Frank is focused on adjusting the heat when he hears Gabe’s car start, rumble wheezily for a couple beats, and then explode.

He nearly trips over his own feet in the mad scramble to throw the door open and rush toward where Gabe’s car is mercifully still actually in one piece, but now with the fun addition of black smoke billowing out from under the hood. 

“Dude!” he yells, keeping a wide perimeter as he skirts around to the driver’s side, just in case, “Gabe, are you alive? Say something!”

The driver’s side door opens and Gabe spills out in a cloud of smoke, looking dazed but whole. He turns to survey the damage, standing silently with Frank to watch the hood smoke for a long moment before he says, “Tomorrow I think I’ll take the crystal back. You know, just in case.”

“Just in case,” Frank agrees. “Yeah.”

As they watch, the car gives another guttural belch, and one of the hubcaps comes loose and rolls off across the parking lot. They listen to it clattering away into the darkness beneath the trees and then Frank turns and leads them back to his car without another word.

*

The next morning brings with it a hazy, claustrophobic sky and the unmistakable smell of snow blowing in through the crack under Frank’s bedroom window. His nerves are still jangling and his head is pounding with the echoes of explosions, and he has to lie very still for a long time after his alarm goes off, gradually reacquainting himself with his own living, breathing body. 

“It’s the second week of November,” Gabe groans, as Frank makes his way groggily into the kitchen some time later, following the smell of coffee. He’s peering out over the sink like if he stares up at them long enough, the low-hanging clouds will take the hint and dissipate. “It’s too early to deal with the bus in the snow.”

“It’s not like it’ll stick yet,” Frank says, collecting two travel mugs while the coffee maker gurgles its dramatic grand finale. “You call the tow shop yet?”

“Yeah.” Gabe heaves a miserable sigh, accepting his mug from Frank and collapsing into one of the rickety folding chairs at the kitchen table. “They said it’s totaled, but they won’t charge me for the tow if they can keep whatever the scrap yard offers for the parts. I thought that stupid car was gonna run forever.”

Frank privately thinks that this is an extremely generous offer and one Gabe should probably get in writing before the towing guys get a good look under the hood, but Gabe looks so miserable he doesn’t want to add to it. Even from across the room, he can tell that the rash is starting to creep up the side of his face, despite what looks like a half-assed attempt with some concealer. 

“I’ll see if I can find the hub cap that fell off last night so we don’t have to bury an empty casket,” Frank tells him with a grin that Gabe returns weakly. “C’mon. If we leave now you’ll have time to hit the clinic before the studio opens.”

Outside the wind has picked up and a few scattered snowflakes swirl around them as they clatter down the front steps to Frank’s waiting car. Frank ducks his head against the icy chill and throws himself behind the wheel, slamming the door behind him and stuffing the key into the ignition while Gabe is still fumbling with the door handle, ready to blast the heat as high as it’ll go. 

He turns the key, and nothing. 

Frank swears, taking it back out, reinserting it, and giving it a few encouraging jiggles. The car had been a Hooray-You’re-Finally-Doing-Something-With-Your-Life present from his nonna when he’d gotten into school, but before that it’d been his grandparents’ car. Now she drives a purple Chevy Malibu and he gets to pray to the Nissan gods every day that all four wheels stay on. Luckily she’d made it easy for him by supergluing a faded little Mary figurine to the dashboard. Frank loves this car more than some people love their kids.

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters, giving the key another jiggle before turning it again. It makes a promising little click, but otherwise remains silent. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“You got gas, right?” Gabe asks, flinching back against the passenger side door at the look Frank gives him. “Just asking! I totally did that before.”

“Yes, I got gas,” Frank snaps. He wills himself to pause and take two deep breaths. “Sorry. Yes, it’s got gas. It’s fine, it just won’t start!”

Frank is extremely grateful that Gabe opts not to comment on that statement, for both their sakes. 

He tries all the usual tricks, pumping the clutch, checking to make sure he didn’t leave the lights on, fiddling with the key some more, and maintaining a silent one-sided bargaining session with Mary, watching on with her placid little painted smile. 

