Remember

The smell takes over Quinn’s nose, suffocating him, making it feel as if his lungs were squeezing squeezing squeezing, until they were about to burst, and he wouldn’t be able to ever breathe again. It’s salty and thick and humid. He can hear the waves below, crashing against the shore violently, then sinking back into the mass body of water.

He used to love it, the waves, the sand making his toes sink even further into the earth, tickling the bottoms of his feet happily, the foamy salt-water lapping against his ankles as if they were trying to bring him down and make him sink. He loved the feeling of the sun beating down on him, making warmth spread throughout his body and make his blood tremble.

He flicks his cigarette out into the sand, and watches it burn out quickly. He checks his watch again and looks back up, searching for him. He’s waited for thirty minutes now, and he’s desperate to get out; run to his car and lock himself in it, driving for hours and hours trying to get rid of the ocean scene. The sun was burning through his t-shirt and into his back, desperately trying to anger him even more, and the sand felt hot; the blister your feet hot. It wasn’t how he remembered it; but then, nothing was. Not the ocean, not the town, not the people, not… not him. Not him, with his pretty olive eyes and his shiny hair, his nimble guitarist-like fingers, the tattoos. Those were the same, yes, but his personality was so much different. He missed the old one, his ex-boyfriend who would laugh and smile and accept dares in hardly three seconds flat.

Different was different. It was unsettling and strange and almost isolated; he felt alone. His insides felt cold, his skin was numb, and his bones felt brittle with this new life to come back to. When he’d first gotten back, he called him, begging to meet him somewhere, and he flat out refused. Quinn smiles just then, remembering Frank’s stubbornness. That was something that most certainly had not changed. And finally, at 3 a.m. Tuesday when Quinn stumbled into the run-down shitty apartment drunkenly, he played the messages back, and Frank’s voice echoed around, stating that he’d meet Quinn, sure. Quinn had only laughed, thrown up, and then passed out, but in the morning when he woke up he couldn’t believe that he’d really agreed to meet him.

Still, here he is, sitting on the beach, licking his dry lips and clawing at his wrists, begging God for him not to show up magically. Quinn laughs, nails scraping a chalkboard, and bites his lip. His skin itches, like it’s pulling away from muscle and bone bitterly; like it’s waiting for him to fall apart. He predicts it won’t be long.

Something taps him on the shoulder for a whole second and he jumps, standing up and turning around quickly. All the sudden, he feels almost faint, as if he was in denial, and now, here was living proof of that fact he was really seeing him again. His fingers tremble, making his whole body shake. “F-Frankie…”

Frankie cringes at the sound of Quinn’s voice, Quinn can see the hurt nostalgic look in those big olive eyes, and he mentally kicks himself in the ass. He never meant to hurt him. Not ever not once not at all. But Frankie wouldn’t believe that, not now. Not ever. “Quinn,” he nods. For some reason, the cold tone of voice makes it Quinn’s turn to cringe. He never used to say it like that.

Silence takes over and suddenly Quinn feels like the ocean is drowning him, pulling him down down down, faster and faster, filling his lungs up with the bitter salt-water, and making his breath disappear. He hates it so bad, but he doesn’t know what else to say. So he chews on his lip and prays and prays that Frank will.

Frank fidgets with his pockets and his shirt hem, then pulls out his cigarettes. “Want one?” he whispers to Quinn softly, and Quinn shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Quinn, what do you want?” Frank asks him, his voice raising high over the waves.

One time Quinn and Frank went to the ocean for a vacation. They got up early – when it was still dark – and made their way to the beach with candles and blankets; they lay there whispering and talking until the sky turned colours, pinkish and caramel, the sun sneaking it’s way up, until it was high high high in the sky; then Frank kissed Quinn, his eyes glistening with happiness as his tongue snuck into Quinn’s mouth twisting with the other boy’s. Quinn remembers how Frank tasted that morning, like nicotine and strawberries, as they made slow soft love underneath the watchful eye of the sun. Then Quinn rested his head on Frank’s chest, right on his heart, and heard it flutter like a hummingbird. Quinn knew then he’d never love anybody else, not ever.

Quinn trips over this sentence and opens and closes his mouth. His eyes shimmer with frustration. “I-I don’t k-know,” he confesses, looking out to the waves.

He remembers how later on in the afternoon, they played tag all the way back up to the hotel, and stumbled into the bedroom kissing, exploring the other’s body all over again happily, how the humid air felt so nice later on, when they were tangled in each others arms, falling asleep, drunk on each other. He remembers how he heard the waves then, and he knew there’d be no other place as special as this one. He remembers it all, and he drinks in the memory so soberly now, wishing it could happen again, but knowing it can’t.

“God damn it , Quinn,” Frank whispers, kicking at the sand. “You’re so… fucking complicated. Why don’t I get you? Why do you do these things?”

Quinn ponders these questions, wondering if they were rhetorical or meant to be answered; wondering if they were shot out into the air and meant to hurt him. He digs his nails into his palms and gnaws on the inside of his cheek. His throat feels like it’s on fire, like somebody poured acid down his throat and watch him get tortured. “I…” he trails off leaving it open-ended.

