Found Missing

I stare into the empty space of Gerard's ceiling, not only wondering how he's managed to make that poster of Gwen Stefani stick there but also how we've managed to make nights spent under his duvet so regular. Nights like tonight, mornings like yesterday morning and afternoons like tomorrows. I wonder if I'll ever get used to it; sharing such intimate space, and time, with my best friends boyfriend - my dead best friends boyfriend, that is. I wonder if they'd be together if she were alive still, I wonder if only the tiniest piece of Gerard had been lying when he told me he felt nothing for her.

Maybe I need to stop wondering.

Maybe Gerard had been right - maybe I should just let it be, whatever 'it' is. It's not like 'it' is a great deal, 'it' isn't wrong. All we do is talk through films and drink coffee and get wasted and kiss on the off occasion - probably the most innocent pairing in a town like Belleville. We sleep together - no, we don't fuck. We sleep together in the most stainless sense; him in his over-sized check-shirts and me in my fathers old sweater, to share quiet company and not a mention of bodily fluid.

As quickly as winter has fallen into spring, I think I've quickly fallen into a strange love with our 'it', no matter how hard I have to ignore my conscience reminding me we aren't right. I try not to question how 'it' isn't an abnormally laughable occurrence when once we next to hated each other.

"I never expected to become so close to a person I honestly thought I detested, but then again, I never expected my best friend to die." I say this to him in the early hours of a Monday morning, the lazy activities of Sunday still hazy and perfect in his sleepy eyes. He gives a hoarse sigh of sad laughter in response, agreeing with the melancholic honesty of my statement. "Funny how things turn out, right?"

I don't think he's been laid since December, maybe even before. I try not to question how he can stand it let alone neglect the stiffness in his pants I often feel prodding my thigh. I am certain that if it were possible my virginity would have grown back by now. I wouldn't know where to start with aiding him in these areas even if I wanted to. He knows this as well as I know how petty and vulnerable I must seem. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so hopeless.

It's not like the chance of sex isn't rubbed under his nose, and mine, on a regular basis. Despite his poor opinion on himself I'm more than aware of the jealous coal-lined eyes that burn my back whenever we go out. I don't like to point on this, neither does he, or maybe he just doesn't notice.

Tonight there's a girl with blonde hair and ripped tights. I don't know why tonight is so different from every other night when I keep my thoughts to myself, maybe it's because this girl with blonde hair reminds me of Martha, not that this should make it any better at all.

"That girl keeps looking at you." I mutter, glancing at him from our space on the arm of someones ratty sofa.
"That's freaky." The corners of his lips twitch around his cigarette with what I hope is only amusement. "Which one?"
"You know the one, she's got blonde hair and her tights are ripped."

It's true. I've seen the girl with blonde hair and ripped tights offer Gerard secret smirks from the moment we stepped into the party. He supposedly hasn't.

"She's cute, I think she likes you." I want to tape my mouth shut.

Gerard shrugs. "And?"

I look at the girl with blonde hair who is now glowering at me as if I'm competition which, I have to remind myself, I am. I quickly look away to the couple on the sofa who are engaging in an obvious act of public foreplay. I look back at Gerard who is refusing to look at anyone so instead fixes his vision on the bottle of Vodka in his hands that still reminds me of roundabouts and makes me feel sick. What if he wants me to leave him alone so he can talk to the girl with blonde hair? After all, she looks like a better fuck than I am. My palms begin to sweat. Why do I care so much? Is it really any of my business who he talks to? No. Does the idea of him and this girl together bother me? Yes. Why? I don't know. I feel ridiculous. It's all too much; the girl, the couple, Gerard, the blonde hair, the foreplay, Gerard, the vodka. My insides lurch.

"I'll be right back."

I sprint down the stairs and into the street where my head spins and I have to fight to keep my balance. I stumble back into someones arms, almost screaming before I realize the arms belong to Gerard.

"Elfie, what the fuck?" He whispers into my hair.
"It's too hot in there. It's too hot and I'm just tired." It's only a half lie. "Maybe I'm coming down with something."
"You should go home, let me take you home."

I want nothing more than to allow him this, but at the same time I don't want to be the awkward more-than-friend who gets in the way of everything.

"It's fine, I'm fine. I can take myself home." I ignore the way his face falls as I walk away. "Have a good night, Gerard."

He slides into my bed sometime later, giggly and drowsy and barely able to tell the difference between me and the pillow - he's had his keys confiscated, again. I don't know what or if anything happened between him and the girl with blonde hair, I don't intend on finding out, either. All he tells me is that her name was Ellie, or maybe Lillie, he can't quite remember.

*

It's Wednesday - the sixth day into March to be exact. It's a terrible day, it always is. I stand in the open back door of Gerard's conservatory, dosing my veins with nicotine and acting out badly the play called 'everything is fine'.

"You're a terrible liar." Gerard says, joining me in the door way. I ignore his words because I'm not in the mood to indulge him.

"It's raining again." I say. He scoffs, to my irritation, and sparks a cigarette. "No need to state the obvious, Elfie."
"I'm just making conversation."
"You may be a bad liar but you're not boring. How about we converse about what's been bugging you for the last week?"
I glare at him. "I really have no clue as to what you're talking about."
"C'mon, Elfie. You've been giving me that look since the party with that blonde girl."
"What look?" I snap, still glaring.
"That look!" He laughs, exasperated, motioning toward my face as if I'm supposed to know how uptight my expression is. "I don't get why you're being so off with me. It's not like anything even happened between me and her-"
"You really are a self-absorbed ass, Gerard." I turn away before he can see the angry tears pricking at my eyes. "You have no idea-"
"I would if you just tell me!"
"Forget it."

He cups my face, a little too forcefully, so I have no choice but to look at him. "How the fuck am I supposed to do this if you won't talk to me?" He wipes away my tears with his thumbs, this only makes them fall harder. "I'm not scared, Elfie."

I sniff, uncomfortably aware of the effect his growing concern is having on me. I know he's right, I know I should tell him what the matter is otherwise there is no point in talking through films and kissing on the off occasion. I know he's not scared, and neither am I, not really. I don't know how to tell him, probably because I've never told anyone before, so the truth comes tumbling from my mouth in an ungraceful babble that he somehow understands.

To this date it's been four years since my father tried to take his own life, four years of suppressed chest aches and forgotten incompleteness. I hate wallowing, more than that I hate people knowing that I wallow, so when Gerard's face buckles into the most sympathetic gape I've ever seen I can't work out if I want to push him away or hug him. In the end I do both; thriving in his arms until I give in to sobbing more strings of nonsense against his chest.

He doesn't even wait for me to calm down before crashing his lips with mine and I gasp the same words again and again into his breathless mouth; "I need you, I need you, I need you."