Chapter Text
Frank's breath hitched in his throat, tightening its grip around his neck. The sickening buzz and hum of the conversation surrounding him hammered into his brain like a thick and long nail. Panicking, Frank forced himself to divert focus from his throbbing heart, pounding in his chest so hard that he thought it would propel from his mouth, and focus on how to get out of there. Clutching his blue blazer close to his body, he weaved his way through the collection of people gathering to catch a train at the subway.
They had caught up to him.
Gasping, Frank spun on his heels, turning his back to the gang, earning a few confused glances from those around him. Clenching his teeth, he wished that they hadn't seen him.
A gang like The City Rats wouldn't shoot in a public setting like this—especially one filled to the brim with people. They could, but they wouldn't. Of course, if they did, they'd have a visit from the police and maybe some time in the big house. So they wouldn't, right? Frank prayed that this was the truth and not just wishful thinking.
The sickening mix of dust and grease in the railway hovered in the air like a poisonous vapour, making Frank feel sick to his stomach—he'd always hated subways for this reason. And not to mention the terrible squeals of iron and huge gusts of stagnant subway air that nestled its tiny disgusting particles in his fluffy brown hair. He wanted to throw up at the mere image of it.
As Frank pushed his way through the crowd, he stared into the dark hole to the left, wondering when the train was going to arrive. He didn't know if the subway system was the same in New York City as it was in New Jersey.
When the train arrived, Frank was one of the first people to hop onto it. As soon as he stepped foot onto the train, he felt a hand grip his elbow but slip away as he gained speed. He didn't dare turn around and be confronted by the narrow eyes and tight lips of one of the gang members.
Frank travelled further into the train, a nervous hop in his walk as he immersed himself in a crowd of people gathering around another door. He felt as if his knees would buckle and break apart like two breadsticks if he walked any more. It wasn't that he was tired—even though he was exhausted—but he was panicking, and for him, panic always attacked his legs first.
"Sorry," he muttered to a stranger when he accidentally bumped into them. Wearing a wince, he quickly threw his gaze back to where he had come from. They had followed him onto the train. Great.
Frank hurried to the window of the train, staring outside at the blanket of steel in the darkness of the tunnel. As he swallowed tensely, he wondered why trains had to have such bright lights.
He glided into a seat and hid behind the backrest, pulling his legs in closer to destroy any sign of him being on this train. Working spontaneously was something that Frank had always hated, and he wasn't good at it either. Everything had to be meticulously planned out to achieve success. But now he was stuck working impulsively with his life on the line. He may as well just give himself in now because there's no way he was going to outrun one of the biggest gangs in NYC.
Frank heard a pair of heavy footsteps walk along the carriage, heading right to him. God, he wanted to disappear. Closer and closer the footsteps came, but not a face as of yet.
"Tickets, please," the ticket inspector found Frank hiding, causing a suspicious expression to consume his face.
"I don't have a ticket," Frank admitted absentmindedly, avoiding his eyes.
"Next stop you have to get off," he said bluntly, then continued walking off to hassle the next person.
Frank groaned and rubbed his eyes. Great. Just great.
When the train began to slow, it neared the next stop. Frank slid out of his seat and headed to the door, waiting for it to open.
"Hold it, there," a deep voice barked, then followed by footsteps. A strong hand wrapped around Frank's arm and then another arm around his chest. "No more running, yeah? We'll make this nice and easy for you."
Fear stole Frank's voice so he remained still and silent.
"Good," he responded, his voice now low and threatening.
When the door to the train opened, Frank stomped on his foot and then kicked him with the heel in his shin.
The man groaned in pain and his grip around him slowly released, allowing Frank to run out of the carriage.
Hearing yells of protest and death threats arise from behind him, he continued running. He wasn't sure how many people were after him, but he assumed just as many that were at the murder scene. Four? Five? He didn't get a good look at them which was understandable since you don't exactly observe every small detail when you're running for your life. One person was difficult to run from, but having four guys holding guns seemed impossible to escape, especially because he wasn't familiar with New York.
Hammering up the stairs of the subway, he was immersed in the pale moonlight again and welcomed with honks of car horns and chatter from those around him. He weaved himself through the people around him and ran down the sidewalk. Clutching a hand to his chest, he felt exhaustion devour him and force him to stop running so fast.
