Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re seriously trying to tell me A Night at the Opera is better than Hatful of Hollow?” Mikey scoffs.

“Yeah.” Ray jerks his chin up in a nod, “It’s a masterpiece, practically redefined rock music. Hatful of Hollow is good, but it’s not- it’s not A Night at the Opera good, y’know?”

“No, I don’t.” 

Illi presses her fingers to her temples. God, today was going to be a long day. She could already feel a headache brewing in her skull, a dull throb at her temples that promised to get worse.

Class had wrung her dry with back-to-back tests, and lunch — which had barely even started — was shaping up to be just as overwhelming.

Their usual spot in the overflowing cafeteria had been stolen by some group of assholes, so they were exiled to the blaze outside. The sun beat down on her ghostly skin, unforgivingly hot. It left her miserable, with her clothes clinging to her skin with sweat. 

The temperatures had been unrelenting this spring, and sitting in the sun felt more like a punishment than anything. Illi viewed the sun with the same disdain as a vampire, though, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge. 

Her food was a casualty of her shitty day, too, crushed in her locker at some point, the sandwich having become nothing more than a sad, flattened version of itself. Even so, it was far better than whatever slop the cafeteria tried to pass off as food, so she picked at it anyway. 

Whatever. It’s not like today could get any worse, could it?

“With Queen, every track is like an event — the orchestration, the transitions, the way they blend genres… It’s like a rock opera.” Ray’s voice grew animated, waving his fruit around as he spoke with his hands. “And don’t even get me started on Brian May’s guitar skills.”

Mikey scoffs playfully, “We get it. You’ve got a boner for Brian May, Ray. We’ve established this several times now.”

“Shut up, I do not. I just… admire his skill. He’s a legend for a reason, Mikey.”

Amusement paints a grin across Mikey’s cheeks. “You can deny it all you want, but you know it’s true.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ray rolls his eyes, finally taking a bite of his food. He’s barely even bothering to swallow before going back to ranting. “In comparison, Hatful of Hollow-”

Illi sighs and tunes them out. Same debate, different day.

She can’t wander off into her own head and daydream for long before a familiar face drops down beside her. Frank runs his hand through the mess of raven he calls hair. “Are they seriously on about this again?”

“Yep.” Illi pops the word with a dry smile. 

Frank laughs right by her ear, the sound fizzling in her chest. He was nestled so closely beside her she could feel his body heat through their clothes. “Isn’t this like the third time this week now? They’ve agreed to disagree every time.”

“Yeah, like that's stopping them.” She giggles.

Frank watches them for a few moments before resting his head against her shoulder. Her heart felt like it could rip itself out of her chest, butterflies dancing about in her stomach. 

Frank had always been the physically affectionate type, so it wasn’t exactly unusual for him. Though his touches came more in the form of hair ruffles, shoulder bumps, and play fights. This, however, felt way different.

Softer. Sweeter. Almost careful.

It made her feel… special.

Maybe she was special to Frank. 

He had always been softer with Illi than he was with the others, and sometimes she’d let herself get caught up in the possibility that there was more to it. 

His looks that lingered, the smiles that felt warmer when they were directed her way. Maybe there was something more than friendship threading between them. Fragile and shimmering, just waiting for one of them to tug on it and send it unravelling.

Or maybe she was only seeing what she wanted to see. Wishful thinking and all. 

Oh well, you couldn’t blame her for holding out hope.

Frank shifts and presses closer into her, chewing on his lip quietly as the silence spells between them. His gaze eventually finds hers, and he smiles. “You free after school?

“I am.”

“Wanna walk home with me?”

She grins toothily at him, “Yeah, sure.”

It really didn’t mean anything, but Mikey was staying a little later after school today, so it’d just be the two of them. The thought of it has her feeling a little giddy.

‘Stop it, Illi. Stop being stupid.’ She scolds herself.

Ray and Mikey don’t seem to pay any mind to their impromptu intimacy, continuing with their petty squabble. 

“But with Night at the Opera, you don’t have to choose — hey wait, Frank, isn’t that Chelsea?” Ray interrupts himself and cocks his head to the side slightly, squinting toward a girl with bright blonde hair. 

Illi watches as realisation dawns over Frank’s expression, eyes widening. Suddenly, he’s jolting upright, pulling his head off Illi’s shoulder so fast you’d’ve thought it burnt him. His face burns cherry red. 

“Chelsea?” Illi frowned.

“You don’t know?” Mikey blinks. “She’s that girl Frank won’t stop talking about. The one he likes?”

Oh.

So it could get worse.

So, so much worse.

The girl — Chelsea — waves at Frank as she walks past, the aforementioned boy waving back sheepishly. Mikey snickers at him, “Dude, you are so whipped.”

“Fuck off, I’m not.”

“I just think she’s kinda pretty, is all.”

Mikey snorts.

Right, pretty.

Illi and Chelsea were opposites; Chelsea had perfect skin with a perfect face, long blonde hair, and a slender figure, whereas Illi had blemished, ghostly pale skin and choppy black hair. 

Chelsea was tall and elegant, while Illi was only average height and rather clumsy. 

Not to mention, she was a real girl, a feat that Illi could never match or compete with.

God, if this was Frank’s type, she never even stood a chance to begin with, did she?

She swallows down the lump in her throat. “Since when did you have a crush on her? She hangs out with the jocks. I thought we hated those guys.”

“Since forever. Do you really not remember me telling you?” Frank’s face crumpled into a frown. “And she’s different from the others. She’s kind and caring and shit.”

Illi just huffs. Frank stares at her with a rather unreadable expression, only being able to pick up on the flecks of hurt swirling in his eyes. She returns his frown and falls quiet.

“You should ask her to go to prom with you,” Ray suggests, teasing glinting in his honey brown eyes. “She’s totally into you, dude. She’ll definitely say yes.”

“You think so?” Frank asks nervously. “I mean, I don't think it'd be a good idea. Can't give her what she expects, and I don't wanna let her down.”

“What could she expect that you can’t give her?” Ray frowns in confusion.

“A kiss.”

“A kiss?” 

“Yeah.”

“I don't think she's expecting you to kiss her, Frank.” Ray deadpans.

He scoffs, the tops of his cheeks burning even hotter. “My date for homecoming last year sure wanted me to. The look on her face when she realised I don't know how to kiss…”

He grimaces. “I'm not humiliating myself like that again.” 

It seems that the very moment that Chelsea is out of view, Frank is sinking back into Illi’s side, head resting upon her shoulder like nothing happened. The motion only serves to make her sad.

“It’ll be fine, Frank. You can learn how to before then if you’re so worried. We’ve still got a few weeks until prom.” Mikey says, flicking something off the top of his unfairly intact sandwich. 

“Yeah, maybe.” Frank mumbles, the conversation fizzling out.

Knowing her feelings weren’t returned stung, but what was she to do about it? She couldn’t blame Frank for anything. The revelation sat heavy in her chest, sharp and aching in a way that made her stomach twist.

