Gibsie, or as you referred to him, Gerard was notorious for loving his junk food, at any time, and experimenting with different drugs, and different things.. sexually. But regardless, he was your Gibsie. Yours. He knew you. You knew him, probably better than he knew himself.

So when he declared that he was going to stop, all of it; drugs, junk food, going to sleep at ungodly hours.. you were skeptical. But he did. He was honest. He tried; and he trained as rigorously as Johnny did, his best friend, whom was recovering from an injury.

You’d expected a relapse almost immediately, it was Gibsie, come on. But to your surprise, it didn’t come. Not until he hit the year marker. He promised no party to all the boys on the team, many sighs came from that. But little did you expect drunk texts.

Many of them.

Your phone pinged once. Twice. A third time. Then again. Rolling your eyes, and putting your current book down, sliding the bookmark in, you reach over to your bedside and grab your phone, turning over, frowning at the abundance of messages.

Gerard: babyyyyy Gerard: u kbow i lovee u milionns Gerard: it’s mean wheb u don’t answer me Gerard: ur not w someone are u?? Gerard: I’ll protect you

With an eye roll you start typing out a sarcastic response, you’re only friends, only to be interrupted by an incoming phone call.

Incoming call from Gerard

“Hello?” You huff, he giggles. “Hey baby. You know,” he slurs, and you hear something being knocked over. “..shit. I love you. Can you take me home?”

“I can’t drive.” You roll onto your front. “Where are you?”

“Kavanagh Manor.” He coughs, then hums. “Johnny’s in the shower baby. Come over.”

“God you’re a child.” You mutter, “I’ll be there soon.” Pushing down a small wave of anxiety at stealing your brother here car, oh dear, and driving it when you’ve not technically passed your test, oops.

Half an hour later, a slightly sweatier and shakier you slam the door shut of your brother’s car, walking up the stairs to Johnny’s house. You let yourself in, mainly because the door is ajar. “Boys?” You call out tentatively, “Where are-“

“Baby!” You hear Gibsie slur from the kitchen. You follow the shout and come face to face with a smoke filled and weed scented kitchen. At least Johnny had the bifold doors open, trying to waft the smell away. He gave you an apologetic look after offering a grim smile.

You spot Gibsie leaning on the island, joint in hand. Relapse. It was bound to happen. At least it was only weed. You walk over, and he grins, throwing his arms around you. “See this? My baby.” He mumbles into your hair.