POISON

gerard's

For someone with copious amounts of money, Gerard didn't tend to spend it wisely. Instead of a suitable place to live, he chose clothes, shoes, and material things he knew he didn't need.

On the west end of the city, the block of flats he called home matched the dreariness of the area. Most of the doors were boarded up, some of the windows were cracked or barred; the elevator up to the fourth floor had been jolting; the staircases had broken or flickering lights; the pathways ran around the outer side of the building, allowing them to see the street below.

"S'the first place I could afford after moving outta my mother's," Gerard explained before Frank could ask, having deciphered the question written across face. "I know I gotta leave, 'nd I will. It's just," his nose scrunched, "there's nowhere else I really wanna go."

"It's not safe," Frank said softly.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're here to protect me." Gerard winked.

He frowned slightly. "Poison."

"I know, I know," he sighed, fetching the keys off the belt loop of his jeans as they approached his apartment door. "I get it if you don't wanna stay, I wouldn't mind staying at yours another night—"

"I'd like to stay at yours," Frank said, offering a small smile, much more genuine than the one he received in return.

Gerard kicked shards of broken glass away from the under the boarded-up window—his window—then slid the key in the lock and shoved against the door with his shoulder since it constantly jammed. It lurched open, and he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself as he walked in, dumping his bag on the floor. He waved Frank in.

Two of the walls were faded pink, the others painted white. Even though there were cabinets and shelves, nearly everything had found its way onto the floor, across the coffee table, or the adjoining kitchen counter. Clothes were slung over the back of the couch, shoes lined up by the door: boots, heels, trainers, and platforms. Paintings and sketches were haphazardly stuck to the walls and drawn directly on the wallpaper. Empty perfume bottles were on the windowsill.

"When, uh," Gerard let out a short laugh, leaning back against the door as he shut it, "when you make a lot of money, you tend to spend it on... everything."

It was difficult to focus on any one thing; there was so much to look at. Frank's eyes lingered on the drawings scattered across the coffee table. Taking a seat on the couch, he carefully sifted through them. "You draw?" he asked, slightly astounded; he'd had no idea he was this devoted to the craft.

"I do any kind of art, really." He folded his arms on the back of the couch, peering over Frank's shoulder. "I've tried a bit of everything. I've got a book of old poetry somewhere."

He glanced back at him. "You've gotta show me that."

"Nu, uh, no way." He could already feel himself blushing. "It's so bad, it's never gonna see the light of day."

"You know, lyrics are like poetry, and I've showed you a few of my songs, it's only fair."

"Nice try, sugar." Leaning forward, he placed a kiss to Frank's cheek. "Ain't gonna happen."

"How about you show me that Poison character of yours, then?"

"Oh! Yeah." He went over to a cabinet on the other side of the room to look under a stack of abandoned sketchbooks. He pulled one out and joined Frank on the sofa, sitting so close he may as well have been in his lap. He flicked the book open. "These're from about ten years ago, so they're not very good."

Frank's eyebrows raised. "Ten years?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Is that when you started working at Nerve?"