The others prattle on about some new topic that’d garnered their interest, Illi vaguely picking up on Ray and Mikey talking about the record store they were going to after school, but she doesn’t really listen. 

She doesn’t care ‌how pathetic it is; she lets herself wallow in self-pity.

Silly Illi and her stupid imagination, always reading into things and filling in the blanks when what was real wasn’t what she wanted it to be.

She rests her head on top of Frank’s, his dishevelled black hair brushing her cheek as he moves. She sighs noticeably, catching Frank’s attention. “You okay? You keep zoning out”

“Hm? Yeah, just… thinking is all.” Illi mumbles, “We have that stupid science test later, which I didn’t study for.”

Frank clearly doesn’t seem to believe her, judging by both the look he sends her and the way his eyes scrunch up, but he doesn’t say anything. Illi just sinks into his side, disappointment like a weight pressing down on her ribs. 

***

“I totally blew it.” 

Wind tousles Illi’s hair as it blows, heady with petrichor, a promise of rain. It had since cooled down a little since lunch, the air pleasantly warm rather than overbearing as she and Frank walked side by side down the sidewalk.

Frank’s shoes scuff against the pavement as he goes, “Me too. This new teacher sucks, he can’t teach for shit.”

“I know, right?” Illi scoffs, “He still can’t get my name right either, no matter how many times I fucking correct him.”

“I’m gonna punch that fucking bastard one day, I swear.” Frank huffs, picking at the fraying threads of his backpack straps. Illi snorts, shoving at his side lightly. “You and Mikey both.”

Illi liked to think of herself as a decently smart girl. She wasn’t doing badly in any of her classes — except for chemistry, of course — had a good memory, was relatively open-minded, empathetic… and so on and so on.. (There was only so much she could praise herself.)

But one thing she noticeably lacked was the ability to make good decisions, especially on a whim. Impromptu purchases of shit she didn't need at the mall, sleeping in a few extra minutes and winding up late for school, skipping showering to keep reading the latest copy of Fangoria she’s picked up… Relatively harmless, yes, but poor choices nonetheless. 

This time, the options weighing on her mind were more than that; the life-altering, potentially friendship-ruining kind. 

Illi was a damn good kisser (according to most people she’d been with, at least), whilst Frank wasn’t. Well, it wouldn’t be fair to call him bad exactly, more like inexperienced. Hesitant in a way that’d make sense for someone who’d never really done it before. 

And maybe that should’ve been cute, endearing even, but all she could think about was how she could fix it. How she could help him.

She shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea; it was dangerous territory, a sure path leading her straight into heartbreak, but the thought had already lodged itself in her brain and refused to leave. She could offer to teach him. Just as friends. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Her heart gives a painful twist at the thought. 

Even if she’d never get to be with him in the way she wanted — never get to hold his hand, to wake up next to him, to get to call him hers — at least she could have that. Just once. One small, stolen thing. 

Maybe if she taught him, she could live with that quiet ache that’d sit behind her ribs whenever he smiled at a girl.

Maybe if she kissed him, even if just once, she could stop wondering what it would feel like, to know how his lips and tongue would taste.

She knew it was selfish. God, she knew. But logic and longing had never gotten along well in her head, and the longer she thought about it, the more that small, stupid idea started to sound like a plan. 

Yes, maybe it wasn’t that bad of an idea after all…

Teach Frank how to kiss, and don’t ruin everything between them or have her heart crushed even more than it already had been in the process. 

Illi lets out a long, shaky breath, staring up into the sky — its pristine blue blotted with forming storm clouds — as if it were able to offer her some sort of divine guidance. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. The universe never seemed interested in saving her from herself. 

Because really, what kind of person came up with something like that and thought it could end well?

The fantasy tugged at her still. She could picture it all too clearly; Frank sat across from her, awkward and uncertain, his usual confidence stripped down to something vulnerable. She’d tease him for it (probably), make some kind of joke to lighten the air, but then she’d show him. Slow, patient. Careful.

Or maybe it’d be the other way around. Illi, the nervous wreck and Frank the playful tease. 

Her stomach flutters just imagining it.

‘God, you’re pathetic.’

 Not even her self-loathing could dull the warmth that came from the thought. She could make it casual; make it sound like a joke, and if he said no, she’d laugh it off like it was a joke. But if he said yes—

She wasn’t sure she’d ever recover from it. No, she definitely wouldn’t. 

But, fuck, you can’t knock it till you try it, right?

“So… you don’t know how to kiss, huh?” She starts.

Frank’s reaction is immediate, his face burning as red as a tomato as he scoffs. “Don’t even start, Ills. I get enough shit from Mikey about it as it is, I don’t need you going on about it too.”

Ills. She feels giddy all over again.

“I’m not gonna tease you.” Illi replies, “The opposite, actually. I um— I have an idea.”

“An idea?” Frank’s eyebrows are tightly furrowed. 

She nods, “Yeah, um— you know how I’ve got, like… a bit of experience? With relationships and, y’know, being with people and stuff. I just thought maybe I could, um, teach you? Like… how to kiss. Or something.”

Frank completely stops walking, like a deer in headlights. Illi’s heart sinks into the pit of her stomach.

“In like… a friend way, y’know?” she blurts out, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Like—like it wouldn’t have to mean anything, obviously. It’s just practice after all. I just thought it might help you since you haven’t really done it before. Save face and not embarrass yourself in front of Chelsea.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, and suddenly, the cracks in the concrete are far more interesting than his facial expressions. God, she wanted to cry.

“Fuck. Forget it.” She swallows hard, “It’s stupid, sorry.”

It takes a good few seconds more, but Frank finally, finally, responds. “...You’d do that for me?”

“I mean, yeah. I wouldn't have suggested otherwise.”

She doesn’t see it, but she assumes he nods instead of words. 

“And what do you want out of it?” He hums, suspicious. She hadn’t actually thought of that, but coming up with something on the spot was easy. “Let’s just say you owe me?”

Hope sparks in her chest as Frank sighs, “I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?”

“Maybe.” She grins a shit-eating grin.

“Okay, then. You have a deal. Just don’t breathe a word to the others, yeah?” Frank says. Illi shrugs, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Okay, cool.”

“Cool.”

Illi’s eyes flit back up to his face, and she’s surprised to see he was still incredibly flustered, though less shocked. He clears his throat. “When do you wanna—”

“Mikey’s not home ‘till late, neither are my parents, if you wanna head to my place and do it now.” Illi interrupts. 

Frank replies, “Sure. My mom isn’t expecting me back until later, so that works with me.”

“Okay”. 

Illi doesn’t remember much of the walk back to her place, vaguely of Frank rambling about a horror movie he’d seen recently that he wanted to watch with the group, and how closely he’d been beside her the entire trip. 

