AN: This was written for prompt number 2 on the livejournal community RENTforBASTARDS. Hopefully you'll all enjoy it!
(those of you who read my other stories, I am sorry for the insane insane delay in my updating. I've been busy and/or lazy, and am leaving soon for Chicago and Wisconsin for about 4 days. Hopefully I'll update one of my stories before then. Please try and be patient with me! I'll try harder, I promise.)
Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson's.
This is my first time writing in Benny's POV, so I'd be interested to know how I did. :) Thanks for reading!
"Alright, the place is empty, sir," one of the large, gruff men says as he shoulders his way past me and into the hallway, forcing me to step out of his way.
"Thanks," I respond, straightening out my suit and brushing off the invisible dust, the gesture having become habit to me.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, indecision gluing me to the floor as I stare blankly into the loft, wondering if I ever actually lived here, or was it all a dream?
Some days it seems as if it were too good to be a dream. Some days I wish I could just go back and be who I was when I lived here…
Cold, starving, and constantly wondering where the next paycheck is going to come from, my sensible side reminds me, and I quickly straighten my back and turn to leave. I'm better off without them, anyway. I've achieved my dreams, I have everything I want… A wife, a job…
Money.
I stop walking and stare down at my dress shoes, the fine, polished surface of the expensive material gleaming up at me through the darkness.
They're right about me. I did buy into the corporations, the big, moneymaking businesses that are quickly ingraining themselves in American culture. I did sell out, give up my life with them, and for what?
For food, for shelter, for a chance to make something of myself…
To survive.
"Are you coming, sir?" the same man asks, holding the door to the stairwell open for me, a confused look twisting his rough features.
"I'll be down in a minute," I reply curtly, seeing him shrug and let the door fall shut, the sound echoing down after him as he trudges his way back to the street.
Mark and Roger and Collins… Those three would rather die than to give up their lives as bohemians. They would never betray themselves like I did. And what do they have to show for it? Happiness?
I exhale loudly, a smirk lighting my face as I turn back around to face the loft, knowing that it's true. They've come to terms with their lives, even if they aren't exactly content. I was never like that…
Why wasn't it enough for me, the way it is with them? What made it so Goddamn difficult for me to accept my life the way it was? What made me push myself until I was selling out, until my friends looked at me differently, until I couldn't recognize the person that I'd become?
Why am I different?
I walk into the loft, the soles of my shoes connecting sharply with the worn floor, creating a foreign sound that seems out of place in an old, run down building like this one. Expensive shoes on tired floors… Stepping on so many people to get to where I am today…
I stand in the doorway for a hesitant moment, my hand resting lightly on the thick, metal door.
What exactly did I give up to get to where I am today?
My eyes quickly scan the large common room, the living room where we all used to sit, each of us caught up in our own lives. We would shiver, our stomachs would growl, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because we were doing what we loved, and that was enough.
I look down, next to the door, and I smile when I see the large scuff mark on the floor, remembering the time Roger and I found the tattered, old couch that would soon become our prized piece of furniture. We had to drag it all the way up the stairwell…
"This is too fuckin' heavy. Go get Collins, man," I pant, leaning against the couch after successfully dragging it another floor. Roger turns around, his face damp with sweat as he glares down at me, his eyebrows furrowed stubbornly.
"We've got this," he insists, reaching back down to lift his end of the couch, a small grunt escaping his lips.
"No, seriously," I laugh, dropping my arms to my sides, "I'm doing all the fucking work. Go get Collins."
"Fuck you, let's go," Roger continues, ignoring me.
I grin as I lean against the couch, hearing the rocker above me swear under his breath before letting the couch fall back to the landing, a dull thud resonating through the rusty metal landing.
I cup my hands around my mouth and take a deep breath before yelling Collins' name, my voice echoing loudly up the stairwell.
"Hey! Collins! We need some help here!" I yell, chuckling as I catch a glimpse of Roger's annoyed face before he turns back around to lean against his side of the couch.
"Christ," he mumbles, rubbing lightly at his temples.
A few minutes pass in silence before the grating noise of the door to the loft sliding open is heard, and I grin as I lean over the railing to look up.
"Fuck! What do you want, Benny?" Collins yells down angrily, his voice sounding groggy.