Shouts were coming from behind him but he didn't dare turn around and show his face. As he hurried through the crowd, he shook his arms uncomfortably, still feeling the fingers of the man clutched to him, as if they had been indented into his arm.
It was no use. Frank knew that if he continued running down this sidewalk, they'd easily follow him. He needed to blur his trail and go somewhere they would never think to go to. Somewhere out of sight. Analysing the stores to his left and right, he searched for the best one to run into. Eric's Burgers, Blockbuster, Barnes and Noble—they were all so generic and typical of Frank to run into.
But then he found a store glowing with pink and yellow neon lights that smelt like hairspray and shampoo. He stared at the wide glass doors with the name 'Way's Salon' printed in golden cursive letters. Without thinking, Frank entered through the doors and ran into a wall of women, half of them waiting in chairs holding magazines with foil in their hair and the rest sitting in black leather chairs, admiring their hairstyles which ranged from curly to wavy to straight.
The combination of melismatic high notes and relaxing drum beats of the female R&B music playing from the speaker system had most people in the salon nodding their heads and humming along, but not Frank as he was too stressed.
"Hey! Welcome to Way's Salon. What can I do for you?" a man with slicked-back black hair and sparkling green eyes greeted Frank with a welcoming smile.
"Uh," he started, looking around him again, wondering if running into a place with only girls wearing florally pink outfits made him stick out of the crowd more than he wanted with his suit of white and blue and messy hair.
"Take your time." The man grinned again, spinning his black hairbrush in his hand, making him look incredibly skilled in his profession.
"Anything. Can I just have a seat?" Frank said quickly, still glancing at the glass doors and feeling tense due to the lack of privacy.
"Of course," the hairdresser said, guiding Frank to an empty seat in front of a huge mirror.
"D-do you have anything else? Something without a mirror?" Frank inquired, feeling his chest flutter in anxiety again.
"Without a mirror?" the man laughed, "No, silly, this is a Salon. All the seats are facing mirrors."
Frank sighed and slid into the chair regrettably.
"Someone's a little tense." He smirked and ran his hands through Frank's hair. "Are you here for a trim? A wash? Maybe a perm?"
"Anything. Just look like you're busy, okay?" Frank tweedled with his thumbs and avoided eye contact with his reflection.
"Okay?" he responded with a tinge of confusion as he dragged the hairbrush through Frank's locks. "What's your name?"
"Frank," he replied, head tilting forwards so that his eyes were glued to the floor.
"Nice to meet you, Frank. I'm Gerard." The hairdresser smiled at Frank in the mirror and then placed the hairbrush back on the tray. "What will it be?"
"Uh, a trim," Frank answered without thinking.
"Sure thing. How much off?" Gerard asked, picking up a pair of hair scissors.
"Only a little," he responded.
Gerard started trimming Frank's hair a little around the edges.
While getting his unwanted haircut, Frank found his eyes attracted to a television screen displaying CCTV footage of the Salon. There, amongst the grainy brown pixels, he saw The City Rats outside the store, passing by without even a glance through the glass doors.
Frank sighed in relief and threw his head into his hands.
"Hey, be careful! I can't cut your hair if you keep moving your head," Gerard protested, placing his fingers on either side of Frank's head and lifting it back to its original position.
"Gerard, I don't have money to pay you," Frank finally said, feeling guilty.
"Oh...well, I've started now. No point in stopping halfway through," he dismissed immediately, continuing to cut his hair, "Do you have credit?"
"No, I don't have anything. I'm sorry." Frank's voice sounded distant as his heart began flickering in his chest like a broken light bulb.
Gerard's eyebrows furrowed for a second and then he took on a sympathetic expression. "You okay?"
Tears gathered in Frank's eyes but he blinked them away. "Yeah," he replied quickly in a monotone voice.
Gerard placed the pair of silver scissors back on the tray and crouched down so that he was at eye level with Frank. "There's no room for sadness in my salon. What's wrong?"
Frank felt his hands begin to tremble so he pressed them together and interlocked his fingers. He felt pressure from tears built up behind his eyes. "Um..." he stalled with a little gasp.
"Come on," Gerard encouraged, straightening up. "Come with me."
Frank rose to his feet which seemed to grow weaker with each second and followed Gerard who led him through a door to the storeroom.
"It's much quieter back here," Gerard told Frank as he pulled out a chair for Frank.