Frank snickers about something Illi doesn’t catch as they scurry up the stairs into her room, which is an absolute mess, but he doesn’t seem to care. Boots are pulled off, and both of them carelessly drop their bags on the floor, and Frank sits on the side of Illi’s bed, looking unsure of what to do with himself as Illi peels off her socks. 

She settles across from him at the head of the bed. Frank fidgets with his hands. “What do we do now?”

“C’mere?” she suggests. Illi didn’t exactly mean for him to sit on her lap, more so beside or in front of her, but she wasn’t complaining. Her headboard is a firm pressure against her back as she leans against it, Frank’s breath fanning hot across her cheeks and sending another swarm of butterflies throughout her stomach. 

Frank was so close that Illi could see every little hair on his face, count every tiny freckle and blemish on his skin she’d never been able to notice before. She watches as his throat bobs with a swallow, his nervousness palpable. She’d call it cute if that same feeling weren’t seeping through her veins.

“Is this okay?” Frank asks, his voice undeniably softer. 

Illi nods, bringing her hand up to rest on Frank’s clothed hip. He shifts his knees where they bracket the widest part of her thighs. “Yeah. ’ts good.”

Frank hums softly, eyes tracing up and down her face before settling on her lips. She licks them out of habit. It's quiet for a few moments before Frank is giggling nervously. “So, um… how do I start?” 

“How much do you know about kissing?” She asks. The question only seems to make him laugh again, his snort incredibly unattractive but endearing, nonetheless. “Like nothing, dude. Kind of why you’re teaching me?”

“Right, yeah…” Illi huffs. “Why don’t you try what you think you’re supposed to do, and I’ll correct you, and we’ll go on from there?”

“Sure,” Frank says, and then promptly connects their lips in a rough kiss, their teeth clacking together. As cliché as it was, Illi really did feel her heart skip a beat in her chest. The force of it was enough to pull a gasp from her throat.

Her eyes droop but don’t close, whilst Frank’s stay wide open. It’s painfully awkward, and she could feel herself dying inside a little, though it thankfully doesn’t last that long. Her lips almost feel bruised when they part.

Insecurity drowned out the flush on Frank’s face. 

She clears her throat “Okay, two main things: don’t be so rough? You’re trying to kiss someone, not crush their lips into their face. Second, close your eyes. It’s kinda uncomfortable to be stared at like that while you’re kissing.”

“I mean— not always. Depends on the person, and the situation overall, and their preferences, and— yeah. Close them if you can.”

He nods, “Shit, sorry. I’m hopeless at this.”

“I’ve had worse.”

No. 

She really hadn’t. 

That was probably the worst kiss she’d had in her entire life. 

But hey, a little white lie never hurt anyone.

“Let me take the lead this time? I mean, kissing someone and being kissed are two different things, but it could give you some pointers.” Illi suggests. Frank mumbles a quick ‘sure’ and shifts onto her lap. She guides him to hold onto her waist and brings her free hand up to cup his cheek, then kisses him again.

It’s softer now that she’s in control, hesitant but still sweet. His lips were waxy with Chapstick, and he tasted like sugar-free soda. Frank sighs into the kiss, letting her take charge without fuss, melting into her touch like butter. His eyelashes flutter against the highs of her cheekbones.

This time, they only separate when their lungs burn, breath coming out in short pants as Frank rests his forehead against hers. Intimate, but fine in Illi’s books.

“You’re good.” Frank comments.

Illi just snickers, “Try it like that.”

It's not perfect, but Frank kisses much better this time, albeit a little dryly. Tenderness pours into it like molten honey, but Frank’s hesitance still bleeds through. She just mumbles against his lips. “Don’t overthink it, Frankie. It’s okay.”

Frank makes a small noise at the back of his throat and drops his shoulders. 

Distantly, she can hear the light pattering of rain against her window, as well as the steady rumbling of thunder. She doubted Frankie had an umbrella in his backpack, so he’d probably have to stay later if he didn’t want to get wet. 

He breaks the kiss with a cough. “How was that?”

“It was okay.” She says honestly.

Frank shrugs, “I mean… I’ll get better the more we practice, yeah?” 

Illi’s stomach flips a little at how he sounds, but not in a bad way. If anything, it’s kind of charming — the way his eyes light up, clearly looking forward to more. 

“Yeah,” She says with a small grin. “Practice makes perfect.”

Frank snickers, lips quirking nervously before he leans in again. He doesn’t hesitate as much this time, though it’s still awkward. His nose bumps hers, and he pulls back just enough to mutter a quiet, flustered “sorry” before trying again.

Their lips are still dry, and it’s far from good, but there’s a strange sweetness to it. He’s trying — really trying — and she can feel it in how he presses close to her, uncertain but sincere. 

The kiss lacks finesse, but not warmth.

Illi hums against his mouth, tilting her head slightly. “Better,” she mumbles as they break apart.

Frank beams at her, eyes wide and hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she parrots, meaning it. There's no regret twisting in her chest — yet — and no overthinking it. Only the faint, pleasant buzz of the moment, and the feel of the soft curve of her smile. “You’re getting there.”

They kiss for a while longer, even though Frank wasn’t making much progress, before eventually pulling away for good. They went downstairs and watched a movie that Illi had already seen a thousand times. Mikey crashes and joins when he gets home, making comments on how they were ‘acting funny’, but Illi couldn’t tell what he meant.

It’s only as Illi is lying in bed at the end of the day, long after Frank left, trying to sleep, that the realisation of what had happened finally hits her.

She’d kissed Frank.

Frank had kissed her.

Holy shit.

The giggle bursts from her lips before she has the chance to stop it, high and girlish. She buries her face into her pillow. Her heart hammers so hard against her ribs you’d think it was trying to break free. 

He’d said yes. He’d gone along with it. It had fucking worked.

Illi kicks her legs lightly, a grin tugging at her mouth. “No way.” She whispers into the pillowcase, half laughing as she says it. Because there’s no way, right? Good things like that don’t actually happen. Not to her.

But it did.

And god, if it didn’t make her feel light.

Giddy and stupid, so, so alive.

Trying to forget the feeling of Frank’s lips against hers is going to be a nightmare, though. The realisation grounds her; she calms down a little. This was not going to help her raging crush on Frank in the slightest.

‘Oh, Illi, you are so fucked.’

Chapter Text

Illi is surprised — pleasantly so — to find that nothing has really changed in their regular dynamic since the start of their little agreement.

Frank still laughs with her, still tosses teasing remarks that have her rolling her eyes, but grinning, anyway. He doesn’t pull away when they brush against each other, and he doesn’t hesitate to lean in close or drape an arm over her shoulder casually when they sit beside each other.

Though one noticeably different thing is just how much more Frank stares at her. 

The feeling of his eyes on her is nearly constant whenever they’re around each other, and every time she catches him, he doesn’t even bother to look away. Just keeps holding her gaze, half-smiling like he knows she noticed, but not hinting at what it could mean.