"We found a couch and need to get it up to the loft!" I yell back, hearing a slight pause before Collins' deep laugh echoes down, and I hear Roger snort lightly behind me.
"You found a what?" he asks, still laughing.
"A couch!"
I chuckle and lean back over the railing when Collins' heavy footsteps are heard charging down the staircases, and I laugh outright when the anarchist comes into view, his eyes lighting up when he catches sight of the couch.
"You crazy sons of bitches," he marvels, running his hand over the tattered fabric, "Where the fuck did you get this?" he laughs, jumping over the back of the couch and lying down on it, his head resting lightly on the armrest.
"Come on, Collins," Roger murmurs, annoyed, "Let's just get it up to the loft."
Collins raises his eyebrows and looks down at me, but I just smirk and shake my head.
"What's put our very own rock star into such a foul mood?" he asks, his mouth quirking up into a smile.
"Roger's just pissed 'cause his skinny ass couldn't get the couch all the way up to the loft," I explain, seeing Roger turn around, a scowl on his face.
"Fuck you, it was you who wanted to ask for Collins' help," he states, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Yeah, but that's only because you almost fuckin' dropped the couch on me a few times!" I exclaim, seeing Roger clench his fist.
A quick, tense silence fills the air, Collins glancing at both of us before he stands up off of the couch, dusting off the back of his pants.
"Come on, boys," he says, smiling as he walks around to the back of the couch, "Say you're sorry and let's get this couch up to the loft." Collins leans against the back of the couch, and I see him fighting the urge to laugh, his mouth quirking into an amused smirk. "…Are you sure you've got your end, Roger?" he can't help but laugh, and I smile as Roger sighs.
"Asshole," he mutters, bending back down as we all get ready to lift the couch.
As soon as we got it halfway into the loft, Roger accidentally dropped it on the floor, claiming his fingers slipped, and creating a deep scratch in the wood of the floor.
"My fingers were sweaty!" he had yelled, angry as Collins and I only laughed and shook our heads, both of us knowing that he was just tired from carrying it and had dropped it.
Collins never passed up an opportunity to tease Roger about it.
Smiling, I step farther into the loft, eager to see what else I can find, what other memories I can dig up to remember.
So many things happened here…
I chuckle softly when I notice the dark, burnt spot on the ceiling above the stove, almost having forgotten the fiasco involving Mark's cooking…
"Mark…the hell are you doing?" I ask, stepping out of my bedroom at ten in the morning, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and finding to my surprise the faint smell of cooking wafting through the loft.
"Oh…I'm, um. I'm baking a cake," Mark explains, glaring at a white powdery spot on his glasses before taking them off and wiping them on his sweater. I choke on a laugh when he slides his glasses behind his ears again, wiping them off only having served to smear the powder around.
"You're…baking a cake," I restate, raising my eyebrows and giving him an uncertain look.
"Yeah, it should be done soon," he says, smirking at the confusion on my face.
"At ten in the morning," I continue suspiciously, wondering what exactly the filmmaker is up to.
"Yep." I watch as Mark walks back to check on the cake, cracking open the stove and coming back with a satisfied smile on his face.
"Mark. It's July and this place hotter than hell. And you're baking?" I ask incredulously, watching as Mark just rolls his eyes, apparently oblivious to how insane this is. "Why…?" I continue, moving to sit on one of the chairs that looks like it's about to break at any given moment.
"It's Roger's birthday," he explains, sitting on the chair opposite the one I've occupied.
"Oh. I didn't know. How old is he?" Mark gives me a strange look, and I shrug. "What?"
"I keep on forgetting you've only been here for a couple months…" he mumbles, shaking his head, "20, he's turning 20."
"Oh." I pause for a moment, before grinning up at Mark, "You didn't bake me a cake for my 20th birthday…" I point out, my grin widening when I see the filmmaker's eyes widen.
"Yeah, well… When you were turning 20 I was 18 and getting ready to drop out of college," he says quickly, rolling his eyes again.
"And how does this explain the fact that I didn't get a cake?" I continue, seeing Mark duck his head as he blushes slightly, "Anyway, do you even know how to bake a cake?"
I raise my eyebrows when Mark suddenly looks up at me, his lips quirked up into a smile.
