Found Missing

We drink at the club for no more than an hour. Before I know it Gerard ushers me away to a bar I haven't even heard of. It's off a backstreet somewhere at the rough end of our rough town and if I wasn't so intrigued by the low drone of heavy metal and the stench of marijuana I would otherwise feel terrified.

Gerard slips me in through the blacked-out doors before the bouncer can even ask my age, but there's something about his lenient slouch that suggests he wouldn't turn me away otherwise.

The clouded air is enough to make my head hazy within seconds and I can almost smell the liquor on everyone's skin. Gerard pulls me through the restless room, appearing to be familiar with the barman as they greet each other over shot glasses.

"Gerard!" He beams, tongue bar clicking against his teeth with every syllable. "We haven't seen you in weeks, we thought you'd disappeared into them sketchbooks of yours. How ya' holding up?"
"Y'know how it is, man." Gerard shakes his head and the barman nods. Neither seem to want to stay on the redolent subject of Martha.

"Matt's about somewhere." He tells Gerard, already pouring out his double vodka.
"Yeh, he has my keys." Gerard rolls his eyes. "I'll get them back but then I'm keeping my distance, he had me locked out of my own house because of his so-called concern of my ability to drive."
"Well if you weren't such a wreck every time you came out we wouldn't need to be concerned." The barman laughs, so does Gerard, but I notice the way his eyes narrow.

"Who's this then?" The barman finally asks, jerking his head in my direction.
"This is Elfie." Gerard slides a shot of vodka toward me. "As in, y'know, Martha's Elfie."
The barman mouths an 'oh' before saying how great it is to meet me, and then the matter is dropped. I mutter "It's great to meet you, too." although I'm not sure if it is, he's looking at me like fresh meat. I quickly swallow the vodka, wincing as I do - anything to feel a little less out of place.

*

"Is this a normal occurrence for you?" I ask, staring down at the tablets Gerard has pressed into my palm.
"Only on Wednesdays." He really means to say yes.

The pills are no bigger than pain-relief, but the way the girl sitting beside me raises her eyebrows suggests that they do more than ease headaches.
I swallow them down without a second thought, as long as to spite the girl and her patronizing eyebrows. She curls her black lips and drawls "Good luck with that, sweetie." and with that she stomps away into the dark depths of the bar, platform boots vanishing into a sea of leather and grey denim.

If not for her use of words, my common sense kicks in from beneath the river of alcohol Gerard's endowed me with - my guess is as good as accurate to what I'll need her good luck for.

Less than thirty minutes later I'm sat, more like sprawled, on the dirty tiles. I'm not drunk and I'm not high - this is what I insist, even though the world is spinning and I can't feel my cheeks. Everyone is laughing but whether they're laughing with me or at me remains unapparent, not that I care.
The bar must be full with at least two-hundred people, two-hundred people and I can see only Gerard. He's had just as much to drink as me, probably more, yet somehow he manages to hold himself together, just about.

"You're fucked." He slurs over the loud thud of music, hauling me up from the tiles. "Absolutely fucked."
I can't find the competence to reply so I giggle clumsily against his chest, oblivious to how close his hands are to my waist.

Within what feels like a blink we're at the park. I have no idea how we got here or why we're here, all I know is that the playground roundabout has never been so fun. The sleet is splintering against my face as we spiral through the darkness, luckily I can't seem to feel the cold anymore. I'm laughing so hard my stomach is cramping and my chest is weak, but I can't stop. I pry my eyes apart to see Gerard opposite me; pale knuckles tight around the metal handhold bars. He's laughing just as hard.

"Let go!" He shouts.
"What? No!"
"Just do it!"
I'm too befuddled to think of anything else to do, so I do as he says. Falling back onto my feet I shriek, stumbling across the gravel in a dizzy display until my body collides against his. He catches my shoulders, holding me at arms width when we slip into a sudden lull. I squint up at him past the early morning midst, he stares down at me and I can feel his grip tighten.

"Absolutely fucked." He barely breaths the words.
It's not until now I realize he's right; I can only see static. I part my lips to tell him this and that the grasp he has on my shoulders is beginning to hurt, only I still can't find the capability to talk.

Instead I purge the contents of my stomach down my front.

*

I've only been in Gerard's room twice; once fleetingly with Martha, the second with him intoxicated beyond reason. I never expected there to be a third, nor did I imagine myself to be perched on the end of his bed, swamped in nothing but one of his t-shirts with variable flashes from the previous six hours pounding at my memory. Here I am, though, awaiting his return from the kitchen with sweaty palms and cold legs.

"Your clothes are in the wash." He says flatly, shoving a glass of sodium water under my nose. "And you can stop shaking now."
"It's not like I'm doing it on purpose." I say, throat dry, accepting the water greedily.

I hear him mumble something along the lines of 'lightweight' followed by the click of a lighter and the smell of smoke. I sigh, unable to pluck the energy to retort so instead we wait until I can no longer stand the silence.

"I think I'll go now." I say, pulling on my jacket. "I don't mind wearing my jeans home wet and I can give you this shirt back later-"
"Don't go." He bounds through the dim light of his room to stop me from reaching for the door handle, his clutch over my wrist comes more hopeless than even he could expect.

"I mean, it's late. It's not exactly safe out there." He says quickly, hand loosening around mine. "You can stay here, if you want. I'll take the couch."

My head still feels lurid and my insides ache. The appeal of sleep is far stronger than the one of walking home, even if sleep does mean spending a few hours in Gerard's bed.

"Maybe you're not so much of a dick after all." I mutter, hardly able to believe the weary words tumbling from my mouth. Nevertheless he smiles and I find myself smiling back as his fingers find their way to coil with my own. I'm still drunk, I must be, because I don't mind.

Notes

I don't know how everyone else feels about awkward hand touching, but maybe things are getting a little too close... what do you think?