Streetlights and Starlight
by alwaysflying
Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson made the puppets dance, I'm just painting a backdrop. Discard it if you will.
"Benny?" calls Collins. "Benny, I'm gonna go take a walk, 'kay, man?"
"Sure, whatever," comes the uninterested response of the aspiring businessman. Collins shrugs. He hadn't expected an animated reply from his loftmate, particularly not as Benny is busily writing yet another job application, hoping that "it'll be different this time." Collins personally believes that while Benny will get the job of his dreams one day, it won't be happening while he and his friend are still struggling to keep their stale Captain Crunch intake to a minimum due to lack of money.
Outside, the breeze hits Collins's face fiercely. He stumbles backwards and backs up, expecting to hit the front of the building – but no, the pressure against his back never comes. He turns around to find himself at the mouth of an alleyway, and, feeling rather stupid, regains his balance. Realizing that he dropped his glasses, Collins gets to his hands and knees and begins searching. It shouldn't be this hard to find golden round-rectangle-shaped glasses, even amidst all the other garbage on the ground, but it takes him a moment even to squint hard enough to make out the fuzzy-lined shapes, particularly without streetlights or starlight.
"This yours?" rasps a familiar voice. Collins turns to face his anonymous drug dealer, his goatee and expensive clothes looking remarkably out of place in the dirty alleyway. Not as though Collins can actually see the marks of The Man's wealth – he knows them as he knows keys on a keyboard, without glancing down at them. He knows the sharp face of the drug dealer and the polished, almost sparkling clothing and shoes he wears. Amid all these thoughts, it takes Collins an absurdly long amount of time to spot his cracked glasses in The Man's hand.
Collins murmurs his assent and reaches an outstretched arm to the drug dealer. The Man begrudingly places the glasses in the bohemian's hand. "Take 'em," he grunts, watching meticulously as Collins nods, slides them onto his face, and blinks twice to adjust to the new vision.
"Thanks."
The Man gives Collins a look of utter disgust and loathing – most likely due to the fact that Collins has long since kicked the habit of buying ziploc packets of smack. A loyal customer, Collins had been one of The Man's best and most reliable clients – he had even referred three others to The Man. An expert in negotiating, The Man has long since decided that it would be best to convince Collins to restart his drug habit. But how…
Collins had never quite thought of his former dealer as a living, talking human being – he'd never seemed human to Collins for the sole reason that he had never displayed any emotions at all. Collins and his drug dealer had never spoken. A handshake – money in one hand, a tiny bag in the other, then a switch and a muttered thanks – was the most intimate they'd ever gotten up until today. But now – it changes, and Collins is startled.
"You know," The Man says, his voice echoing against the brick, "you wouldn't need them glasses if you were still on smack. Sharpens your vision."
Collins stares at the ground. God, hasn't he tried this enough times before? It's so enticing, like a stripper (male, of course, in Collins's case) flashing various anatomical assets in one's face. But a different body part is tempted by smack than by a nice ass, and now Collins is (against his will) fully alert, despite the fact that he loathes everything having to do with this vile man and his disgusting business.
"Yeah?" Collins asks, almost half-interested. He's heard The Man's spiel thousands of times, of course – always spoken by satisfied clients or other dealers, never The Man himself – but somehow now, with nothing better to do but listen to Benny make boring phone calls, it seems far more tempting. "Makes me last longer, too, eh?" he asks, with an obvious glance down at another asset, this one half-prominent due to the cold.
"Yeah," The Man agrees. "Much longer." He has a half-smirk – just a touch more of a smirk than he usually wears, anyway – and looks as though it'll just take another split second to convince Collins. Just one more excuse, another reason, another way – "It builds up your immune system," he says in a single breath. Maybe, maybe, maybe –
Collins hesitates. He'll almost believe anything at this point, anything to just get away from the constant ache and worry and fear. "Can I – " he begins, but cuts himself off. No, no, no, he can't start this again – immune system, it'll be stronger – but oh god it feels so good, the needle, the powder – "No. I don't want any."
The Man lets out an almost inaudible hiss of dissatisfaction. "Are you sure?"
Collins grits his teeth. "Yes," he snarls. "Get out of my sight."
He collapses against the alleyway wall and slides down to the ground, hugging his knees. He almost – almost fell for it, almost succumbed to the darkness again, can't do it again, can't lose control like that. A moment later a tap on his shoulder interrupts his thoughts. "I told you I didn't want any – " he begins, furiously, until he realizes that the eyes blinking at him are green, not gray, and are set on the face of a pale, skinny boy who can't be older than sixteen.
