Gavin sits on his bed, curled up in a blanket. He didn't go into work today; he wasn't feeling well at all. His stomach was churning, his head throbbing. He stares at the wall.

He doesn't want to sleep; all he dreams about is him, his best friend, the one he loves.

He wishes it wasn't love. He wishes it was a crush, something he could easily get over, something that he would laugh about later in life and think, 'Wow, I sure was an idiot back then, wasn't I?'

But it's not, it's not, it might never have been.

He can't admit it. Especially not to himself.

But Gavin Free is in love with Michael Jones.

Fuck

But why? Why him?

He can't love Michael.

He can't.

He shoves his face into a pillow, and screams. A muffled noise. Tears begin to run down his face. He digs his fingernails into his palm.

I can't do this anymore.

He suddenly bolts up out of bed.

It hurts.

He stumbles out of his room and into the hall.

It bloody hurts.

There's no one home. There's no one to hear him clamor around the kitchen. No one to hear him yank bottles of liquor down from the shelves. No one to hear him cry out as his anguish takes him over.

Why does is hurt?

No one to hear him chug the liquid down. No one to hear him race to the bathroom. No one to hear him clamor through the cabinets and drawers, pulling out medicine bottles. No one to hear him rush back to his room with his stash in tow.

I don't want to hurt anymore.

No one to hear him as he breaks down.

Michael...

He unscrews the bottles and pours the pills down his throat, washing it down with the liquor. He gags horrifically as each swig forces its way down his throat.

I don't blame you for this.

They're piling up in his stomach, but he's not sure it'll be enough for him. He wants this to end as quickly as possible.

No, I don't. I only have myself to blame.

He rifles through his dresser drawers and pulls out a Swiss Army knife Dan gave him a few years back.

Only me.

He digs the knife into the flesh of his wrist. The bite of the blade almost makes him stop, but his desire for the end overpowers his fear. He slices it open, blood flowing freely.

I wish it didn't have to end it this way.

He pushes the knife in several times, making his way up his forearm, until there's hardly a patch of skin that's unscathed.

I would have quite liked to have spent some more time with you.

Using his other hand, he goes at it on his other arm, tearing through his skin once again.

But I'm grateful for what little time we did have together.

He stops when he can no longer hold the blade. He drops it on the bed.

I couldn't have asked for anything better, my boi.

He falls to his knees, slumps into the corner of the room. The tears spill more now, as the pain begins to throb.

I wish…

He turns to face the wall, and hugs his knees to his chest, sobbing.

"Michael, Michael, my Michael…"

The front door opens to the house.