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Description
Frank has this habit of flooding his lungs with cancer producing tar. Frank likes a smoke or two. Sometimes, he'll even smoke a joint or two, here and there. Frank has something that one might call an obsession. Frank sure doesn't. He calls it "active interest." It's an obsession of glamorous tragedies. Marilyn Monroe was one. Charles Manson was another. Yet, mainly, it was smoking.

The terribly sexy and yet, utterly disgusting habit had Frank warped.

Smoking was fabulous in Frank's eyes. Yes, the media had managed to be successful in trapping one more teenager into a shortened inevitable death, but to Frank it was more than just cancer in a stick. To Frank, who already thought quiet fondly of himself, a cigarette in his mouth only ever made him far more appealing. To himself, of course, and to others.

So because Frank thought himself hot shit, he thought with him smoking - which is far more than just glamorous - he would definitely be the hottest walking cancer for miles. Sometimes, he would even imagine that Audrey Hepburn had popularized smoking at the root of some other teenage smokers - much like him.

Of course, obsession is known to be unhealthy, and of course, he knew, if anything he secretly hoped that this particular obsession had the extreme potential to lead a tragic and premature death. Besides, Frank's obsession kept him emotionally stable. It was his love.

When his parents fought, he smoked a cigarette.

When his girl dumped him in front of the entire school, he smoked.

When he could not decide to trust his newest friend, Mikey, he smoked.

When he met Gerard, through Mikey, he smoked a cigarette. That time it was to ease his racing nerves, no matter what he told himself.

When the two dared to date behind Mikey's back, Frank smoked.

When Gerard kissed some other boys at a party in the summer, Frank smoked a joint.

When Frank forced himself to breakup with only person he ever really felt at ease with, besides his best friend, Mikey, he smoked two joints a week for three weeks.

The night Gerard left him, after the breakup fight, in the storming, vicious, blinding rain of a thunderstorm; he stumbled onto his porch and lit up. Well, he had been standing in the pouring, murderous rain, so his lighter went to shit, but he stumbled inside and it on the stove. Then he went back onto the porch and smoked that same cigarette for nearly an hour. Of course, it was nothing more but a stick of ash by then.

The next morning, when he had a science test that determined ten percent of his quarter grade, he ditched the period to smoke with the janitors in the school's basement. He flunked science that quarter.

When he went home one night, many after the breakup, Mikey told him that Gerard skipped town, off to do god knows what with his life in New York. Frank plopped onto the couch and smoked a joint Mikey had taken from a stash Gerard had in his room. They ended up trading sloppy, wet kisses at the peak of their high, but nothing really happened except a few sweaty touches while they were stoned. Not to mention, the sarcastic comment from Frank about how Mikey tasted like Mac & Cheese and cherry Kool-Aid.

After that day, Frank didn't smoke for a while. For a long time, really. Then, late 2001, it happened. Some windy day in September when Mikey and he were at a playground, completely sober, something erupted and they practically mauled each other in the deserted park. Under the slide, by the window and little house for the kids, on the freshly cut grass and listening to the creaking of the rusty swings, it happened. One of them led to far in and there were kisses. Sober kisses, perfectly orchestrated and fulfilling as hell, they spent the afternoon deciding what was happening between them.

Neither could, nor would he deny that something was brewing between them. It was evident, by the heat of their rushed stomachs pressed together under the reflections of a blue slide. From that kiss forward, they decided that the stoned, sloppy kisses and the amount of time they had been spending together weren't irrelevant to their relationship at all.

Frank slept over at Mikey's two weeks later. His dad was out of town on business and his mom went to stay the night at his aunt's place. They shared Butter Lover's popcorn on the green couch, curdled together, watching his mom's old movies. Every once in a while, they stopped kissing and caressing to watch parts of the movie and eat some. At midnight, they got up and went upstairs. They fell asleep wrapped around each other after a brief session of touches and teeth and tongue and lips.

