The first night Jon came over was a nightmare.

He had knocked on Ryan's door at two in the morning, holding nothing but his phone in his hand and breathing somewhat heavily, a bit too heavily for his friend's liking. Ryan didn't mind, though, he didn't get much sleep these days anyways, but it was so unexpected for Jon to just show up at his doorstep.

He never really came over, Jon was quite the reserved person, one who'd rather just send a text than talk face to face. And when he did want to hang out, it was usually him asking someone to come over, not vice versa. Ryan knew Jon felt safer in his own home, sitting at his kitchen table and sharing stories about the past week or what happened with the others that had gotten on his nerves.

So to see Jon, with his hoodie half hanging off a shoulder, breathing as if he were taking his last breaths, and tapping his foot rather quickly against the welcome mat splayed out on the porch, well, it left Ryan a little puzzled.

And it took him a few minutes to realize what was going on, why Jon had shown up at this hour, looking and sounding like a mess of a human. But after Jon stumbled in recklessly, scratching at his arms beneath his blue hoodie he wore so often, and swaying back and forth as he tried to make it to the couch, Ryan pieced together his current situation. And along with it came his doubts and fears.

And Ryan didn't like either of those things.

It wasn't the fact that he was high out of his mind, spouting incoherent words that he couldn't possibly understand himself, spit flying from his mouth in small drops, some landing on Ryan's person.

It wasn't the fact that he was begging for money, reaching for his best friend's wallet and practically crying for "jus' fifty bucks t'get through the night," tears pricking at large, blue, almond shaped eyes.

It wasn't even the fact that his pupils were blown out of proportion, black taking up the entirety of his irises, covering the icy blue Ryan secretly loved to look at, but currently couldn't.

What made the night nearly unbearable, and had him fearing for both of their lives, was the fact that Ryan had to witness something he had never seen before:

Jon out of control.

It was terrifying, to say the least. And truth be told, Ryan didn't know how he made it through the night. Jon had threatened to beat him up if he didn't give him the money, cursing obscenities at him and swinging his fists with little to no precision, subsequently falling onto his knees and bawling, arms wrapped around Ryan's waist as he pleaded with the older man to help him out, just this once.

He had hyperventilated and threw up on Ryan's couch, three different times, which again, ended up with him crying at Ryan's feet, begging for money again, apologizing for coming to him like this, but knowing Ryan was his best friend, that if he really needed it, Ryan would give.

He had thrown off his deep blue sweatshirt in a fit of rage, followed by his white t-shirt, pointing at the scars and scratches on his arms, blaming Ryan for not letting him get his high, asking him if he liked making him feel like shit. To this, Ryan has just stared in disbelief, watching Jon rub at his arms as the younger male rocked back and forth on the living room carpet, again screaming curses at Ryan, this time picking up his discarded clothing and throwing it in his friend's direction, for emphasis.

Tiny had eventually removed himself from the couch and retreated to Ryan's recording room, probably out of anger or fear, and the hazel eyed man didn't blame him. By the time two hours had passed, Ryan himself was getting irritated with Jon's crying and mumbling.

But more than anything, Ryan was scared. He didn't even know Jon had a drug problem. It seemed so out of the realm of possibilities, especially for Jon. He was such a happy person, his laugh was contagious and his being radiated positivity. But a drug problem? The black haired man kept it well hidden. Up until now.

And Ryan didn't know what to do.

He had never been in this type of situation before. At least not this significantly. He had never been bothered by his friends for drug money, or threatened either. Of course, most people weren't. It was something completely new to him, and Ryan was unsure of what his next step would be.

It only became clear to him after Jon had fallen asleep on his living room floor, rolled up in a green knitted blanket Ryan had tossed to him only minutes earlier, shaking in his sleep and whispering nonsense, like he did.

Ryan had to help him.

And not in the way Jon had asked him to. No, Ryan wanted to actually help. Get Jon to kick his addiction in the ass and walk away a sober man. Jon was his best friend, other than Luke, and he couldn't just sit here and watch his best friend go down a road that, if traveled too far, would never bring him back. He needed Jon in his life, and he'd be damned if drugs got in the way of their friendship.

And that's how it had started.

One night of crying led to many, accompanied by shaking, sweating, vomiting, and yelling. One late night decision led to many late night questions, ones that kept them both up when the withdrawals didn't. It was something that Ryan hadn't prepared himself for, but he couldn't really ever prepare himself for something like this, could he?

The day following Jon's hysterical cry for drugs was harder than the night, at least in Ryan's eyes. He had to sit there on the couch next to his best friend, who was covering his arms as much as he could with a blanket, and tell him he had a problem.