Illi barely knows how to feel about it.

It doesn’t seem to be bad per se, just… confusing. Maybe he’s just thinking — zoning out, or whatever. But the tenderness in his gaze didn’t feel like nothing.

It has her feeling stuck; caught between comfort and curiosity. The additional warmth that's settled between them versus wanting to know what was going through Frank’s head.

She doesn’t hate it — though that's not hard considering she doesn’t know what's up with him to begin with.

Illi sighs, earning herself a curious glance from the aforementioned boy sitting across from her. 

Luck had graced the pair with not only a shared free period but with an almost empty library to waste it in, too. 

They really should be doing homework, but that was no fun. 

Colours on the page of her comic blur together as she skim-reads the pages. Usually, she was against doing such a thing: the writers and artists had poured love and effort into the work; it wasn’t fair not to appreciate their dedication. 

But fuck, she really didn’t like the character they were focusing on, and she didn’t want to read pages upon pages of drivel about him. Sue her. 

Frank didn’t seem to be all that interested in what he was doing either, poring over his notebook of song lyrics with a petulant scowl on his face. His pen dangled loosely between his fingers, tapping out a restless rhythm. 

It was no surprise when he dropped it with a clatter and scoffed, “I’m fucking bored.”

The feeling was mutual. Illi sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Then do something about it.”

“Like what?”

She glances around, unimpressed by the dusty shelves. She hums, “I don’t know. Read a book or something.”

“In a library?” He blinks at her. “How original, Illi. Never would’ve thought of that one”

“Okay, smartass.” Illi rolls her eyes at him, dog-earing her page. It wasn’t her book, but she didn’t think Mikey would care. “Do your homework or something then.”

“Hell fucking no.” 

Illi’s mouth twitches. “Write something new? You’ve been staring at that same page for like, weeks now.”

“I tried.” He says, slouching into his seat even further, one leg stretched out beneath the table. His notebook sits abandoned beside him, the ink still glistening faintly on his half-finished verse. “Nothing’s coming.” 

“...guess you’ll just have to stay bored then, huh?”

Frank grumbles something about her being terrible company, but can’t hide the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Illi pretends not to notice it and goes back to her comic.

Not even two minutes pass before Frank is leaning over the table and speaking again, “Can you teach me again?”

“Huh?”

“Kissing. I want another lesson.” He hums. The casualness of it makes Illi’s heart flutter, feeling more like he was asking for help with maths homework rather than to make out.

“Like now?” She furrows her eyebrows.

 Frank nods, grinning. “Yeah.”

“Frankie, we’re in school.” 

The lights overhead flicker softly, and from somewhere across the room, someone coughs. Miss. Stevens, assumedly. The school librarian who perches at her desk near the entrance with her glasses halfway down her nose, flipping through a hardcover with the quiet judgement of someone who’s definitely not paid enough to deal with teenage hormones. 

She was an absolute nightmare on a good day, and Illi really didn’t want to learn how it felt to be on the other side of her when she was pissed, all because Frank was bored. 

“So?” He blinks at her.

“So? What do you mean so? Miss. Stevens will probably beat our fucking asses, plus we’ll be suspended.” She scowls. “Can’t take Chelsea to prom if you get suspended.”

“That's if we get caught, Ills.” He scoffs. “I know we won’t.”

“You can’t know that.” Illi is entirely unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, I do know.” Frank says, “I found this little area way back past the history section. It's private and shit, no one ever goes there. We’ll be fine.”

Illi stares at him. Frank just sits there, leaning forward on his elbows. He’s got that bright, stupid grin on his face — the one which dimples his cheeks and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Annoyingly charming, infuriatingly persuasive, she feels her stomach do an embarrassing little flip. 

The air in the library feels stale and warm, with the musty smell of old paper and cheap cleaning spray. Miss Stevens clears her throat like a loaded gun.

Illi suddenly becomes hyper-aware of how close his knee is to hers under the table. Her pulse hammers in her throat. She crosses her arms, hissing. “And what if someone does go there?”

“No one goes there,” he insists, his voice smug but still soft. “Trust me.”

Trust him. Yeah. That was exactly the problem. 

She runs her tongue across her teeth, thinking it over. 

The idea is reckless. Stupid. Guaranteed to send her spiralling later when she’s lying in bed, dissecting every second of it. But Frank is looking at her with that hopeful spark in his eyes, genuinely excited at the idea, and fuck, Illi is folding almost immediately.

She exhales. “You really want another lesson now?”

“Yeah.” Frank nods once, confident. 

She curls her fingers tightly around the edge of the table, shoving her comic book into her bag and muttering, “...fine, okay. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you entirely.”

His grin spreads like a wildfire.”Wouldn’t expect any less.” He chuckles, bumping her foot gently under the table before standing.

‘Giving in so fast… god, you’re pathetic.’

The chair legs scrape against the floor as Illi gets up, the sound feeling too loud for the quiet. She winces, flicking her gaze toward the front desk, but Miss Stevens is still nestled behind her fortress of mystery novels, barely blinking. 

Frank doesn’t even bother looking back to check if she’s following; he just knows she will. Cocky bastard.

Illi rolls her eyes at his back but still trails after him, the soles of her boots quiet on the thin, fading carpet. The deeper they walk into the library, the yellower the fluorescent lighting seems to get. 

They pass shelves boldly labelled “BIOGRAPHY” and “TRAVEL”, before Frank veers left into a narrow row lined with thick, dusty tomes on world history. It’s colder here, the kind of chill that sinks into your bones. The droning of other students quietly chattering amongst themselves is distant now, replaced with a hush that makes their breathing sound intrusive.

Frank steps over a long-forgotten poster about the Ottoman Empire, curled on the floor like a dead leaf. Illi glances around the area Frank had brought her to. The shelves here were slightly taller, almost towering over them and blocking the view from the main walkways.

There’s a tiny nook way at the end, barely big enough for two people to stand comfortably. Given the scenario, that’s probably the point, though. 

He stops near the corner, turning to face her with that same casual confidence that had no right to make her knees feel like jelly. “See?” He says quietly, “Private.”

Illi crosses her arms, “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

Frank snickers, stepping just close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek. 

God, he’s infuriating.

And annoying.

And warm.

And close…

Dammit. She swallows hard, suddenly unsure what to do with herself for a whole two seconds before Frank drags her forward into a kiss. She makes a startled little noise, caught off guard. His lips move frantically against hers, a little too eager. 

She loosely wraps her arms around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as she eases into it. Frank presses her against the bookshelf lightly, the edge of it digging into the small of her back. 

When Frank pulls back, she snickers. “I see you remembered my advice about not overthinking it.”

He chuckles. Illi brings their lips together again. 

Frank smells of mint gum and the cheap soap from the boy’s locker room. He’s a little stiff, but marginally better already. It’s less rushed this time, more focused. He seems to remember to move gently, and she can feel him trying. 

