Disclaimer: I don't own the emo rock star or the adorable little filmmaker. Or the suicidal junkie. Or… any of the Bohemians. And the song, as usual, belongs to Anthony, who we all adore.
Notes: I honestly didn't know what to do with this song until Bethy suggested a general plot, so thank you, Beth-dear. Here is the first half of the fic—the second half is coming. I'm not sure whether I'm leaning towards slash on this or not. There are certainly undertones of it, but… Oh well. We'll see what happens in the second half.
Chapter One – Nobody Can Share My Troubles
Nobody can share my troubles
This I know
And let me tell you
I have learned a lesson
Here I go
Don't you know
It's just as sure as the rising sun
Don't you know
To tell the truth is lesson number one
Roger stared blankly at the bare skin of his upturned forearm, his gaze slowly tracing along the blue lines of veins scarred by needle marks. What would it hurt? Everything that could have gone wrong already had. He still had some smack under his bed. If he took it out… A needle in his arm could give him momentary oblivion, enough to forget the image of April in that tub, one vertical line of bright, bright red on each arm…
He snarled and turned his arm so that he couldn't see the veins and track marks anymore, slamming himself back against the bed so hard that the impact made the headboard knock loudly against the wall. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling, and then shut his eyes tight. He really should leave this room. It had too much of her in it. Every memory of the two of them together, here, in this room… He could have sworn he saw her out of the corner of his eye now and then, smiling at him in that coy way she had, or heard faint echoes of her voice, hanging in the air. Her scent still lingered on the sheets. At least he had made Mark take all the pictures of himself and April, just to get them out of his sight. He didn't have her pictures anymore… but he still had her heroin under his bed.
And which one did I love more? Was it really her that mattered, or just getting high with her?
It was thoughts like that that made him wish he could just… stop thinking altogether.
And he had one more thing April had left him. He didn't even have to look. That note still sat on his dresser, the yellow paper torn from a memo pad half-crumpled, but the words on it still legible, written in April's precise handwriting. We've got AIDS. I love you. Goodbye.
Maybe just enough to numb him…
Roger jumped as a knock sounded at the closed door of his bedroom. When he didn't answer, the door swung open and Mark leaned in, bracing himself against the door frame. "Roger? Are you alright? I heard something bang."
Without opening his eyes, Roger said, "Yeah. I just… it was nothing. I'm fine." It was meant as a dismissal, but he could still sense Mark in the doorway. "Go away. I'm fine."
Mark lingered for a moment, watching Roger just lying there on the bed, and then sighed and turned away, softly shutting the door behind him. Why was it he couldn't believe a word Roger said?
For a moment or so after Mark left, Roger simply lay there—didn't sit up, didn't open his eyes. He could hear his roommate moving in the other room, and some muted conversation between Mark and Maureen, but it quickly became clear neither would be bothering him again soon, and he was fairly sure that Benny wasn't even home. He should just take the drugs. Why not? There was only a little left anyway, just enough to send him into comfortable oblivion for a few hours, enough to make him stop thinking about April, her hair, her skin, her eyes, her smile…
Roger rolled over and reached under the bed. His fingers hit something, and he pulled it out—a needle, and a half-empty bag of smack. He ran a thumb over the scarred skin of his forearm and sighed. This was weakness, he knew, the inability to face the world, but he was past the point of caring. He closed his eyes at the familiar pinprick of the needle in his arm, forcing his mind away from the virus that filled his blood like heroin.
Cold. So very cold. Except that it was the middle of May, and Roger knew the chills had nothing to do with the temperature. He clenched his jaw, fighting to ignore the goosebumps rising on his arms, the shooting pains in his muscles and bones.
So this is what withdrawal is like. He'd never been without a hit long enough for it to get quite this bad, not since he'd first begun using. But he could fight this off. Would fight this off. As if he had a choice. If he stayed in his room long enough for the symptoms to subside, if he didn't Mark know about it… Roger sighed and clutched the blanket tighter around himself, knowing that the effort was in vain, and tucked his chin to his chest, hunching his shoulders as he sat there on the bed, his entire body convulsing with shivers. He would survive this.
Or so he thought, until his stomach too decided to rebel as withdrawal kicked in full force. "Shit," he muttered softly and jumped off of the bed, rushing out of his room and to the bathroom, not bothering to stop and think that this was the first time he had left his room for several days now.