"…Kind of…" he trails, and I snort softly before laughing, this whole situation suddenly becoming incredibly amusing.
"Oh my God…" I laugh, hearing Mark laugh softly underneath his breath as well, "You're fucking insane."
"What? I am not," he states petulantly, furrowing his eyebrows.
"Yeah, you are. Who fucking bakes a cake at ten in the morning for their best friend's 20th birthday?" I tease, watching as he scowls and crosses his arms over his stomach.
"Shut the hell up," he snaps, though I can tell he isn't really angry.
"Defensive?" I chuckle, and Mark smirks and opens his mouth to reply but we're interrupted by Collins as he opens the door to his room.
"Guys, what the hell is that smell?" he grumbles, and I look back to Mark in time to see his eyebrows shoot up before he looks over to the stove.
"Shit!" Mark exclaims, running over to the stove and opening it, quickly stepping back as thick, black smoke billows into the kitchen.
"Holy fuck!" Collins yells as I look on with some interest, watching as the smoke curls to the ceiling.
Collins quickly pulls down the plastic tarp that is usually hanging underneath the hole in the ceiling to keep the rain from falling into the loft, creating a way for the smoke to escape. Mark coughs roughly, lifting his t-shirt to press the cloth to his mouth as he makes his way back to me.
"What the fuck was in there?" Collins asks, coming to join us as we wait for the smoke to clear.
"A cake," I say simply, seeing Collins raise an eyebrow and glance from me to Mark, and then back.
"What the fuck kind of cake makes black smoke?" Collins muses, and I shrug and look to Mark, who just shakes his head disbelievingly.
"What the hell is going on out here?" Everyone turns around to see Roger walk slowly out of his room, squinting his eyes as he looks around the loft, obviously confused by the haze that is beginning to clear.
"Happy birthday, Roger," I say, standing up and moving to the stove, "Mark made you a cake."
Collins starts laughing loudly, the sound becoming contagious as Mark buries his head in his arms that are crossed over the table, his entire body shaking uncontrollably.
I start laughing too when I notice Roger's face, his eyebrows raised and making his eyes wide as he watches us laugh before turning around and walking back into his room.
"You guys are weird. I'm going back to bed," he mumbles before shutting the door lightly behind him.
Once the smoke had cleared, Mark found to his embarrassment that the amount of smoke created by his birthday cake had left a stain on the ceiling, one that, no matter how hard he tried, wouldn't come off. Roger had thanked him anyway, but I could still tell that it bugged the filmmaker that he wasn't able to get the mark off of the ceiling.
Of course, something like that would bug Mark, I realize, sliding my hands into my pockets as I continue my walk around the loft.
I stop in the middle of the living room, my eyes scanning the walls, noticing the old tape still clinging to the places where Roger had hung up his band posters. They're all torn down, now, used for heat or having been taken off by the movers.
Roger always used to talk about his band, how they were going to become huge, how he was going to be rich, famous. I can remember the shine in his eyes, the fevered frenzy he would talk himself into… But then again, we were all like that.
Young, adventurous. Willing to do whatever was necessary to stay true to the bohemian lifestyle.
"Mark, Collins, Benny!" Roger yells excitedly, and I look up from the newspaper to see him running through the loft to the kitchen, coming back into the living room with a roll of tape and a large piece of paper clutched in his fist.
"What's going on?" I ask, leaning forward on the couch and setting the newspaper aside. I watch as Roger tapes the paper onto the wall, both Mark and Collins coming to join us, confusion masked on all of our faces as the guitarist turns back around, his eyes gleaming brightly.
"Are you guys free tonight?" he asks, running a shaking hand through his short, bleach blond hair.
"Uh, yeah, sure Roger," Mark says, obviously surprised by Roger's enthusiasm.
"Why?" I ask, catching a small look exchanged between Mark and Roger before the rocker focuses once again on me.
"'Cause me and the guys got a gig down at Webster Hall. We're the opening act," he says hurriedly, the heavy, intense atmosphere leaving and being replaced by small laughs of surprise, Mark beaming at Roger, Collins moving to give the guitarist a hug.
"No shit!" Collins exclaims, laughing as Roger blushes slightly from the praise we give him.
"That's awesome, Rog," Mark says, embracing the rocker warmly.
"Congratulations, Roger," I say, standing up to shake his hand, "You've damn well earned it."
