ONE: Vanilla on My Hands

2: When a Date is as Painful as Pulling Teeth

Yeah, Frank was late, he was totally late no matter how you wanted to see it. And it was by about fifteen minutes, not exactly a train smash by normal standards, but this wasn't normal standards. It was a Tuesday. He cursed under his breath as he glanced at the clock on the dashboard of his car, the mental image of Ryan pacing in the kitchen ran through his mind.

Frank wasn't usually late; he wasn't the most punctual of human beings but he kept himself somewhat in check. Especially Tuesday. Usually, he kept track. Usually, he tried not to get too deeply involved with work so late in the day but he had delved into the latest article, and by the time he looked up from the screen again, everyone had already left for the day. He knew he had literally discarded his work at his desk, not bothering to pack away, barely remembering to take his phone and wallet in his hasty scramble to get out to his car so that he could race home and try and save himself from his boyfriend's disapproving scowl.

It was when Frank had been caught by his fourth red traffic light in a row, slamming on the brakes as he stared at the crimson light, did he begin to think that the universe was really out to get him.

Frank had eventually managed to get home, only after another ten minutes, however, making his total tally even more of a thorn on Ryan's curvy side. He forced his key into the door and pushed it open, surprised that his force didn't snap the key entirely. He waltzed into the house and looked around, breathless and panting, as he held a forming stitch in his side from the jog he had endured- the short distance from car to house had never seemed too far to him before. He pulled his shoulder bag off from across his chest and with a heady breath and tossed it aside onto the sofa. He turned on his heel and put his keys in the bowl. No Ryan in sight. Not good.

He walked into the kitchen and sucked his breath back in sharply when he saw Ryan sitting at the table, arms folded tightly across his chest, dark brown eyes trained and eyebrow cocked up with a deviously-irritated curiosity. Frank could only imagine that Ryan was sitting and waiting for whatever reason he had to scramble for, and Frank could only offer a weak and apologetic smile in return. 

After all, it was a Tuesday, it was date night. The one night a week that they had decided to dedicate to each other and themselves. And with Ryan being... Ryan, he was naturally the timekeeper between the two, the organizer, the so-called housewife. And by God, was wifey going to have their date night go as planned. And Frank knew it, too.

Frank looked at Ryan and pointed to the door with his thumb over his shoulder as the latter remained unmoving from his chair, except his eyes. Those eyes, so perceptive and hawk-like when they wanted to be, but so doe-like and so enticing at the same time that you couldn't help but be drawn into the chocolate irises much like Frank was.

"Fuck, babe, I'm so damn sorry." Frank apologized instantly, hitting that dulcet plead in his tone, internally hoping that Ryan wouldn't be mad at him, "I-I got caught up at work. I was reading this article on political outstands in Uganda for my article and-"

Ryan raised a hand, "It's fine," He sighed out, smiling softly, a relieving sight to Frank, "I assumed you were running late anyway."

"The traffic was erroneous, dude. I kept hitting the-"

"Oh, my God. Will you relax?" Ryan cut him off midstream, unfurled his arms from his chest, a graceful action that matched literally everything that he ever did, and tucked a flyaway stray curl back behind his ear, "I don't need the gory details. You're here now so it's fine, sweetheart."

"I'd be mad at me if I were you," Frank muttered as he wandered to the fridge and opened it, stealing a bottle of water.

"Well, I'm me and I'm not mad." Ryan reassured as Frank took a long swig of water, "Let's not ruin the evening."