Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frank’s face is squished against his pillow, eyes still closed, but he’s already partly awake, sleepy day-dreaming of a new tattoo. His alarm goes off, a soft chime that he shuts off instantly. He slides out of bed, trying not to wake Gerard.

He pulls the curtain back to look outside. It’s too bright for 3 am. His car, parked behind Gerard's, is covered in snow, and the streetlight bouncing off the white is like a full moon.

“Shit,” he says, and then whispers, “Sorry,” as Gerard stirs in the bed.

“It's ok, Frankie, I was already awake,” Gerard lies, voice thick. “Did the snow stick?”

“Only a little.” It’s maybe two inches, just enough to make everything wintry soft at the edges.

“I'll get up and shovel,” Gerard mumbles into the pillow.

Frank’s not gonna let that happen. Gerard was on a deadline for a commission and there had been some last minute changes or something, and at ten o’clock when Frank could barely keep his eyes open, Gerard was bent over his tablet, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Frank heard him stumble into bed just barely an hour ago, knocking over a bunch of things on the nightstand. Frank can see now a thankfully empty coffee mug has been saved from shattering by falling into a basket of yarn. Frank unfolds the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and quietly drapes it over the outline of Gerard under the covers. It’s Tuesday and Frank is headed into the bakery to do battle with brioche. Frank can navigate the upstairs hallway of Gerard and Mikey’s house in the dark, even with the ever-changing detritus - a single sneaker, Mikey’s - just outside the bathroom. A dropped ball of maroon felting wool that looks like an anime creature come to give Frank a quest. A hoodie hanging on the towel rack - oh, that’s where he left it. As the steam fills the tiny bathroom, Frank looks in the mirror, strokes his fingers over the stubble. He can shave tomorrow. He gets one last look at his face before the steam obscures it and he steps into the shower. Yeah, he thinks, that’s me.

Mikey's room is empty when Frank makes his way past it and downstairs, toweling roughly at his hair, hoping it will be dry before he has to go out and warm up his car.

Frank almost burns his hand when he pulls the carafe out of the pot. The coffee inside is still hot. “Gerard,” Frank curses. Only Gerard could drink coffee at 2 AM and be asleep at 3.

Frank pours coffee and splashes in soy milk, and stares into the cabinet. He's never hungry this early, but his stomach grumbles as soon as he gets to work and smells the yeast. It will be hours until there's anything he can eat, and never much time anyway. So he has a bowl of cereal, and browses Etsy.

There's a potter who takes all the photos of his work with his cats. It's a good angle, and Frank thinks about suggesting to Gerard that they get one to take pictures of the crochet vampire animal line. It would be awesome to have the listing be the creature dangling from a cat’s paw.

He checks Grey Award's messages. Two more requests for personalization of the shiny black wood blocks set. Gerard should make an individual listing for adding personalization. There were a lot of goth kids raising their own good little goth kids. He wonders if Gerard ever expected to see his art in a baby's room.

Frank looks at the clock. “Shit,” he says again. It’s the first accumulation of the season and November isn’t too early for snow, but Frank’s not ready for the extra time he needs to build into his mornings.Clearing off the car's going to take at least ten minutes, so it's time to go. He does not want to be late.

He tosses his cereal bowl and coffee cup into the sink, shrugs on his jacket, pulls out his gloves, and braces himself for the cold.

There’s the slightest shift from the couch as Frank’s about to open the door. Mikey, laptop on his chest, down low enough on the couch that he’s obscured by the arm rest..

He's about to ask Mikey if he's awake when he sees Mikey’s fingers fly briefly across the keyboard.

"What are you doing up so early?'' Frank asks, grabbing his keys from the hook. "You on call?" Mikey’s gig with a video streaming company means he sometimes keeps weird hours for 24/7 coverage, but the Way brothers never had normal circadian rhythms.

"Never went to sleep," Mikey says, proving Frank’s point.

"You at least get the day off?"

"Nah, this isn't work, this is fun."

Frank laughs. “You see Gee?”

"Yeah, we’re two night owls in a pod. An escape pod maybe," Mikey says, and then adds, "Careful out there, it's slippery.”

Mikey does not look in any way like he’s been outside for days, certainly not since the snow.

Outside, everything is sparkling. It’s calm and pretty and not nearly as cold as Frank's expecting. The snow is fluffy and falls right off his car under the brush and scraper.

He has a few minutes while the car heats up to shovel the driveway. He could just drive over it, there's not much. It's what he would have done at his apartment, but this is Gerard's house, and there'll still be cleanup later. Shoveling is a lot harder when the snow has been compressed with tire treads and Frank’s not gonna be that impolite.

He ends up pushing the snow more than shoveling; it's powdery soft and like sweeping sugar off the counter. He pulls out his phone. Fuck, he has to go now or he’ll late and Bob will be pushing him off the counter.

He leans the shovel against the house and hops in his car. He has the mix Gerard made him of 1950’s bops in the CD player, and he pulls out of the driveway and down the empty street to the rhythm of Primrose Lane.



Ray beats him to the bakery by enough time that he's already proofing yeast for the first loaves of the day while Frank’s washing up. Bob is nowhere to be found and when Frank asks, Ray shakes his head and points toward the front.

Frank finds out what's going on when Bob hollers his name about a half hour and two batches of brioche later.

“I'm starting the French loaves, ok, it's not even 5,” Frank hollers back.

“Wash up and get out here,” Bob shouts back.

Frank looks to Ray, who just shakes his head again. “I'll start it,” Ray says.

When Frank goes to the front, Bob's half inside the refrigerator case, and most of the refrigerator case is in pieces on the floor.

“What happened?” Frank asks.

“It's been making a noise,” Bob says. He hands Frank a wrench. “See if you can get the bolt down at the bottom.”

“Ooookay,” Frank says. “But if you can't get it to come loose, I don't think there's any chance that I can.”

Bob scowls at him. “I can't reach down there.”

“Oh, so it's a benefit that I'm tiny.”

“In this case,” Bob says.

“In this refrigerator case!” Frank says. Bob doesn't even grin. Frank sighs.

Frank doesn’t hear anything but the normal hum inside the refrigerator case, louder from inside. The bolt is in a weird spot but is actually easy for Frank to reach. A few twists and the last rack at the bottom falls loose. Frank shivers a little as he catches the cold glass against the bare skin of his arm.

He unfolds himself and climbs out. “It's cold in there.”

“I should hope so,” Bob says. “I don't need the cream pies to spoil.”

“I'm sure they'll be glad you fixed the sound. Probably gave them a headache.”

Bob stares at Frank.

“You want me to start the donuts for you?”

“I'll be done in enough time,” Bob says and Frank leaves him to his mysterious repairs.



Mornings before the front opens to customers is a perfect flow, where there’s nothing inside Frank’s head except the work. Ingredients and mixers and the satisfying sound of dough about to be kneaded hitting a floured surface. It’s glancing at the calendar to make sure he’s got the day of the week right and is not accidentally making Thursday’s specials. It’s getting to choose what order he wants to start in on pastries. It’s wordlessly swapping tasks, effortlessly navigating the tight space, handing Ray the wooden spoon he needs before he asks. It’s Bob starting up the fryer and the three of them efficient and in harmony.

Though Bob's still out front when Frank snatches a slice from the split loaf that got seared against the side that Ray sliced up as the baker's morning offering. Frank loves the imperfect ones - the ruined ones, because they get to eat them.

“Mmm,” Frank says. “Char.”

“You're such a weirdo.” Ray’s slice only has the part of the loaf that's still bread-colored “You help Bob with the noise? He's been like this all week,” Ray says. “Fixing problems no one else sees. He asked you to start the donuts?”

“I offered,” Frank says. “He said he'd be done.”

“If not, we should put him in the case for a little while. Let him chill out.”

Frank snorts.

“How's Mikey?” Ray asks, doing a terrible job at being casual.

Frank snorts again, and chokes on his bread. He feels the burnt crust at the back of his throat, and grabs his water bottle, the one Gerard made for him with a decal version of the loaf of bread with a little face, the art that finally made Frank realize that Gerard and Grey Award were the same person.

“You could come over this afternoon and find out,” Frank offers.

“He's gonna be at work,” Ray says.

“At home,” Frank says. “He works at home at the beginning of the week.”

“Yeah but he's at work,” Ray says. “He could come here and I could barely carry a conversation, or I'd screw up and glaze the croissants.”

“Fine with me, I'd eat a glazed croissant.”

“You'd eat anything,” Ray says, gesturing at Frank’s blackened bread.

“You could ask him out.” Frank says.

Ray's spoon clatters against the metal bowl.

Frank hides a laugh in his sleeve.

“What are you laughing at? I was just asking how he was doing, I'm not asking you to match-make for me.”

“Well you certainly need the help,” Frank says. Several large clatters and rattles preceed Bob's return to the kitchen.

“Is the refrigerator case better?” Ray asks. Bob makes a sound that might be agreement but sounds heavy with judgement. The refrigerator case has let him down.

“Chocolate or snickerdoodle for special today?” Bob asks.

“Snickerdoodle,” Ray and Frank answer in unison.

It's been their best selling donut, selling out first every time they make it.

“You just like hearing us say it,” Frank complains. Bob’s poker face twinges just a little bit at the corner of his mouth, a confirmation.

“You're on sourdough this morning,” Bob says. Frank groans. The sourdough doesn't like him, and he always ends up having to make an extra half batch to make up for the loaves that mock him.

He's taking a box of snickerdoodle donuts home before they sell out.



Frank is elbows deep in sourdough when a guy in a three piece suit comes in through the back door.

“Hey,” Frank says, “The store's around the front. And you're a couple hours early.”

“He's with me,” Bob says, coming in behind Suit Guy. Frank immediately looks up to find Ray. Ray's expression is guarded shock, and when their eyes meet, Frank sees the same “Holy shit” reaction reflected on Ray's face. “This way,” Bob says, taking Suit Guy into the back where they keep the holiday pound cake tins and the extra pie plates. Bob can barely fit back there himself, so Frank's not sure how they two of them are going to even be able to breathe.

Frank abandons his dough and goes over to Ray, pretending to be looking for extra poppyseeds.

“Who is that?” Frank asks. “Bob never brings anyone back here.”

“You think he's a new trainee?”

“In a suit? I hope he knows he'll have to put down his phone if he doesn't want it ending up covered in flour.”

Ray finishes removing the muffins from their tins and stacking them in the tray to go out front, and something seems to bubble over in him. “Bob’s been acting weird lately, right? It’s not just me?”

Frank shrugs. “You know him better.”

Ray shakes his head. “Bob keeps everything close to the vest, but he likes his routine. You know that. All the fiddling and fixing things, and now some new guy with a bluetooth headset? I'm stressed out,” Ray says. “I need to make some scones.”

Bob and Suit Guy come back out, and Suit Guy's typing on his phone again. Frank rushes back to his dough and Bob doesn't introduce them.

“The square footage would work, but I'm concerned about the parking.”

