Archive of Our Own ^beta

As every adult in his life has been telling Frankie over and over again for the past few months, high school is much different than he thought it’d be.

Frankie spent the past eight years of his school life in a private Catholic school, and despite the break that everyone got from the pandemic (which either was chill in the case of some of his friends, or a boring waste of fucking time in his humble opinion), he didn’t really know what to expect when he first walked through the doors of Townsend Harris for his freshman year of high school.

Firstly: no uniforms, which is a little harder for Frankie to get used to than he thought it’d be. Although Frankie tries not to think too much about his private school anymore after being kicked out (recommended to leave, as his father would try to correct him, although Frankie knows there’s not really a fucking difference), it wasn’t all that bad to wear them every day. He remembers the feeling of his jacket over his button ups, the sweaters with his school’s logo branded over his heart and there’s an odd twist in his stomach as Frankie looks down at the clothes he’s currently wearing: a hoodie and some sweatpants.

(It’d been a massive argument when he walked out the front door; his mother had practically chased him down, asking him if he wanted to make a bad first impression on his very first day of high school, to which Frankie had reminded her that literally no one is going to notice him or remember what he was wearing.)

Secondly: there’s no trace of Catholicism, much less any other religion, to be seen in the halls of Townsend Harris, which Frankie is fine with. He’s never really considered himself religious; he simply went to a Catholic school out of convenience and from his parent’s fears of him not being able to assimilate to a mainstream public school when he was younger, and the fact that the only schools for the Deaf were in other boroughs and his mother, especially, did not want him too far away from her.

Lack of uniforms aside and finally getting a secular school education for once, Frankie’s not too sure what to make of high school yet.

One thing that he likes is that, outside of the awkward introductions that he has to do with his teachers before class – hi, i’m frankie, and yes i want you to call me frankie, not franklin, ever, but frank’s fine too, and yes, i’m deaf, oh great, my mom and dad already emailed you; yeah, i can hear most things with my implants. yes, captioning on all videos. awesome, that’s great that you took a sign language class in elementary school; yeah, it would’ve been cool if you kept up with it. thanks. – everyone leaves him alone for the most part.

He notices a few kids looking at him in some of his periods; he can tell that some of them probably assumed he was wearing headphones at first, only to squint and realize oh, shit, those are auditory aides, but, for the most part, especially due to the mask mandate and the fact that all desks are pushed nearly six feet apart, no one really bothers him.

After almost a year of being stuck in his parent’s houses and only seeing his mother and father, Richie, Darren, and the twins, Frankie thinks he’ll take anything; he nods and does a little wave at a few kids who stare at him for a fraction of a second too long, and when they wave back, Frankie can’t help but think it’s pretty fucking sad that that alone makes him feel a little less like a caged zoo animal that’s caving for any bit of mental stimulation.

Townsend Harris is considered to be one of the top public high schools in New York; all of Frankie’s classes are AP, a fact that all of the adults in his life seem to enjoy bragging about to whoever will listen. And for the most part, his classes are fine; he likes his AP Algebra teacher, talks to a few kids in his AP English class, but the absolute highlight of his day, without a doubt, comes when he goes to his second to last class of the day: Classical Greek.

Townsend Harris requires all of their students to take either Latin or Greek, but Frankie had chosen Attic Greek for two reasons: one, because he remembers that a few of his friends read Percy Jackson back in the day and Frankie had always thought it sounded cool, and he’s apparently is one of the only people (in Oliver’s words) that thought the live action movie was good.

And the second reason is sitting near the middle of the classroom when Frankie enters, looking up and giving him a massive wave: Margo.

When Margo accepted Townsend Harris, Frankie had been over the moon; it’d been difficult for him to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be in a high school with most of his friends, but as soon as she had said she was going to go to Townsend, Frankie had eagerly accepted as well.

As he slides into the desk next to her, making sure their teacher isn’t in yet before he scoots it a fraction of an inch closer to his friend, he can’t help but think about how happy he is that they’re in high school together.

“How have your classes been?” Margo asks; due to the mask, she has to speak up a little more, which Frankie knows is a bit difficult for her because of how shy Margo’s always been. The fact that she does it so willingly and without hesitation now just because she wants to talk to him makes Frankie happier than he thinks she realizes.

“They’re okay,” Frankie shrugs. “My AP American Lit teacher gave us homework already.”

Margo pulls out a paper from her binder; when Frankie looks at it, he can see all of the little doodles she’s done over the paper already, mostly of cats.

“From my AP Art teacher,” Margo tells him, showing him the syllabus; it’s thicker than the one for Frankie’s English class.

“What the hell?” Frankie asks, squinting and pulling the paper close to his eyes. “Isn’t this just an art class?”

“What, art isn’t serious enough for you?” Margo says jokingly; Frankie can see the little glimmer in her eyes from behind her thick-rimmed glasses, and he’s once again thankful for the fact that they’ve gotten close enough now where she finally feels comfortable teasing him.

“I’m just saying,” he says, shaking his head. “This is a lot.”

They don’t really have much time to talk; their Classical Greek teacher comes into the room, a tall woman who introduces herself as Ms. Morris and tells them that this class will be unlike any language class you’ve ever taken before.

As an ice breaker, Ms. Morris goes around the room and asks everyone to introduce themselves and to share if they have any experience learning other languages; Frankie knows that she probably already knows about him via his parent’s emails, even if he didn’t get the chance to introduce himself to her yet.

Margo shifts in her seat when it’s her turn, thumbing the corner of her notebook nervously as she clears her throat, “My name is Margo. Um- I’m mostly fluent in Spanish.”

“Mostly fluent?” Ms. Morris jokes, her voice smooth and kind; she tilts her head to the side. “Where is your family from?”

“Nicaragua and El Salvador,” Margo answers, seeming a little more relaxed. 

Ms. Morris nods, and when it’s Frankie’s turn, Frankie feels a little put on the spot as the woman’s sharp gaze lands on him; she seems friendly for the most part, but Frankie’s friend, Travis, who’s a sophomore now here has mentioned that Ms. Morris has a reputation for being a strict teacher and to tread lightly, man.

“Frankie,” Frankie says, clearing his throat. He can see a few kids turning to look at him, obviously not expecting his accent. “And I’m fluent in ASL.”

He half-expects Ms. Morris to make a joke about ASL not being an actual language like many of his hearing teachers have done in the past, but she doesn’t. Ms. Morris just stands a little taller, head tilting to the side.

“Very good,” she says, but her eyes linger on him for a little longer, and Frankie can’t help but wonder if she’s wondering how he’ll do in her class, if Frankie will be able to keep up with everyone else and learn another auditory language.

After the class ends, with Frankie realizing very quickly that Ms. Morris had been right: that this probably would be unlike any other language class that Frankie has ever taken, his teacher stops him at the door and motions for him to come to her desk.

Margo lingers for a moment, but gives him a little wave goodbye as she walks out of the door.

“Do you prefer Franklin, Frankie, or Frank?” Ms. Morris asks when Frankie walks over to her desk.

“Frankie.”

She nods. “Your mother already emailed me, but I wanted to personally ask you if there was anything you might need from me accommodation-wise; I generally have always provided captioning on all videos that I show in class, and nowadays pretty much all of our notes are on Powerpoint, but is there anything else you might need?”

Frankie shakes his head. “It’s fine. My mom worries a lot, but I can manage.”

Ms. Morris looks at him, and from this close, Frankie can see that his teacher’s eyes are two different colors: her right eye is green, while her left is a deep brown.

“If there’s ever anything else you need from me,” she tells him, her tone sincere, “Please don’t hesitate to ask me, Frankie.”

He nods, but before he turns to leave, she says, “The workload in my class is quite hefty; I expect quite a bit out of my students.”

Frankie swallows, waiting for the bite: you might want to see if you can go to the principal and request an exemption. Maybe Latin would be better.

“But,” Ms. Morris says, looking at Frankie, “I’ve seen your transcripts and your admissions essay, Frankie. And I have no doubt that you’ll do fine.”

Frankie breathes out, his shoulders relaxing; Ms. Morris clearly notices.

“Were you expecting me to say something different?”

Frankie shrugs. “I thought maybe you were going to tell me to take Latin instead.”

“Oh, I’d never,” Ms. Morris says and then, laughing a little, “Mr. Matthews is much more boring than I am; you’d probably fall asleep in his lectures.”

Frankie chuckles, giving her a nod. “Thanks, Ms. Morris.”

“It’s a tough class, but I’m confident that you’ll do well,” she tells him sincerely and, right before he leaves, she looks at her computer screen and then back up at him and asks, “Kaspbrak? Did I pronounce that right?”

Frankie nods. “Yeah, it’s a mouthful.”

“Is that Polish?”

Not many people have guessed that correctly on their first try; Frankie’s been asked if he was German, Swedish, pretty much every other European country.

Ms. Morris glances back at the screen and nods. “Huh. Well, I’ve kept you for long enough, Frankie. My door is always open if you need me.”

Frankie nods, giving her a wave goodbye before heading out of the classroom; thankfully, he still has a few minutes left before the next bell, and his last class of the day isn’t too far away.

