The Phoenix (Frerard)

Chapter Three

Frank's POV (Mel)

Staring at his whirring ceiling fan later that night proved to be as unappealing as a blindfolded walk through an over crowded room sprinkled with teeny Legos.

He could only think of that redhead and the way the mask on his face glittered with the brilliant reflection of the flames on his baton. The same flames that burned his fingers at the tips. Serving as a painful reminder of how often Frank bit his nails.

Frank couldn't stand being in his room any longer. He wasn't going to sleep with his mind this loud, so he drove back out to the boardwalk to clear his head- in other words, to just be more pissy.

He sat at a small, always-open cafe, grumbling to himself, as you do, being generally complainitory about that performer's ridiculous calling to be the cat that caught Frank's tongue.

Who does that stupid redhead think he is? Flirting like that in front of all of those people. The nerve of some people. Fuck that. And, God, why did Frank get all flustered and nervous? Frank never gets flustered. Especially not by a guy. What even was he thinking? That Phoenix, all highty-tighty. What a jerk!

Frank couldn't even talk back to him up on that stage, not that he would have said the things that had originally come to mind anyway. There were children present, and whether the children are growing up in Jersey or not, they don't need to hear Frank's slightly sexual comments on how The Phoenix was just gay for him.

He shook his head irritably and groaned out a couple "what the hells" before ordering a plain black coffee and pouting at his table.

He probably looked a little bit loony, considering he was sitting alone in the middle of the night, talking to himself and grouching and glaring at anything that paid him any attention.

Then, a voice from the table adjacent to him spoke up.

"Hey."

"No thanks." Frank muttered, not bothering to look at the guy.

"I'm not selling you anything." The voice said cooly. "It's 3am."

"Yes, I know what time it is." Frank sighed. "I just don't want comments on how insane I look."

"I was actually just gonna ask you if you wanted to talk about it."

Frank finally looked up at the guy, a lanky pokerfaced dude with a grown-out crew cut and pretty nice eyebrows, holding a coffee in one hand and a phone in his other.

"Why?" Frank asked.

"I'm bored and you look like you need to talk."

"Okay." Frank sighed again and moved his chair to face the guy. "I'm Frank." He said, holding out his hand.

"Mikey." The guy said, shaking his hand. "So what's up with you?"

"Well," Frank paused, nodding to the waiter who brought him his cup. "Mikey, I was on the boardwalk this afternoon and one of those performers made me get up on stage so he could 'save me' during his act, and he asked my name, and I said Frank, but he kept calling me Frankie and... sugar, and- just- ugh, I was just pissed because that guy was all, you know, like, making me feel weird." Frank ranted and ranted, though he only now realized how stupid it was that he was this riled up about it.

Mikey just nodded along, taking sips of his coffee and humming in agreement.

His pokerface faltered, breaking into a smirk for only a split second when Frank mentioned that the performer was The Phoenix during his rant.