A/N: Sorry about this one taking so long. I've been on break, and strangely, that ends in me writing far less than usual…
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Mark awoke to the last thing in the world he'd expected: the loft and worried green eyes locked on him. Roger jumped slightly when Mark met his gaze, looking at him as if he'd just risen from the dead.
Mark said the only thing he could think to. "What happened?" he croaked in a voice made weak from both disuse and his physical state. He found himself hoping vainly that the events he remembered had been nothing more than a dream, even though he knew to the contrary in his gut.
Not only did Roger not answer, but Mark had barely finished asking his question before he was seized in a bone crushing hug. "Thank God," Roger breathed, and Mark couldn't help but feel he'd heard Roger utter those particular words in that particular profoundly relieved tone far too frequently of late. "I knew you were just sleeping, and they told me to let you, and Collins told me to let you, but you've been out twelve hours, and…"
"What?" Mark blurted, interrupting the flow of words tumbling frantically from his friend's mouth. "Twelve hours?"
"Yeah," another familiar voice chimed in, and Mark finally noticed Collins perched on a stepstool some distance away, "you were one hurting little man for awhile. Your own fault, too."
Roger grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back far enough to meet his eyes earnestly. "You've gotta take care of yourself, Mark. They said it didn't look like you'd had enough to eat in a day for weeks," Roger told him, and even though his situation was much the same, he looked scared at the prospect. Mark couldn't bring himself to take the concern seriously; it was just how Roger was: hot then cold, caring one moment then seeming almost unaware of his existence the next. "You weren't sleeping. God, then something like this has to go happen before I even notice." Mark had no way to know it, but Roger went on berating himself long after he'd finished speaking. Would've been better if you'd never found me, he thought disgustedly, even though he secretly knew he was glad for it.
"But… how did I get back here? When did Collins come?"
Collins chuckled. "Well, he found out what happened when you passed out – saw them take you by. Then he laid there for another hour yelling at doctors and nurses 'cause he was too fucking wasted to be any use," Collins paused there, meeting Roger's hurt eyes unflinchingly. Collins did not shy away from telling others when they'd really fucked up. "Then he checked himself out into my supervision and went to find you. When they got you, they checked you out, then stuck you with an IV to get you rehydrated and give you some morphine – which is why I'm guessing you don't remember, because you were conscious for a bit before they got you doped up, and on the way home in the cab – but they really only admitted you because Roger was your primary contact, and obviously they couldn't give you to him. Then they… found out they could. Very loudly. So he and I brought you back here."
Mark frowned, sensing there was a lot more to the story than Collins would tell him in front of Roger. "But why were you even at the hospital?"
"Got here about an hour after you guys left. Broke in through the fire escape, saw Roger's room and assumed the worst," Collins met Roger's eyes pointedly again at, and Roger only managed to hold his gaze for a fraction of a second before his eyes flicked away of their own volition. "Called the hospital closest to here and asked them to find me a Roger Davis. They did. Didn't expect to find you laid up too, though."
"Oh, God," Mark groaned, holding his head as envisioned the hell Roger had likely put the hospital staff through. "Roger…"
"What? They were…" Roger stopped when he saw the looks Mark and Collins were giving him. Mark's said he was glad he cared, but that he wasn't going to believe what Roger told him, and Collins seemed amused but wholly unconvinced. Of course, Collins had been there. Collins had seen all of it.
Collins had better keep his fucking mouth shut.
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Roger writhed uncomfortably in the bed, cursing himself for his intoxication. He was just sober enough that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had to find Mark and take him home, but just far gone enough to be unable to do anything about it.
A nurse walked through the door, and he lashed out as much as he dared to. "What the fuck do you want?" he demanded.
She was an older woman, and a veteran of the ER besides. She was not impressed by Roger's hostility in the least. "You know," she began gruffly, "if you play nice, we do too."
Roger very pointedly avoided looking at her. As a consequence of this, he didn't see her coming. He didn't even know she was anywhere near him until he registered the stab of another needle in his bicep, and his perceptions were slow enough that she was far away before he could react. He jerked and muttered several choice words, but he'd grown increasingly aware of his impotence, and knew that any sign he'd like to do someone violence (though he secretly longed to) would only hurt his case when the time came that he was physically able to help Mark.