Frank took a seat on one of the chairs, struggling to relax his breathing. He felt as if his chest was made of glass that would shatter if he breathed.
"Deep breaths, okay?" Gerard comforted, taking a chair opposite Frank. "Close your eyes. Just focus on your breathing. It'll pass." He embraced Frank's trembling hand and squeezed gently.
Holding Gerard's hand, he took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the gentle hum of conversation that was now muffled because of the closed door. Slowly but surely, Frank recovered from his panic attack.
"There you go. You did it." Gerard patted Frank on the shoulder and smiled.
Frank sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Gerard, can I trust you?"
"I don't see why not. I'm not a leader of a gang or something," he said with a gentle chuckle.
Frank stared at Gerard in horror and then jumped from his seat, running to the door without a moment's hesitation.
Gerard clutched onto Frank's arm and pulled him back into the heart of the room.
Frank took another deep breath as his arms dropped by his sides in defeat. "Okay, fine. I'm done. Just go ahead and kill me already."
"What? I'm not going to—what?" Gerard let go of Frank and stared at him in confusion.
"You said you're the gang leader. That's what you want, isn't it? To kill me?" Frank stared at Gerard with eyes wide, perplexed and scared.
"Huh? That was a joke. Are you good, man?" Gerard squeaked.
"Oh..." Frank hummed.
"What's going on? Are you in trouble?" Gerard led Frank back to the chair.
"I'm being chased," Frank finally said. "By a gang. They're trying to kill me."
"Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn't mean to say something like that." Gerard stared blankly at Frank for a moment. "That is nothing like what I thought you were going to say..."
"You won't tell anyone about this, right?" Frank asked with a slight fear in his voice, holding onto Gerard's shoulders desperately.
"No, no, of course, not." Gerard shook his head quickly, initially noticing Frank's alarmed tone. "Why are they chasing you?"
Frank was hesitant, but there was no point in concealing the details because Gerard already knew his main dilemma. He decided to tell him everything, right from the beginning.
Frank took his seat in one of the elegant red chairs of the cinema, listening to the many shushes as the lights went down. It was the premiere of his friend's new films, Rose Garden.
As the first scene played on the big screen, Frank found his focus drawn to the chatter echoing from the first row, and then he saw a group of people leaving through the exit. He didn't think much of it at that moment and continued following the movie instead.
About five minutes later, Frank felt the urge to use the restroom, so he did so. After relieving himself, he stretched a hand to unlock the cubicle, but he heard the door of the bathroom swing open and a group of men enter, speaking with abrupt voices—the same voices he heard before. And as the curious screenwriter Frank was, he stayed in his stall and listened.
There were four men in suits with guns strapped to their hips—Mr. City, James, Nicholas and Christopher, but mostly referred to as 'the boss', one, two and three. They were talking to another man wearing a beautiful velvet-red suit, who was leaning against the wall. He appeared to be nervous.
"I meant nothing of it. Forgive and forget, aye?" the nervous man said, spreading his arms in a welcoming manner.
"We don't forgive and forget here, buddy," Nicholas hung an arm around the other's shoulder, and then he cocked his gun.
"Hey, think on the bright side. Everyone will know about The City Rats. I gave you guys free publicity!" he reasoned, communicating excessively with his hands, causing his curly locks of brown hair to sway with each movement.
"That's a terrible thing," Christopher interrupted, pointing his gun to the man's face.
"Hey, hey, we can't be doing this in public! You can't shoot me here because someone will hear. You'll get busted," the man with the quivering voice reasoned, shrugging his shoulders and nervously shifting his eye contact between each man.
"They're all watching the movie. And there's no one here besides us," James stated.
Frank held his breath, trying to be as quiet as possible. The voice of the frightened man seemed so familiar—he knew he'd heard it somewhere before.
Then, a pair of footsteps walked further into the bathroom, scanning each of the empty stalls, getting closer and closer to Frank's cubicle at the very end.
"Boss, let's get this over and done with. We ain't got all night." James complained, pressing the barrel of his gun to the victim's head, causing him to stutter in fear.
"Knock yourself out, James," the boss gave permission.
There was a gunshot and Frank clasped his hands to his ears as they rang.
"What was that?" Christopher asked as soon as the room fell quiet.
Someone banged on the door of Frank's stall. "Who's in there?" he barked.