"We're opening for Fugazi," Roger continues, his smile wide enough to show all of his teeth as he turns to jab his finger into the poster he had hung up, "See? It says it right here, 'Opening Act will be performed by The Well Hungarians.'"
Roger pauses and takes a step away from the wall, his chest rising and falling quickly, his hair mussed up from nervous hands running through the gelled spikes again and again.
"Why such a short notice?" I ask, seeing Roger glance over to me.
"Oh, the first opening band said they couldn't make it, which is fuckin' weird 'cause it's fucking Fugazi, but whatever. Manager said we were conveniently free, but he's just a bastard and didn't want to admit that we were the next best choice," Roger rambles, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
"I've never heard of Fugazi," Mark pipes up, and Roger's eyes fall onto him, making the filmmaker wince.
"Fuck, Mark," is all Roger says, before grinning and shaking his head.
"They aren't that well known," I say, defending Mark a little bit, "They're more of an underground band. Sort of punk rock."
"You'll see," Roger grins, rubbing his hands together excitedly, "Show starts at 8, but the doors open at 6. You guys better be there!"
"Webster Hall?" Collins repeats, and Roger walks across the loft to grab his guitar.
"Yeah, it's on East 11th, not too far from here. Between 3rd and 4th. You'll find it." Roger pulls the door to the loft open, his guitar slung over his shoulder. "I'm going to practice. I'll catch up with you guys there!"
The door clangs shut, leaving the three of us gaping after the guitarist, wondering what exactly we were in store for later that night.
That night… That was the first night I discovered that Mark and Roger were more than roommates, more than best friends.
Yeah, I smirk, letting my head fall back, that was fucking weird.
The club we come to, Webster Hall, is a tall, flat building, lights flooding the sidewalk and entrance, inviting and open.
I walk next to Collins, watching the anarchist as he pulls out fifteen dollars to pay for our tickets. I'm surprised that the tickets are so cheap.
Mark stands nervously behind us, his fingers tapping lightly on the camera he lugs around with him everywhere.
"This oughta be interesting," Collins comments, and I nod my head in agreement.
"Yeah, Roger seemed real excited about it. It better be good," I laugh, scowling when Collins shoves me playfully.
"Quit whining, I paid for your ticket."
"And where'd you get the money?" Collins grins at my question, making me smile as well.
"You know, the city can be very charitable if asked in the correct manner," he smirks, and I shake my head and sigh.
"As long as you've got enough there for me to get suitably trashed, I could care less where you got the money from," I respond, following Collins up a flight of stairs once we get inside of the building.
"Oh, there's enough. But I think you should know that you'll be drinking little Susie's new pair of shoes," Collins continues, turning to take another flight of stairs.
"What? Okay, fuck you now I'm interested. Where'd you get the money?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Mark is still with us.
"Orphanage," he says, almost keeping a straight face when he turns around to see my horrified one, "I'm kidding! I took it from Tavern On The Green."
"That really nice restaurant in Central Park?" I ask, seeing him nod his head, "Nice."
Collins glances back at me and winks before pushing his way through the crowd of people waiting for the show to start at 8, aimlessly milling around and making small talk with one another.
"Come on, Mark," I say, reaching back to grab the smaller man by the arm and pulling him up to walk next to me, watching Mark as he glances around the club, taking in the sights and sounds.
I continue following Collins to the back of the hall, grinning when we come upon the bar.
"You been here before, Collins?" I ask, watching as he orders a drink and leans against the counter.
"Nope. I just heard the alcohol calling my name…" he trails, handing the bartender a five and nodding his head before turning back around to smirk at us.
"Dork," Mark mumbles, turning on his camera and pointing it towards Collins as the anarchist takes a swig from his drink.
"Aww, you're just sad 'cause you're too young to drink," Collins grins at the camera, before placing another five on the counter and ordering the same drink. "Don't worry, Mark. I'll buy ya a drink or two, but then you're gonna have to bum offa Benny. I gave him like thirty bucks. Don't let him use it all." Collins winks at Mark as he hands him the drink, and I roll my eyes.
"I'm not that dumb. Mark doesn't need to keep tabs on me," I grumble, earning a laugh and a slap on the back from Collins.
