Author's Note: Probably the nicest chapter end I've written is in this one- guess who it is? I got a nice glow when writing this! Thanks for the interest in this story and remember to leave a review!
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John loved Chas.
What was he supposed to do? The night engulfed him, choking him, drowning him.
He was alone, in love with a dead man.
He poured out a glass of whiskey, sitting at the table to drink it. What else was there to do?
"What the hell do I do now?" he asked the empty apartment.
No reply. John scoffed and swigged his drink, draining it. He refilled the glass expertly. He was no novice to sitting like this. In the past, he would have smoked whilst drinking.
The cravings rose up again.
He shouldn't. He had to fight them. He had been given a second chance- he couldn't screw it up.
Was there really any point fighting it? He was dying inside anyway.
It didn't take more than a minute for him to collect the cigarettes from the drawer in the bathroom and the lighter from his bedside table. He returned to the table, pulling out a cigarette.
"You're an idiot," he told himself bluntly, examining it closely in his fingers.
But what else was there to do?
He had nobody. No family. He had pushed Angela away. And Chas... Chas...
There was nothing. No reason to not smoke.
He raised it to his lips slowly, resting it there. Comfort came from the mere feeling of having a cigarette clamped in his mouth.
John reached for the lighter.
The voice which filled the room was not his own, but one equally familiar. "I thought you'd given up, asshole."