It was all over the news.

Motorcyclist Killed in Freak Accident, they all said.

But to one person, it wasn't another accident.

It was his best friend; the one he was inviting over so he could confess to loving the motorcyclist.

But now, there was no chance of his dreams ever coming to fruition.

Mello meant the world to Matt, and the redhead only blamed himself.

It was like a morbid drinking game, the way the smoker took out his pain. Every time he thought of Mello, his silky blonde hair, his azure eyes that made you lose all sense of time…

That's three more swigs of beer.

He went through countless cigarettes, none of them filling up a fraction of the void inside him. But he ploughed on, hoping they eventually would.

The news said there was a bouquet of flowers attached to the motorcycle with a card that read:

"Matt, we've been through so much together. You've been the only person I could call a friend. Now, can I call you my lover?"

That made the situation a million times worse. He knew his love was requited, but it was intangible.

Mello was dead.

Matt had been in denial; he was sure that the blonde would shoot the lock off his apartment's front door and shout, "Surprise, Mattie!"

But he never did.

But Matt sat and waited for that moment.

Wasted two years of his life in a catatonic state.

Until he decided enough was enough.

Calling an ambulance, he chuckled.

He took one of Mello's many guns, and pressed it to his head.

Gave the doctors his address, and then said, "I'm going to shoot myself now."

Hung up.

He choked out a broken, mirthless laugh.

"Wait for me down there, Mels…"