I'm not an addict.
Tomi Sama
Song: "I'm not an addict." By Jane's Addiction.
Pairing: RogerxMark. (Implied RogerxApril)
Warnings: Slash, drug use, violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, if I did, Mimi would have died and Roger would have confessed his undying love to Mark.
Request: Pleeeease Review. I'll love you forever.
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Breathe it in and breathe it out, and pass it on, it's almost out.
Roger took a deep breath and waited. Nothing. He tried again. The air in the loft was stale and cold. It was the complete opposite as the air he had been breathing the previous night with his ex-band mates down at the club. That air had been good. It made him feel happy again, and he hadn't felt happy since April died. Of course, Mark was unhappy when Roger came home in his happy state, and he locked him in his room. Roger sat up and looked around.
His room was messy, and there were clothes, guitar accessories and a needle littering the floor. He quickly climbed to the floor and picked a needle up. He wanted the good air back, but he could feel the good air was out of his lungs, and a soft pain in the back of his head told him all of the good air would be gone soon.
He dug around in the bottom drawer of the dresser, pushing aside clothes, until he found a small packet. With a small grin, he got out a candle and lit it. The flame seemed to fight against itself. It wanted to burn, it loved the feeling of burning, but it hated what it did to its body. It made it smaller and weaker.
Roger dumped the package onto a spoon and added some water that Mark had left him, and began making more before he was completely out of the happy feeling and good air.
We're so creative, so much more. We're high above but on the floor.
As the drug started to kick in, Roger felt the world come into his mind. This was how he wrote his best songs. He dug around for a piece of blank paper and a pen. His eyes were seeing different things than he was writing, but he didn't know that he wouldn't remember what he had written. He never remembered what he had written, and when he found paper that he had used, the words and letters were backwards with pictures mixed in the middle. But for right now, he was happy, thinking he was doing something good.
After Roger he finished his masterpiece, he smiled and leaned back against his bed. It was like being on a cloud; a really fluffy cloud where everything good was happening all at once. April was back, and she didn't have HIV, and neither did he.
He and Mark were friends again, and Collins hadn't left because of Roger's drug problem. Roger sighed slightly, as he looked down at the cloth on his arm that was making his vein stick out. He frowned and ripped it off. The sudden movement made him fall over. And he lay there, watching the candle burn as the tears swelled in his eyes.
It's not a habit. It's cool. I feel alive.
When Roger woke up again, he rubbed his eyes and looked around. He saw the needle and the candle, which was now out, and he saw his scribbled picture and sighed. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Roger sighed again, but didn't say come in. He knew it was Mark, and that the door was locked from the outside. If Mark wanted to come in, Roger couldn't stop him. And soon, the thin blonde boy was standing in the door frame.
"How are you feeling, Roger?" Mark asked, eying the musician carefully.
Roger said nothing, again. He was still mad that Mark locked him in the room in the first place. So to keep himself from looking at his friend, he started cleaning up the mess he'd made yesterday.
"Roger! How many times do I have to tell you not to do that stuff?" Mark yelled as he grabbed the needle that previously went unnoticed.
Roger jumped at Mark, "You're not my mother! Give me it back!" Mark was surprised to see Roger jump at him, so he put his hands up to his face, to block the blow. Instead, Roger came in around the stomach and tackled Mark. Mark cried out, but Roger kept him pinned down, trying to pry the needle from his hand, while his other hand punched Mark. Mark yelled again, but Roger kept fighting, and soon, he got the needle free and stood up and ran to the door.
He was outside before Mark had even gotten up.
If you don't have it you're on the other side.
Roger ran to the dealer's part of the park. He usually snooped around the bushes in the center of a four way path, if he wasn't across the street from the Cat Scratch Club. Roger went to the club first, but he wasn't there. So where else would he be? And like a sign from God, the shady man was standing there, giving a brunette girl something. Something Roger wanted.
He walked quickly, but tried not to seem too anxious as he approached. The man finished with his other client, before turning to Roger. Roger passed him his money, and got a small white package in return.
The deeper you stick it in your vein, the deeper the thought. There's no more pain.
Roger collapsed in the alley next to the loft. He had nowhere else to run to. He couldn't go in the loft, he'd just beaten up his roommate for a needle, and he needed a fix. Just one more is all I need, he lied to himself, like he had so many times before.
He took off his leather jacket and tied a cloth around his bicep, trying to make the vein bigger, and easier to see. As he cut off his circulation, he began to mix the powder, and put it into the syringe. With too much frustration, Roger pushed the needle deep in the vein, and he winced. He quickly injected it in him, before pulling the needle violently out and throwing it against the building.
