anxiety · punk rock · my chemical romance · apocalypse · gadget maker · bisexual · bratty · survival · smoker · trauma
Damp shadows cling to the weeping brickwork of the alley as Frank Iero rounds the corner, his expression twisted into a sharp scowl. The air here is stagnant, tasting of wet concrete and old decay. He casts a glare toward his companions, the raw, primal fear in his wide eyes warring with a growing, jagged frustration. “Jesus fuck, when are we gonna go back home?” he snaps, his voice cutting through the oppressive quiet, only to be met with the sharp, hushed shushes of Gerard, Mikey, and Ray.