Song Drabble. Because I'm bored.

If You're Gone- Matchbox Twenty

Arthur sighed, his last futile attempt to comfort himself, to stop himself from doing what he was about to do. He'd heard this helped. Helped the loneliness, the pain, helped to numb it all down so he could maybe, just maybe, barely survive.

Kneeling on the floor of his basement, he took the syringe in his hands and rolled up his left sleeve. Shakily running his fingers along his arm looking for the best vein, he bit back the tears that he'd been daunting at his eyes. Finding it, he took a deep breath before inserting the needle and wincing a bit, before the opium kicked in after a bit and he could unclench his fist.

Why the hell was he doing this? That is exactly what he should be asking himself. That's what he'd ask himself before Alfred left.

He said he'd be back.

Back within a year.

It'd been a year. A year and four months. He couldn't take it anymore. He honestly couldn't even say he made it this far.

Alfred hadn't called, hadn't written, hadn't contacted him in any way.

But Arthur didn't blame Alfred. This was war, after all… A fact that led to things Arthur didn't want to think about. Ever. But he did think. He thought too much. That's what this was for. For thinking, hoping for the best, and then imagining the worst.

The worst, of course, being this:

If Alfred didn't come back, ever, from anywhere, Arthur would lose it. Would lose it so much, be unable to go on, but be too much of a coward to try joining Alfred. Just too bloody scared.

But scared was exactly the word that described him. Scared and lonely.

If he could just—

A knock on the door.

….They could live without him for a while. Focus on the syringe.

A second, louder knock.

"I'M BUSY, GO AWAY!" …Barely inaudible even to himself. He could hardly see straight anymore. Nobody needed to see him now.

The door opened and he could hear it. The footsteps coming down the stairs were hurried and so was Arthur's gaze on the ever-protruding veins in his arm.

"Arthur? What the hell—"

Arthur stared at his arm. H-He knew that voice. His eyes grew wide, realizing who was now behind him, with his arms around him.

"A-Alfred…?" he whispered, breathless.

"It's alright, I'm here. We've got to get this—"

Alfred gently slid the syringe out of Arthur's hand and the needle from his skin, and tossed it away.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't make it back sooner…"

Arthur, still staring at the ground, spoke shakily and quietly.

"Is it really you? A-Alfred?"

Alfred held him tightly against him, resting his chin on the smaller man's shoulder. "Yeah, it's me. It's really me. I can't believe it either."

Maybe this is the end...?

SHIIIIIIIIIT I CAN'T FINISH THIS.