Disclaimer: don't own it. Only the great JL should get any credit. This is a few years old – found it handwritten in a drawer today and have nowhere else for it.
Roger sat in the corner of the room, condensation dripping over his forehead. His hands were tucked in his armpits to still their trembling, his eyes red and his throat raw. Every inch of him begged for a hit.
It had been a month after Angel had died when he started using again. He was flying free in Santa Fe, revelling in his own mortality. No guitar, no friends, no la vie boheme. The first time had been like coming home. He'd missed it – that much was for sure.
The door was padlocked and the room was bare. The wooden walls and floor were freezing but the bed was too hot to climb into. Roger pulled his soaked fringe from his eyes and crawled to the window, tilting it open and letting in the breeze.
Mark was the first to find out. He always was. He'd approached Roger one morning, soon after he'd returned from Santa Fe, the broken remains of a used needle Roger had attempted to dispose of down the sink fisted in his palm. Mark had said nothing, just looked at him steadily and with a scrutiny Roger couldn't bear. After an icy, wordless silence for several days, Roger had agreed to try cold turkey.
Breathing out felt like fire on his throat. He rolled up his sleeves, tracing the track marks decorating his arms with the pad of his thumb. It was torturous and the tremors in his fingers made them numb, but he couldn't stop.
Mimi had been clean since the night they'd almost lost her. Two months later, Roger was still using – sparingly, but dependably. It had all come to a head one night, not long after Collins had been hospitalised. Mark had caught Roger trying to leave in the middle of the night, screaming for a needle. Mark and Mimi's tiny frames were no good without Collins there, and in the scuffle, Mimi got hit.
And so now he was here. Mark and Benny had cleared out his room, leaving nothing but the bed and wardrobe, flushed his entire stash, and padlocked the door. Mimi had gone to live with Collins in Angel's old apartment, partially to take care of Collins and partially because she had turned up at the loft a couple of days after she'd been hit, screaming that she'd miscarried. She hadn't even known she was pregnant. Roger balled his trembling fists and dug them into his eyes like a child. He never thought he'd be back here again, not after April.
Forget this cold, bohemian hell.
AN: Don't do drugs, kiddies.