Twenty eight year old Frank Iero walked into a Starbucks on his way to work.

The actual act of doing so was rather insignificant and especially in the moment: after all, Frank liked coffee, Frank liked Starbucks and the barista was kind of cute, so needless to say, he frequented the place on his commute to work.

Work being some dull office building that he didn't even care too know the name of: Frank was a secretary - he worked for a company, he was the guy that ensured the guy with a five figure salary kept his life on track, and Frank was surprisingly okay with that.

Frank had grown accustomed to the mundane and the boring, though: he relished every single moment of being normal he'd managed to treasure over the past three years; Frank had been twenty five when he'd gotten out of the mental hospital he'd spent entirely too long in.

But by now, he'd gotten pretty used to just blocking that part of his life out: he didn’t even think about the mess he'd been in throughout his early twenties, and he most certainly didn't think about the boy he'd meet when he was seventeen: the boy that had caused all of this mess.

That part of Frank's life was so fucked up that he could about convince himself that it was nothing more than a dream. He didn't need to though, because Frank was fine and fucking normal now: sure he was on medication - a twice daily reminder that he would never be as normal as he could dream of being, but besides that, he was content in the fact that he was absolutely nothing more than just a normal guy with a normal job.

Frank lived in New York now: he'd forced himself to get away from Jersey as soon as he'd gotten out, and well, nobody had blamed him, and three years ago he'd started a new life here, and not once had he ever looked back.

His apartment wasn't anything special, but it wasn’t shitty, and his life wasn't anywhere near as bad as he'd always reckoned it would be. He was bitterly single right now: his ex-boyfriend had been an ass, and well, that was something Frank didn't particularly want to think about in excess either, but he didn't talk to the guy anymore, and he found himself much preferring the company of his dogs when he curled up on his sofa after work to watch the same shitty horror movie for the twentieth time.

Frank smiled at the barista as he made his way inside: he knew the guy, this was his favourite barista - Brendon, and Frank even gave the guy the luxury of taking out his headphones as he walked in, offering Brendon Urie the gift of his conversation.

Frank found himself cringing just a little at the music playing throughout the building from the radio: sure, Frank was a Taylor Swift fan, because who wasn't? But Welcome To New York? He found himself scoffing as he compared the ridiculous metaphors in the lyrics to the world around him.

"If you're hating on the queen then I'm going to have to call that treason and kick you out." Brendon's tone was casual, unprofessional even, but Frank and Brendon knew one another well enough to even consider a use of the term 'friends'. Anyway, they were the only people in the building right now, it being six in the morning on a Tuesday and still dark outside: a fault of the wintertime, but at least in winter Frank could wear his favourite leather jacket without sweating his tits off.

"The queen?" Frank's eyes widened a little at that, leaving Brendon to shake his head at the twenty eight year old: disappointed in Frank's lack of knowledge slang terms used to refer to female pop artists - he was awfully straight for a gay guy.

"Taylor." Brendon deadpanned, and Frank found himself biting back a smile, because it was six in the morning and Brendon Urie would not hesitate to slap him straight across the face for even considering to insult Taylor Swift.

"I'm not hating, just don't particularly like this song. Blank Space is amazing." Frank pleaded his case, and wondered just when Brendon would remember what he was actually being paid to do here and serve him some fucking coffee instead of insulting his music taste.

"Blank Space." Brendon scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're a fake fan: I bet that's the only song you've heard- what's next? Your favourite Lady Gaga song is Poker Face?" Lady Gaga was of course an icon for gay guys, and therefore, in Brendon's eyes, a religious deity.

"My favourite song from 1989 is Wildest Dreams, happy?" Frank let out a sigh, grabbing his wallet from his pocket and hoping that Brendon would translate the gesture into the fact that he might actually want to pay for some coffee now.

"Not exactly, because Out of the Woods is better, but Wildest Dreams is pretty good- I also really like New Romantics, that's just amazing, honestly I don't think Shake It Off should have been the single, it sort of-"

"Brendon, coffee." Frank snapped his fingers at the hopelessly gay barista as he gestured to the nametag on his shirt that declared his name to be Brendon and that he was indeed a barista at Starbucks.

"Oh, shit, yeah, sorry, Frankie- what do you want?" Brendon giggled, turning to the coffee machine in some attempt to actually look as if he hadn't just spent the last few minutes ranting to a customer about Taylor Swift.

"What do I always want?" Frank rolled his eyes, leaving Brendon to look very disappointed in Frank's dull choices in hot beverages.

"Come on, spice up your fucking life, dude- seasonal drinks! Frankie, pal, it's December, it's December- we have seasonal drinks," Brendon gestured wildly to the seasonal menu, "be fucking festive, you ass, have a cinnamon fucking latte, hey, spice up your life-"

"Brendon just make me the fucking coffee before I'm late to work." Frank had pretty much lost of his chill by now, and really, like that he should have been getting an iced drink, but it was December, and Frank wasn't quite that much of an idiot.

"Large- fuck- V- fuck it, why are they in fucking Italian? Do you want the bigass drink?" Brendon of course was absolutely qualified to work here and one hundred fucking percent knew what he was doing.