"You'll thank me later," the nurse explained curtly, not even bothering to tell him what poison she'd injected him with. She'd have to tell him if he asked, of course, but that too would be compliance with the health system, something Roger couldn't countenance. "You friends with a Tom Collins, kid?"
He nodded sullenly, regretting what he perceived to be his submission. "Why?"
The nurse grinned, almost but not quite maliciously. "Congratulations, Mr. Davis. You've just been released into his care. He heard the fit you were throwing over your friend earlier and went and talked to people until he got someone convinced he could handle you."
"Oh, I can handle him," Collins said with bravado, suddenly appearing at the door. He smiled broadly at the woman, but his eyes narrowed when he looked at Roger and he added pointedly, "With the back of my hand, if it comes to it."
Roger wanted to snipe back, but didn't dare. Collins only made comments like that in earnest, and he could see where Collins might feel the need to issue such a warning to keep him in check.
He was released without ceremony. He got his clothes from under the bed, dressed, then left the room with Collins.
As soon as he was in the hall, Collins seized him by the shoulder and said sternly, "Don't think we'll let you give up because of this, Roger. And don't act stupid, either. You want what's best for Mark and you think it's for him to come home, you let me do the talking. I've seen him already; he's fine. Just a bad migraine." Roger nodded. He could see it.
Mark had laid on the couch for three days once, alternately clutching his head, throwing up, and crying silently – or not so silently, when someone offered genuine sympathy. Out of nowhere, Roger remembered April sitting him up gently, rubbing his back while he retched then pulling him into her arms and massaging the tips of her fingers into the back of his neck, one of the few things that seemed to bring him any relief. Roger remembered the contented, peaceful looks they'd been wearing as they'd eventually drifted off holding one another – Mark's first real sleep in two days, and even though his face was lined with his pain he looked relaxed – and how it had affected him when he'd seen it. He hadn't been jealous, on the contrary, the sight had filled his heart to bursting with love – for April and her compassion, he told himself at the time, even though now he was willing to admit that Mark had been part of it – and with love came sweet, simple inspiration. Mark and April had slept while Roger worked on a song long into the night. He was tired, but he'd come to learn that feelings like those were not to be wasted – they were his purest, least destructive, and unfortunately rarest muse.
God, April had been so much better than him, even at her lowest, even as a dyed-in-the-wool junkie. April took care of Mark like Roger knew he should. April took care of Roger like he didn't even fucking deserve. April should have been the one of them still alive.
"Mark's run himself down lately," Collins commented matter of factly. He'd been letting Roger have his moment of thought, but it almost seemed as if he'd been able to sense the exact moment those thoughts started getting just a little too intense.
Roger averted his eyes, the unspoken second half of Collins' sentence lingering in the air. Run himself down taking care of you, Collins was reminding him.
"Now look, I'm gonna leave you in Mark's room and go make some arrangements," Collins told him when they reached the ward they'd put Mark in. "You're gonna stay there. You're not gonna talk to anyone but Mark, and you're gonna watch what you say to him, too. I know the shit you pull in these places, Roger, and I'm not putting up with it. Neither will they, you're not a patient anymore."
Mark was in a room with three partitions, in the bed closest to the door. The other curtains were closed. His clothes were folded on a table in the corner of the room, his glasses and shoes on top of them. Roger saw the path the tube hanging from the IV pole traced down into Mark's vein, and his hands twitched with the urge to remove it. Roger knew logically that Mark wasn't in any danger, that the doctors and nurses had only been doing their best to help both he and Mark recover, but in his experience, healthcare had become synonymous with pain.
He'd avoided really looking at Mark thus far, but he'd run out of other things to distract himself with. Mark was breathing shallowly in his sleep, and he was so pale Roger could see the veins in his eyelids. He was getting his evidently much-needed rest, at least.
Roger sat silently beside the bed, trying not to think. He knew what would happen if he did. But because he could no longer even touch his guitar, about the only way he knew to stop thinking was heroin, which wasn't a good option at the moment or even available, and so he eventually did start thinking. At first it was only slight guilt, the sort he could make up for by taking Mark's hand and whispering that they'd both take care of each other from now on. But he kept thinking, and eventually one of the thoughts was, 'Yeah, right, you can't even take care of yourself and you know you don't mean it,' and it was enough to break the dam.
