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The longest you had gone without talking to Frank Langdon was 17 years, 10 months, and 25 days, give or take a few days because you’re sure you threw a snarky comment or two his way before a full conversation or introduction was had. But that time frame was the exact period it took for your souls met once again, only in this current lifetime. You never really believed in soulmates or fate or anything of the nature. Because the world was cruel and random, a kind world that gave you the exact person who would make you feel whole wouldn’t take your father away from you when you were 8 years old, wouldn’t have your mother spend the rest of her days self medicating and sleeping until noon when she would then wake up and drink her breakfast. A kind world would’ve given you Langdon much sooner in life. A kind world wouldn’t have put you through agony until the other half of your soul could find you again.
You like to think that you manifested him, that you were intentional with your heart and that you picked him out of a line up and said “yes- this is the idiot I choose,” but no- Frank Langdon was irksome and frustrating since before you officially met. He was arrogant and annoying and so damn charming all at the same time. But somehow you felt instantly that you’ve known him for a hundred lifetimes and will continue for many more to come. He spoke to the inner parts of you that you shoved down, he didn’t chisel away at the wall you built up, no- he had a wrecking ball and that dopey smile on his face while he demolished everything you spent years building. You did not pick him, no- he forced his way into your life because that’s where he belonged, that’s where his inner being was comfortable and where it was meant to be.
“Hey,” you kicked the desk, “I have this time slot.” The light was off in the study room which you thought meant that you didn’t have to awkwardly stick your head in and fake niceties to whoever couldn’t fucking tell time. But no- it was off because someone had decided to use your rented space as an impromptu napping area.
“Leave-“ you kicked again, putting your backpack on the table when the folded up person groaned.
“Can’t you go anywhere else?” He started to unwind himself, stretching heavily so his hoodie rode up his stomach just a bit- an obnoxious noise coming from his mouth while he did so. No- you couldn’t go anywhere else. Ok you could have, but for the last few weeks this had been your spot, it was tucked away perfectly and near a hidden restroom and the good vending machines. The squatter looked up at you with striking blue eyes, dark brown hair cropped around his ears and the longer pieces at the top pushed back- you knew those eyes.
“No- this has been my room for weeks” you reply, starting to unpack your backpack of all your books and laptop and some snacks for the few hours you had locked in. “You’re in my bio lab.”
“That’s where I know you” he knows he’d never seen you at a rush party, “umm-“ snapping at himself to jog his memory for your name, confidently getting it wrong, only for you to correct him. “Frank Langdon” he says, leaning back in the chair across from you. You weren’t the party type really, he could tell by the way you’d all but sneer at him and his friends. Well- ex friends now.
“I know,” you mumble, clearly he’s staying here- maybe to assert dominance or just to be a shit. “You sit in my row- you always make noise coming in late.” The last few classes he had come in late, grumbling and trying to be inconspicuous but he was 6 feet tall and not very graceful, last time he broke a few flasks when he swung his backpack- professor Ross was not impressed. But how could you get mad at someone with big sky blue eyes and boyish charm. Easily. He was cocky and annoying and you could hear him coming down the hall with his frat brothers before every fucking class.
“Yeah- you’re um, lab partners with that one guy,” ah yes- the poor kid who threw up upon the first slice in the dissection of the fetal pig, and then proceeded to go down like an anvil in some Looney Tunes bit. He hasn’t been back to class since then so you’ve been partnerless for about two weeks. “Jason, no- Jackson?” God Frank was so bad at names. He just dubs everyone a nickname- something he can refer back to when he has to think of them or talk to them. You were angel eyes. It wasn’t sweet- no. Yes you were very pretty- but the nickname was more for the unsettling way you’d stare at him when he and his friends were being loud. Like the way you see an actual angel- it’s scary but dammit you can’t look away.
“James, and yeah he decided the Premed track wasn’t for him. So I’m riding solo,” opening your laptop to the course plan for this semester and snatching back the bag of chips that Frank started to open up, clearly easily making himself at home in your space.