"Nah, man! I never said that," he chuckles, finishing his drink in one gulp, wincing slightly before ordering one more. "Alright. I'm off," he says, patting Mark on the shoulder as he makes his way towards the stage.
"Where you going?" I ask, turning around from the bar.
"Front row! I'm gonna embarrass the piss out of our rock star, make him wish he hadn't invited us!" Collins replies, his eyes shining wickedly before I lose sight of him in the crowd.
"Oh, man," I chuckle, taking the shot of liquor and wincing slightly, shaking my head, "I feel sorry for Roger."
Mark sighs and sits down on the stool next to me, having turned the camera off some time ago. I take the opportunity to look around the club, immediately noticing the disco ball hanging from the ceiling, and the strange objects that are somehow attached to the walls, different colored lights shining on them and giving the whole club a sort of alien look.
"You want a beer?" I ask Mark, watching as he turns his gaze to me, hesitating only a moment before nodding.
"Yeah, sure," he says before turning his attention back to the crowd of people that is quickly growing bigger. "Roger's band is onstage," Mark notices, and I turn back around to see Roger grinning at the crowd as he sidles his way up to the microphone, the entire room slowly realizing that the opening band is taking the stage.
"Here," I say, shoving the beer into Mark's hands and leaning back on the barstool, preparing myself for one hell of a night.
I pick off a piece of tape from the wall and roll it in between my thumb and forefinger, wondering what happened that night that made Mark and Roger so careless…
Assuming that they had been in a relationship before that night, of course.
Later that night:
I stumble away from the bar 2 shots and 4 beers later, rolling the phrase 'beer before liquor makes you sicker' around in my head, wondering what the fuck I did wrong as my stomach continues to remind me that a bathroom is necessary within the next few moments.
Roger's band did surprisingly well, and Collins didn't make a complete idiot out of himself among the front rows of screaming women, though at one point during the song Roger nearly lost it due to something that Collins must've shouted. The guitarist held it together, though I could tell he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.
Mark disappeared sometime after the opening act, probably to go film or whatever… He didn't even finish his first beer.
My stomach lurches at the thought of more beer, and I quickly stumble into the men's bathroom, practically falling over from shock when I notice the complete lack of lighting.
What the fuck is this?
Dark blue light bathes the walls, making it fucking impossible to see where the hell I'm going.
My head starts to spin as I feel my way around the bathroom, still trying to talk myself out of throwing up as my hand comes in contact with the edge of a porcelain sink.
I grip either side of the sink, not really caring where the hell I throw up so long as it isn't all over myself or the floor, when I hear some noise come from somewhere else in the bathroom.
Sweat drops down the side of my face as I try to keep the acid from rising in my throat, all the while listening to this fucking noise, because that's all it is and now my ears are ringing…
I will not throw up, I will not throw up, I will not throw up…
I take in huge gulps of air, finding to my surprise that my pep talk has worked, although my stomach still is a little queasy.
I push myself away from the sinks, my head spinning crazily and walk to the other end of the bathroom, finding that the room is much bigger than I originally thought.
My eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting, and as I get closer to the source of the noise I quickly recognize it for what it is.
Fabric rustling, the sound of bodies being pressed up against the stall door, wet lips smacking, soft moans…
"Fuck!" I hiss, pulling my hand back to my body as soon as my knuckles come into sharp contact with something jutting out of the wall, sending pain up to my elbow.
I stumble back, tripping over my shoes, but catching myself on the wall in time to see the bathroom stall door open.
"It's Benny," I hear someone whisper, and I squint my eyes, trying to see who it is through the darkness.
My eyes widen when a pair of hands takes me by the shoulders and pulls me to my feet, holding me up as I sway slightly.
"Roger?" I question, all thoughts of stomach aches and throwing up disappearing as I finally make out the rocker's face in the gloom, "What the hell're you doing here?"
"It's a bathroom, Benny," he explains, clapping me on the shoulder as he lets me stand on my own, "And you…are completely wasted." Roger chuckles, and my eyes sluggishly follow his movements as he reaches behind himself, a grin on his face when he catches the arm of someone else.
"What do you think you're doing?" Roger whispers teasingly, turning around and pulling the other person into him. I raise an eyebrow when I notice an arm wrapping around Roger's waist.