Frank looks away, lip quivering, and shakes his head, laughing. “God, you make it so hard to like you, anymore, Quinn. You’re so fucking clueless, is the problem. So fucking helpless and clueless and pitiful.” He spits it out and almost immediately wishes he hadn’t, the words turning the car into overdrive.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Quinn whispers, standing up. He paces back and forth a few feet.

He remembers last winter, when they rented a beach house and snuggled by the fire, night after night, living in peace and quiet, the waves the only music or entertainment they had with them, then. He closes his eyes and blocks the salt-water that’s threatening to spill.

Memories are bittersweet, filled with good and bad omens; but they’re the only thing he has to grasp onto anymore, he realises, as Frank stands up as well. He shakes his head, hair falling into his pretty eyes, and turns towards the parking lot. “I… I can’t do this with you, Quinn; Christ, you fucked me up so bad,” he mumbles. So when he’s the one who walks away this time, Quinn falls onto the sand, and cries hard, the tears drowning him and the sobs deafening him. He’s there until after dark, only he stops crying then, in an allofthesudden numbness. The same things keep echoing through his mind, memories after memories and voice after voice, all leading back to Frankie – his Frankie. It makes his head swell up and hurt, like it might burst. He suddenly has that sharp strong urge to swallow a whole bottle of aspirin and sleep everything away.

Impossible.

To forget Frank; to forget his taste, touch, feel, voice, all of it altogether is abso-fucking-lutely impossible, and even the biggest dumb ass in the world – Quinn realises with shame – would be fucking stupid to throw it all away like he had. He made a silent decision that he should’ve shot himself months ago. Letting someone like Frank go deserved a death sentence, guaranteed.

He stumbles along the pathway to his car and then goes home. He drinks and drinks and drinks until he’s so wasted everything is a big blur, smudges of red and green and purple and black and grey and white. And even then, he still knows how to walk, even though he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to know how to walk or talk or think. He’s lost his nerve, he’s lost his will to live, and he fucking knows it; fucking hates it.

A string of curse words echo through his head. Fuckshitdamnfuck a duck; he giggles. It’s only then in his drunken stupor he notices he’s sprawled out on the floor, a mess of garbage, leftovers and empty cheap whiskey bottles surrounding him. He stumbles around a bit, before he finds himself dizzily on his feet.

He trips his way down the steps and along the sidewalks, trying his very hardest to save himself when he feels he’s starting to fall (though, he spent five minutes trying to stand back up when he did finally fall), and finally he reaches the cream coloured house and falls up the steps to the door. Once he’s there, he’s almost sober enough to realise what a mistake he’s about to make, but it does it anyways. He pounds on the door and keeps pounding, even though it’s whatthefuckever time in the morning, until a hall light flicks on, and the click of the door unlocking sounds in his ears. He looks up at Frankie – his Frankie, and grins, falling through the doorway. “Quinn, what the fuck? - Oh, my God, you’re trashed.” he mutters when it hits him.

And all Quinn can say is, “Y-yeah,” with that fucking stutter, and a giggle. Frank pulls him up by his arms and drags him into the living room. He flicks a light on, blinding the other boy. “Owww,” he slurs, bringing his hands up to his face and covering his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” Frank hisses.

“M-mistake,” he mumbles under his breath. “I made m-mistakes, and th-the fucking m-memories don’t ever d-disappear,” he continues rambling on about things Frank hates talking about. “F-Frankie, mine, mine.” As he passes out, it’s like he doesn’t even know who he is, where he is, who he’s with.

Frank sits with him, while he’s passed out, and watches him. The boy starts murmuring in his sleep, nightmares invading his mind. He sits down on the floor next to him, and runs his hands through his hair, trying to soothe him. “Shh,” he mumbles, kissing his forehead.

“F-Frankie,” he murmurs in his sleep, panic arising. His arms flail around, and he tries to toss and turn. “Frankie, nooo, please, don’t go,” he whimpers, and then Frank’s had enough. He shakes him awake frantically.

“Quinn! Quinn Allman, wake the fuck up!” he growls, and Quinn’s eyes open, shining with almost-soberness, and immense sadness. Then they widen, and he sits up.

“F-Frank, I…”

“Do you know what time it is?” Frank asks stubbornly, crossing his arms, kicking at the carpet and standing up. “Do you know how wasted you are? Do you know what kind of fucking destruction you’ve caused? You god damned bastard!” He continued exploding, until his breaths are totally uneven, and his chest is heaving.

Quinn is speechless. He knows that whatever chance he ever had before, he’s surely fucked it up, now. His nails start to dig into his arm, and he tries to stop the tears; he’s cried e-fucking-nough tonight. “Frank-“

“Quinn, you’re so messed up,” he shakes his head. “You’re so messed up. I don’t understand you. I mean, I’ve tried, I’ve honest to god tried, but you just… you… I loved you,” he whispers. “I really really loved you, and I really really had everything with you, and all of the sudden, you were gone.”

