There are two people waiting for Roger on the street corner. The first is his dealer, a tough, hard-edged man, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a heavy jacket as he glances down the street. The second is someone everyone knows and few notice, a forgettable sort of young man, pale, white-blond hair falling over his face, leaning against the brick wall a few steps from the dealer in a casual slouch that somehow suggests "juvenile delinquent." The dealer's alert, watching, almost predatory; the young man dressed in white is much calmer, quietly observant – he already knows he owns this city, and so many of the people in it.
At first Roger pays no attention to the second man, all of his attention on the dealer. He hands off the money, receives a small packet of white powder in return, and quickly tucks it into his pocket. He turns away and starts to walk off – the young man pushes himself away from the wall and jogs after him, catching up and catching hold of his arm before he's halfway down the block. "What, you're just going to ignore me?"
And, already knowing who it is, Roger turns to face him, expression a mixture of need and distaste, longing and disdain. "I kind of wish I could."
He just shrugs. "Most people do." But he knows Roger won't ignore him, can't ignore him, and maybe that's part of the reason the young man hasn't completely destroyed Roger yet, because he wants someone around who will take notice of him. Or maybe it's got to do with Roger himself, who and what he is, the beauty of tainting such a vibrant, perfect, alive thing. He's more beautiful now, anyway, now that he is tainted – they say polluted skies make the best sunsets.
The young man reaches up to cup Roger's face in one hand, and takes a step forward to kiss him. Roger leans in, trembling with need and hate, one hand gripping the young man's arm so tight it ought to leave bruises on the pale skin – it never does. No one seems to notice the two of them, the addict or the white-clad delinquent, pedestrians passing by without a glance, as if they don't quite exist in this reality – or they are so much a part of this reality that they are overlooked, so commonplace no one ever actually sees them. It doesn't matter if Roger hates him. It doesn't even matter whether Roger loves him, or that he loves April. He's in Roger's veins, in Roger's blood, and he's slowly killing him but that doesn't matter either, because Roger needs him, more than love, or food, or oxygen.
All that matters is that Roger needs him.