She hums approvingly against his lips, the sound seeming to reassure him. His hands tentatively settle on her waist, careful, like he’s afraid to hold too tight.

“Good.” She whispers as she pulls back barely, their lips still brushing. “You’re doing well.”

Frank exhales shakily and nods. His cheeks were dusted a watercolour pink. It makes Illi’s heart flutter. Pushing back into the kiss, he’s a little more confident. The tenderness of how he rubs small circles into her lower back makes her giddy.

They kiss again and again, Illi allowing Frank to take the lead whilst commenting on ways he could improve, or things he could do differently. After a few minutes, she breaks it again, their breaths mingling. Her voice is low when she speaks, as if the shelves themselves were listening. “Do you wanna… try something different?”

His eyes flicker open, “Sure. Like… tongue, right?”

She nods.

He noticeably tenses up.

“Hey,” she frowns, running her fingers through the hair near the nape of his neck. He shivers, “It’s okay, we’ll go slow. It’s kinda intimidating at first, but you get used to it.”

Frank nods again.

“Follow my lead, yeah?” She soothes, then tugs him forward into her. For a moment, it's just the same, soft kiss. Then, she parts her lips and gives the tiniest, testing flick of her tongue against his lower lip. 

Frank moans and freezes. Her voice is a soft guide, “Relax. Just… open a little.”

He does, hesitantly. She deepens the kiss, her movements slow and patient. She lets her tongue brush against his, barely a touch. 

‘Holy shit, I’m actually making out with him. What the FUCK.’

Frank makes a startled noise in the back of his throat. He seems unsure what to do with himself, grip tightening over her waist. “It’s okay.” She mumbles into his mouth, “Just respond. You don’t have to do much, just… feel.”

He tries again, movements awkward and unsure. His tongue meets hers in a soft touch, clumsy at first, their rhythm off for a moment. Illi giggles, not mocking, just amused and a little breathless. “Too much. Go slower, use less pressure.”

He adjusts, and it’s… better. There's something warm and earnest in the way he leans into it. Something which makes her chest ache in a way that's both dangerous and addictive. There's no heat to the kiss, curious and tender rather than lustful, but it still has Illi feeling dizzy. Franks breathes heavier as they break, a thin string of saliva connecting them still.

It thins out and snaps with distance. Fuck.

“‘S that okay?” he asks hoarsely. 

His lips are slick with spit and redder than usual, a tiny furrow in his eyebrows — the kind he gets when he’s trying to process something that feels bigger than he expected. “Yeah. For your first time with tongue, you didn’t do bad.”

“Any tips?” Frank continues, “I didn’t feel like I was doing it right.”

“You really just have to get confident with it. Learn to match their rhythm, pay attention to the things they do and don’t like. Stuff like that.” Illi explains. His eyes flicker to her lips once more, and her stomach does a little flip.

“Could we try again? I think we still have ten or so minutes left before class.” 

“Alright. Remember — slow. Don’t try too hard to control it.” She snorts, “And breathe. Don’t think I didn’t notice you holding your breath.”

“Shut up.” Frank scoffs, meeting her halfway. 

Just like their first kisses a few days before, the second time is way better. Tension bleeds from his shoulders as he shakily exhales, lips parting. She lets the kiss linger, pulling him closer. 

Their chests pressed together. Illi tries to shove the thought away of how Frank would probably be happier if there was actually something there to press against. Kissing a real girl would probably be better for him anyway. 

Whatever. She was selfish. She didn’t care.

She runs her tongue along his lips in a silent invitation, and this time, he reacts quicker. His tongue against hers is still a little too cautious, but she can feel him actively trying to match her movements. It’s clumsy — pressing in too much in one moment and not enough in the next — but it’s not bad.

She murmurs, a hum of approval, and feels him smile. “You’re getting it.”

The reassurance bolsters him, and the kiss slowly starts to feel more natural. Like he’s beginning to understand where his mouth belongs in relation to hers. He traces his tongue along Illi’s teeth before he pulls back. 

Frank puts a bit of distance between them, and Illi lets her arms fall from around his neck. She clears her throat lightly, “...better.”

A self-satisfied grin spreads across his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

Illi rolls her eyes as if she’s tired of boosting his ego, though her pulse is still racing. “Don’t get cocky.”

He beams anyway.

Silence spells between them for a while. Frank chews on his lip.

“Does… does this whole thing we’re doing have to stop at just kissing?” He asks. Illi almost chokes on her spit. No fucking way he was propositioning her? 

“What?”

“Like — I really don’t know how to do other couple-ly things either. Like going on dates and stuff.” His voice is laced with insecurity, being strangely vulnerable.

Oh. Of course.

‘Fucking dumbass.’

She tilts her head at him, “You’ve never been on a date?”

Frank scoffs, “No..”

Illi blinks. That… shouldn’t surprise her. But somehow it still does. Frank, with his stupid grin and easy charm, is someone who definitely should’ve gone out with someone at least once. But then again, she knows him well. Knows how he keeps his guard up like it’s second nature.

Still — dates?! Practice dates!?

She was already in dangerous territory with the whole practice-kissing thing. Justifiable only because she kept telling herself it was just temporary to help him out. But dates?

Dates were pretend laughter and shared snacks. Maybe holding hands and sitting close in movie theatres. Walking home under streetlights with your chest feeling warm.

Dates were feelings.

And Illi was already hanging on by a thread as it is.

Her brain fucking screams at her, absolutely not, abort mission, do not pass go, don’t let yourself fall even harder for your best friend who doesn’t even want you. Who is using you as a test dummy to make things better for when he dates Chelsea.

But then Frank is shifting, embarrassed, “I just… don’t want to mess up when I actually go on a real one.”

A real one.

One which won’t be with her.

Her chest aches with the thought. 

Illi should walk away right now. Laugh it off and tell him that kissing lessons are one thing, and dating lessons are insane. She should protect herself. Not make everything even harder.

Instead, she hears herself saying. “...Sure.”

Well, fuck.

Her heart practically begs her to back out, but her tratorous, stupid, reckless feelings whisper back that at least this way, she gets to be with him a little longer. Even though it's all pretend.

Frank’s shoulders drop with visible relief and gratitude, “Seriously? You’re the fucking best, Ills.”, and he’s pulling her into a hug. His face is tucked up into her shoulder, body so so warm against hers.

She forces a laugh, trying not to choke on the panic clawing up her throat as she loosely returns it. “Just means you owe me even harder, though.”

“Yeah. Anything you want, I’ll get it. You’re an absolute lifesaver, holy shit.”

She pats his back lightly. He continues talking, “There's that new arcade in the mall we can try out?”

“Okay. Friday?” She bites her tongue. Frank nods, absolutely delighted. “Fridays good.”

“We can go after school then,” She suggests.

How the fuck is she supposed to spend time pretending to be Frank’s literal girlfriend without falling even harder for him?

Worse…

How is she supposed to remember that she’s just the practice run?

