Warnings: swearing, use of derogatory terms for homosexuals

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing.

Roger decided to give up drugs after a spectacular rant in which the misplaced rage he usually attempted to siphon off on possessions was directed towards me.

He was not particularly creative. He called me a "fucking queer" so many times, even he sensed that the repetition was too much. Roger's a good person, though, and even as angry, hurt and drug-crazed as he was, goodness won out. Roger called me queer-- quite a few times, in fact-- but never the more offensive "fag". He got creative with the word fuck-- fuckwad, fucking fuckbag, things like that.

He also either temporarily went colorblind or consciously steered clear of the racial slurs.

"You fucking took it! You're the only one who would be that fucking inconsiderate! Where is it?"

After a while he left the loft. That was when Mark told me, "I'm… I'm sorry."

"What for?" As if I didn't know.

"I took it. Roger's stash."

You? Scrawny little not-enough-mettle-to-fill-a-thimble boy from the suburbs? "Why?" I asked.

"Because…" Mark sighed. "We shouldn't have to live like this." He was quiet so long I returned to my book. "You know, there's… there's no reason we can't evict Roger," Mark said. I looked at him, unable to believe that he would even suggest that. The look obviously said enough, because Mark backed down. "Why, though?" he asked me.

"Because--" and this is the defining point of my relationship with Roger, with anyone, the defining purpose of my life "--you don't just give up on someone, Mark." Charles Darwin was certainly a pioneer of the life sciences, nothing short of a genius, but his theories could not be applied to politics. Nature simply is. People feel. People know better.

"He's a junkie--"

"He's in pain. You would be, too. You think Roger is any different from Maureen?" I asked, perhaps more sharply than I had intended to. Mark sought an answer, but there was none to be found.

I decided then that Roger had moped long enough. When he returned, he headed straight for his bedroom. I followed.

Roger was on the floor. He had a needle on the floor beside a lit candle and an old spoon, and of course a small pile of glassine bags, three of them. He didn't see me enter. He was preoccupied, busy tightening a belt around his forearm.

"Roger." I settled myself opposite him. "Is there anything you'd like to say?"

He mumbled, "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Do you like yourself when you're like that, Roger?"

He shook his head.

"Naw. I don't like that part of you, either."

"It hurts," he muttered. "I just wanted a hit, that's all."

"And getting the drug mattered more to you than my feelings."

For the first time since returning to the loft, Roger looked at me. It was a brief glance, nothing more, but it was enough to tell me that Roger was ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"You say that, but you're still doin' this."

"The smack--"

"Makes you a person you're not. It makes you a person you don't like. And I think you need to take a moment to ask yourself, Roger, if you want to be that person or not. You can be happy again, but you have to want it."

I left him alone. I wanted Roger to choose the better path, but I knew better than to bully him into it. I went back out and sat down on the couch. My book was lying there waiting for me. Ever since I was a child, I've been able to disappear into books. Whatever bad thing was going on around me, written word could carry me away from it.

Roger dropped himself onto the couch. He stared until I lowered the book. "I can't do it alone," he said.

"I know, man."

"So?"

"So what?"

He laughed. It was the strangest timing, but he laughed. "So will you help me?"

I covered his hand with mine. "You know I will, Roger."

To be continued!

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