Margo finds him in the hallway; he didn’t really expect her to wait for him, but she goes to his side and catches his eye.

“Everything’s fine,” he tells her, and when he looks over at Margo, he’s once again caught off-guard by the fact that he’s grown so much taller over quarantine: he’s at five-ten, taller than his father, a fact that endlessly amuses Frankie even though his dad and Richie get emotional about it.

“Ms. Morris seems really nice,” Margo comments, adjusting her glasses. She’s clad in a cable-knit sweater and sweatpants, and Frankie watches her hands disappear into the sleeves as she holds onto the straps of her backpack. “Attic Greek seems a lot harder than Latin, though.”

Frankie nods. “Yeah, Travis- you remember Travis, right? From our old school?”

Margo’s brows furrow together; even though she’s wearing a mask, Frankie can imagine her pursed lips. “Travis Ramos?”

Frankie nods. “He’s a sophomore here. He says Latin’s alright.”

Margo nods, glancing up at Frankie. “I didn’t realize you and Travis still talked.”

Frankie blinks. “Well, we’re friends.”

And as if out of thin air, Frankie glances down the hallway and sees Travis; he’s walking towards them, catching Frankie’s eye and giving him a nod as he crosses the hallway to meet him.

“Hey, Frank,” Travis holds out his fist; Frankie bumps it, still a little taken aback despite the amount of time they’ve known each other that someone as cool as Travis Ramos actually wants to be his friend. Travis glances at Margo and then, snapping his fingers, goes, “Margo, right?”

Margo nods, looking very shy as she moves to Frankie’s side.

Frankie catches her eye and says, “Hey, I promise he’s really not that bad. He’s actually nice.”

Travis snorts and rolls his eyes, “Yeah, right,” he says to Frankie, but when he looks at Margo, Travis’ eyes soften a little and he says, “I saw you around the halls a lot, but Frankie’s always told me how cool you are.”

Margo nods and glances up at Frankie, and then to Travis, shuffling a little on her feet. “Thanks.”

“Also, those kids in your grade back then were total assholes,” Travis rolls his eyes. “When I heard Frankie knocked out Thomas Anderson’s teeth, I fucking cheered.”

Margo actually laughs a little, her hand instinctively going up to hide her face despite the fact that she’s wearing a mask; Frankie breathes out a sigh of relief, thankful for the fact that Travis and Margo actually seem to be getting along.

“Shit, we gotta get going,” Frankie says after glancing at his phone; he gives Travis a fist bump goodbye, and after saying goodbye to Margo at the door of her class (and the rooms just happened to be down the hall from one another, although there’s a part of Frankie that thinks i can walk her to her last class every day), Frankie walks into his last class of the day, sitting down at a desk in the middle of the room.

Frankie checks his phone, rolling his eyes at a dramatic i miss you so much, i’m thinking of you text from Richie and, right before he hits send on his response back to his stepfather, Frankie sees someone drop into the desk next to him, the other person waving their hand to get his attention.

Frankie looks at the kid, furrowing his brow, but before he can say anything, the kid goes, “You’re in five of my classes.”

Frankie stares at the kid. “Okay?”

“They’re pretty difficult classes,” the kid says, his eyes narrowed behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and Frankie clenches his jaw, his shoulders stiffening out of instinct.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I was the top of my class in middle school,” the kid continues, and he’s staring directly into Frankie’s eyes, his tone harsh and words fast and despite the fact that Frankie’s a pretty direct person himself, he can’t help but feel like the guy is insinuating something about him. “And my intention is to be valedictorian of our grade, so-”

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Frankie snaps, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

The other kid says something else; it’s a little difficult for Frankie to pick up from the distance between their desks and the masks, and when the kid keeps trying to get his attention, Frankie groans and glares at him.

“Dude, what? Are you trying to like, intimidate me or something?” Frankie looks up and down at him; while the guy’s name escapes him, Frankie does remember that this kid is a whole lot shorter than him, probably around five-three or five-four. “If I’m taking AP classes, that means that I’m probably a little smart, too.”

“I wasn’t calling you stupid,” the guy says, looking taken aback; Frankie stares at him, brows knitted together. It definitely had felt like it. “I-” The kid sighs, shaking his head. “Nevermind.”

Frankie feels bad; the other kid looks like a kicked puppy, so Frankie sighs and says, “Hey, wait. Sorry, I just- look, sometimes I get a little defensive. Sorry.”

The guy sighs. “It’s okay. I’ve been told quite a few times that my personality can be quite abrasive,” he says, and Frankie stares. The kid straightens his shoulders. “I’m Isaac. And generally, I’d shake your hand, but, no offense, I don’t really know where your hands have been, and with the pandemic, I’m not taking any chances.”

Frankie stares.

“What?”

Frankie just shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m Frankie.”

“Why don’t you go by Franklin?”

Frankie blinks. “Because I don’t really like it. It’s so…old sounding.”

“I think it sounds much more professional than Frankie does.”

Frankie rolls his eyes; Isaac sounds just like his grandmother. “Yeah, well, in about ten years I’ll worry about that. For now, I prefer Frankie.”

“And you’re Deaf?” Isaac gestures to his ears; Frankie’s slowly becoming less shocked by the other teenager’s directness, with part of him wondering if this is how his parents feel when Frankie talks to them sometimes. “Why don’t you have an interpreter? Or go to a Deaf school? Can your parents not afford it?”

Okay, nevermind. “Dude, those are some pretty personal questions,” And when Isaac looks panicked, Frankie just waves his hand and continues, “I used to have an interpreter at my old school; my implants have adjusted a lot over the years, so I can pick up more sounds than I used to. And I used to go to a private school-” Until I got kicked out for fighting, “-but it was a K-8 school, so…you know, now I’m here.”

Isaac nods, seeming to finally be satisfied with Frankie’s answers; he settles back into his seat, eyeing Frankie as Frankie pulls out his notebook.

When their teacher comes into the classroom, Isaac gets Frankie’s attention again and, his brown eyes boring into Frankie’s, says very clearly, “I hope you know that if you’re trying to become valedictorian, I will not go easy on you.”

Frankie just stares at the kid for a few seconds before giving him a thumbs up.

—

Midway through the week, Frankie’s mother lets him know that his Aunt Karen and Lynn (who Frankie thinks is Mom and Aunt Karen’s first cousin or something like that) are going to be coming to Manhattan to dress shop for Lynn’s wedding that no one had told Frankie about until that very moment.

Frankie just stares at his mother and gives her a thumbs up, unsure of what else to say; he thinks this is Lynn’s second or third marriage from what Frankie remembers, and he’s praying that he’s not invited since he’s never really all that happy to see his mother's side of the family, until Mom says, “And Frankie, your aunt and Lynn really want you to come with us; it’s been so long since they’ve seen you,” and Frankie has to physically hold himself back from throwing himself off of the balcony.

Darren, as per usual, doesn’t really seem to know the full context of what’s going on; his mother’s fiance (and god, does that feel surreal) just smiles ear to ear and tells Frankie that it’ll be fun.

“You think paper sales are fun, Darren,” Frankie tells the other man dryly, and even though Mom huffs and glares at Frankie, Darren laughs a little and nods, shrugging sheepishly.

“He’s right, Myra; maybe I’m not the best judge of a good time.”

Regardless, the very next day, Frankie sits in a dress shop somewhere in Manhattan, arms crossed over his chest and watching his mother interact with her sister and cousin.

Frankie has always thought the relationship between Mom and Aunt Karen was bizarre; even Dad has said so, although the one time he’d made an underhanded comment about Aunt Karen in front of Frankie – long before he and Mom got divorced, during a family vacation at Frankie’s grandmother’s lakehouse in Wisconsin – Dad had gotten that panicked, owl-eyed look, as if the Earth was going to open up and swallow him whole for daring to speak an ill word against Aunt Karen.

From what Frankie’s always observed, Mom has always desperately strived to please her older sister; it’s incredibly obvious the older Frankie gets and the more he understands.

Like now: despite the fact that Mom spent the entire morning wracked with anxiety, she still practically trips on her feet to make sure that Aunt Karen is happy – asking her how her trip was, if Aunt Karen feels okay, assuring her that their apartment is stocked up with plenty of at home tests – and Frankie would tell her to chill out if he wasn’t so overstimulated by being around Aunt Karen and Lynn.

Aunt Karen tries on a few bridesmaids dresses, and Frankie simply watches as the other woman rolls her eyes at all of the options presented to her, although Frankie notices that she particularly does not seem impressed by Mom’s choices: every time Mom shows her older sister a dress, Aunt Karen scoffs and shakes her head.

“Myra,” Aunt Karen says, pursing her lips and touching Mom’s elbow, “I know we haven’t lived in the same house for over twenty years, but come on.”

“The purple dress looks nice,” Frankie says; it’s the first thing he’s said the entire time, and Frankie watches as the three women snap their heads to look at him, surprised, most likely having forgotten he was even there to begin with. “All of the dresses Mom’s showed you look good.”

“You’re a teenage boy,” Aunt Karen says pointedly, shaking her head and then, pretending as if Frankie wouldn’t be able to pick up or see what she says, goes, “If a teenager thinks it looks good, I’m in real trouble.”

