Time To Change, a rent fanfic

Title: Time To Change
Author: Jessica Dawn
Feedback: Please. I hope I did it justice
Pairing: Mark/Maureen, mentioned Roger/April, implied Joanne/Maureen
Word Count: 9, 336
Rating: I'm going to go with T
Genre: Angst/Friendship
Summary: Roger's going through withdrawal, and Makr helps him the best he knows how. Sometimes, your best just isn't working though.
Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD! I'm also going to be editing tags. I'm posting with literally seconds to spare.
Special Thanks: Leenys. You gave me my inspiration back with this one.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Violence, Language...
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters after this point. They're the property of the late Jonathan Larson.

---

The ever-familiar sound of Roger's bedroom door slamming closed echoes through the loft. Maureen glances over at me, auburn curls bouncing at her shoulders. She eyes me in a way I can't read fully, but have grown to understand over the course of the last couple of weeks. She needs to leave.

She can't handle Roger the same way I can. She can't just sit and let these things happen. She doesn't realize that sometimes what's best for him is to let him have a few minutes in his room, throwing things around. I know he'd never break anything important, because whether or not he is sick right now, he'd never harm the likes of his guitar.

She gets up from the couch, and I rise too, I might as well grab her coat for her while she puts her shoes on. "When will you be back?" I ask as I reach up for the hook that she'd thrown it onto, and tug it down. She struggles with her left boot, zipping it up over her calves.

"I dunno, Pookie… I think I might stay at a friend's house tonight… He's starting up pretty late today…" She offers, grabbing her right boot, and sliding her foot into it. I love those boots on her. They do amazing things for her already fabulous legs.

"Well… You know the number. Call me later, alright?"

"Oh Marky… You know I will." Once she's done zipping up her boot, she turns, sliding her arms into the jacket I'm holding. I move in front of her and do up the two buttons for her, while she drapes her arms around my shoulders. Her eyes dart between both of mine, "Love you." She's got this way of saying it that's utterly adorable, but sounds insincere. I know otherwise though.

"I love you too Maureen. Stay safe, alright?" She may be Maureen Johnson, but this is still New York City we're talking about. I can't help but worry about her when she goes out. I wrap my arms gently around her and pull her into a hug where she stands; her grip on me tightens slightly too. A moment later, she's up on her tiptoes planting a gentle kiss on my lips.

My own eyes close slightly, the kiss deepens. Our lovers' moment doesn't last long though, before it's interrupted by the sound of shattering ceramic. I sigh and pull away. We don't have enough cups or enough money for him to keep on doing this. "You wouldn't be able to pick up a couple of mugs from a dollar store somewhere, would you?"

"Don't worry about it, pookie. I'll borrow a few dollars off my friend if I don't have enough. Maybe I'll get some plastic ones."

"No. Not plastic. Everything tastes bad in a plastic mug. My tea tastes watery, and Roger won't even make coffee for himself if the mug is plastic. Says something about it being grainy." I quickly offered. "Get the ceramic ones. I'm not accommodating him throwing things around. If these ones break, well then… We just won't have any cups to drink from. Just this once?"

She sighs, gives me another kiss on the cheek, and turns, sliding the loft door open, and waving as she pulls it closed once she's on the other side. I raise my hand in a half wave, and I'm pretty sure that despite what's going on no more than twenty feet away, I've got a smile on my face. Once the image of her standing there fades, I move into the kitchen.

If this night is going to be like any other, Roger will be out here in a matter of minutes, searching for something. I still don't really know exactly what he looks for, but he calms down, even in the slightest when I offer him the cup of coffee, and then we just sit on the couch. At least until he gets too absorbed in his thoughts or until he starts picking at his skin. There was the one night that he just started crying. Then and there he insisted that it was April, but later, sitting on his bed, he told me he didn't know why he was crying. He just was.

I left the next morning while he was still asleep and went to the library. Collins had come over, and insisted that I leave the loft. He said I needed to get my mind off Roger for a few minutes and worry about myself. I went to the library to see if there was any information in any of the books about withdrawal symptoms. I needed to know what I was getting myself into.

I read a couple of interesting things, and after an hour or so there, I had a short dotjot list of things I could expect from him. Sure, I wasn't able to pore through every book on drug addiction or heroin they had, but I thought I had a pretty good-sized list.

Mentally as I walked home, I checked off some of the things I'd already seen in him. He definitely had a general malaise about him. He was constantly saying that he felt sick, 'And maybe if I shoot up, just one more time, that'll go away…' It was still to early to say if he were depressed, but even if he was, I couldn't just attribute that to the withdrawal. His girlfriend had just died. No… Sorry. His girlfriend hadn't just died. His girlfriend had just killed herself. That was worse, right?

Thankfully the random bout of crying had been explained in one of the books, and several of the other things that had happened. The chills and cold sweats, the insomnia and nausea… It was all listed. Good then. This was normal. If you could use such a word to describe the situation.