“I have something that will convince you,” Bob says, and they disappear into the front of the store, the swinging door flapping shut, both Frank and Ray holding their breath.

“He's doing it,” Ray says tonelessly. “He's finally going to sell the bakery.”

Frank's fingers go right through the loaf he'd just formed.



There's not much time for him to get anything more from Ray before Bob comes back from the front of the shop – without Suit Guy – washes up, and gets to making the donuts and then quickly onto a dozen tarts’ worth of pâté sucrée.

“Wait, why do you think he’s selling? What do you know that I don’t know?” Frank demands when they’re bringing out the scones, but Ray shushes him. Ray lists off a bunch of details that would have completely passed Frank by: the town assessor’s web page open behind a new recipe Bob was looking at. Mail from the National Baker’s Association, something Bob had never bothered with before. A letter with the return address of a real estate agency that came in with the bakery catalogs.

“And then he was on the phone with Matt. They went to school together and Matt's Dad's in the Bakery Hall of Fame.”

“There's a Bakery Hall of Fame?” Frank asks. Sometime in the past hour vanilla syrup soaked through his apron and every time he moved to the right, his shirt rips free of the stickiness like velcro.

Ray ignores Frank's obvious naivete of the baking world with a crushing normality. “So he's obviously networking.”

Bob comes back through the swinging door with the chalkboard sign and Frank holds out his hands for it. Bob doesn’t give it to him. “You practice your handwriting?”

“It's not grade school,” Frank retorts. “My handwriting is how it is.”

“Well, then you're not doing the special board anymore. Yesterday someone tried to order clove croissants and melon donuts. God strike me down before I serve anyone something called a melon fucking donut.”

“Fine,” Frank says, finding he’s too distracted to have any rejoinder. “I have to do the Napoleons anyway.”

“Be neater with your edges,” Bob says.

Frank waves him off.

“You made scones?” Bob asks Ray, zeroing in on the basket Ray’s setting out front. “What kind?”

“Cinnamon vanilla.” There’s a heavy tension in the air.

“You ok, Toro?” Bob asks, a hint of gentleness in his voice.

Frank freezes but Ray plays it off with ease.

“I can feel nostalgic on a random Tuesday without your commentary, ok?”

Bob huffs.

Bob notices something as small as Ray’s stress-baked scones, Frank has somehow missed something as huge as Bob being ready to move on.



Frank's a tense mess by the end of his shift. He can't settle on what's making his head spin and his chest tight. Bob selling the bakery – everytime his thoughts go near it, they skitter away again. He reaches for anything to distract himself. He made nearly perfect eclair frostings, and he barely remembers his sourdough battles. He kept trying to catch Ray to get some sort of reassurance, but Ray was as bowled over as Frank was, and Bob was tight-lipped and work-focused as usual, even if everything had changed.

Frank needs to get a couple things from his apartment, and it's a good distraction, a good way to expend his extra energy. He's not ready to go back to Gerard’s until he has himself under control, until he doesn’t feel like he’s spiraling away from himself.

It feels disorenting and familiar at the same time to pull into the driveway behind the upstair's neighbor's red coupe. He pulls a bunch of mail – mostly junk – from the box, and remembers the joy of finding packages from Grey Award in the boringness of his mailbox.

The apartment is cold, but Frank doesn't want to waste the money turning on the heat if he'll only be here for an hour. He keeps his jacket on and tucks his gloved hands into his pockets.

He digs around in his drawers and finds the jeans he'd been missing. He grabs the last hoodie. Frank spent two years in this apartment before he met Gerard and the pull of Gerard’s house drew him there more than to his own place. It wasn’t just Gerard, but the homeiness, the life he and Mikey had made, the creative energy that suffused the place. Frank felt like he had what he was missing, when he was at Gerard’s.

Gerard had asked him to move in six months ago, but Frank had put it off, not wanting to jinx anything. He still had his lease, but it was up next month. Just a few days ago, he'd been prepared to bring it up to Gerard, to ask if he still meant it, if it was ok if he moved in for real, instead of this halfway thing.

But now, if Bob was selling the bakery. If Frank was maybe going to be unemployed.

Well, the thing is, it would be a good decision now. A smart decision.

Frank hadn't wanted it to be practical. He’d wanted it to be right.

He thought he’d earned his way into Gerard’s house, where Gerard made art that inspired people, where Mikey recklessly threw himself at opportunities, where together the two of them - the three of them now - were fully present in their lives. He thought he’d made it himself, found it himself, scrounged it up from that place inside him that was desperate to find meaning, to care, to really love something unironically, to throw himself into his life. Not just shuffling through the day, waiting to be home, waiting to be asleep, shuffling through the next day.

If Frank went back to working another office job, who would he be? Certainly not anyone fully alive.

He can't think about this right now. He gathers up the bowls he likes – Gerard's cereal bowls aren't any good for soup, and he digs around in his cabinet and finds his favorite cookie sheet and the extra boxes of parchment paper.

He throws it all into a paper bag. It would have made him feel fond, before, of this wacky life he ended up with. Now he feels nothing but hovering uncertainty.



Gerard's at the kitchen table with several reference sketches and his tablet when Frank comes in.

“Oh hey Frankie,” Gerard says. “Is that groceries? I can help you. Do you need the table? I can move.”

“Nah, it's just stuff from my apartment,” Frank says. Gerard looks like he's going to bring it up, of course he remembered Frank saying his lease was up at the end of the month. “I thought we could have pizza for dinner.”

“Ooh,” Gerard says. “Where do you want to order from?”

“I was going to make it,” Frank says.

“Are you sure, Frankie?” Gerard puts down his tablet, comes over to help Frank unload the bag anyway. “You just finished work. You don't have to cook.”

Frank shrugs. “Pizza’s easy; if I start the dough now, I don't have to do anything for an hour while it rises.”

“You're amazing,” Gerard says. “Maybe when you’re done you can tell me what you think of this upside down city, I think it would be really cool but I’m leaning away from doing it in black and white because that seems too MC Escher, not that he’s not amazing but I don’t want to be too derivative. Anyway it’s not an optical illusion, it’s just supposed to be like a reflection but where you look in and see something else. Though a Glass Darkly you know? Oooh, maybe I should string in some gears and bring out some steampunk elements in the buildings. A dirigible! Like an airship! You ok?” Gerard’s inner voice spoken aloud halts so abruptly that it takes Frank a minute to realize that Gerard’s asked him a question. Frank’s not sure what's telegraphed his weirdness to Gerard. He’s just getting out ingredients and listening.

“Yeah, I'm fine, just got the winter blues, you know,” Frank tries to shrug it off, roll his shoulders.

“The snow sucks,” Gerard says. “Mikey had done most of the driveway when I got up but he left the part at the road for me, where the plow came by and it’s all slushy and gross. Asshole,” Gerard says easily as though Mikey were around to hear it. “Too bad we don’t get snow days, anymore.”

“Yeah, the bakery’s never gonna close, no matter how much snow we get. If Bob’s there he’ll expect us to be there. You know people would fucking snowshoe over to get their favorites.”

“Oh my god, Frankie, that's it! Snowshoe hares!” He scoops the tablet back up and starts working on something Frank can’t see past Gerard’s reflection in the screen.

Frank gets the dough mixed and absolutely does not think about the bakery. “Anyway,'' Gerard says, looking up from the table once Frank is covering the dough with a towel. “That's why I moved to the kitchen and – sorry, do you need something for your blues? A blanket?”

“Nah,” Frank says, like it’s just that easy to brush away everything weighing on him. “Tell me about the clockwork snowshoe hares.”

“I just....hope you'd tell me. If something was wrong.”

“I would,” Frank says. It wouldn't even be a lie, except this. This thing that's happening is just. It's too big to even talk about.

“Ok,” Gerard says and he starts sketching out this mirror-world fantasy arctic landscape. Frank’s not really catching the details, just the cadence of Gerard's voice. Letting Gerard’s raw enthusiasm wash over him. Frank thought he had found his own passion to drive him the way Gerard’s did. He thought the bakery was a part of his life, a thing he did that was more than himself.

If Bob sold the bakery to someone else, there was a chance it wouldn't be the same. There was a chance they'd fire Frank, who had less than a year’s experience. There was a chance whoever bought it would decide they didn't want a bakery in the first place, and convert it to a restaurant. Or condos. Frank would live in a condo that looked like a bakery. Maybe he could rent one of the rooms from some rich hipster, and then he could still be close -

“Frankie,” Gerard whispers. “Frankie, are you asleep?”

Frank realizes he's closed his eyes.

“Not really,” Frank says, but he hears Gerard shift and a moment later Gerard's grabbed a blanket from the livingroom and is draping it over Frank’s shoulders. Gerard's face is right there, blinking curiously.

“You’re tired. Of course you’re tired, you were up hours before dawn. I wish I could be a morning person,” Gerard says, wistfully.

“Never too late to do something new,” Frank says. He can only hope the sadness he feels is lost in his sleepy whisper.



Thursday morning is rye bread day, and Bob is chatty.

“You worked computers at your job before now, right, Frank?” Bob asks, dumping out dough and kneading it vigorously.

“Yeah,” says Frank, sleepily taking the loaves Bob had made last night out of the cooler. “Yeah, tech support.”

“You feel like you could help me set up a new POS if I bought one?”

“If you tell me what a POS is,” Frank says, and he’s cold and leaves the oven open for a minute to warm his hands.

“Fucking close that, you’re gonna mess with the temperature.”

“Buy me a space heater.”

“You’ll be sweating before we’re all the way up,” Bob says.

He’s not wrong but it doesn’t chase the November chill from Frank.

“If you’re setting up something that’s really technical, you’d be better off calling Mikey,” Frank says. “I can tell you how to turn shit on and off.”

Bob nods and as soon as the dough’s shaped, he gets out his phone.

“What’s a POS?” Frank asks Ray when he’s sweeping up, carefully weaving the broom around Ray’s legs.

“Dunno. Wait, was it something Bob said?”

“Yeah,” Frank says and crouches down to get the bristles all the way under the work tables..

“It’s probably a Point of Sale. It means register stuff, like software. Card readers and touch tablets.”

Frank nods. Mikey had set up Square for Gerard for craft fairs.

“Did Bob say he was setting up a new POS?”

“I told him to ask Mikey,” Frank says, and watches as Ray’s concern transforms into skittishness. “You call him yet?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, voice going a little high. “We talked for a little while last night.”

“And?”

“And nothing, Iero, we talked.”

Frank smirks.

“Who’s making the cinnamon rolls?” Bob calls, coming out from the storeroom. “I got a fuckton of walnuts here and I’m not moving them again.”

“I’ll make them,” Ray says.

“Let me frost them, you never use enough frosting,” Frank insists.

“I use a reasonable amount of frosting, not everyone needs a sugar high at 8 AM.”

“Icing,” Bob says flatly. “Do not frost cinnamon rolls, you ice them.”

“Wouldn’t that make them cold?” Frank asks, just to be a shit.

Bob tosses a bag of walnuts and it hits Frank hard in the chest.



