Mark POV:

Food. He went out to get food. Sure.

I pace around the sparse living room, pausing only slightly to glance out the window, for the millionth time today, onto the empty alleyway below. Still no sign of Roger. It's been three weeks since I found him with... whoever that guy was… And he hasn't come home since. Without any note (except for the false "Went to get food. I'll be back in a few hours." note) or phone call, I have no way of knowing where he is or who he's with so I'm left to my imagination to supply the information that Roger neglected to tell me, and the images running through my mind at this particular moment are not pretty. I can only imagine what could've happened to him. There are the usual thoughts of an overdose and alcohol poisoning running through my mind, but I try to push away the paranoid and overdramatic thinking in favor of the more logical (but not any better) – What if he left? For good? What if Roger's never planning on coming back?

I haven't gotten any sleep since "that night". And it's not just because I'm worried about Roger and what may have become of him. No, the thing that's keeping me awake lately is my lack of worrying. Things have changed between us. We're not best friends anymore… we're hardly even friends. And I'm getting pretty damn sick and tired of cleaning up his messes, of constantly saving him and taking care of him. I have a life too! But it seems lately that my only life consists of making sure Roger doesn't dig himself in a hole too deep to get out of.

The past few weeks have, in a way, been such a relief to me – I don't have to tiptoe around my own home in fear that he may be drunk (he has a violent temper when he's wasted), no more waiting up all night to take care of him and shower him and tuck him into bed when he comes home stoned and not able to stand up on his own, I can have my own life. But I'm angry, still, because even in his absence Roger takes up all my time and thoughts.

When will it ever end??

I sigh and perch on the armchair that I've turned to face the dusty window, so that I can see the streets, and Roger, more clearly if he ever decides he wants to come back to his old life.

Of course, I went out searching for him the second I realized that he wasn't planning on coming right home. I checked the bars, clubs… anywhere I'd imagine Roger would go. But he never told me in the past where he spent all those nights out of the loft. He never tells me anything anymore, and so I had no idea even where to begin searching.

Suddenly something in the alley below the window catches my eye and I sit upright quickly, knocking the chair over in the process, and my eyes grow wide when I see just what this something is.

It's Roger. With torn and blood stained clothing, his body bruised almost beyond recognition.

Roger POV:

"Come on, Baby, he'll never have to know…"

"We can't. I can't. I'm sorry," I murmur, trying to pull away from April's firm but soft grasp on me and from the seductive charm that has me under its spell.

"He cheats on you, you know." Another flirtatious smile. A gentle stroke on my forearm.

Closing my eyes, I nod slightly and try to think thoughts of Steve. Steve and no one else. No April in there anywhere. Yes, I've kissed her before, and yes, I've had… thoughts about her before. But this is different because it isn't just lust, it isn't just the physical attraction anymore. This is something real, something that if I decided to pursue would make me an awful person, a cheater... like my father. Like Steve.

"I know. But I'm better than him… I'm not a cheater."

This causes a slight pause in her careful game of seduction. But like a snake charmer, she catches herself quickly and looks into my gaze with those emerald green eyes that lure me in like a moth to the fire.

"You wouldn't be a cheater exactly, considering he cheats on you with every other woman he sees. And me. Anyway, who ever said the relationship was exclusive?"

This last statement, I have to admit, catches me a little off guard and I pause for a second to consider her logic.

"Well, no, we never decided we were exclusive, but…"

Before I even get a chance to finish my sentence April is on top of me, her soft, curvy body resting on top of my own in lust; her delicate, soft lips covering my own rough ones. The sensation is incredible… I've never felt this with anyone before. Certainly not with Steve – he's always rough. Never gentle, never slow, never caring. Laura, the girl I was with before I met Steve, was all gentle, always slow, too caring. There was no passion at all. But April… April is a heady combination of both, and as she deepens the kiss all thoughts of Steve and Laura and Mark drift from my mind as though they'd never existed in the first place.

After what seems like lifetimes, a small portion of my mind finally gets through to me and Steve once again becomes the predominant issue in my life, and in this new – relationship? fling? affair? – with April. I pull away quickly, startling both myself and her. Panting, I try to drown out the screaming in my mind… "Cheater, cheater, cheater!"

"Rog?"

A delicate, pale hand rests gently on top of my own and, without even thinking about it, I turn my palm over and run my rough, calloused fingertips against the smooth skin of hers, twining our fingers together.