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of the rapidly bubbling water, and the hot steam that was fogging up my glasses. First I pulled the pot off the stove, and then I pulled my glasses off my face, cleaning them on my sweater. Replacing them, I resumed the task of making Roger's coffee, and my tea.

As expected, Roger came out into the living room as I was stirring the small amount of milk into his coffee, muttering under his breath "Where is it… I gotta find it…" He snapped out of it, as usual, when I pressed the mug into his hand, and grabbing my own, we both sat on the couch. Well, I sat. He more or less sunk into it.

"I feel like I weigh six hundred pounds, and you put coffee in front of me." He muttered, though he did sip at it.

"Coffee isn't going to make you gain any weight, Rog… It's just coffee… It'll help you relax…" I offered, though he only responded with a sigh, and another quick sip.

"It's hot."

"Yeah. I just made it."

"Oh." And after that we lapsed into our silence again, sipping at our drinks. Roger had this weird look on his face. He was thinking, that much was obvious, but he was having conflicting thoughts. You could tell by just the way the corners of his mouth moved. What can I say, I'm a filmmaker, I pick up on these things.

---

"Damnit." I hissed, tossing the book onto the coffee table, instead of where I'd just collected it from, on a hanging shelf. April used to keep her stash in that book. Sure, she kept it all in between a few different places in the loft, but that was one of the few I knew about. Mark and Maureen wouldn't be able to understand why I was searching around the loft so desperately. It's times like that, when they just turn and look at each other that I storm off into my room.

I'm just getting so frustrated. I feel like I'm dying because of all of this, and hell, I might just be. The mirror said we had AIDS. I still haven't gone to get tested. It's been a long time since I had a needle in my arm taking something out of me, rather than putting something in it. Is it wrong that the thought of having somebody take my blood scares me? And not just the fact that they're taking it, but that they're holding the needle?

Mark pressures me to get tested as soon as I can, and Maureen puts on that sympathetic look every time he does it. She knows I don't like her. What she thinks means absolutely nothing to me, but the fact that Mark thinks he can just get away with all this shit…

God. He's not my mother.

He might think he is, and want to act like he is, but he's not. He's supposed to be my best friend. He's supposed to be my rock.

Instead, every time he's opened his mouth over the past couple of weeks, all I wanted to do was clock him. Just one pop, right in the jaw. It might make him back off just a bit, and make him realize that I don't need him hovering.

He thinks he doesn't hover, but he does. He thinks he's doing good by letting me come into my room, like I'm doing, and throw things around, just like the mug that just broke on the wall. My mattress has been flipped over and upturned so many times since that night that I'm surprised it's not sprung anymore loose springs, or even broken.

And it just makes it that much worse that I know he's staying quiet and listening for me. He won't come into my room or even confront me about anything; he'll just sugarcoat everything in his mind. The morning that Collins was here instead of him was by far the best time I'd had since… Everything.

Collins sat down and talked to me like nothing was wrong. We just talked, like old times. He even sat right there and puffed away on his joint. Collins didn't obsess over the fact that I'm going through withdrawal like Mark did. He even told me what Mark was probably out doing.

God Mark. You're so predictable. You walked in with this piece of paper all folded up in your hand and disappeared into your room. You probably tacked that little list up right by your bed, and then kept a pen next to it, so you could check everything off.

Right now, I would seriously do better in a center or something like that. The way you're acting is making this all so much worse than it has to be. I've even pushed… her to the back of my mind for now. I can make do with believing she'll be back any time now for a bit longer.

I wonder right now just how serious you are about all of this. I mean yeah, you've told me you're not about to let me go out and get any more heroin, but really. If I were to get physical, we both know I would win. Yeah, even with how shitty I feel. I could still kick your ass.

It's just that I don't think I could ever forgive myself if I did hurt you. You'd forgive me, I know it. It might take you a while, but you would. That's just how you are. You answer anything to do with me with my problems. 'Oh… It's all right… his girlfriend just died… Oh… It's alright… he's going through withdrawal… He doesn't know what he's doing… He's not himself… Give him some time and he'll come out of it…' Sometimes, I just wish I didn't have to hear you making excuses for me.

Is that all I'm worth to you now? Excuses and money spent on mugs to replace the ones I break? Maybe I should break my Fender. Then you'd realize how serious this actually is.

I'm kidding, really. You'd probably pawn off your camera to replace it. You'd sell your body for me to have a guitar. And what for? Really. I'm not about to play anything any time soon. All of my songs are about her… Even the ones I wrote before her are about her.

I flip over the milkcrate that sits beside my bed. There's nothing on it to break, since I did the same thing last night, but it still gets the same effect across. Once I'm satisfied I've destroyed my room enough, I head out into the living area. Sure enough, just like every other night, You've got coffee ready for me. And always just how I like it.

Just once I wish you would fuck up. Right now I'm not interested in the coffee though. I've gotta find her stash. It's not that I need the heroin. It's that I can't quit cold turkey like you want me to. Quitting cold turkey is making this a million times worse than it has to be. "Where is it, I gotta find it…" And the next thing I'm properly aware of is you pushing a cup of coffee into my hands.

