bliss 🖤 imagines

5. crazy 🖤 layne staley

Luckily, he didn't seem to be too offended. "Sure," he said, voice still cracking slightly. "Ah... Go ahead."

"Thanks." You stepped past him, -- not a difficult task, considering he was even thinner than when you had last seen him. You noted this with a heavy heart as you made your way through the door, heading towards the living area.

The place wasn't nearly as decrepit as you feared it would be, considering that, from what you had heard, he hardly ever had any company. You were pleased to see that the spacious condominium had been kept reasonably organized, although the signs that the space was mostly inhabited by one person alone were not lost on you. Relics of solitary activities were haphazardly tossed aside in odd places; a book here, the TV remote there, a scarcely-decorated canvas accompanied by a paintbrush coated with dried paint, pushed off towards the drawn-shut window. It was this object that piqued your interest most.

"You've been painting?" you asked.

"Yeah," Layne replied. He shut and locked the door behind him before heading across the room, in your direction. "I've been doing a lot of that, ever since--" The sentence hung open-ended in the air as he seated himself next to you.

The newfound silence bothered you immensely. Before long, it pushed you into action.

"Before you shut everyone out?"

Layne tensed, obviously surprised by your statement. "I--"

"No," you stopped him. "There's no other way of explaining it, nothing else to call it. That's what you're doing." You lowered your voice, not particularly wanting to shout your next words. Just saying them hurt enough.

"You've closed yourself up in here, so you can shoot up and shut us out and not be bothered. So you can just let yourself... die,"  you murmured, looking down at your hands in your lap. "I'm not ready for that to happen, Layne. I'll never be ready for that to happen."

He didn't reply for a long while, shame and confliction rendering him silent. Finally, he asked you a question.

"How'd you find me again?" he inquired, his voice low.

You chuckled bitterly. "How do you think?" you shot back. "It was Jerry. He was thrilled to find out I was bothering to come over here, -- he says he's been, time and time again, but nothing ever changes. Says he doesn't even want to look anymore." You stopped, eyeing him quizzically.

"And what happened there, Layne?" you continued. "He was your best friend, -- they all were. I know for a fact that Jerry especially loves you, -- maybe even more than I do." Bitter tears came to well up in your eyes. "So why are you doing this to them?"

Suddenly, that guilt in his expression began to melt away. Soon enough, it was replaced by an entirely different emotion, one that surprised you. Anger.

"Don't you see, Y/N? Jesus, you don't get it!" he shouted. Upon hearing him raise his voice like that, you felt as if you had been transported back in time, when he screamed his anguish towards the audience rather than a nearly-vacant room.

Still, with the way he responded to your accusations, you would think that he was back on the stage, -- his emotions poured out of him, raw, visceral.

"I don't want this!" he yelled, tugging slightly at his dark blonde curls in frustration. "I didn't do this shit on purpose! If I had known that I'd get hooked, -- hell, if I knew I'd do anything but get high and kill the pain a bit, -- I never would have picked up a needle for a single day in my damned life! But I didn't know, alright? I had no idea it would end up like this!"

Suddenly, his rant came to a halt. A choked sound rose up from his throat, -- a sob.

As soon as that noise fell onto your ears, a wave of emotion washed over you, -- a mix of sorrow and love that you knew all too well. Gently, you reached for the hands knotted in his hair. You pulled them away from his head before threading your fingers through his, speaking his name quietly. "Layne..."

He didn't reply for a long while, -- he simply cried, head hung as if he had been caught in the act of some terrible crime. Eventually, he spoke up again, if only to ask you a question of his own.

"Would you still want me?" he asked. "I mean... Do you? After all the time I've been gone? After... After everything I've done?"

That wasn't a question you had to think about for very long.

Your lips brushed softly against one of his hands.

"I'll always want you," you answered truthfully. "You're the only one I'll ever want. You're the love of my life, Layne."

Much to your dismay, tears began to prick at your eyes again. You blinked them away.

"You'll always be the love of my life," you continued quietly. "Even if I'm not yours."

He froze, meeting your eyes. "Don't..."

You shook your head. "I know, how it's been for you," you said, "ever since what happened to Demri. I know that that is probably what sent you over the edge again, -- I know it's been awful for you, and that you loved her..." You sniffled, lifting a hand to wipe away a falling tear. Much to your surprise, however, Layne reached out to wipe it away instead.

Shocked as you were, you made yourself continue. "Even if we're never... What we were, ever again..." You looked him in the eye, searching for the courage you mustered up as you waited outside earlier. "I still want to be your friend. I still want you to trust me. I still want you to get better. God, I'd do whatever it takes to make that happen."

As much as you wanted to break down into sobs, you forced yourself to go on, make your full point known. "You have so much fight in you, Layne. In your voice, in the way you think, in the way you feel things. I can't stand to watch you snuff all that out."  You gazed into his eyes, serious, unblinking. "So fight this, too. Fight this monster tooth and nail." You squeezed his hand again. "I swear I'll stay behind you, every step of the way."

Wide-eyed and shaking, he stared at you, seemingly searching for untruths. "You know I'll be really sick, right?" he asked finally. "I mean, I know I'm already not myself on the H, but... Withdrawals are a killer."

You shook your head once again. "Doesn't phase me," you proclaimed. "I'd take you, in sickness and in health."

His dubious expression remained. "And it's gonna turn me into a huge asshole," he continued. "I might fight you, trying to get myself one last fix..."

"And I'd hold you down," you replied quickly. "I'm no weakling, Staley. You know that."

Despite the sadness and anxiety making a home in his eyes, he grinned at you. "God, Y/N..." he said. "You must really love me."

"I do." You nodded a confirmation. "And don't you ever forget it!"

He chuckled slightly, taking you in, so beautiful and lively, -- not to mention perched on the edge of his sofa. He never thought he'd see you again, that you'd come back to him.

Apparently, his assumptions were dead wrong.

Thinking this, he sighed and opened his arms, beckoning you. "Come here."

Happily, you returned to his arms, resting your cheek against his still-beating heart. You could swear that your pulse thrummed in time with his, a manifestation of everything falling into place as you came into each other's lives again.

It was a crazy thought, but hey. This man made you believe in lots of crazy things.