And then Quinn breaks. He really breaks, with tears and blood and shards of sharp pointy angry glass; he breaks so fast Frank doesn’t even have time to blink before he’s on the floor in a heap of tears and sobs all over again. “I-I didn’t – I-I just, I was-“

“Killing me?” Frank growls. “We you trying to destroy me, trying to kill me, did you want to see me hurt? Because ,fuck, Quinn, I was; I really was.”

Quinn shudders and shakes his head, “no, no, that wasn’t it.” Because it wasn’t, he was only trying to do good, only trying to give Frankie – his Frankie – what he truly deserved, a good life, a decent person. He remembers when Frankie told him that he was the only one, how it broke his heart because he felt like he wasn’t good enough – he’d never be good enough. Never not ever in a million years.

“Quinn,” Frank whispers, Quinn almost can’t hear it, but he does, he can’t miss out on the beautiful chilling voice. “Quinn, do you know how trashed you were – how trashed you still are?”

“S-sorry.”

“Let me take you home,” the boy’s voice is so very distant, a thousand miles away in a happier land where he can wrap Quinn in his arms and forgive him easily for all the hurt and trouble he’s caused.

In the car, Quinn sleeps, his head against the window, breathing even and soft, tiny snores escaping his mouth. And then the nightmares come, seep into his mind like monsters, claw at him until he’s bleeding and shattered, screaming and begging God to make it better. Frank shakes him awake, and he sits up, a silent scream still etched into his features. “You were… you were talking about monsters.”

He stares blankly into Frank’s green eyes, and watches them shiver with emotion under his gaze. It’s only then he realises that Frank’s scared of him, scared of his touch and his voice and his face; scared because he might hurt him again. And then he reaches out his hand, and touches the other boy’s face, runs his fingertips along it, watching him shudder. Frank closes his eyes and lets his breathing go slack. Then Quinn’s cold lips are on Frank’s warm ones, moving slowly, and Frank can’t catch his breath even if he tries, because this is what he’s wanted for so fucking long now. His tongue sneaks into Quinn’s mouth and explores the cavern, all the tiny crevices, and he remembers his taste, relishes in it for just that one minute, before he pulls away and the oxygen rushes back making him dizzy.

“No,” he gasps, and trembles. “Quinn, fuck, no.”

Quinn goes weak at the knees, even though he’s sitting. “D-do you remember when we w-went to the ocean for Christmas?” he stutters. “Y-you said that you’d never l-love anyone else. And that scared me, because I’m not good enough, fuck, I was never good enough for you, but it seemed like… like you were the only one who couldn’t see that, Frankie.”

Frank looks away, he gets out of the car, where it’s pouring down rain, and Quinn follows him, calling his name and begging him to say something. All the sudden, Frank turns around and pins Quinn against the car. “Don’t fucking ask me to forgive you, Quinn,” he growls, the sound low in his throat. Quinn feels sick, all the sudden, his stomach is churning and flipping and twisting, and he feels like he might throw up. Frank’s lips are on his neck, his face, his chest, completely avoiding his lips, but going everywhere else.

But it’s not good enough – it’s never not ever good enough, for Quinn, or for Frankie – his Frankie, who’s pulling Quinn’s shirt off, and pulling him into the backseat of the car, dripping sweat and acidic rain water. Quinn’s remembering every curve and every hollow part of Frank’s body all over again, as he pulls his shirt off, throwing it up front with his own. He’s remembering the feel of his lips as Frank tears his jeans off, then his own, and thrusts into him roughly. Don’t ask me to forgive you, and they both know he hasn’t, as Quinn screams his name and Frankie swears, and tears drip down their faces mixing in with the sweat.

The thunder pounds against the car as they hold onto each other, cling for dear life. “I’ll never forgive you,” he murmurs, “never not ever.”

“I love you,” Quinn whimpers back. Silence fills them up bitterly for all of thirty Godforsaken seconds, and then Frank sits up, and he puts his shirt back on, and he smiles sadly.

“I know,” he says, and then he drives Quinn home.

Quinn remembers when they said goodbye, when Quinn told Frankie how much he loved him, but how wrong he was for him. And then he left town, he didn’t come back for what seemed like forever, he became a steady alcoholic, the path of self-destruction looking so beautiful and welcoming all the sudden. He remembers how Frankie sobbed for him to turn around and forget that he ever said that; remembers how his feet trembled with every step he took, but he still never turned around, still never bothered to glanced back, even though he should have. He remembers that in those five minutes, he ruined two lives, and he could never not ever piece them back together.

He’s remembering all of that and everything else now, as Frank gives him a soft kiss and lets him out the car, as Frank says goodbye this time, and this time means for good. This time means don’t show up on his doorstep wasted, this time means no more car fucks, this time means goodbye goodbye goodbye. This time means Frankie doesn’t love him anymore.

He remembers everything, and he’ll remember this.