Wintertime (Frerard, Sequel to Summertime)

2: I Have No Self Control

Frank took three pills that morning as opposed to the one in the morning one in the evening routine he was condemned to for what felt like all eternity.

The thing, the fucking figure was killing Frank: it had kept awake all night: just lying still and sweating into his sheets; it was a waking nightmare, it was the world at its absolute worst. Because he was fucking okay and this couldn't be happening to him not now, fuck, not ever, because if Frank Iero was really terrified of anything, it was nothing other than relapse.

He'd been fucking fine for all too fucking long, but it seemed that things couldn't possibly stay perfect for ever, could they?

However he'd only seen it for the shortest second, almost as if he hadn't meant to see it: maybe his mind had fucked up, maybe it was just sleep deprivation, maybe it was just his head fucking with him, because for that one glimpse of red hair to be gone as soon as he noticed it and be actually there, well that was unlikely.

Frank attempted to calm himself down as best as he could, smoking a cigarette - a habit he'd picked up aged nineteen - on the balcony, before he took yet another pill, just to be safe, because pills fucking somehow made everything better.

Frank's faith lay in the routine of medication, because it was medication that had finally given him relief from the hell of hallucinations, and it was medication that had stabilised him and finally gotten him his life back.

He told himself that he'd be fine now, and he promised himself that if he didn't see that hair again for the rest of today then he could forget about it completely: call it a fluke, right it off as a dream, whatever, just ignore its existence.

Frank put his earbuds in as he made his way out the apartment, browsing his music selection as he locked the door behind him, and put his music collection on shuffle, and in consequence, wincing a little as he came to realise that Brendon had fucking sabotaged his iPod by putting Taylor Swift on it, Jesus Christ.

This song wasn't bad though - Blank Space - and he couldn't quite gather the motivation to change it as he made his way down far too many flights of stairs and out of the apartment building.

Frank buried all thoughts of that red hair and the trick of the light that had befallen him last night in favour of predicting Brendon's reaction as Frank told him all about Ryan Ross who was kind of cute and lived next door.

He reckoned Brendon would even give him coffee for free in celebration of the existence of a possible love interest, and honestly Brendon would hire him right on the fucking spot, despite the fact that he wasn't even in charge of the place: he just fucking would.

Frank found himself reconsidering his mild dislike towards Taylor Swift as he continued to listen to Blank Space, because this song was damn well amazing, and Frank wasn't stupid, hell, he was most certainly cold because December sucked ass, and not in the way Frank liked, but whatever, Frank lived for the summertime but there'd be a long six months until June.

Frank wasn't even quite sure quite what it was about the summertime that was so important to him, it just kind of was, and almost ominously so: without question, and well, Frank much preferred it when it was light enough to actually see where he was walking on his way to work at a time entirely far too early in the morning.

Frank found himself almost forced into removing his earbuds as he made his way into the Starbucks, and Brendon shot him an 'I had a shot this morning' grin, and Frank shot him an 'I wish you just got shot instead' one back: their friendship was 'special', to say the least.

"Frankie, baby, what will it be this morning- spacing up your life again? Or are you going to be my little baby scrooge forever?" Brendon was very, very drunk, and Frank found himself with no option but to just laugh nervously at him.