Frank clutched a hand to his mouth and he backed away as far as he could from the door.
"Open it!" Mr. City demanded, shaking the door aggressively. The hinges of the door squealed and hissed.
Frank thought the door would give way after a few more seconds of shaking, and he was right. When the door slammed to the ground with a thud, Frank bolted from the stall, avoiding each gang member as if they were mosquitoes on a hot Summer's day.
"Get him!" the boss shouted in a raspy voice.
And the chase had begun. Thrilling for The City Rats but exhausting for Frank.
"And that's when I came here to try and blend in. Thankfully, they walked past the salon." Frank held his head in his hands so that his brown half-trimmed hair flopped over his face.
"Who did they kill?" Gerard asked, invested in the story.
"He seemed so familiar, but I don't know," Frank sighed.
As if on queue, the television on low volume started playing a news coverage of the death of a famous television journalist by the name of Ray Toro.
"That's him! Ray Toro. He's the one they killed." Frank pointed to the television as his jaw dropped. "He did the coverage on New York City gangs...that must be why they killed him. Holy shit, Gerard." Frank turned to the hairdresser with an exasperated expression on his face. "I knew him. We did a journalism course together. Oh, God."
Gerard pulled Frank closer to him and hugged him, placing a hand on the back of his head. He reached for the remote and muted the program. "Don't look at it—it'll only upset you."
Frank pressed his face onto Gerard's shoulder, telling himself not to start crying even though he could feel tears pool in his eyelids.
Gerard rubbed Frank's back and whispered, "Are you alright?" in a small voice as delicate as the petals of a rose but gently piercing like a needle in his dark and troubled mind.
"Mhm," Frank hummed, not finding his voice to give him a real response. He pulled his face away from Gerard's shoulder and gazed up at him.
Gerard too looked at Frank with gentle and quiet eyes. His eyes looked as if there lay not a single thought behind them. The way his long eyelashes framed his emerald gems, occasionally blinking, cutting off his gaze for milliseconds at a time which Frank was grateful for and upset about. Gerard looked completely empty in the best way possible—a way that suggested he was carefree and relaxed, taking each day as a gift that he should cherish and use only to do good things for himself and others. Frank had never seen this unique yet familiar appearance in his own reflection. He was intrigued and there was no doubt about it.
Their faces neared each other as if they were pulled by some magnetic force.
Frank broke his gaze with Gerard. "I don't think I should stay here much longer—I don't want to lead them here." He let go of Gerard and rose to his feet.
Gerard sat back in his chair, lifting his sights to Frank. "But what are you going to do? You have no money," he pointed out.
"I do. Well, I dropped my wallet. I'm sure they've stolen it." Frank sighed.
"Well, why don't you go back home and lock your doors. They wouldn't know where you live, right?" Gerard reasoned. "Well, unless you have an ID card in your wallet or something..."
"I'm not from around here," Frank revealed, gazing outside the window. "I was going to book a hotel after the viewing but..." Frank sealed his eyes shut. "Yeah, I can't do that now."
"Frank, why don't you talk to your friend? The one who directed 'Rose Garden'?" Gerard suggested.
"He's leaving for California tonight," was Frank's response. It seemed as if anything Gerard suggested had a negative flip-side—a spoiler, as if Frank's entire situation was some horrible damaging prank played on him by the universe, anyone who ever hated him, and all his film critics.
"Well, you said you're not from around here. Where are you from?" Gerard inquired, approaching the water dispenser and filling a plastic cup with water. He headed over to Frank and handed it to him.
"Oh, thank you," Frank said, his mind in a daze, as he took the cup and brought it to his lips. Feeling relieved as the cold liquid sloshed in his mouth and ran down his throat, he answered, "I'm from Jersey."
It was then that Gerard could match a state to Frank's accent which had previously stumped him. "You're far from home," Gerard commented, his lips stretching to form a smirk.
"Trust me, I'd rather be at home," Frank cleared up, lifting his eyebrows and raising his hands in front of him.
"You sound like every introvert ever," Gerard said jokingly, but he was cut short when a woman knocked on the door and opened it a crack.
"Gerard, I'm so sorry to disturb you, but we have a little problem," the woman interrupted, a slight cringe forming on her face as she switched her gaze from Gerard to Frank guiltily. "One of our customers isn't happy with her haircut and wants a refund. She wants to talk to the boss."