Frankie narrows his eyes; he wants to snap back at her so badly, but his mother looks a little flushed and hurries away to go and find something else for her sister and Frankie decides to drop it for now.

In the end, the dress that Aunt Karen settles on is a pale yellow; when Frankie looks at it under the light of the shop, all he can think is, “Doesn’t that look white?”

Aunt Karen swivels her head around to glare at him. “It’s clearly yellow, Franklin.”

“I think it looks white.”

“Myra,” Aunt Karen looks at her sister. “This is yellow, right?”

Mom actually hesitates; she looks in between her sister and Frankie, and then to Lynn. “What do you think, Lynn? It’s your wedding.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Lynn says, laughing and waving them all off. “If you like it Karen, then go with it. You know me.”

Frankie thinks that Lynn just doesn’t want to argue with Aunt Karen; he can see the way the woman purses her lips when Aunt Karen goes to change back into her clothes, how she quickly picks up her phone to send off a text to someone, and all Frankie can wonder is why everyone in his mother’s side of the family are so underhanded.

Mom goes to try on some dresses next, and while she does, Frankie makes a point to take off his cochlear’s when Aunt Karen sits next to him. His aunt glares at him, eyes narrowed, and he shrugs before going back to his phone. He promised his mother he’d be here, and it’s only for his mother’s sake that he refuses to stoop down to his aunt’s level.

Frankie puts them back on when his mother comes out of the dressing room; this dress is a navy blue, and Frankie watches as his mother looks at him almost shyly, looking in the mirror and then turning around to look back at her sister and Lynn.

“Myra,” Aunt Karen says, frowning. “You look like a blueberry. That’s not flattering at all.”

Frankie feels his blood boil.

Mom’s expression falters for just a second; she tries to laugh it off, but Frankie saw it: the hurt.

“I think she looks great,” Frankie cuts in, because his mother does. Frankie has always thought his mother was beautiful. “It looks really nice on you, Mom.”

His mother hesitates; he can see the shock in her eyes, the emotion there, and although he knows that his mother does not like to show her vulnerabilities about her body in front of anyone, not Frankie, and not even Dad back when they had been married, Frankie knows that she has them.

(He’s known it his entire life; at school, kids would joke about her, pick at her. When Frankie was in third grade, someone had called his mother a whale and Frankie had to be pulled off of the kid by their teacher. Frankie had refused to tell either of his parents what had happened; to this day, he assumes that Mom believes that it was yet another instance of Frankie being violent or rebellious, not knowing that he had done it because one of the one things that Frankie has known since he could walk and talk is that no one, under any circumstances, is allowed to make fun of her like that.)

“Franklin-”

“Frankie,” Frankie shoots back at his aunt, glaring at her. “Only Grandma is allowed to use my full name.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Aunt Karen bites back, rolling her eyes. “Are you really that angry that you had to come and hang out with your mother?”

“No,” Frankie says, ignoring his mother’s frantic Frankie, stop, “I’m angry that you called my mom a blueberry. She looks really good.”

“Your mother is beautiful,” Aunt Karen says defensively, “All I’m saying is that the color isn’t right for her.”

“You-”

“Frankie, calm down,” his mother says, and Frankie glares at her, brows furrowed. “Your aunt’s right; navy’s never been my color.”

“Mom-” Frankie tries to say, but his mother gives him a glare.

“Frankie, stop. It’s okay.”

Frankie wants to say more: he wants to tell his mother that she doesn’t deserve to be spoken that way, that Aunt Karen wasn’t saying it to be helpful or kind, that she was making fun of Mom, just as she’s always done.

His mother goes back into the dressing room before he can say anything else; she tries on a few more dresses, but she’s clearly not as enthusiastic as she was at first. She settles on a green dress in the very end; Frankie doesn’t think it looks nearly as good on her as the navy one did, but when Aunt Karen says that she likes that one, Mom gleefully chooses it.

After a long lunch with Aunt Karen and Lynn, Mom and Frankie finally get a moment alone as she drives him back to her apartment, and Frankie’s fingers twitch in his lap for a few seconds before he turns to look at his mother.

“I liked the navy dress,” he says, and Frankie watches as his mother’s grip on the steering wheel stiffens just a little.

“I think the green one I ended up choosing looks more-” his mother hesitates, “-flattering on me. But thank you, sweetheart.”

Frankie blinks. “I think it looked good,” he repeats, and then, biting his bottom lip, he considers his next words very carefully before he finally says, “I don’t think that was true, what Aunt Karen said. I think you looked really nice.”

“Frankie, I appreciate it,” Mom says sincerely, her lips pursing as she continues, “I really do, but it’s fine.”

“It’s not, though.”

Mom sighs sharply through her nostrils. “Frankie, I know you and your aunt don’t always see eye to eye-”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But, you know, she’s your only aunt,” Mom continues, and Frankie blinks, furrowing his brow.

“I have two aunts on Dad’s side,” Frankie says carefully. Mom knows that, of course; Frankie thinks that his mother knows far more about the Losers than she lets on.

His mother takes a moment before she says, “I meant on my side.”

“Sure.”

Mom glances at him when they reach a redlight. “Frankie, please don’t start.”

“I’m not-” Frankie huffs. “I’m not starting. I just don’t like it when Aunt Karen talks about you like that; she does it all the time, and-”

“No, she doesn’t,” Mom insists, looking at him. “Why would you say something like that?”

Frankie can’t say what he really wants to say – not out of loyalty towards Aunt Karen, not at all, but out of a protectiveness for his mother’s feelings. How Frankie’s observed the way his aunt treats his mother, the comments she makes behind laughs, the things she says about Mom.

(Frankie remembers one Easter when he was about eight or nine. Dad had been on a work trip and hadn’t been able to make it, but Frankie remembers sitting next to his mother while the adults played a game; he can’t recall the rules now, but it had been something about creating nicknames. Anyways, by the time it had been Mom’s turn, Frankie had watched as his aunt laughed before calling his mother a nickname that makes his blood boil to think of: Porky.

Frankie remembers getting to his feet and telling his aunt that she was mean for saying that to his mother, that she needed to take it back; Mom had to practically pick Frankie up and haul him away, and Frankie had been utterly confused as his mother smoothed his hair away from his forehead and told him that it was just a joke, that it was something siblings did.)

“She treats you like crap, Mom,” Frankie finally says, becoming frustrated when his mom actually looks offended. “She does, she-”

“Frankie, you just- look, we’re sisters. Your aunt would never actually do something to hurt me. She wants me to look good-”

“You always look good,” Frankie tells her adamantly, huffing. “I think you look great. And that’s not what siblings do; I’d never talk to my sisters like that, and I don’t talk to any of my friends or cousins like that-”

“Frankie, can you please just drop it?” His mother insists, glaring at him. “Look, I really, really appreciate you saying that; I know you don’t think I do, but I do. But when it comes to my sister, it’s just- that’s just our relationship, Frank. You know how much your aunt means to me.”

At that, Mom’s voice wobbles, and another memory flashes in Frankie’s mind: not long after Dad had left (because, as much as Frankie adores his father, that’s what it really was at the end of the day: Dad left), when his mother had locked herself away in her room for hours. Aunt Karen had come over and took care of the apartment, made sure that Frankie was okay and taken care of despite Frankie’s insistence that he was fine. Sometimes, Frankie would come out into the living room late at night for a snack, and would see Aunt Karen on the couch with Mom’s head in her lap, petting Mom’s hair soothingly.

It’s conflicting, the emotions that rise up at that memory. On one hand, Frankie still doesn’t like his aunt and still thinks that she treats his mother like crap.

But on the other hand – and this is the road that Frankie tries not to go down very much at all – he thinks about his father leaving, about how much it changed everything, not just for Dad and Frankie, but for Mom. Mom has Darren now, and Darren is much better for Mom than Dad was, just as Richie is perfect for Dad, and even though Mom is a lot better than she was years ago, before the divorce and directly after, she’s not the same person anymore.

“You have sisters now,” Mom murmurs, and Frankie sees the emotion in her eye, the way her lip wobbles a bit, “You’ll probably understand one day.”

And although Frankie wants to argue that once again, he’d never speak to either of his sisters or his future sibling the way that Aunt Karen does about Mom, for once, he decides to let the conversation lie, knowing that his mother, for reasons he’ll probably never be able to understand, will never see that her family treats her like shit.

—

Frankie doesn’t know why the shopping trip with his mother and aunt bothers him so much; throughout the rest of Mom’s week, he feels his shoulders stiffen whenever Aunt Karen’s name is mentioned, refuses to speak to his aunt for longer than he has to when she comes over to dinner at their apartment.

He holds out pretty well, even when Aunt Karen leaves on Saturday and makes a point to say, “Have fun at your father’s, Frankie. Give Eddie my best,” and then when she thinks Frankie can’t see, he lipreads as his aunt mutters, “Even though he doesn’t deserve it.”