"Y-yes...? Can you just, I don't want to be late-"

"Whatever you say, Frankie, you're such a scrooge." Brendon pouted, turning around to the machine and to actually make him the damn drink. "Halloween's more your style, isn't?"

"Something like that." Frank shrugged it off, taking the coffee from Brendon's hands and paying him for it.

"See you, Iero. Tell me if you meet any cute guys you don't immediately want to fuck." Brendon called out as Frank made his way out of the Starbucks and to work, leaving Frank to wonder just how on earth he'd ever let himself become acquainted with such a dipshit, but whatever, Brendon was a nice guy, and he made him coffee that hadn't poisoned him, yet.

And, well, that was normal enough for Frank.

-

He arrived to work two minutes late but no one seemed to really care as he sat down at his desk, placing the half empty coffee cup on the end of it, and praying to fucking lord that he didn't end up knocking it off, again, because it really made a spectacular job of ruining his morning.

He straightened his tie and shrugged his coat off, hanging it up behind him and rolled up the sleeves of his pale pink button up shirt, before logging onto his computer and letting the wonderfully boring world of work take him away.

Because there was something about being absolutely normal and doing absolutely nothing of no significance that Frank loved, or at least, it made a welcome change from the years he'd spent in therapy and on several different types of medication, and all for the vision of his dead boyfriend just wouldn't go away.

It had all started as Frank first walked into the therapist's office when he was eighteen: his vision fixating upon that fire truck red hair of the twenty two year old who'd overdosed and ended everything in a forest that one night after their seven millionth argument.

It had been Gerard's family who'd convinced Frank to get therapy: he'd been very close with Mrs Way and Mikey, and well, they'd become his family for a while afterwards, since Frank was in an awful lack of any real family himself.

His mother had died of cancer when he was young and from then on, his father had turned into some form of sadistic lifeless alcoholic who only vaguely represented his former self: Frank felt like he'd lost his father when he'd lost his mother, if he was honest.

Frank hadn't spoken to his father in years now anyway, and Frank doubted that his father would want anything to do with a son that had been sectioned, but it didn’t matter anymore, because Mr Iero was hidden away in the depths of Frank's mind along with Gerard Way and everything that had been before or during the mental hospital.

Because Frank was fine now, honestly, and he didn't think about it at all: he had a whole new life now, and he was content with just being a normal twenty eight year old with more dogs than he had friends, but of course, who was saying that his dogs couldn't be his friends, huh?

His visions of Gerard hadn't gone away since the first time, and in fact, they'd gotten nothing but worse: violent and vivid, and of course, as the therapy continued, and the visions of Gerard began to speak to him, came the schizophrenia diagnosis, and then, like that the self hatred and self medication, and the violent repercussions, and the suicide attempt- and fuck.

Frank didn't think about the night he'd spent with the pistol pressed against his temples anymore, but he felt like it would always define him. It didn't make sense to him anymore: he couldn't understand the schizophrenic mind-set of his twenty year old self eight years on, and quite frankly, he didn't want to, but then for sure, he knew that it was Gerard, or the vision of Gerard that had been pleading with him to do it and join him in death.

It was fucked up, and Frank was sectioned after that, and therapist became more extensive, and eventually, he found the truth spilling to therapist, and pills seemed to sort something out in the end, because for the first few years, things only got worse, so much worse, fucking hellishly worse, until suddenly they slowed before fading out into nothing - it was something of miracles, as his therapist had described it.

Because honestly, not a single person reckoned that Frank Iero would ever make his way into the real world again, but somehow he had, and that was a gift- that was a fucking gift, and Frank fucking knew it, and eventually, with extensive testing, Frank was released, and of course regularly checked up upon, but now, his life was relatively normal: only having to see his therapist once every two months, just for a check up, and take the pills twice a day, and these were for his anxiety, not the schizophrenia, not the visions, not the mess.

Frank could forget all about that now.

Frank was normal and Frank was happy and Frank was going to find some cute guy one day- hell, Brendon would probably set them up, and they'd start a life together with their dogs, and they'd maybe get married, although Frank really wasn't one for marriage, but it was normal, and Frank was just that: perfectly sane, perfectly normal.

And honestly, twenty eight year old Frank and eighteen year old Frank were two vastly different people.

Eighteen year old Frank probably would have slapped Gerard right across the face and kill the guy himself before he could kill himself if he'd known what a fucking mess he'd cause him, because this wasn't a mess: the guy had quite literally ruined Frank's life, but that didn't matter anymore, because Frank didn't think about Gerard anymore, he didn't see Gerard anymore- Gerard was long dead, Gerard was long gone.

And Frank sat at his desk in an office building and replied to people's emails about seeing the guy with the five-figure salary who employed him for very little, but enough. The guy wasn't Frank's best friend, but he was by no means the embodiment of Satan - he was just a guy who was better off than him, and that was perfectly fine with Frank: his mind fixated more upon watching Netflix with his dogs when he got home, as opposed to the actual 'work' he was doing right now.

