I actually Googled Computer Age Philosophy to find out what it was. First result? "A Rent Group Dedicated to Collins". Outstanding. I still don't know what it is. Not a very happy chapter, this one, but I'm proud of it. Anyway, you guys know the drill. And I apologize for any glaringly OOC behavior. Thanks for reading!

To Ignite The Air

The few first weeks in the loft were, to say the least, different. Good different. Amazing different. For the first time, Roger felt like he was part of something meaningful, like he was actually somebody worthwhile. The apartment was by no means glamorous but Roger still came to be familiar with and attached to its flaws and its good points. He was a young man in a successful band, living in the rough part of the City, and really living—not to mention, he was with two people who would come to mean the world to him.

After a day in the loft, Collins and Roger were friends. After a week, they were good friends and after a month Roger felt like they knew one another inside out. He knew that Collins was practically a genius and taught Computer Age Philosophy (whatever the fuck that was—not even Collins seemed certain) at Columbia University. He knew that Collins was twenty-seven, a good five years older than him, and the only offspring of a stern Catholic school principal and a free-spirited artisan who fluttered in and out of his life when he was a child and disrupted his father's strict schedule for a few weeks at a time.

Finding out that Collins was gay had been the biggest revelation; they had both been a little tipsy, Collins had been utterly unprovoked when he announced it and, after a long discussion coving homophobia, racism, the World Wars, Maureen's sexuality and where the leak in the ceiling had come from, Roger was cool with it. It was not a huge deal anyway, like he had told Maureen when she first came out. If anything, Roger admired Collins more for how happy he was with it, how comfortable he was in his own skin.

"That's a weird thing to say," Collins had apparently taken it literally when Roger said this,"If I wasn't comfortable in my own skin, I'd be pretty much screwed, wouldn't I?"

"Shut up," Roger had retorted, chugging down what was left in his beer bottle, "You know what I mean."

"Yep. I have a fan!"

Roger had briefly considered throwing his bottle at him but then Collins laughed and before long he had forgotten about it.

Maureen and Collins were close too. It seemed Collins had taken her under his wing somewhat, especially when he found out about her interest in performance art. They would often spend hours at a time discussing what was wrong with society, how the corporate world was trying to swallow the lively Bohemian lifestyle and churn out a robotic civilization of grey stone buildings and evil, money-obsessed overlords. Or crap like that. It definitely made Maureen more self-righteous; she was more determined than ever to start her protesting and fight back against "the man". Collins was something of an anarchist—he liked to cause disturbance and break the rules just to shatter the tedium of people's day-to-day lives. Roger pictured it as dashing paints of all colours, a freaking rainbow, onto a dull, grey canvas. It was a stupid metaphor (right up Maureen's alley) but it suited him just fine. That's what Collins was, right—a splash of colour on the grey canvas of life. That was what Roger wanted to be.

December 1993

On Christmas Eve, four months after moving into the loft, Roger came home with something somewhat new.

"Hello," Collins cried, leaning over from the couch to grab Roger's left wrist, "What have we here?"

"Collins!" Roger exclaimed, trying to jerk his arm away. It was embarrassing; Roger had had a few shots, maybe a joint or two and a hit of coke, and this pretty girl had dared him to do it. He had, only because he wanted to get off with her, which he totally did, but now that his high were wearing off, his whole arm was throbbing and he felt like a moron.

Collins ignored him, of course, and turned his arm over to examine the underside. What used to be clean white skin was now a painful red; what was not red was inked black. With surprisingly soft fingertips, Collins had traced the intertwining shapes as they curled up his forearm, and then fixed Roger with a reproachful look.

"What were you thinking?"

Roger yanked his arm back, bristling, "I was thinking I was gonna go to bed."

"Look, Rog, there's nothing wrong with tattoos if you really want this, but," Collins stood and narrowed his eyes, drinking in Roger's glazed eyes and the redness around his nostrils, "you're obviously drunk or on something and I don't think—"

"Fuck you," Roger slurred, glaring at him, "Who the fuck do you think you are, my father?"

That probably was not the right thing to say, given that the moment the word slipped past his lips, he felt a pang in his gut and tears sting his eyes. Collins looked hurt as well and stepped forward to try and pull Roger into his arms.

"Rog, I was just trying to—"

"Well, don't!" Roger snapped. He ducked out of Collins' path and stormed into his room, slamming the door so hard behind him that he thought the walls were rattling. After a minute, he realized that it was just the room spinning and groaned.

I need to lie down.

He stumbled to the edge of his bed and practically collapsed, burying his face in his pillow and taking long, deep breaths. He felt sick and exhausted and guilt was beginning to gnaw away at his conscience. He almost wanted Collins to burst in and scream at him, just so he could try and apologize to him.

Collins did not and Roger fell asleep.

It was hours later when Roger woke up in the darkness to a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. Before he could even think about throwing off the covers and making a run for the bathroom, the trash can was shoved to the side of his bed. Roger did not pause to ponder this as he leaned down and vomited into the bin. Cold sweat clung to his forehead, his body felt stiff and achy, his arm was in agony and Roger felt like shit. A warm hand pressed between his shoulders, rubbing soothingly down the line of his spine, attempting to relax the tight muscles of his back.

"Roger?" Maureen's voice whispered, "Roger, this is dangerous."

Roger did not reply, mostly because he could feel bile rising up in his throat again. Maureen exhaled shakily and glanced up and only then did Roger notice Collins in the doorway, framed by the light in the main room. It was too dark to see his expression.