“This is totally my fault,” Gabe pronounces hopelessly. He gives Frank’s knee a conciliatory pat. “The curse wasn’t satisfied with blowing up my car, now it’s trying to take yours down, too.”

“Or,” Frank says through gritted teeth, trying the key again, “this car is old as sin, it’s cold as fuck today, and this is what I get for not wanting to pay extra to rent a place with a garage.”

He collapses back in his seat with a frustrated snarl, banging his hands on the lifeless steering wheel. “Come on, I just needed one thing to go smoothly today! PLEASE JUST FUCKING COOPERATE, YOU FUCK.”

The engine rumbles to life beneath them at the same moment Frank feels a jolt like static, only like, a lot of static, zip up his fingers. He gasps, flexing his hands as the radio blares and the wipers slap back and forth, rubber squeaking irritably over the dry glass of the windshield. 

“Holy fuck,” Gabe breathes, clutching his chest and echoing Frank’s thoughts. “Well that was dramatic timing.”

“No shit.” Frank flicks the wipers off and hits the power button on the stereo, throwing them back into silence. They sit for another few seconds, feeling the car quietly rumbling away like it’d never had a complaint in its life, before Frank wordlessly backs down the short drive and onto their street. 

They’re on the road for about five minutes when Gabe frowns, glancing down at the stereo console. “When’d you get the radio fixed?”

Frank stares straight ahead over the wheel. “I didn’t.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, the rear wiper’s never worked for me, either,” he says. He chews his lip, re-shuffling all the logical explanations in his head. “Neither has the back window on the driver’s side.”

He can feel Gabe’s eyes on him as they roll to a stop at the light around the corner from campus. Frank doesn’t take his eyes off the bumper of the car in front of him as he reaches over to the window controls, pushing the one for the window behind him. He hears a gentle mechanical whir down, and up.

“Interesting,” says Gabe, sounding valiantly calm. 

“Yup.” Frank looks down at Mary again, but she remains as enigmatic as ever. “Well, I’ll take it.”

True to form, the campus clinic supplies Gabe with a prescription for antibiotics and a box of generic Benadryl, and Frank nods along sympathetically as he spends the rest of their walk to the studio arts building grumbling darkly about medical malpractice. 

Frank is way behind where he wants to be with their production studio term project, and after the chaos of the last week, he’s never been happier to get to work and forget that everything exists outside of his noise-canceling headphones. He’s so focused that he doesn’t even notice the time passing until Gabe’s hand nudging his shoulder nearly makes him jump out of his skin. 

“The mall’s open, can we go do the stupid rock thing now?” he asks, shifting foot to foot and doing nothing to disguise the itching. 

Frank is so close to finalizing the track he’s been working on, but he grits his teeth and saves the file to his USB key, resolving to come back in between shifts over the weekend to get it done. “Yeah, let’s go.”

It’s only when they’re walking through the north branch again, passing the pretzel stand and the music store and watching the sign for Crystals & More loom into view that Frank realizes he has not a goddamn clue what they’re planning to do. 

He glances sidelong at Gabe, unable to ignore the pale, sweaty sheen the visible parts of his face have taken on. “Uh so, you have a plan, right? You know what you’re doing?”

Gabe hesitates, steps slowing. Behind the cheerfully lit windows, Frank can see Gerard moving around, rearranging a display. The nervous buzzing under his skin settles to a thrum. 

“I, um.” Gabe grimaces. “...I kinda hoped you’d thought of something.”

“Oh my God,” Frank groans, scrubbing both hands over his face. “How are you this much of a pain in my ass?”

“Remember in fifth grade when I punched Billy Dwyer because he was bullying you?” Gabe wheedles, with a valiant attempt at his usual shit-eating grin. “Remember in junior year when I helped you ask out Jim–”

“For the thousandth time, I could’ve handled Billy Dwyer just fine by myself, and Jim DeWees turned out to be straight and I am still embarrassed about that thank you for reminding me,” Frank grumbles, but he squares his shoulders and keeps walking. “Okay, the plan is that I distract him by pissing him off with my continued existence, and you put the stupid rock back wherever you found it, and then we leave before he notices it’s back. Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything, don’t do anything weird. Any questions?”