"I'm sorry… I just-"

"I understand. It's okay."

But from the expression on her face – the lips pulled slightly down on each side of her face, the eyes that only a few minutes ago had burned with life and passion and desire now looked like two empty voids – I could tell that it wasn't. She begins to stand up, to turn away from me, but I grab her around the waist, sending her toppling down nearly on top of me. Almost against her will, she giggles.

"What was that for?"

My only response is a firm kiss on the lips. Cheater or no cheater, I can't stand to see that look on April's face – especially knowing that I'm the cause behind it. The kiss instantly deepens and I run my hands through thick tendrils of tangled red hair, she stroking the dirty mop of cheap dye my hair has become. When we finally break apart she looks up at me, still sitting on my lap, with an expression I don't think I've ever seen on her before. Fear? Worry?

"So what happens now?"

Good question. What does happen now? I still love Steve…don't I? I quickly shake my head clear. Stupid, stupid question. Of course I do! But I love April too.

"You okay there, Rog?" She quirks a tiny smile at me and I grin.

"Yeah. Must've zoned out for a second."

Suddenly the sound of boots stamping up the concrete steps of the building resound throughout April's apartment and we break apart quickly, she scampering into the kitchen to pour herself a drink, I jumping up quickly to sit casually on April's overstuffed couch, my feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Not a second later, the door opens slowly and in walks Steve, two tiny Ziploc bags in hand. Lately he's taken to bringing us "presents". Mostly heroin, but sometimes he'll throw in some X or Speed, too. Yes, dating a dealer is a blessing.

He tosses me the bag and immediately walks over to April where he engulfs her in a hug and starts pecking kisses across her face and neck. I roll my eyes at the sight, for some reason feeling more anger than jealousy – anger perhaps at the way he treats her? of the way he treats me? – and try to ignore it while I begin the all too familiar search for a vein. But I just can't tear me eyes away from the image of Steve and April, as he backs her up against the wall, obviously against her will. Sometimes I wonder how he can do this sort of thing right in front of me. Me: his boyfriend. And the same goes for April. I've seen April when Steve and I are together, and the girl is obviously pained to see us like that. Whether she's jealous of Steve or of me is anyone's guess, but the point is, you don't go around kissing (and often times more) people right in front of your date.

Finally, I manage to look away from them and I focus my attention once again on finding a vein. Lately, this has become harder and harder. There are numerous collapsed veins in both of my arms… sometimes I have to resort to my legs or the bottom of my feet to inject the drug into my body. I don't consider myself a junkie, but sometimes I do think I should cut down a little bit. A lot of times, at first, I only do it because either Steve or April is doing it and I don't want to be left out, but lately I've noticed that if I go without it for too long I begin to feel a bit sick. Nothing too bad, though. Nothing like I'm sure withdrawal must be like. April's been a junkie before but in recent years has gotten clean, and she told me all about it: How to use safely without becoming a junkie, how to avoid withdrawal sickness, how to make even the smallest stash last for a long time, how to shoot up so it hits you in just the right way.

I glance down at my arms again and finally spot a clear area just below my elbow. April's arms are worse than mine. I worry about her more than I do myself because of her past, and I've tried to get her to cut back a little but she just gets so sick… A lot of times I do think that she's a junkie, and that's what keeps me at ease about myself. April is, and always has been, much worse than I will ever be.

The noises from behind me are getting louder and more fervent so I gather my things (a needle, lighter, a charred spoon, and my "gift" from Steve) and head off into April's room, slamming the door shut behind me. I want to hit him sometimes. I want to hurt her sometimes… Why do they have to do stuff like that in front of me, when they both know full well that I like them both?

I can feel the heroin begin to take over my body – my head is spinning and my limbs are becoming numb, so I lie down on April's queen-sized bed, trying to shut off the images and thoughts racing through my drug-hazed mind.

In all the time that I've been staying with her, I've never been in April's room. As much as I want to get up and look around, learn more about this mysterious redheaded girl, I can't because I seem to be trapped on the bed by some force…some sort of gravitational pull.

Suddenly the realization that this must be a bad batch invades my mind and I groan, wishing that Mark were here for the first time since I've left him. It's not that I wanted to leave… I just couldn't stand the thought of facing him after he caught me with Steve that night. I'm not gay, contrary to what my friends and Steve think. I like girls… Steve is really the only guy I've ever wanted to be with. And most of the times I've really wanted him I've been in a drug-induced fog. I would have slept with Mark, had I been given the chance.

