The gig had ended and Roger and his band mates had gone back to the motel to relax, before going to sleep themselves, since they were getting up early the next morning to return to the city. The band mates were all talking with each other, the TV on low, and Roger sat in a corner chair staring out the window, at the busy streets, and night scene, missing Mark. Mark had offered Roger a shirt of his or something to take with him, but Roger didn't want to seem childish, and he hadn't yet come out to his band mates. He needed something to calm him down, to forget the numbness he felt as he missed mark. He reached into his suitcase and grabbed a needle, filled with the all too familiar substance. Quickly without a second thought, he injected the heroin into his veins, waiting to feel the after effects. His other band mates were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice what he'd done, though Roger secretly stashed the needle and supplies back into his suitcase, gingerly holding his arm, his thoughts now centered around regret. With the feeling of regret overpowering the desire for the effect, Roger silently climbed into bed, yanking the covers over his head, wanting the last few moments to just disappear.
Arriving back at the loft, Roger silently crept into the living room, hanging up his coat and tugging on an oversized sweatshirt he'd slung over a chair before he left the previous evening. He walked into the bedroom and smiled at the sight of Mark still in a slumber, wrapped up in the sheets, a faint smile and blush on his cheeks and lips, obviously dreaming of Roger. Sighing, Roger slumped into a chair, watching the filmmaker sleep, a grin on his face, and his eyes sparkling under his tussled hair. The filmmaker rolled over and opened his eyes slowly, surprised to see the guitarist sitting there smiling at him.
"I thought you weren't coming back till later", Mark wondered groggily.
"I wanted to come back sooner", Roger answered, smiling.
"Mmmm….", Mark nodded in agreement. "Come join me?"
Roger rose from his chair and climbed into the king size bed beside Mark, holding the filmmaker close to him, nuzzling his hair into Mark's neck.
"…Missed you", Roger murmured, happy to be with Mark again, instead of with his band mates, who didn't seem to understand him.
"Missed you too, Rog…", Mark responded, moving closer to Roger.
In reaching to hold Roger closer, Mark realized that Roger was wearing a heavy sweatshirt, and he couldn't fathom why, considering the heat in the loft was working, and there was no need for extra layers.
"Rog…your sweatshirt….", Mark commented, as he turned to face Roger, so he could see his face, and to just feel closer to him.
"Oh…..yeah…..", Roger sighed, with furrowed brow, his hopes dashed of Mark not noticing his extra layers. Reluctantly, Roger took off his sweatshirt and threw it on the floor, then turning back to hold one of Mark's hands in his, using the other hand to stroke the side of the filmmaker's face. Roger leaned in closer to Mark and pressed his lips to Mark's in a light kiss, desire suddenly flowing through him. The filmmaker kissed the guitarist back, harder, and began exploring his face and upper body with his fingertips.
Grinning, the filmmaker left a light trail of strokes and kisses down the guitarist's collarbone, as the guitarist threw his head back, fixating on the exquisite sensations. Given Roger's reaction, Mark knew the perfect place to stroke, the inside of Roger's forearms and triceps. Obtaining the reeling reaction desired, from the left arm, Mark moved to Roger's right arm, trailing up and down his forearms, and triceps, when he saw the dot.
"Rog…..what's this?", Mark asked Roger quizzically, his face full of concern.
"Huh?", Roger snapped his eyes open and back to reality in an instant.
"This dot on your arm….what the….?", Mark continued, worried.
"I……I….", Roger started to explain.
"You….?…", Mark encouraged him to continue his statement.
"……You didn't!", Mark realized – shocked and angry.
"I was weak!", Roger cried, crushed with the realization of the defeat of his actions.
"I thought you were stronger than that….I thought we were stronger than that", Mark replied, eyes downcast, unable to look up at Roger.
"….I just needed….to escape for a while….to get away…..the group doesn't understand…and I can't tell them right now….they all want me to go after the fangirls….but really I want you….my fanboi….but they just wouldn't…..wouldn't get it….", Roger stammered, his voice trailing off….and the tears starting to come forth.
"Rog….you've been clean for almost 3 months….why would you….?", Mark asked, hoping to get some answers.
"I wanted the after effects…at first…..but I really wanted you….you're my antidrug….but you weren't there…you couldn't be…the guys….they wouldn't….", Roger cried, his head in his hands.
Mark slowly put his arm around Roger, pulling the sobbing guitarist towards him, attempting to brush some of the fallen bangs from his face.
"I…..need help….I need…..need you to help me…..I can't collapse like this again…..", Roger continued, sobbing even harder.
Mark wasn't sure what was harder for Roger, admitting he needed help, or asking for it. Mark montioned towards the cordless phone on the night table, and Roger nodded.
"I'll call….I hate the fall….I'm just a model prisoner….to the drug….it caught me again…because I let it….stupid….so stupid….", Roger spoke, the tears momentarily stopping, as if almost in a trance, while attempting to dial the number for the local rehab facility. His hands and voice were shaking so much that the phone fell from his hands with a soft clunk on the mattress. Even the inability to keep himself steady for a phone call, made Roger begin to cry again, harder, falling into Mark, bringing the filmmaker to the mattress in defeat. Mark silently placed the phone on the cradle and moved to wrap his arms around Roger, soothing him softly, arms stroking everywhere, soothing, kissing, nurturing, except the one spot on his right arm. Mark couldn't touch there; he couldn't even look at it. He would always be there for Roger, he loved him, but some things were harder to bear than others.
"You'll call when you're ready…", Mark soothed, stroking Roger's face.
"….But Collins….", Roger's voice trailed off, running out of energy to continue – even speaking.
"Collins doesn't have to know…but he does care about you, even if he can be an ass sometimes….", Mark responded.
Roger laughed softly. will be Collins….".
"We're all here to help you…and I'm not leaving you…no matter how hard you push me away….even when you experience withdrawal. Remember the first few days, the last time?", Mark asked Roger, turning to face him, looking deep into the guitarist's now cloudy eyes.
Roger shuddered and winced, the realization of what he'd done, and the effects it had on Mark, and the effects of withdrawal soon to come to his body. "Unfortunately…", his voice trailing off once again.
Though the clock flashed noon, Mark looked over at Roger and saw how drained he was, how the event of last night had taken such a toll on him.
"Let's get some sleep…", Mark suggested, knowing Roger wouldn't protest.
"…Ok….", Roger answered weakly, leaning into the filmmaker, and looking to Mark for support, with everything he had. There was no way he could go through this alone.