The craft fair smells like popcorn, and Frank wants some even though it’s hours before lunch. He tries his best to align his days off with Gerard's shows, and he gets a better chance in the ramp up to Christmas because Gerard usually has two or three a weekend. Today’s show is part of an art festival and it’s in the fairgrounds buildings. Hopefully the crowd will be big and steady and include a lot of people Gerad otherwise wouldn't have reached. Frank loves the morning set-up time best. The quiet hum of vendors, putting up their tables and the friendly, sleepy greetings of other artists. Watching Gerard lay out his work on the black tablecloth he’s draped over the folding table.

“You should have brought some donuts,” Gerard says as he arranges mini-paintings in a fan. “I bet we could sell a dozen loaves of bread.”

It’s not the first time Gerard has suggested it, and certainly not the first time Frank’s day-dreamed about it. But he hasn’t been able to bring it up to Bob or even Ray - because, to Frank, the craft fairs are about artists selling their art.

He knows artists make work that is saleable, even Gerard makes things according to demand and not just what he wants, but - but Frank feels like the bakery, what he gives to the bakery is his hands, and all of his love, but that’s not the same as the magic that happens in creation. Gerard doesn’t agree with any of that, but Frank never listens long enough before dismissing him to find out what exactly Gerard sees as the similarities. Frank knows Gerard sees him as an artist because he loves him, not because he is something who makes actual art.

“This is gonna be good,” Gerard says, psyching himself up. Gerard’s debuting some giclee prints, which he thinks will be the kind of thing people here will buy, the kind of art you give to someone or hang on the wall. Gerard says something like “high brow” but this is where Frank thinks Gerard has too many hang-ups. Like Frank doesn't live in a glass house of hang-ups. But the stuff Gerard makes is real art - some of it weird as shit but that’s who Gerard is. He doesn’t make polished up art for mass consumption. He makes beautiful pieces of his vision of the world, he breaks off pieces of himself and sews it into his art, and then he grows them all over again, and does it over and over.

Frank just cooks.

The crowd is pretty steady and the morning passes quickly. At the lull around lunchtime, Gerard pulls out his phone and scrolls through his email.

“Fuck, they’re raising fees again,” Gerard says.

“Who, Etsy?”

Frank has the laptop and is uploading pictures from the camera, squinting at the screen to see which shots of the papier-mâché kraken best show off the glitter on the suckers.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “Honestly, I've been thinking about using another platform for a little while now.”

Frank accidentally deletes a whole row of photos and swears as he rescues them from the recycle bin. “You - but -” Frank stutters unsure what his real objection is. “You’d lose your following, wouldn’t you?”

Gerard shrugs, “Nah, people follow you where you go. And look at all the new people who found me on Instagram, that was your idea. Maybe I need to go back to using a website. Or like one of those shops that lets people customize stuff and then you produce on demand.”

“That sounds awful.” “No, like, the art ones, the ones where people can choose the size of their prints and if they want it on like, canvas or a wood block or something.”

“You’d like that?”

Gerard shrugs. “I mean I’m not ready to be like Lisa Frank on someone’s trapper keeper, but at a certain point, the art stops being mine and it becomes whatever the person buying it wants it to be. I don’t control where they put it in their house or whatever, I can’t try to hang on to control of where they want to display it and if that’s on a notebook, what if they’re writing poetry or like stories about tentacle monsters? What if they’re making their own thing? And not even that. What if taking out that notebook makes them happy? Who am I to tell them that my art is too good for that.”

“I love making art and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting paid for it,” Gerard continues. “I don’t do it just to make money, but I also need to make money to keep making art, so.” Gerard shrugs again. “I gotta be open to how people wanna get my art.”

Frank smiles wide at Gerard and Gerard smiles back. How can Gerard be so thoughtful about this stuff, Frank’s endless amazed.

“This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve shaken things up,” Gerard assures him. “I did consignment in stores for a while before I refocused that effort on craft fairs and Etsy. And I did photography for a year for income, to build up some backstock because when I was travelling to the fairs in the city, I didn't have the energy to make much after all that turning on the charm.”

Frank nods along, but after a moment, Gerard comes to stand behind him, rubs his shoulders, and then says, “Come on, just upload the whole batch, we can do the editing later. Ok?” Frank finds himself nodding without really thinking. “You look like you’re gonna vibrate out of your skin, you must have had too much coffee,” Gerard says.

“Nah,” Frank says. “Usually I’ve just pounded a bunch of butter and flour together by now.”

“So go for a walk around, tell me about our competition.”

Gerard calls them that fondly - Frank had been up in arms the first couple of times he’d been at fairs and seen people doing similar kinds of things that Gerard did, or pricing things for way more than Gerard or more than even seemed reasonable. But Gerard had kindly and patiently explained to Frank that everyone could do what they wanted. Their prices were their own, their overhead and their effort was their own, and everything was ultimately derivative and that wasn’t something you could control.

“You like control a whole lot, Frankie,” Gerard had said.

“Let me show you how much I love control,” Frank had whispered back and made Gerard blush.

But it was true, Gerard was a lot better at leaving things up to circumstance, or the customer, or the winds of fate or whatever. Every once and awhile, Bob will cruise by other bakeries, but they mostly all know one another, and it’s more like “Dale says there’s some new recipe that stabilizes the starch molecules” and less about price per print.

There are a few familiar faces in the shoppers, craft fair regulars who hit every one and still come around to see what’s new. There’s the grandmother with tight grey curls who always has her two grandkids and pretends to be scared every time the little girl teases her with one of Gerad’s fanged creatures. There’s the person who’s always wearing a tiara with amethyst crystals on their shaved head and every time Frank thinks, fucking good for them. There’s the woman who keeps asking if Gerard has made crochet patterns yet and the aimless tween who must be one of the vendor’s kids who clearly wants to ask Frank about his tattoos but hasn’t worked up the courage.

“Hey, it’s the baker!” A couple who make quilts and were their neighbors last weekend come over and hug Frank. Gerard had gone on and on about Frank and the bakery when the women had asked if Grey Award was a duo.

“You guys vending or shopping?” Frank asks.

“Both,” they say in unison and then look annoyed with each other.

“My legs were all pins and needles in the stupid camp chair,” the one with the braids says. Maude. No, Mo, she’d insisted.

“Yeah, I gotta get up and move,” Frank says.

“You guys gonna be around for the Harvest Fest over at the Arts Council next Friday?” the one with the rocking safety-pinned denim jacket. Mabel.

“I gotta work but Gerard will be there,” Frank says.

“Where’s your bakery anyway?” Mo asks.

“Downtown, on the way to the overpass? We’re just past the old garage.”

“Do you guys make turnovers? Or danishes? I love danishes,” Mabel says.

“Yeah you always eat them all,” Mo quips.

“We have cheese danishes most days. My buddy Ray’s been into adding apricot jam.”

“That sounds amazing,” Mabel says. “You know, that’s funny, it reminds me of my dad, he always ate this weird snack of cream cheese and jam on saltines.”

“Interesting flavor and texture,” Frank says. “I bet the danish filling would be good on a pretzel roll.”

“You are making me hungry,” Mo says.

“Thanks for reminding me of my dad,” Mabel says softly. “He’s been gone a couple years.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank says.

“Thanks,” she says. “But seriously, food’s good for that. Memories. I love that that’s your thing.” She gives him a brief shoulder squeeze and they disappear into the crowd.

Frank believes it, about food and memories. His mind offers up the icebox cake his grandmother used to make with jello pudding and cool whip. He bets he could make it at the bakery, with a nut crust, some custard. Some fresh whipped cream.

His thing. He had gone on for a while with Mo and Mabel, clearly more than he realized. He liked the bakery, that’s all.

There’s a honey vendor at the end of the aisle from out in the Finger Lakes of New York. They look a little wired; it must have been an early morning for them if they drove all the way in from Rhinebeck. There’s the now-familiar buzz of a spinning wheel starting up - the kind of vendor who needs to get work done to endure the crowd. That’s certainly how Frank feels right now, like he desperately needs to be hiding behind some big equipment. Like the looms that clack-clack, and remind Frank of the mixer when the dough’s too dry.

What was his thing going to be now? Could he ever find something else, once the bakery slipped away?



Wednesday late morning, Ray beckons Frank into the front of the shop once Bob is out in the back receiving a delivery. In between the steady flow of customers, Frank and Ray look at Ray’s phone where he has pulled up the internet reality listing of the bakery, it’s market history, square footage, property ownership, and a whole bunch of abbreviations Frank’s never seen before. His stomach drops until he sees the bold Not An Active Listing on the webpage. The numbers are a lot to process, yearly taxes and assessed value.

. “I don’t have that kind of money,” Frank says as the door closes behind a customer, letting in a fresh gust of cold air.

“I have a little bit of savings, but the kind of savings that’s a downpayment on a car, not a downpayment on a business.”

“How - how do you even buy a business?” Frank says, “Is it like buying a house? Do you just buy the building?”

Ray shakes his head. “There’s a bunch of other stuff. Legal stuff.”

“Fuck,” Frank says. This is way out of his league. “I’ve heard Gerard talk a little bit about some LC stuff.”

“Is he an LLC?”

“I don’t know,” Frank says. “This is terrible.”

Ray’s nodding, but there’s something calculating in his face, like he’s adjusting a recipe in his head.

“I’m gonna do some research,” Ray says. He closes the laptop as a couple more customers come in and Frank takes their orders with a practiced ease that he appreciates because his mind is halfway out of his head. He should ask Gerard about running a business, about the paperwork and the taxes and the money and -

But something inside of him has already frozen up, looking at those numbers. Looking at the numbers he’s ringing up on the register.

This is one of those problems Frank was always really terrible at, where solving it involved either plodding along or waiting. Frank should be good at waiting, considering how long it took him to get to this part of his life, but then again, he stumbled here. Circumstances aligned. The idea that he’d go from....here, steady on his feet, to asking Gerard whether he’s incorporated, or how he does taxes, or how much the property taxes even are on his house. And then to go from there to waiting for Bob to break the news to them, and coming up with a plan, but a plan for what? For something as impossible as buying this place from Bob? And then they’d have to hire someone to replace Bob?

When he gets back to Gerard’s, Gerard is making what he thinks is a grocery list and what Frank thinks is a stream of consciousness that includes some musings on oil pastels.

“So Mikey and I were talking about putting in a rotation for buying laundry soap and paper towels and that stuff,” Gerard says,making another almost illegible scribble that might say ‘tomatoes.’ “So you don’t have to leave cash for us on grocery days.”

“Oh,” Frank says softly. “I’m not giving you enough? I’m sorry I have so much laundry, I get filthy at work, I can go to a laundromat or something.”

“Frankie, no,'' Gerard says, mouth open and floundering. “I thought it would be easier this way. We could just take turns. Like we’ve been talking about doing for groceries so you can buy the potatoes you want.”

“You always get the biggest bag of the most boring ones,” Frank says mournfully.

“I don’t know, Frankie, they’re potatoes, but that’s what I'm talking about. When it’s your turn you can buy whatever you want.”

