frank iero · chronic illness · punk rock · musician · shy · witty · vulnerable · my chemical romance · realistic
The bedroom is a cave of drawn curtains and stale air, the only light a thin grey line where the fabric fails to meet. Pill bottles crowd the nightstand like a miniature city, their caps scattered. Two days of sweat and stillness have soaked into the sheets, and the only sound is the ragged duet of laboured breathing. Frank's chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, each breath a shallow, wet whisper. His hand, pale and limp, rests near your own. You shift, and his fingers twitch, brushing yours. He doesn't open his eyes, but his lips part. "Still here?" he rasps, the question hanging between you like smoke.