Mark sits on the couch. I fall into it. My arms and legs feel so heavy all of a sudden. As though searching for the smack made me gain weight. "I feel like I weigh six hundred pounds, and you put coffee in front of me." But it's too tempting. I know it's not decaf. I sip at it.

"Coffee isn't going to make you gain any weight, Rog… It's just coffee… It'll help you relax…" You spit out. Have you prethought every angle of conversation? Your words sound so rehearsed it isn't even funny.

"It's hot." I spit out, staring at the cup.

"Yeah. I just made it."

"Oh." Goddamnit Mark. I sip at my coffee, and we both get pretty quiet. The caffeine is actually helping me think straight. It's giving me the very slight buzz I know I need. I know it won't be in my stomach for very much longer. I haven't been able to keep anything down in weeks. And whose fault is it really? I could be over this all if you'd just see things my way for a change. You aren't helping me like how I want to be helped. You're babying me.

You're smothering me. But I can't bring myself to tell you to leave right now like I want to. I can't ask you to send me away, They can help me get better, but I'd feel worse. Far worse. You aren't helping me like how I want to be helped, and I hate to say that your way is working. But at the same time, it really isn't.

Why do you make me so confused and frustrated?

I can feel that familiar twitch inside my arm as I stare at the bottom of the now empty mug. I hold onto it, if only out of fear of picking my own skin open if my hands were free. My blood is itching again. Anybody who hasn't been through it couldn't describe this to you. Have you ever felt your blood itch like this Mark?

I don't even need to ask you to know that the answer is no. At the same time as the itching intensifies, and I'm forced to put the cup down, it feels like the windows have all burst in on the loft. It feels like it should be January for how cold I suddenly am. I can't help it. I draw my legs up onto the couch, and clutch them to me, shaking.

You put your cup down, and reach over, wrapping your arms around me at first, rubbing my back. It's soothing, yes, but really, all you're managing to do is make my blood itch even more. You're helping, and yet you still manage to make it worse.

"N-No…" I let out. I try to shrug you off, but moving hurts so bad right now. Even though you're a scrawny Jew, I can't get you off me. "P-Please… No…" I manage again. Absently, I start to pick at a particularly itchy spot on my leg. Every scratch brings with it a split second of relief, temporary as it is, it feels good. I relax a bit every time that moment of relief overcomes me, and you seem to pick up on it.

"That's it Rog… You're doing great…" Et cetera… Et cetera… Et fucking cetera. I'm sick of the comforting broken record you've become, and I actually manage to get you off of me this time.

"Just leave me. I can do this alone." As I open my mouth, a wave of nausea hits, and I promptly shut it once I'm done telling you off. I don't want your sympathy. That's what this is. I don't want sympathy. I want empathy.

Thankfully, you back off. You leave me on my own, to shiver and shake, and pick at my leg. I pick at it until it bleeds. It feels good though. Destruction. I've destroyed my room, and now I'm destroying myself.

No I'm not. I destroyed myself before, I'm just getting over it now. This way of destructing myself, believe it or not, is actually good for me. I need this destruction. This destruction is helping me. It's good.

At least it's good until you come back and wrap a blanket around my shoulders where I sit. You catch the blood dripping down my leg, and on my finger tips, and you quickly run to get a cloth and god knows what. We don't have band-aids.

You think you're doing me a favour. You think you're being a good samaritain. You rush to go and get the stuff to clean me off while I'm in practical convulsions on the couch because I feel like I'm freezing to death, I'm about to puke, and my fucking blood is itching for gods sake. It's ridiculous that you think cold water and a makeshift band-aid (Tape and toilet paper, I soon learn) are helping me.

Instead, your actions come as an almost insult, and a reminder that she's gone, and my future still isn't certain. Yeah, I'm perfectly aware that I most likely have AIDS. I don't need you afraid of my blood. When you do stuff like that, it makes me more and more believe that I don't need you.

I'm sick of your makedo helping. Do you do this because you think you owe me something? Are you doing this like a favour? I've got no intention of repaying you for this. I never could repay you for helping me how you saw fit as opposed to how I needed it.

When my stomach convulses once more, I know that the worst of this little episode is soon to be over. I rise, as much as my aching muscles scream otherwise, and make my way into the bathroom. I'm there just in time to slide into a kneeling position in front of the toilet bowl, and let the coffee that I'd drank only minutes beforehand spill forth into the water. Seconds later, you're behind me, and rubbing my back.

"C'mon Roger… Let it all up… It's alright… You're doing such a good job… I'm so proud of you…"

And I'm so sick of you helping me. It's about time I came off as an ungrateful bastard.

---

All I can do is sit and sip at my tea and let you think. It's what I do best. I'm there for you. I'm here if you need me, Roger. I'm here to help you through it all. Everybody else might be gone, but I'm still here. That counts for something right? A glance out the corner of my eyes tells me you're about to have a spot of trouble. I put my cup down and shift over to you.