Gerard’s grocery rotation sounds reasonable. It is reasonable, but inside Frank’s head, it does a weird kind of pinballing around. It comes to mean that he’s being a burden. Panic is too loud a voice in Frank’s head for reason to shout down, and so he does what always works best - he shoves it away. Smashes it like too many sweatpants in a bottom drawer and gets on with starting a soup for dinner.



After they eat, Gerard gets lost bending copper wire around some extremely tiny pieces of wood, and he has his face pressed up to a magnifying glass and light on a stand. Upstairs, Frank peeks into Mikey's room.

“You gonna just hang at the door or you want to come in?” Mikey calls out without looking up from the pile of computer innards.

“Depends. You gonna show me the cyborg you're building?”

“It's just a test bed,” Mikey says.

“So's a cyborg until it decides to take over.”

“Anyone ever told you you've got a lot of paranoia for a baker?”

Frank huffs and tosses the laundry pile out and sits on the giant beanbag in the middle of Mikey's room.

“Could I rob a bank?” Frank says in between the metal rattling. Mikey's holding a circuit board alarmingly close to his eyes. It's going to be a race to see which Way brother ruins his eyesight first.

“Sure. Anyone could rob a bank. You mean could you get away with it? No.”

“You know anyone who could?”

“I could probably find someone but they won't be ok with getting paid in baked goods,” Mikey says after a thoughtful moment.

“They can have some of the haul.”

“Frank, why are you talking about robbing a bank?”

Frank sighs. “I hate money.”

“They have these things called loans,” Mikey says. “Gerard got one for the car.”

“No one's gonna give me a loan.”

“Gerard would.”

“Gerard doesn't have money.”

“How would you know?” Mikey reproaches. “No, instead of talking to him about finance, you go straight to brainstorming bank robbery.”

“Shut up and go build your cyborg.”

“Let me know how the heist planning goes.”

Restless, Frank opens up Etsy on his phone, and scrolls through Grey Award's store and plops down on the bed. Does Gerard really have enough money to loan Frank a hundred thousand dollars? Maybe it would be less, maybe there was more on the building mortgage than Ray thought. Ray was going to go get pre-qualified for a mortgage. Frank was.....going to have to rob a bank.

“You looking at the store?” Gerard asks. Frank startles and drops the phone on his face. Gerard laughs at him.

“Wanted to see what you posted this morning.”

“You know what I posted. You helped me take the photos. What did I do before I had someone to hold a flashlight just out of the lense range to get the lighting right?”

“It’s true,” Frank says. “I’m a lighting master.”

Gerard hands Frank a skein of yarn. “Start rolling,” he says, and Frank's done this a dozen times before, starting the tail of the yard around two fingers and then making a small ball and shifting it back and forth. Gerard comes back with a book, which he marks with a two-inch dowel that Frank thinks was supposed to be for a flag and places it on the bed. Frank’s almost done with the ball of yarn and with a few big loops around, he finishes it, tucks the end in, and hands it to Gerard.

“I’m teaching you finger knitting,” Gerard says. “Sit down.”

“What?” Frank says, but he joins Gerard cross-legged on the floor.

“Here,” Gerard says, taking Frank’s hand and opening his palm, resting it on his crossed knee.

“Two fingers like this,” Gerard says, stretching out his index and middle finger. Frank snickers and Gerard giggles. “Now wrap the yarn around like this.” He does it on Frank’s fingers which tickles and makes Frank pull back his hand.

“Didn’t know you wanted to tie me up,” Frank says.

“We could do that,” Gerard says, suddenly soft and dirty and Frank shivers. “Not with yarn though. Come on, you need to make something just to make something. Just copy what I do.”

That’s easier for Frank, to watch Gerard loop the yard over his fingers and copy. It’s tricky and then suddenly methodic and it reminds him of danish braids. After just a few minutes, Frank has a long snake of knit cord.

“Neat,” Frank says.

“When you’re done, tie a knot like this,” he says and shows Frank a simple knot, “And then choose your scissors.”

Gerard has a weird thing about scissors and a secret system about the color and size to use for certain tasks that Frank has never decoded.

“How do I know when I’m done?”

Gerard shrugs. “When you feel like it.”

Frank has no idea but he feels like maybe it’s ok to stop and so he carefully picks a pair of scissors that have some blue painter’s tape wrapped around one of the grips and snips after he ties his knot.

“You like my giant string?” He says, dangling the cord in front of Gerard’s face. Gerard grins at him, and then lunges at him, tickling him until he’s flat on the ground. Gerard kisses his neck, his shoulder through his t-shirt, soft, sweet touches.

“Thanks,” Frank says, letting himself just look at Gerard as Gerard’s hair spills down from behind his ears, and tickles Frank's cheek. “For helping me stop freaking out.”

“I know what anxiety’s like,” Gerard says, pressing another soft kiss to Frank’s forehead. “Making things helps.”

“Even if it’s just a cord.”

“Well now you have a cord you didn't have. You can wear it or fling it around or make it into something else.”

Frank nods. He rarely has Gerard’s clarity of mind but he thinks he gets this; he feels a calm settle over him, kind and true.

“I could use it to tie you up,” Frank says, trying to wrap the cord around Gerard’s arm but the angle’s off.

“You sure got something on your mind, Frankie,” Gerard whispers and Frank sighs, but then Gerard licks his ear. “Stop,” he says, laughing, yanking the cord away from Frank's hands when he’s still trying to tangle it around Gerard. “That’s acrylic, that’s gonna itch,”

And Frank laughs so hard he’s wheezing, and Gerard laughs with him, both of them laying on the floor, cracking up. Frank reaches for Gerard’s hand and threads their fingers.

“It’s gonna itch,” he says through laughter and they both are lost in giggles again, holding hands tight.



A guy with mutton chops and an old school clipboard and pencil behind his ear is trailing Bob through the bakery later that week.

“Is this up to code?” the guy asks, pointing at the exposed piping above the hallway. Frank tries to catch Ray’s eye, but he’s too focused on his pastry filling.

“We’re grandfathered in,” Bob says, muffled from the sink. “But a real ceiling’s not a deal breaker.”

The guy marks something on his clipboard. “What about lighting? Show me your crawl space,” the guy says. “Hey Toro,” he adds as they walk past the work tables.

“Hey Brian,” Ray says. “How’s business?”

“A lot of crawl spaces,” he says as they head out to the front of the shop. Bob pulls down the ceiling hatch and yanks at a precarious looking ladder that only comes a quarter of the way down.

“Business?” Frank hisses at Ray.

“Brian’s a contractor,” Ray says, eyes down on the work table, pastry filler clicking and swooshing, clicking and swooshing. “He did the front for us way back, helped change the entrance so it wasn’t right of the road, added the other display case.”

“So what’s he doing here?” Frank says, trying and failing to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Doing some improvements before Bob puts the place on the market,” Ray says like it’s obvious.

“Ray? You say something about a market?” Bob asks, ducking his head in through the swinging door.

Ray’s eyes go wide.

“We’re talking about Gerard’s craft fairs,” Frank grasps it out of thin air.

“I was just asking how Gerard was,” Ray jumps in. “I feel like I haven’t seen him since the Christmas Market.”

“You’re just avoiding him because of Mikey,” Frank tosses out.

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” Ray says too quickly.

“Well good,” Bob says, “ Because Mikey’s coming here this afternoon to look at our wiring and internet connectivity.”

“Something tells me he’s not gonna be impressed with the technology,” Frank says, but Ray’s gone as white as flour.

“He’s - Mikey’s coming here.”

Bob steps all the way through the door, turning his laser sharp look at Ray. “You want me to give you the afternoon off?” Bob asks cautiously.

“No!” Ray says. “No, no, I don’t have a problem with Mikey, I mean, I like him, I just - “

“Look, you turned him into a nervous wreck,” Frank scolds Bob.

“Finish up the pound cake and make some Florentine cookies, Toro,” Bob says, because those will certainly keep Ray’s mind occupied.

Frank realizes once the sweet smell of heating sugar wafts over to him that those are Mikey’s favorite and Bob must have remembered. There’s a soft heart inside Bob Bryer after all.

Except the memory crashes into Frank that Bob’s selling the bakery. That’s why he’s updating the internet and the POS and whatever. The smell of the sugar suddenly makes him feel a little sick and he starts whipping the cream at high speed so the noise of the mixer will drown everything else out.



Frank’s deep into the prep for tomorrow, so he misses Mikey’s arrival, though he can tell from the way Ray goes all nervous and frenetic that he’s here. He sees Mikey pass by to the back hall when Frank’s carrying the mixers to the sink - he’s got dish duty and so he probably won’t see Mikey again until he’s done.

Ray comes back to the sink with an excuse of carrying an armful of muffin tins. They always do those last and towel them dry to set them out for the morning. Bob insists it's the only way to stop the creep of rust.

“You hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” Ray whispers.

“You guys are friends. Go chat.”

“He thinks we’re just friends,” Ray says. Frank raises his eyebrows, wipes away a splash on his forehead with his sleeve. “I mean, he doesn’t know - I haven’t told him - “

“I think it’s pretty clear,” Frank says.

Ray’s eyes go wide. “It is?” he dumps the muffin tins on the table so he can cross his arms defensively.

“Just go talk to him,” Frank says. Ray’s eyes go even wider and his frown makes deep grooves in his face. “I mean, just go say hi.”

“He’s like, elbow deep in wires.”

“So go collect something I can actually wash and then you’ll have your arms full of baking pans.” After a long moment of consideration, Ray nods.

Later, Frank finds Mikey sitting on the floor with his laptop balanced on his knee and something that looks like a thermometer he’s intermittently touching to the exposed switch plate for the hallway lights.

“You find out anything about our wiring?” Frank asks.

“Yeah, it’s old as balls,” Mikey says. “It’s past time to get you guys into this century.” After a minute, Mikey adds, “Ray seemed nervous.”

“He did?” Frank says but he’s a shit liar and he must look like a high school drama kid panicking on opening night.

Mikey actually looks nervous, too. “I asked him if he wanted to hang out this weekend, maybe go to the arcade for 80s night.”

“Cool,” Frank says, totally failing to sound aloof.

“It’s nice here,” Mikey says.

“I mean, sure, the floor is ok if you don’t mind sitting on the fucking floor.”

“I mean, the bakery,” Mikey says, rapidly typing something into a black window on his computer screen. “I can see why you like it.”

Frank gives him a wavering smile. He likes it so much, but it doesn’t mean everything isn’t going to change.



It's too cold out to be sitting outside in a car that's not running, but that's exactly what Frank's doing. He’s made a series of panicked mistakes and that’s how he finds himself shivering in his parked car across the street from Bob Bryar’s house. His fingers are starting to ache and the windshield is fogging up.

The date had been circled on the calendar hanging in the stockroom and it wasn't for any reason Frank or Ray could figure out. Bob had left early. Frank had imagined Bob was going to meet with a potential buyer, or meet with someone at the town hall or a realtor’s office.

