A/N: My second RENT fic. I don't know where this idea came from, and I'm pretty sure it's been done a bunch of times, but I couldn't help myself. This little plot bunny just wouldn't go away.

Summary: All she left him with was a ratty piece of paper and a bloodstained tub. And Roger can't handle it. Being clean's overrated, anyway.

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Roger crept quietly into the loft, conscious of the light thump that resounded every time he took a step. Blindly, he reached for the door handle in the dark with his right hand. His left hand was otherwise occupied, tightly clutching a small baggie. Finally wrapping his fingers around the handle, he slid the door shut gradually, inch by inch, worried about the noise it was making. He couldn't wake his roommate.

Mission accomplished, he began tiptoeing towards his room, one small step at a time. He ran his fingers over the plastic in his hand. Just one more time, he told himself. Just this once. The pain of being alone was too much. He just wanted it all to go away, far, far away. He knew that the numbness wasn't going to last, but he thought that maybe if he could feel okay for just a minute, the rest of his life would be that much easier.

And he also knew that he was lying to himself.

He reached his door and swung it open slowly, wincing as it squeaked. Roger froze, listening. Hearing nothing, he continued, finally entering his room and shutting the door softly behind him, careful not to make a sound. He flipped the light switch and turned towards his bed, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Shit, Mark!" Roger cried, jumping in shock as he spotted his roommate perched on the edge of his bed.

Mark, stone-faced, only stared at his friend. "Where the hell were you, Roger?" he asked, even though he already knew.

Roger quickly shoved his hand behind his back, pocketing his precious bag. "Out for a walk." He mumbled. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep."

Mark scoffed. "You think I'm that naive? I know where you were." He held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"Give what to you?" It was a horrible imitation of innocence, and they both knew it.

"I'm not playing around, Roger." Mark stood, his hand still extended.

"Neither am I." Roger reached out and folded Mark's fingers into his palm and shoved the hand away. He took a step closer to his roommate. "I need this, Mark. I need it." His voice was quiet.

Mark spoke harshly. "No you don't. You never did. You were fine."

"I need to forget, Mark. Don't you see that? I'm in pain here, goddammit! Just let me have some peace!" The volume of his voice was a stark contrast to his earlier whisper.

His roommate didn't move. "I'm trying to help you, Roger."

"You wanna help? Then get the hell out of my room." Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roger felt sorry for his friend. But that caring feeling was smothered by the need for something stronger, something volatile. Roger yanked Mark's wrist, shoving him in the direction of the door. He wrenched his wrist out of his roommate's grasp, shoving Roger away from him.

"I can't let you do this to yourself."

"You tried, okay? Now go." The musician moved to push his friend once more towards the doorway, but Mark stood his ground.

"No. Roger, I'm trying to take care of you. I know you were out buying drugs, and I'm not leaving without them."

"I'm not a child, Mark. I can take care of myself."

The filmmaker gave a wry laugh and a sarcastic reply. "Obviously."

"I know what I'm doing to myself, and you know it. I want this, Mark. I need this." His roommate could hear the desperation in his voice that he was working so hard to hide.

"It won't bring her back, Roger." Mark's words momentarily silenced Roger. "She wouldn't want you to do this."

"How the hell would you know, Mark?"

"Because I knew her. And she loved you, Roger. She wouldn't want this. She didn't want it for herself, and she didn't want it for you."

Roger scoffed. "Don't you see? What she wants doesn't matter anymore. She's gone. And all she's left me with is a ratty piece of paper and a fucking bloodstained tub."

"You're going to regret this. You've been clean for weeks."

"If it hurts this much, clean's overrated." Realizing Mark wasn't leaving; he shoved him aside and headed towards the bathroom, planning to lock himself in until it was all over. His roommate grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Don't do it, Rog. Give me the bag." He could tell Roger was beginning to crack. Just push a little harder, Mark told himself. Just get that stuff away from him. Mark stared into Roger's eyes, not daring to even blink.

Roger pulled the baggie from his pocket, his fist so tight around it that his knuckles were white. The peace he was searching for, the numbness… It was all right there, in the palm of his hand. Was he really going to give it up?

"Do it for April, Roger. Do it for her."

The guitarist closed his eyes. He knew that with the mention of her name, Mark had won. Holding his hand over Mark's outstretched one, he slowly released his grip on the bag. As if in slow motion, the small object fell through the air and came to rest with a slight rustle that seemed to echo through the utterly silent loft.

Once the bag had been removed from his sight, the seriousness of what he'd almost done finally hit Roger. He put his face in his hands, taking a deep breath as tears sprung to his eyes.

And as his roommate enveloped him in a tentative, comforting, forgiving hug, Roger finally understood.

When he wasn't high, he could feel the bad, but he could feel the good, too.

Being clean wasn't so overrated after all.

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End

Review, please!