Soon, the cloud feeling was back upon him. He sighed contently, and closed his eyes. Although he knew a bruise would form on his arm where he was reckless with the needle, he was satisfied now. Now it didn't hurt.
I'm in heaven, I'm a god. I'm everywhere, I feel so hot.
The high sensation hit Roger like a train. He felt himself floating, in a perfect body, without his sickness, looking down at the broken rock star before him. And he felt pity for the broken rock star. His dark hair was coming in his roots through the blonde dye, and his arm was bleeding. He quickly helped the broken boy take off the cloth around his bicep and work him back into his jacket. He saw the other Roger was crying. He looked away, feeling embarrassed just watching. It wasn't fair to be feeling this good, when the feeling good made the boy in front of him hurt so much.
But, he wanted this too, didn't he? He wanted to feel like he was floating. He wanted to feel like he was on the cloud and that he was desirable. He saw himself shiver, even with the jacket on. The floating Roger knew it was time to go back, to help the broken Roger pull himself back together.
It's not a habit. It's cool. I feel alive. If you don't have it you're on the other side.
Roger felt himself come back as he stood up, leaving the syringe and the other drug accessories there, as he made his way up to the top of the flat. He knew Mark was going to kill him. He came home high again. But this time, Roger vowed to change. He wouldn't hit Mark. He would take being locked in his room as punishment.
When he walked in, cold and sweating, to see the blond boy curled up on the couch, he was surprised. Mark usually never slept when Roger left. When Roger walked closer, he saw Mark had a black eye. Roger leaned over his friend and ran his fingers over the bruised flesh around his eye. Mark winced and woke up.
"Sorry, Marky." Roger could feel the drug talking for him. His voice was too calm. "Not again. Never again. I promise." Roger tried to lie down on the couch next to his friend, but the other boy blushed and jumped off, allowing Roger to pass out on the couch, without being there himself.
Mark touched his own eye as Roger slept, hoping that Roger would remember his promise in the morning.
I'm not an addict!
When Roger woke up, he had a headache. It wasn't the worse headache he'd ever had before, and often when he came off of the drug, he had a headache when he awoke. But in the span he'd been taking the drug, the headache had came to be a sign he needed more. If he could feel pain, then he wasn't happy and the drug wasn't in him.
Roger sat up, and looked around. He didn't see Mark in the line between the door and the couch. He stood up; about to make a run for it when he heard, "You're awake!"
Roger turned and looked at Mark. He was smiling, despite the purple bruise on his face. Roger felt guilty, so he looked down.
"Where were you going?"
Roger couldn't tell Mark he wanted more, after he told him he'd stop last night, so he mumbled. "To my room." And walked off to the destination he had mentioned. He sat on his bed, holding his head. He wasn't addicted to the drug. He just did it sometimes to feel good. So it was no problem to not take it anymore, right?
(Maybe that's a lie.)
Within five minutes, Roger was shaking and sweating as he crawled on the floor, trying to find some more of the drug, but it looked like Mark had cleaned his room. Roger sat in the fetal possession, rocking back and forth, and cried.
It's over now, I'm cold, alone. I'm just a person on my own.
In a week, Roger was past doing this for Mark. He'd punched him again, and Mark barricaded him in his room. Roger could hear his blond roommate crying on the other side of the door. Roger ignored it, though, and threw his blankets off his bed and beat on his pillows. Nothing was working. He just wanted one fix. Just one more. He'd even told Mark he'd share it with him.
Mark was outraged and had said, "You want to kill me too?"
Roger froze. He hadn't known what Mark had meant by that… using the drug one time wouldn't kill Mark, right? But now he remembered. He had HIV. He was going to die. Silently, Roger slumped down onto the mess of blankets on his floor as he felt the tears stream down his face. He was going to die. What happened when people died? Did they see other people that had died? Would he see April? Roger looked at the door as he heard Mark's sobbing stop.
If he died, he'd never see Mark again.
Nothing means a thing to me. No, nothing means a thing to me.
Hearing Roger's rampage stop, Mark got up the courage to unlock the door and look in. Roger was lying on his blankets on the floor, shaking and sweating. Mark got on the floor next to him and rubbed his back. Roger looked up at him with wide eyes, but Mark doubted Roger could really understand what was going on.
"Its okay, Roger." Mark whispered as he hugged his friend. Roger's hands latched on to the front of Mark's shirt, as if he were afraid, as he started crying.