‘Illi Mcmillin. You are one stupid motherfucker.’

Chapter Text

The neon glow of the arcade lights on Illi’s skin feels like a live wire, buzzing up her nerves and making her all jittery. Bathed in blinking neon blues and saturated reds, every machine hums with an eager kind of life. Somewhere, a racing game revved loudly; a claw machine chirping in cheerful defeat. The air tasted like cherry slushies and imitation butter, sticky-sweet and artificial.

It should have felt normal. Teenagers hung out here all the time. She used to hang out here all the time. It was casual. Loud. Harmless.

But Illi’s pulse was racing, almost dizzy with it, because she was here with Frank. On a date.

Or, a “practice date,” technically. But her heart didn’t care about the quotation marks. 

It was real enough to her. 

And it was only now that her brain had decided that she might be past the point of casual feelings, rapidly approaching “oh no, I care too much” territory. 

More “in love with my best friend” than a simple crush. 

Maybe she’d already passed that line without realising it until now.

Goddammit.

Frank, of course, looked like he had absolutely no clue he was her emotional doom. He stood beside her, rocking back and forth on his heels, eyes wide and shiny as he clutched a cup of plastic tokens like it held the meaning of life. 

 “This place is sick,” Frank grins. 

Illi hums, “I used to blow, like, all my allowance in the old arcade they had here.”

“Tragic”, Frank says lightly, “Gone too soon, lost to the flashing lights of capitalism.”

“Shut up, dude.” She snickers, elbowing his side lightly. He laughs heartily, rolling his eyes at her before turning to look at the rest of the room.

His eyes scan the rows of games like he’s mapping out a battlefield, eyebrows pinched as he thinks it through. The buzzing overhead lights reflect in his hair, his excitement so natural and unfiltered that Illi nearly forgets how to breathe. “Okay… you wanna warm up with air hockey first? Or just go big immediately and kick ass in Mario Kart?” He asks.

Illi forces a casual shrug, trying not to let the smile stretching her lips give her away. “Don’t think it matters if we warm up or not, honestly. We both know I’m gonna win.”

“Bold words from someone who brakes during corners.” He snickers, “You’re just scared I’m gonna win.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Her laughter slips out before she has the chance to stop it.

God, she’s fucked.

They wind up in line for the racing game, waiting for the two teenage boys currently playing to finish. Frank fidgets with his jacket sleeve beside her, humming a tune Illi doesn’t recognise under his breath. That song he was writing, perhaps?

Illi watches him from the corner of her eye, something warm yet so incredibly terrifying expanding in her chest. 

Maybe — just maybe — she doesn’t want to run from it tonight.

Before she allows herself to overthink her way out of it, she shifts just enough that their arms brush. The motion doesn’t take Frank’s eyes off the screen, so she quietly reaches down and slips her fingers into his.

For a heartbeat, the world freezes. Her pulse is like thunder in her ears.

Frank glances down at their hands… then back up, grinning impossibly wider at her. He says nothing, just tightens his hold, thumb brushing lazily over her knuckles like it’s the most normal thing ever — as though he’d done it a million times before.

She tries not to smile too big. 

…She fails spectacularly.

Frank’s palm is so warm, skin clammy against her own. It’s comfortable, Illi finds herself wishing she’d never have to let go. 

Alas, she does after a few minutes when the game frees up. Her hand feels wrongfully empty as Frank pulls away to get into the seat on the left.

Illi picks the blue car when they finally get their turn. Frank raises an eyebrow but picks the red one without hesitating. The countdown pulses on the oversized LED screen — 3… 2… 1…

She floors it.

“Eat shit, Frankie!” Illi crows, leaning so far forward in her chair you’d think the momentum might actually help her gain pace. She was being way too loud, but she didn’t care, and neither did Frank, it seemed. The plastic steering wheel was disgustingly sticky from the people before, but she tries not to pay it much heed, lest she get too grossed out and not want to play anymore.

Frank snorts, immediately swerving into the first wall they get to. He scoffs, “Okay—okay, you didn’t see that. This game is stupid.”

“You just suck, dumbass.” Illi teases, watching as half of the virtual racers overtake him, falling from fourth to second last. He grumbles frustratedly, but is quick to pick up the pace again. Soon, he’s in second right behind her, and promptly ramming his car into hers at mock speed, sending her spiralling off the course, spinning out onto the digital grass. 

She near shrieks, though there's no real frustration in her voice, “Oh fuck off! You dick!”

Frank just cackles.

The pair are nothing but chaos as they play, crashing into each other more than anything else on the track. The whole while they howl playful insults at one another, poking fun when one of them crashes and feigning offence in response. 

Frank loses.

Every fucking time.

And each time, he throws an arm over his eyes dramatically, groaning like his soul was leaving his body. Then, he’d peek out at her, smiling stupidly wide when she laughed at his theatrics. 

“What can I say?” Illi says smugly, “I’m just better.”

Frank rolls his eyes, still smiling, though it’s not big or flashy—just warm. “Yeah, yeah. Guess I’m just going to stick to crashing into you. Clearly, it’s my purpose in life.”

Illi giggles, “You’re insufferable.”

“You know it.”

They start their fifth and final match, the lights on the screen blinking brightly, colours flowing along the pixels effortlessly like water down a stream, and somewhere between the insults, the bumper-to-bumper sabotage, and the maniacal laughter, Illi realises she isn’t thinking about how good of a teacher she was being, or how all of this was just to better Chelsea’s experience with him. 

She’s simply… having fun with him.

Real fun. Not fake, not planned, not because she’s showing him how to be perfect for someone else. It’s real. Genuine. Easy in a way that has her chest feeling light and heavy all at once. It’s like how things used to be before they started this whole ordeal. 

That’s when she notices it. 

Frank’s gaze. 

He’s hardly looking at the screen, his car literally scraping along the railing and crashing into the umpteenth wall today. He’s too busy staring sideways at her to pay attention to the game. It feels as though he’s making sure he doesn’t miss a single reaction she has. 

Those gorgeous hazel eyes are locked onto her, brimming with tender affection, a softness Illi can’t put a name to. 

Her heart stutters.

He crashes again. Doesn’t even seem to care, nor notice, until Illi is forcing herself to snicker at it. 

Illi wins the final match and the game overall, but she forgets to gloat about it. She’s too busy wondering what the fuck Frank is thinking. Seems to be a common occurrence now.

“You were cheating.” Frank scoffs as they walk away from the machine, his hands unfortunately shoved into his pockets, so Illi can’t hold them again like she desperately wants to. Her boots scuff against the patterned carpet as they walk.

She swallows. “I was not.”

“Right, right. Whatever you say, Ills.” Frank teases. That stupid nickname was going to be the death of her. “What do you wanna play next? Ladies get first pick.”

“...you were the one to decide on the first game, though.” She chews on her lips, giving him an unamused glare.

Frank just huffs, “You know what I mean.”