At first, Jon was stubborn. He insisted he didn't have a problem, that he could stop anytime he wanted to, that Ryan was just making bold assumptions, the stereotypical addict talk.

He denied his drug addiction and tried to change the conversation, every once in a while scratching at his arm beneath the blanket, even drawing blood at some point, doing everything in his power to shift the spotlight off of him and his issues.

But when Ryan stopped coddling him and started yelling at him, something he never did, telling Jon he didn't want to be friends with someone who wasn't willing to get help for himself, that he couldn't lose his best friend to drugs, that he was disgusted with the man he saw before him, Jon started to see things differently.

He was silent for a few minutes, pondering
things in his mind and coming to terms with this newfound realization, playing with it in his head, not quite sure of what he was doing. But then, slowly, covered in a new sense of direction and need, he lifted the blanket off of himself, folding it onto his lap and tearing his gaze from the floor, forcing himself to look at Ryan in his most vulnerable state.

And Ryan was suddenly filled with this undeniable sense of pride for his best friend. He wanted to get better. He was willing, and that's all Ryan had wanted. That's all he needed to truly help his best friend.

He reached out with one hand and carefully grazed over the scratches and wounds on Jon's left arm, noticing the bulk of them surrounded the inside of his elbow, but they also traveled up and down his skin. The older man looked up for a second, noticing the shaky rising and falling of Jon's bare and pale chest, and the slight twitching of his flushed face. He could see the tears pricking at the edges of Jon's ocean eyes, much like last night, but this time the tears were for a different reason entirely.

Ryan felt himself try to speak, to ask the question Jon had to know was coming, but he couldn't. He just stared back down at the ugly scars and wounds with utmost sympathy, forefinger tracing marks along Jon's arm.

"The answer is yes."

Ryan looked up, confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he pulled his hand back quickly, staring Jon in his bright blue eyes, not so dilated anymore, but still a bit large, and sat there, posing his silent question.

But Jon wrapped his hand around Ryan's and pulled it into his own lap, the human contact helping him to confess his one biggest sin, and forcing him to be completely honest, completely raw with his best friend.

"You were gonna ask if it's heroin." He closed his eyes for a second and swallowed harshly, a small tear slipping from his tear duct as he did, exhaling shakily as his grip tightened on Ryan's hand. "The answer is yes."

Ryan felt his own eyes pull away from the man before him. The cold, scared, ashamed man currently holding his hand. Ryan had known what Jon was on the second he had seen him itching his arms through that weathered blue hoodie of his.

But hearing it, hearing Jon say it, well that was completely different. Because it made it that much more real.

"Desperation is a real bitch, Ry."

Ryan looked back up, trying his best to crack a small smile, but he just ended up with a choked off pity laugh instead.

But Jon knew he was trying his best not to cry, Jon knew Ryan was holding back "oh my god"s behind pursed lips. And that was just another reason why he had pushed himself to open up. He couldn't do this to his best friend. Not to Ryan. The soft, caring man before him didn't deserve any of this. And Jon had to make it up to him, the only way he knew how.

And now? Weeks later?

Well, now, Jon was making it up to him, laying in Ryan's lap, another day filled with withdrawals, a trash can half filled with Jon's stomach contents sat next to the couch, Ryan ready to pick it up at any moment.

They sat with each other, Ryan with one hand on Jon's back, rubbing in soothing circles, trying his best not to flinch at Jon's shaking, something he did to try to keep himself from throwing up.

This had become their normal. After Jon's little intervention, he hadn't left his best friend's house. He couldn't, really. He knew that if he did, he'd be out on the streets looking for something to pass the time and stop the pain.

He stayed as close as he could to Ryan at any given time, whether that be sitting next to him on the couch while they watched TV, standing with him while he made them both breakfast, or sleeping next to him in his bed, Jon's fragile arms wrapped around Ryan's body, face usually buried in his friend's chest, until he had to inevitably run to the bathroom. Ryan became his rock, and Jon needed him.

Ryan just hoped that, at some point, he wouldn't need a rock to keep himself steady.

But, as for now, Ryan would do his best to lift Jon up and keep him from drowning again. And that's exactly what he did, as they sat together on Ryan's couch, Netflix on, using Supernatural to try and distract from the amount of pain Jon was in, and the amount of worry Ryan was currently harboring.

It was hard.

It tore Ryan apart, knowing that his best friend had become so dependent on something so deadly, something that could kill him far too easily. It hurt him, knowing that Jon was now suffering because Ryan refused to let him go back to his addiction. But it also kept Ryan going, the fact that Jon was also doing this of his own accord. That he wanted to do this. He wanted to get better.

