Everlong (Frerard One-Shot)

Shadows

The night time.

It's the most haunting dreary moment of the day. Its when the lights of homes flicker out, the air is polluted with the stench of drug fumes, and the nocturnal truths awaken from their many nooks and crannies. Drunk mouths spit out sober thoughts, and the whispers of something out of this realm of comprehension can be heard if you just concentrate hard enough.

Frank Iero isn't concentrating hard. Not hard at all. He's scrambling to, but of course he can't, because that's what this stupid damn ADHD disorder does. He can't keep still, he can't focus on his homework for shit, and not to mention he's otherwise overly paranoid about twenty million things that the common human would most likely find absolutely preposterous. Or at least, he thinks they'd think that anyway.

So Frank sits on his bed, a toppled tower of papers surrounding him.

He's flat out pissed with everything at the moment.

His grades are slipping, his friends that he thought recovered from their shit were relapsing, and he got fired from his actually decent job at the record store for cussing out a homophobic customer.

Basically, everything is falling down on Frank Iero like a bunch of bricks. The thought of a good smoke is tempting him, that god damn devil on his shoulder hissing sweet things about how it'll help him relax and let stress go. He's been clean off his possibly cancerous habit for a couple months now. Usually he can ignore the craving, by writing songs or playing his beloved guitar he calls Pansy. But he's tried that, and he's currently trying to actually be productive, but nothing is working. Nothing is working, and his thoughts are running at a million miles per hour, and Frank really just fucking needs a smoke.

So he finally gives up, heading out to his balcony, where those familiar smokey skies greet him with open arms. The stars are just blurry specks, the pollution of the city dimming their bright lights.

Under the cushion of the cheap lawn chair, lies Frank's emergency stash of cigarettes. He quickly snatches the small package from under there, fumbling with the black lighter in his pocket. He brings the death stick to his lips, sighing sadly as he inhales what would be the end of his recovering streak.

It's not only the fact that he's relapsing, but it's also that Frank himself is just flat out lonely. This is what his life has become, a cycle of the same routines and the same classes every day. For what? Frank thinks that pursuing a career in music doesn't even require a college degree. To be a real musician, all you need is creativity, rawness, and a little sparkle of talent. He doesn't see most pop stars as musicians, he sees them as puppets. He doesn't want to be that. He wants to work hard, make good rock music, tour small clubs and to just... feel accomplished and happy with his life.

But his parents practically forced him into nursing school, since it is the family profession after all. His father is an E.R surgeon, and his mother is a nurse.

This isn't even what he wants to learn about. This shit won't help him at all. Hell, he's learned more about music from his druggie friends then he has from this damn school.

There is no point, and all of the people here are pretentious assholes. His few friends were found at local punk shows in shabby bars and at the record store he used to work for.

He watches the smoke from the filthy cigarette meld with the air, and he takes another puff. The nicotine helps him relax, just like that little shit on his shoulder said it would.

What he doesn't notice are that the shadows are watching him tonight with possibly malicious intent. They whisper with one another, plotting and planning.

But Frank never knows that they're there, he's too preoccupied with his own thoughts. And it's such a shame, because maybe if he would've listened closer, he could've been cautious and prevented the catastrophe soon to arrive.