“Hmmm.” Illi looks around the room much like Frank did before, trying to pick out an arcade game to play next. It felt surprisingly difficult, as most of the games were very same-y or just looked straight up boring. And then, she sees it.

She lights up in an instant, as though someone had flipped a switch inside of her. “Oh my God—Frank, they have Skee-Ball!”

She doesn’t wait for his reaction, grabbing his sleeve — perhaps a little too excitedly — and practically dragging him across the arcade floor towards the game, weaving between neon-lit machines and kids clutching buckets full of tickets. Frank laughs lightly behind her, stumbling a little but not resisting in the slightest. 

“I fucking love Skee-Ball.” She states the obvious as she pops a coin into the machine, hearing its familiar chime as the balls roll out of the dispenser. Skee-Ball was her shit, having played it a ton growing up. 

She grabs a ball with the same reverence you would handle something sacred, “This is serious business now.”

“Terrifying.” Frank deadpans, though there’s a grin tugging his mouth upward. He picks up his own ball and squints at the target rings as if they had personally offended him. Illi rolls first, her movements smooth and precise, landing in the forty-point ring. She grins.

Frank goes next, the ball rolling up and landing in the twenty. A low score, but he still seemed proud of himself. Illi’s next go gives her another fifty points; Frank isn’t so fortunate. She watches as he tries to mimic her motion, though it goes horribly wrong, the ball bouncing weakly off the middle ring. 

Illi stares. “You aiming for the floor?”

“That was a warm-up,” he mutters.

Two more attempts, two more disappointments. Frank’s face contorts as though the machine were personally conspiring against him. It’s a little sad to watch.

She steps closer, resting a hand on his shoulder gently. “Let me help.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got this.” Frank scoffs, pouting lightly. 

He most certainly does not “got this”. He rolls the ball again, watching as it pockets itself into the ten hole. “See?”

Illi just sighs, not even bothering to ask him this time. She steps beside him, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating off his back, almost pressed right against each other. His arm stiffens as she reaches for his wrists, guiding his hands gently. 

“Relax your shoulders.” She murmurs.

“Huh?”

“You’re all tense. It's affecting your throw.” She points out, rubbing small circles into the tender skin of his wrist. Frank shivers lightly in response, hand going still in her hold.

She presses softly against the inside of his wrist, adjusting his angle. She can feel his pulse thrumming under her touch, fast and erratic, and her own heartbeat echoes through her fingertips in turn, like she’d plugged into some circuit. Butterflies swirl around in her stomach so hard she feels a little nauseous.

It’s just Skee-Ball. It’s fine.

Frank throws the ball forward suddenly, launching it way too hard. It slams off the backboard, ricocheting into the gutter with an aggressive clatter. His face was flushed bright red, and he cleared his throat. “Sorry—your hands are cold.”

She jerks her hands back like she’d been burned, pulling herself away from him completely. Illi didn’t tend to run cold — there was no way she had chilled him as much as he made out she had. 

Had she made him uncomfortable? She probably had. She was being overbearing — too much. She was always too much. 

Why wouldn’t he flinch? She never knew when to stop, never knew how to take up less space. It was absolutely pathetic how eager she was to help, some clingy thing, desperate to be useful.

If she were him, she’d recoil from herself, too.

“Oh… sorry.” She mutters, trying not to let her frustration with herself bleed through into her voice, sticky like tar. 

Frank grins, rubbing his wrist playfully as though it were actually frozen. “I’m just saying, frostbite level. You need gloves or something, Ills.”

She grabs another ball and pelts it into the lane to avoid looking at him. “Maybe. Play the damn game, Frank.”

“Okay.” He’s still smiling as he throws his next ball, though it doesn’t fare much better than the other attempts had. 

They don’t talk about it at all, not acknowledging it beyond his stupid “your hands are cold” comment — but it keeps replaying over and over in her head. The way he almost panicked out a response, the air thick with tension. 

She tries sneaking glances at him between Skee-Ball rounds, trying to gauge his mood. Frank is smiling — wide and easy, like nothing is wrong — but it doesn’t stop her chest from tightening with quiet unease.

So when he points out the DDR machine after they collect their tickets with a devilish grin and says, “Bet I’ll annihilate you”, she shoves all her overthinking into a metaphorical locker and scoffs, “In your dreams.”

Which was a mistake.

Within moments of stepping onto the glowing dance pad, Illi remembers something awful: she can’t fucking dance. The music kicks in, fast and electronic, and she’s already moving half a beat too slow, stepping on the wrong arrows with increasing panic. Frank, on the other hand, is laughing shamelessly, hitting most of the notes with alarming confidence.

“Thought you were supposed to be teaching me things?” He calls over the music, barely out of breath. 

“Shut—shut up,” she grunts, almost face-planting as she tries to jump onto the left arrow in time. She misses. Badly.

Frank cackles when she trips for the third time, nearly falling into him. He steadies her with a hand on her shoulder, warmth bleeding through her t-shirt and sinking into her bones. Illi laughs breathlessly despite herself, cheeks burning not entirely out of embarrassment.

Frank wins, unsurprisingly, by a landslide.

The screen declares PLAYER ONE VICTORY in obnoxious flashing lights. Frank throws his arms up in triumph, “Ladies and gentlemen, my first win of the night!”

“There’s no audience, jackass.”

“Still counts,” he says with a grin that’s all dimples and cockiness. 

Illi rolls her eyes, stepping off the pad with dramatic feigned defeat. “You picked that one on purpose, you know I can’t dance.”

“I admit nothing.” He snickers.

The weight in her stomach from earlier lingers a little. She still can’t conclude whether she messed things up or not, but Frank looks… okay. That’s all she needs to soothe herself a little.

They decide to take a break after nearly dancing themselves into cardiac arrest.

Frank claims it’s because he doesn’t want to “completely humiliate” her with another win. Illi mutters something about shoving him into the claw machine, but follows him to the snack counter, anyway.

The pair end up with a paper tray of fries and two oversized slushies — hers a watermelon-pink, his electric blue. They tuck themselves into a quiet booth in the corner, beneath a flickering neon sign that buzzes like a dirty secret. 

Illi picks at a fry, the salt gritty on her fingertips. Frank leans back in the plastic-y cushions with a satisfied sigh, sipping his slushie through the straw. When the brain freeze hits, he makes a face so dramatic that she snorts mid-chew.

He glances at her more carefully than before when he recovers. “So…” He toys with his straw wrapper. “How am I doing so far?”

Illi looks up at him. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, like he wasn’t sure if he should be laughing or bracing for impact. There’s a stitch of insecurity in it.

She softens, “You’re doing well, Frankie. Really good.”

His shoulders drop in genuine relief, as though she just confirmed he’s not a total lost cause. There’s a small, private smile that settles on his lips. Trust. It hits her harder than she expects.

“You think Chelsea’ll buy it?” He asks, “Think I actually know what the hell I’m doing?”