“Yeah, so like, what was your plan for dealing with Billy Dwyer, then, if I hadn’t shown up? Were you gonna climb him, or take him out at the knees, or–ow, fucker! Nah, I’m good,” Gabe says, rubbing his side where Frank had elbowed him. “Never thought your gift for pissing people off would come in so handy.”

“Say that again when we’re running from the mall cops,” Frank mutters, but he pushes the shop door open before Gabe can reply, bell tinkling merrily over their heads. 

“Hi, welcome to Crystals and More, how can I–” the shop guy, Gerard, breaks off mid-sentence, goggling at Frank. He’s wearing a Ramones shirt today, which Frank resents from the very core of his being, and possibly even what appears to be eyeliner. He is, unfortunately, even prettier than Frank remembers.

“I still want to buy that plant,” Frank announces, pulling himself away from awkwardly staring to improvise on the spot. From the corner of his eye he can see Gabe edging further around the perimeter of the store, doing a really bad job at not looking shifty. “The one from the other night.”

Gerard opens his mouth, shuts it again, and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, we make a lot of plant sales, I’m afraid I don’t remember what you’re referring to.”

Be cool, Frank reminds himself. He just needs to distract this guy for a few seconds, be cool. 

“Bull shit!” Goddammit. “I mean. Um. I’m sure you remember, I came up to the register to pay and you were an a–closing! You were closing,” he recovers, with a wide, innocent grin.

He can see Gabe making frantic faces at him in his periphery so he takes another couple of steps forward so Gerard has to turn his back to Gabe to keep watching Frank. The plan works a little too well, Gerard stumbling back like Frank’s brandishing a weapon or something, bumping the case of old daggers and knocking their delicate arrangement askew. What the hell is with this guy?

“Oh, right,” Gerard says, clearly floundering. “Right, we uh, sold that plant. Sorry. Go try somewhere else, have a nice day now.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “I can literally see it right over there,” he says. And then curses silently as Gerard follows his pointing toward the plants, right next to where Gabe is hastily trying to replace his stolen rock on a shelf with a handful of others. “OR MAYBE NOT!” he shouts, making both Gerard and Gabe jump a mile, Gerard mercifully turning back to look at him like Frank’s gone completely nuts. Behind him, Gabe gives a tight little nod. “Ha ha, I probably need to get my eyes checked. What about one of these?” He grabs a little bag at random off the nearest display. 

“That’s a fertility charm,” Gerard tells him, deadpan. “You need to go now. Both of you.”

He watches them leave, and as soon as the door jangles shut behind them Frank hears the bolt turn. He turns just in time to see the sign flip around again to SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED .

“Determined not to turn a profit, that one,” Gabe declares, leading the way back down the wing. Frank can’t help noticing that he’s got a bit more spring in his step, and his smile seems a lot less strained when he offers, “You want lunch? My treat for making you risk mall jail.”

They get Chipotle before Gabe goes to catch the bus back to the AV lab and Frank begins the reluctant shuffle toward Staples and another thrilling evening at the copy center. Next semester he resolves to increase his course load, if only for the excuse not to spend so much time here. He’ll take out more loans if he has to. 

His shift passes uneventfully, aside from Ray coming back to visit on his break between students. He eats Twizzlers from the pack Frank has open on the desk while grilling him for information about Gabe. 

“Has it gotten any worse?” he asks, letting Frank doodle on his nails with a fine-tip Sharpie. 

“He wouldn’t let me see,” Frank replies, adding some swirls and dots to Ray’s thumbnail. “Which probably means yes.”

“But he brought the crystal back, right?” says Ray, around another Twizzler. 

Frank nods. “Yup, we both did. And man, are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Because the guy there was still a complete dick to me.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just him working there,” Ray frowns. “Shaggy dark hair, super pale, wears a lot of band shirts? I’ve never seen anyone else.”

“That’s him,” says Frank. “Sure would like to know what the fuck I did to offend him so bad.”

“He does run a magic shop,” Ray says, smirking. “Maybe he’s never seen anyone as short as you and thinks you’ve come to kidnap him and take him back to live with the fairies. What?” he demands, when Frank just stares at him, “I read!”

