Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT
Author's Note: Thanks for reading.
Connection – Chapter Eleven
When Roger woke up he was face down in crusty pile of vomit he wasn't sure was his own. The vague memory of the night before floated behind his eyes, becoming clearer by the minute as his vision unclouded. It had all been a mistake.
He was on his fourth band playing back up guitar for a washed-up replica of his future self who wrote punk ballads about heroin. It was not how he wanted to be remembered.
He normally lived in a loft with about twelve other people, each of them desperately wanting to fulfill one dream or another. He typically slept with a girl named April who called her mother every weekend and came to the city to write poetry. It had been a long time since Roger had seen anything as beautiful as April sitting on the window sill in the early morning with a cigarette and a notebook.
But Roger hadn't been home in a few days. He had sent a postcard to his parents (have a girlfriend and a band) and one to Mark at Brown ( out to destroy myself). He'd gone to his show, scored a hit from his dealer and gotten violently ill afterwards. The only remedy Roger knew for feeling terrible was heroin. He didn't realize until the moment he woke up now that heroin was probably what was making him sick.
Roger wasn't entirely sure he wanted Mark to receive that postcard. He figured leaving it as desperate sounding as possible was the best way to make Mark come save him without actually asking.
He stumbled more than once in the stairwell, praying to just find strength to drag himself up the rest so he could crash somewhere besides next to a dumpster. He wanted to see April again. April was soft and smelled nice and would read him her poetry while he strummed his guitar out of habit. She shared her cigarettes and her body and laughed louder than anyone he'd ever met. She wasn't the nicest girl ever, but he was convinced she was the prettiest.
The first time he saw her she looked up from her notebook with a cigarette between two fingers and a blush creeped across her pale cheeks. She smiled in a secretive girlish way and waited for him to make the first move. He told her he loved her before they even kissed.
But at the moment, April was pressing another man into the couch, her hand in his pants and her lips locked against his. Roger expected to feel something besides the floor when he fell to his knees. He didn't expect April to look over at him and smile before returning to Benny as if nothing had happened.
His anger flared sharply, but Roger was too tired and sick to act on it. Of course he had no claim on April. He had assumed a relationship because they'd slept together more than once. He should have asked her to be his girlfriend when he had the chance. But maybe she'd never expected that anyway.
And of course Benny didn't know that April was Roger's somewhat girlfriend. He'd only moved in the day before Roger left. The blame bounced among the three of them, leaving Roger uncertain of where to place it. All he knew at the moment was that he needed to throw up again.
Out to destroy myself.
Mark had probably never been more angry with Roger than at the moment he found the postcard, but it was the last push he needed to pack up a bag the day before finals and just leave for the city to search for the address Roger had left in addition to his message.
The first thing that seemed out of place about Roger's new home was the ambulance in front of the building. It was a good sized building, it was entirely possible that ambulance was for someone else, but it didn't stop Mark from breaking into a run and pushing his way over to the door of the building in time to see the stretcher being carried out. He started to collapse right there, despite the cop grabbing his arm and pulling him back up and away.
Of course Mark knew it was entirely possible that wasn't Roger. It could have been anyone. It didn't have to be him. The cop steadied him, leaning him against the wall.
"Who is it?" Mark begged him. "Who died?"
A man was yelling, crying and screaming and being restrained near the door, trying to reach the stretcher being loaded onto the ambulance. Mark pushed past the officer and dropped his bag to hurry over to Roger, who broke away violently when he saw Mark. Roger grabbed tight, pressing his face into Mark's neck.
"She's dead," he moaned. "She's dead."
Mark held him, gripping Roger just as tightly and slowly back tracking to pick up his bag before leading Roger past the scene and back into the building.
"You need to calm down." Mark told him, stepping over a man sleeping on the floor to lay Roger down on the couch.
Roger closed his eyes, knitting his brow and wrapped his arms around himself.
"I fucked up." He said as Mark knelt beside him and reached out to touch his hair.
"Yeah, you did. But you're gonna fix it now, Rog. It's gonna be okay." Mark pressed a kiss to Roger's hairline, tasting the sweat running down his forehead.
"I'm sick." Roger said. "From the drugs."
"You won't be soon. It's gonna be hard but…"
"No," Roger opened his eyes and sniffed, pushing Mark's arm away and angrily wiping at his face. "I'm sick." He reached into his pocket and shoved a crumpled piece of paper at Mark.