"This is my spot," the boy announces in a voice raspy from underuse. "I sleep here. You can't just – "
"Hey, man, back off," Collins snaps tiredly. "I'm not staying here. I just needed a place to sit." He gets to his feet sloppily and takes a good look at the boy. He is absurdly thin – it looks like he's been living on the streets for a long time. His hair, colorless in the darkness, is long and hangs to his shoulderblades. Oversized clothes barely cover him, and his face and hands are blue. Collins doesn't see how a boy this young can already be homeless and starving – but then he sees the silvery glint of a needle poking out of the teenager's pocket, and he understands.
"You cold?" he asks the boy. The green eyes fly up to meet Collins's gaze sharply, and the boy looks on the verge of snapping something along the lines of it not being anyone's business. To prevent that, Collins adds, "Me'n my roommate got enough money last month to get candles and shit. It's almost warm enough to wear just two layers!" He chuckles darkly to himself and, to the teenager, continues, "You can stay with us if you want."
"I don't need pity," the boy grumbles. Collins sees three conflicting desires in the boys' eyes. Pride, of course, is one of them as the boy refuses to accept any sort of advantage that might keep him from dying in an alleyway. Another is passion – the boy clearly has something to live for, something that's keeping him from giving up and slicing the needle along his milk-white arms. And lastly, Collins sees that the boy is desperately in search of something. Something important. He can't put his finger on what it is, exactly. A family? A home? Heat? Food?
Collins kneels down and speaks calmly to the teenager. "Would you rather stay here the rest of your life? You know it won't be very long until it's too cold. You can already see your breath when you talk, can't you? How long do you think it'll be until the streets are paved with ice, and it's snowing?"
The boy doesn't answer, and it's enough for him. "Come on," he insists. "My roommie and I have candles and a wood-burning stove. You'll be warm. There's enough Captain Crunch to last us at least another week, too. How old are you, anyway?"
Confirming Collins's prior suspicions, the boy whispers, "Sixteen."
"Sixteen. I was nineteen when I moved in with Benny. Seven years of pure agony," he laughs. "I'm Collins, by the way. Tom Collins. You?"
The boy's eyes flicker from Collins to the mouth of the alleyway and the street ahead. "Roger," he whispers. "I'm Roger. Roger Davis." He wraps his arms around himself and shivers. Collins is right. It's too cold to be outside now. It's always too cold… even when it's warm.
Collins is distracted for a moment when a series of quick, shrill beeps declares that it is time for him to take his AZT. "Damnit," he grumbles, and fishes an orange pill out of his pocket, places it on his tongue, and dry-swallows. Roger watches in awe, his eyes wide. "What is it, kid?" Collins demands.
"You have it too?" Roger whispers.
"Come on," Collins says without another word. "You're coming inside with me."
Roger takes the proffered hand and lets Collins hoist his ninety-pound body to his feet. "Thanks," he whispers, and allows himself to become the darker man's shadow as they tread to and up the stairs of Collins's building. Neither Collins nor Roger anticipates or even considers Benny's reaction; Collins is too concerned that neither he nor Roger trips over the unreliable stairs, and Roger worries that perhaps Collins is a rapist or mass-murderer or something along those lines. He runs those thoughts through his head unconcernedly: after all, if Collins kills him, it'll only be a few weeks or months or even years before he was scheduled to die anyway, and he'll even get a few moments of warmth out of it.
"Benny!" Collins yells when he reaches the door to the loft. "Could you open the damn door?"
A moment later, it slides open with an audible moan, and Benny blinks repeated. "Who's the kid?" he asks.
Collins shrugs. "He's Roger. I found him on the street. Can he stay with us?"
Benny doesn't answer, just steps aside so Roger and Collins can enter, and as the door shrieks to a close, the three young men collapse against the rickety couch and exchange meaningless words. Two pairs of brown eyes are reflected in green, and Roger simply watches in near-silence as a bohemian mini-party unfolds. Collins has a glass bottle of Stoli that he shares with his companions, Benny a deck of cards inspiring a game of Strip Poker – and when Roger tentatively offers his powder and needle to the other men, he is met only with awkward glances, uncomfortable shuffling, and a shake of both men's heads. Shyly, Roger glances at the floor and does not look up until the cold glass rim of the Stoli bottle is pressed against his chin. He takes a long sip and when he sets it back down on the table, Collins and Benny wrap their arms and blankets around his shoulders.
"Can I stay here?" Roger whispers. His answer is only the cackling of the now-empty Stoli bottle as it dances across the table, leaving drips of liquid in its wake.