Pre-Rent, Pre-April, but not Pre-Smack for Roger. I find people assume that Roger's addiction began with his addiction to April. I feel that it was deeper routed. In this particular story, the only three living in the loft so far are Mark, Roger and Collins, as you'll soon see. Enjoy.
Roger opened the loft's door quietly, grinning with anticipation. The feeling of the baggie in his pants pocket filled him with excitement. He couldn't look past that night, and the pressure built within him.
A light was on inside. Mark didn't look up from his book as the door closed with a click. He was stretched out across the couch, reading over his glasses. Roger glanced at him before taking in the rest of the loft. Besides Mark's pool of light, the corners of the room here black. A few tiny lights flicked here and there, indicating their few appliances. Collins' door was closed.
"Hey."
Mark just turned his page, ignoring the greeting. Roger stepped towards Mark, thinking the filmmaker had not heard. As Roger opened his mouth again, Mark spoke, never looking up from his book.
"Where were you?" he asked.
Roger casually walked past his friend and made his way into the kitchen area. Aimlessly, he pulled open cupboards and closed them again, distracting himself, and Mark, from the question at hand.
Mark pressed Roger again, waiting for the answer they are both already aware of. "Where were you, Roger?"
The songwriter shrugged. "Out."
"Doing what?"
Suddenly tired of dancing around the query, Roger pulled the powder from his pocket, flipping it up for Mark to see, and then tucking it away again.
"You're shooting up tonight," Mark stated blandly, his voice even and unreadable. Roger shrugged again and turned towards his bedroom, away from the eyes and questions of his best friend.
"God DAMMIT, Roger!" yelled Mark harshly from behind, his steady voice turning ugly with rage as he choked on his pain. Roger turned on him suddenly angry and desperately wanted to ignore the outburst, ignore the problem, and just lose himself in a needle. But as he took in Mark, quiet, gentle Mark on his feet and heaving as tears spilled unwillingly down his pale face, Roger found he could not move, could not break eye contact with the emotion written on Mark's face.
"Mark, listen. I just need to – "
"Fuck your 'Need-to'," shouted Mark. "You're going to fucking kill yourself. That's not something I can candle. I can't handle you and your fucking smack."
Roger glared at the other man. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."
With a cry of anguish, Mark lunged at Roger, catching the bigger man by surprise. They collapsed on the cold floor, Mark throwing punches, his aim blurred by the tears clouding his vision. Roger moved his hands in front of his face, blocking the hits and he struggled to move, to get away.
Suddenly, the weight was lifted from Roger's body. The fists stopped flying and his breath came easier. Collins, roused from sleep by the battle going on beyond his door, held Mark firmly, muttering his ear until Mark collapsed in a chair, his face hidden in his arms.
"Mark," whispered Collins softly. "Mark, go to bed. Get some rest. Now." He commanded, and obediently, Mark shuffled off, closing his door with a pointed slam. Collins turned to Roger. "You too," he said, and Roger walked slowly to his room, falling onto his bed, trying to forget Mark and the fight and the smack.
Out in the loft, Collins picked up Roger's baggie of powder. He walked to the window, taking in the New York cityscape before he opened the pane and tossed the heroin into the slush in the dark street below. If only it were that simple, he thought.
Well there you go. I was basing Mark's attack a little on the fight Anthony once had (as described in Without You). In that fight, he was pulled away by Jesse. Reviews are like a heroin high without the awful consequences. Thanks.