You must think you're cold, but you're boiling hot. You've gotta be running a fever. I shift slightly. I'm not worried about how comfortable I am, I'm worried about you. I drape one of my arms over your shoulder, holding you, and move the other one up and down your back. It's an odd way that I'm sitting, sort of half behind you and on one knee, but it works.

"N-No..." Your voice has gone quiet, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get me off of you. But I do know better. The chills must be getting worse. I hang on just that bit tighter. i 'I'm here...' /i I can't help but think, hoping that you know it too. "P-Please... No..." After a moment, you seem to calm down, and I'm somewhat relieved. You're through the worst of it as far as I can tell.

"That's it Rog… You're doing great… Just keep it up and you'll be through this. See... You're doing an awesome job... " It's funny. I hate the words I spew forth. They sound so ridiculous. They're the words you use to egg on a four year old to finish their peas or gefilte fish. Suddenly, I find that my arms are no longer around you, and I'm on my back on the couch.

"Just leave me. I can do this alone." I can't help but feel sorry for you. You've gotta be going through hell, and all I can do is offer words of comfort, and a gentle touch. I can rub your back, but I don't think I can ever really understand. I get up off the couch, and figure that if you don't want me to hold you, the least I can do is get my quilt off my mattress for you. Gotta break your fever.

I push open my door and flop onto the mattress momentarily. Sometimes, I just wonder what it would be like if you'd continued to use, or if you were sure you wanted to quit and we'd put you in rehab. It would make this all a lot easier on my end of things, and I'm sure they can help you better than I seem to be. I collect the quilt, and turn, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Sure, my chin could rest on my knees where I'm sitting, but you need a moment. And I think I do too just now. It hurts me to see you in pain like this, and I think you'd be better off elsewhere, but at the same time, this is the best place for you. This is your home. Me and Maureen? We're your family, even if Maureen can't stand to be around very much right now. That's alright. She can be the little sister. I can be the mom.

With a sigh, I rise. As I walk back out to you, I catch the disarray of your room, though I don't exactly know how bad it is. I'd only noticed out the corner of my eye. I wasn't looking through my glasses. I stand behind the couch, behind you, and put the blanket around your shoulders. It's as I reach around you to wrap you up a bit tighter that I catch the small trail of blood making it's way down your leg, and the droplets on your fingertips.

You've been picking at yourself. I turn right around to get a damp cloth, and something to cover it up with. We still don't know whether or not you're sick. You won't let me take you to the clinic. You won't let me get you tested. I'm not about to take any chances though.

Mentally, I run over the list of things we have that I can use as a band-aid for now... I'll have to go out after and buy some form a dollar store or something. You bleeding isn't good. Whether or not it's helping you get through withdrawal. Scotch tape... I have some in my bedroom... Cotton balls... No... Maureen used the last of them on her ears the other day... I'll have to buy some more of those too... And rubbing alcohol. She used the last of that as well. Now I've just gotta find the stuff you need from in my room. The tape could really be anywhere. I've spent so much time tidying your room recently, that my own is horrible. I reach down to pick up one of my shirts, only to find a mouse.

Goddamnit. It scurries away, and the next sounds to reach my ears are the sounds of somebody gagging. You're throwing up again? You really can't keep anything down... The coffee wasn't even all that strong...

It doesn't take me more than five seconds to be behind you in the bathroom, wanting to help you coax the rest of whatever it is you're managing to spit up into the toilet. "C'mon Roger… Let it all up… It's alright… You're doing such a good job… I'm so proud of you…"

If your next actions are any sign of the withdrawal to come, I don't want a part of it. The first feeling is that of stinging. My glasses are knocked askew, and the right side of my jaw is almost burning. I reach up and tentatively fix my glasses only to realize what just happened. You slapped me.

But it's alright. I can deal with a smack. I probably did something to deserve it. You turn again, dry-heaving over the toilet, only managing to bring forth phlegm. Though my hand is shaking slightly, I reach forward, and put it on your shoulder. "Roger... You're doing fine... C'mon.. Let's get you a glass of wa-" My words don't find their way out of my mouth, and my glasses are knocked right off the bridge of my nose, The burning sensation in my jaw has now turned to a throbbing. I can taste blood in my mouth.

What the hell just happened? Blurrily, I can make out your fist. Did you just punch me? You can't have meant it. You're right back over the toilet, retching once again. I sigh slightly, and reach up with one hand to rub my jaw while the other fumbles around on the bathroom floor for my glasses. I've gotta keep on with the encouraging words... I don't want you to know you've hurt me. Even if it's an accident, I don't want to make you feel guilty for anything. "Just get it all out Roger, then we can get yo-"

Another shot, this one lands on my eye, thankfully, I haven't yet managed to find my glasses, but the force behind your fist knocks me back. Even in a blurry haze, I'm used to the sight of our bathroom ceiling. I'd know it with my eyes closed. My face is going to kill tomorrow morning. I'm still convinced you don't know what you're doing. You haven't said anything, but the sound of you gagging fills the room once more. You can't know what you're doing. It must be something to do with the withdrawal... Though I don't remember reading about this. I wasn't ready for you to hit me. "It's alright Roger... You're gonna be alright..."I've just finished pushing myself back up to my knees, blindly, when you turn, and I can feel your hands wrap tightly around my neck.