“I’ll be your lab partner- I mean, if you need? Mine skipped out on me, so-” He tried to sound nonchalant, tried to not beg because now that he’s out of his frat- said lab partner is now an official frat member and has resigned from being his lab partner- banned even. He needed help. He needed you. A lab partner. He was smart, yes- but he couldn’t get his own thoughts out sometimes because they’re too fast and he doesn’t focus well and sometimes working with someone calms him a bit and he’s been struggling this last few weeks with-
“Yeah,” you shrug, sliding the bag of chips his way again, “yeah okay.” You needed a lab partner. Desperately. Professor Ross strongly recommended that this course was best worked in pairs. To split the load- and you could definitely do it yourself. You’re definitely smart and not at all panicking. But- solidarity in numbers right? Maybe suffering with someone else was better than going it alone? Because you’re almost 3 months into freshman year and- yes, you’re already drowning. Someone to split the difference with will help. You didn’t need friends. No this was a business transaction- a necessity. He moves his chair over to yours, following along to the plan you’ve laid out for the rest of the semester while passing the bag of chips between you both now. Hours had passed- you managed to knock out a few discussions and quizzes with Langdon and- he was funny. Annoying as hell, but made you laugh and smarter than your last lab partner by far. Okay so- you did judge him a little. Just a bit. First month in class he already had his frat regalia on and was cocky and overconfident and loud and annoying and- really all that’s missing is the clothes now but you’ve spent longer with him and he’s not that bad. Maybe it was the group of the other 18 year olds who would gas each other up and jerk around and he’d just follow suit. But alone he’s human. Alone he’s funny and failing at catching the nasty orange skittles in his mouth that you throw at him.
“It’s late- we should go, they’ll be closing up soon.” you’re closing your laptop now and bending down to pick up the skittles Langdon missed from the floor, “same time Monday then?” You were ready for the next few days. To do what? Same thing you do every weekend. Absolutely. Fucking. Nothing. Well- nothing but in the best way possible. You wake up whenever your body decides it’s uncomfortable and can’t lay still anymore- usually around 10 or 11 am. You’ll wrap the biggest coat you can find around you and make your way to the closest newsstand for the Times and run back upstairs before the chill sets in to your bones. You’ll sip your coffee, iced- no matter the weather, in bed if it’s too cold out but on the little balcony when the weather is nice- while thumbing through the paper. Then eventually you settle in for the crossword puzzle of the day. Every weekend. Like clockwork.
“Uh- yeah- yeah definitely.” Frank makes himself look busy, shuffling some paper and tells you he’ll clean the rest of the skittles off the floor so you can go home. He tosses a quick bye to you and you’re confused with his sudden change in attitude, but leave nonetheless. You make it a few steps outside, down the stairs even but- something tells you to go back. You don’t even know Frank but- something in your gut pulls you to go back to him.
“Why are you still here?” You burst through the study room again, watching him anxiously pick his backpack up from the floor and attempt to open it.
“Oh- um, I- I was just- gonna get some more chapters in and-“
“You’re a terrible liar, Langdon. C’mon, lemme at least drive you back to your frat.”
“You can’t-“
“Look don’t be macho, I’m not driving I mean-“
“No I mean,” sucking in a breath he starts, “you can’t because I got kicked out 2 weeks ago. And it’s too late to get a dorm now- and even if I could- I can’t afford one. I’ve been staying in the study rooms, that’s why I’ve been late for class the last few times.” It was hard taking orders from a punk kid, only a year older than him, named Carter of all fucking things. Ivy League wannabe, whose daddy couldn’t get him into Columbia so he’s slumming it at NYU until he can maybe transfer. Frank wanted a brotherhood, wanted to go to college with people who cared about him and he could make relationships with. Not fucking “brothers” who forced him to clean windows and their shoes with his own toothbrush, then proceeded to make him use said toothbrush still. Or “brothers” who brought barely conscious girls up to their rooms and told him to shut the fuck up when he said something about it. After he brought it up to the counselor, he was kicked out the same night. Came back to the house with his stuff littering the curb and only had enough time to grab a duffle back with some clothes before running off. He was able to sneak into the library before it closed and- well this is where he’s been for the last few weeks.
Like clockwork Frank would come in with a group of students and find an empty corner to hide in until they left their study room for the night, then he’d sneak into the used room- turn the light off and sleep until class started the next morning. If he was lucky enough to wake up before his alarm, he’d run down to the gym to take a quick shower with some of the free sample sized toiletries from the student resource center. Then he’d run to the cafeteria and try to use as little of his meal plan money as possible- loading up for breakfast and getting easy to carry snacks for his classes throughout the day. For dinner he’d come back to the cafeteria for another meal that was as cheap as possible- then to the library.
