Warnings: None, except a slight M/M comparison but only if taken in that context.

Disclaimer: I own the characters, even though no name is spoken; I know the characteristics. You take, you face my wrath.

your best friend

A rainy, cold English night greets you as you open the window, forcing you to truly believe that the only friends you honestly say you have right now are a half-filled ashtray and a brand new bottle of Jack Daniel's. You examine the dancing flame of the small, thin candle before you and you know it's been worse than this, although you can't remember when. It could've been that time...no, it hasn't been any worse than this. You can admit that now.

He's not calling.

The house has never seemed as empty as it does tonight. You're sitting in the large dining room of your vast stone mansion, all alone. Just like you wanted to be all those months ago. Now, you wonder why you wanted it this way because you don't like the loneliness of an empty house. Never have, never will. A lit cigarette is held with trembling fingers, your only voluntary movement being the action that requires you to place the cigarette between your cracked lips.

He's not calling.

In the horrible silence, your stony gaze flits from the candle to the cordless phone, the unopened bottle, the empty glass, and the mangled mass of tissue, blood, and bone that you have to call your left hand. A deep breath of smoke. Two broken fingers that will never heal correctly or as the doctor so bluntly put it: never function properly again. In other words, the end of your career.

He's not calling.

It was an accident, no one at fault. Your hand got caught, tweaked, popped. Nothing big so you continued to play, foolishly ignoring the aches and pains that coursed through your hand and wrist. You didn't know it was broken or that the abuse you piled on added to the damage already inflicted. No one's fault but your own.

He's not calling.

Four surgeries and two therapists later, you're hit with the bad news: you can't play anymore. This smacks you in the face hard when you sneak away to play a tune that had been bugging you only to find that your fingers wouldn't cooperate and form the chords that defined your greatness. Heartbroken and stupid, you cried over your guitar that night.

He's not calling.

Deadened, you imploded into yourself over the next few weeks, pushing away everyone close to you that tried to help and forcefully pulling yourself closer to the edge that you are now so precariously perched on, the edge that you were dragged away from before but now you're not so sure if you could even look away as you once did.

He's not calling.

Putting out your cigarette in the old ashtray, you stare at the label before you, mentally watching as the barriers you built so diligently, so desperately, crumble. When you willingly chose to close the bottle you knew you would reach this stage, this moment at some point in your hopefully long lifetime. You just didn't think it would be this soon; you'd only been sober for two years. A teenage alcoholic with problems too big to handle alone, which is exactly where you seem to be at this moment; the moment where you find out that you really want a drink more than ever.

He's not calling.

You left a message on his answering machine; a message you sputtered, choked, and sobbed your way through, begging him to call you and drag you back because you are so, so close to giving in. You can feel your weakness spreading, feel the pleasure that your body is sure to come. Tears are starting and as you blink them back, you realize that you never told him that you needed him before and right now you need him so much.

He's not calling.

He should be here in some shape or form. In flesh or in voice, he should be here telling you not to do it because your own voices were silenced a while ago. You need him to call you, to breathe on the other side of that line, offering comforts only he could give, comforts only your best friend could give.

He's not calling.

Finally, after hours of mental torment, you weakly give in to your body's urges, all but sobbing as you unscrew the cap and pour yourself a deadly glass of whiskey. As you stare through blurry eyes, you consider calling him again but you are so desperate in your reasoning that you are all but sure that he is calling you now with ready words and if you tried to call him, he would find the line busy and not call back for hours and by then, you would be too far out of his reach.

He's not calling.

With a quivering hand, you bring the glass to your lips, inhaling the pungent perfume of the liquor, eyes watering even more as you realize how far gone you already are.

He's not calling.

The liquid burns your throat as you swallow, gulp, choke down the contents, drowning your sorrows and your sobs. Tears are flowing swiftly as your body begins its new awakened scream for more.

He's not calling.

You pour another full glass, numb and alone.

He didn't call.

End.