You Can't Push It Underground

Frank wakes up to Brendon lying on his living room floor, and that is always the best way to wake up. Or at least the most amusing.

“Why the fuck are you on my floor,” Frank asks.

“I think I decided that trying to drive home was too arduous,” Brendon says, “and I may have had a bottle of Kahlua.”

“I didn’t know I had any Kahlua.”

“It could have been vodka,” Brendon says.

“You’re lying to me, aren’t you? You just ate way too many Oreo’s and wanted me to think you were more hardcore than that. You OD’d on fucking cookies,” Frank says, though he’s not doing much better, he’s lying across his couch with a bag of potato chips stuck to his face.

“That’s absolutely not true,” Brendon says, while Frank peels the bag off his face.

“Oh really?”

“It was Pringles, not Oreo’s.”

“You’re such a fucking loser,” Frank states, while watching Brendon pull himself up onto his feet.

“I am a particularly passionate partygoer.”

“You’re an absurd alliterative asshole,” Frank answers.

“Yep, did Gerard ask you out last night?” Brendon asks, catching Frank a bit off guard.

“Did Gerard do what?”

Brendon rolls his eyes, “Did. Gerard. ask. you. out?”

“Was he supposed to? Why would I tell you,” Frank asks.

“You tell me everything,” Brendon says, “and he should’ve. So did he or didn’t he?”

“Well he gave me his number, but-”

“Then you should ask him out.”

“But I don’t like him.”

“Right, and I don’t like junk food,” Brendon mocks, “just ask him out. For coffee. Or a movie. Or something.”

“But I don’t want to,” Frank says.

“Yes you do.”

“No I don’t,” Frank answers.

“Yes you do,” Brendon replies.

“No I don’t,” Frank says.

“C’mon, Frank.”

“Alright fine, maybe a little bit, but I don’t like him.”

“No you just really want to hang out with him, and maybe kiss him,” Brendon says.

“Exactly. No wait,” Frank frowns, “I hate you.”

“I know, and I accept that,” Brendon says, “just ask him out.”

“How do I do that though? I’ve never asked anyone out!” Frank says.

“Well you got his number, right?” Brendon asks, and Frank nods, “well you call that number and say ‘do you want to go out sometime?’ and then you wait for him to respond and you make detailed plans to meet at a predetermined location.”

“That sounds difficult,” Frank says, grabbing his phone.

“No, it’s not,” Brendon says, and grabs Frank’s phone.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Frank scrambles up and tries to grab the phone from his friend.

“I’m going to do step one for you, and actually call Gerard,” Brendon says, scrolling through the contact list.

“No, I haven’t planned anything to say, give it back!”

“Okay,” Brendon answers, but not before pressing the call button, and the dial tone has already started by the time Frank gets it back.

“What did you do?” Frank asks.

“Called Gerard for you, you’re welcome,” Brendon says.

“No! Dude. What?” Frank tries to say.

“Just talk to Gerard,” he says, and Frank puts the speaker to his ear to hear that it’s still ringing.

“I need to put a lock on my phone,” Frank grumbles, but he doesn’t cancel the call, though he’s not sure why.

“Yeah, you probably do.”

“I fucking hate you,” he says just as someone picks up.

“What?”

“No! Not you. Brendon, he stole my phone,” Frank says, because that was Gerard, and he just accidentally told Gerard that he hated him and he really didn’t mean to do that.

“I did not steal your phone, I borrowed it,” Brendon says.

“You’re an asshole,” Frank says, covering the speaker, “hi, sorry.”

“What was that about?” Gerard asks.

“Brendon took my phone and called you, and now he’s looking at me and it’s freaking me out,” Frank says.

Brendon mouths the words, ‘just ask him,’ to which Frank responds with a selective finger.

The doorbell rings then and Frank can hardly keep all everything straight. Brendon stole his phone, and now Gerard is on the other end, while his neighbors are at the door.