Frank couldn’t ask his parents for money. No- they’d give it to him even if he knows they don’t have it. He’ll figure something out. He has a few months until next semester- he can talk to the counselor about getting a dorm or do work in exchange or- or something. But right now he’s tired. He’s exhausted. Mentally drained and he barely has enough energy to do his class work at the moment, let alone having to figure out how to be homeless for a few months. Because, if he failed classes, he can lose his scholarship. Losing his scholarship means he either has to come up with the money for a full tuition or leave. And his parents will kill themselves trying to find the money for him. No- no he was fine. He just had to keep his head above the water, tread heavily, don’t drown.
Nodding- you take in what Frank says and reach down to grab his duffle bag that you somehow missed when you first entered the study room.
“C’mon,” you toss behind you, “I know where you can stay.” Frank is stuttering out for you to wait- tripping over himself to catch up to you and trying to grab his bag back from you but you shove him away. You’re not letting the kid stay in a study room, no bed to recline in or fucking area to relax in- and you have the room, you have more than enough room.
“Look I don’t need help,” he pulls his bag from you again, a little more forceful but you’re stubborn and not letting go. He doesn’t want charity or a hand out. He can’t afford to be a roommate, he can’t even fucking afford food right now. “I’m fine- I’m comfortable and it’s not that bad and-“
“Dude shut up. You’re sleeping curled up in a desk- hiding like a stowaway on a ship. I have an extra room.” You silence a bit when you hear a few students shush you both, “Frank- you can’t stay here okay? It’s fine- my place is too quiet anyway. Look-“ you pause and compose yourself. Why was he so fucking stubborn? You’re not taking him to a homeless shelter- you’re offering him a space and you can work out payment later if that’s what’s bothering him but right now he needs help. “Just one night okay? I can’t let you stay here another night in good conscience. Please?” That was the first time Frank Langdon realized you were hard to say no to. And he didn’t know he would spend the next decade having a hard time telling you no when it really came down to it. So he nodded, still grabbing his duffle from your shoulder but followed you nonetheless out the door and down the steps of Brause Library as the thunder started to pick up. Following you to the black town car- stopping a few feet behind when a man in a pressed uniform opens the door for you with a polite greeting. You hear Frank’s footsteps falter, feel him hesitate and can literally hear the gears turning in his head as a few drops of rain started to fall from above.
“This way Langdon.” You stop his thoughts, nodding him over and holding the door open so he can slide into the backseat first. You can feel your driver’s eyes on him, not fully trusting Frank because he knows you. Knows you to not make the best decisions but you just smile to him- a silent indicator to drop it, that you know what you’re doing. Sighing to himself, he turns to Frank and asks “Your bag sir?” So he can throw whatever few possessions Langdon hastily grabbed into the trunk.
“Where to miss?” Clearing his throat, shutting the drivers side door and meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Home, Bradley.” Clicking your seatbelt and replying like it was obvious, the same way you do every day.
“And- um, for the gentleman?” His eyebrow raised, meeting your gaze. Frank sat uncomfortably in the chair. The leather too cold and stiff- the same way the gaze from your driver felt.
“I picked up a stray, he’s staying with me tonight.” You didn’t have time to explain to your driver, Bradley, whom has been driving you around for the last decade, the background information of Langdon’s housing situation. That he’s not driving you and your hook up to your home. And well- even if he was driving you and your hook up home, you’re an adult and he can lovingly fuck off.
Frank had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to stay with you. He thought he agreed to being roommates in a tiny shoebox apartment- sleeping on your couch that was definitely going to be too small for him. That was a laughable thought now as your driver, Bradley, pulled up to a Park Avenue building with a fucking doorman of all things. He was definitely not dressed to even speak to the doorman, let alone walk across the marbled lobby. Bradley was handing Frank his bag when you walked up the fucking carpeted steps to the doorman.
“Evening miss,” Greeting the doorman, you hung back for Frank, nodding for him to follow again because you know he would be stopped and questioned by security- clearly not a resident of the building. Frank just- takes it all in. He knows New York as stuffy and congested and loud. He doesn’t even allow himself to imagine anything between 59th and 79th street. He doesn’t picture it and feels odd as his wet, old Nike’s squeak across the lobby floor, looking up at the grand high ceiling and fucking velvet accent curtains. You wait, in the elevator as it speeds up to the penthouse floor, you wait for Frank to say something- anything. But he’s just, still. Quiet and stiff. Frank feels like- well he feels like a fucking child in a museum, afraid to touch at anything- to look at anything in fear that it will shatter.