Roger breathed out with a hiss, his jaw clenched as he tried to fight the tears. It didn't work, and he ended up thinking out loud through them. "Oh God," he began in a ragged whimper, not really meaning to keep speaking, "I didn't mean any of that earlier. I'm really sorry, Mark. About everything. I… I don't know what I can do about it, but… At least I know now," he offered timidly, as though Mark could hear him and as if he'd be outwardly angry if he did. "Because I do, you know. Took a hell of a lot more than it should have, but I know. I can't promise I'll take care of you," he continued remorsefully, even though he knew in the back of his mind that the revelation he'd really been addressing had come before even he'd been hospitalized, let alone Mark, "because I don't think I could really mean it. I'll promise you that someday, though, and you won't have to worry any more then, not as long as I can stick around. I could maybe go away… Get better and come back when I can," he offered childishly. Mark was, predictably, silent. Roger sighed. "But you wouldn't have that, would you? Will it help if I promise this was the last time? Because it will be. If I have to feel like this every time I use, it's really not worth it. I'm supposed to do that so I don't have to feel like this. So, there: I promise I'm done with the heroin. Even before I never promised, you know. I've never been able to make promises I don't think I'll keep.
"And it's not just that, either. I know I've been confusing you lately, I'd have to be blind not to. I was trying to fix it, there on the couch. Made it worse, but I was trying. I just… I was so sure, until then, then all of a sudden you just went cold. Like we weren't even friends anymore, let alone… let alone what was there yesterday. I know you felt it too, though. You can't keep things out of your eyes; besides, it was you who kissed me, the second time. Maybe you're just smart enough to know that even if we both feel the same… yeah, how would that work? Fuck, there has to be some kind of give and take, and I don't even know if I know how to do the giving part any more. But I could try," he said, steadfastly ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that was maliciously reminding him what had happened the last time he'd said he'd try. "I could learn; I'd have a good teacher. I'd have motivation, too.
"Before it was just because I knew I was too scared to off myself – I tried a couple times before I found that out – and I knew that if I had to stay alive, you and Collins wouldn't put up with the drugs much longer. But I was… lying there tonight. After… after I'd just shot up. I had a few seconds where I could still think clear and do stuff. I fit a lot into those few seconds. Figured out I wanted to live. Figured out why, too, and it's mostly you. Sure, Collins and Maureen came up when I started making a list of things in my head later, but that moment of truth where I had to find one good reason to call for help? All I could think was that I couldn't let you down like that, that I couldn't leave you, that I didn't even want to. That I… loved you. But I don't know what that means, not when I'm so fucked up, not when I still love April. When you still love April. She's barely cold in her fucking grave. But I think… I think if April was going to be a problem, I'd have known. I'd have decided differently and gone away to be with her. I don't care if you feel the same, it's okay if you don't. But you stuck around," he muttered optimistically, more to himself than Mark for a change. "That means something, doesn't it?"
Roger paused and sighed heavily, remembering, "Well, it might have, but after tonight… Please don't hate me. That's all I want, is for you to be able to have me around, and I'll make it up to you. I'll have to start by fixing me, but knowing you, that'll be good enough. Even if it is, I'll make things really even, whether you think I need to or not. I like when you're happy. I never realized it until you weren't any more. If I can get you to smile again and mean it, the rest will all be worth it." The words stirred the barest hint of inspiration within him, but when he recognized the feeling for what it was it was almost physically painful. He couldn't create when he didn't even deserve to live.
His brain reminded him that once upon a time he'd loved to see April smile, too, but that he'd been so bad at showing it that she'd felt so alone she'd slit her wrists. It wasn't the virus, he thought, no. If he'd only loved her enough, she'd have had the strength to face it.
He didn't think any further until Collins said softly from the door, "Sounds like you boys need to have a talk."
For a split second, Roger saw red. Then he realized that Collins had needed to be here as much as he had, and he couldn't help overhearing. He couldn't have interrupted him, because Roger was wholly aware how distressed he must have seemed and how important it had been for him to say what he had. "Yeah," he choked out finally, starting to cry again. His voice lowered to a whisper, and he repeated, "Yeah, we do."
He cried in Collins' arms for the next ten minutes, missing Mark's.
