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 seam where the fabric doesn't quite meet. A clutter of pill bottles crowds the nightstand like a miniature city, caps scattered. Two days of sweat and stillness have seeped into the sheets; the only sound is the ragged duet of labored 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.