Frankie’s never been more thankful to be at Dad’s house; as soon as he walks through the front door of the townhouse, he finds himself relaxing into the predictability and ease of Dad and Richie’s organized chaos. The twins are running around as always, their toys strewn about the living room and throughout the hallway; Bunny and Salem make a beeline for him, meowing and pawing at his pant leg for him to pick them up, and Frankie thinks okay, now i can finally fucking relax.

“How was your first week at school, little man?” Richie asks, handing Frankie a dish; they were tasked with cleaning up after Sunday night dinner while Dad gives the twins a bath and gets them ready for bed, something that Frankie is definitely not envious of. The last time that Frankie offered to help get the girls ready for bed, the twins had soaked him from head to toe when they kept splashing him with water, and they’d run around the apartment half-dressed for bed while Frankie chased them, wet socks slipping all over the wooden floors of the townhouse while Dad watched, wide-eyed.

“I’m taller than Dad now, Rich,” Frankie reminds him, narrowing his eyes. He still hopes that he’ll grow to six-feet tall, hopefully over, that he’ll be taller than Richie. For no reason other than to finally tower over his stepfather – take that, rich. “And fine. My classes are a lot of work.”

“All AP right?” Frankie nods. “Sometimes I forget what a little nerd you are.”

“That’s coming from you?” Frankie teases back, giving his stepfather’s bicep a bump with his own.

Richie laughs. “I’m super proud of you, dude,” Richie says honestly, and then, wiping his hands off with a towel, signs, “And how’s Margo been?”

“She’s okay,” Frankie answers, shrugging. “We’re in Classical Greek together.”

“I still can’t believe that your school requires you to take either Latin or Greek. Like, what the hell.”

Frankie laughs. “Yeah. My Greek teacher is really cool, too.”

Richie nods and then, setting down a plate, gives Frankie a serious look as he says, “Okay, and- don’t give me that look, dude, but I have to get super serious stepdad on you for one second.”

Frankie holds up his hands, pretending to look nervous.

“And everything’s okay accommodation-wise? You…you know, are your teachers understanding?”

Frankie nods. “Stand down, Father,” At Richie’s snort, Frankie softens and says, “And yeah, Richie. Everyone’s been really cool; I’m fine, I promise.”

“Okay, okay,” Richie gives his shoulder a pat. “Serious father-mode deactivated, my child. We can go back to our usual dynamic.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Frankie puts a hand over his heart; Richie laughs.

As they finish up the dishes, Frankie shifts from foot to foot, catching Richie’s eye as he asks, “And…you know, how is everything coming with the adoption process? Have you and Dad been matched with anyone yet?”

Richie’s eyes soften in the way that they always do whenever Frankie asks about the adoption process; Dad and Richie have been eagerly waiting for the middle steps to be complete. They’ve already gotten the home study done; Frankie’s already had to speak to their adoption case worker, giving the same yes, i’m cool with my dad’s adopting again; thank you, yeah, i look like my biological father, i know, that he pretty much had to do a few years back when the twins were adopted.

“We’re about to be, I think,” Richie says fondly, smiling. “It’s just kinda…you know, it’s a little surreal, honestly.”

“I feel like I’ve heard the word surreal more over the past few months than I ever have in my entire life.”

“Well, you can buy me a thesaurus for my birthday, kiddo,” Richie jokes back. After a moment, Richie glances at him and asks, his expression serious, “And you’re really sure you’re okay with it, Frank? With- I mean, not just the adoption, but with having someone around your age in the house? It’s a huge adjustment.”

Dad had already asked him the same question a million times; Frankie appreciates that his father and stepfather care so much about his feelings, obviously, but, still.

“It’s fine, Richie,” Frankie tells him, but when Richie still looks a little unsure, Frankie sighs. “It’s…I mean, okay, you and Dad and pretty much all the Losers are only children.” Except for Uncle Bill, they both probably think at the same time, but Frankie has learned by now that Uncle Bill’s little brother, Georgie, is a topic that only should be brought up at the most appropriate times.

“Good observation.”

“But, it’s like…,” Frankie bites his bottom lip, considering. “Wren and Quinn have this whole dynamic, you know? They’re only two years apart. They have inside jokes and everything; Alex has the same thing with his younger sister.”

“Right.”

“I just,” Frankie shrugs, glancing towards the living room. His father is wrangling the girls out of the living room and back into the hallway; from the state of their curls, it looks like he still has to brush their hair before bedtime. “You know, it’s like…being around people who have siblings with close age gaps, it’s kinda like…”

“You want that for yourself,” Richie finishes; Frankie nods. Richie doesn’t say anything for awhile until, to Frankie’s surprise, he signs, “You know, when we were younger, I was always jealous of Bill.”

Frankie swallows; he supposes that now is an appropriate time for Richie to reference Georgie.

To tease his stepfather and chase that sad look out of his blue eyes, Frankie nudges him and says, “Because my dad had a crush on him, right?”

Richie snaps his head to look at him, brows furrowed. “Who told you that?”

“Aunt Bev and Uncle Stan.”

Richie laughs, jerking his thumb to the living room, “Don’t tell your old man about that,” he says, and then, taking a moment, taps his pointer finger on his chin and says, “I mean, Frank, not to like, blow your mind and freak you out, but that was kinda a Loser Club thing.”

Frankie blinks.

“Your uncle. I think everyone had a thing for him at some point.”

Frankie splutters. “What?”

Richie holds up his hands. “Listen, man, those baby blues.”

Frankie actually takes off his cochlear’s and sets them down on the counter, making a huge X mark with his arms. “Nope, nope, not hearing any more of this.”

Richie puts his hand over his chest, gasping. “Frank, are you homophobic?”

Frankie points at him, eyes narrowed. “Cheap shot, Rich.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Richie says with a grin; Frankie rolls his eyes and reminds his stepfather that yes, he’s a big ally, but- okay, he did not expect that, that apparently all of his father and Richie’s friends had a thing for Uncle Bill.

Frankie puts back on his cochlears and they go back to washing the dishes; after a little bit, Frankie decides to test the waters.

“Richie?”

“Hm?”

“About Georgie,” Frankie watches as Richie blinks, his expression sad. “Was it…,” Frankie swallows, unsure of how to ask what he wants to without seeming insensitive, “...when he disappeared. It was really hard, wasn’t it?”

Richie sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He nods, giving Frankie a meaningful look. “For your uncle the most, obviously,” he says. “But…well, me, your dad, and Stan knew Georgie pretty well, too.” A soft look crosses the man’s face. “The four of us used to go to all of his birthday parties; the cake Mrs. Denbrough used to make was bomb, dude, but- Georgie was a really, really good kid. And Bill was a really good older brother; most kids would’ve been so annoyed at their little brother running around and wanting to hang out with his older brother’s friends all the time, but not Bill. He’s good like that.”

Frankie nods, enraptured.

He’s always been insanely curious about his father’s childhood in Derry; he knows the very bare bones. All anyone has told him and his cousins is that something bad happened but will not elaborate as to what; Frankie was only told about Georgie about two years ago during Thanksgiving when Bill had finally opened up to him about his brother.

It drives him crazy that none of the adults will talk about it more. Dad always says i’ll tell you when you’re a little older, but at nearly fifteen, Frankie wonders just how long it’s going to take.

To Richie, though, Frankie says, “Yeah, Uncle Bill seems like he’d be a good brother,” And Frankie thinks of his uncle, his stomach twisting at the memory of Bill and his laugh, the ease that Frankie always feels around him.

Frankie generally considers himself to be close with all of the Losers Club by now; he knows that he has a special dynamic with each of them. Mike and Ben are always gentle presences that Frankie can rely on; strong and calm. Stan and Patty often feel like bonus parents to him, although he’s never really had the guts to tell them that out loud. And Bev has always been an easy-going aunt; funny and reliable, always honest.

But out of all of the Losers Club, Frankie has always felt like the bond he has with Uncle Bill is unique; he trusts his uncle completely. Bill is the only one who even has a little bit of an idea of what he goes through with his speech; they’ve spent hours talking about the speech therapy they’ve had to go through. Bill understands what it’s like to have people give up on conversation with you all together, to get frustrated and impatient with you.

A bad childhood stutter isn’t the same as being Deaf, not by a long shot. But Frankie knows that Bill gets it, at least a little bit.

Frankie thinks of his uncle, of the Losers Club and his cousins and the dogs and a sudden wave of longing hits him hard.

“I really miss him,” Frankie finally says, hands trembling.

“Me too,” Richie replies easily, sighing. “But- you know, soon, okay? Vaccines are going to be ready any day now, and- we’ll see them soon, buddy. I promise.”

Frankie nods and leans close to Richie; Richie gives his hair a ruffle.

Dad comes into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking entirely exhausted; Frankie can barely hide his snort of amusement as the twins grab onto his hands, dragging their father into the kitchen.

“You two,” Dad says, trying to catch the little rascals when they dart away from him, “Need to go to bed. Now.”

Frankie makes a face at his father’s stern expression. “Uh-oh, girls. I’d listen to him if I were you.”

The girls seem pretty amused with running away from both of their fathers and so Frankie, out of pity for Dad and Richie, is able to calm the girls down with nine simple words: “Do you want me to put them to bed?”

The twins immediately run to him, practically dragging him down the hall; Dad signs a quick thank you as Frankie goes.