"We should go…" the person whispers, sounding nervous.
"And leave Benny here?" Roger continues, turning back around to look at me. "Benny, do you know where Collins is?"
"Uh…" I pause to think for a moment, trying to focus on Roger, but quickly focus on the other person as they come into view, my eyes widening and my jaw dropping when I see who it is, "Mark!" I yell, my mouth gaping open in a surprised grin as I put two and two together, realizing that it was Mark who was in the stall with Roger, Mark's arm around Roger's waist… "What the fuck!"
"Benny, you're fucking screaming, calm down," Roger laughs, though Mark looks like he's ready to run at any moment, "And you're drunk. Come on, do you know where Collins is?"
"What the hell, you guys?" I continue, the alcohol in me not helping my confused state.
"Come on, Rog," Mark pleads, but I reach out and grab Roger's other arm.
"No, no, wait," I laugh, clutching Roger's sleeve as I attempt to catch my breath from laughing too hard, "Shit, you two. What the hell?"
"Let's go," Mark continues, Roger turning his head to smirk at the other boy.
"Benny, find Collins. Have him take you home," Roger mumbles, and I watch helplessly as Mark quickly pulls Roger out of the bathroom, their hands tangled together.
I fall back against the wall, my eyes wide as I stare after them in the dark.
What the fuck was that?
"Holy shit," I murmur, grinning as I feel along the wall, attempting to make my way towards the exit.
Collins should get a kick out of this.
I pull the door open, the music from the disco club downstairs pounding through the floor, and the light from the hall making me squint after coming out of the dark bathroom.
It only takes me a few moments to find Collins, the anarchist grinning as he makes his way towards me.
"Benny, Benny, Benny," he scolds, shaking his head sadly, "Roger and Mark told me that I'd find you near the bathroom in a less than sober state."
"Collins!" I exclaim, laughing as I grab him by the arm, leaning my forehead on his shoulder as I try to get enough breath to tell him about Roger and Mark.
"You're drunk," Collins laughs, pushing me back and holding me at arms length.
"Yeah, but you are too," I reply, smiling as Collins merely shrugs. "Collins! I went into the bathroom and found Mark and Roger and they were…" I pause as the room starts to spin, hearing Collins laugh.
"Puking?" he asks, nodding his head. "Yeah, you probably were too. Damn kids can't hold their alcohol…"
"No! No!" I exclaim, waving my hands in front of me, "No, they were kissing!"
Collins gives me a blank look before the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile, his eyes shining brightly.
"What?" he asks, before laughing loudly for a few long moments, leaving me sputtering and trying to get him to believe me, "Jesus, Benny! We've gotta get you home, boy. You are fucking wasted."
"No! Dammit, Collins! I'm not joking!" I exclaim, allowing the anarchist to put my arm around his shoulder so I can lean on him as we make our way down the stairs.
"Yeah, okay," is all Collins says, shaking his head slowly.
I start walking towards Roger's bedroom, the floorboards creaking underneath me. The door to the bedroom is cracked open, reminding me of what happened after Collins and I made it back to the loft…
"I told you that way was a shortcut," Collins says, tripping slightly when his foot catches against the door.
"…the fuck are you talking about? It took us five extra minutes!" I laugh, sitting down heavily on the couch.
"No it didn't! It took us five less minutes," Collins says, furrowing his eyebrow as he glares at his wristwatch.
"Oh…" I yawn heavily, the walk back to the loft seeming longer than it actually was, apparently.
The loft falls silent for a moment as Collins goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, and I stand up to walk to my bedroom, my head feeling heavy and groggy from the night of heavy drinking.
I'm going to regret this in the morning…
I pause on my way to my bedroom, in front of Roger's bedroom as something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye.
The door to his bedroom is open about a foot, open enough for me to see Mark and Roger standing in front of Roger's bed, their lips locked with Mark's arms around Roger's neck. I look over in time to see Collins coming back from the kitchen, seeing him lift an eyebrow as I gesture frantically for him to come over.
Roger's hand is snaking down towards the front of Mark's jeans, his fingers slipping underneath the filmmaker's t-shirt just as Collins comes to stand next to me.
"Holy shit!" Collins yells, his mouth open in a disbelieving grin, his eyes wide as he stares at our two roommates.