“I wasn’t aware Rolling Stone covered fairy kidnappings,” says Frank, innocently. “Or is that more of a Guitar World thing?”

Ray swipes the last Twizzler and swats him with it  before stuffing it whole into his mouth. “You’re hilarious, Iero.” 

Only it comes out more like oor ‘larish, ‘ero , between loud chewing. 

“Hot,” says Frank. Ray beams at him with red goo between his teeth. 

“You wanna hang out while I restock paper supplies?” Frank asks, hopefully. “The more I get done now the faster it’ll be to close.”

“Wow, as fun as that sounds, I’ve got another student in like, ten minutes,” Ray says, not looking sorry at all. “Thanks, though!”

Frank flips him off. “See if I ever share my snacks with you again.”

It’s a blessing and a curse that the copy center remains largely dead for the rest of the night. A blessing because it means by the time the store is closed, all he has left to do is count out the register. A curse because it means he has all that time stocking shelves and re-organizing the supply counter just to ruminate on what an asshole Gerard-the-Mall-Witch is, even if he didn’t actually curse the shit out of Gabe. 

Frank’s not really sure what he’d been thinking, but a little part of him maybe thought the first time meeting him had been an anomaly, like Bill and Ray had seemed so convinced of. Like maybe he’d just been having an off day or something, and it wasn’t anything to do with Frank at all. Today had sure put paid to that theory. 

“Sanctimonious motherfucker,” Frank grumbles to himself, stomping off across the parking lot as Brian locks up behind him. “Probably got some kind of weird anti-tattoo bullshit, afraid they’re gonna mess with the cosmic alignment of his stupid store or whatever.”

He’s nearly at his car when he remembers Gabe’s stupid hubcap. He didn’t even see where the damn thing went, and Frank seriously considers forgetting it altogether as a gust of wind sends a flurry of snowflakes straight into his face. But then he thinks about Gabe’s expression watching smoke pour from under the hood of his car, on top of the rash and everything else this week, and he finds himself heaving a sigh and trudging off toward the far edge of the parking lot. 

On three sides, their mall is like any normal mall; surrounded by busy streets and every configuration of inconvenient turn imaginable. The fourth side, however, is built into the old woods surrounding most of town. They’re not very woodsy anymore, being parceled off more each year for developers as the town sprawls outward, but at night in the dark the looming trunks silhouetted against a moonless sky look ominous as hell. Even the parking lot lights are few and far between back here, offering little pools of yellowish light that seem to get quickly swallowed up by the yards of darkness between them. 

Frank slows as he nears the trees, doing his best to ignore the ominous feeling in his gut in favor of kicking at the drifts of leaves, scanning the ground for a glint of chrome. He’s just starting to feel really stupid–this parking lot is huge and the hubcap could be anywhere, or it could’ve rolled off into the woods, even, or gotten picked up with trash collection–when a strong gust of wind sends a flurry of leaves and snow whirling up into the sky, leaving a crescent gleam of metal just visible between the roots of the nearest tree. 

Heart leaping, Frank jogs across the lot toward it, giving an exhale of relief at the sight of Gabe’s dented old hubcap nestled in amongst the brambles and detritus where the tarmac gives way to woods. He snatches it up and hugs it tight to his chest, suddenly unwilling to turn his back to the trees. It’s almost like he can feel them waiting, beckoning, and the moment he turns around…he has no idea what would happen. 

It feels calm here, and welcoming, and Frank takes another step forward, and then another, quickly finding himself swallowed up among the towering trunks. Snow falls silently between the branches and far-off lights and sounds of the world outside fade, replaced by deep shadow and the crunching shuffle of his own feet. The odd creak or rustle. The smell of cold, damp earth.  

Something scratches at the back of his mind like a cat wanting to be let in, steady and persistent. Why did he come out here? He tries to think, to clear his head, and remembers suddenly the sound of footsteps sliding over dry leaves, just out of sight in the dark. A voice sobbing his name. The tall, watching trees looming against the starry sky while he lay frozen on the ground and someone raised a knife above him. He’d nearly forgotten that dream from over a week ago, but it comes rushing back at him with visceral clarity.