The twins still want to share a room, and after Phoebe tells Frankie that he is not allowed to sit on her bed under any circumstances, Frankie grabs one of their books and settles on Charlie’s bed instead, both of his sisters resting against either side of him.

Ever since the twins have told him that they like it when he reads to them, he finds that he often gets stuck with it –– not that he minds for once, though. The twins are rowdy and can be annoying, but it’s times like these, when Frankie is between both of his baby sisters, the girls hugging onto his arms and listening to him with rapt attention, that it reminds Frankie again of the fact that he truly is so thankful that he has them in his life.

Not that he’d ever tell the twerps that; he’s got a reputation to uphold here.

Phoebe falls asleep first, drooling onto Frankie’s arm; Frankie makes a face and scoops his sister up, bringing her to her bed and tucking her in. Phoebe has a bunny stuffed animal that Beverly bought her a while back that’s become her favorite, and Frankie smiles when he sees his sister hug it tightly to her chest, sound asleep.

Charlie takes a little longer to fall asleep, but eventually, Frankie can feel his sister start to nod off as well. He closes the book and helps tuck her in as well, his heart warm with affection at the sight of the sleeping toddler.

“Frankie?” Charlie mumbles sleepily as Frankie starts to get ready to go back out into the living room.

“Yeah, squirt?” Frankie kneels down next to her bed, watching as the little girl rolls on her stomach and looks at him with sad eyes.

“Why do you have to go?”

Frankie knows that Dad and Richie have tried to explain it to the twins as best they can; the girls are still only three, after all. They’re way too young to understand why Frankie has to leave, exactly, only that he has to be gone for a week at a time, no exceptions.

“Well, I have to stay with my mom sometimes,” Frankie tells her gently.

Charlie frowns. “Can’t you ask her to stay here all the time?”

Sometimes, Frankie really wishes he could. He loves his mother, he does, but he knows that everyone –– Dad, Richie, even her –– knows that if Frankie had a choice, he’d prefer to stay with Dad most of the time. It’s not that he’d never want to see his mother again, or that he doesn’t enjoy their weeks together, but, well, it’s just different. He doesn’t have any siblings or pets over at Mom’s, and the relationship between him and Mom is always so up and down.

“I can’t, bubs,” Frankie tells her gently, smoothing her curls. “Just like you have to stay with Daddy and Poppy all the time, I have to stay with my mom sometimes.”

It’s only fair, someone had said to Frankie when the custody arrangement was first made; he remembers his mother and father telling him about it, sitting him down and saying that it would be one week with Mom, the next with Dad. Emergencies and exceptions may arise, but outside of those circumstances, this was the most fair option for everyone.

Frankie doesn’t necessarily think there’s any fair solution, really; to essentially be split between either of his parents like he’s some object rather than a child, but, well. It could always be worse; he knows that out of most kids with divorced parents that he’s met, his custody arrangement isn’t nearly that bad.

“I don’t like your mommy,” Charlie randomly says, and Frankie freezes, taken aback.

“What?” he asks carefully, thinking maybe his cochlear's malfunctioned or something, because there’s no way-

“I don’t,” Charlie says adamantly, shaking her head. “She makes you go away, and Daddy and Poppy don’t like her.”

Frankie furrows his brow at that last part. “What are you talking about, Charl?”

“Daddy doesn’t like her,” Charlie repeats, and something within Frankie cracks when she says that, although he can’t quite articulate why until the little girl continues: “I saw him and Poppy talking about her. Daddy thinks she’s mean.”

“Well,” Frankie says carefully, trying to steel his emotions; it’s not Charlie’s fault, the little girl is only three. She doesn’t understand what she’s saying. “That’s my mom, Charlie. Would you like it if I said I didn’t like your Daddy?”

“Why wouldn’t you like Daddy?” Charlie asks, hazel eyes wide. “He’s your Daddy too.”

Frankie adores Richie; he always has, ever since he met the other man. He truly believes that Richie is a great thing that happened to Dad –– that Dad is so much happier now, that Dad’s life got so much better. And Frankie also knows that Richie has made his own life better; Frankie can’t imagine it without Richie in it now. He does consider Richie as his second father, he does, he does, but right now, at the thought of Richie shittalking Frankie’s mother, who, yeah, maybe isn’t always a good person, but who is still Frankie’s mom at the end of the day, all Frankie can think to say is:

“Richie’s my stepfather,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm. Before the little girl can say anything else, he smiles and gives her head a pat. “I’ll be here all week, kiddo. Get to sleep, okay?”

Charlie nods and eventually does; Frankie’s envious of the fact that little kids can just do that so easily.

Frankie can’t really describe how he’s feeling right now, all of the conflicting emotions that are rising out. He wants to blame it on puberty, on the fact that he’s tired, on the fight with Mom, but really, the explanation is much simpler: he’s fucking pissed at Richie, and he’s not in the mood to fight tonight. He has school in the morning and needs to take a breather before he explodes.

So when he leaves the twins bedroom, he just waves to Dad and Richie and says, “Night, guys.”

Dad frowns. “Didn’t you want to watch some tv with us?”

“I’m pretty tired.”

“The rugrats tire you out, Frank?” Richie jokes, and Frankie turns away, annoyed.

“I’m just tired. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Frankie doesn’t want to see the confusion on his father or Richie’s faces, so instead, he goes down the hall and locks the door to his room, trying to keep his temper at bay.

––

School is a welcome distraction from everything, which says a lot about how upset Frankie still is.

He buries himself in his schoolwork; having all AP classes isn’t an easy feat, so thankfully, it’s not like there’s really a lot of time for him to think about his weird kind-of-but-not-really fight with his mother the previous week, or the fact that Richie apparently has a lot to say about Frankie’s mother when he’s not around.

Frankie knows that his mother isn’t always a good person, is the thing –– out of everyone, he quite often catches the brunt of it, and often rises to meet her temper. He knows that his mother and father didn’t have a good relationship; again, he was the sole witness to that for the first eleven years of his life.

Frankie knows that, but the other thing that he knows is that he doesn’t like the fact that the topic of Frankie’s mother and father and their marriage feels like it’s some sort of gossip for the Losers Club.

He knows that’s not very fair; his father is allowed to talk to his friends, after all. Frankie knows that he shittalks his family to Alex, Oliver, Margo, and Travis all the time; that’s what you do.

Maybe he’s just being selfish. His father clearly didn’t love his mother, and mom definitely didn’t love him, and they’re both so much happier now.

But Dad has Richie and the Losers, Frankie thinks as he grips his pen tightly, trying to focus on taking notes. Mom really only has Darren and her sister, and Darren’s too fucking nice to actually vent to about anything, and Aunt Karen is Mom’s biggest bully half the time.

That’s the root of the problem, although he hates to admit it: his mother doesn’t really have anyone on her side. Frankie is barely on her side most of the time, a fact which he normally shrugs his shoulders at, but now feels a flash of shame for.

“Are you okay?” Margo asks as she leans over to see him; she blinks, head tilting to the side. “You look really upset.”

“I’m fine,” Frankie says instinctively; his tone is a little sharp, and because he doesn’t want Margo to think it’s about her, he sighs. “My parents.”

“Oh,” Margo murmurs, nodding. “Your mom again?”

“Richie.”

Margo turns to stare at him, her brown eyes wide.

“What?”

“I just didn’t expect you to say Richie,” she says, leaning back. “Wow.”

Frankie shrugs, looking back down at his notes. Ms. Morris is starting to teach them the Attic Greek alphabet, and Frankie already feels lost –– although, from the quick look around the rest of his classmates, he’s definitely not the only one.

Frankie feels a harsh tap on his other shoulder, and looks as Isaac scoots his chair next to him, glancing to make sure Ms. Morris doesn’t see.

“Is that difficult for you?” the teenager asks, leaning down and squinting at Frankie’s notes. “Your penmanship is pretty decent.”

Frankie watches the other teenager, brows furrowed.

Without waiting for Frankie to respond, Isaac peers around him to look at Margo. “Do you think this is challenging?”

For once, Margo doesn’t seem shy in front of another person; she merely looks back at Isaac, titling her head to the side.

“I think it’s supposed to be challenging,” she points out. “It’s not like we get a lot of exposure to Classic Greek.”

“Your notes look a lot better than Frankie’s do,” Isaac randomly says as he looks down at Margo’s paper, shaking his head. “He’s in five of my classes, you know.”

“So you two get to hang out a lot, I guess,” Margo jokes, sneaking a glance at Frankie; he catches her eye and has to hold back a snort.

Isaac actually turns his nose at the idea. “Well, if Frankie’s planning on getting anywhere near the top ten percent of our class, it’d probably be a good idea.”

“Dude, I’m just trying to graduate high school,” Frankie tells him, shaking his head.

“And then after that? Where are you going to go to college?” Isaac asks, brown eyes locked on Frankie’s.

“Anywhere that will take me, I guess,” Frankie says, because the real answer of i don’t even know what i’m doing right now, much less the rest of my life feels a little too dramatic for this moment.

Isaac huffs at that answer, seemingly unimpressed; he goes back to doing his own work, and Frankie glances back at Margo, shaking his head.