"I fuckin' told you!" I yell, watching as Roger and Mark quickly separate themselves, Mark a bright shade of red as Roger stalks over to the cracked open door.
"Roger! Mark! How long've you two…!" Collins starts to ask, but breaks off in laughter as Roger angrily slams the door shut, the lock sliding into place as Collins and I stumble back to the couch.
"I fuckin' told you!" I repeat, laughter ringing throughout the loft as the two of us collapse onto the couch.
Once our laughter dies down, tears wiped from eyes and our breaths caught, Collins looks over at me, a smile still playing about his lips.
"That's fucking insane," he says, and I nod my head.
"Mark and Roger…" I trail, rubbing my eyes tiredly.
"I guess it's not that crazy," Collins muses, and I turn my head to look at him.
"What do you mean?" I yawn, scratching idly at my stomach.
"Mm…nothin', never mind. I'm going to bed," he says, patting my shoulder as he stands up. "Goodnight."
"Yeah…goodnight," I reply, lifting my legs to stretch out on the couch.
I slept there the entire night, I remember, smirking when I find the slight indent in the wall where the head of Roger's bed used to be.
Until it broke, that is. And that was all April.
Yeah fuckin' right.
I turn away from the wall, chuckling when I see the crack in the door where Roger had slammed it shut. He was pretty pissed the next morning…
Although that could have been from the way Collins woke him up, and not from the events that happened the previous night. Mark was already awake by the time me and Collins woke up, much to our disappointment.
I lightly shut the door behind me and turn right, walking towards the bathroom, but not before passing Collins' bedroom.
Small scratch marks are still present in the door to his bedroom, serving as a reminder of the dog Collins had brought back to the loft with him one day.
"…Collins, what the hell is that?" I ask, staring at the medium sized, black and brown animal on the floor next to Collins' bed.
"A dog," Collins replies, looking up at me from the papers he's grading, "What do you mean, what is he?"
"When did you get a dog?" I ask, raising an eyebrow when the dog starts to wag its tail.
"Few hours ago."
"…did you run it by with us?" I continue, watching as Collins sets down his papers to give me an amused look, obviously pleased with himself.
"Nope, but Colby just followed me home. Can I keep him?" Collins asks, reaching down to pet the dog lightly on the head.
"Colby?"
"His name," Collins laughs, and I sigh as I turn to leave.
"Just make sure it stays out of my room!" I yell as an afterthought, hearing the dog bark in return.
The dog was only popular with Roger and Collins, and after a few weeks Collins gave him away to some of his friends who could take better care of him.
They'd always wanted a dog, apparently.
I continue down the hallway, my footsteps slowing as I finally come to the bathroom, one thought running through my head as I open the door, the hinges squeaking loudly.
This is where she died.
I was already moved out of the loft when Roger started doing the heavier drugs, until finally he stumbled upon heroin.
Whether April gave it to him or he took that first hit on his own, Roger's never told anyone.
Nobody's ever asked, though.
The phone rings loudly, obnoxiously as I glare at it from my desk, wishing that Alison was home to answer it.
I stand up and make my way over to it instead, hoping that maybe Alison is the one calling to tell me that she'll be late coming home.
I've got a lot of work to get done.
"Hello?" I say, holding the phone to my ear and sliding my hand into my pocket, immediately knowing that it isn't Alison.
"Hey, Benny," Mark replies, his voice sounding tired, strained…
Scared.
"Hey! Mark! How've you been?" I ask politely, knowing that the last time Mark spoke to me was the day I left the loft, wishing me good luck and congratulating me on getting married.
"I've…been better, which is actually why I'm calling," he says hurriedly, and I furrow my brow, unsure of what to make of all this.
Mark doesn't ask for favors often. I wonder what could push him to the point of asking me, too, of all people.
"What's up?" I say, prompting him to continue as I start to play with the letter opener that's sitting on the desk, tossing the small knife up into the air and catching it before tossing it again.
"April's dead," Mark says, the words sounding heavy, and I jump as the letter opener falls to the floor, scratching the dark wood.
Shit, Alison's going to kill me…
"Dead?" I breathe, the room suddenly feeling stuffy, "How'd she die?"
"She killed herself," the filmmaker continues quietly, his voice hushed, reverent, "Slit her wrists in the tub."