When Frank was done his shift at the bakery, instead of going back to Gerard's, he decided to follow Bob. Which wasn't so much a well-thought out plan, since he didn't really know where Bob was. But he decided to drive to Bob's house, see if he was there, and if he was, follow him to wherever he was going next.

That's where Frank found himself. He's trying not to be suspicious. He's not sure if anyone would notice his car idling outside, but he figures parked is better. He keeps checking the clock. It’s starting to get dark earlier and earlier every day. He hated that about November, how it felt like the winter just ate up part of the day. He'd get up for work in the dark and go home and only have a few hours before it was dark again.

He tucks his hands under his armpits and then practically elbows himself in the face with shock as his passenger door opens and Gerard climbs in.

“What the fuck?” Frank shouts.

Gerard shrugs, something that’s almost but not quite apologetic. “I'm parked behind you. I was flashing the lights for a while, but you didn't notice.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m kinda asking you the same question.”

Frank sighs. “I'm just......waiting for Bob.”

“Ok,” Gerard says evenly.

“How did you even know I was here?”

Gerard doesn’t say. Either he’s been putting pieces together or he drove all the fuck around Jersey looking for Frank. They sit in silence, Frank refusing to explain on principle, and out of twisted embarrassment.

“It's fucking cold in here,” Gerard says.

“I thought I would be less conspicuous if I wasn't idling.”

“You're the only car parked on the street,” Gerard says. “Well, the second one now.” Frank looks in the rearview mirror. Gerard is parked right behind Frank, he's not sure how he didn't notice, even with the windows fogged up.

“So,” Gerard says, and when Frank doesn't say anything, he says, “Mikey says you need money.”

“What an asshole,” Frank murmurs.

“He was just trying to help.” Gerard has his hands in his jacket pockets. Frank sighs and turns on the car. It's so cold that the vents just blast cold air, and Frank has to turn the control down until it has time to heat up.

“Are you in some kinda trouble, Frankie?” Gerard looks like he's about to take out his wallet right here in the car.

“No,” Frank says, and then because there was genuine worry in Gerard's voice, “No, it's not that. It's not like a debt or anything. It's - ” He sighs, and stops.

“Does it have anything to do with why you're stalking Bob?”

“I'm not stalking him,” Frank insists. He tests the heater, and when warm air brushes across his palm, he cranks the heater all the way up. The hum is loud in the car but the white noise is better than the heavy press of Gerard's concern and all of the things Frank can't bring himself to say.

“You're sitting outside his house and he doesn't know you're waiting for him. It's kinda creepy.”

“You're stalking him, too, now,” Frank says. “You're a stalker by association.”

Gerard reaches over Frank's knee and turns the heater down to the perfect setting. Even though the numbers have worn off, Gerard knows which one it is.

“He's selling the bakery,” Frank says into the quiet. The defrost is eating away at the fog on his windows, revealing the streetlight shadows of Bob's quaint street.

“Oh, Frankie, I'm sorry,” Gerard says. “Do you know when? Do you think whoever buys it will keep it a bakery?”

Frank shrugs and realizes it's probably lost in his jacket in the dark of the car.

“We don't know much. It's why I’m here,” Frank gestures around the car. “I'm just trying to figure out how much time we have, and if after that, it's all over.”

“He won't tell you?”

“It's not like I could just ask.”

Gerard gives him a look.

“I know that look, I know that's your ‘just talk about your feelings’ look, and fuck that, I'm not gonna tell him I'm having a total meltdown about what's probably just a business decision for him. I'm just one of his employees, he doesn't need to care about my feelings.”

Gerard sighs again, and the exhale is large enough that he momentarily fogs the windows. “Bob loves the bakery. And he really cares about who works there. That means you and Ray.”

“I thought if I had enough money, between Ray and I, we could buy it.”

“He'd sell it to you, I'm sure.”

“But I don't have 100 grand or whatever. Ray thinks the property's actually worth more than that, and it's about zoning or something.”

“You could get a mortgage. Most people who buy houses or start small businesses don't pay in cash.”

“I guess,” Frank says, but the idea of going to a bank, doing all that paperwork only to have them laugh at him because he has a couple hundred dollars in savings and he's asking them to give him hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“I could take out a loan for you,” Gerard says. “We inherited the house, and my student loans are almost paid off and - “

“No,” Frank says, too sternly. “No, I don't want you to do that. ”

“Ok,” Gerard says, but then of course he won't let it drop. “I wouldn't mind, if it helped keep you at the bakery.”

“It's obviously not where I’m meant to stay,” Frank says.

He expects Gerard to say something about trusting fate, but Gerard is so quiet; as the silence stretches on, Frank's sure he's failed some test.

The silence between them is even more awkward now, because Frank doesn't know what to say to make it better. So he says nothing. He's tired and his feet hurt because he needs to buy better shoes than his converse sneakers for standing 12 hours a day. He hasn't wanted to spend the money and he certainly doesn't want to spend it now, though what's an $80 pair of shoes compared to a fucking mortgage, money on paper that he'll never have to spend in the first place.

Frank screams when a man pounds his fist on the driver's side windshield. He hears Gerard shout, too, and he turns the keys in the ignition and grinds the starter in a horrible wincing grown since the car's already on, but he's not gonna make a getaway without running this guy over.

Anyway, the guy is Bob.

“Roll down your window, you asshole,” Bob shouts, pounding once more and then coming over to the driver's side door.

Frank does, though it takes him a few tries because he's not thinking straight, shaking from the adrenaline of thinking he and Gerard were about to be murdered.

“Hey,” Frank says, as the cold air gusts in.

Bob does not say hey back.

“Hi Bob,” Gerard says cheerily.

“You've been out here for over an hour, Iero,” Bob says. “I thought you were working up the courage to come in, but it's fucking ridiculous at this point.”

“Why would I need to work up my courage to come see you?”

“You tell me. Why are you sitting outside my house in your car on the coldest day this winter?”

“I......wanted to see you?”

“You're seeing me. If you're gonna fucking quit, get it over worth, I'm gonna freeze my balls off and these gloves aren't worth shit against frostbite.”

“I'm not quitting,” Frank says. And then he adds, uncertainly, “Do you want me to quit?”

“No,” Bob says. “But people quit. Isn't that why you're out here?”

“No,” Frank says.

The question hangs in the air. Frank knows it. Bob knows it.

“I'm gonna go home,” Gerard says. “Come over later. I'll make pancakes. Bye, Bob,” Gerard says, and without waiting for either of them to respond, he gets out and goes to his car.

Frank and Bob both watch him back up and drive off.

“What the fuck does he mean, come over later? Don't you live there?”

“No,” Frank says. “Not really.”

“There's something wrong with you,” Bob says.

“I know,” Frank says, depressed.

“To clarify. You're not quitting,” Bob says.

“No,” Frank says. “I'm not.”

“Ok,” Bob says. “So get the fuck off my street.”

“Ok,” Frank says, and then, since there really is something wrong with him, he says cheerfully, “See you tomorrow!” before he closes his window.

Bob just shakes his head at him and heads back into his house. Frank watches him go, and then drives off. He thinks if he nails it, he can catch up with Gerard and follow him home. Not like he doesn't know the way, just – it would be nice, not to think. Just to follow the car ahead of him. Just to follow someone else's lead.



Gerard's making pancake batter when Frank comes in. There's a whole lot of flour everywhere. Frank figured that Gerard was a Bisquick kind of guy, but Gerard values process, and so part of the experience for him is taking all of the pieces and putting them together to make pancakes. Choosing the quickest version for him would be like trying to work on a paint by number.

“Hey Frankie,” Gerard beams at him, like he doesn't know Frank just spent the last couple of hours stalking his boss.

“Hey,” Frank says. “Do I have a few minutes to take a shower before dinner? Ii'm fucking chilled to the bone.”

“Go ahead,” Gerard says. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Nah,” Frank says. “It'll keep me up.”

“I can make decaf.”

“You don't have decaf.”

“You're right, I don't, but I'll put it on the list. It's Mikey's turn this week, it's more fun the longer the list is.”

The reminder of the grocery list rotation just makes Frank feel worse.He thinks about just crawling into bed.

He can get another job. He has experience now. He can follow Ray. He can learn to do something new. Maybe he could be a line cook. Maybe he could work at a place that does lunch and dinner and like, cafe food and stuff. Gourmet bagels. The idea lifts him up a little until he sees his clothes set out for tomorrow on the edge of Gerard's bed. His ratty jeans and Gerard’s t-shirt that he's been wearing for a couple weeks that Gerard's silently surrendered. His favorite hoodie.

It should be sweet – no, it is sweet – that Gee washed his clothes and set them out for him. But it just makes him hurt, because this routine might not be his anymore. He might lose this and then he'll just be an unemployed depressed guy oversleeping at his boyfriend's.

He gets into the shower and turns the water on too hot. Instead of banishing the cold, it just makes him ache.

He closes his eyes in the shower, and he either dozes off or zones out, because his phone on the bathroom sink buzzes with a phone call and Frank startles so badly he knocks over a bottle of shampoo.

Frank shuts the shower off, grabs the towel, and swipes his phone, pressing it to his damp ear.

“Ray? Everything ok?”

“I don't know, you tell me,” Ray deadpans. “Bob called me.” Oh, shit. “Yeah, I can hear you letting that one sink in.”

“Is the bakery on fire?” Frank asks weakly.

“No, Frank, no, the bakery is not on fire. So why is Bob Bryar calling me?”

“I maybe did something stupid today.”

“Oh really,” Ray says. “Was that stupid thing following Bob and sitting outside his house?”

“I didn’t follow him. He just went home and didn't leave.”

“So what happened?” He says when Frank doesn't offer any more information.

“I figured Bob was gonna leave again soon, so I waited.”

Ray sighs loudly over the phone.“Outside his house.”

“I parked down the street. I even turned the car off. But then Gerard got cold - “

“Wait, you took Gerard with you?”

“No, he followed me.”

“So, hang on, let me get this straight,” Ray says. “Gerard was following you while you were following Bob.”

“Yeah, but then I didn't notice, so he came up to my car, and then he was cold, so I turned the car back on. And maybe that tipped Bob off.”

“Not the fact that he knows your car,” Ray says. “And Gerard's.”

“Anyway,” Frank says, “Bob kinda caught me by surprise when he knocked on the window.”

“You didn't see him coming. Even though you were right outside his house. I swear to God if you and Gerard were making out - ”

“No!” Frank protests. “No, we were – we were talking. Sort of arguing.”

“Is everything ok?” Ray's tone changes from interrogation to actual concern.

“It's fine,” Frank says. “It's nothing.”

“Ok,” Ray says. “Because I know we've been pretty focused on what's going on with the bakery, but if something's up and you needed - ”

“It's fine, Ray, really, it's just a stupid argument.”

It was like once Frank was on a trajectory, he couldn't dial it back. It would only take a few words to say that he was arguing with Gerard because of the bakery, because he was in a kind of panic freefall about his life. But he couldn’t shake the words out of the mess of his head. He pulled the conversation back to the obvious mess he'd caused, rather than the invisible one of his life.