Frankie’s mind keeps drifting towards his family throughout the rest of the class period; he can tell he’s staring off into space, pen hovering over his paper.

When his parents had first gotten divorced, Frankie had felt it was complicated – he had no idea that the more time went on, with Mom and Dad getting into new relationships and Frankie himself getting older, that everything would feel more tangled.

At the end of Attic Greek, before Frankie can follow Margo and Isaac out – with Isaac insisting that he walk with Frankie, that he needs to know if Frankie gained a better understanding of the Greek Alphabet by the end of the hour, Ms. Morris asks Frankie to hang back for a moment.

“Just for a minute,” his teacher says, and Frankie sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets and waiting at her desk for the last students to clear out.

Ms. Morris looks at him, her odd gaze laced with concern. “You seemed a little out of it, Frankie. Is everything okay?”

Frankie blinks; he hadn’t realized it’d been that noticeable that even his teacher had seen.

After a moment, he shrugs; it’s only the second week of school, and although Frankie can see that Ms. Morris seems to be sincere, he doesn’t really want to start the year off like this.

“I’m alright,” he tells her. “Just a little tired.”

Ms. Morris watches him for a moment, nodding slowly; she moves a few papers around her desk and gives him another meaningful look before she says, “I know we just started the year, Frankie, but I do want you to know that it’s okay to let me know if you’re having any troubles. The course load can be daunting, but I’m always willing to help if you need me.”

Although there’s a part of Frankie that wants to say yeah, i’m good, don’t worry about me, hating being seen as vulnerable by anyone, there’s another part of him that feels touched by her words. The only teachers he can remember really, truly looking out for him was his first ever ASL teacher Mrs. Hall, and his drama teacher back in his old school, Mrs. Smith; most of his teachers have either outright ignored him, or after the divorce in sixth grade when school started to go to shit, pretty much doing everything in their power to get him out of their class.

“Thanks, Ms. Morris,” he tells her softly, giving her a parting wave; his teacher gives him a nod and lets him go.

The rest of the day goes by pretty smoothly; when the last bell rings, Frankie lets Isaac spend a good five minutes lecturing him on the proper way to study while he waits for Margo to meet him at the entrance of the school.

Isaac tightens the straps on his backpack and looks at the pair of them. “Now, if you two will excuse me, some of us want to get a headstart on this year,” he says, speedwalking away from them and out of the school, disappearing from sight.

Margo blinks, looking back up at Frankie. “He’s unique.”

“Very.”

They wait a little while for Travis to come and meet them; once the sophomore does, constantly joking about how he’s going to walk the freshman home and make sure they don’t get lost, the three of them hop on the subway to take the forty-five minute ride back to Manhattan.

It’d taken a lot for his mother and father to agree to let him commute via subway most days; he’d argued with them for hours, reminding them that it wasn’t really practical for the pair of them to come and pick him up after school, and he’d told them that every teenager in New York City used the subways, that he’d be fine, until the pair of them had finally, finally relented.

He stands next to Margo and Travis as they chat idly through their ride, mostly eager to get off and meet Oliver and Alex in Midtown to hang out for a while until Margo’s parents come home from work and Frankie’s due to be back at Dad’s.

Once they get off their stop, Frankie sees Oliver and Alex already waiting at their stop, a few plastic bags of snacks already in hand.

“Alright, so we got like, a shit ton of flavors,” Alex is saying as he digs through the bags and produces a few cans of Monster Energy. “Pick your posion.”

Margo makes a face, but before she can say anything, Oliver produces an iced tea for her; she nods gratefully, and the five of them make their way out of the subway station and towards the park.

“How’s private school treating you guys?” Travis asks them, already halfway done with his Monster. 

“It’s alright,” Oliver says, and then, eyeing Travis as the older teen chugs the rest of his Monster, shakes his head. “Dude, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“Nah,” Travis says, taking another out of the bag.

“I can’t believe you guys are taking Greek,” Alex says to Frankie, shaking his head. “I told my mom about it, and she spent the next hour telling me that I needed to start learning Latin on the side for college or something like, dude, I already speak English, Spanish, and Japanese, I’m already trilingual! Actually, no wait, quadlingual-”

“Polygot,” Margo corrects, and then scrunches her nose bridge. Frankie hasn’t seen her face all day, but he has to look away when he finds himself staring at her round cheeks for a little bit too long, “Multilingual?”

“-cus of ASL-”

“Bullshit,” Frankie and Oliver say in simcom at the same time; the two of them high five.

“I do! I speak more than these two!”

“Fuck you,” Travis signs, a sly grin on his face as he looks at Alex.

“Man, that’s all you know how to say,” Alex retorts back, rolling his eyes. “Puto idiota-”

“Eres un idiota!” Travis says, laughing when Alex throws his hands up.

“Man, whatever.”

“How did we get to this topic again?” Margo asks with a shy laugh as the five of them ease onto a grassy patch; thankfully, the park isn’t too busy at this time of day, and so they don’t have to worry about anyone growing annoyed with five teenagers laughing and talking near them.

“No idea,” Frankie tells her, offering her the bag of gummy worms; she takes one, giving him a shy little smile before eating it.

“Anyways,” Alex says, flipping them off, “I hate you all. Except for Margo.”

Margo gives a genuine smile. “Thanks!”

“I’m just here for the food,” Travis says, shrugging and brushing a long, dark lock of hair behind a pierced ear. “And ‘cus Frankie asked me to come, so.”

“Yeah, why are you here?” Oliver asks teasingly, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t you usually smoke around this time?”

“It’s therapeutic,” Travis says with another shrug, but eyes Frankie when no one else is looking; Frankie gives him a quick nod - later, when everyone else is gone.

The five of them chitchat idly for a little while; it takes Frankie’s mind off of everything, to be surrounded by his friends and relaxing, up until Oliver goes:

“Frank, your birthday’s in like, less than two months – we gonna do anything special this year?”

“Oh, yeah,” Alex says, snapping his fingers. “Are we spending it with Mr. K this year?”

Frankie shrugs. He hasn’t thought much of he and Dad’s birthday; he figures they’ll probably do a dinner together and hang out for a bit, but since Frankie’s turning fifteen, it’ll be time for him to start planning his own parties and making arrangements. 

“Maybe,” Frankie says, and then, seeing Margo’s shy look, says, “And yeah, anyone’s invited. Anyone and everyone.”

“That’s so crazy that you and your dad have the same birthday,” Travis says, almost finishing off his bag of sour gummy worms.

“Yeah,” Frankie says, shrugging. “It can be.”

“It was always kinda fun though,” Oliver comments.

“I’d hate to share a birthday with my dad,” Travis says, rolling his eyes. “But, I dunno. Mr. K seems like a good dad, so. You’re kinda lucky, Frank.”

“Yeah,” Frankie says; despite the confusion from the past week, when Frankie thinks of his father, he does know that Travis’ words ring true: that Frankie is lucky to have a dad like him.

“Richie’s also fucking awesome,” Alex interjects, laughing. “Like, don’t get me wrong, Mrs. K- or, wait. Is she Mrs. Lee now?”

“She’d probably freak out if you called her Mrs. K again,” Frankie replies, looking at the grass. 

“Right, Mrs. Lee is…well, your mom’s like- well, you know. But Richie? He’s so fucking chill.”

“Yeah,” Frankie murmurs, shifting again. “Richie’s cool.”

“He’s like, fluent in sign now,” Oliver says, and Frankie once again feels that conflicting rise of emotions: out of all of his friends, Oliver – being a CODA, since both of his parents are Deaf, as well as his older brother – is the only one who slightly understands Frankie’s feelings towards his mother on that particular topic.

The five of them talk for a little while, up until Margo says she has to go; Alex offers to go with her since they don’t live too far from one another, and Frankie waves them off as the pair of them walk away, Frankie promising to text Margo when he gets home to let her know he’s safe.

Frankie linger behind Oliver and Travis as they walk around the park; he can tell that the two of them know something is up, but Oliver, knowing Frankie as well as he does, waits until Travis says he’s going to go and grab another Monster from the bodega up ahead and, once the other boy is out of eyesight, turns to Frankie.

“What’s up?” Oliver signs.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“You know, Phoebe and Charlie do that.”

“Yeah, and my five year-old cousin sulks like you do,” Oliver says with a laugh, and when Frankie doesn’t look amused, he frowns. “Dude, are you okay? You’ve been in a mood all day.”

Frankie toys with one of his hoodie strings, staring ahead and shrugging. He waits before he signs, “It’s just…look, it’s shit with my parents.”

“Oh. How many of them?”

“The usual trio.”

“Oh. Richie too?”

“I’m actually really mad at Richie,” Frankie says, and then, thinking of it, goes, “My dad too. But mostly Richie.”

Oliver blinks. “That’s weird. You and Richie don’t like, ever fight.”

“Well, we’re not…” Frankie sighs. “It’s not like that,” After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Frankie says, “Charlie told me the other night that she doesn’t like my mom, and when I asked her why she said that, she said that she saw Richie telling my dad that he didn’t like my mom. That she was mean or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“Oh,” Oliver says, nodding. “I mean…Frank, you know Richie and your mom like, hate each other. That’s not a secret.”

