After roughly five minutes of firm knockings scattered between long pauses of silent waiting, Gerard starts to worry. He’s not a very optimistic man, a fact that is only heightened when he lives under the terrifyingly harsh laws of Oceania, so it isn’t hard for him to jump to the worst conclusion: Frank is evicted. If that’s true, there is no way Gerard will ever be able to locate Frank again; the proletarian district is more or less a maze to Gerard – too confusing to navigate, and Gerard wouldn’t want to get caught stuck in a shady neighbourhood.

Gerard buries his face in his hands and makes a distressed noise. He can almost sense some kind of breakdown coming on. But then he hears it – a burst of loud coughs, followed by a sneeze or two. “Frankie?” He can’t help but yell, half-frantic, and he hears a feeble mumble behind the door. He’s relieved for a moment, before realising the very frightening possibility that Frank might die inside. It’s known to happen – death rates are high in the prole districts when winter hits Jersey, the old and sick having to tough it out every year without proper medical treatment. For a moment, Gerard just panics. But then he composes himself enough to try the doorknob, and thank God it’s unlocked. He bursts into the flat, and the sight of Frank makes him ache. He’s curled up into a tight ball under the crumpled sheets of his bed, barely visible when he’s covered himself head to toe with the sheets. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead. He looks terribly ill. Gerard should’ve known, he should’ve known Frank would get sick. His apartment is never warm, and it’s winter, of course he’d get sick, what was Gerard thinking? He should’ve bought more clothes – a thicker, warmer quilt, at least, for Frank.

“Just come ‘ere, I want a hug,” Frank demands croakily, and Gerard almost laughs in relief, half-hysterical. He crosses the room and kneels on the bed, gathering Frank into a tight hug. “You don’t know how worried I was out there. For a second I thought you could be dying,” he whispers into Frank’s hair. He feels Frank shake his head. “’M fine,” Frank mumbles with a sniffle, but Gerard knows he isn’t. He’s far from fine – his skin is burning up, and he looks exhausted. He’s very clearly fighting to keep his drooping eyelids open.

“Hush. Just keep resting, I’ll go make you a cup of hot water.” Gerard presses a kiss against Frank’s cheek, and gets up from the bed. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to take off his coat. He leaves it hanging over the back of the stray chair in what should be the living room area (it’s really just a corner of the one-room flat, to be honest) as he walks over to the kitchenette. Gerard thinks, vaguely, that when he got sick as a child, he’d receive way more than a cup of hot water – it’d be a cup of hot tea instead, for one, and he’d certainly have a small snack to go with it. Also, chicken soup. That was more or less part of the custom, too. But just like proper coffee, proper tea leaves had vanished off the markets for a long time. If a regular Party member can’t get a hold of them, there is no way he can find them in the prole markets. Gerard sighs, and carries the cup of heated water over to the bed.

Frank finishes the cup in several gulps, and Gerard pretends he doesn’t notice how thirsty Frank had been (how dehydrated he must have been before Gerard came over; he swears the boy doesn’t know how to take care of himself properly, he thinks fondly) and goes to refill the cup. He checks the thermosat discreetly, just to make sure it’s turned up all the way. Not that it would’ve made much a difference – you can’t expect the proles to have better heating than the Party members, and Gerard’s apartment isn’t very warm already.

When he comes back to the bed and places the cup on the bedside table, Frank surprises him with an apology. “I’m sorry I’m sick,” he says, and Gerard is confused. There is no reason he should be apologising; it’s not like he could’ve stopped himself from catching the flu living under these crappy conditions.

“Why are you apologising?” But Frank looks genuinely sorry – miserable, even, and Gerard is all the more confused.

Frank takes a deep breath, and says, slowly, “I know you came out all the way to see me, but I’m sick and I can’t even give a blowjob without wanting to throw up my last meal thirty seconds in, so I’m sorry I can’t do anything with you –”

“Hold on, you tried to work today?” Gerard is still stuck on the first part of Frank’s reply.

