Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.
Mark gazed at the sleeping Roger, not wanting to believe what he was seeing. He had kicked all the sheets and pillows off the bed, and sweat covered his brow. It was how he would sleep back when…No. Of course not, that was crazy. Roger had been clean for 3 years. He couldn't…Suddenly the musician shifted, throwing his bare arm out over the side of the bed.
No.
Please.
But the angry red mark, alone marring his tanned, muscled arm, did not leave any room for easy explanations.
Roger had shot up for the first time in 3 years.
Mark's first reaction was to be mad. After all the time and worry he'd put into helping his friend break that fucking habit, he'd thrown it away with the single prick of a needle.
If his first reaction was anger, Mark's first instinct was to reach for his camera. He ran to the kitchen, where it lay on the table that he'd dumped it on earlier that day, when they'd gotten home from the funeral. They, being Mark, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne. Roger had stayed at the grave after everyone else had left. He hadn't come home until late that night.
Well, now Mark knew where he'd been.
Standing in the doorway again, he flipped on the camera. It was so much safer there, behind the lens. Not having to view the world directly through one's own eyes made things infinitely easier.
"Mimi's legacy…" he murmured, zooming in on the arm still
flung out over the side of the bed.