Gerard sighed and then pressed his lips into a line. "The boss has been summoned," he said with a deadpan expression to Frank, which was uncanny as it was a humourous statement. "I'll be right there, okay, Debbie?" he told his employee, and then she nodded and closed the door.
"I'll be back in five minutes tops. You better not run away," Gerard said with a smile and then left the room.
When Frank was alone, he took a seat in his chair and gazed outside the window. He saw cars zoom by and buildings standing tall in a murky grey haze composed of cloudy window panes and dim lights. It looked exactly like stereotypical New York—the kind you'd see in all those glammy magazines and retro-style films.
Frank found his eyelids hovering over his eyes, sinking a little lower than they usually did. He was immersed into a deep yawn, to which he drew his hand to his lips. Each time a car with vibrant yellow headlights drove by, shadows were cast on his face, which he felt were hypnotizing.
His brain swam in his skull like a goldfish in a fishbowl, as he felt his body grow weak.
"A women's hair salon? Nice hiding spot, faggot." James lifted a gun to Frank's face and glared at him with a look of pure disgust and resentment.
Frank jumped out of his chair and gasped, feeling his heart throb in his throat.
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." Gerard smiled sympathetically and helped Frank to his feet. "Man, you've got to tell me how you fall asleep that quickly. It usually takes me a good hour to fall asleep each night."
Frank pressed a hand to his chest and glanced in the direction where James, one of the City Rats, once stood. "I-I don't know. I guess I'm just tired."
"I'm closing in the next five minutes." Gerard began switching off light switches and drawing the blinds closed. "Do you have any plans for tonight?"
"Plans? Uh...I'll figure something out." Frank brushed off Gerard's question as he helped him to prepare the store for closure.
"That wasn't my question. Do you have a place to stay?"
"Yeah," Frank answered as he walked out into the salon's main area with Gerard which was now bare of people and noise, only a few remaining employees putting on their coats and dim lights remained.
"I like you, Frank, you go out of your way not to trouble others." Gerard nodded solemnly at Frank. "Good luck. Here's my phone number if you need anything. Whether that be a place to stay, something to eat, or just someone to talk to." He ripped a piece of paper off his notepad and scribbled a collection of digits on it in a blue pen. He had a distinct way of drawing his numbers—he always slashed lines through his sevens so no one mistook them for twos and never connected the lines in his fours.
"I was just about to give you my phone number," Frank laughed, taking the paper from the hairdresser.
Gerard took a comedic step back and raised his arms. "Well, don't let me stop you."
Frank smiled to himself and patted his pockets for a spare piece of paper. "Oh, I don't—"
"Skin works just as good as paper," Gerard said, giving Frank his hand.
The screenwriter took Gerard's hand and wrote a collection of numbers on it, making sure not to press too hard.
"Now, the real question is: who's going to call first?" Gerard pointed out, sticking a finger in the air.
"We'll just have to wait and see. Thank you for your help, by the way."
"No problemo, Frankarini," he responded in a melodic voice, and then he headed to the door of the salon.
"You're a very good hairdresser, by the way. I like what you've done with my hair," Frank complimented as soon as they stepped outside.
"Even though it's a shitty half-job?" Gerard chuckled, locking the door shut. "What a flirt."
Frank's face took on a shade of pink which was thankfully hard to decipher in the city lights.
"Why don't you come back tomorrow and I'll cut the rest for you?" Gerard suggested, pulling out a bus schedule and skimming through the times.
"Of course," Frank agreed.
"Love you but I'll leave you," Gerard said with a nod, "Buh-bye!"
"See you later," Frank signed off.
When they parted ways, Gerard walked to a bus stop and Frank headed in the opposite direction. He wasn't sure where to spend the night. It wasn't a familiar feeling to not have things planned out. Back in Jersey, he'd always had a place to stay.
Knitting his arms together and hunching forwards, he waited at a set of lights to cross. He wondered what would have happened if he did tell Gerard that he didn't have a place to stay for the night. About half an hour was how long he'd known Gerard for, so he couldn't expect him to magically solve all his problems. He had nothing to do with them, anyway.
When the crossing light turned green, the people waiting on either side of the street began walking. There were quite a lot of pedestrians for this time of the night, but this was New York—the streets glowed and hummed with people during the twilight. Frank had to get used to it.