“Yes. I mean, it wasn’t that bad this morning, the fever, so –”

“Frankie, you shouldn’t even be out of bed,” Gerard says with a worried sigh. He knows that Frank most probably meant he was feeling only marginally better this morning when he said ‘it wasn’t that bad’. And then his brain catches up with the rest of Frank’s sentence, and— “Wait a second, are you apologising because you’re ill and we can’t have sex?” Gerard asks, voice laced with amusement and incredulity.

Frank nods in response, and Gerard almost laughs. “That’s stupid, Frankie you know I love you right?” At this, Frank nods again, and Gerard continues, “Then why would you assume that sex is the sole reason I visit you? Because if that’s the case then I’m just the same as all your other patrons.” Gerard finishes with a slightly smaller voice, and Frank shakes his head almost vehemently. “No, the rest of them can’t compare. They don’t even come close. I’m sorry if–”

“Stop apologising, Frank.” This time, Gerard does laugh. Then he adds, with a quieter voice, “Just be quiet and let me take care of you.”

Speaking, Gerard rearranges the blankets so that they form a tight cocoon around Frank. He reaches his arm out, leaning his body as far as he can without getting off the bed, and snags his coat off the chair. He places it on top of all the blankets as an added layer of insulation. He knows it’s not nearly enough, but before Gerard buys Frank a thicker quilt, it’s the most he can do. He combs his fingers through Frank’s hair gently, brushing the stray strands off his forehead, and Frank hums. He’s already teetering on the edge of sleep; the conversation had taken out quite a bit of energy from his body. “Love you,” Frank mumbles drowsily, and Gerard smiles.

“Shhh. Just sleep.” Gerard drops a kiss onto Frank’s hair and lies down on his side, watching Frank rest. He’s so glad he decided to come over today; who knows what would’ve happened to Frank. Maybe one of the other prostitutes would’ve came over to enquire after Frank, but he doubts they’d be as willing as he is when it comes to nursing Frank back to health. Frank doesn’t have any family, so there really isn’t anybody else who would. He supposes they’re similar in that aspect: both of them have been orphans since their teenaged years, although Gerard got the luckier end of the deal. He also doesn’t remember how he lost his family, but Frank has said that it was only recently he stopped having vividly detailed nightmares about his mother’s death. Gerard never asked, but he knows Frank’s mother died in the war that’s been going on since the revolutions. But Frank lost his father far earlier; the man had vanished amidst the last wave of revolution, and that was so long ago he barely remembers it. All he recalls is being propped up on a man’s leg and hearing guitar music in front of a fireplace, Frank had told Gerard once.

And then Gerard thinks about how readily he tells Frank those three words, “I love you”, all the time. Every time he says it out loud, he is breaking the law, and he knows this, but he’s never felt any compunction about it. He’d never had the nerve, nor wanted to tell Alexandra that he loved her, back when they were still together. Alexandra was the first and only girlfriend Gerard had – if what they had could even be called a relationship. Party members don’t really have relationships – there are no such thing as boyfriend and girlfriend, because they were all equal comrades. All they have are marriages, and Gerard almost got tricked into marrying Alexandra. They were engaged back then, but Alexandra was the complete opposite of Gerard. Where Gerard would stop and silently ponder about the Party’s orders, Alexandra would unquestioningly abide them. She was pretty, but disappointingly empty-headed – the perfect Party member. She was in the Junior Anti-Sex League as well, so if he had married her, it would most likely have led to awful sex. He was glad he’d ended it before that happened – so that all he will ever have to remember her by are horribly dull conversations.

Gerard falls asleep with these thoughts still circling in his head. Underlying it all is his worry for Frank’s wellbeing, and he sleeps fitfully that night. He’s up before sunrise the next day. He wakes with his arm slung around Frank’s back, holding him close, and the feeling of Frank’s head resting against his chest tugs at his heartstrings. Morning light creeps into the apartment in scarce slices as the sun slowly climbs the sky, some of the light cascading across Frank’s face. Frank’s illuminated eyelids flutter ever so slightly, and Gerard smiles. He’d give anything to live in this moment forever, the rest of Oceania and the Party be damned.