“Home sweet home,” You mumble, stepping off the elevator and go to unlock the front door, letting it swing open so he can step in. The lights automatically flicker on once you walk through the threshold, following you room by room and-
“What the fuck?” He finally allows himself to say. Circling around in the spacious living room, looking out the floor to ceiling windows that show the lighting, how it clearly outlines the skyscrapers in the background. From this height he swears even the view is better, in HD even. Frank feels like he stepped into a copy of his mom’s “West Elm” catalogue that she would flip through and imagine the extravagant lives those people live and what it takes to afford even the napkin holders.
“Are you hungry? I can order something- or see if Andre is still around to make dinner.” You ignore his gaped, confused look, setting your backpack down on the couch and opening the glass paned refrigerator looking for something to drink. Now, Frank wasn’t ignorant- he knew kids of the so called “elite” went to school with him. But- you just didn’t give off the snobbed vibe that they did. You didn’t bring up familial connections or rub elbows with the professors and dean like some did. You didn’t strut in with designer clothing and accessories- but to be fair, even if you did, it’s not like he’d know what they looked like. And who the fuck was Andre?
“No- um, no, no I can’t stay here,” he’s tightening his duffle bag and backpack around him now- nervous and suddenly very aware of his surroundings and- “it’s, this is too much. Thank you for- yeah.” He’s walking towards the door but you’re faster- running to meet him and wedging yourself between him.
“Look-“ you say, angrily because he’s definitely fucking hard headed and he needs to listen. “You are staying here tonight- even if I have to call security downstairs and post a cop outside the door. You’re staying here tonight Langdon.” You come up to his shoulder, shorter than he is but fucking mighty and he might be afraid of you a bit more now. He can’t- he can’t accept staying here. His siblings are doubled up in rooms back home and he’s going to stay in a penthouse apartment with a doorman and whoever the fuck Andre was. You don’t move, content on staying there the entire night if you have to.
“Are you sure?” He doesn’t know if he asks for himself or for you but- he needs to hear you say it’s okay. Because he can’t tell himself it’s okay right now. He’s been getting less than 3 hours sleep a night in the last week, curled up in the just too small desk- uncomfortable and stressed. And an actual bed sounds so fucking good right now. And food. Not shitty cafeteria food or scrounged up protein bars- a meal he can enjoy. But you’re nodding, relaxing yourself a bit because you were ready to jump on his back and drag him down fighting- even if you’re sure he’d just be able to easily shrug you off. He drops his bags on the floor, beautiful, herringboned Ebony wood floors- sighing and- “who’s Andre?”
“The chef.” you say, grabbing his duffle so you can show him where he’ll stay for the night- hopefully longer if he agrees. His room would be on the opposite side of the floor from you, his own bathroom and view- his own space that he’s never really had or enjoyed really. He never had his own room, he shared with one of his brothers up until he left for college, then a roommate in the dorms for a week, then a room with one of his potential frat brothers, and- well the cramped study room didn’t even have a bed so it didn’t count. The bed was made, crisp white linens that you could probably bounce a quarter off of- bathroom towels fluffed to perfection and a stocked shower. It was like a fucking hotel only this time he was afraid of putting his bag down- afraid of stepping onto the rug with his gross shoes but it was so nice. It smelled like cotton and fresh air- the curtains looked pressed and he might even check for a mint on the pillow later because, you live here? You did- you’ve lived here in this cold, quiet apartment for a decade now. And sure- this guest room was nice and freshly made in case someone needed a place to stay. Not that you had many friends who stayed- none in fact. But your room has been destroyed and stripped from its original foundation of its Pure Park Avenue glory and into your angsty teenage decorations long ago.
“It’s okay Frank,” you see him slowly turning and taking in the room- the fucking view from the 80-something-th floor in his own room. “Relax- the room doesn’t bite.” He tries to laugh, but he’s easing himself on the bed now and there’s a million pillows on it and- fucking soft. “Thank you,” he sits up, smiling and trying to not cry because he was tired. He was drowning. He didn’t know how he was going to make it another few months like he was and you were some godsend. “You’re literally an angel.” You were. To him anyway because in this moment you’ve stopped his spiraling. You’ve stopped his downfall. He will definitely make it up to you however he can.