Found Missing

I'm not sure if it's the coax of caffeine that awakens me, or Gerard's burning stare from the end of his bed.

"Coffee?" He offers simply. "I've already had three cups."
"Three? Already?" I question him groggily, propping myself up against my elbows. Through the tiny scape of his window I can just about see the sky. The window peers up from the basement pit of his room, letting in only a small amount of daylight. It's enough to tell me I've slept for far longer than intended.

"It's gone lunch time." He says.
"Shit." I say.
"Coffee?" He says again. "Mom made it for you."
"Your mum knows I'm here?"
"Well, she saw your clothes in the wash basket." Gerard shrugs, the dark green of his dressing gown hunches around his shoulders. "She's not too fussed, she thinks it's cool how we're friends now."

I wonder what his mother must think of my shortfall of clothes. Truth be told I don't think I'd like to know, so I ask the next question nagging at my flustered curiosity.

"Are we friends?"
"Well, let me think..." Gerard creases his brow together, as if to say he's deep in thought, but I can tell he's bluffing. "I guess we are, friends look after each other when they're drunk, right?"
"Right, but-"
"And that's pretty much all you and I have been doing recently, right?"
My cheeks flush and my stomach squirms at the recollection, or more to the point lack of, from last night.
"Right." I say because, after all, it is the truth.
"Great then." He smiles, eyes darting between me and the mug in his hand. "Now, are you gonna take this coffee? My arm's getting tired."

I shuffle through his bed-sheets toward where he's stood.
"These are for you, too." Gerard drops my jeans into my crossed lap as I reach for the coffee. "Mom dried them for you this morning."

"Cool..." I frown down at the jeans and the coffee mug, feeling ever so slightly baffled by her unwarranted acts of kindness - she barely knows me. "Tell your mum I said thanks."
"You can tell her yourself." He says candidly, leaving me alone to dress.

I can't imagine how Gerard can function properly in a room so dark and so cluttered, then again his hair is a constant tangle and it always looks like he's had four minutes to put his clothes on; maybe he doesn't.
I've managed to avoid several pairs of dirty underwear, I've tripped over numerous abandoned books, dodged the half plastered poster of Iron Maiden, fallen into his closet twice and stubbed my toe on the leg of his desk - simultaneously earning a shrill 'fuck'. Ungracefully, but surely, I manage to pull my jeans on.

After slipping on an empty bottle of medication, I sigh and pick it up from the floor. "You'll break your neck in here if you're not careful, Gerard." I mutter to myself, skimming over the dosage instructions.

'Xanax; treatment for anxiety and panic disorders. Do not take with alcohol.' it reads. 'No shit.' I think. 'Gerard, do you have a death-wish or something?'

Before my intrusiveness has time to wander any further, Gerard reappears beside me.
"Is that bottle a good read?"
I flinch and my cheeks flush again as I swat the bottle on his desk behind me.
"What? No. I was just looking at your artwork." I lie.
"Of course." He wrinkles his nose.
"Anne will be worried." I say quickly. "I should go, thanks for looking after me..." My voice trails off and I squeeze past him, ignoring his gaze and praying that he has ignored the way my cheeks are still burning.

He follows me to the front door, I can hear him scuffling about behind me in over-sized sweatpants.
"Say thanks to your mum as well, for the coffee." I say, stepping out into the winter afternoon.
"You really don't wanna' stay and thank her yourself?" He says, resting his temple against the door.
It's not that I don't want to, exactly. I don't want to be rude, but I'd rather deal with that than the awkward conversation based around my sleeping arrangements and absence of jeans.
"Anne will be worried." I remind him. "Have a happy Christmas, Gerard."

Half way home I remember I'm still wearing his t-shirt under my jacket. It smells a little too much of cigarettes and wash-powder; a strangely pleasant combination that will undoubtedly taint my skin for hours.

*

Detective. Woodford is thinking about dropping Martha's case. She's been gone for weeks now and there still isn't enough evidence to carry her death out as anything but accidental, apparently. Upon giving it some thought, I suppose she's right.
We all know she's right. Even though Martha's parents almost burst with anger and Gerard flees the house in an indignant sulk and the last of the Christmas holidays are subsequently ruined, we know she's right.
One can't pick into a mystery so vacant as Martha's and expect to find answers.

"I need to talk to you." The next day Gerard barges into the coffee shop.
"It's nice to see you, too." I say, rolling my eyes up at him from my seat; fortunately for his timing, unfortunately for mine, I'm on my break.
"Yea, hi, sorry, whatever." He purses his lips. "I really need to talk to you."
"Go on then."
"Not here." He hisses, glancing around at the customers. "In private."
"Are you kidding?" I'm half tempted to laugh. There are none but three couples in the coffee shop, all of which are old enough to need hearing-aids to catch even a murmur of anything, but Gerard seems persistent, not to mention frustrated.
"Fine." I heave, abandoning my lunch and grabbing his sleeve with my fist. "Come with me."

I lock us in the single toilet cubicle, no one likes to come in here anyway; it's damp and smells like bleach. I turn to Gerard, his hands are shaking so violently I'm beginning to feel whatever it is that's left him so panicked.

"What is it?" I ask.
He opens his mouth but shuts it immediately.
"Gerard, spit it out. You're scaring me."
In one swift movement he grabs my wrist and presses a folded piece of paper into my hand.
"What's this?"
"Read it."
"I don't-
"Just read it before I change my mind and take it off you, okay?"
I open the paper, irritated by his nerve but mostly perturbed by what the matter could possibly be.

"She was cheating." I hear him whisper as I glance through Martha's handwriting, hardly able to believe what I'm hearing let alone what I'm forcing myself to read.
"She was fucking cheating on me."