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Truth be told, he’s never seen anything as pretty as you. And it would be stupid to say Frank Iero would be caught yearning. Like, really? Look at him, right? Surely there’s nothing wrong with him missing a friend when they go off to uni without any warning beforehand? Because the anger, trust him, is justifiable. But fuck that, really, because you’ll leave him anyway, and the only thing you’ll leave will be the cigarette burn you left on his jeans and the way you looked at him. The way you look at him. Oh, he’s never ever forgetting you, shit.
Well it's only two more weeks, though. So it's about time he gets over the glances.
And that is why he refused to acknowledge your presence when you offered him the first drink of the night (Your favorite. Something or the other with a drizzle of cherry on top), and he refused to make anything of the fact that you refused to offer to anyone else, or the fact that you weren't there on the dance floor when it was clearly your farewell party.
Two drinks in and he’s almost willing to forgive and forget, to stand up from where he is, next to Gee and his excited ramblings, trapped between Mikey typing out a message to who-ever-the-fuck is his go-to this week, and head to the couch where you’re just. There. Alone. For some fucking reason.
Maybe it's the alcohol in his veins but that really pisses him off; the fact that you’re alone. For fuck’s sake, it’s your farewell. The last night anyone has with you until you rid yourself of the booze and the cigarettes and the beautiful music that everyone around you makes, until you settle-the-fuck-down and finish your english major. How fucking posh. It serves only as another harsh reminder that he will never have you, ever. Fuck.
Sometimes when the buzz of the party dies down and Pete is choosing another song to blare from the speakers he catches you out of the corner of his eye- and he thinks he should’ve stayed in university anyway; because maybe then he’d have a shot with you. Fuck, what is he without his cherry bomb, because what is he without his hyperactive bassist with box dyed hair? He needs you, and that’s unfair to you and he knows it.
Another drink, maybe that will dull the ache. And then he turns away, and swirls his gin and syrup (cherry syrup today. He just felt like it), and pretends to listen to Gerard as he talks about some constellation in his own drunken way. He can’t focus, fuck. He’s trying and trying so hard to come to terms with the fact that Frank just. Won’t have the guts. And that’s fine by him, you know? Because surely it didn’t mean a thing.
And besides, he’s not the desperate type. He wouldnt want to ruin your day, your week, your semesters at that posh fucking college. And besides, he doesn't care, never cared, doesn't mean much to him at all. He’s not the desperate type, he swears. He definitely hasn't noticed the fact that you aren't wearing that lip ring.
And he definitely isn't overthinking it, because he hasn't seen it, so there’s no way he spent half his day thinking over any and every reason why you would choose NOT to wear it when you both just got it pierced half a week ago.
….And there he goes again. Caught looking, Iero.
You wave and he looks away. Again, he’s not the desperate type, and there is no reason his heart tries to burst out of his chest. Another drink, yeah? Cherry syrup on this one, too, thank you very much. And then his eyes find you again. And again.
Fuck, he’s doomed. Down another shot, Frankie, there’s no other way to find heaven anymore.
Again and again, with every empty glass he has to tell himself he’s not the desperate type, and that you don’t notice, that you don't care, and he doesn't have the guts, and nothing really matters in the very end because guess what. It's all ending tomorrow, at ten in the morning when your flight leaves for another city and you’ll be gone, gone, gone.
Fuck, now there’s tears in his eyes. But does anyone notice? But does anyone care? And when he looks over to your part of the room you’re not there and he can’t let his mind wander, so that will be… Another drink he thinks. Fuck, he’s getting drowsy, isn’t he.
“Frank? oh, jesus fuck, you’re heavy, wake up!” Mikey shoves him hard, his drunken form still as perfect as it would be, were he sober. “You’re literally crushing me ow ow get off of me, motherfucker, ow.” Mikey slurs, and it's very obvious he’s tipsy as ever, his crooked glasses barely hanging on to the tip of his sharp nose.
Frank gets up from where he was shoved to the floor, his shirt now covered in whatever the fuck has been spilled on the floor that night, and you see that his eyes are red, hair a complete mess- what has he done to himself today? Gerard’s next to him on the couch, probably high off of everything and anything people handed to him that night, and Ray is nowhere to be seen, and Bob left half an hour to tend to his dogs. It’s amusing, really, how shitfaced drunk these kids get. How do they plan on going home, anyway?
“Mikeyway is that a halo, mikeyfuckinway did you ascend??” Frank is drunk off his mind, and there’s something bright around Mikey's hair and it must, must be a halo, yeah? Frank tries to grab it, but his hands are shaking pretty bad so he ends up slapping the glasses off his face. He grimaces. “Sorry mikeyway. Did notttt mean to do that, yeah?” And suddenly he’s out, he’s fainted. Way too much booze for one 5 foot something midget, you think. And for some reason its endearing, and for some reason you find yourself offering them a ride with “no, no it’s fine, i have space anyway” and “shut up, gee, you don't even know how to drive-” and in half an hour you’ve dropped the Ways home already and you’re ready to head to the apartment for a good long sleep and- fuck, you do not know where Frank lives.
