frerard oneshots

Italian Restaurants

a/n: i didn't edit so chew me out if it's shit. there will probably be spelling errors, i was just in a rush to get this up.

i'm also drowning in drafts, like,,

:)))

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It's always -you're taking the job whether you like it or not. And parents are like this, especially my dad. My family owns this semi-famous Italian restaurant in Kearny, New Jersey that usually gets new people every once a week. It was way popular in the 19th century and what not. It's still passing through the family, on and on, and right now, our family is stuck with it. Not that my family minds, my dad loves it and he tells me that one day I'll be taking over the restaurant.

But that's not going to happen. It seems close and obvious, but I'm not going to let it happen. The thing also is that there's no other kid to take over. You see, of course we're Italian and it runs in the family, blah blah blah it's important. But I'm not taking it over. I'm clusmy, I'm bad at cooking and I'm not meant to be stumbling around with arms full of plates of pasta.

No, I wasn't an Italian, I was a musician. I was going to be a musician and pursue my dream without my family's business get in my way.

I was going to go on tour, jump around on stage, have fans and play guitar all day, every day.

"Anthony!"

I turned my head on a swivel.

"Are you done yet?"

I glanced down at the charred meatballs and frowned, a big look of disappointment crossing my dad's face.

He just shook his head, starting to come through the doors.

"Frank!" I yelled, trying to get his attention.

"That's dad to you," he corrected, coming through the push doors and pushing me away from the ruined meat.

I shook my head without him noticing and let him do his cooking thing.

"I'm not doing this for the rest of my life-"

"You're not being a musician, either." His words didn't shock me too much, he's said them too often. But they still ticked me off to the same level every time. My blood boiling and vocal chords yearning to let out screams of protest.

"Yes, I am," I muttered through gritted teeth, trying not to chew him out.

"It's Italian tradition and we're not letting some punk kid of ours ruin it! Are you ashamed of this family?! That you're an Italian and it's all you'll ever be?"

"You don't get it," I scoffed, biting at my nails. He just ignored me, fixing the food and quickly handing it to my mom to take out to the people awaiting on the other side. My mom gave us a suspicious look and raised one of her eyebrows at me.

"You too. Leave each other alone."

My dad muttered something under his breath, only making me more angry. I swear if I didn't do something I was going to lose my shit.

"Do you not understand?!" I yelled at him, making him pause and turn, staring at me under those constant hard eyes of his, that looks calmed only in the right lighting. "What does music mean to you, hm?! Nothing! Shit, that's what! It means everything to me! I'm not good at this and I'll never be! I'm a musician."

"You're an Italian," He mumbled, turning around and walking out.

I can't believe it, it's like he gets his head shoved even further up his ass every day. I threw off the uniform, rushing out and heading toward my car. I was going home.