Chapter Text
He had a routine. Wake up in his shitty apartment, shower when he feels like it, and go to the coffee shop to work. His apartment didn’t have heat or consistent internet connection so he could only do so much as far as work went.
Sometimes he would detour from the routine to do shows, practice with his band, or go have fun. He hardly ever had the money to do that though.
Opening his eyes felt more and more like a chore on its own as he maneuvered his way through life. Today felt particularly off. Waking up with the constant feeling of dread hanging over you was nothing new to Frank, but geez.
It’s like the universe was yelling at him, "don't get up frank! You’ll regret it!”
Was it the universe or just his lack of a will to live? Who knows.
He does it anyway, sitting up with a groan like he's forty years old. The joints in his arms and back crack as he begins moving. He swung his legs off the mattress and the bottom of his feet hit the cold wooden floor.
His hands have already begun shaking and there's a funny ringing in his head he ignores as he trudges to the washroom. Frank may be a slob. But he's not a dirty one. He keeps his spaces clean. Especially the bathroom.
He flicks on the lightswitch and heads straight for the shower. He doesn’t look himself in the mirror as he strips his clothing. The clothing piles at the ground and he reaches for the shower handle. Frank always loved showers. He loves feeling clean. It makes him feel better about himself.
The final piece of clothing on his body is a binder. He knows it's bad to sleep with his binder on, but who's there to stop him? Or even motivate him to take it off? It’s black and it hugs his body tight enough he can’t take full breaths. Frank wishes the binder could be welded to his body for eternity. Or that his tits were just gone in general. Sometimes he liked the way he looked with them, others he wished he was dead just because they existed.
Past lovers told him they were nice, but he's convinced people still saw him as a woman because of them.
He suddenly felt nauseous. He shouldn't be thinking these things so damn early in the morning.
He strips the binder and takes his first full breath in about twelve hours. The oxygen leaves his lungs in a shaky gust and he steps into the shower head spray. The water is freezing, still heating up as it hits his back. His arms wrap around his body and he simply stands in the cold spray.
The water was always good for waking him up. An audible sigh slips past his lips and he begins his normal shower routine.
By the end of it the water is so hot his skin is red and raw. It makes his tattoos pop.
He takes a towel to his hair, ruffling it and wrapping it around his waist as he walks to his closet. The closet in question being a small plastic box overflowing with clothes. Frank didn’t care too much for clothing, always wearing practically the same thing; a shitty band t-shirt and some ripped jeans or a pair of shorts. He wore things he thought would give “asshole” because apparently that meant passing better.
He fishes out a black and white striped long sleeve, a black t-shirt to go over it and some black ripped jeans that are a few sizes too small.
After getting dressed, Frank collects his things and heads out for the cafe. His laptop, notepad, and some other nic-naks are the only things he ever takes with him. He’ll be back home in a few hours. Wallet, house keys, and cellphone are stashed away in his pockets as he pats around to make sure he has everything. He’s in no hurry to leave but he would rather be elsewhere.
The apartment is small and stuffy. No air conditioning because the building is so old. The ventilation sucks because, again, the building is older than he is and the landlord refuses to renovate.
Frank locks the front door behind him and sets off for the cafe.
—
The cafe is always pleasant.
The minute Frank walks in he's hit with the familiar and comforting scent of coffee. It’s a reminder to get to work. Today the cafe is practically empty, so he gets the lucky corner seat with the window view.
He reaches the table and sets his bag down, pulling out his wallet and walking up to the register. His usual is a simple black coffee with a splash of cream and a sweet of some kind.
He enjoyed sweets in the morning, but no one knew that.
The barista is the same one it always is. Frank, weirdly, has the baristas schedules memorized. He's not a stalker or anything, just a regular. She greets Frank with a wide grin and gets his order down and out in two minutes flat.
Today he’s decided to go with a simple slice of pumpkin bread. Fall always brings Frank's favorite things. He enjoys pumpkins. Frank settles back at the table and takes in his surroundings. The cafe has filled significantly since he first entered. He’s got this curse, if you can even call it that; it’s always right after he's gotten either in or out of line that the establishment fills with customers. Supermarkets, clothing stores, cafes, literally anywhere.
It also seems that everyone else has this ‘curse’ so he’s not sure if it's special.
Frank sips his coffee and for a moment he feels completely at peace. But it was time to work.
Frank made music. He was a producer for video games and different small companies. He made music for small flash games and video advertisements. It was fun. Frank always enjoyed music. Making, listening, it didn’t matter. It was his way of expression. Without music, who was Frank Iero? What was music without Frank Iero? Nobody knew, and nobody cared. Only he did.
He opens his laptop and starts clicking away.
Recently he had a few high pay commissions to finish. It was weird. The person loved making simple requests and overpaying like a motherfucker. two-hundred dollars for a five second riff loop? The customer was a anon named “Countfagula3”. Frank giggled remembering the name. It’s so absurd.
—
Time flies when he's working. Likely because he actually enjoys his job! Before he knows it, he’s gone through 2 more cups of coffee. He blinks out of the trance, slips his headset off his head and glances at the time on his laptop. One pm.
Frank sits up from his position on the chair, stretching like a cat. He hears a total of three cracks in his back when he moves. Wow.
The cafe is bustling with people due to the lunch rush, so Frank thinks now is a great time to get going. He wants to lay down. Or do literally anything besides sit in this place any longer.
His laptop and notebook are slung into his bookbag and he's off. The remaining liquid in his coffee cup is tossed into the bin on the way to the front of the cafe.
Frank is suddenly tripped up on something. He sees a book fall out of a man's bag. The man seems to be in a hurry, so it's difficult for Frank to grab the book and catch up with him, but he does.
“Sir! Excuse me, you dropped this.” Frank places his hand gently on the man's shoulder and he spins around, a horrified look on his face. Frank has a moment to be confused before the man is stuttering out a “thank you!” and scrambling off.
Weird.
—
Frank gets back to his apartment and there's this feeling in his entire body. The guy. The book. It all seemed so off. Why was he in such a hurry to get away from Frank? What was it about the way he looked so genuinely terrified when Frank touched him that didn't sit right with his stomach. You only look at someone like that if you’re being hurt.
Was he just nervous? Maybe he's not used to being touched. Or looked at. Or spoken to.
He sets his bag down and toes off his shoes, walking to his bedroom. His bed is as comfortable as ever when he throws his entire body into it. Frank groans and stretches, grabbing a random blanket and wrapping it around his body.
Maybe the man was sick. Or had agoraphobia. A friend of his once had that. A subway explosion happened and he felt as if he had wronged everyone by surviving. He can’t go out into public or even interact with people directly. It’s sad. But it’s a possibility.
Frank sighs and shuts his eyes, continuing to think of some out of whack excuses for why the guy was acting so strangely.
Eventually he drifts off to sleep. Sleep is the best thing ever.