At three in the morning, Frank woke from a nightmare with a dry throat. He slithered softly out of Mikey's grasp and the room. Clad only in pajama bottoms he had borrowed from Mikey, he padded down the stairs for a drink of water and winced at the light glaring from the kitchen. Instead of going directly for the sink, he stopped to where Mikey had thrown Frank's jacket on the kitchen counter and pulled out his cigarettes. He lit one and took a drag to calm himself before asking, "When'd you get back?"

The question directed at Gerard, who, inconveniently was standing at the sink, drinking something. He let the words mingle in the air a bit before responding, "About half an hour ago."

Frank turned around to face him but Gerard was still facing the sink. "Why'd you come back?"

"Had an epiphany. I need to do something with my life and I know now that it doesn't include New York. I'm starting a band."

"Killer." Frank said politely.

"I want you in it. You play guitar better than anyone I know." Gerard's voice was hesitant and unsteady, as he braced himself, expecting Frank to refuse.

"Stellar, I'm in." Frank didn't have to think about it. He would always be there for Gerard.

Gerard put down the glass and turned to meet him, eyes shining, "Honestly? You'll be in it, for real?"

"Yeah," Frank took a drag from the cigarette.

Gerard's eyes fell to his bare chest and followed the bruise that ran down Frank's neck to his collarbone. Frank thought it ironic that Gerard didn't know his own brother had carved that bruise with his teeth. "You've been busy," Gerard commented without thinking.

Frank took another drag, blowing smoke in Gerard's direction purposely, "I suppose. When is the first practice? Who else is in it?"

"Uhm. I still have to get a bassist, but I think we should meet this Saturday, at four. Ray's in it. Matt, and now you." Gerard turned away.

"Okay, sweet. I'll be there. I should-"

"Frank?" Gerard said quietly.

Frank hummed a question, crossing the room to flick the ashes off his cigarette into the trash. Gerard glanced at him and then back at the faucet. "Do you think there will ever be a chance for you to forgive me? Do you think that we'll ever be us again?"

Frank wanted to chuckle in brutality but refrained from doing so. Looking down at the bruise in a form of fingers that Mikey left on his wrist when they were riding the Ferris wheel three days ago at the carnival, he smiled. He had never seen anything more adorable than Mikey way at that moment, so terrified for his life that he had a death grip on Frank's wrist the entire time. He took a small puff of the smoke and turned to look at Gerard who stared back at him expectantly.

"Gee," he started, "there was always a chance for us to get back together. There has always been a chance for us. I don't doubt that there still is, but," he stopped, contemplating how to phrase the next part, "I've found someone I never saw. He is probably the best thing that has ever happened to me. I'll never forget you, you were my first love, and I will always be there for you, whether you think so or not, but.

"Put it this way: you were my first love. This kid will be my last. I can feel it rushing through my bones. While I'm with him, I cannot give you false hope. So, right now, no, there isn't a chance. Should I be wrong and betrayed again, then you'll be the first person I call, but. I already gave up love once. I'm not leaving him."

Gerard bit his lip, face pale and eyes watery. He nodded curtly, and spoke with such a shaky voice it broke Frank's heart, "I understand."

Frank smiled half-heartedly, "Thank you. I'll see you in the morning."

Gerard nodded again and turned back to the sink.

Frank flicked ashes off the end of the cigarette and at the top of the stair landing; he realized he didn't want it anymore. Sliding back into the heated, comforting dark of Mikey's room, he stumbled over to the window, tripping over objects he could not see and tossed it out into the night air. All the properties of his previous obsession and love didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

"Hey."

Frank turned to meet Mikey's silhouette lying on the bed, "Hey. Did I wake you?"

He could make out the movement of Mikey shaking his head, "No, I had a nightmare. Why would you throw out that smoke? It wasn't finished. I've never seen you throw away a smoke."

Frank shrugged, groping his way in the dark, back to the bed. "I have a new active interest," he replied, sliding into the space next to Mikey, so close he could smell the remaining toothpaste from before bed on his breath.

"Oh yeah?" asked Mikey, intrigued, "What's that?"

"You."

That was the last time that Frank Iero ever smoked.