A soft knock on the front door breaks the moment. Gerard gets off the bed gently, careful not to wake Frank, and pads over to the door. A peek through the peephole tells him it’s Jamia, the dark-haired landlord. She’s on good terms with Frank, from what Gerard’s heard. “She’s like a sister I never had,” Frank had said, so Gerard doesn’t hesitate to open the door. They wish each other good morning just out of common courtesy. “Gerard, is it?” Jamia smiles warmly, and Gerard already likes her.

“Yes I am. I’m going to assume Frank told you all about me?” Gerard asks with a light laugh, and Jamia laughs along. “How may I help you? I’m afraid I can’t invite you in, Frank’s ill and he’s resting, I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

“That’s fine, I understand. I’m only here to collect the rent anyway, but I suppose I’ll come by later. And oh, I’ll bring soup too. Tell him I said hi when he wakes up?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” Gerard smiles, and he watches Jamia go, but then he thinks better of it. “Wait—“

Jamia turns around in time to see Gerard rushing into the flat. He comes back to the doorway in a flash with his briefcase. He wrestles with it for a bit, but manages to fish out a wad of cash. “Here’s Frank’s rent,” Gerard says a bit breathlessly as he hands over the cash. Jamia takes it, but she looks surprised. Then she smiles. “I’m glad Frank’s found someone like you to look after him,” she says, and Gerard blushes slightly. “Don’t let him down, Gerard.” And with that, she turns around and disappears down the corridor.

Proles, Gerard realises, despite being depicted as mere animals in the eyes of the Party members, are actually the only class that still resembles humans.

---

Gerard spends the afternoon at the Community Centre, in an attempt to throw them off the scent, to cover up the fact that he’s been missing too many voluntary unofficially mandatory meetings. He’d thought it couldn’t be more miserable an experience than eating in the Ministry of Truth cafeteria, but he was wrong.

Having to sit there and watch these god-awful state propaganda films isn’t what makes it torturous, although they do have zero entertainment value. It’s having to cheer along with the others at every single little victory of the Party members on the silver screen that’s mind-numbingly boring and superfluous and downright stupid, but Gerard can’t not join in lest he’s called out for being unorthodox, or whatever. (They’d also denounce him if they knew he liked to use such long words, so he’s glad he’s perfected a poker face after all these years…)

The only comforting thought he can hold onto to stay half-attentive is the fact that he’d spent the night with Frank. The even more relieving thought is that nobody’s stopped him when he’d travelled back to his neighbourhood. He had spent most of the day at work half in fear, expecting a Thought Police or some nosy Party member to come up to him, but no one did. By lunchtime he’d started to think about Frank instead, about how he’d protested and protested until his exhaustion took over when Gerard revealed that he’d paid his rent for him. He’d thought about how Frank had wanted to pull Gerard back to bed when the latter had to leave for work, and only let go when Gerard left promises of coming back within the next five days. The mere thought of Frank is enough to make Gerard almost spontaneously break out in a smile; he has to try with all his willpower to keep his facial expression in check.

Suddenly, someone turns on the lights of the room. The film’s over, and a few people are grumbling – like they can’t get enough of that rubbish, Christ. “Alright comrades.” Someone’s gotten onto the small stage at the front and he’s waving a several sheets around. “That’s it for today. But before you go, I got the sign-up sheets here for Hate Week preparation, so come over here and jot down your name and the task you would like to help out in.”

Gerard has to hold in a groan. He hates Hate Week with a passion (no pun intended), he usually has to work increasingly overtime in the months running up to it, and then during the seven days he’s required to attend all the parades and rallies. It’s just a thoroughly exhausting process. At least, he can just fill in that he’s already working at the Ministry of Truth – Illustration Department, so maybe they will let him off easy. And it does work – the man who’s manning the sign-up sheets smiles at him, pats him on the shoulder and wishes him luck in designing the posters, and Gerard smiles back, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If the man notices it, he doesn’t say anything about it, and Gerard lets out a slow breath of relief when he’s out the door.

Hate Week – an annual set of seven days, where the entirety of Oceania engages in rallies, parties, etc by way of expressing and promoting animosity towards enemies of the Party.