Most of all, he hated and loved that damn feeling that had been lingering over him all day.
And yet, so many people love this time of year. Frank never understood why they did -considering the fact his fingers were fucking frozen inside his pockets- but he never really asked either. It was people's personal shit if they liked Winter-time and, no matter what starry-eyed and happy fucking story they gave of kisses in the snow or friendships, it was none of Frank's business to try to find out. That was who he was; uncaring, lean back, full of mid-20's angst and happy he only had to deal with the weather when heading to and from work. The job he worked, he loved, at the small tattoo parlor in the center of town that always introduced him to new people and helped him expand on his own tattoo collection.
Today seemed a little different then normal to him, though. There was this weird feeling handing around in the air as he walked through the park that just made him feel...weird. His day revolved around the strange feeling, trying to shake it off and pretend this shit wasn't going on until his supervisor Ronn told him to head home. That he was too into his mind to ink today. The thought that Ronn -the man who'd worked at this shop for years and never gave a single tattoo- was giving him shit, telling him he couldn't tattoo, was ridiculous. But Frank laughed it off and shrugged.
"Alright," He said, though it was far from it. Frank let the front door crash-slam closed when he left; it wasn't like they'd fire him for it.
That feeling stuck to him as he made his way back to his shabby ass apartment just past the park. The same apartment that had barely any heating, comic-books hidden in just about every corner you can find, band flyers and drawings scattered all over the place. Not that he minded his apartment/room/whatever-mate Gerard -the guy was pretty cool- he just needed to pick up some of his shit here and there. But as Frank walked through the park to get back to that same shitty apartment, his ears heard something getting closer that was actually...pretty.
There was a voice of a woman in the air, bold and accented as it passed to him. Frank scratched his head as he looked around to see exactly it was coming from; eyes falling onto a Shapely Brunette sitting on a bench just a few feet away. Her hair was short, choppy, almost comparable to his own. Her eyes were wider then his -though the hazel-brown tint that shown from them was almost exact- though she wore thick, dark grey make up around them. A phase Frank grew out of too long ago.
Fuck, the woman could be his sister if it wasn't for that fucking accent. But before he could say anything to get her attention, her eyes locked to his and she stopped, eyebrow arching at him.
"Can I 'elp you? Or are you waiting for the grass to grow?" She asked, her voice less flowy and polite then before. Frank liked that.
"I'm waiting for you to stop singing so I can get back to my peaceful walk." He said with one of those smug smiles, which infuriated the girl. He was only joking, which he did a lot, hopefully she didn't mind too much.
Instead of going off on him like every other girl, she returned the smile with her peachy-red lips, "Well maybe you shouldn't call it a free country if t'isn't one."
"Oh?" He questioned, taking a few steps closer to the woman and holding out his arms in a grand stance, "I didn't know foreigners were part of this country."
The woman stood up, straightening out her red and black dress. The tights on her legs were now visible, abused and ripped all over in the strange new fashion craze. Her style may have been shit, but at least the girl was taking his jokes...and nice looking. Well, hot. Sort of.
"You're going to have to pull a better comeback then that, mate." She said, taking a few strong and daring steps toward Frank. "I've lived 'ere for almost ten years now, so chipper up." Those steps meant she now belonged to Frank.
He raised a single brow and shrugged his shoulder, "No idea what the fuck you're saying to me." He said, taking a few steps closer to her. "May.be.you.shouldn't.speak.like.you're.from.france." He pronounced loudly, knowing she wasn't from France but wanting to push her buttons.
"Shouldn't you be curling up in bed, letting your mother tuck you in?" She asked, dodging his last blow and taking the last step towards him. "A real man can clearly tell the bloody difference between a French bird and a strong British woman."
Being this close was either a really bad thing or a really good thing for Frank. She'd either deck him well and walk away forever, or she was letting him know she wasn't scared of him...and maybe attracted to him. Which Frank didn't mind at all, why would he? He could do a whole lot worse, that was for sure.
"Well, shouldn't you be cuddling your stuffed animals?" He asked in his own defense, gazing right into those beautiful hazel eyes of hers. "Because a real woman would have kissed me or slapped me by now."
There was a fucking smirk on the woman's lips as she shrugged her shoulders, holding a staring contest with Frank. Neither of them seemed to notice how close they really were until that moment, palms getting sweaty and teeth racking over lower lips. And that's when it hit him, her lips on his. The soft and silky flesh pressed against his lips, both sides obviously enjoying it, in a beautiful fucking moment before she pulled back.
"Name's Lily." She whispered, slipping a slip of paper into Frank's jacket pocket. "Lily Allen. And you'd betta be at my doorstep this evening or I'll whack your face off." She said with a smile, obviously teasing.
"Frank." He smiled back, "And I'd be a fucking idiot not to."
With one more smile from those peachy-red lips of Lily's, she made her way off to the opposite side of the park. In a hurry, Frank pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket to see if it was real, if she was real. Sure enough, in printed and professional wording was, 'Lily Allen. 1622 West Avenue, New York.' and at the bottom, 'Freelance Fashion Designer'. Maybe Frank could help her not rip a few pairs of her tights later, or put more holes into the damn things if they got in his way. Either way, he was glad he'd been walking through the park when he was, a little happy to have met Lily Allen with her British Accent and shiny black high-heels.
Most of all, he hated and loved that damn feeling that had been lingering over him all day. Without it, he wouldn't have met the woman who he'd one day purpose to, the woman who'd tie him to the bed and make sure he was secure before nodding her head. The same woman he'd fight with, make up with, love, make love to and love for the rest of his life.
That feeling, as far as he was concerned, was the greatest shit to ever happen to him. Besides Lily Rose Allen.