"Were you guys watching me?" Roger asked confusedly, even though he barely got the words out before that feeling from before returning and he had to lean down again.

"You were restless and drunk…" Maureen muttered defensively but her hand never stopped stroking. Collins came forward, in just a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, his short black hair on show for once, and hunkered down in front of the pair.

"Whatever you were doing tonight, Rog, it's gotta stop," he told him, dark eyes shining with severity and worry, "You're too young for this."

"I know," Roger rasped, still hovering over the bucket, eyes tightly shut. If this had been earlier, he would have fought Collins' judgment, argued that he wanted this and everyone else was doing it and why was he so different, what gave Collins and Maureen the right to tell him this? But now, with his arm hurting and his stomach heaving and his friends' eyes filled with fear, Roger could not dispute them. He could not remember the last time someone had felt this passionately about his welfare, and the feeling of being loved swelled within him until he thought he would burst.

"So you'll stop? You'll take it easy?"

Roger nodded and could practically hear Collins' sigh of relief and Maureen's grin. A minute later, Roger's eyes flew open in surprise when about one hundred pounds of roommate draped herself over his back and pressed her face between his shoulder blades.

"And we'll help you every step of the way!" Maureen told him, her declaration muffled by the back of his shirt. Roger cast a bemused frown at Collins, who rolled his eyes.

"Girl, get off him," he nudged her hip with his hand, instantly cheerful again, "And help me clean this up. Boy's gotta sleep."

With a grimace, Maureen peeled away from Roger and stood. Turning his face away pointedly, Collins picked up the bin.

"Merry Christmas to me," he quipped and Roger would have hit him if he was not so ill.

March 1994

"Guess what. We're getting another roommate!"

Maureen stared at Collins. Roger stopped picking at his guitar to frown. Collins glanced between the two, as if expecting jubilance, before deadpanning, "Don't get up."

"Why?" Maureen asked, confused and a little upset, "Are we not good enough?"

Roger rolled his eyes in a 'trust Maureen to get over-emotional about it' kind of way. He had done well over the past three months, cutting down on the drinking and smoking and completely ditching the cocaine. The withdrawal had made him a little more short-tempered than usual but coke had been an occasional thing and it was not as bad as it could have been. (As it would be.)

"Mo, it's not like that," Collins insisted, comforting and exasperated all in one, "Look, he's a kid who just finished up a film course at Columbia. I've seen him around a few times, I like him and he needs a place to stay. Apparently he doesn't get on so well with his parents."

"But Collins…" Maureen whined, "Where is he even gonna stay? We've run out of rooms!"

"He's cool with the couch."

"But what about rent?"

"He's got a job. He's looking for another but he's not giving up his current one anytime soon."

"But…but…fuck you for thinking this through."

Roger's lips quirked and Collins pulled a face at Maureen.

"What if he's a jerk?" Roger offered from the sofa and Maureen pounced on the chance. "Yes! What if we hate him?"

"Are you kidding?" Collins asked incredulously, "He's only a year or two younger than you. And the guy's this real quiet, scrawny white thing. But he's sharp. And he's a good kid. And he's going out of his way to make this worth it to me. He's staying."

Maureen huffed and fell back onto the sofa, folding her arms and pouting like a child. Roger snickered to himself and looked back to his guitar.

"By the way, Rog, when's your gig tonight?"

Roger looked up and arched his eyebrow. For the last three months, one or both of his roommates had been coming to his shows to remind him to stay clean. It was annoying (he did not need someone watching his every move!) but necessary if he wanted to stay healthy and win their full trust back.

"Starts at nine-thirty at CBGB's," he replied and then frowned as Collins groaned.

"Fuck. I can't go tonight. Maureen?"

"Working," came the grumpy reply, "What are you doing?"

"Um, extra tuition," Collins answered. Unfortunately, Collins was a shitty liar. Maureen and Roger exchanged glances.

"Reeeeeally?" Maureen asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. There was a pause.

"Fuck you guys. I have a date."

"Ooh, a date!" Maureen squealed, leaping up, all angst temporarily forgotten, "Who is it? Do I know him? Is he cute? What are you gonna wear?"

"Geez, Mo, calm down," Collins said, this time only exasperated, "It's just dinner with an old student."

"What is it with you and old students?"

Collins glowered at Roger.

"Shame you're gonna have to cancel," Roger commented with a deliberately heavy sigh, ignoring Collins' scowl, "since you have to babysit me…"

It took a few seconds of silence and a second, heavier, sigh from Roger before Collins cracked. "Fine, fine, fine. You gonna stay safe?"

"Yessir."

"Okay then," Collins said and for a moment, Roger wondered why he really needed Collins' permission to go to a club alone.

The next moment, he decided not to wonder. Why question it when you get your way?

So that night, Roger took off into the City on his own for his set. While Collins was sat in the Life Café and charming the pants off his boyfriend and Maureen was working in that little coffee shop, he was up on stage with his band, singing and strumming and looking every inch the rock star. He was twenty-three years old, he was young and alive, he was happy and, if that night had gone a different way, perhaps he would have been young and alive and happy for years and years to come.

But towards the end of the gig, Roger's eye was drawn to the girl at the bar. The girl with red-gold hair and blue eyes, pink lips stretched into a smile as she gazed up at him. The girl with the smile that could have lit up all of New York City.

That night, Roger would fall in love and keep on falling.