#sector 12

Frank Iero x Reader AU

1.6 k words

The scratch of your pen against his notebook paper is the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor because if you stop, if you let the room go quiet, you’ll drown in the space between the kitchen table and the couch.

He’s sprawled out across the cushions, his legs dangling off the armrest, staring at the ceiling with that empty, tired expression that used to belong exclusively to you when the world got too loud for him. 

You keep stealing glances, your eyes tracing the line of his jaw and the silver gleam of his lip ring; your mind just automatically drifts backward to the rooftop, to the sunset breaking against his shoulders like a pair of dark wings, to the cold shock of that metal against your lips when he used to hold you so close you could taste his breath. 

Your mind drifting backwards again, pulling you under.

Suddenly, you aren't at the kitchen table anymore; you're trapped in that suffocating university stairwell freshman year, your chest tightening so hard you can't breathe before a presentation. Frank slamming his heavy bag on the floor to step right into your space. You remember the exact feeling of his hands on your shoulders, the heavy scent of cigarettes and crisp air around you as he told you to name five things you could see. You had looked right at him—at the scratch between his eyebrows, at the gold flecks in his hazel eyes—until his face was inches away, his loud breathing vibrating in your own chest. You remember the terrifying, electric pull of his lips so close to yours and the shocking coldness of his lip ring accidentally brushing your mouth before he playfully shoved your shoulder to break the spell.

You used to crawl right underneath his skin, and he just let you rest there while he bled out, letting you absorb all his warmth without ever asking for it back. You try to be cool about it now, you try so hard to just be the friend who fixes his grammar, but you’re trapped in this black room of your own making, laced up in the heavy cables of everything you never said, and you can’t get out.

"Hey," Frank’s voice cuts through the fog, but it doesn't have that low, velvet softness anymore. "You find any more typos or am I good to turn that piece of shit in?” You blink, swallowing the lump in your throat, staring down at his messy handwriting. 

"You spelled cognitive wrong twice on page three, Frank. And your thesis kinda drops off at the end.”

"Yeah, well, my brain drops off at the end of the day," he mutters, sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn't look at you the way he used to—he doesn't tilt his head or give you that tiny, knowing smile that meant he knew exactly what you were thinking before you even said it. 

He’s stopped teaching you about the bands he likes, stopped sharing those late-night, vulnerable thoughts about his family or his fears. Ever since you introduced your new friend to him the shifts have been like tectonic plates moving silently under your feet. 

Now, he only comes over when he needs his essays proofread or when the people he actually wants to hang out with are somewhere else.

You hand the notebook back, your fingers brushing against his. Once, that accidental touch would have sent a electric current through both of you, making him linger. Now, he just pulls away naturally, slipping the paper into his backpack.

"Thanks, y/n. Seriously. You're a lifesaver," he says, throwing the bag over one shoulder.

You sit there at the kitchen table, watching him walk toward the door, because you can't even blame him. You pushed yourself out of his orbit by wanting more, and that's entirely on you. You can't force him to look at you and see a girl he wants to love. 

Attraction is this internal, unyielding thing within oneself, and the bitter truth you're finally swallowing is that you simply aren't what he wants. 

You lead yourself to the water every time, hoping for some kind of wish beneath the ocean veil, but the tears just dry on your face before they even hit the surface.

"See you around," he says, his hand on the doorknob.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile that feels like cracked glass. "See ya, Frank."

The click of the front door latching shut echoes through the quiet apartment, heavy and final, leaving you stranded in the sudden silence.

You don’t move for a long time. You just step back from the kitchen table, your eyes dropping to the brown paper bag resting near the edge—your sandwich from the deli down the street, still wrapped in butcher paper, untouched and growing cold. The sight of it pulls at a loose thread in your chest, and suddenly the room blurs, dragging you backward into the memory of the very first time you took him there.

You had practically dragged him by the sleeve of his oversized hoodie, your fingers dug into the fabric while he complained the entire three blocks, swearing up and down that bodega food was a health hazard. “y/n, I swear to God, if I get food poisoning before my midterms, I’m haunting your apartment,” he had groaned, but there was that light in his eyes, that easy, half-shaved smile tilting his lips because he secretly loved letting you lead him around. 

He had sat on the edge of your rooftop, the sunset cutting through his dark hair like a halo, chewing slowly before pointing a half-eaten wrap at you. “Okay, fine. You’re a genius. I’m eating here every day until I die.” And he practically did. 