It wasn't that Roger didn't want Mark to know the things he'd confessed while he was asleep – to the contrary, he planned on telling him. But he wanted to do it his own way, on his own time. It would be too easy for Mark to dismiss his sincerity, if it came from someone else. Even then, though, there was the little voice telling him he only wanted Collins to keep quiet so he never had to face Mark knowing the truth.
He wanted to kill that voice. His own personal little demon, borne of scientific withdrawals and emotional turmoil. At first, when everything had gone wrong, there had only been tearing regret. No, that was wrong. Regret and terror. Not pleasant, but tolerable with heroin and the knowledge of his rent-free home, and Mark's steady, unwavering support. Collins being on his side and always wanting what was really best for him factored in too, but what was really, truly best for him wasn't something he wanted any part of. Then the job offer had come in the mail. Roger hadn't thought anything of it when he saw the envelope. There was nothing unusual about it. Collins would see it, say there was no way in hell he was ever going where ever the offer was from, and that would be the end of it.
Not this time, though. This time… God. Mark and Collins hadn't even told him; he hadn't known until three days before he left. That was when he'd overheard their conversation and frozen in the hall outside Mark's bedroom door, unable to see anything more than Collins' back while remaining undetectable. It didn't matter, because once he heard what Mark said, he'd planted himself firmly in front of the door.
"Collins, I… I know you've gotta go, you have my blessing. I just… I'm not sure I can do it."
Roger froze in midstep when he heard it, not because of what Mark said, but because of how he said it. There was a raw, honest quality to his voice of a sort Roger had never heard before, not once in five years. The implications of the words hit him a few seconds later, and Collins had begun answering Mark, "I know it's hard, Mark. And God knows we all love Roger, but you're only one person. You can only do what you can. No one will judge if you have to cut him loose." Roger's blood ran cold, and it was enough to dampen his rage, keeping him silent in the hall outside the door. "No one's saying you can't be there for him once he's hit rock bottom, once he's had some sense knocked into him. But he's not gonna change, Mark, not 'til he goes through some life-altering shit."
"I don't know… I mean, don't you think he already has? He's not stupid. He knows they dug their graves with needles."
"Not true, Mark. Roger still has the rest of his life ahead of him," Collins insisted mildly. Roger couldn't see him from the hall, but he could visualize Mark in his head, staring at his shoes, embarrassed to have been caught referring to what Collins called his "pet virus" as a death sentence. "He really does. I just hope he's smart enough not to waste it. And April… was sad. April was worse than sad. If someone had been able to tell; if she'd had someone to talk to… well, who can say? But even after all the tragedy, Roger's living essentially the same way he always did. He doesn't have April or the band any more, yeah, but we've all supported him a hundred percent. And look what he's done with it, Mark. It's not helping him any more, it's just enabling him. Look at him real good next time he's around. He can't weigh any more than you, there's places where the track marks have just turned into putrefying skin, it's been God knows how long since I saw any sign of real life – real awareness – in his eyes. He keeps this up, he's gonna die, and a lot faster than HIV could ever do the job."
"I can't make him do it, Collins," Mark whispered in a small voice. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"If it's too much, it's too much," Collins replied gently. Roger could just barely see Mark now, stepping forward with a lost look on his face to let Collins hug him. Behind Mark's eyes, there was only a numbness that rivalled the one Roger saw in the mirror. "Don't keep this up, Mark. He might not thank you for letting him go, but at least he'll have a chance if you do. I do not want you to have to watch him killing himself for months on end."
"All you're telling me is that I get to pick how I watch him die," Mark pointed out, a little incredulously. He continued uncertainly, "I mean, maybe if he's happier like this…"
"Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence, Cohen," Collins warned him, and despite how he phrased it his voice was still gentle. "Mark, I know people who've been living with HIV more than a decade who are no less healthy than the day they were diagnosed. Even if ten years was the cap, if they definitively said that he'd be gone after that… He's twenty-three, Mark, that's almost half as long as he's been alive. He gets clean and happy, he will thank you for that every day for the rest of his life. Roger being Roger, he might never do it out loud, but he will. Besides, life isn't worth less just because it might get cut short. You could get hit by a bus tomorrow. You still get up every morning."
"I don't think I can do it, Col," Mark whispered, and this time the tears in his voice were evident. "Any of it. You saw what happened to April when she tried. That's how he'll be, only worse, because we're gonna be… we're gonna be alone. But you are right about one thing. I can't watch him keep wasting away, either. I just… don't know what to do."
