Frank took a deep breath as he marched into Bill's the following Saturday.

Just walk in there and act like nothing ever happened, that's the only way to do this.

He had literally been avoiding the little prick - even doing U-turns in the corridors to escape him - ever since last week when… you know.

I mean, he wasn't nervous or nothing. Just… confused. Or something. I dunno. It was weird.

But it was all the fag's fault.

Little shit.

Thankfully, as Frank stormed through the restaurant, he couldn't see any sign of him anywhere; not arrogantly leaning against the counter, not hovering incessantly about the tables, not even laughing shrilly with the cooks. Frank allowed himself a small smile. Maybe he wasn't coming in today. Maybe he was ill. Maybe he had quit. Thank fuck. Then he would never have to face him ever agai…

And Frank had spoken too soon, for as he slouched round the corner into the tiny back room where their lockers were, there he was. Fucking standing there like he fucking owned the place. Big headed wanker.

No, stop it.

Act cool.

Frank took yet another deep breath and, refusing to let his hesitation show any more than it might already have done, purposefully entered heading in a beeline for his locker, not caring if the door banged just a little bit as it swung open.

Bang! Stephen's head shot up, to see none other than Grayson storming into the back room, only slightly late. God, he was so conceited – parading around like he fucking owned the place. Urgh. What a twat.

He didn't even say anything – this could get incredibly awkward.

There was only one thing for it – do what Brits do best. Force uncomfortable small talk for the sake of socially expected politeness and decency.

Stephen internally sighed. Then:

"Hiya Grayson!" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice as pleasant as possible.

What the fuck did the bitch think he was doing? Who said that he could talk to Frank? Who said that he could greet Frank with 'Hiya'? Cocky fucker. Well. Well then. If this was how he was gonna play it.

"Alright." He returned, evenly, keeping his voice as empty as possible.

Stephen inwardly sighed – could the boy not even try? So… so… full of himself. Either way, Stephen was going to carry this through. "How's your week?"

Was he really gonna do this… Fine. "Alright." Frank stated again. There was a pause. Then. "Yours?"

"Yeh…" Stephen stuttered, shocked at the gesture. "Pretty good thanks."

"Cool."

"Yeh."

Fucking hell, this was so awkward.

"So should we…"

"Isn't it time…."

They both began at the same time.

Then they both stopped.

There was another grating pause.

And then.

"Yep."

"Ok."

Seriously? This was ridiculous. Why was the even affecting him so much? Frank internally yelled. What the fuck was this poof doing?

Well... this was just so weird, he was never usually like this? Usually he could eloquently blab his way out of anything... How was Frank Grayson having such a big affect on him that he was becoming a tongue-tied illiterate?

Together, they both turned away to hide their matching blushes, before hurriedly exiting the small room with its too close walls and too tight ceiling, nearly bumping into each other in the too thin doorway…

Fuck.

Could this get any worse?

…

Rule number one of life: never ask that question because, yes, it always can.