Crazes

by Trisana McGraw

Author's Note: My first RENT fic, although I've been enjoying Jonathan Larson's genius (mostly in movie form) since November 2005. Written for the livejournal community speedrent challenge #26: piggy bank. Set pre-RENT. Also, I am in no way equating a six-year-old's hunger with withdrawal; my only point here is that, IMO, for Roger withdrawal regression. Title from Robert Frost's "Birches."

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If Roger had known what anguish withdrawal would bring, he almost wouldn't have started using. Almost.

The last time he remembered feeling this jittery, shaky, trembling yen – no, that was one of Collins' words, too peaceful for his violent need, too concise to contain the feeling that his body would be torn to shreds – craving was when he was six: it was a muggy summer day in New York, and a cold popsicle was the only thing that would make it all bearable. But Roger didn't have any money – of course not; money was never commonplace. Any spare change or meager allowance he scrounged together he spent half as quickly. The only one who managed to keep any money was his eight-year-old sister.

The thought startled him like a bucket of cold water and – here was the worst part – comforted him nearly as well. He did allow himself to feel some misgivings, but his damp forehead and scratchy throat made the decision for him.

The high-pitched shatter of the ceramic pig jarred him a little, but he decided that it was a nerdy-looking pig anyway, what with its thick glasses and striped bow. Roger's opinion was, if you were going to play the "this little piggy" game, you might as well have a "this little piggy rocked a sold-out show at CBCB," but whatever. He scooped the coins out of the wreckage of the piggy ban, grabbing at the pennies that slipped through his stubby fingers; Roger was nothing if not sparing. He rushed out of Lizzie's room, his small hands overflowing with coins. He told himself that he would pay Lizzie back soon; he figured that he believed it, or that his six-year-old attention span was too short to linger on the matter any further.

Now Roger was sweating as badly as he had that day, and shaking so hard he resembled a kid with a spaz attack. He swept his hands along the counter, searching, searching . . . His hand jerked, not of its own accord, and plastic cases tumbled to the floor with resounding thuds. Fuck. He ran trembling fingers through his curls, but the resultant yanking only intensified his headache. Roger shoved his hands into the pockets of his plaid pants and set to pacing the strip of floor that connected their kitchen with the living room.

Over and over his fevered gaze locked on to the half-open door leading to Mark's room, but he tore his eyes away each time, nauseating guilt temporarily overcoming his withdrawal. He couldn't do it, he couldn't. Lizzie was one thing – she was his sister, and he was six years old, for crissakes – but Mark worked two shitty jobs just to make ends meet. Not to mention, in the last months, with Roger alternately listless and anguished and incapable of helping out, Mark had been covering medicine and rent and everything in-between.

But Mark has some extra money, Roger's delirious mind urged him, you saw him hide it away the other night. He won't miss it anyway. Nauseous only from withdrawal now, he strode into Mark's room. He didn't even pretend that he was going to pay it back because he knew that he wouldn't. He could only hope that Mark might understand.

"Roger?" Mark called as he closed the door to the loft. His friend wasn't in his normal prone position on the couch. A quick glance around as he set his camera and filming equipment on the table showed him that Roger was also not perched on the toilet seat in a feverish mess of spasms. (His heart had broken the night he found Roger like that.)

The unmistakable crash of a body against a bookcase and breathless curses led Mark to his own bedroom. Roger was crouched beside Mark's bed, his hands shoved beneath the mattress.

"Roger?" Mark asked haltingly, afraid of what reaction he would elicit.

Roger jerked around, nearly falling over. He tried to tug his hands out of the mattress, but they stuck. Even so, guilt was etched into his red face.

"Mark, I – I'm sorry," he stuttered, stumbling to his feet. "I . . . I just needed the money – it's so bad, it's so hard, and I just can't –"

"Roger," Mark cut in, his voice soft and gentle. "It's okay, I understand. The money is yours."

Roger looked confused, but he immediately dropped to his feet again and searched beneath the mattress until he withdrew a slim roll of bills. "Thanks buddy – I promise, this'll be the last one, the last hit –"

"Roger, no!" Mark cried. He snatched the money out of Roger's sweaty hand. "It's not for smack – no! It's for AZT, because you're running low, you and Collins both, and . . ."

Roger barely heard him. All he registered was "No," and his face began to flush again, this time with fury. " 'No, no,'" he mocked Mark. "Well, I say 'yes'!" He stalked over to Mark, grabbed the cash from his grip, and shoved past him. Impulsively, Mark grabbed his larger friend, but withdrawal hadn't entirely dulled Roger's reflexes, and he slammed Mark into the wall with enough force to knock his glasses askew. Gasping, Mark shoved Roger back; they tussled briefly until Roger threw him against the heather. It struck Mark squarely in his back; with a cry of pain, he lurched forward.

"Mark," Roger gasped, aghast. "Mark, no . . ." Tears blurred his eyes, and all he could see was the bank lying in fragments, those little glasses cracked. With a violent retching noise, he stumbled to the bathroom and dry-heaved into the toilet. The heroin had made him feel invincible; without it, he was nothing but a pathetic, despicable child.