That was the last of their conversation Roger heard. He turned on his heel, went straight to his room, and immediately began tossing what few worldly possessions he had that he thought were worth keeping into a beat-up canvas backpack. His guitar wasn't amongst them, something he agonized over for a few minutes before deciding that it didn't really matter, anyway, it was just a memento of the life he didn't have any more. They didn't want him? Fine. He didn't need them anyway. But no, it was worse than that. Mark had said that he just didn't think he could handle Roger, like he was some fucking kid or something. Well, fuck him, Roger would be fine on his own.
It never occurred to him that he was doing exactly what Collins had hoped would happen. Roger didn't remember many specifics about what happened when he spitefully announced his impending departure, telling them they wouldn't have to worry about him any more. He knew that Collins told him to do what he needed to do, and that Mark had asked where he was going to stay. He never answered either of them, just stalked out the door and straight to The Man. Reality didn't dawn until three that morning, when the drug wore off and he felt the cold and realized he had nowhere to go. Still, he made it that first night and a few others, long enough to miss Collins leaving, before crawling back to Mark, already an emotional wreck from his inability to buy another hit, and sobbing that he'd really try now if Mark would just have him back. Mark plainly hadn't believed him, just pulled his shivering friend up into his arms and taken him to his bed. Roger's room had gone untouched, as though Mark had known all along he'd come back. Mark had stroked his forehead and said they'd talk in the morning, speaking over Roger's protests, and left the room.
Roger didn't sleep that night. Unsurprising, given that the withdrawal had set in and grew progressively worse as the night went on, but the withdrawal wasn't really to blame. He was thinking a mile a minute, and no matter how he rationalized, he continued coming to the same realization: he had to make a choice between the needle and his life. Not just his life, either, but everything in it and what would be left behind. How disappointed Collins would be, in the world for helping drive him to it and in him for doing it. How Benny would scoff that he'd been right all along, how Maureen would cry and miss him without ever really understanding why he was gone. How completely and utterly alone Mark would be. But wasn't that going to happen eventually anyway? What was the point in delaying it? What was the point in delaying it at all?
That was the thought that lead to him standing over the bathroom sink in the dark with a razor biting into his wrist, not breaking skin but still hurting, threatening to tear through his flesh like wet tissue paper. His hands were trembling as he scored it up his forearm, passing over old scars and track marks and leaving white scratches in its wake. Well, that was… something. The marks weren't too hard to take, he'd just need to apply a little more pressure to break skin, and sure, that part might be scary, but then he'd be bleeding out and it wouldn't take too long for him to black out, would it?
For a few minutes, he was completely and utterly convinced to find out. He pressed the razor a little harder and actually felt his skin part underneath it. It was a rush, powerful enough to make him suck in a gasp; it was freedom. It made him press harder, dragging the razor down his arm. Then his fingers grew slick with something and the razor slipped, digging deeply into his three middle fingers before clattering to the ground. Roger hissed and cursed. The pain that he'd been expecting had been something like a balm, but being taken by surprise wasn't pleasurable in the least. He looked down tentatively at the damage he'd done, blood coursing out of his arm and dripping from his fingers to the floor, and felt completely numb for a few seconds before being overtaken by a wave of nausea. He shook uncontrollably in a way he knew wasn't related to withdrawal. He threw up, then mechanically tied a towel around his self inflicted wounds, and cleaned the bathroom of all evidence of his activities before staggering weakly back to bed and laying in it in the same position for the rest of the night, whimpering.
That was that, then, the easy way out wasn't an option. Roger supposed that meant he really did have to kick the habit. Later, Roger will say that he's glad he made the choice and gathered his conviction so naively. If he'd known how hard it would be, he says, the person he was then would never have chosen to do it.
In the time ahead, Roger will want to give up countless times. He will, not a week after that first night he spends shivering and crying, the only one he spends alone, come to an earth-moving revelation about his best friend that almost breaks him but in the end also becomes his strength. He will vomit and cry and say things to people he loves he later feels like the scum of the earth for uttering.
He will ultimately get better, both Roger and Mark remind themselves feverishly, and sometimes, like the night a month later when he relapses from his first serious attempt and overdoses, it's nowhere near enough.
But it has to be. It's all they have.