"If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I swear to god, I'll knock you out." There's no way you mean it, but you sound so serious. Your hands are wrapped around my throat to boot too. How is it that you're doing this to me? You're my friend, Roger, and you're seriously trying to kill me right now. God, I can't make out your face, but it's dancing, that much is for sure. What the hell is happening?

This isn't right. I can't believe this is happening. This isn't right. Roger... You're gonna kill me... Please... Stop... I can't even ask you to do it. I'm choking,

---

God you're being annoying. I told you earlier I could do this on my own, and you're still here. I manage to catch hold the heaving back for a moment, and I turn around to slap you. I don't have time to stop and say anything to you before I'm hanging over the toilet again. You're just not being the supportive friend I need. I'm sick of it too.

I think you might've learned your lesson. I can't say anything to check that you have but... Fuck. Your hand is on my shoulder and you're talking again. "Roger... You're doing fine... C'mon.. Let's get you a glass of wa-" I'm not listening to it anymore. I've got another free second where I'm not trying to hurl, and I spin again, throwing a punch at the same side of your face. I'm sick of you doing what you think is right for me. You don't know how I... Oh shit... I'm gonna be sick again...

There's nothing coming up. This is the worst feeling of everything. My stomach is actually hurting from... Don't you know when to shut up? "Just get it all out Roger, then we can get yo-"

I don't have to time to see where my fist lands this time before I've got to turn back around and try and throw up. I know that nothing is going to come out of my mouth, and as much as I'm mad at you right now, you'll be able to get over me hitting you a lot easier than you'll be able to get over me throwing up all over you. It sounds weird even in my mind, but it makes sense. We can't exactly afford to either do laundry right now, or afford to throw out any more clothes that don't need to be. "It's alright Roger... You're gonna be alright..."I can't take it anymore. The sound of your voice, being the detached broken record is starting to annoy me. You're not helping at all, and for the first time since you've come into the bathroom, I'm able to say something. I speak, as you get up, with my hands around your throat.

"If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I swear to god, I'll knock you out." There isn't a single note in my voice that could tell you I'm kidding. You won't listen to anything I say to you, You don't even pay enough attention to me when I don't feel like shit to notice that you're hurting me more than helping. Is this what I've come to?

Is this the only kind of communication we have now? Have I seriously got to knock you unconscious before you'll listen to me for five fucking minutes? I don't even think for a second that this could harm a friendship in any way. You'll at least give me a chance later. You'll hear me out if I can have the chance to talk to you.

For now, Every single ounce of anger I've held towards you since the withdrawal started is being squeezed out of my hands and onto your throat. I honestly don't think I would've stopped if our own voices hadn't shocked me out of it.

"SPEAK!" It's me, you, Maureen, Collins, ... And April... All calling happily into the phone. God what I wouldn't give to go back in time six months... Before April, before smack... Before Benny sold his soul.

My hands drop from your throat, and you scramble away from me, without your glasses.

As Maureen's voice fills the loft, All I can do is start to cry. I cry for wanting the life I had. I cry for April. I cry for you, and I cry for what we've sunk to. We've all hit a brand new low.

---

"Hey pookie... Hey Rog, if you're up... I got the mugs you asked for... Me and Joanne picked up six of them. Two blue, Two green, and Two pink. I think you guys can figure out whose are whose. I hope everything's alright over there. You'd better both still be alive. Hey... Joanne stop that... They can probably hear you you know... Hey... No... Stop tickling me... Joanne! I'm leaving a message for Mark... Yeah, that Mark. Can you please stop that? Thank you. Sorry about that, Pookie... Anyways... I'm gonna just spend the night here and come home tomorrow morning, probably by ten... Love you. Bye."

---

By the time I'd managed to crawl over to the phone, I don't think I could've said anything to Maureen even if she had still been there. Either way, I had more important things on my mind. I was in over my head now. If I'd known when I promised to stay here with him last month that this was the problem I faced... I think I'd've said no right then. I can't handle this. One of us has to leave.

I just can't deal with you. I could deal with the shaking, and the swearing, and broken mugs, and glasses and bowls, and flipped over beds and trashed bedrooms... I can't deal with a homicidal psycho. Even if that homicidal psycho is my best friend. I might be here for you, but in the end right now, I think I value my own life, just enough to know when to call it quits with you. I lean up against the leg of the table, underneath it mostly from what I can tell, and draw my knees up to my chest. My face is aching, and my breath still isn't coming in solid gasps, but I'm hoping that I'm not going to manage to choke myself out while you're still here, and maybe you haven't calmed down.