“Bob thought I had come there to quit,” Frank says.

“He thought you were quitting. And that, what, you were waiting outside his house to surprise him?”

“He thought I was working up to it. He said I'd seemed distracted.”

“Yeah, well, so has he,” Ray says. “Listen, I'm gonna borrow some money from my Mom and I'm gonna ask Bob if he's willing to negotiate. If he's not selling because of money, I think he'll be more interested in keeping the bakery in the family.”

“You think he needs money?” It had never occurred to Frank. Bob was together, Bob was an adult, Bob didn't give up things he cared about unless – unless he really needed to. “Shit. Is something in his family sick or something?”

“I don't know,” Ray says, “But I'm hoping if that's it, he'll finally tell us. Then at least it won't fucking hurt if it's money that he needs that we can't give him. It won't be that he doesn't trust us or he doesn’t care.”

Ray sounded so hurt. He'd been there longer than Frank, and this wasn't about his job for him either. This was a part of who he was. The place where Frank wanted to be, where he'd been trying to go. The Frank he'd been trying to become.

“Sorry I was stupid,” Frank says.

“I’m scared, too, Frank,” Ray confesses. At least they’re scared together.



“Did you fall asleep in the shower?” Gerard asks when Frank comes downstairs. He's sitting down with his phone and a steaming cup of coffee. The door to Mikey's room is closed, and a steady bass beat leaks out as Frank passes by.

“Sort of, “ Frank says, “And then Ray called. Did you eat?”

“Nah,” Gerard says. “I'm waiting for you.” He gets up and pulls out a plate of pancakes from where they'd been keeping warm in the oven.

“You didn't have to,” Frank says.

“I know,” Gerard says easily. Frank takes a sip of his coffee while he's up, just because he can. He grimaces. Gerard laughs.

“You make it so strong.”

“I've got a deadline. I'm gonna be up editing.”

“I'll stay up with you.”

Gerard shakes his head but he doesn’t protest when Frank follows him and sits down on the floor, his back against Gerard’s desk. He rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face, and Gerard keeps affectionately resting a hand on Frank’s head while he’s pausing in his sketches, like Frank’s a cat.

“It’s just - ” Frank finally manages to get out, “It really means a lot, and I thought it was because it was my first bakery job, or because it was the thing that got me out of my old life, but then it would just be sadness I’d feel about having to move on, you know, like, melancholy or nostalgia.”

Gerard hmms, listening but giving Frank the space to speak. Letting Frank pretend his attention is on his sketches so Frank isn’t pinned under Gerard’s gaze. But knows Gerard hears all of it, takes all of it in.

“I guess I kind of made it who I was. I was a baker at this bakery, this place that was so great, and we worked so well together, and Bob and Ray taught me so much. But if I’m a baker, can’t I be a baker somewhere else? I don’t know, Gee, it sounds stupid but what if it was only a confluence of circumstances that allowed this to happen?”

He waits, and Gerard looks over at him, to be sure he’s waiting for a response.

“Do you want to be a baker?”

“I don’t know,” Frank says, hands covering his face “No, of course I do, I really really love it, but I just - this made me feel something about what I was doing. It felt like it mattered. It felt like making things mattered.”

“It does matter, Frankie.”

“But if I just get a job somewhere else, at another bakery, doesn’t that make it - doesn’t that make it just a job?”

Gerard hmms again, thoughtful. “I guess it depends on why you do it. Why do you go work somewhere else? Do you do it because you need a job or do you do it because you want to? If you just needed the paycheck, could you do something else?”

“I just want to be doing something important,'' Frank says.

“Important to who?” Gerard says, and it hits Frank like a sucker punch.

“I’m gonna go get a snack,” he mumbles and basically books it out of Gerard’s room. Downstairs, Frank feels such tenderness for Gerard that Gerard does not chase after him, that he lets Frank run off and stew the rest of the night.

Important to who? It’s in his head as he drives to the bakery the next morning, cranks up Sh-Boom and scream-sings along. He wants to do something that’s important to him, but does that count? Is that enough?



After Frank’s stalking Bob incident, and the whole thing spills out, Gerard gets into super business mode and invites Ray over to brainstorm. Gerard ends up making pancakes again - he keeps saying he wants to learn to make crepes but refuses to get the right pan or use enough eggs, and Frank’s certainly not in the headspace to have a good natured argument. At least Gerard bought tempeh for Frank to make bacon.

When Ray shows up, he’s brought a case of Diet Coke and a monster bag of M&Ms, into which Mikey immediately dives.

“Hey Ray. Save room for dinner!” Gerard shouts in Mikey’s direction.

“This is nutritionally complete,” Mikey retorts.

Frank catches Ray smiling at Mikey and Frank winks and watches Ray go all nervous. Frank bumps shoulders with Gerard while he cooks up the tempeh bacon and Gerard focuses his attention on making perfect batter circles and flipping the pancakes at the optimum moment, which seems to be when they are asymmetrically brown.

Gerard looks up at Frank and Frank’s heart fills with the warm familiarity he sees there. He feels a rush of guilt for hiding the stuff about the bakery, and as though Gerard is either psychic or he just really knows Frank that well, he says, “It’s ok, Frankie, we’re gonna figure it out.”

Mikey is showing Ray something on his computer, but incredibly, he closes it when they all sit down at the table.

“So, Ray says, as they pass syrup around the table. Mikey throws a handful of M&Ms on his pancakes.

“What’s the end goal here?” Gerard asks. “Do you want to come out of this as like owners? Do you want to recruit a buyer? Are you interested in owning your own business?”

Frank doesn’t know. This isn’t the time for holding back though, and so he tries to be as plain as possible. “I just want to be able to keep working there. I want it to be the same place. I don’t want someone to come in and change everything.”

Ray nods. “I would be ok with owning it as a business, but I really don’t know enough to manage it financially.”

“I don't think it would be a stretch,” Gerard says, “For you to pick things up. You can learn along the way, it’s already a stable and well-established business. You have a regular customer base and a workflow.”

It’s both hot how competent Gerard is, and reassuring.

“Bob could show you,” Mikey says. “If he’s not rushed, he could show you how the business works. Get you set up.”

“Do you know his timeline?'' Gerard asks. “I think that would give you a better idea if you’re looking at a personal or a small business loan and what the transfer of ownership could look like.”

“I don’t know,” Ray says.

“He hasn’t said he’s in a rush or if he has a date in mind?” Ray and Frank both shake their heads. “He hasn’t said at all what he’s doing next? Do you know why he’s selling now?” Frank and Ray look at each other.

“We haven’t asked,” Frank says.

“Well you should ask,” Gerad says encouragingly.

“He means we haven’t asked if he’s selling,” Ray says.

Gerard stops, fork paused over cutting a pancake in quarters. In the silence, Mikey aims several M&Ms over the syrup bottle and the butter onto Gerard’s plate. He has good aim.

“So it’s possible he’s not selling,” Mikey concludes.

“I mean why else would be doing all this,” Frank bursts out.

“A lot of reasons. Maybe he’s finally in a financial place to complete improvements he’s been putting off,” Gerard suggests. “Maybe he’s courting investors.”

“Wait, investors?”

“Lots of small businesses get investors, who can front money and help build the business.”

Frank pushes his plate out of the way, puts his head in his arms.

“It’s not a bad thing, Frankie, it means the bakery must be doing well. And maybe Bob wants to make some changes but that doesn't mean he’s going to sell the bakery. You have no idea what he’d do afterward?”

“Retire?” Ray says. “Start another bakery?”

Frank mumbles into his arm. “Why does he hate us so much he’s gonna go open another bakery?”

When he looks up from his self-imposed sleeved darkness, even Ray is looking at him like an idiot.

“He doesn't hate us,” Ray says. “I’m certain of that. Look, you’ve met Bob. You’d know if he hated you.”

Frank shrugs, because, yeah. Yeah, he’d know.

“I think you guys need to talk to Bob,” Gerard says carefully. Frank’s reassured to see that Ray looks just as uncomfortable as he feels.

“If he wanted to talk about it, you’d think he’d have said something by now,” Ray says.

“I can talk to him,” Gerard offers.

“No,” Ray and Frank say together. Mikey snorts.

“I can be subtle,” Gerard says. Frank’s the one to laugh this time. “Ok, fine, but I feel like this could all be a lot clearer if you talked to him.”

“I’ll do it,” Ray says. “I’ll ask him. But I want to have my shit together if he's selling, so I can feel confident about asking him if he’d sell to me. Or us?” Ray looks up at Frank.

“Uh, I mean - if you want - “

“Yeah,” Ray says. “I can’t do this alone.”

Frank nods. “I know shit about business.”

“That’s not true,” Gerard objects. “You do so much to help me!”

“I don’t have any money,” Frank says.

“That’s true,” Mikey jumps in. “He asked me if I thought he could rob a bank.”

“What?” Ray shouts as Frank tries to kick Mikey under the table.

“It was a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like a joke,” Mikey says, though he’s scraping his chair away from Frank, dodging his kicks. “Frank's ready to go all Ocean’s 11.”

“I bet you could fit through air vents pretty easily,” Ray said thoughtfully.

“Fuck you,” he says, but the tension is broken, and he has Mikey to thank for it. He has Mikey and Gerard and Ray to thank for a lot.

“Let’s give them some time,” Frank whispers to Gerard as Mikey and Ray clear the table and Ray offers to help Mikey with the dishes.

“What?” Gerard says and then he watches them for a moment, and he finally sees what Frank sees - their soft laughter, Ray’s nervousness and Mikey’s slightly lingering looks and he turns a shocked look at Frank. “How long?”

“It’s not a thing yet,” Frank says, “Though I think they both want it to be.”

“Huh,” Gerard says. He’s still staring and so Frank grabs him by the elbow and pulls him back toward the stairs.

Later, when Frank yawns so widely it makes his jaw crack audibly, Gerard pulls Frank toward the bed, where they curl up together, Gerard pulling the cozy oversized throw up around them. Gerard spoons Frank, letting Frank’s head rest on his arm. Frank exhales and it’s loud in the quiet. He leans in slowly, and kisses Gerard lightly. Gerard meets him, kissing back just as gently.

“What do you need?” Gerard whispers.

Frank closes his eyes. The question makes him feel like he’s lost the feeling of where his body is in space. “I don’t know,” Frank breathes out. After a moment, he turns to face Gerard, their heads both on Gerard’s pillow.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gerard says, “No matter what happens. No matter what, I - I want you to stay.”

Frank closes his eyes and kisses Gerard again, letting himself sink into it, into safety.



“I’m gonna do it this afternoon, after we close,” Ray says, catching Frank in the parking lot on their way in. It’s so cold he can see Ray’s breath, like every word is crystalizing and floating off. “You want to stay?”

“Yeah,” Frank says, “I wanna be there.” Even if he can’t offer anything, he wants to hear Bob explain it.