Description
Frank has this habit of flooding his lungs with cancer producing tar. Frank likes a smoke or two. Sometimes, he'll even smoke a joint or two, here and there. Frank has something that one might call an obsession. Frank sure doesn't. He calls it "active interest." It's an obsession of glamorous tragedies. Marilyn Monroe was one. Charles Manson was another. Yet, mainly, it was smoking.

The terribly sexy and yet, utterly disgusting habit had Frank warped.

Smoking was fabulous in Frank's eyes. Yes, the media had managed to be successful in trapping one more teenager into a shortened inevitable death, but to Frank it was more than just cancer in a stick. To Frank, who already thought quiet fondly of himself, a cigarette in his mouth only ever made him far more appealing. To himself, of course, and to others.

So because Frank thought himself hot shit, he thought with him smoking - which is far more than just glamorous - he would definitely be the hottest walking cancer for miles. Sometimes, he would even imagine that Audrey Hepburn had popularized smoking at the root of some other teenage smokers - much like him.

Of course, obsession is known to be unhealthy, and of course, he knew, if anything he secretly hoped that this particular obsession had the extreme potential to lead a tragic and premature death. Besides, Frank's obsession kept him emotionally stable. It was his love.

When his parents fought, he smoked a cigarette.

When his girl dumped him in front of the entire school, he smoked.

When he could not decide to trust his newest friend, Mikey, he smoked.

When he met Gerard, through Mikey, he smoked a cigarette. That time it was to ease his racing nerves, no matter what he told himself.

When the two dared to date behind Mikey's back, Frank smoked.

When Gerard kissed some other boys at a party in the summer, Frank smoked a joint.

When Frank forced himself to breakup with only person he ever really felt at ease with, besides his best friend, Mikey, he smoked two joints a week for three weeks.

The night Gerard left him, after the breakup fight, in the storming, vicious, blinding rain of a thunderstorm; he stumbled onto his porch and lit up. Well, he had been standing in the pouring, murderous rain, so his lighter went to shit, but he stumbled inside and it on the stove. Then he went back onto the porch and smoked that same cigarette for nearly an hour. Of course, it was nothing more but a stick of ash by then.

The next morning, when he had a science test that determined ten percent of his quarter grade, he ditched the period to smoke with the janitors in the school's basement. He flunked science that quarter.

When he went home one night, many after the breakup, Mikey told him that Gerard skipped town, off to do god knows what with his life in New York. Frank plopped onto the couch and smoked a joint Mikey had taken from a stash Gerard had in his room. They ended up trading sloppy, wet kisses at the peak of their high, but nothing really happened except a few sweaty touches while they were stoned. Not to mention, the sarcastic comment from Frank about how Mikey tasted like Mac & Cheese and cherry Kool-Aid.

After that day, Frank didn't smoke for a while. For a long time, really. Then, late 2001, it happened. Some windy day in September when Mikey and he were at a playground, completely sober, something erupted and they practically mauled each other in the deserted park. Under the slide, by the window and little house for the kids, on the freshly cut grass and listening to the creaking of the rusty swings, it happened. One of them led to far in and there were kisses. Sober kisses, perfectly orchestrated and fulfilling as hell, they spent the afternoon deciding what was happening between them.

Neither could, nor would he deny that something was brewing between them. It was evident, by the heat of their rushed stomachs pressed together under the reflections of a blue slide. From that kiss forward, they decided that the stoned, sloppy kisses and the amount of time they had been spending together weren't irrelevant to their relationship at all.

Frank slept over at Mikey's two weeks later. His dad was out of town on business and his mom went to stay the night at his aunt's place. They shared Butter Lover's popcorn on the green couch, curdled together, watching his mom's old movies. Every once in a while, they stopped kissing and caressing to watch parts of the movie and eat some. At midnight, they got up and went upstairs. They fell asleep wrapped around each other after a brief session of touches and teeth and tongue and lips.