I need to leave. I can't ask you to leave here. It's all you have. Me... I can go home or something if I have to... Back to Scarsdale... Maybe I could stay with Collins for a while or something... I just can't be here. I need to go. Maybe I could stay with Maureen at... Did she say she was at Joanne's? I think so... Maybe we can go there... Just for a couple of months, so you can get a grip on yourself.

My tears start coming, as I hold my knees to my chest. I can't help but sob slightly. It strikes me that it's the first time I cried since before April died. I fall onto my side slightly. My face hurts, my throat is throbbing, and I still feel like I can't breathe. I still feel how tightly your fingers were wrapped around my throat.

You were really trying to kill me.

"M-Mark..." Please don't say my name... I can't listen to you right now. I can't be near you right now... You're just gonna hurt me... Oh god... the slap... the punches... They were all on purpose. I'm such a fool. I should've just left you alone I should've just stayed in my room and let you deal with it. "I... I'm just putting your glasses on the table. They're right above you... I... I think I'm gonna lie down on the couch for a few minutes... I... I don't feel so good..."

Anything. Please, just stay away from me. I can't be near you. I can't handle you... I reach up and grab my glasses, sliding them onto my face. Now it's just tears that blur my vision. I wait until you're face down on the couch, and then make a break for my room. I need to pack a bag. I can wait downstairs until Maureen comes tomorrow morning... Then the two of us can go somewhere. I don't know just where yet, but somewhere. What choice do we have? Maureen's afraid to stay here when you just start shaking, and apparently, I can't handle you either. I think we both hit breaking point tonight. You'll be okay on your own. You know you've gotta do this.

I pick up the duffel bag I'd moved in with. It was all I had, and it was partly empty. Now that Collins has given me some of his old clothes, and I've got some of Maureen's stuff to pack as well, it's gonna be pretty full. I grab handfuls of the laundry on the floor, and stuff it in. It's mine, it's hers, it's dirty, and I don't care. It's going with me. I tug on my jacket, and sling my camera over my shoulder in it's bag. My shoes follow the camera bag, onto my feet, and I couldn't be out the door to the loft any faster.

"Goodbye Roger." I let out once I'm halfway down the stairs, my fingers absently tracing the bruises on my neck.

---

I'm officially the world's worst friend. Did withdrawal do this to me? I don't think so. But it had a part in this whole thing. I just can't deal with it anymore. Maureen's voice coming over the answering machine means little to me. I never cared much for her. This probably wouldn't hurt me half as bad if it had been her who'd stayed instead of Mark.

I probably wouldn't have done it to Maureen. She's none of my concern. The only reason I'm even really friends with her is because she got along with April, and she moved in when you two started dating.

God. Now I can hear you crying. And that hurts worse than the withdrawal. It's the first time I've heard any emotion out of you in a long time. It hurts so bad to hear it. To know that the first emotion you're letting yourself feel after so long is pain. To know that I'm the one that caused it. Somewhere in my mind, the thoughts of you having deserved it have diminished, along with the chills and the nausea. I'm not about to throw up, and I plant my hands on the ground to stand up. One of my hands finds your glasses.

I need sleep, but you won't get far if you can't see, and you're gonna need sleep soon too by the sounds of it. I pick them up, and move quietly towards the table you're crying under. God. You're afraid of me. "M-Mark..." You're drawing yourself farther under the table and I doubt you even realize it. I really need that sleep now. Maybe with some sleep my thoughts will straighten out. "I... I'm just putting your glasses on the table. They're right above you... I... I think I'm gonna lie down on the couch for a few minutes... I... I don't feel so good..." I do. I put his glasses down gently on the table, and flop down onto the couch, my feet kicked up over the arms. The taste of digested coffee still burns in my mouth, but what hurts the worst is the sting of tears.

The feel of mine, and the sound of yours.

The next thing I'm aware of is silence. I push myself up on the couch, and it's pitch black in the loft. In a relative sense. Moonlight is all that's lighting the room, and a glance over my shoulder tells me you're not under the table anymore. You've moved your glasses, and I can only assume you're in your room. Though my limbs ache, and tell me otherwise, I force myself across the loft, and push the door open gently, peering around the wood to glance inside.

Empty. Your room is fucking empty. Your stuff is gone, Maureen's is gone, hell... Your camera is gone. It's clear that you don't intend on coming back any time soon. If you were only going away for a night or two, you'd've taken one change of clothes. Not all that you could grab.

I'm the worlds biggest asshole. The guilt trip I'm about to send myself on is inevitable. I drove you away. I drove you away. You were the one driving me crazy, and you left, because I attacked you. You could've called a rehab center or something, but no. You packed your stuff and left. Maybe if I hurry, I can still catch you. I slide on my boots, and move quickly out the loft, muttering obscenities the whole way. It's dark in the stairwell. Seems as if the powers out again. Just to make my day that much worse. You're gone, and I have no electricity.

