Ta-da. Chapter four. Not the best thing ever written, but I'm kinda fond of it. It starts off kind of abruptly, mostly because it was supposed to be part of chapter three, but I didn't want that one to be so long and unwieldy, so I split it up. Anyway, here it is. Please read/review, let me know what you like and what you think could be done better. Thanks so much!

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Wish they were. Oh, the things I could do with my very own Mark and Roger...

Through My Blood

By Alison

Chapter Four: Deliver Me The Poison

Okay. I could do this. I was a man -- a very straight, not-interested-in-his-best-friend-at-all man. I walked into the living room and seated myself on the couch, turning on the television.

The reception wasn't great, but about as good as could be expected from pirated cable. Some sappy made-for-tv romance movie was playing; a bleach blond heroine, clad in what must have been the slinkiest dress ever created, was sobbing melodramatically into her lover's perfectly chiseled, shirtless chest. Did people really watch this crap?

Before I could change the channel, though, I found myself staring at the man on screen. Was I attracted to him? He was, undoubtedly, a good-looking guy -- but he did nothing for me.

So why was it that the sight of Mark did everything for me?

Sighing in frustration, I switched my attention to the woman. I had to find someone in the pair attractive, right? And if I wasn't gay, then it would have to be the girl. But... she didn't suit my fancy, either. She was trying way too hard to look good, and it had backfired so that she came across as a trashy, attention-starved vixen.

What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn't turned on by a guy or a girl! Was I just Mark-sexual or something? No, my head protested angrily, you're Mimi-sexual. Okay? You love Mimi. Period. End of story. No Mark in there, anywhere!

As if on cue, the filmmaker came out of the kitchen and collapsed beside me on the couch, resting his head right below my navel. Oh God. Don't think about it, don't think about it...

“Let me get you a pillow,” I said quickly. “I'm sure it'd be more comfortable than my lap.”

He shifted his head -- shit, did he have to do that? -- so that he was looking up at me. “That's okay. Your lap's fine.”

“I -- I, uh...” I swallowed hard and let my head drop back against the sofa. He was so close... so close, and I couldn't help but think how much I wanted him to --

No! I stood up abruptly, nearly throwing Mark off me in the process. “Hey, I'm sorry, I just remembered I've gotta... go somewhere...” With no further explanation, I escaped to the front door, tumbling down the staircase and outside. My legs carried me down the street toward some unknown destination, faster and faster until I wasn't sure the rest of my body could keep up anymore.

My strength finally gave out as I reached 14th Street, and I dropped to the cement beside the subway station entrance. A man walked by, clad in a thick windbreaker despite the relative warmth of the June morning. His head was almost shrouded by the oversized hood, but somehow our eyes found each other, locked for a moment in silent communication. He averted his gaze, nodding subtly toward a nearby alley.

I stood slowly and busied myself with retying my shoelaces before I casually joined him there. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, amused.

He thought I came looking for him on purpose. He thought it was my fault that I ended up right next to one of his usual haunts. He thought it was inevitable that I'd come crawling back, that I was devoid of willpower, guts, spine.

“I thought I'd lost you for good. Guess you couldn't stay away, huh?” God, I hadn't remembered hating his voice so much. It was throaty and low, soothing... controlled and quietly persuasive. He could convince a nun to join a whorehouse with a voice like that. Tempting... so goddamn tempting...

I scowled and shuffled through my pocket for money. “Look, I just need to get my mind off-- why the hell am I explaining anything to you?”

“Just what I was gonna ask,” he snickered. “How much you need?”

“I... I only have...” I glanced up and saw him shift impatiently on the balls of his feet. Forcing an disinterested expression to my face, I offered a few crumpled bills. I couldn't let him think I was desperate. Hell, I wasn't desperate. I could turn and walk away at any moment if I wanted.

“You're gonna have to come up with more than that, cutie pie.”

The hair on my neck bristled at his nickname for me. “Don't fucking mess with me,” I growled angrily. “I don't have to be here, you know.”

“But you are.”

Damn him. “Do you want my money or not?”

He frowned slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You need a works, too? I'm guessing you got rid of yours when you quit...” I could heard the sarcasm as he uttered that last word. “And let's make this quick, okay? I'm doing you a favor, you know I don't usually deal in broad daylight.”

“Look,” I snapped. “This is all I've got. Just... give me what you can.”

The man snatched the money from my outward-thrust hand. His other hand emerged from a pocket, victoriously displaying a tiny plastic bag. Its contents included what looked like enough smack for one hit and everything I needed to shoot up. One thing I had to say for him: he took care of his clients. “Thanks,” I muttered.

What the fuck? Now I was thanking him? I had to get away from him, fast.

He was gone before my thoughts even finished processing. Made my job a little easier. I crept farther back into the dim alley, behind a dumpster where I was sure I wouldn't be seen. Then I set to work, my guitarist fingers deftly manipulating a lighter beneath the spoonful of melting white powder. Once I had a smooth liquid, I simultaneously filled the syringe and began searching for a vein. It only took a few seconds; I'd always had naturally prominent veins. April used to tell me they were “made for heroin.”

A vague fluttering filled my stomach. The day after April died was the last time I had shot up. Two years ago -- two years I'd been clean, and I was about to throw that away. I hesitated just before inserting the needle. The rational part of my mind whispered that this wasn't a solution, but it was blotted out by an image of Mark's face and a burning, aching fear in my heart.

I had no choice. Heroin offered the only solace I knew, I had ever known. It was like an old friend, come to keep me safe, to rescue me from pain and worry and fear and life. It had never let me down before and I knew it wouldn't now.

I thrust the sharp metal tip into my skin and pressed down on the plunger. Immediately a warm, fluid sensation filled my arm, coursing up to my head and down to my toes. This was better. This was much better. Leaning back against the wall, I closed my eyes and let the heroin work its magic.