At three in the morning, Frank woke from a nightmare with a dry throat. He slithered softly out of Mikey's grasp and the room. Clad only in pajama bottoms he had borrowed from Mikey, he padded down the stairs for a drink of water and winced at the light glaring from the kitchen. Instead of going directly for the sink, he stopped to where Mikey had thrown Frank's jacket on the kitchen counter and pulled out his cigarettes. He lit one and took a drag to calm himself before asking, "When'd you get back?"

The question directed at Gerard, who, inconveniently was standing at the sink, drinking something. He let the words mingle in the air a bit before responding, "About half an hour ago."

Frank turned around to face him but Gerard was still facing the sink. "Why'd you come back?"

"Had an epiphany. I need to do something with my life and I know now that it doesn't include New York. I'm starting a band."

"Killer." Frank said politely.

"I want you in it. You play guitar better than anyone I know." Gerard's voice was hesitant and unsteady, as he braced himself, expecting Frank to refuse.

"Stellar, I'm in." Frank didn't have to think about it. He would always be there for Gerard.

Gerard put down the glass and turned to meet him, eyes shining, "Honestly? You'll be in it, for real?"

"Yeah," Frank took a drag from the cigarette.

Gerard's eyes fell to his bare chest and followed the bruise that ran down Frank's neck to his collarbone. Frank thought it ironic that Gerard didn't know his own brother had carved that bruise with his teeth. "You've been busy," Gerard commented without thinking.

Frank took another drag, blowing smoke in Gerard's direction purposely, "I suppose. When is the first practice? Who else is in it?"

"Uhm. I still have to get a bassist, but I think we should meet this Saturday, at four. Ray's in it. Matt, and now you." Gerard turned away.

"Okay, sweet. I'll be there. I should-"

"Frank?" Gerard said quietly.

Frank hummed a question, crossing the room to flick the ashes off his cigarette into the trash. Gerard glanced at him and then back at the faucet. "Do you think there will ever be a chance for you to forgive me? Do you think that we'll ever be us again?"

Frank wanted to chuckle in brutality but refrained from doing so. Looking down at the bruise in a form of fingers that Mikey left on his wrist when they were riding the Ferris wheel three days ago at the carnival, he smiled. He had never seen anything more adorable than Mikey way at that moment, so terrified for his life that he had a death grip on Frank's wrist the entire time. He took a small puff of the smoke and turned to look at Gerard who stared back at him expectantly.

"Gee," he started, "there was always a chance for us to get back together. There has always been a chance for us. I don't doubt that there still is, but," he stopped, contemplating how to phrase the next part, "I've found someone I never saw. He is probably the best thing that has ever happened to me. I'll never forget you, you were my first love, and I will always be there for you, whether you think so or not, but.

"Put it this way: you were my first love. This kid will be my last. I can feel it rushing through my bones. While I'm with him, I cannot give you false hope. So, right now, no, there isn't a chance. Should I be wrong and betrayed again, then you'll be the first person I call, but. I already gave up love once. I'm not leaving him."

Gerard bit his lip, face pale and eyes watery. He nodded curtly, and spoke with such a shaky voice it broke Frank's heart, "I understand."

Frank smiled half-heartedly, "Thank you. I'll see you in the morning."

Gerard nodded again and turned back to the sink.

Frank flicked ashes off the end of the cigarette and at the top of the stair landing; he realized he didn't want it anymore. Sliding back into the heated, comforting dark of Mikey's room, he stumbled over to the window, tripping over objects he could not see and tossed it out into the night air. All the properties of his previous obsession and love didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

"Hey."

Frank turned to meet Mikey's silhouette lying on the bed, "Hey. Did I wake you?"

He could make out the movement of Mikey shaking his head, "No, I had a nightmare. Why would you throw out that smoke? It wasn't finished. I've never seen you throw away a smoke."

Frank shrugged, groping his way in the dark, back to the bed. "I have a new active interest," he replied, sliding into the space next to Mikey, so close he could smell the remaining toothpaste from before bed on his breath.

"Oh yeah?" asked Mikey, intrigued, "What's that?"

"You."

That was the last time that Frank Iero ever smoked.