XOXO// Frank Iero

Ten

Kit

Sunday

I woke before Frank, which gave me time to grab my bag and go to the bathroom. I had brought a comfier, less slutty and cold change of clothes— My baggy Misfits zip up and some ripped jeans. It was warm outside, but not warm enough that I wanted to wear shorts again.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and made an audibly disgusted noise. Yesterday's makeup was crumby on my face, and I had nothing to take it off with. I looked around the bathroom and didn't see anything I could use. I saw men's body wash, men's deodorant and men's razors, but nothing feminine. In fact, there was only two toothbrushes, one black and one red. I considered that Frank's mother probably had an ensuite that she used, or a separate bathroom, because there was no proof that she even existed here in this one.

Unable to remove my makeup, I just topped it up with what I had in my bag. It almost looked as fresh as yesterday, but it was slightly more tired looking, around the eyes especially.

I packed up my stuff and walked back to Frank's room in my socks, where he was still asleep. He looked quite peaceful, his cheek squished up against the pillow, his duvet pulled up high over his shoulders.

His lack of awakeness gave me a lot of time to think. I wondered if he had a crush on me. He never really complimented me or tried to
flirt, he was just quite kind. From what I had gathered, Frank was the type of guy to flirt with a girl if he liked her. His directness with the kiss at The Hive told me that if he wanted it again, he would've. I sighed. Did I have a crush on Frank? Or did I just think he was a very attractive, talented guy that I would like to kiss and go on dates with? My ability to stay in denial is by far one of my greatest skills.

"Frank?" I gently tapped his shoulder.

It didn't take much for him to wake up. His eyes looked smaller than before. He rubbed them and shook his head, the right side of his head had fluffed up hair from sleeping on it.

"Good Morning." I smiled, sitting down next to him.

"Fuck- What time is it?" His disoriented state is gone and now he's in pure panic, hopping out of bed.

"It's like 11:30, what's the panic?" I held my hands up in defence.

"I have rehearsal in half an hour- shit, shit, shit." He ruffled his hair in an attempt to make it fall nicely, before pulling his t- shirt over his head.

He had a pumpkin tattooed on his upper back, a flame on the left half of his chest, where his heart would be, and what I could only assume was an anchor on his right bicep. I stared. It took him less than ten seconds to go from his mirror to his wardrobe to put on a new t-shirt, but it felt like forever watching his tanned torso move in almost a dance-y fashion across the room. He pulled on a white "The Cramps" T-shirt and I laughed to myself. I loved The Cramps.

He bent down to the lower half of his wardrobe and grabbed a bullet belt and a pair of jeans, which he left the room to put on. I could hear his belt jingling in the hall, and he came back in in what felt like world record time.

"I've gotta get a bus to the city, to Tim's house. You're welcome to come, we just have to be really fucking fast." His cheeks are red, and he's annoyed, he was doing the thing he did the night before where he doesn't meet my eyes.

He rushed to put on his boots, gritty black combats, frustratedly groaning when he couldn't get the zip up. Ironically, I, who took my time— had my shoes on before him. When he finally got the zipper to comply, I let out the laugh I was holding. He just rolled his eyes at me before running down the stairs.

"You can come back and get your bag later, just bring your self for now." He called up at me. I said okay, and followed behind him.

He grabbed his house key from a small dish sitting on the hall's shelf, tossing it in the air and holding the door open for me, all in one quite smooth action.

The sun was belting down once again, I smiled as it hit my skin. The bus stop was about a ten  minute stroll from Frank's. The next bus was at 11:50, and it was now 11:46. Frank looked at me, then back down at his phone, then back at me before shoving his phone into his pocket.

"I should've got my fucking license!" Was the last thing he said before he grabbed my wrist and started running.

I ran too, my pockets jangling with coins and keys, his making a similar sound. I laughed out loud, my pounds on the pavement making my laughs sound shaky. Frank, was not laughing and didn't seem to find any humour in our little running extravaganza, so I refrained from telling him that he didn't have his guitar on his back for band practice, in case he squeezed my wrist so tight that my hand fell off.

As we approached the bus stop, I stole a glance at Frank. His face was flushed with exertion, his eyes fixed on the approaching bus. Almost as if the heavens opened up and god himself had driven that bus like a Hot Wheels car, it pulled up right beside us just in time.

We were breathless, and now Frank too was laughing.

"It's too hot to be running that fast." I said, turning to face him. He'd once again stolen the window seat, that I believed I rightfully was owed a turn of. 

"You'd be surprised how many times I've had to run for that bus. Rain, wind, snow. I make it every time." He tapped the box of Marlboros that sat in the pocket of his dark denim jeans.

It went silent between us for a minute. It let me hear the noises of the bus chugging and rattling. I was glad we chose a seat closer to the front, because the back was notoriously hot, and that wouldn't go well with the combination of our breathlessness and the ridiculously hot weather outside.

"They say the sun is really bad for your skin."  I met his striking green eyes, wondering why I'd said such a strange, random thing.

"Wow, yeah. I guess that makes sense. I don't really care though." He didn't stop looking in to my eyes, and I'm sure he wanted me to ask him why he didn't care, so when I didn't, he told me himself. "I don't really care about anything except the present. If me enjoying the feeling of the sun on my face or a cig in my lungs, means that a future Frank, sixty years down the line has a bit of a wrinkly face— I don't really give a fuck. I only care about the present 'cause that's all I've got. I'm not guaranteed anything. I could die in half an hour for all I know." He lost my eyes again, turning out the window.

"Well, isn't that a bit Nihilistic?" I tilted my head, trying to telepathically ask him to turn back around.

"I don't care about the past or the future. It would be nihilism if I didn't care about the past, present or the future."

There was two people that I think deserved to hear advice from Frank. Me, and Diary boy.