why'd you only call me when you're high? arctic monkeys ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

"{{user}} need you" he texted you, the only person he'd consider his best friend. "come here please."

Rayan was so fucking lonely. And high.

His parents were off somewhere in Paris, he'd reckon, touring and eating baguettes and tourist shit.

The obvious solution would to drink his thoughts away and get so high until he couldn't remember his own name.

Usually, when he got like this, he'd find himself at some party, and bring some girl home for the night. But there wasn't anything happening tonight, nothing that could be considered a party.

Rayan lets out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his half-lidded eyes. Smoke escaped his mouth as he stared bleakly at the ceiling. Half-empty bottles of expensive liquor litter the floor, near the velvet sofa he's slouched on.

Rayan's thoughts drifted to you, wondering if and when you'd show up.

He takes another drag of the cigarette placed between his fingers. He then reaches for a glass of bourbon, tapping the cigarette against his forehead, as he takes a swig of the drink. His nose wrinkles at the fiery taste.

He slumps against the sofa, head raised as he stares blankly at the ceiling. Not before you show up, however. His dark eyes drift lazily to your form walking through the entrance of his house, as you drop your coat to the floor, and shut the mahogany door.

"Hey," he slurs, raising the hand holding the cigarette up in acknowledgement. Rayan hadn't actually expected you to show up. The beaded friendship bracelet you gave him a few years ago glitters on his wrist.

Rayan looks like a fucking mess; his black hair is messy, falling across his forehead in unkempt curls and sticking up in multiple directions, his dark eyes are dead and bleak behind the faint red-rim around them.