All at once the woods no longer seem peaceful or welcoming. Frank’s stomach turns and his blood runs cold and he takes a stumbling step backward, finally forcing himself to turn and run, heart hammering in his ear, as he stumbles the last few feet back into the parking lot. Even the weak lights are harsh after the velvety darkness of the woods, and Frank has never been more grateful for modern civilization. 

He slows to a fast walk, glancing around self-consciously and hoping nobody saw him come out of the woods, clutching a hubcap and sprinting like his ass was on fire. Luckily most of the stores on this side of the mall close early so the lot is largely deserted, save for a lone figure struggling to load their giant pile of shopping into a seriously sweet old car. Then the figure straightens, illuminated ghostly pale under the nearest light, and Frank swears. 

It’s Gerard, the crystal shop guy.

This is ridiculous. Frank should just turn around and go back to his own car and go home, away from all the weird shit that seems hell-bent on happening in this stupid fucking parking lot tonight, and yet it feels like he’s been handed an opportunity. He doesn’t know what this guy’s deal is, why he seems to have taken one look at Frank and decided to hate his guts in particular, and it’s going to drive him crazy. If someone’s gonna think Frank is the antichrist of Mount Holy Mall, he’d like to at least know what he did to deserve it.

“Hey!” he calls out, and the guy jumps, looking around with wide eyes. He visibly cringes when he sees Frank heading toward him, and redoubles his pace shoving boxes and bags into the back seat of his car–a fucking classic Lincoln Continental, of all things–that Frank can now see is all stuff from his shop piled high on a handcart. He even catches sight of his would-be mint plant nestled into a carrying flat with half a dozen others from the same display. 

It’s only as he gets closer that he has no idea what he’s trying to do here, just that he wants to do something to prove that he isn’t scary or evil or whatever the hell terrible thing Gerard seems to be convinced he is.

He stops a few paces back and Gerard stares at him, backed up against the open car door with a stack of books apparently forgotten in his arms. Frank clears his throat and says, “Uh, hi. You…look like you need some help?”

Gerard looks down at the books and then up again, shaking his head. “I’m good, thanks. Have a good night.”

It’s a clear dismissal, but where he’d sounded straight up hostile when they’d met in the shop, now he just sounds…sad. Tired. 

“Seriously, I won’t bite, I promise,” he tries again, with the kind of wide-eyed disarming smile that softens even the most oldschool of his ma’s church friends. 

Gerard turns away, shoving the books into the car and two overstuffed paper sacks in after them. “Please just leave,” he says, a note of pleading to his voice. “Seriously, I’m fine here. Just…just go away, okay?”

And okay, maybe this is one of those times Gabe is always talking about, where if Frank could just learn to leave well enough alone, maybe he’d get fewer black eyes at shows. Maybe this is one of those quit-while-you’re-ahead moments he’s always hearing about. Or maybe–

“What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Frank demands, before he can help himself. He doesn’t miss the way Gerard flinches. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry, just. Seriously, man, I’m not a bad person, I promise. I don’t know what your problem is, but if I offended you somehow, I swear I didn't mean to.”

He pauses awkwardly while Gerard continues fitting things into his back seat, studiously looking anywhere but at him. 

“Okay,” Frank says after another beat, as embarrassment threatens to turn back into frustration. “Okay, well, that’s all I wanted to say. Have a good night, I guess.”

“Frank.” Gerard’s voice saying his name is like a thread yanking just behind his belly button, so sharp he feels it like a physical tug. He turns and Gerard is watching him, eyes shining and skin white as milk. “I know you’re not a bad person,” he says, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Frank blinks, trying to figure out how the hell this guy apparently knows his name. Bill or Ray, probably. Fucking double-agent asshole, whoever it was. 

Without waiting for a response Gerard just turns back to the cart, fishing a couple loose items out of the bottom and tossing them in with the rest. Frank recognizes one of them as a dagger from the shop display. 

“Online orders?” he guesses aloud. He’s not really sure what’s happening here, if they’re cool now or what, he can’t seem to make himself walk away. 