The lights exploding before my eyes fascinate me, and I don't even realize when April walks into the room, hair tousled and clothing ruffled.

"Rog?" she whispers, climbing into bed with me.

When I don't answer (still mesmerized by the starbursts and rainbows, then the blackness) she pokes my side and says my name a little stronger.

"Roger. What's wrong?"

"Mmm…"

Suddenly her voice changes, the concern etched across her face quickly dissipating to understanding. "You're on a bad trip aren't you?"

When only silence greets her, April scoops me up (the best she can, considering I'm almost twice her size and practically dead weight in her arms) and drags me into the bathroom with her, leaning me against the toilet, urging me to throw up.

"Come on… just puke, you'll feel better. You have to get it out of you, just throw up!"

After about ten minutes she finally sighs and, scowling, says, "Ooh Roger, you're going to pay for this…" and sticks her fingers down my throat.

Fifteen minutes pass, a half hour, forty-five minutes, and I'm still in the bathroom, sweating, and leaning against April for support. She's pressing a moist towel to my forehead and stroking my cheek lovingly. Finally my head begins to clear. The pounding stops, the lights stop exploding and imploding, the waves stop crashing and bending and breaking, and twisting.

I look at April with a clear head and ask, in awe, "Did you really just make me puke?"

She shrugs helplessly, turning her palms outward and up, and gives a hint of her radiant, vibrant smile.

"Well, you would have died!"

I chuckle. "I think that's being a bit overdramatic, don't you?"

This time when I look up at April she isn't smiling, and she doesn't look amused.

"No, I've had friends who've died like that. It… I-I just didn't want to see that happen to you, too."

I don't know what to say. For the first time in my life, I'm speechless. Her hand is still resting softly on my cheek, gently caressing the moist skin. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them I stare directly into hers, feeling like I'm looking into her heart, her soul. And suddenly I don't care about Steve. I don't care about Laura, I don't care about anything except April and this moment. I reach my hand out and cup her chin in my palm, pulling her face towards my own until our lips meet in an almost frenzied kiss.

The moment is so wonderful, so beautiful and pure and amazing that neither of us realize that Steve is still in the apartment. We don't hear the loud clomping of footsteps or the sound of the bathroom door being pulled open. In fact, it is only when April is pulled away from me violently that I realize Steve is even here at all.

He's holding her tightly by the long tendrils of her stunningly red hair, pulling roughly and yanking her, even though she is already a safe distance away from me. I cringe at the words coming out of his mouth, at the names and phrases that I don't care to repeat. But I don't make a move to stop him until he grabs her roughly by the shoulders and smacks her, hard, against the cheek.

"Hey!"

I finally pull out of my stupor, standing swiftly (though unsteadily, due to the small amount of bad heroin still in my system) and free April from his firm grip, screaming instructions at her, telling her to get the hell out of the apartment. She looks hesitant at first, but after a second she realizes that there is nothing she can do and flees as fast as she can.

Steve is glaring at me, dark, cold rage burning in those ice blue eyes of his. The eyes that at first had seemed so warm and comforting now scream "danger", and, as if hypnotized by them, I can't seem to pull away.

After a moment or so he grabs me by the shoulders, as he had done to April a few minutes ago, and shoves me up against the wall, hard. As my body makes contact with the hard concrete tiling I give a slight "oof" as the air is forcefully knocked out of my lungs.

He's hitting me. Hard punches, coming faster now as his rage is fueled by my resistance, but I can't seem free myself from his rough, bruising, grip. Maybe it's because of the heroin still lurking in my body, or it could be just from the shock of it all… But for whatever reason, I am unable to pull away as he continues to take out his anger on my body.

And then suddenly it stops. For a moment I dare to raise my eyes to meet his again, and as I do I notice something that I hadn't before. His pupils are dilated, the white surrounding the icy blue is almost completely red… He's stoned. And drunk too, from the looks of it.

Shit, I think as I brace myself for the next punch, shit, shit, shit.

But the next punch never comes. Neither does the next kick, or smack, or name call. Instead he reaches down to his belt, and I watch, feeling sicker by the second, as it falls to the floor. Along with his pants, his shirt, boxers, and the unopened pack of condoms in his pocket…