“Here, Brendon, you called Gerard,” Frank hands the phone to him, “I’ll get the door.”

“No, I’ll get the door,” Brendon says trying to give the phone back.

Frank is already stepping into the entrance hall though when he says, “too late. Apologize to Gerard for calling him.”

“I will do no such thing,” Brendon calls back, but he decides to tune Brendon out when Frank answers the door.

Mr. Sinclair has his signature style of khaki’s and a T-shirt, while his wife reeks of fabric softener in her generic garage sale attire.

“Hello neighbors, what can I do for you today?”

“Someone puked on our lawn,” Mrs. Sinclair says with daggers in her eyes.

“Really? Well now isn’t that a bummer. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure it’s not oatmeal?” Frank asks.

“Yes, I am sure,” Mr. Sinclair says.

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe next time, try to keep your guests a little more under control,” Frank says cheerily.

“It wasn’t a guess of ours who did it,” she says.

“Well I certainly don’t know who could’ve done it.”

“You told us this would happen!”

“Hm, but do you have any proof? Unless you can prove to me that one of my friends puked on your lawn, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be skeptical,” Frank says, making his acting stale to annoy them as much as he can.

“We want you to take care of it,” Mrs. Sinclair says.

“Oh sorry, I can’t do that. You see, the whole property line thing makes it not my problem.”

“But-”

“I’m sorry, you were the ones who wanted me to abide by the property line weren’t you. You were the ones who yelled at me when my untrimmed grass was infringing on your lawn, so if you honestly care that much about the institution of that distinct property line, than you will understand why I’ll let you take care of the puke on your side of it,” Frank says.

“It was one of your guests that made the mess!”

“Yes so you say, but as I stated before, I don’t see any proof of that,” Frank answers, and then calls behind him, “Brendon, did you puke in the Sinclair’s yard?”

“Nope!” he says. Frank can hear him still talking though, so he’s probably still on the phone with Gerard, and Frank sighs.

“Yeah, than I’m afraid I’m going to say you two should take responsibility,” Frank smiles plastically. He is passive aggressive sure, but those two have done far more to make his life hard than he has done in return. Call this returning the favor.

“Now we both know who’s at fault here,” Mr. Sinclair says.

“Do we now?” Frank asks, mocking curiosity, “I’ll tell you what. You get Benedict Cumberbatch or Robert Downey Jr. over here to confirm that the vomit on your yard is, in fact, through my own fault, then I will clean it up. Until then however, I’ll let you take care of it.”

They both open their mouths as if Frank had just said the most horrendous swear word known to mankind, and he grins at them.

“If that’ll be all, I really do have some Satan worshiping I would like to get back to,” Frank states, and then slams the door shut in front of him.

“You have a date with Gerard!” Brendon yells as Frank enters back into the living room.

“I have a what?”

“A date with Gerard, you have.”

“Yeah shut up, Yoda,” Frank says, turning his back to Brendon to hide the fact that he’s smiling a little bit. “And when is this date?”

“Tonight, and you’re going to take him to a nice restaurant,” Brendon says firmly.

“I don’t even know any nice restaurants. What’s a nice restaurant?”

“One where the signature dish on the menu has no deep-fried components,” Brendon says.

Frank makes a face, “So does that mean he likes me? I mean, it’s not like I like him or anything, because I don’t, but does he like me?”

“Yes, Frank,” Brendon says, grabbing Frank’s shoulder, “He likes you. Stop denying it, you like him too.”

“But I-”

“I will pay for your meal, Frank, if you admit that you like Gerard.”

“What, really?” Frank asks.

“Yes,” Brendon says, exasperatedly. He is sick of Frank negating that he’s totally crushing on Gerard.

“Okay, well I like him. I like him a lot. I like Gerard so much that every time he talks to me, I get goose bumps, and I can’t help it. He makes me crazy,” Frank says, barely containing the part where he direly wants to say ‘there are you happy now?’

Brendon grins, “I fucking knew it.”