One big splash of water later, Frank is sopping wet and glaring at you from the backseat, shaking his hair, and somehow still drunk as ever. But at least now you have his address, and even though he’s barely legible, the car isn't so silent anymore. Twelve hours till you leave. And through his drunken stupor it feels as though every breath is a breath wasted already, and he wants to ask you so, so bad, why you’re not staying for one more week, one more day, one extra hour. And he looks at you in the blue cast by the streetlights you drive past, and he tries to memorize every angle of your face, wonders if there will ever be anything that feels as real as you do in that moment. He’s not the desperate type, he swears. It's just that you look majestic, fuck. Its unfair how you’re leaving so soon. And all too quickly you’re rounding the corner and-
“Is this where I'm supposed to leave you?” You turn to face him and he can’t even speak for half a minute. He just. Stares. There’s a lump in his throat and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing or feeling, because. Why. Would. You. Leave?
“What about, you don't leave me at all.” And he settles down on the leather covers and crosses his arms like a toddler throwing a fit and you can’t help but laugh at the scene, and somehow you get him all the way to the front door and he looks so. So pitiable, fuck. There’s no way you could leave this darling alone in the cold autumn evening, especially when he can’t even walk straight, when he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s rambling about-
"D’you ever think maybe we were meant to meet... like, cosmically?"
And it would probably sound stupid; one of the worst things he could've ever said, but at that moment you almost slipped off a staircase and he kind of knew already.
“W-what, now?” What the fuck does he mean by that? Because he’s right there, right? And he’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky and he looks like he’d be willing to sell his soul for one glance of you, and fuck, if only he wasn’t shitfaced drunk, maybe if you had a CHANCE, but you know its the booze talking, it’s just Frank saying words because the alcohol, it does things to his head, its nothing, nope, not anything; and maybe you should just. Leave, before it all goes to shit and you lose the coolest thing you ever had as a friend.
“You. and me, you know? Like we were fated. Dunno. Gee was talking about the stars and i just thought, since you like the stars so much, and i thought- you know, don't worry about it.”
And he purses his lips and stares into the half clouded skies, his drunk eyes trying to focus on one constellation but shifting constantly, his knee bouncing and fingers fidgeting against the cold steps of the staircase, and the scene is so, so him, and it's somehow SO you, that you start to wonder if there’s any sense in what he said in his drunk stupor. You can't figure him out, you know? So you just stare at him, at his eyes and his hair in the moonlight, at his nose and his lips, with that lip ring that’s barely healed, and you wonder if you could’ve made it work if, if, if only you had TIME.
And his eyes flicker over to you again, and he does that half smile thing, but its so unbearably sad today, as he plays with the silver hoop on his bottom lip, that you can’t bear to look; and fuck, there’s that ache in your chest again. You choose to lean back against the wall and stare up at the stars. There’s Orion, right there, and you could find Andromeda if you tilted your head a little to the side, but there’s Frank right below Cassiopeia and he’s looking at you like he’s already lost you, and you wonder if your throat closing up really means you’ll miss him; that he’ll miss you too.
But tonight you have him, and he has you, and you’re there on the rooftop of some dingy apartment complex and the whole dark sky is yours for a few hours- it isn't really that bad if you think about it. It’s sort of sappy, no? To you it feels like the closing scene of some weird low-budget romcom. And it would be pretty cute, if your hands weren’t shaking and if Frank hadn’t been ignoring you all day.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like- Like you’ve left already. Stop it.”
Go on, love. Swallow that lump in your throat. He squints at his watch.
“We have hours together. 8 whole hours until your flight. That’s like-” He holds up 3 fingers and counts on them, for some stupid reason, ”a THOUSAND minutes.”
You laugh, and the sound floats around the two of you, something so bitter and yet so sweet about it. “No, not a thousand, love. There’s less.”
He sighs. “Fuck, then. There’s really nothing I can do to stop you, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leans against the cold floor too, and you’re lying next to each other, staring up at the stars. It's silent for a while, but it's not really peaceful. You close your eyes and try to memorize how he feels beside you.
“If I tell you I love you, will you leave?” His hand is running through his hair.
“No, Frank, probably not. I know you’re drunk, it’ll be fine tomorrow, though.” He sucks in a breath, huffily. You can almost predict what he’ll say next.
“I’m not drunk!” You turn to face him, one eyebrow raised. ”Fine. Maybe just a bit. But- But it’s not like i dont feel this way, i’ve always, always felt this way for you and- fuck, its not the gin speaking, you need to understand. You need to get it- I tell everyone I'm over you but then you look at me and I fall apart, this is going to kill me, you’re going to leave and i’m going to be alone here without you, and it’s all because i didnt have the fucking guts to say it when i’m sober!”
“No, love, its fine- you don’t have to pity me, i know-” You’re standing up now, getting ready to leave, “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks and its just the alcohol speaking and, that’s fine, we’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
You look down and it looks like- it looks like he’s halfway to tears, fuck.
“I wish i was braver when it counted.” And you’re on the ground next to him again.
“I wish i could’ve told you, but i’m sorry, and it hurts when i look at you, because you’re- you’re just going to leave, fuck. I don’t know how i’ll live once you’re gone. And you’ll find other people- and you’ll find better friends and- fuck, dude. You’re going away.” You really can’t understand if he’s really, really into you, or if you’re just a sick fuck who somehow managed to trick this beautiful fucker into thinking he needs you to breathe, and then, just like that-
“If I begged you to kiss me just this once, would you?”
Fuck, if he asked you once, you’d tear the heart out from your chest and set it out for him in a platter.
Of-fucking-COURSE you'd kiss him.