THE ADVENTURES OF FRANK AND RYAN

4

Alright. That went way worse than expected.

His hands won't stop shaking. His knees won't stop bumping with the underside of the table. Even here, in this little alcove behind the stage, far from the audience's eyes, he feels like there are still a hundred eyes on him. Francis has always loved being the center of attention—but only when he's talking, or cracking wise. Not when he's singing.

All for a boy.

God, what must Ryan think of him? Oh haha, look at Francis Velasquez, guy who thinks just because he can belt out Celine Dion, he can start trying and serenade me with some Elvis Presley song. Haha.

He slumps in his seat, and presses his cheek to the table. His guitar case is leaning on the wall, a reminder of how much he's embarrassed himself today. He can sort of see Ryan from where he's sitting. He can see Ryan's friends. A bunch of hip and cool people hanging around with other hip and cool people. Francis is hip and cool. If he didn't fuck up so badly while singing, maybe he'd have fitted right in. Maybe he'd have been able to sit right next to them—actually, right next to Ryan—and slot himself right in the midst of their dynamic. Only if he didn't blow all of it away with this goddamn stunt.

"Seriously?" a voice that's beginning to sound increasingly familiar asks. "Elvis Presley?"

"Shut up," Francis mutters, not bothering to look away from Ryan and his friends. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"You were trying to serenade him," says Grey, as he takes the seat opposite Francis.

"I was."

"And you weren't looking at him."

"I wasn't looking at him, no."

"Are you even serious about this?" asks Grey, and Francis turns his face at the slight change of tone in Grey's voice. "Do you really want to join my band? Or is this just because you want to get into my friend's pants?"

Francis looks right into Grey's intense gaze. He's so comically serious about this whole band thing that Francis almost wants to laugh. But that would be cruel, and Francis, contrary to popular opinion, isn't cruel. He thinks, for a long moment, of whether he's up for whatever being in a band entails—practise, late night sessions, singing till his throat hurts, playing the guitar till his fingers burn, being here, every week, performing for people he'll never know. He takes Ryan out of the equation—not without difficulty—and considers it. Grey's dark eyebrows are furrowed as he waits for Francis's answer.

"Yes," Francis says, his answer muffled by the table he rests his chin on. "I'm serious about this. Even without Ryan."

"Great," Grey says. He takes in a breath, and with a pained expression, says, "You're in."

Francis lifts his head off the table. It takes him longer than it should to realize what Grey's just said.

"Did I hear that right?" he asks. "Am I dreaming?"

"You're in the band. You're our rhythm guitarist and our lead singer. You're not dreaming."

Francis blinks at Grey. Grey doesn't blink back.

"Oh my god," says Francis, his voice shaking with relief. "No way."

"Yes way," Grey says, humorlessly. "Give me your number. I need to figure out a schedule for practise."

"Oh God," says Francis. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Grey. "I'm shaking too much to write down my number. Or perform any kind of action, really. Can you just—" Francis laughs, and somewhere inside his mind, there's a part of him that's just yelling at him to stop being so embarrassing—"can you just, type in your number, or whatever?"