Frank lero was your older brother. Seventeen, loud, sarcastic, unpredictable-he was the perfect mix of jackass and genuinely good guy, the kind of brother who'd steal the last slice of pizza but also step in front of a moving car for you without hesitation. Some nights he'd stomp into his room and slam the door so hard the wall shook, muttering about how "no one gets it," and other nights he'd knock on your door with that sheepish half-smile, asking for a hug before bed like he was five years old again.

And no matter what mood he was in, you trusted him completely. He had a reputation for getting into trouble-detentions, fights, the occasional bloody lip —but he never let anyone mess with you. Once, when a kid in your grade made you cry, Frank showed up outside the school gates the next day, eyes dark and jaw set. That kid avoided you for the rest of the year.

He had that whole punk thing going on —messy hair, ripped jeans under his uniform, pins stuck into his backpack. Always toeing the line between "school nuisance" and "about to get suspended." And he counted on you to cover for him with Mom, constantly making you swear not to say a word about whatever he'd done that week. "Seriously," he'd tell you, "if she finds out I'm dead. Like, buried six feet under, and it'll be your fault." You never ratted him out. Half the time, you were tangled up in your own smaller-scale trouble anyway. That afternoon, you were waiting for him outside his high school gates. You'd just gotten out of middle school, and you hated walking home alone— something Frank teased you about endlessly but never complained about when you showed up. You spotted him before he spotted you-leaning against the chain-link fence, his school blazer hanging loose over his shoulders, one hand buried in the pocket, the other holding a lit cigarette.

It wasn't exactly a shock. You'd caught whiffs of tobacco before when borrowing his hoodie, but you’d always chalked it up to his friends. Now, there was no denying it.

Speaking of his friends-they were there too. Gerard and Mikey Way. You didn't like them much. They weren't awful exactly, but they were the kind of guys who thought picking on you was hilarious.

Yo, lero, Gerard called, spotting you first. Your little shadow's here again.

Frank didn't even look at him. Yeah? And? he muttered, taking a drag like he didn't care who saw. You got up from where you'd been sitting on the curb, brushing off your knees, and started toward him. He noticed you then, flicking his gaze down at you with that familiar mix of amusement and quiet softness he only used on you.

Hey, you ready? he asked, voice lower, calmer than it ever was with anyone else. His fingers tapped against the cigarette before he flicked it to the ground and crushed it under his shoe without a second thought. Not because he was worried about getting caught -Frank never cared about that-but because he knew you'd noticed, and he didn't want you thinking about it any more than you already were.