Maybe I'd Miss You?

6.

I wasn't quite sure whether it was ethical to quickly kiss Mortez on the forehead when leaving him in my closet, but I wasn't in a position to debate it, and neither was he. If appearances meant anything, he was either going to have a stroke or puke something up in his sleep at any moment. Thus, I made the general assumption any comfort would be appreciated. He didn't stir upon the peck, so I left it at that. He'd never have to know.

I was trying to piece together a story from his appearance, but I could honestly come up with nothing. He looked the same as he usually did, just more disheveled and distressed. Sure, there was that calm peace that usually came with sleep, but the eye bags, acne, and wrinkle in his brow were still blatant. God, I knew he was having a bad time, but I didn't know his stress was that severe.

Maybe this is good for him. If the worst has already happened, he can loosen up a bit.

Of course, then the thought of Mortez on the run constantly worrying about the death penalty crossed my mind. Who was I kidding? When he woke up, he was going to be a neurotic mess. I was calling it now.

My eye caught on the sleeve of his suit, where there was a wrinkled indent in the fabric around the wrist. Someone had been grabbing him there. Someone with a wicked grip, apparently. I shuddered, hating the image in my mind. There was more to this story than what the news was broadcasting, and I almost dreaded discovering all the details.

I took a deep breath, switching off my mind for a moment. If I let my worries get the best of me, Mortez was doomed before he could even wake up in my apartment. It was corny, but my mom always told me to focus on one step at a time when I was stressed; the little picture over the big picture. What was something small I could do to help Mortez out in the moment?

The smeared eyeliner gave me an idea. His skin was doomed more than it already was if he continued sleeping with his makeup on. Sure, it seemed perfectly dewy on it's own, but I'd imagine he only got that by moisturizing the hell out of it. It didn't change the acne. If I wiped the makeup off for him, that was something productive I could do without thinking about how fucked we were, right?

I didn't lend myself time to argue. I rushed to my bathroom to grab some baby wipes, hoping they'd be suitable. I never really wore makeup enough to justify blowing ten bucks on their makeup counterparts. Besides, baby wipes were soft. Soft equaled good, right?

I gingerly pulled one from the slit, kneeling down to get a better look at what I was working with. The eyeliner was already fading, so that much was easy. I was more concerned about his lipstick. As far as I knew, that shit could survive the nuclear apocalypse, and I thus was uncertain if the resources I had would do the trick.

I gave an apology no one would hear. Just for posterity. "I'm sorry if I fuck up your face even more. I tried." There. Satisfying enough. I dabbed away, starting with his foundation. His poor skin probably needed to breathe.

I squinted at the coat of grey that came up when I gave just a small swipe, wondering where the hell one would even find foundation that color anyway. The Halloween store? The lengths he went for appearances astounded me. Granted, I was lucky that I wasn't forced to try too hard, but even from a general heroic standard, it seemed extreme. He had an image and he stuck to it, no matter how much of a toll the effort took.

At least, until he committed manslaughter. It's unknown territory now.

I winced, forcing myself to stay focused on the task at hand. Distraction was why I was doing this. So I wouldn't have to worry about the police busting through my door at any second. Jesus. Okay, time for the lipstick-

I grabbed a new wipe and tried to be as gentle as possible, unsure of how lucid he was. If some form of drug was keeping him asleep, like I suspected, this probably wouldn't wake him up. However, it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. If he came to, I'd have some awkward explaining to do.