He's the Air I Breathe

May, 1951

An incessant cough – that's how it starts.

Franks at the Copacabana. Pyjamas on, a blanket draped upon shoulders, and a hand caressing his neck. He's had a sore throat, gradually rising in sincerity for three weeks that no amount of tea and honey can mitigate. Nevertheless, he goes for a third swing.

"Go easy on that stuff, pallie; you're performing tomorrow," Dean jokes, sitting and patting his shoulder.

A flippant shrug. "Well, it sorta hurts. Nothins' workin'"

Their usual convivial discussions have been punctuated with unyielding fragility on Frank's behalf and endearing sympathy on Dean's. The latter has taken a reprieve from Jerry at the crooner's slightest request. Or was it simply Frank's tangible melancholy that ignited Dean's willingness to become entwined amongst his friend's sorrows that had sent him running? Either way, he is here, and relations are at a stalemate.

"You need to rest, Frank."

"What?"

"Take a few days off, ok? The doctor already said you shouldn't be singing. Jer and I can cover for you. Get some rest and keep the lights off. You'll be fine."

"Have you flipped your lid or somethin!? I won't be fine! And I can't take a day off. I'm scheduled for another week at the Copa, and then I'm boarding a plane to see Ava. It's not fucking fine, Dean!"

Frank throws his cup against the wall. The sound is a shrill scream, ceramic segments fragmentizing as searing fluid spreads deeper into his sleeve. Lacing his fingers behind his head, Frank wishes for nothing more than to scream. Knees toward his chest, he breathes expeditiously, though mere whimpers are all that is decipherable. Dean has fled from all essence of antagonism in the past, or prevailing emotion a percentage below sadness as if it were quicksand. One foot in, and it drags you down so deep you have to claw your way out. But at this moment, Frank's wailing hysteria has drawn him in, and he cannot break free.

"... alright. Alright, pallie, calm down," he says, voice thick with relentless mellowness – a type cultivated from unquavering love that Frank's fleeting belligerent impulses are instantaneously halted. "I'm sorry 'bout that."

"I have to perform, Dean. I have to."

"Just tell me you'll be alright."

"Doubt anyone will care if I won't be," the blanket tightens inward, "and if that's the case, I guess I only have myself to blame."

Dean shifts his weight as the switch in his heart flicks over. This is his given purpose with Jerry: protect the kid. Frank is older, though instilled with youthful glee that can be mercilessly transformed into gaping desolation with the slightest push. He is miles from his partner, yet instinctively, he has fallen into the manner born without restraint.

Dean blinks. "I care."

                                                                   ********

      Frank stands upon the stage at the Copa, tuxedo clenched and upright. Curtains are ajar. Footlights incarcerate him, and had he been standing before an audience of blissful deafness, it would be an excellent location for an impotent performance. He fleetingly caresses his neck, a dull ache apprehending his throat in the form of self-mockery as the conductor raises his baton, precipitating cords of Bali Ha'i to filter upwards and at him. Frank feels like Christ upon the Crucifix, awaiting John to strike nails through the palm of his hands and set him free. Or is he The Song of Lark's Thea Kronberg, stepping further and further from home to expose her talent? Does the singing give her power, or does the performance strip it away?