Hm. 

“Maybe? I don’t know, dude. It’d be different with her than with me.”

“I know that.” He huffs, “We’ll just have to do this again, then. ‘Till you’re sure of it.”

A smile pulls at the corners of her lips. “Yeah? That’s fine. Whatever you need.”

He grins at her, lapsing into a comfortable quiet. He steals a fry off her side of the plate: she pretends not to notice. The slushies sweat slowly on the table, water pooling around the base of the cups and making a mess of the surface. 

“...wanna try mine?” he asks suddenly, nodding at her drink.

She blinks. “What?”

“My slushie. Try it.”

“Oh.” She hopes her voice doesn’t sound as small as it feels. “Yeah, sure.”

They swap cups without thinking about it too much, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. They don’t bother switching straws, and drinking from Frank’s felt strangely intimate. More than making out, apparently. According to Illi’s brain, at least. 

It’s tangier than she expects. She doesn’t know what flavour it is, but it feels tropical, almost. 

Frank watches her as he takes his own sip of hers, smacking his lips as he hands it back. “That’s not bad, actually”

“Yours tastes like battery acid.” She chokes on a laugh.

“Romantic.”

The quiet returns, though it’s less oppressive this time. More of a blanket rather than a weight. It’s comfortable, she almost wishes she could get lost in it.

***

They’re heading towards the ticket redemption counter, comparing how many neon-pink strips of tickets they’d accumulated, when Frank suddenly stops dead in his tracks. 

“Wait.” He mutters, squinting at something to their left with a suspicious intensity. 

Illi follows his line of sight. “Frank, no.”

“Frank, yes.” He’s already marching towards the claw machine as though he’d been summoned by fate. He cracks his knuckles dramatically, “I,” he announces, feeding coins into the slot with misplaced confidence, “am going to win something for you.”

“You seem determined.” Illi smirks.

“Because I am,” he replies solemnly, “just watch me, I’ll do it.”

Frank’s bad luck seems to be rampant this evening, as things go poorly immediately.

He aims for a plush keychain shaped like a frog first, but instead scoops nothing but air. He goes for it a second time before giving up and going for a cat. 

Misses.

Next, a mystery blob creature. He fails so badly that he knocks three other toys into a corner. It happens over and over, and over again, coin after coin disappearing into the machine until Illi can’t hold in her giggles anymore. 

“Frankie,” she cautiously puts her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“No,” he pouts, forehead slightly scrunched as he intensely focuses on the machine. “I said I’d win you something, I’m not leaving this machine looking like a coward until I do.”

“We can just get something from the ticket counter. It’s okay.” 

“Believe in me.”

After what feels like an entire paycheck's worth of attempts, the claw finally — finally — closes around a small cat plushier. It wobbles precariously. Illi holds her breath. Frank mutters something that sounds like a prayer under his breath.

It drops.

He freezes.

Then — very slowly — turns to look at her with the most serious and delighted expression she’s ever seen on his face. He retrieves the cat plushie, steps toward her, and holds it out in his palm with quiet gravity.

“For you,” he says. 

Illi stares at the cat. It’s around the size of his palm, looking oh so soft and fluffy with its pretty Siamese coat. She beams, chest feeling warm and jumpy and absolutely done for.

She takes it gently. “Thank you.”

He bows dramatically. "Anything for m’lady.”

“M’lady?” She snorts, tucking the cat into her arm. 

With Frank still riding ‌high from his claw-machine victory, they reach the ticket redemption booth. Without a word, they press their ticket strings together and slide them across the counter in a messy, tangled heap. No debate, no “are we splitting this?”. 

The machine whirs loudly as it counts their total, whilst Frank drums his fingers like he’s waiting for the lottery results. The screen beeps: 514 tickets.

“It's like enough for… half a plastic dinosaur.” Frank squints.

“Or,” Illi counters, nodding toward a lower shelf, “an ungodly amount of sugar.”

They browse through the various prizes like they’re curating the most chaotic care package imaginable. 

By the time they’re done, they’ve secured: an embarrassingly large handful of candies, two matching snapping wristband bracelets, and a pastel stationery set Illi pretends to examine indifferently, even though Frank definitely noticed the way her eyes lingered too long on it. 

“Get it,” Frank says, nudging her with his elbow. “You like your weird little pens.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “They’re cute.”

“Exactly. So’s this one. Take it.”

She does.

They leave the arcade with buzzing fingertips, sugar crinkling in their pockets, and matching bands on their wrists. Outside the mall, the night air is cool and gentle — damp with leftover neon spilling across the parking lot. Frank walks with easy strides, swinging his bag of sweets loosely at his side.

Illi reaches out and threads her fingers through his again. He doesn’t look surprised this time, just squeezes back and keeps walking. 

No big prize. 

No jackpot.

No fireworks.

Just warm hands, stupid candy, and her new little cat plushie tucked carefully into her pocket.

It feels like enough — almost too much. And she’s not ready to let go.

Cars hum distantly as they reach the sidewalk, stopping just beneath the glow of a streetlight. For a second, neither of them says anything. The night air nips against flushed skin, the mode fading into something quieter, more fragile. 

Frank clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t holding hers. “Hey” he says, eyes not quite on her. “Thank you for tonight.”

His voice is unexpectedly shy. She pauses for half a heartbeat, surprised. Her chest feels tight in that terrifyingly warm way again. She shrugs, eyes flicking away. ‘Course, man. Anytime.” She smiles, her voice way too soft for her own liking.

He huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half relief. He rubs the centre of her palm with his thumb in small circles. She leans forward and plants a soft kiss on his cheek before she can even think twice about it, watching as a blush blooms in her lips’ wake.

“I should probably head back.” She says after a moment, trying to force lightness into her tone even though her voice feels strangely thick.

Frank nods like he expected that. “I’ll walk you.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but doesn’t in the end, just nods and squeezes his hand again.

***

Later that evening, Illi lay curled beneath her blanket, wet hair soaking into her pillowcase. The hum of the nighttime stillness is interrupted only by the crickets chirping outside. 

With the slivers of warm light spilling beneath her bedroom door being the only way she could see, Illi looks at the little cat Frank had won for her. Its soft synthetic fur, beady plastic eyes staring into her.

She runs her thumb over its face, tracing every sewn detail with reverence.

She should be smiling. She was smiling earlier. Spending the evening — on a date(!) — with the boy she’d liked for what felt like forever had felt like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from. Illi was ecstatic when she got there, as well as when she left.

So why does it hurt now?

Her vision blurs, tears prickling hot at the corners of her eyes. She blinks them away. Crying would make it feel too real. Make the truth settle even heavier in her chest.

She’s in too deep. 

Deeper than she meant to go. Deeper than she said she would. 

And the worst part?

She’s not sure if she wants to climb out.

Illi hugs the little prize against her heart, swallowing hard around the ache she can’t name, and lets herself feel everything she’s too afraid to say.