Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, or the characters in this story. No copyright infringement intended.
Healing
Roger stood over the grave, not able to understand how or why any of this was happening. He barely noticed the small crowd disperse once the funeral had ended. Now he was alone.
He sat down, his legs weak. He gently fingered the inscription on the tombstone of April. His girlfriend. His love.
He laid down on the cold, hard ground of the newly-covered grave, the morbid nature of his situation lost on him.
"Why?" he asked nobody in particular.
"You know why," came a voice. He craned his neck to see his friend, Mark, standing beside him. Mark manoeuvred to sit beside his friend, still laying on the ground.
"If you're about to start another lecture, save it," Roger said, "I already know what you have to say."
Mark nodded, "yea, you do." He sighed deeply, breathing in the cold November air. "You're not alone. Know that."
"I feel alone. Alone. Diseased. Out of control," he let the sentence drift off—Mark may be the only person who understood.
"So what are you going to do about it?" Mark asked. Roger looked at him with a confused expression.
"What do you mean?" He shrugged and stood up.
"You want control, you know how to get it. You're never alone." He left.
Roger turned his gaze back to the sky and breathed deeply.
"Yea," he whispered to himself. "I know how to get it."
--
Roger walked home later that evening, feeling scared, but sure. He walked past the dark alleyway, seeing a few homeless people over burning garbage cans, and his dealer with a client. He tried to slip by unnoticed.
"Hey Rog," came a voice from the alley. He steeled himself and turned around.
"Not today," he said. The man's brow furrowed.
"What the hell do you mean, not today?" his voice was taunting and course, but Roger wouldn't allow himself to be swayed.
"I'm done," he said. The man began to laugh.
"You're done?" he said in a taunting voice, "they all say that, Rog, and they all come back. Save yourself the trouble." Roger shook his head and turned to walk away. "Don't be a moron, you know you can do it." Roger turned around.
"That's for me to decide." With that he turned and ignored the man's remaining taunts. He hurried home, fighting the already building desire for a hit.
He burst into the loft which he shared with Mark, who didn't appear to be home. He surged into his bedroom and ripped open his drawer, pulling out his needles and left over heroin. Gathering it all, he walked back into the main room and dumped it all in the large, metal trash bin. With his last ounce of strength, he lit it ablaze.
"I know how." He said to himself.
He was terrified.
--
It was three days before Mark came home, having presumably been with Maureen. He came in and found the loft dark and lifeless.
"Roger?" he called, setting his bike down and throwing the key on the table. He heard a sound from Roger's room, but no answer.
Slowly, he made his way to the door, which had a hint of light peaking through the crack.
"Rog?" he asked, as he pushed the door open.
What he saw stopped him cold. Roger, his usually stoic friend, was in a ball, bundled in blankets, shaking uncontrollably. The sheets were soaked, as was Roger, who hadn't lifted his head to greet his friend.
"I knew what to do," he said, shivering too much to speak clearly. Mark breathed deeply. He walked over to Roger, sitting on the side of his bed.
"How long?" he asked.
"I don't know... since April's funeral." Mark nodded. Three days. Three days was just the beginning, he knew.
"Three days, buddy. The worst is almost over," he said. Roger laughed wryly.
"Fucking liar," he said. Mark chuckled and nodded.
"Yea, well, it doesn't matter. You're doing this. We are doing this," he said. Roger looked at Mark a moment, and nodded, before being attacked by another wave of shakes and chills.
--
A few weeks passed. Roger and Mark hadn't left the loft in as much time. Roger had weakened on three occasions, begging Mark to let him go, let him get what he so wanted. Mark was unmoved.
Roger became weaker before he became stronger. His body fought him through the detox process, not allowing him to eat or sleep without convulsions and pain. Nothing could have prepared him for the mental and physical toll of giving it up.
It was a month after April's funeral, and Roger woke up to the bright sunlight on a cold December morning. He laid in a bed awhile, just breathing. He was no longer shaking, no longer weak. He heard out in the main room some movement. Coffee being made, the radio turned on. He pulled himself out of bed and pulled on a warm sweater.
"Morning," he said, coming out and sitting on a stool by the counter. Mark set a cup of coffee in front of him, he nodded his thank you.
"How you feeling?" he asked. Roger breathed deeply and glanced out the window.
"I'm feeling... like I might go for a walk," he said. Mark looked sceptical.
"A walk?" Roger nodded.
"Yea," he said, "maybe to the cemetery."
"Are you ready for that?" Mark asked. Roger nodded and gazed down at his hands, then up to Mark.
"I can't hide forever."
--
Later that day, Roger emerged from the loft for the first time since the day of the funeral. He breathed in the familiar winter air of Alphabet City, and began to walk in the direction of the cemetery.
He was lost in thought when he heard his name being called. He closed his eyes tightly, steeling himself.
"Rog. I knew you wouldn't be gone for long. But a month, I'm almost impressed," said the man. Roger shook his head.
"I'm not interested, man. It's over," he said. The man raised his eyebrows, and pulled out a small bag filled with white powder.
"It's never over, Rog. Come on, I'll even give you a discount," he said, his tone deceptively polite. Roger eyed the bag hungrily, but knew he was passed it.
"I don't want it," he said, looking the man in the eyes. "We're done here." With that he turned away and briskly walked in the direction of the cemetery, feeling stronger then he had in years.
He reached the cemetery, and April's grave. Kneeling in front of her tombstone, he took a deep breath.
"It took you killing yourself to show me what I needed to do," he said softly. He reached out and grazed the stone surface with his fingertips. "I just wish I had realized it before it was too late."
He felt tears well in his eyes, as the name on the stone blurred.
From a few yards back, Mark watched his friend hunch before the grave, wracked with the pain of his loss, but empowered by his new strength. He knew that Roger was passed it. He knew he didn't have to watch him, and be on guard for him anymore. The hardest part was over—now the healing could begin.
End.
A/N- This is my first Rent story. I wanted to explore Roger's recovery, and how his friendship with Mark helped him through it. Let me know what you think.