“I know,” Frankie mutters, shifting foot to foot. “But, like…how fair is that on Richie’s side, though?”

Oliver furrows his brows in confusion, so Frankie continues, “I love Richie, you know I do. But it’s…like, sometimes, I just feel like it’s not really fair to her.”

Oliver sighs. “Frankie…”

“What?”

“I mean, listen, it’s your family,” Oliver tells him. “And you know I’m the last person to wanna get involved with all of that. But, Frank- I don’t know, man. From what it sounds like, your mom has a lot of reasons to not like Richie, but Richie has a lot of reasons to not like her, either.”

Frankie figured that Oliver wouldn't really get it; it doesn’t feel like anyone really does.

“Stop doing that,” Oliver signs, glaring at him.

“Doing what?”

“Pretending like no one understands you. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I just feel bad for her,” Frankie blurts, shutting his eyes. Fuck. “I feel bad for my mom, because…it’s like no one is on her side. I don’t like that it feels like everyone just shittalks her when I’m not there, when no one on my dad’s side of the family even knows her.”

Before Oliver can say anything, Frankie continues, “But then I’m like- I’m pissed at myself, because I know that my dad needed to divorce her. That they had a shitty marriage - I fucking lived it! And I don’t even know why I’m going so hard to defend her when…”

When she didn’t even learn sign language for me, Frankie thinks, shutting his eyes. When she and I can barely see eye to eye. When I try and defend her, and she somehow finds a way to get angry at me for even trying.

Oliver looks so sad. “Frankie-”

His friend reaches out a hand; Frankie flinches, shaking his head.

“Look, I-” Frankie shut his eyes. “I’m gonna go home. I’ll text you.”

Frankie doesn’t wait for Oliver to sign anything back to him; he turns and walks down the sidewalk, pulling the hood of his jacket up and over his head.

—

Frankie manages to make it five minutes through the door without being ambushed, but as soon as Phoebe sees him go into the kitchen, his sister runs over to him and goes, “Frankie! Frankie!”

Frankie winces at her shrill yell. “Yeah, Pheebs?”

“Can you play?”

“No,” Frankie says, a little shorter than he usually is with his sisters. “I’m tired.”

“But it’s not dark outside.”

“Okay?” Frankie rolls his eyes. “Geeze, go play with someone else.”

Phoebe crosses her arms over her chest and walks away; Frankie feels a little bad, since he generally tries not to get too frustrated with the girls, but he goes about making himself something to eat.

When he turns, he sees Riche in the doorway to the kitchen; his stepfather eyes his plate.

“Hungry?”

Frankie looks at the plate and then back at his stepfather, quirking his brow.

“Sorry, dumb question,” Richie says, and watches as Frankie finishes getting his lunch ready before he cuts in, his expression curious, “So. A little birdie told me you were being a sourpuss. Everything okay?”

Frankie’s nostrils flare, irritation bubbling under his skin as he glares at Richie. “Seriously?”

Richie furrows his brow.

“I can’t even get like, two minutes of privacy here,” Frankie snaps, rolling his eyes. “And I don’t always feel like playing with the girls the moment I get home; that’s not my job, okay? You’re supposed to be watching them.”

Richie stares at him like he’s grown two heads. “Uh. Is everything okay, Frank?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re snapping at me, and that’s not usually like you,” Richie says, and before Frankie can say anything, his expression grows serious as he asks, “Was everything okay at school today?”

“Everything was fine.”

“Okay,” Richie murmurs, and then, after a moment, Frankie watches his stepfather consider his next words before he asks, "Everything okay with your mom?”

Generally, Frankie doesn't mind whenever Richie or his father ask that question because, to be fair, whenever they’ve had to ask, it usually was something that Frankie needed to vent about.

But right now, it’s the worst possible question for Richie to have asked.

“Why do you always just assume it’s about my mom?” Frankie snaps harshly, glaring at Richie.

Richie looks confused, and a little bit upset as he says, “Frankie, it was just a question. I’m just checking to see if-”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

“Okay,” Richie checks behind him to see that there aren’t any toddlers around before facing Frankie again. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, not buying it, Frank,” Richie says, shaking his head. “Look, man, I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay. And, listen, if it is something with-”

“Fine, Rich, you know what,” Frankie snaps, glaring up at the other man, “The next time you want to talk shit about my mother, make sure the twins aren’t nearby.”

Richie looks utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“The other night,” Frankie signs frantically, his cheeks burning with annoyance. “Charlie told me that she doesn’t like my mom because she saw you and Dad talking about her.”

Richie thinks for a moment before realization dawns on his face; Frankie watches as his stepfather heaves out a sigh.

“Frank,” Richie sighs, shaking his head. “Frankie, it’s not-”

“Look, I don’t give a shit if you and Mom hate each other,” Frankie tells his stepfather harshly. “But at least double check to make sure my sisters aren’t around.”

“Frankie, I’ve never talked about her in front of them,” Richie tells him adamantly. “I didn’t…I mean, yeah, at this point, I should’ve realized that toddlers like to sneak around, and I should have-”

“Maybe you should just stop talking about my mom altogether,” Frankie interjects.

“I don’t talk shit about your mom,” Richie says, and the statement actually makes Frankie laugh out loud.

“That’s all you guys ever do,” Frankie tells him. “Do you think I’m really that stupid, Richie?”

“Frankie,” Richie says, and the seriousness of his stepfather’s expression halts Frankie in his tracks, hands poised mid-sign. “I understand why you’re upset, and I’m sorry- don’t give me that look. I am sorry. But right now, you’re way too upset for you and me to have an actual conversation about this-”

“I don’t understand you at all,” Frankie cuts in; he can see Richie’s nostrils flare with annoyance, and a smug part of Frankie thinks good.

“I-”

“You know,” Frankie feels the words building up before he can stop himself; the part of him that gets so angry and confrontational, that gets so mean, starts to rise up before he can stop himself. “Considering the fact that my dad cheated on my mom with you, it’s no wonder she hates you.”

Richie is quiet for a long time; Frankie’s never seen this expression on his stepfather’s face before.

“Excuse me?” Richie finally says.

“I’m not an idiot," Frankie says again, narrowing his eyes. “I know that’s what happened.”

“Frankie,” Richie says, his expression very controlled. “Frank, I’m ending this conversation.”

“You’re ending a conversation?” Frankie bites back, shaking his head. “Wow.”

“Frank-”

“You know,” Frankie snaps harshly, glaring at his stepfather. “At least Dad actually feels bad about what happened. You don’t even care about what you did.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Richie blurts, and his stepfather takes a big stepback, hands raised. “Frankie, look, you- I think we need to take a breather, ‘cus-”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about?” Frankie asks, knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. “Are you fucking kidding me, Richie?”

“Frank-”

“I’m sorry, but where were you for the first eleven years of my life, huh?” Frankie snaps, and the thing is: Frankie knows that he’s being mean, that he’s being harsh. He knows that he’s taking every bit of his anger out on Richie, who probably doesn't deserve all of this, but all he can think right now is a long-buried, childish thought, one that he abandoned years ago, when he realized that Richie was actually a pretty cool guy: it’s that dark thought of this is all your fault.

Richie actually looks hurt; he reels back, blue eyes widening. Richie stares at Frankie for a long time; Frankie is the first to lower his gaze, ashamed that he stooped that low.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Richie finally says; Frankie hates that he has to look at his stepfather’s face to see his signs, that he has to be confronted with the shame of knowing that he hurt Richie, just like he’s hurt his mother and father for all these years. “You’re right, I wasn’t there for the first eleven years of your life. And I’m sorry, Frank, I’m sorry that this is all so fucking complicated.”

“Are you, though?" Frankie finally asks, looking up into his stepfather’s eyes. “Because you don't seem sorry when you keep rubbing it in my mom’s face that you married my dad and ruined her life.”

Richie stares at him for a moment before he finally turns around and stalks down the hallway; Frankie watches the other man go, waiting for a few minutes until he picks up his plate and takes it to his room.

—

Dad comes into Frankie’s room later that night, just like Frankie knew he would.

His father looks at him for a moment before shutting the door behind him, padding across his room and gently easing himself onto Frankie’s bed.

Frankie has been avoiding Richie for the past few hours; after five, when Dad came home from work, Frankie stayed in his room, and his father didn’t come to say hello right away like he always does, letting Frankie know that Richie was obviously debriefing Dad on their fight.

Neither of them say anything for a long, long time; Dad simply looks at the wall, clearly gathering his thoughts.

“Frankie,” Dad finally says, turning to look at him. “What’s going on?”

Frankie sets down his pen, looking up from his notes. “What?”

“Richie told me about your fight-”

“Of course he did.”

“-Frankie.” Dad’s expression is stern. “You and Richie never fight like this. And I need to know what’s going on.”

“Fine,” Frankie sets down his pen and glares at his father. “I don’t like the fact that the twins caught onto the fact that you guys hate Mom.”