In all honesty, I'm surprised. I'm surprised it didn't take longer to find you, I'm not even outside yet. You're sitting on the bottom step. You're sleeping. You've got your jacket on, and two bags at your side. I shake my head slightly, and pick you up. I can't let you sleep there, and as much as I'm struggling to move myself around, you're not sleeping in the stairwell. Not when you've got a bedroom upstairs. I'll come back down for your bags once you're settled in bed. It's obvious that we have to talk when you wake up.

If you leave, I know I don't have the willpower to stay clean. It's weird. You were there for me in a way I didn't want it, and yet you still managed to keep me clean. Now I'm the one taking care of you. It's kind of funny how that works. Once I've got you in the loft, and the moonlight hits your face, I wince.

The right side of your face is a mess. Your whole jaw is bruised and swollen. I can even make out the spots where my fingers hit in the slap. I didn't know you'd bled, but with your jaw swollen that badly, it had to have. It seems like I got you once in the eye too. Your left eye is blacked, and since you're sleeping, I don't know if I'd got you good enough to swell it shut. If it had just been that, the bruises on your face, I think this would be easier. Those could be explained as anger.

The finger shaped bruises around your neck make my heart sink. There are no excuses for that. I got carried away. Once I've got you in bed, and have come back upstairs with your things, I set myself up to sleep in front of your door. You're not getting out of the loft without talking to me, Marky. If you still wanna leave after you hear me out, then that's your call, but you've gotta hear me out.

---

It's warmer than I'd expect it to be in the stairwell when I wake up. And the stairwell is a lot more comfortable than it was when I'd fallen asleep. I reach up to fix my glasses, eyes still closed, only to find they're not on my face.

Fuck. Did somebody run off with my glasses while I slept? That's ridiculous. You can't even have glasses in this fucking city anymore. They make you a target. You try and help somebody the best you know how, and you're a target. You wear glasses and you're a target too?

As I put my head in my hands, pain shoots through my eye. I open it, and blurrily, I can make out that I'm not in the stairwell. My free hand gropes to the side, and my glasses are sitting on top of an upturned cardboard box. That sat by the mattress upstairs and I used it to hold my glasses and a glass of water at night.

Fuck. I'm in the loft. There's a clock just out the bedroom window on a building. Maureen said something about ten... Once I put my glasses on, I can see that it's already ten fifteen. She should be in the living room.

I get up, avoiding catching my reflection in the glass, and pick up the duffel bag and camera bag, pulling them back on. I need to go. I don't know how I wound up back up here, but I need to leave. I pull open my bedroom door, and step out.

---

"Ow... Watch where you're walking..." This wasn't how I'd planned on waking up, but it worked. I was up, and Mark was there. And we needed to talk. "You're up... Did you sleep alright... Are you... Okay...?" I ask, and your gaze shifts away from me as I rise, a thin blanket falling from me.

"No... I'm not okay... Listen Roger... I... I think Maureen and I should go somewhere for a while... I think maybe... Maybe you need some alone time... Get used to everything. Get used to life or something... I don't..."

"Mark I'm not going to hit you again..." You'd started shifting, you were stumbling over your words, and you looked even worse than you could have possibly looked last night in the moonlight. My heart sinks a little deeper in my chest. "I.. I should have never done that... But we need to talk before you go. Just... Hear me out, and then if you still want to go... Then you can. You've just gotta listen to me first..." I can't help but think that if I'd gotten some ice, or a cold cloth for you right away, you wouldn't look this bad right now. Maybe you wouldn't be hurting either. You put your bags down, and move over to the couch, sitting right where you were last night, right before the chills, and the nausea. Before I started picking.

"I can stay for a few minutes... Maureen's gonna be getting here soon..." I move around the couch and sit down beside you. I reach over to put an arm around your shoulders, but you shift away. I guess the gesture is too much too soon.

"Mark.. I'm not gonna sit here and make excuses for doing what I did yesterday. I was out of line. I meant to hit you. Three times, and at the point that I said I would knock you out, I meant it. I really did." As your glance up at me, I can tell that I'm having some effect, I don't know yet whether it's an effect that is in my favour, or one that's pushing you farther away, but all I asked you to do was listen. And you are. "But I was wrong to follow through on it. It's just..."

Just what? "I've got so much shit on my plate, and the way you've been since..." Since what? "Since April died is just... It's not helping me any. April died, and you stopped feeling. Yeah, you were there for me. I'm not ungratefu-" I cut myself off before I start with that bullshit. "I am ungrateful for it. You were physically there for me. You rubbed my back, you held me tight, you spoke to me but..."

But what? "But you were never really there for me... I didn't want somebody to rub my back, or tell me to let it all out, I don't need somebody on my case about getting tested, or cleaning up my room after I trash it. I needed somebody who was going to be there for me. You never felt a damn thing until I hit you, and even then, you were still the robotic Mark that I've had to get used to, at the same time as getting used to life without her, and without heroin."

