RENT: Step Thirteen
Sep. 14th, 2006 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: Step Thirteen
Characters/Pairing: Roger, Mark
Word Count: 645
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger's gone through the twelve steps, and all he wants is to go home... but somehow that's the hardest part.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
speed_rent challenge #230. Purgatory-verse.
Disclaimer: I don't ownemotion Rent.
Roger rubbed at his arms, pacing back and forth, his eyes fixed on the bare tiled floor. They wouldn't let him go unless someone came to pick him up, some stupid rule he hadn't bothered to debate, didn't have the energy to try. But fuck, Mark was late, was supposed to be here an hour ago, and he was going to lose his mind if he had to stay in this place for five minutes longer, this clinically cold place with its white tile floors and impersonal calming prints of landscapes on the walls in the hallways and oppressive silence. After over a month here, if he had to stay here for five more minutes he was going to scream, pick up a chair and hurl it against a wall, just collapse in the corner and completely break down...
He stopped pacing by the bed, and all but fell back onto it, his legs buckling underneath him. Fucking clinic, fucking doctors, fucking twelve steps. The withdrawal was over, the pain and shaking and retching and the rest of it, but just being here somehow made it worse, sitting in their damn circle talking about why he was here, addiction, losing April... All of it just made him want to stick a needle in his vein that much more, get it all out of his head for a few hours. It turned into a constant litany in his mind: Where are you Mark, get me out, hurry up and get here, get me out, get me out, get me out, get me out, get me OUT!
"Roger?" a woman called softly, poking her head in the door – one of the women who worked here, whose name Roger couldn't remember and didn't really care about. He jerked his head up with a start, forcing himself to stop rubbing his arm and making it so obvious he wanted a hit. "Your friend is here."
Roger jumped to his feet immediately and lurched for the door. He didn't even have any things to take with him, hadn't brought any personal items in the first place after Mark had finally talked him into coming, had spent most of his time here staring blankly at the wall or ceiling, or curled up on his bed trying to cry quietly enough that no one could hear him. He was out in the hallway for a second, several strides ahead of the woman, and stopped dead when he reached the lobby and spotted Mark, standing there by the front desk looking small and nervous and uncertain, twisting the ends of his scarf in his hands.
Mark looked up when Roger came through the doorway, a tentative smile on his face. Roger quelled his first impulse, to rush up to Mark and cling to him desperately, and just walked up to him slowly, calmly, his expression distanced and withdrawn. Mark's smile faded immediately. "Took you long enough," he said, a rough edge to his voice that he didn't mean but came out anyway. "Can we go now?"
Mark looked like the shy kid Roger had first met in high school, completely unsure of what to do, completely taken aback by the roughness he'd never heard from Roger before in his life, not directed at him, but he simply nodded abruptly, flashed a tense smile at the receptionist behind the desk, and put a hand on Roger's back to walk with him toward the door. "Yeah, we can."
Roger shrugged off his hand automatically, though some part of him was desperate for contact of any kind, he just couldn't... They walked out through the front doors, Roger a little ahead of Mark, headed back home – and Roger frowned as the word entered his mind, because somehow after all of this he couldn't see the loft ever being home to him again.
Characters/Pairing: Roger, Mark
Word Count: 645
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger's gone through the twelve steps, and all he wants is to go home... but somehow that's the hardest part.
Notes: Written for
speed_rent challenge #230. Purgatory-verse.Disclaimer: I don't own
Roger rubbed at his arms, pacing back and forth, his eyes fixed on the bare tiled floor. They wouldn't let him go unless someone came to pick him up, some stupid rule he hadn't bothered to debate, didn't have the energy to try. But fuck, Mark was late, was supposed to be here an hour ago, and he was going to lose his mind if he had to stay in this place for five minutes longer, this clinically cold place with its white tile floors and impersonal calming prints of landscapes on the walls in the hallways and oppressive silence. After over a month here, if he had to stay here for five more minutes he was going to scream, pick up a chair and hurl it against a wall, just collapse in the corner and completely break down...
He stopped pacing by the bed, and all but fell back onto it, his legs buckling underneath him. Fucking clinic, fucking doctors, fucking twelve steps. The withdrawal was over, the pain and shaking and retching and the rest of it, but just being here somehow made it worse, sitting in their damn circle talking about why he was here, addiction, losing April... All of it just made him want to stick a needle in his vein that much more, get it all out of his head for a few hours. It turned into a constant litany in his mind: Where are you Mark, get me out, hurry up and get here, get me out, get me out, get me out, get me out, get me OUT!
"Roger?" a woman called softly, poking her head in the door – one of the women who worked here, whose name Roger couldn't remember and didn't really care about. He jerked his head up with a start, forcing himself to stop rubbing his arm and making it so obvious he wanted a hit. "Your friend is here."
Roger jumped to his feet immediately and lurched for the door. He didn't even have any things to take with him, hadn't brought any personal items in the first place after Mark had finally talked him into coming, had spent most of his time here staring blankly at the wall or ceiling, or curled up on his bed trying to cry quietly enough that no one could hear him. He was out in the hallway for a second, several strides ahead of the woman, and stopped dead when he reached the lobby and spotted Mark, standing there by the front desk looking small and nervous and uncertain, twisting the ends of his scarf in his hands.
Mark looked up when Roger came through the doorway, a tentative smile on his face. Roger quelled his first impulse, to rush up to Mark and cling to him desperately, and just walked up to him slowly, calmly, his expression distanced and withdrawn. Mark's smile faded immediately. "Took you long enough," he said, a rough edge to his voice that he didn't mean but came out anyway. "Can we go now?"
Mark looked like the shy kid Roger had first met in high school, completely unsure of what to do, completely taken aback by the roughness he'd never heard from Roger before in his life, not directed at him, but he simply nodded abruptly, flashed a tense smile at the receptionist behind the desk, and put a hand on Roger's back to walk with him toward the door. "Yeah, we can."
Roger shrugged off his hand automatically, though some part of him was desperate for contact of any kind, he just couldn't... They walked out through the front doors, Roger a little ahead of Mark, headed back home – and Roger frowned as the word entered his mind, because somehow after all of this he couldn't see the loft ever being home to him again.