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The house is quiet, the stage lights still baking the living room in a harsh, unreal glow. Frankie stands frozen, the shock a physical weight pressing him into the sequined sofa. Julie Chen’s voice—normally the cheerful, sharp gavel of eviction night—still rings in his ears, softer than usual, yet irrevocably final.
“Frankie, we are so sorry to tell you that your grandfather, Frank, has lost his long battle with cancer. He passed away peacefully earlier this afternoon.”
Frankie gasps, the perfectly applied glitter around his eyes feeling suddenly heavy, thick, and utterly ridiculous. The game—the constant need to scheme, the boastful badass boast of his Agent Peacock persona—snaps into meaningless dust. All the alliances, the backstabs, the power trips—none of it matters. He feels a crushing, real-world sadness that dwarfs any Drama King theatrics he’s ever performed. The memory of his grandfather, the man he is named after, makes the cutthroat house politics feel utterly vile.
He needs to shrink. He needs to disappear. He doesn’t want to be the colorful, loud, attention whore of the house anymore. He just wants to be small and silent. He slips away from the murmured condolences of Cody and Caleb, weaving through the tight corridors until he reaches the Have-Not room. He doesn't stop at his own bed. He goes to Zach’s side, lifts the heavy duvet, and crawls underneath the bed frame. The space is dusty, tight, and hot, but it’s a dark cave, a coffin of his own choosing. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his bright pink hair brushing the underside of the springs. He is silent, finally, just breathing in the faint, familiar scent of Zach's laundry detergent and cheap cologne.
A moment later, he hears a soft, chaotic scuffling. The duvet is lifted, and Zach's head—the familiar pink cap slightly askew—pokes into the darkness.
“Frankie? What the fuck are you doing under here?” Zach whispers, his usual outdoor voice hushed.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He shoves a small, folded napkin into the space, then expertly scrambles in, pulling the duvet back down for darkness and privacy. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder, the unexpected intimacy of the space overwhelming. Zach smells of salt, sugar, and nervous sweat. He opens the napkin. Inside are two of his trademark chocolate chip cookies and a small pile of freshly sliced strawberries—a rare treat he must have smuggled from the kitchen while everyone else was distracted.
“I know you’re a big eater,” Zach mumbles, pushing the strawberries gently toward Frankie. “But, like, only eat ‘em if you want to. You’re allowed to just be sad, too. Here.”
Frankie stares at the red fruit. This small, genuine act of quiet kindness—the simple, sweet flavor of the berries—cuts through the noise in his head. Just moments ago, he was wrestling with the most strategic choice of his game: whether to stick with his number one ally, Zach, or sacrifice him for the safety of the majority, Derrick and Caleb's side. Zach’s hand brushes his, offering comfort and loyalty, not strategy. The strawberries are a symbol of a real bond, one that exists outside of Power of Veto competitions and nominations. He chooses love. He chooses the messy, hyper, brutally honest boy next to him.
Frankie leans forward, pressing his forehead against Zach's shoulder. Zach immediately wraps him in a tight hug. Frankie whispers the first words he has spoken since the announcement, "Thank you, Rancey Pants."
Zach pulls back, his eyes searching Frankie's face in the dark. He reaches up, running a thumb over the streak of tears that has ruined Frankie’s makeup. Then, right there, under the bed, in the dust and the dark, Zach closes the short distance, and they kiss. It is a soft, deep kiss that is anything but gameplay. The taste of sugar and fresh strawberries lingers sweetly on Frankie's tongue, a promise that loyalty and kindness will always win over cutthroat cruelty.