Mark continued to rub his back. "It'll all be fine, soon." Mark said, burying his face in Roger's hair. He hoped it was true.
It's not a habit. It's cool. I feel alive. If you don't have it you're on the other side. I'm not an addict! (Maybe that's a lie.)
"Please, Mark." Roger whispered. He knew his voice sounded as pathetic as he looked, but he didn't care. "Just one more. Please, Marky."
When Mark didn't answer, Roger cried harder. It wasn't fair! He just wanted to stop hurting. He just wanted to stop shaking and sweating and beating his best friend up. He started pushing Mark away, but Mark held tighter, keeping Roger down in an awkward hug.
"I just want one hit." Roger kept pushing, but was too weak to give a really good blow. So instead, he just collapsed against his friend's chest as his breathing regulated.
Free me, leave me. Watch me as I'm going down.
As the weeks went on, Roger had begged and beaten Mark more than a dozen times. Every time he did that, he felt even more horrible. He now knew why April was dead. It wasn't worth it. Life wasn't worth such pain.
Roger was lying on the couch, and Mark was sitting on the chair near him. "Marky?"
"No. Roger. You're not going to get more drugs." Mark answered firmly while taking a sip of his coffee.
"I wasn't going to ask that, bastard." Roger muttered and turned around, facing the other way.
Although Mark didn't really believe him, he looked up. "Then what were you going to ask?"
Roger continued to look away. He knew the answer before he started, "Would you kill me?" Roger turned and looked at Mark. Mark looked shocked. "So I don't have to be in pain anymore?"
Free me, see me. Look at me, I'm falling and I'm falling.
"No." Mark said firmly, and looked back at his coffee.
Roger knew he refused to talk about it anymore, so he came up with another question. He felt embarrassed to even ask. "Why are you still here? I'm just trouble for you and…"
Roger was cut off by the sound of Mark's coffee cup hitting the table. He turned over to look at his friend, but Mark was already sitting next to him on the couch. He was looking down at Roger, as if he was debating whether or not the musician was worth it. Suddenly, Mark smiled.
"Because you're my friend and I love you."
Roger felt himself blush a little by the words, and he looked away. Mark laughed at Roger's insecurity and ruffled his hair. "You've been doing fine, Roger. You shouldn't crave it for much longer."
Roger pouted at Mark's words, which only made Mark laugh more. Even Roger cracked a smile at Mark's laugh. He felt happy, for the first time since his forced rehab.
It is not a habit. It is cool I feel alive. I feel… It is not a habit. It is cool. I feel alive.
Mark was right. It did start getting easier from there. Roger didn't always want to fall back on his drugs. Instead, he'd rather hang around with his roommate. It was weird. April made Roger go out with her all the time, and because of it, he'd really lost touch with Mark.
And Mark didn't seem to mind skipping his filming in the freezing weather to spend time with Roger. Although Roger still often sweated and shook, Mark was always there, holding him, telling him it was okay.
Roger could feel the place in his heart fill up. The place where April use to be and the drugs were after April. He was pretty sure he knew what it was, but he didn't know how to act on it. He was so use to having drugs to feel this happy, he'd forgotten that people could feel this happy without them.
It's not a habit. It's cool. I feel alive. If you don't have it you're on the other side.
"How are you feeling, Roger?" Mark asked. It was ritual now. As soon as Roger woke up, Mark would ask him that and offer him something to drink, if they had anything. This morning they did, and Roger took it gratefully.
"Frustrated." Roger answered truthfully. He was now completely off the drug. There was nothing in his body that made him fight anymore… except for that feeling of being happy and his nervousness to act on it.
"How come?" Mark asked, concerned.
I'm not an addict! (Maybe that's a lie.)
Roger smiled. He couldn't help but think Mark was adorable when he was concerned about something. His blue eyes would shine with excitement and hope, and he'd get a cute pout on his face. Roger smiled a little more. He didn't need his old drugs, he had Mark now, Mark was his new drug.
"Cause I want to say thank you." Roger said as he moved closer to Mark.
Mark blushed a little. "Oh, you don't have to. It was no problem at all, rea—" Mark was cut off by Roger's lips on his own. Mark blushed more, as Roger closed his eyes, holding Mark close from around the waist. After a few shocked seconds, Mark returned the kiss.
When Roger pulled back, he smirked and said, "Thanks, Mark."
Mark opened his mouth to say something, but Roger had already turned and was walking to the bathroom for a shower.
I'm not an addict...