"…ok, see you then." A swipe of a finger and he's again alone, head stuffed to the point of an oncoming migraine with the familiar cycle of emotions.

Selfish anger no matter if he'd been seeing this coming the very moment her name had sprung up on his phone; Guilt for feeling that way, for the fierce desire to call her back and make some crazy assed demand of her that would be as wrecking ball to their current britality of their friendship; Helplessness for dragging them both into this in the first place, for being so terribly trapped his own heart that even now that choice seemed literally the only one he could ever have made; and finally the desperate, unrelenting, ugly, reality of love, of the possession he felt always when dark eyes settled a moment on his or thin lips twisted in a smile so strong it'd imprint itself on his own mouth no matter his mood.

He feels certain that if he'd had some warning, if perhaps there had been the butterflies or the blushing or one of the thousand other silly things the romance novels wittered on about, he might have stopped it.

Might have been able to get his stuborn heart lodged somewhere a great deal less destructive.

But then real life had a habit sometimes of just kneeing you in the balls for no apparent reason and he'd had no such opportunity, had simply caught those dark, dark, eyes one day and thought, 'there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep you happy.'

Initially he'd been all smiles at the thought, it'd felt so warm, after all, another subtle extension to the ever increasing tapestry of their friendship and then…

"Creeper smile much, Ian?" Laughter at the edge of the words and, indeed, the unmistakable twitch of it at the corner of his mouth to tell he's teasing and he's laughing in kind as he responds,

"Sorry, it's just… we've been friends for over a decade man, how crazy is that?"

Which had had him doubled over, cheeks flushing the familiar rose of pure, unadulterated, amusement and then stone cold sober had come the thought that he's never seen something quite as perfect.

That he'd sell his soul for the power to freeze the moment and take the chance to absorb every nuance there on Anthony's face. To run first eyes, then hands and finally tongue over every expanse that gently tanned skin without concern of interruption or rejection.

In all truth it'd not been the thought itself but the underlying understanding that he'd managed to develop such perverted thoughts about his undeniably male friend with enough subtly that they'd manifested as though as simple observation an as 'it's raining', which'd had him out on the highway as swiftly as he'd been able.

He'd driven half way down state before he'd pulled off, found a cheep ass motel and proceeded to get as drunk as humanly possible at the bar.

24 hours later he'd woken to find a strange woman hovering over him and, as she reminded him often, he'd enquired,

"Are you an angel?"

She'd crinkled with laughter, told him a long drawn story that'd conluded the highlight of him vomiting onto her lap before dropping to sleep that may or may not be entire fabrication before extending her hand and informing him,

"I'm Melane by the way,"

He'd known, even then, that the right thing to do would be simply to give his own name, thank her sincerely the utterly monstrous kindness of helping him out at a desperate point and to offer to pay her back for the room she'd ended out not using thanks to making sure his sorry ass didn't drown in vomit like some godforsaken hobo.

Put a wall out before someone as sweet hearted as she seemed to be got tangled enough in his life that there was little to no hope of escape.

Instead he'd offered to buy her breakfast, flirted outrageously over the meal and somehow charmed his way into securing a tour of her modest little house.

Something about meeting someone such as her at such a point in his life had felt somehow fated, after all, the universes odd way of offering apology for the ugly tumour of yearning it'd awoken deep, deep, in his heart.

He'd been so caught that rational, the shear sense of security he felt already about her, that he'd half convinced himself that that wanting was little more than the product of delusional exhaustion and then…

Then Anthony had called.