Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't want it.
A/N: I kind of surprised myself with this one. I hadn't planned on writing anything last night, but I was suddenly struck with inspiration. Still trying to decide if I want this to be a oneshot or not. If it gets a lot of feedback, I'll probably continue it. Happy reading! rated T for language and brief drug use.
This is it, he thought. This is what it feels like to die. He was disappointed. His hands were shaking, his chest convulsed, screaming for air, and a cold sweat dripped down his forehead, but that had been his normal state for the past year. At least Hemingway was a man about it. He had the decency to use a gun—a fucking shotgun for Christ's sake. He put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger with his fucking toe!
Jess Mariano—he was gonna die of a broken heart. Of course, it'll take a while for anyone to realize he's gone. But eventually, it'll happen. Drug overdose, they'll say. They won't be surprised. But they'll be wrong. She would be the only one to mourn for more than just another fucked up kid with no future who was probably better off dead. She would still see the potential. She would feel the possibility. But the disappointment—the fact that he had failed her once again—would crush her just a little bit every time she ran a finger along the spine of a new novel or the worn cover of a classic.
The room began to spin and Jess clutched the side of the bed from his position on the floor. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the sudden urge to puke his guts out right then and there, but all he saw were those eyes; those damn blue eyes. As long as he'd known her, they'd stayed exactly the same. Piercing, flecked with gray, illuminating at the sight of text on a white page and a mug filled to the brim with black coffee. But there, sitting in his shitty apartment, waiting for it all to be over, they changed. They clouded over, a dull gray taking place of the vibrant blue. He realized that this time it was different. She wouldn't recover from this. He couldn't do it.
His body relaxed. The shaking stopped. He panicked.
He pulled himself up enough to see over the side of the bed. He groped for the phone, sitting idly in its cradle, inches above his head. He didn't remember dialing the numbers—just the faint sound of sirens, creeping closer and closer as the world began to flicker and go out.