For months, it was your routine—he’d be the one text-spamming you after class, asking if you wanted the usual, showing up at your door with the brown paper bags already grease-stained and warm.

Until he stopped. 

The same way he stopped doing everything else. The routine didn't die with a fight; it just starved to death, fading out so quietly you didn't realize it was gone until you were buying a single sandwich for yourself.

Your limbs feel heavy, weighted down by the sheer exhaustion of missing someone who is still alive, so you cross the room and collapse onto the couch. It still smells faintly of him— cigarettes and the leather of his boots. You close your eyes, letting the gray afternoon light fade behind your eyelids, but sleep doesn’t bring peace. It just brings a rush of them, a flood of moments where the lines were so beautifully, cruelly blurred.

You’re back in the crowded basement of that campus venue, the bass vibrating so hard it rattles your teeth, the crowd shifts violently, shoving you off balance. Before you can stumble, Frank’s hand catches your waist, his grip firm and steady through your shirt, pulling you flush against his side. 

He doesn't look down at you, just keeps his eyes on the band, but his fingers tighten on your hip, guiding you through the sea of moving bodies like you belong to him. “Stay close,” he yells over the music, his breath hot against your ear, his chin brushing your shoulder. 

“Don’t get lost.” 

You felt so safe you could have died right there.

The memory shifts, morphing into a rainy Tuesday afternoon in this exact living room, months ago. You were sitting on the floor, stressed out of your mind about a tuition mistake, tears of frustration hot on your cheeks. Frank had walked in, taken one look at your face, and his entire demeanor changed. 

The frantic, hyperactive energy he usually carried just melted away. He dropped to his knees in front of you, his face softening into an agonizingly tender expression, his hand reaching out to gently brush a wet strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, warm and steady. “Hey. Stop crying. I’ll take care of it, alright? I’ll go down to the bursar’s office tomorrow and raise hell.” 

He didn’t, of course—he forgot by the next morning, and you ended up sorting it out yourself—but in that exact moment, with his face inches from yours and his voice dripping with mock-heroic sympathy, you loved him so much it felt like a sickness. 

You had laughed through your tears, and he had tilted his head as his hand slid down to casually rest over yours on the carpet.

It was always like that. He would hold your hand to cross a busy street, his fingers naturally intertwining with yours, only to drop it the second you reached the sidewalk without a second thought. 

He would kiss the side of your neck as a greeting when he came up behind you, a completely platonic, affectionate habit he probably gave his dogs at home, totally blind to the way it made your breath catch in your throat.

He was just a boy who loved his friend fiercely, sharing his favorite vinyl records, staying up until 3:00 AM talking about his childhood fears, stripping himself emotionally naked because he trusted you completely.

But you wanted the poetry of it. You wanted the dark angel on the rooftop to mean something. The dream thins out, leaving you cold. 

Sector 12 is the name of one of Frank's first bands he was in, so I reckon this is a little nod to that. Their song titles are as follows:

Everything Falls Apart

Gwen

2nd To Last

Perfect World

Walk The Line

1/2 The Time

N.J. Fightsong

Changes

The ones I've coloured definitely have a bit of a plot-relevant feel to them, though I admit that's likely a bit of a stretch. It could very well be a reference to Star Wars or Green Lantern (both of which would make sense considering which band this is), but there isn't nearly enough background about either for it to make sense.

1811, however? Looks like a year, right? There are two pretty big themes from that year: civil unrest, and fires.

An unsuccessful slave revolt in Louisiana

Mexican War of Independence

The Casas Revolt in Spanish Texas

Revolutionary riots in Buenos Aires

The first victory of the Uruguayan independentists (the Battle of Las Piedras)

The establishment of the Regency era

Venezuela declares independence from the Spanish Empire

Luddite uprisings in England

The Great Podil fire in Ukraine

Forest fires in Switzerland

The Richmond Theatre fire in Virginia

i did just the main three characters from each plot (though mr ellams isnt extremely main hes just the only other vaguely important character) feel free to ask abt any of them and their story (pls pls pls pl-)

Sector 12 - DEMO

Four song demo from 1998 on discogs

Gwen

1/2 the time

2nd to last

Changes

Different than the seven song "New Demo" (below), but three songs are the same (I would assume).