Mark stood firm, a trail of smoke risingswirlingdisolving from his cigarrette into the air. Roger's eyes couldn't help but follow the thing ribbon of dusky white. The question lingered, unanswered, much like the smoke. His head shook enthusiastically, a larger-scale replication of his seemingly eternal trembling.

Without responding, Roger tread purposefully towards their room, intent only on losing himeslf in warmth. As he passed by his confused and slightly neurotic roommate, he made sure to whisk the money out of his hand and back into his possession.

He was relieved, this would keep him warm and away from the park for at least a few more days. Mark followed him, extinguishing his cigarrette and flopping to a seated position on his bed, head in hands. Roger set himself to work, retrieving a syringe from the glass next to his mattress, tapping just enough powder into a spoon, sparking a lighter and holding it underneath. Mark sat, staring in amazement. More amazed that he wasn't used to it yet than the actual sight, really.

Unable to watch with figures so sharp and harsh, Mark stalked over to Roger and took the lighter from him as soon as he had put it down to concentrate on filling his needle. He opened the small box on the crate by his bed and set up the small paper and green, ground leaves. He placed the herb in a careful organization, and grabbed a smaller bag of opium from inside the box. He meticulously laced one drug with the other and slowly rolled the paper into a tight cylinder, making sure both ends were secure.

Roger was just shooting the soft, warm, wonderful liquid into his veins as Mark lit his own vice. Soon, everthing was blurrybeautifuleasy for both of them, and they didn't worry. At least not about each other.

Mark stood slowly, giggling at his almostfall. He walked out of their contaminated room and to the kitchen, where he grabbed two beers before laying on the couch. It pained him to think about Roger, what Roger was doing to himself, why it would never work. And so he inhaled deeply again, the pain fading away just a little bit more with every breath. Opening one of the bottles, he gulped half of it down before pausing to inhale again. Only minutes later, Mark had finished both beers and his joint. He wound his way through mist and fog (probably just in his head, he realized with a chuckle) back to the refrigerator, where he could retrieve two more bottles of beer. He loved losing himself like this. The only drawback was the hypocrisy with which he was forced to face Roger.

"Stop doing this to yourself," he would plead. "At this rate, you're going to die before you hit twenty five," he would scream. He tried anything, everything to get Roger to stop. That was in the beginning, immediately after he had discovered his roommate's addiction. After months of getting nowhere, he had reserved himself to a disappointed glance every once in a while, or a quiet "You're killing yourself." barely audible to either of them.

And half of Mark wanted Roger to stay the way he was. It was a terrible thought, he knew. But only on those rare nights when he was high would he crawl from his mattress to Mark's and into him. He would beg silently for comfort, understanding. And Mark would grant it to him, of course. He would hold Roger and stroke his hair and pretend that it was real. That Roger was aware of his own actions. That Roger wanted to be kissing him, touching him, making love to him. He could pretend that it was all real.

But he knew it wasn't. And if the drugs weren't killing him, that was.