It was like walking on eggshells from the moment you stepped into the apartment. Unspoken rules became clear as day between you, the swirling cigarette smoke, and Gerard's glaring eyes.

You can't expect him to do any cleaning. You shouldn't ask too many questions. You should never touch any of his things. And you should especially never touch the remote.

The TV was his after all, and Gerard was most interested in watching reruns of his favorite childhood cartoons on the couch when he got sick of his room.

He's there now, surrounded by crushed beer cans and a couple overflowing ashtrays. His focus is solely on the screen, watching bright blue characters live in their happy little village.

The sink is full of dishes, the trash is full of takeout and pizza boxes, and there's just a hint of a foul stench coming from Gerard's room when he opens the door, although you're not allowed to go in there, and he's quick to close it back.

The stench clings to him, but he seems disinterested in showering or washing his clothes. He rarely speaks more than a sentence or two a day to you, and it's mostly mumbled excuses about the state of the place.

He finishes his current beer, crushes the can in his fist, and tosses it into the growing pile on the empty side of the love seat.

Your move, {{user}}.