It hit Ryan right in his heart, seeing his best friend trying so hard, forcing himself to live in an undoubtably awful pain. It also helped that Ryan knew Jon was doing this not just for himself, but for the hazel eyed man. That, every time Jon wanted to slip back into his old, hazardous routine, he gripped onto Ryan's hand (something that also became their normal) and told himself out loud that he couldn't disappoint him. That he had to do this for Ryan.

Ryan's thoughts were interrupted by Jon sitting up, leaving Ryan's lap void of the warmth previously there, blanket draped around his shaking shoulders (he had claimed the blanket as his after that night) and eyes fluttering, Ryan knew it was from him holding back another round of vomit.

He leaned against Ryan's still shoulder, his head warm, burning through Ryan's grey shirt and touching his pale skin.

"Can I have some water, Ry?"

Ryan smiled lightly, nodding and making his way towards the fridge, watching behind him as Jon pulled himself into a ball, big, round eyes peeking up at the tv.

He cringed as Jon coughed loudly, a body wracking cough that left Ryan worried again. But he didn't say anything, careful not to bother Jon. He knew it would make Jon feel awkward, and Ryan didn't want that. So, instead, he pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and made his way back to the couch, setting himself down carefully next to the huddled up human being, handing him his water and placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling a small smile tug at his lips.

Jon smiled back, or at least tried to, but it was cut short as he lunged for the trash can, unopened water bottle falling to the floor as he heaved, nothing coming out but his water from earlier.

He shook as his body betrayed him, and Ryan held his shoulder, whispering small reassurances in his ear, doing his best to help Jon through another bout of sickness, picking up the water bottle from the floor and placing it next to him, saving it for after the violent attack.

Jon felt his body tremble and his eyes water as he continued to dry heave, grateful for the hand on his small shoulder, it helped him deal with the amount of pain he was currently in. His mouth was extremely dry from throwing everything back up, and bile filled his throat too many times for his liking.

He shook his head as he gained a moment of peace, squeezing his eyes shut while Ryan continued to hold his shoulder, squeezing it every now and then, out of reassurance or to check if he was ok, Jon couldn't tell.

He  finally felt his body start to calm, and as the last of the heaving came to an end, he stayed with his face close to the trash can, making sure he was safe to sit up.

When Jon did come back up, he quickly fell back against the couch, covering himself completely with his green blanket , pulling his legs up onto the furniture and sighing, tilting his head to look over at Ryan, who was sitting upright, already staring down at the small man taking up much of his couch.

Jon's voice came out harsh and gravelly, his throat sore from the heaving, but it still hit Ryan just as it always did.

"Am I still doin' good, Ry?" It was slightly broken, covered in a need to cry, but Jon held back tears, settling for swallowing them down and pushing his body to his left, falling into Ryan's lap again, tucking his knees to his chest and reveling in his best friend's warmth.

"You're doing great, Jon," he paused, stopping to run his hand through Jon's jet black hair, feeling the pale man relax into his touch, "I'm so proud of you."

Ryan felt wetness on his grey sweatpants, and knew it could only be from one thing. That and the small sniffles he heard confirmed his suspicions. He kept his hand on a steady rhythm running through Jon's hair, playing with the medium length locks and holding back his own tears. But once Jon spoke, he could feel himself letting the droplets fall.

"I'm tryin' my best, Ry, for you. You make all the pain worth it," he stopped to swallow back a few more tears, not that it did anything, he was crying either way, "Thank you."

And as Ryan cried with his best friend, sniffles filing the air and tears mixing on grey pants, he found himself only able to say four words, ones that he couldn't possibly keep himself from holding back, much like his tears.

He was so proud of Jon, of everything he had accomplished over the past few weeks, but pride couldn't possibly cover it all. So he had to say those words, no other sentence could possibly sum up how he felt, nothing could compare. So, he reached down for Jon's clammy hand, gripped it just tight enough, and said what he so badly needed to say.

"I love you, Jon."

And what he got back made everything worth it. All the late nights, early mornings, all the days filled with sickness and pain, the mood swings that left each man feeling drained and angry, the midnight anxiety attacks and cries, all of it.

Jon's own words mixed in with emotion, covered in tear drops and a smile that, for once, he didn't have to force onto his face. It came on it's own, and for once, he felt everything fall into place, he felt at peace. Even if it was just for a small moment.

"I love you too, Ry."

It was all worth it, and Jon couldn't wait to be sober.