“I don’t hate your mother,” Dad says automatically, and before Frankie can snort and roll his eyes, Dad continues, “And I agree that- I don’t want that either. Richie and I really had no idea that Charlie even heard anything, Frankie. She must’ve- I don’t know if she got up in the middle of the night or what, but-”

“Yeah, well,” Frankie shrugs. “You guys got what you wanted, so.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, people treat Mom like shit,” Frankie says harshly, glaring at his father. “And it’s fine that you don’t like her. I’ve known that you guys didn’t love each other since I was like, six. But you don’t have to keep kicking her when she’s down.”

“I don’t-” Dad blinks once, twice. “Frankie, I don’t kick her when she’s down. And I don’t hate her. What are you even talking about?”

“She’s my mom,” Frankie says, and he feels emotion tighten in his throat, thick and uncomfortable. “She’s my mom, and…it just feels like…it feels like everyrone’s always so fucking angry and upset all of the time around me,” Frankie shuts his eyes. “And I have to keep noticing it. It’s just all around me, all of this…I don’t know, all of this pain and…I’m always in the fucking middle of it.”

“Oh, buddy,” Dad suddenly says; Frankie feels his father touch his shoulder, and Frankie flinches back, upset.

Frankie doesn’t understand what’s wrong; generally, he considers himself to be quite level-headed, especially in comparison to both his mother and father. He doesn’t know why one small fight with his mother a week ago feels like it’s snowballed into something so much bigger, why he’s so-

“I’m a horrible person,” Frankie finally says, and he can see his father stiffen. “I don’t know why I exploded on Richie like that. I don’t know why I get so angry sometimes, I…”

“Frankie,” Dad says, touching his shoulder. “Do you want me to get Richie?”

Frankie stares at his hands. “He hates me.”

“No, he does not,” Dad says adamantly, seriously. “Here. Wait.”

Dad disappears, and after a minute, the door to Frankie’s bedroom opens again; as soon as Frankie sees his stepfather, he feels like he’s been kicked in the chest; the shame and guilt at their fight starts to crash down on Frankie’s shoulders.

“Do you hate me?” he asks Richie, afraid to look.

Richie doesn’t say anything; he crosses the room and immediately settles next to Frankie on his bed, bringing him to his side.

“I’m really, really sorry, Dad,” Frankie tells his stepfather, wiping at his face. “I’m really sorry I said all of that to you, I-”

“Frankie,” Richie says, bringing him close. “It’s okay.”

“I…”

“I should be the one saying sorry,” Richie tells him seriously; Richie presses his nose to Frankie’s hair, and Frankie lets him hold him a little closer.

“We both should be saying sorry,” Dad says, moving towards Frankie’s free side and rubbing his arm. “Frankie, I am so, so sorry. I hate that you’re always in the middle.”

Frankie sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I’m really glad that you guys are together,” Frankie says. “I am, but I just…” He looks up at his father and stepfather, confused. “Why do you guys not like my mom? I mean, she stood up for you guys when I got kicked out of school, and she let me come over when Charlie was sick – I know she’s trying, so…”

“Frank,” Richie says, sighing. “Look, your mom and I are never going to be buddies. It just won’t happen. And I promise, I swear that I really didn’t know that Charlie was around. It was a complete accident.”

Frankie doesn’t look at his stepfather, but before he can say anything, Dad cuts in, “I’m sorry that you’re always in the middle, Frank. It’s not fair to you.”

“Yeah, well,” Frankie shrugs, looking away from his father as he signs, “It’s just kinda what happens when you get a divorce and there’s a kid involved."

Richie and his father don’t say anything to that, not that they can really dispute it; it has always an inevitability. That once Dad decided to divorce Mom, it would always end up like this – sometimes, Frankie wonders if the cheating had made it worse.

“Why did you cheat on Mom?” Frankie finally finds it in himself to ask, meeting his father’s eyes.

Dad sighs and looks away; there’s a sadness in his expression as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When Richie and I met again, it was…,” Dad takes a moment to search for the words.

“Magnetic? Like sparks flying?” Richie tries to joke; both Frankie and Dad look at him, and Richie looks sheepish, wincing. “Sorry, not the time.”

“We’d been apart for so long, and…well, in a sense, Richie’s right. But meeting again after almost thirty years apart, being around the Losers…”

Frankie has always figured that his father had simply got carried away; Dad doesn’t really like to go into any depth with the subject of his sexuality, only telling Frankie that it really had been meeting Richie again that helped him understand that no, he wasn’t a straight man, and that he had been terrified of admitting to himself that he’s gay – he always gets this sad look on his face that Frankie hates seeing, so he’s always dropped it.

But from what Frankie can glean, “Richie makes you happy.”

Both his father and Richie look at him; he supposes that that’s the simplest way to put it. His father had been miserable for so long, and after so many years, he met Richie again. He got carried away with emotions, and- boom.

Frankie wants to ask more; he wants to know if his father really does feel bad about it, about the fact that he hurt Mom. If maybe there are some specific instances where, you know what, fuck it, cheating doesn’t actually matter. Frankie wants to know why his father was so miserable in his marriage with his mother, since while Dad’s sexuality is a big part of it, it’s definitely not the whole picture.

But Frankie is so exhausted, and he feels so guilty; now that the red mist has cleared, now that he’s sitting next to Richie, he just feels tired and horrible that he blew up like that.

He knows he has a temper; it’s probably one of the very few things that he’s inherited from his mother.

(Sometimes, he wonders if Dad feels that way; that, for all of the resemblances between Frankie and his father – their appearance, their senses of humor, a good number of their personality traits – that one of the things that Frankie seems to have gotten from Mom is that need to get the last word in. That desire to hurt someone to prove your point.

Frankie loves his mother, he does. But he knows where that part of himself came from.)

“I’m sorry,” Frankie repeats again, looking at Richie. “For…”

“Frank, I’m sorry,” Richie insists, rubbing his shoulder. “I really didn’t mean for…I just-”

It was a human mistake, one that pretty much any person makes: if Frankie were to hate someone for talking about someone they didn’t like, who accidentally got caught by another person in the middle of a rant, it’d be a long fucking list of people, himself included.

“I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Frankie finally says, and when he says it, he feels something in his chest crack.

Frankie feels Richie’s arm slide across his shoulders; Frankie’s taller than Dad now and nearly fifteen years-old, but he can’t stop himself from leaning into Richie’s touch, allowing the other man to maneuver him into his lap. When Richie wraps his arms around Frankie, Frankie laughs weakly, resting his cheek against Richie’s neck.

Dad scoots over to run his hand through Frankie’s hair, brows knitted together with concern. “Are you okay, Frank?”

Frankie shrugs.

Is he okay? He knows that they’ll talk about it for a little while longer, that Richie will apologize again and that Frankie will repeat it back to him. That Dad will be a bundle of nerves for the rest of the night, but that the three of them will sleep it off and reset back to normal tomorrow morning.

Frankie knows that, but he also feels like something different is happening, that something is beginning to change. He’s getting older, and he’s understanding more. He’s in school and stressed out from the coursework. And he’s changing, growing taller and going through puberty; he knows a good chunk of his anger for the past week can be summarized by that – you’re a teenager, so therefore you’re going through an angsty phase.

But Frankie has felt different for these past few weeks, in a way that he cannot quite explain to anyone else. He feels like he’s beginning to understand so much more of the world around him, but that he also doesn’t understand anything at all. 

He’s starting to see his father not as the man who’s raised and protected him from birth, someone who’s always been a steady presence in Frankie’s life, but a man who seemed to have a much more fucked up childhood than Frankie will ever realize. Who has made a lot of mistakes and has the unfortunate circumstances of being saddled with a teenage son from a marriage that Dad wishes he could forget – but he can’t, because Frankie is here.

He’s starting to see Richie without the childish idolization that he’s always had for the other man; Richie is a man who loves fiercely and who Frankie knows, without a shadow of a doubt, adores not just Dad, but Frankie too. Who has chosen to love the pair of them despite the difficulties, but who signed onto something he didn’t really have much experience with. And yeah, despite the mistakes, Richie’s done a better job with this whole thing than Frankie probably would have – but Richie isn’t just the cool guy that Dad married: he’s a man with his own flaws, who probably struggles with being stuck in Manhattan when Frankie knows, even if Richie will never admit it, that Richie wishes they could all go to LA, far, far away from Frankie’s mother.

Richie and Dad are just people. And for Frankie, the thought somehow feels terrifying.

Frankie finally shrugs. “Yeah. I think so,” he finally answers his father.

And he lets Dad smooth his hair and press a kiss to his temple. Let’s Richie rock him back and forth and tease him, saying see, you’re not too old to sit in your old man’s lap, huh?. 

And then they go and have dinner; Richie lets Frankie choose the restaurant they're ordering from. Frankie plays with his baby sisters, letting them both drag him around and rope him into whatever fantasy world they’ve come up with today. When Dad answers a call from Uncle Ben and Aunt Bev, Frankie spends a good ten minutes talking to his aunt and uncle, excited to see them and their daughter, Rosie, who, at a little over a year old, is already starting to grow up fast. Frankie catches up on some tv with Dad and Richie before bed.

Everything feels like it’s normal on the surface, but Frankie knows that something has fundamentally changed for him.