Sweet Talk

Gerard unlocked the door to his ground floor apartment, shushing Walter as he bounded and barked excitedly.
“All right, in a minute, you fat dog,” Gerard sighed, gently nudging Walter towards the kitchen with his foot.

His apartment was medium sized with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom.
Gerard’s bedroom was painted dark, vivid purple, with silky furnishing and smart, black, floral designs on the curtains and bedspread. He had a picture of himself and his brother in a black frame on his bedside table; Gerard was 18 and Mikey was 14 and they have their arms wrapped around each other, both grinning at the camera. It was taken at Smashing Pumpkins gig in New York, when Gerard had taken Mikey to his first concert. They both look so happy and excited; carefree. Before Gerard got in to the drink and drugs.

The second bedroom is smaller and the walls are papered in the boring, calm blue that Gerard had found it in when he moved in. He didn’t use the room, so it was empty, apart from a few boxes of old stuff that Gerard didn’t use.
The living room/studio is quite spacious and open. It has Gerard’s old desk in one corner holding all his paints and pots and brushes, on top of it and underneath it. The dark, shiny wood is carved beautifully, looking traditional and grand; it used to belong to his grandmother. It’s surface is splattered with different coloured paints, old and new stains. Next to the desk is an easel with a blank canvas sitting on it. Gerard hadn’t got around to painting in a while.
The living room also held; a small television which Gerard didn’t use much; a dark wood coffee table, rings stained into the surface; a three-seat sofa, faded bright-orange in colour and flecked with paint much like everything else; an old-fashioned but working record player with all his and his father’s old records piled up or stored in torn leather cases.
The walls were all painted a different colour; one green, one red, one purple and the other blue; and each wall painted in different shades, lilac and deep purple swirled together, lime-green and muddy green, cornflower-blue and vibrant cobalt blue, bright red and dark, blood-crimson blending and twisting together in beautiful dark shadows, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

The kitchen has retro black and white tiles on the walls and a pale linoleum floor. The appliances all work well and are pretty modern and Gerard manages to keep them fairly clean.

“Come on, Walter. Come here, boy,” Gerard called to the pup as he placed his dish of dog food on the floor. Walter barked appreciatively.
Gerard walked tiredly to the living room and slouched down on to the sofa. He glanced over to his desk miserably, eyeing the paints and the black, empty canvas and sighing. He hadn’t painted in so long, and he missed it, but every time he tried his head just seemed blank. Everything seemed blank to him now.

He picked up his sketchbook from the coffee table and a pencil and idly flicked through the pages. There were sketches of Walter and Mikey, a few of random cartoon characters he’d made up and lots of Frank. Frank and his puppy, Frank and his grandparents chatting in the shop, Frank reaching up to a top shelf, his shirt riding up and a golden strip of skin showing between the waistband of his trousers and the hem of his shirt. Frank slouching on the counter, his elbows propped up on the top and his head resting in his hands. Frank smiling shyly and blushing at a faceless, shadowed male. Frank, Frank, Frank.
Gerard sighed. There was something about that boy. Sure, he was quite a bit younger than Gerard, but Gerard could just feel it. He knew that sounded stupid, even Mikey had raised an eyebrow and laughed when he told him, but it was true. Frank was exceptional.

Gerard started drawing again; Frank with a bright smile on his face and his hair curling around his eyes, crouched on the shop floor with Jemima and Walter scurrying around his feet.
He was just carefully shading the hollow on Frank’s throat when a loud, obnoxious knock startled him and caused him to smudge the softly drawn lines and scratch a harsh, dark line along Frank’s face.
“Fuck,” he muttered. He flipped the pencil and tried the rub at the deep line with the eraser.
“Let me in, you fucker, you better not be asleep!” Bert called from the other side of the door. Gerard let out a harsh breath and slammed his sketchbook shut and slapped it onto the table angrily. He’d have to fix it later.

“What the fuck do you want?” Gerard said, swinging the door open and revealing the greasy haired and dirty looking man. Bert pushed his way past Gerard and into the apartment, kicking out at Walter harshly with his foot as the young pup scampered over to see what the commotion was about.
“Hey, watch it, you fucker. Don’t kick him like that,” Gerard said angrily as he scooped up a whimpering Walter and petted him. Bert flapped a hand dismissively.
“Whatever, dude. I’ve got blow, you want in?” He asked, producing a small bag of white powder from the inside jacket pocket of his rusty-looking leather jacket.
Gerard sighed. He kissed Walter on the head and walked him into the bedroom before putting him down on the bed. “Be back later, little one,” he murmured. He shut the door.

“Right, hand it over then,” Gerard said, his face hard as he held his hand out for the baggy. He breathed a heavy sigh as he opened it up and spread three lined on the coffee table.
This night would end the same as every other night. A hazy memory, a black eye or busted lip, and Bert’s cock up his ass.