"Roger I..."

"No, shut up Mark. For two seconds, listen to the words I'm saying, and listen to what they mean. I'm not a textbook. You can't go to the library and make yourself a little withdrawal checklist. Take my word for it. I'm your friend, not Figure 13.c. do you actually understand that?"

"Roger, Maureen's going to..."

"Shut up. You're not listening. I can't let you walk out that door Mark. If you leave, you're giving up on me. And you're the only person I have left. April is dead. I said it. She's gone. Maureen's your girlfriend, and to tell you the truth, I can't really stand her. Collins is gone and Benny... Benny could suck my cock and I could care less about him. You are my best friend, and if you leave, there's nothing stopping me from going back out there."

"Roger, I was never going to..."

"But I don't want you to stay because of me. You've gotta stay because you want to stay. You being here, without making any kind of change isn't going to do either of us any good... You've gotta stay, and you've gotta feel, and you've gotta live man... We can't all die together. It's not like that. What good are you if you're gonna get so cold?"

"Pookie... I'm home..." Well doesn't that cut talking short.

"Mark. I don't want sympathy, I want empathy." I got quiet as soon as I'd heard Maureen's voice. I turn you so that you're looking at me, and stare for that moment, until Maureen comes in. There's nothing left for me to say. I've just gotta let you sit for a second and think.

"Marky... What happened to your face...?"

---

"Ow... Watch where you're walking..." Shit. I just stepped on Roger... "You're up... Did you sleep alright... Are you... Okay...?" I can't look you in the eye and answer that question. There's still a part of me that thinks you're gonna kill me if I do.

"Mark I'm not going to hit you again... I... I should have never done that... But we need to talk before you go. Just... Hear me out, and then if you still want to go... Then you can. You've just gotta listen to me first..." I don't know if I can stand to sit and listen to you. My mind is made up, I need to go. I don't want Maureen up here...

"I can stay for a few minutes... Maureen's gonna be getting here soon..." I've moved over to the couch and sat down by the time I finish my sentence. Yesterday's cup of tea is still sitting on the table in front of me. If I were desperate, or thought I could handle it, I'd drink it. Really.

"Mark.. I'm not gonna sit here and make excuses for doing what I did yesterday. I was out of line. I meant to hit you. Three times, and at the point that I said I would knock you out, I meant it. I really did." Is Roger really about to apologize? This is something new... Roger never apologizes for anything... Maybe... No... I can't tell yet what's going on. I'm not about to change my mind this early. "But I was wrong to follow through on it. It's just..."

"I've got so much shit on my plate, and the way you've been since... Since April died is just... It's not helping me any. April died, and you stopped feeling. Yeah, you were there for me. I'm not ungratefu- I am ungrateful for it. You were physically there for me. You rubbed my back, you held me tight, you spoke to me but..." Roger's opening up. Shit. He finally opens up after six weeks, and I've closed myself off.

"But you were never really there for me... I didn't want somebody to rub my back, or tell me to let it all out, I don't need somebody on my case about getting tested, or cleaning up my room after I trash it. I needed somebody who was going to be there for me. You never felt a damn thing until I hit you, and even then, you were still the robotic Mark that I've had to get used to, at the same time as getting used to life without her, and without heroin." God I never meant to be an ass... I never meant to be like that... it's just...

"Roger I..." You don't let me speak. Maybe I should listen for a change.

"Roger, Maureen's going to..." Again, you don't let me speak. I should've learned the first time.

"Roger, I was never going to..."

"Pookie... I'm home..." Now.

"Mark. I don't want sympathy, I want empathy."

That's what the problem has been? You've turned me to stare at you, and when I catch the look in your eyes, the emotion behind it, I can't help but crack slightly, and give a half smile. I can't walk out on Roger. He needs me. He really does. I wish we'd had this conversation before it resulted in him choking me, but I can see, looking back, that I wasn't exactly open to conversation. We were both testing waters. Our friendship was about to take on new meaning.

"Marky... What happened to your face...?" Maureen's voice shakes me away from Roger's gaze, And I frown slightly, suddenly aware of just how much the smile, as small as it was had hurt.

"I-It's nothing Maureen... Roger was having a really bad night... I-It's why I didn't get the phone." I've never lied to Maureen. It's not a lie, once it's out there. The words are true themselves, it's just that they mean something different than what they actually are. Time to make good with everybody. "I'm out of clothes... So are you Maureen... We should head to a laundromat and get them cleaned up... I put them all in a bag last night... You feel like coming Roger?"

"Nah... You two can go knock yourselves out..." You respond, and I sigh slightly.

"Yeah, Pookie... Maybe it's better if Roger stays here... I... I think me and you need to talk..." I bite at my lip and cast a glance over my shoulder at you as I turn to get the bag from my room. Somewhere, absently, I recognize that she's only got green and blue mugs with her. Seems like I'm going to be doing a lot of listening today. But maybe it's for the better. The walls around me are coming down, and it's about time too.