But Gerard wasn't sleeping.
Or Jacking off.
He was hunched over a desk, barely lit by a small lamp that towered over him as his hand flew up and down over the white surface of paper, making sharp lines and deep curves with his pen. He was biting his lip and chewing furiously until it bled, little drops falling on the drawing almost blending into the picture seamlessly.
In fact, he had grabbed some red paint and splattered it in the background, little specks of blood surrounding the subject like a halo. There was no way of telling that Gerard's actual body fluids were in the drawing. That was his own secret. His own private signature to the art.
He stopped sketching and leaned back, cracking his spine and yawning. He brought the picture up off the table and held it up in the light, turning it and examining it with squinted eyes.
He spotted some flaws in his drawing within seconds. For one, the eyes were all wrong. They weren't round enough. They were too angular and angry. The jaw wasn't square and hard enough, too soft around the edges. The hair was perfect though. It fell down across the eyes in one graceful swoop of shiny black. And the lips were perfect.
The lips looked soft and touchable and perfect. Yes indeed, Gerard had done a fine job with the lips.
Satisfied with his drawing, he tucked the picture of Frank into his drawer and turned off the lamp.