bliss 🖤 imagines

5. crazy 🖤 layne staley

(Requested by bleed-the-freak!

tw: drug use/addiction, mention of weight loss)

By the time you arrived at the condo, you were already beyond irritated.

You'd followed Jerry's (somewhat unclear) directions, searched endlessly for the address hastily scrawled onto the back of your hand.

Finally, after several hours of driving and a tiring trek up and down several flights of stairs, you'd ended up there, the golden numbers on the door gleaming at you. A miniscule amount of your stress melted away upon making this discovery, prompting you to knock on the door.

Once that was out of the way, all you could do was wait.

You straightened your spine and crossed your arms over your chest, already assuming some sort of assertive stance. Tapping your foot against the floor impatiently, you gave the hallway you stood in a cursory glance.

Nice place, you thought, though some nagging, pessimistic voice within you insisted that Layne's living quarters weren't likely to be nearly as nice on the inside. That thought sent a pang to your heart.

Two years.

That was how long it had been since you had last spoken to him, face-to-face or otherwise.

That was how long it had been since he pushed you out of his life.

Slowly but surely, Layne had shut down, blocking out the outside world and starting to build his own fortress.

Suddenly, no one else was allowed to be near him. Not his bandmates, who had considered themselves his best friends. Not the fans, some of whom had begun to take on his particular brand of bad habits.

And, no matter how hard you tried, not you.

You, who had had a soft spot for him since the beginning. You, constantly throwing out your back in order to make him feel okay.

You, the one who loved him as deeply as you had ever loved anyone.

You would have taken care of him for the rest of your life if you had to. Unfortunately, it didn't look as if he was going to give you that option.

After two years of grieving and worrying, you decided you'd take matters into your own hands.

You were going to find him again, no matter what the cost.

Crazy as it was, that was what true love could make someone do.

For him, you would have done much crazier.

Now, you gnawed at your lip nervously, silently begging for him to please, please, please, open the door.

Maybe some part of the universe heard you.

Soon enough, the door swung open. You stood up straight once again, just in time to find yourself eye-to-eye with him once again.

You never thought you'd see the day.

Willing your voice not to shake, you opened your mouth to speak. "Layne."

Your voice came out quiet, hoarse. Weak, you silently chastised yourself.

Then again, Layne didn't seem to be much better off.

"It's you." He practically choked out the words, eyes wide with disbelief. "I can't believe--"

"Can I come in?"

You were well-aware of the fact that interrupting him as soon as you got reacquainted didn't do much for first (second?) impressions, but looking at him now affirmed your assumption that the matter was urgent.