Inevitably, he wound up on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, blanket draped around him, kneeling over the toilet and retching, though he hadn't eaten a thing lately and had nothing in his stomach to throw up. His eyes closed, his breathing coming in short gasps, he didn't notice at first when Mark appeared in the doorway of the bathroom. When his stomach stopped heaving, Roger spat a mouthful of bile into the toilet and sank to the floor, pressing his sweating forehead to the tiles. There was no way he could make it back to his room in his present state. He'd just have to lay here on the bathroom floor until Mark or Maureen and Benny found him here, and they would look at him with their eyes full of the same old accusations, the same questions… He really should try to get back to his room before he had to face that.
"Roger," Mark said from the doorway, and it was all Roger could do to close his eyes in utter despair. So much for keeping Mark from finding out. He swallowed hard and slowly looked up at his roommate. Clearly, he had woken the filmmaker with the sounds of his being sick. Mark wasn't wearing his glasses, and he squinted sleepily at Roger, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The completely irrelevant thought sprang into Roger's head that Mark ought to be wearing more than boxers, as cold as it was, but… Oh. No. It was he who was cold, not the loft.
When Roger said nothing to him, Mark sighed and gave his roommate the accusing look Roger had known was coming. "It's the drugs, isn't it? You're still using them. After all they've done—to April, to you—you still do this? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He was angry, Roger could tell. He kept his voice low to avoid waking Maureen and Benny, both doubtless asleep in their rooms, but his tone was filled with such venom that Roger might have cringed at it had he possessed the strength in his limbs. He might have answered the questions, too, had the muscles of his stomach not clenched once more just then. He quickly sat up and leaned over the toilet, retching and gagging miserably. He'd been doing this for far too long. A few hours without the drugs and already his body was pleading for more, more, more…
As he crouched there, gasping for air between choking, Mark hesitantly moved towards him, though Roger didn't notice until he felt Mark's hand rest on the small of his back, silently sympathetic. When he was done, Roger spat into the toilet once more, and slumped backwards again—but this time Mark was there, and he ended up half-leaning against Mark's bare chest, too exhausted to move away. Gently, Mark brushed a few loose strands of Roger's hair away from his face, the way a parent might soothe a sick child.
"You have to stop this, Roger," he whispered. "It's killing you."
Roger just shook his head weakly. Mark didn't understand. He just didn't. Not his fault, but not something Roger could ever hope to explain to him. After a moment, the musician just let out a wry, humorless chuckle, the sound tearing at his raw throat. "It's not the drugs that are killing me, Mark. This… this is because I don't have the drugs." He looked up at Mark half-pleadingly. "I'm out. Could you…?"
Mark just stared at him for a moment, and then his eyes widened as he realized what Roger was asking. Shock registered in those blue eyes, then disgust as he shoved Roger away from him. Unable to catch himself, Roger thumped into the wall and didn't attempt to sit back up. "No," Mark said, his voice more full of icy resolve than Roger had ever heard it. "The answer will always be no. Buy your own drugs, Roger, but I'm not going to help you kill yourself." For a few moments, he simply looked at him, jaw tight, expression contemptuous, and then he stood and started to walk out of the bathroom without a word more.
"Wait…" Roger said softly. He spoke quietly, and didn't think that Mark would even hear him, let alone listen, but by some miracle, Mark froze. Didn't turn around, but at least stopped walking away. Roger dropped his eyes to the floor, intently studying the pattern of tiles on the floor to avoid looking at Mark. "Please, Mark… I don't—I can't—" Somehow he couldn't get the words to come out right. At last, he gave up and looked up at Mark, who by then had turned around to look at him. "Help me. Please."
For an eternity, Mark simply stood there. He didn't say a word, though he did bite his lower lip slightly in obvious internal debate. Roger thought he might say no again, just turn and walk away, but at last he replied solemnly, "Alright. You want to quit? You want to end this for good?"
Roger closed his eyes and nodded. Mark moved back to kneel by his side.
"We'll get you through this. You'll be alright. But you have to promise me… promise me you won't do this again. Ever. Promise me, Roger." His voice had dropped into an almost pleading tone, and Roger realized abruptly that Mark was… afraid for him.
The musician opened his eyes again and met Mark's gaze, his eyes somewhat hazy with the pain of withdrawal, but expression set and determined nonetheless. "I swear."
He didn't realize, at the time, that it was a lie.