The day passes in a blur of anxiety and distraction. Frank almost jams the slicer by trying to put a loaf in when there’s already one there so many times in a row that Ray bumps Frank out of the way and takes over, though Frank doesn’t feel too bad about it when he watches Ray almost put his hand through the dough sheeter.

Bob shut the lights in the front after close and he’s checking the ovens and making minute adjustments to the placement of the baking sheets for tomorrow when he finally notices Ray and Frank waiting in the work area.

“You forget your keys?” Bob says, caution in his voice.

“We need to talk,” Ray declares.

Frank’s sweating through his t-shirt, and Bob doesn’t look at all the way Frank expected - defensive or secretive. Bob looks scared.

“Why does Frank have a big manilla envelope?” Bob says. “Is it full of cash? Is this a hostile takeover?”

“A - what?” Ray asks. “What the fuck, Bob.”

“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, you and Frank look like you’re gonna tell me you killed someone and you wanna stash the body in the cooler.”

“No! No, god,” Ray says, “Jesus Christ, no, we want to talk to you about selling the bakery.”

“You want me to sell the bakery?” Bob says slowly.

“No, we don’t want you to!” Frank says, a little reedy shout. “Or if you’re selling it we want you to sell it to us.”

“In the envelope is paperwork,” Ray says. “Loan applications and stuff.”

Bob is stock still.

“Yeah, we noticed,” Ray says. It’s harsh. “We noticed the stuff you were fixing and the suit you brought in from the city and the tech updates and Schechter - ”

“I’m not selling the bakery,” Bob says, voice ringing.

Frank can hear his pulse in his throat.

“Come on,” Ray says, fed up.

Bob slumps, takes what’s obviously a steadying breath, and then stalks off. Frank’s about to protest when Bob throws a hand up behind him. He says only a very clear, very stern “Wait.”

Frank looks at Ray, who looks as frustrated and tense as Frank feels. They wait.

Bob comes back with a long roll of paper he spreads out across the work surface, anchoring both sides with sheet pans. He glares at Frank and Ray until it’s clear he’s waiting for them to come over and look.

“I’m not selling the bakery,” Bob says. “This is the draft of the plans for an expansion.”

The silence is heavy, the second between when you smell smoke and when you realize something’s burning.

“Holy shit,” Frank says, disbelieving. Ray laughs, a little hysterical.

“I wanted the draft done before I brought it to you,” Bob says, “I wanted a plan.”

“What’s this?” Ray says, all bouncing enthusiasm, pointing at the plans.

“A seating area,” Bob says evenly.

“Like a cafe?” Ray asks, eyes bright. “We could have fancy coffee drinks!”

“We’d have to hire some additional staff, but the idea of someone running the front would free up some more time for us.” There’s still tangible caution in Bob’s voice.

“You’re -” Frank stammers, still processing. “You want to build an expansion.”

“That’s what I just said.” Bob has turned his whole body toward Frank and Frank’s ready for the lecture.

“How much square footage can you go out toward the garage?” Ray asks with a delightfully distracting enthusiasm. “Could we have a drink counter?”

Bob nods. “We could have a seperate cold case for stuff people might want to order to sit.”

“What about parking? Suit Guy said he was concerned about parking?”

“You heard that?” Bob says. “Jesus.”

“You were acting weird,” Ray points out. “I was acting weird!” Bob exclaims. “You mean I was acting like a forward-thinking business owner instead of the guy afraid of changing anything and rocking the boat?”

Bob admitting that he is afraid of anything sends a shock wave through the room.

Ray nods. Frank is surprised Bob meets his eyes. They all sort of look at each other. And then, as if coming to some conclusion, Bob strides off to the back. Just when Ray and Frank think maybe they should follow, Bob comes back with a sheaf of papers and he lays them on the counter.

“This,” Bob says, “is the property listing for the garage.”

“Wait,” Ray says, bouncing on his heels, “Wait, Old George is selling? I thought he said that it would be there for generations crumbling into oblivion. He actually said that,” Ray says to Frank.

Frank has never met Old George, now in his 90’s, but his reputation precedes him as does the monolith of the garage.

“I convinced him,” Bob says, with a note of pride.

“Of course you did,” Ray says softly, and then, “Holy shit.”

“There are some issues with potential chemical off-run that will have to be cleared but it’s already zoned for business, and it would actually give us the parking we’d need if people were doing more than just coming in to pick up their bread and leaving.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Frank bursts out.

Bob looks at him, looks like he’s going to speak and then stops. “I didn’t have the plan finished.” Bob says eventually. “It didn’t occur to me that you’d notice.”

Ray calls him out on the unspoken. “You didn’t think we’d care.”

“No, '' Bob says, and then more firmly, “No, I didn’t think you’d care about the minutiae. I wanted to show you when I had the big picture.”

Frank is vibrating.

“I was waiting to get the mock-up so I could get your input. I didn’t want to discuss it before I knew the scope because I didn’t want to overpromise, to offer more than I would be able to deliver.”

Ray throws his arms around Bob in a gesture that seems to momentarily make Bob turn to stone. Ray’s persistent and Bob squeezes Ray back briefly, enough that Ray seems satisfied with the acknowledgement and steps back. “You went about this whole thing backwards,” Ray says cheerily.

“Yeah I’m getting that,” Bob says, “You thought I was gonna sell this place, without talking to you?”

Bob looks at Frank and he seems to be waiting for something and so Frank nods that yeah, they can follow Ray outside. He’s still catching up. He’s drowning in relief and coming down from weeks of panic and there’s something strange in his chest.

Hope.

Ray nods, whole demeanor changed, cheery, joking, fond. “Can we blueprints out front, I want to go outside to see how it’s gonna look built that far out.” Ray doesn’t wait for an answer, just heads out.

Hearing the familiar creak of the door makes Frank’s heart soar. Frank stumbles backwards into the cooling rack.

“You ok?” Bob says, a real note of concern in his voice, and not just the concern about Frank breaking some equipment.

“Yeah,” Frank says, willing himself to relax. “Yeah, I am.”

Bob steps closer to Frank and asks quietly, “Is that why you were outside my house that day? You thought I was selling and you - you didn’t want to leave.”

“Well yeah, Bob,” Frank says, though there’s a tremble to his voice. “Yeah, I didn’t want to leave. I love it here.”

“Ok,” Bob says. He’s quiet for a long moment. “What do you think about moving the counter?” Bob’s pointing at the plans and Frank has to walk over to look. It’s just a few steps but it feels huge, like a crossing.

He looks down at the paper. “We wouldn’t get the fucking blinding afternoon sun facing that way,” he says.

Bob almost smiles.



Frank comes into Gerard’s bedroom and flops down on the carpet. Gerard shoots him a small smile, and lets him rest there, until Frank figures out how to start explaining everything. Ray confronting Bob, how disturbed Bob had seemed at their assumptions, how wrong they’d been.

The relief of Bob’s news is making him feel light but, as he recounts the whole thing for Gerard, he understands it’s not the only thing that’s been dragging him down.

“Gee,” Frank says, and while he is trying to be light, Gerard puts down the embroidery floss. Frank looks down at his hands. There’s still the stain of food coloring. He can almost confuse his hands for Gerard’s painted and markered up skin.

“What is it?'' Gerard asks. He steps close, holds his hands out and pulls Frank up so he’s on his feet, so Gerard can really look at him. The light is already headed toward evening. Frank was supposed to go to his apartment to get his other sneakers a couple days ago after work but he kept putting it off because he didn’t want to drive to Gerad’s in the dark. It seems stupid now. There’s a way it could all be so much easier.

He wants those shoes to be in the entryway, along with Mikey and Gerard’s.

“There’s - there’s something I want,” Frank says. Gerard’s attention is trained on him, sharp like a spotlight. “And I don’t know if I can have it.”

“What is it, Frankie? Is it something from me?” Gerard is so earnest, so giving.

“I know you said - I know you offered before and I kind of put it off -”

Frank trails off and Gerard’s confused, but then his expression transforms into delight.

“Do you want to move in?” he asks urgently, electric.

Frank nods. He tries to make his voice work. “Yeah. Yeah, can I?”

“Yes!” Gerard explodes. “Yes absolutely!” He pulls Frank into a hug and Frank clings tight. Gerard does not let go until Frank does, and it’s a long time until Frank feels like he’s steady enough to.

“We can rent a truck, or I think I could fit like an armchair in the car if I put the seats down. Do you have anything you want to get rid of? We could do a garage sale.”

“The stuff I want to get rid of, I was just gonna put on the street with a ‘free’ sign.”

“Ok,” Gerard says brightly. And then, “Are we going to combine our vinyl collections? Do you think we have a lot of duplicates?”

Frank should have known Gerard would make this easy. No, this is easy. This is something he gets to have. He didn’t have to earn it. Gerard is offering it with outstretched hands. Gerard wants it as much as Frank does.

“Frank,” Gerard says, gripping Frank’s upper arms. “I think we should turn the spare room into a studio. You know, we could actually take down a wall - I mean, not us, we could hire someone, but wouldn’t that be a cool space? If you have like a couch or something we could put it out there - or that little mid-century modern side table.”

“That’s all scuffed to shit.”

“We’ll paint it! Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I just wanted to do something to that space for a while and since you'll be here - you’ll live here - it feels like it should be your space, too.”

“Our space,” Frank says definitively.

Gerard’s face goes soft. “Yeah, Frankie,” Gerard says. “Our space.”



Sleepy morning chatter at the bakery becomes energetic bickering about what type of espresso machine they should get, and whether or not they’re going to have bagged or loose leaf tea, about who will be interviewing for front staff. About whether they should bump out the sink or get a dishwasher, if they’re going to have ceramic dishes and cups or if all to-go containers. Even the arguments have a sense of joy to them, of the three of them engaging with one another, fighting for what they think is best for this place they share.

“So while we’re talking about the expansion and all that, I always had this idea that I could maybe sell bakery stuff at the craft fairs Gerard goes to.”

Bob pauses the mixer as if the noise is getting in the way of his reflection. “We’d have to get you a food vendor permit,” Bob says. “But you should think bigger than just table sales. That’s the sort of thing we could cater, or be an event vendor. Compete with the food truck crowd.”

“That’s - that’s more than - I don’t want to - ” Frank stammers.

“Think big,” Bob says airly. “I’ll talk to Gerard, get some contacts.”

“Ok,” Frank says, feeling a little breathless with possibility.

Later, when they’re negotiating days off for Frank to empty his apartment, Bob snatches up the calendar and demands, “Where are you moving?”

Ray scoffs at Bob.

“Gerard’s,” Frank says with a duck of his head, like this is some second date rush job.

“I thought you were adamant about not moving in,” Bob says, puzzled. “I heard you brush it off a fucking hundred times.”

“He was being stupid,” Ray says.

“I was,” Frank admits. “I thought I’d mess it up.”

“That’s not stupid,” Bob says. “That’s cautious.”

“....thanks?” Frank says, not sure what to do with that.

“Gerard’s a good guy,” Bob says, and Frank stands there stunned that he just got Bob’s approval.