I pause for a moment, leaning heavily against the leather couch and run a hand over my head, wiping the perspiration off as I try to make sense of all this.
"H…how's Roger handling it?" I ask, concerned for my former roommate, even though he refused to talk to me the day I left.
"…Not good," Mark sighs, and I incline my head slightly, knowing that this would be the answer.
"How long ago did she…?" I trail, feeling my throat constrict as I find I'm unable to finish my question.
Kill herself…
"A couple months," Mark says quietly, and I can tell he feels bad that he didn't call me sooner.
Roger probably didn't want him to.
"Christ," I mumble, bowing my head as I stare at the edge of the rug, my eyes tracing the intricate patterns.
"She had AIDS," Mark continues, his voice sounding stronger, though detached, like he's reading someone else's writing, "He…is HIV positive."
I feel something in me break, and for a frightened second I don't know what to do, how to handle this…
Another one of my friends is dying, and I'm a thousand miles away.
I take a deep breath, trying to stop my hands from shaking, my heart from beating too quickly, my throat from closing up.
"How can I help?" I ask, shutting out the thought that strikes me, leaving me cold.
"Roger's trying to get off of heroin… it's been two months of this shit," Mark sighs, and I can tell he hasn't gotten a break, "If you aren't too busy, do you think you could come over and just…watch him for the night? I've been ignoring Maureen lately and she's…"
"No, that's fine Mark," I interrupt him, fingering the car keys in my pocket, "I'll be over in ten minutes."
"Thanks," the filmmaker sighs, and I smile.
"No problem."
I hang up the phone and quickly head for the front door, stopping only to write a quick note for Alison to find once she gets home.
As soon as I'm in the car the thought that I shut away works it's way back to the front of my mind, making my fingers shake as I quickly turn the key, hearing the Range Rover burst into life.
Two months ago I was being promoted, second to only Mr. Grey. Two months ago I was just beginning to realize my goal of becoming someone. Two months ago I was married to Alison, living in a house with heat and air conditioning, working at a job that not only pays well, but is something I can enjoy doing.
Two months ago one girl in a slummy apartment pulled a razor across her wrist, giving up on her life just as surely as I was starting to live mine.
Water drips from the faucet of the sink, the sound echoing in my ears as I slowly bring myself back from that night.
The night that changed everything.
When I walked into the loft only to be greeted by Mark's tired smile and a quick explanation about where he would be in case if anything happened.
When I realized that my friends weren't my friends anymore because I had distanced myself so completely from this lifestyle and them that it was difficult just being in the same room together.
When I realized that I did this to myself.
When the night slowly slipped by, Roger only having come out of his room once to grab a glass of water, barely sparing a glance my way.
When I finally caught glimpse of the fallen rock star, my stomach twisting and clenching when I realized just how terrible Roger's condition was, his haggard form slumped slightly even when he walked, his hair shaggy and unkempt, his thin arms dangled limply at his sides. He couldn't have weighed much more than Mark.
When I realized that this is the life I chose to leave, to give up in order to grow up and take part in this world, even with the benefits and drawbacks to this decision.
And when I realized that, even with all of the drawbacks, even without my friendships and the easygoing, laid back lifestyle I had before, I can't honestly say that I would go back and change everything, if I could.
I moved on in life while Mark and Roger and Collins stayed behind. I chose to make a different decision than they did.
How is that wrong? How is wanting to know what it's like to have a home, a wife to come home to bad? How is wanting more in life selling out?
The floorboards creak underneath me as I shut the door to the bathroom lightly, making my way towards the front door, my mind heavy with thoughts.
Was it worth it? Am I happier now than when I was living here?
No, but does it matter?
I'm where I am, I'm who I am, and there's no going back.
I open the door and step onto the sidewalk, feeling the excitement of New Year's Day in the crisp, night air.
I shut the door again, my mind blank as my hands move mechanically, digging the heavy piece of metal out of my pocket and sliding it into place, locking the door shut with a heavy 'click', the sound digging into my nerves.
I feel guilty, but I can't do anything about this. It's too far ahead to look back.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, bowing my head as I make my way to the Range Rover, stepping over people passed out in the streets.
They see it like I betrayed them. And maybe I did.
…but there's nothing I can do about that.