“Huh?”

“That stuff,” Frank shifts the hubcap in his arms to gesture vaguely. “I just assumed you must be shipping online orders.”

“Oh.” Gerard surveys the mountain of stuff in his back seat, frowning as he tries to find space for the tray of plants. “I’m just taking some time off and I didn’t want to leave any of this sitting around while I’m gone.”

Frank opens his mouth to say…he’s not sure what, but at that moment the tray of plants overbalances in Gerard’s hands, threatening to topple over. Without thinking Frank darts forward, hubcap falling to the pavement with a discordant clatter as he reaches out to try and keep the plants from falling. Gerard yelps and flails out at the same time, trying to recover his grip. In the chaos Frank feels their hands brush, and then the thread between them yanks taut and it’s like being dragged over the edge of a cliff, air sucked from his lungs and darkness rising up to meet him.

The jungle is familiar by now, clawing up through Frank’s subconscious to spill around him in tangled shades of green and brown. Sunlight pierces the thick, waxy leaves overhead and the sweat runs down his face in rivers, heavy uniform sticking to his damp skin. His feet feel too heavy in muddy brown boots as he splashes through a shallow marsh, weighing him down while his heart pounds frantically against his ribs.

Frank is terrified. A soul-deep pants-shitting fear mixed way down with resignation: the clear and awful knowledge that he will not be coming back from this. But even worse than the fear is the sadness, the regret, and the helpless rage that threatens to suffocate him before his thoughts can catch up enough to make sense out of any of it. 

He hears panting next to him and looks over to see a skinny kid dressed the same as him, gun clutched to his chest and eyes wide. The rest of their company is all around, creeping through the thick undergrowth like rabbits, poised for danger. 

It doesn’t feel like a surprise when the shooting starts. There’s a sharp crack and the kid beside him falls, splashing Frank’s leg with mud and blood. He drops to his belly as their commanding officer screams for them to return fire, bullets whizzing overhead and trees around them exploding like confetti. 

Creeping forward through the muck to the ridge of a small embankment, Frank keeps his rifle poised and tries to focus. It’s him or them, him or them; he never asked for this, but he never asked for any of it, and it’s never mattered before, so when his sight lands on movement through the tall grass he raises his gun and takes aim. 

Their eyes meet for just a moment as he pulls the trigger, and then he’s alone again with the bile rising in his throat, trying to will himself to keep moving. 

Something splashes down next to him and a sudden grip on his arm makes Frank jerk back to himself, looking over to see–

“Gerard?” he gasps, overwhelmed by a relief so intense it’s all he can do not to bury his face against Gerard’s neck and cling to him. “What’re you doing? You’re supposed to be at the back!”

“Fuck that, I said I wasn’t gonna leave you. Get down!” He shoves Frank down just in time for another hail of bullets to shred the leaves over their heads, lifting a pistol to return fire. 

“Medic, medic! Man down!” someone screams to their left and Gerard curses.

“Stay here, don’t move.”

“Gerard–”

“Frank no, just stay here. Keep your head down.”

“GERARD!”

Gerard pauses, crouched beside him, and Frank wants to scream, but there are too many words and not enough time. He wants to shout and swear and burn this whole godforsaken hellhole down around them for the unfairness of it all, but all he can manage is, “We both know what happens next, Gee.”

“Maybe,” Gerard starts, but behind them their CO bellows again.

“ MEDIC!”

Gerard disappears into the foliage and Frank takes a deep breath to steady himself and leans out again over the ridge. He doesn’t even register the high, sharp sound until it’s too late. Things seem to shift in and out of focus as a sharp pain blossoms from his throat. He lifts a hand and it comes away red. He tries to cry out, but all that comes out is a strangled, wet choking sound.

“No!” Gerard’s scream tears through him with more force than the bullet. He struggles to focus as the familiar weight of Gerard’s body collapses beside him, tugging him behind a tree and out of harm’s way. A little too late, Frank wishes he could say. Gerard is bent over him, sobbing, and Frank just wishes he could make a stupid joke to see him laugh one more time. And then everything goes dark.