Frank listened as Gerard's footsteps receded through the halls. He had no idea where he was going. Presumably to get some air, or take a walk to clear his head. He allowed his legs to slowly cease supporting him, sliding slowly downward with his back pressed against the door, shirt catching slightly on the peeling paint. He sat on the scuffed wood floor, head between his hands.

He reflected on how he had gotten here. Before he had ever met Gerard. His mind flashed back to his childhood. Sun-filled memories danced around his mind, half-remembered jokes and scuffed up knees. The pair of shoes they had soaked in gasoline and set fire to that summer night, holeing up in snow forts for hours. The games of hide and seek in the abandoned houses after dark, the lectures they received upon coming home. So many brilliant memories. He half smiled to himself as he reminisced. Tears welled up in his eyes. God, he was pathetic. He leaned his head forcefully against the door, a dull thump reverberating through the room. The drop ceiling swam with patterns created by the pooling tears. He felt them stinging hot against his windburned cheeks but didn't care. Nobody was there to see him. He didn't have to be the strong one.

He really was the happy go lucky man he appeared to be on stage. The boundless energy wasn't an act fabricated for the fans. The mischief pulled using the dead mikes, that was all authentic troublemaking, copyright Frank Iero.

But appearing to be problem-free had its downsides. It opened him up to be an automatic consultant for anyone feeling unhappy, or worried, or scared. This was true from the time children began trusting their problems to other children. Since grade school, his friends would often choose to unload on him, rant to him. He wasn't entirely sure why. He was none the wiser, he was only another face in school or on the playground. But he listened attentively, helped them as best he could. Underneath the loud and rambunctious kid he had been, there was always a constant subroutine of concern. He saw the painted on smiles, heard the forced laughs. Even when the act was nearly flawless, he knew better. He worried.

Frank stood up. He needed to move, he couldn't just sit here. Drawing a shaky breath, he walked through the apartment without any real intent on doing anything. His mind was in the past.

He was five years old, staying with a relative a few hours from home. The sun was hot on the skin against the back of his neck. He played with the neighborhood boys, kids he hardly saw but during holidays and sporadic weeks in the summer. But it didn't matter, they were still friends. They had gone on an expedition into a wooded double lot armed with a small, dull pickaxe in search of a fallen log to chop into pieces. Being boys, they weren't content to simply cut a rotting stump. No, they had far more ambition than that. The axe proved to be too dull to cut any standing trees, only chipping the bark and bruising the soft interior. The little tool then became a throwing axe. They would climb a few branches into a tree, and then throw the axe into the ground with as much force as their skinny little arms could muster, attempting to sink it into the ground as far as possible

That's when they discovered the fabulous effect of flint and steel.

In throwing their new toy into the ground, it came in contact with a rock. Their eyes lit up as sparks flew at the impact zone. They had excitedly picked up both the rock and the axe, the two oldest boys rushing to take it back to the nearest garage for experimentation

Frank had fallen slightly behind the group, talking lightheartedly with his then-best-friend of the group. He was a boy a few years older than himself. He was tall, freckled with rusty brown hair and brilliant green eyes. He had the slightly bucktoothed appearance of someone in the awkward stage just before losing their last baby tooth. He was ten, perhaps? Age didn't matter in this group. It didn't have to.

They started out innocently enough, taking a detour to visit the little creek that ran through the lots. It was amazing how a few trees could create an oasis in suburbia that seemed endless. They sat on the bank and talked as the minutes slipped past unnoticed, the sun meandering across the sky as if it didn't quite remember where it was going. Frank loved days like these.

But then everything changed. Whispered threats, the flash of green eyes. The feeling of skin on skin, he didn't understand why this was happening-

Frank forced himself back to reality with a sharp gasp. He was done with this. He had been hovering somewhere between closure and disaster for years. He couldn't afford to fall into relapse.

He walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. As long as Gerard wasn't here, he might as well use his shower to avoid any potentially awkward flirting and conversation later that day. Frank let the water burn into his skin, keeping the heat on so high it actually became painful. He relished the feeling of the burning, the steam rising around him. Without warning, he turned the stream as cold as it could be. His skin broke out in goosebumps. He gritted his teeth, denying himself the right to shiver.

He was in control. He had to be.