The next morning, Bob is studying the calendar again and Frank’s mentally preparing to shift his move-in date when Bob calls him over.

“Listen,” Bob says, “I didn’t ask before because I kind of got the impression you didn't want to be tied down.”

Frank thinks about the finger knitting and snickers before getting his brain back on track. “You didn’t ask me what? Do you want me to swap days? I haven’t booked a moving truck or anything yet.”

“I don’t want to pry, but you were pretty adamant about not moving in with Gerard and so I thought it meant you wanted flexibility.”

“Bob, what are you talking about?

“I didn’t ask you if you wanted to be a co-owner.”

Frank’s mind goes blank. “Of - of the bakery?”

“Ray will get a better rate on the business loan if he has a financial stake in the company and, I didn’t ask you because I came to my own conclusions and I’m sorry.”

“Why would you - “ Frank stops before he says something about why would Bob want him to be a co-owner. He knows why. If he just thinks about it and stops panicking, he knows why.

“I - I don’t have downpayment money like Ray,” Frank says.

Bob shrugs. “Hopefully you will soon. Co-owner means you share profits. This bakery is a team effort. I thought I’d made that clear but, this whole thing has shown me I did not. I’m trying to rectify that.”

The only reason Frank would ask for time to think it over is panic, and so, he takes the leap. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I wanna be a co-owner.”

Bob’s smile is bright but he immediately quells it. “How’s your credit score?”

“Uh,” Frank says and Bob waves him off and heads out to the front.



Frank finds Gerard in the kitchen, making coffee and dipping apple slices into a jar of peanut butter.

“Hey, Frankie, do you like cooked apples? Like apple crisp? Mikey hates them and so I never make it, but my grandmother used to make things called apple betty this time of year, and it’s so good when the weather is cold but it never seemed worth it to make it just for me.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, before Gerard can start rambling off all the ingredients. “Yeah, I know apple betty. I used to help my mom make it.”

“Oh I didn’t mean - I know you’re the baker and I wouldn’t want you to think that I don’t think you could do it or that I don’t appreciate what you do bake or - ”

“Gee,” Frank says, hands reaching for Gerard’s shoulders, trying to bring him back to earth. “You should cook whatever you want whenever you want. love to cook with you, but if you want. You wouldn’t tell me I was stealing your thing if I wanted to start making art.”

Gerard nods and then his eyes go bright. “I could teach you how to knit for real!”

Frank laughs because he should have known it was only a matter of time. “Maybe this weekend,” Frank says, and he presses a kiss to Gerard's mouth that’s supposed to be brief and sweet and quickly turns a little bit filthy. Frank has his hands in the belt loops of Gerard's jeans.

“Sorry,” Frank says, though he doesn't really feel it. He nuzzles Gerard's jaw, his ear. “I’m just a little - ”

“You’re a lot,” Gerard says and kisses Frank's neck, tongue tracing over the ink.

Frank sighs. “I guess I’m just - I’m just really happy.”

“I’m glad, Frankie,” Gerard says and kisses him, pulling him in closer. When they finally part, breathing heavily together, Frank lifts Gerard’s hands and kisses his knuckles. “You really are happy,” Gerard says.

“I’m happy with you,” Frank says. And then, he doesn't know why he’s holding it back. “Bob asked me if I wanted to be a co-owner of the bakery.”

Gerard’s eyes go comically wide and then he grabs Frank in an incredibly tight hug, and Frank can feel the coiled enthusiasm in him. How happy Gerard is for him, how genuinely he wants good things for Frank.

“That’s wonderful!” Gerard shouts and then just to make sure, he says, “Is that something you want?”

Frank nods. “I said yes.”

“That’s so incredible! You’re going to own your bakery!”

“With Bob and Ray,” Frank says. “Bob said it was a team effort.”

“Of course it is,” Gerard says. He’s beaming so wide the brightness of his smile could cook apples.

Frank can’t help but kiss Gerard again, this time slow and deep and Gerard sighs happily. They rock slowly against each other, Gerard pressed back against the kitchen counter.

Frank gets his hands on Gerard’s waist, his fingers tickling his stomach under his t-shirt. Gerard laughs and Frank kisses his throat and Gerard makes an encouraging sound.

“Is Mikey home?”

“He’s out test-driving battle bots,” Gerard’s voice goes up as Frank slides to his knees in front of him. Frank laughs, brushes his fingers against Gerard’s hardening cock and presses his cheek there.

“Unbuckle your pants,” Frank says and Gerard’s breath hitches as he does. Frank slides hands up Gerard’s thighs, easing Gerard’s cock out of his underwear and sucks Gerard the rest of the way to hardness

“Jesus,” Gerard gasps, “Oh Frankie.” Frank let’s himself get lost in the feel of it, in the bump of Gerard’s cock against the ridges of his mouth, the slickness of his lips against Gerard’s skin, the hitches of Gerard’s breath.

“Come on, talk to me.” Frank pulls off to say and rolls Gerard’s balls in his hands. “We’ve got the house to ourselves, talk dirty to me right here.”

Gerard moans first, surprised and turned on, and then he does what Frank asks. “Oh shit Frankie, yes, yes, love your mouth, wanna keep you on your knees all the time.”

Frank makes a sound in his throat that he knows Gerard feels from the way he swears and his hips cant up. Gerard’s gripping the edge of the counter and Frank pulls off to palm at the spit-slick head of Gerard’s cock, stroke the inside of his thighs.

“Fuck, Frankie, you’re so beautiful, want you to take me apart.”

Frank sucks his cock down again, trying to do just that, to make Gerard feel so much he loses his words.

“Wanna come in your mouth, wanna see the white spilling out over your red lips. Wanna -'' Gerard groans, loud. “God, I wanna lay you out right here on the kitchen floor and fuck you for hours. Want you all sweaty and needy,'' Gerard trails off with a gasp.

“You can fuck me right now,” Frank says, wrapping his fingers around Gerard’s cock as he pulls off. Gerard arches into his hand.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to make it last hours,” Gerard says, voice rough.

“Then let’s get upstairs.”

“You don’t wanna do it in the kitchen?” Gerard teases.

“You can fuck me in our kitchen some other time,” Frank says, his throat a little dry, “We can bring a blanket down here.” Frank tilts his head toward the upstairs and Gerard steps out of his pants.

Upstairs, Gerard does take Frank apart, and despite what he’d warned, it’s not rushed; it’s slow enough to make Frank threaten to get back down on his knees and suck Gerard again before Gerard holds his hips down on the bed and makes him lose his breath.

In the morning, Gerard’s pants are still in a pile on the kitchen floor and Frank almost trips on them getting breakfast. He’s smiling so much his face hurts.



On the last weekend of the month, Schechter pulls up outside of Frank’s old apartment with a flatbed truck and Frank feels a lot less regret about wanting to keep his dresser and a lot less anxiety about it ending up in pieces across the highway.

Bob’s in the passenger seat and Ray pulls up behind them, bringing a tray full of coffees. It takes just under two hours to clear his place out, though Schechter doesn't let him leave trash on the sidewalk.

“No one fucking wants your ugly crooked lamp, just give it to me, I have a disposal permit. I’ll take that old piece of canvas you call a comforter, though, that’ll make a great dropcloth.”

The unload at Gerard’s is even faster - a bunch of stuff goes into the basement for Frank to sort through later, and Mikey’s already mining Frank’s collection of video games.

Bob doesn’t stay long and Schechter has an appointment to give an estimate on another site. Mikey disappears into his room with a tangle of wires and Frank’s left sorting vinyl with Gerard, tired and sore and sitting on the floor, ripping at the loose threads of his torn knee jeans.

“Hey, I didn’t know you had Disintegration,” Gerard says, tapping Frank’s shin with the corner of the record cover.

“Haven’t had a record player for years,” Frank says and holds back a yawn.

“Just another reason for you to move here so you can use mine.”

Frank crawls over onto Gerard, kneeling between his legs. Gerard’s breath catches, and he bites his lip, looks up at Frank.

“I didn’t move in because of your record player,” he says. Gerard’s smile is soft, and Frank kisses him.

“I know, Frankie,” Gerard says, thumb stroking Frank’s jaw, fingers soft in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know.”



They’re working on a schedule for how to keep the bakery open the longest during construction, but there’s going to be somewhere between four and ten days when they need to shut down entirely. Frank thought Bob was going to lose his head when Schechter gave the ten day estimate, but it turns out there’s someone who can challenge Bob, and it’s Brian Schechter, declaring in a dead serious voice, “I can’t guarantee we won’t hit a gas or water line. Which would you prefer, explosion or flood?”

Later, Bob blacked out six days in January, with a question mark on days 7, 8, and 9.

Brian comes in with a 3-D computer model after the morning rush has subsided. He hands around a tablet that Frank tries to swipe out of Ray’s hands but Bob grabs it first. It looks like a fucking video game, but there it is, all the shit they asked for. There’s even a shot that includes the new HVAC unit.

“Let me know when you’re ready to talk about signage,” Schechter says. “It’d be easy to do the mounting while we’re already up there for the roof. What the fuck is this place called anyway?”

“It’s called the bakery, asshole,” Bob says.

“That is not gonna get approved by the zoning board,” Brian laughs. “No matter how small the font size.”

They eventually let Brian go and get back to work, but Frank keeps catching Bob looking at his phone, at the version Schechter emailed him.

“I thought you already did the coffeecake,” Ray says, coming back out from restocking dry storage. Frank’s cutting the batter with a butter knife, trying for artful swirls. “Did I imagine that?”

“No, there’s a gallery opening thing for one of Gerard’s buddies, I’m bringing this,” Frank says.

“Oh yeah. Mikey told me you guys were going out.” Ray looks for a moment like he did not mean to say that aloud.

“Mikey told you, huh?” Frank says, pinning Ray with a smirk.

Ray, as expected, goes all red and squirmy. “We, uh, we might have plans. Together. Tonight.”

“Ray’s gonna bone Mikey!” Frank sing-songs. Ray shushes him.

Bob calls out sternly from the sink. “I don’t care who you’re boning, don’t be late tomorrow.” After a moment, in which Ray throws icing tips and a sifter at Frank and Frank almost successfully dodges them all, Bob comes out to the work table, drying his hands on a towel he then throws over his shoulder. He says, “That kid did us a solid with the network setup, though, so make it good for him.”

Ray and Frank both gape at him and Bob’s face spreads into a shit-eating grin.

Bob takes the knife from Frank and fusses with the coffeecake until he considers the swirls adequate, and after grilling Frank on his spice measurements, Frank is permitted to put coffeecake in the oven, and pack two loaves of raisin bread to bring home.

Home.

Frank’s thought of Gerard's house - of Gerard - as home for a while now, but once he really lets himself feel it, it’s a glorious, shining warmth. Frank thought happiness would feel incandescent, a bright burning star on fire, big enough to scare away the darkness, but it turns out, the steady contentment of mornings at the bakery, and Gerard’s bright smile when he looks up from sketching, charcoal smudged across his cheek are everything that makes this life his life.

And he likes living it a whole lot.