It was meaningless, but Frank reckoned his life had been so dramatic and drenched in meaning that he was just about sick of it by this point, and sure, he might have the mind of a fucking sixty eight year old, as opposed to a twenty eight year old, but whatever, he was happy, or something.

-

Frank arrived home at five in the afternoon, making his way up the excessive amount of stairs to his apartment on the thirteenth floor - really, he was unlucky as fuck, wasn't he? He found himself a little surprised to see someone occupying the apartment across from his, which had been empty for the whole time Frank had lived here, and it was near enough two years now.

Someone was moving in next to him? Hardly life shattering news, but still Frank found himself intrigued, and almost obligated to make his way over to his new neighbour's apartment, as opposed to his own, peering his head in to see a brown haired guy trying to assemble an Ikea table, with his fucking door open.

"Oh- hey!" The guy jumped up from the floor as he came to notice Frank's presence. "Sorry, I just moved in, I'm Ryan, Ryan Ross."

Frank nodded, raking his gaze across his new neighbours apartment: the guy didn’t seem to have any weapons or anything fucked up, and therefore no cause for Frank to be concerned for his life with this guy living across the hall from him.

"I'm Frank, Frank Iero. I live just across the hall." He turned around, gesturing towards the door of his own apartment with his keys between his fingers.

"Oh, that's nice- I'm glad you're not like a sixty year old woman or like a family of four or something, you're just a normal guy- you're the kind of neighbour I like, because at my last place there was this crazy cat lady, and Jesus Christ-"

"I do have four dogs." Frank added, raising his eyebrows at Ryan. "I'm the crazy dog dude, except, I am relatively normal, I have an office job, I have average life, and the highlight of my day was the barista at Starbucks threatening to kick me out because I wasn't quite as enthusiastic about Taylor Swift as he was."

Ryan chuckled at that. "You've got to be enthusiastic about Taylor Swift, come on, he was being perfectly logical there. Hey, do you want to like come in for a coffee or something, because you're like a nice guy, just getting to know you I mean-"

"Yeah, sure, free coffee: I like coffee, I like free things, sounds wonderful." Frank grinned, closing the door behind him as he made his way into Ryan's apartment.

Ryan gave up attempting to assemble the Ikea table and put the kettle on, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard as Frank took a seat on the sofa: the only actual piece of furniture in this place right now, so it wasn't really like he had all that much choice, but whatever.

"So, Frank, tell me about yourself?" Ryan threw a casual conversation starter into the air as he poured the hot water into the mugs of coffee. "Wait, how much milk, and like sugar- do you?"

"No sugar, kind of dark, some milk, but not much." Frank smiled as Ryan followed his coffee order, and really, this guy was far more fucking efficient that Brendon was. "I'm twenty eight, I'm a secretary at a company I couldn't even explain to you the purpose of. I like dogs, and horror movies and punk rock, and I don't really like wintertime, because it's cold and dark as fuck, but, I make do."

"I'm twenty six, and I'm a musician, yeah that sounds pretentious as hell, but I actually am- I have an album on iTunes, like worship me, anyway, yeah, I moved here because there's like more opportunities and stuff, you know? I don't know, I'm probably going to end up getting a day job, aren't I? I used to work at Costa Coffee, I'm from Vegas, that's interesting, I guess?"

"You could get a day job at the Starbucks down the street: my friend Brendon works there, he could very easily get you a place - they're short staffed anyway, I think?" Frank suggested, and Ryan smiled at him: a genuine smile, and well, maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

And well, Brendon was practically going to worship Frank as much as he worshipped Taylor Swift for giving Ryan this job opportunity, and Brendon this boyfriend opportunity, because Ryan was cute, yeah, there was no denying of that, but he wasn't quite Frank's type... not that Frank had any fucking idea as to that was at all.

-

Frank left Ryan's apartment at approximately six, making his way back across the wall, and locking his door behind him: feeding his dogs, and texting Brendon about Ryan and how he was totally going to love him, before putting something quick into the microwave, retrieving it, and making his way over to his sofa, grabbing his laptop and going straight to Netflix, looking for something worth watching with very little success, until he attention was dragged almost forcefully away from the laptop screen by the sound of a loud bang coming from his bedroom.

Frank rolled his eyes, not thinking too much of it: one of his dogs had knocked something off the bookshelf again, or something, but he went to assess the damage nonetheless, making his way all too casually into his bedroom, only to be stopped straight in his tracks by nothing short of a fucking heart attack.

Something Frank hadn't seen in years, but something he most certainly hadn't fucking missed either: a figure, unmistakeable with that fucking fire truck red hair.

-

hey guys look what the fuck happened i had an idea i became gerard way like two hours ago i had an idea and now we have this and what the fuck happened to my life i dont know and yes its in 3rd person i don't want to write in 1st again, i wrote this because this idea is so good jfc also this is kind of more standalone, like it is the same universe as summertime and it does happen afterwards but like i wouldn't say you'd need to read summertime to read this.

anyway you should fucking vote and comment the shit out of this because i finally wrote a sequel lmao pal!!!! i love you all for real now ok<3

lmao im cackling rn ur all fucking dead