Disclaimer: I don't own RENT
Sometimes, a person needs validation. Something needs to go right. A man needs to know that his worries are founded, that he succeeded, that he makes a difference, however small, in the lives of those he cares about.
Roger never wanted me to take the courses. "I should learn how to drive," I reasoned. "I never did, and I'd like to. It'll be fun, something to do, it's cheap…"
No matter how logical my arguments were, he staunchly opposed the idea. "I can't stop you," Roger mumbled. "I just don't think you need to. It's dangerous." Of course driving was dangerous, but this was an ex-smack addict talking. I hadn't the heart to say that, though, or to observe that he had the perfect phrasing for a bout of Jewish guilt.
A month later, I sat on a gurney in the crowded commotion of a public hospital waiting for someone to suture my head, my eyes fixed on the door for the inevitable tornado of Roger's arrival. It came precisely as expected. He burst into the room, his eyes flew about--I waved before he could start shouting for me. He worries. It's almost cute--aggravating, sometimes, but endearing. Roger really cares about people. He worries.
"Mark! Fuck." He pulled me into a hug, belatedly shielding me from attack.
"Ow, Roger, careful--"
He withdrew. "I'm sorry." He kissed my cheek. "You okay?"
"I'll be fine. Thanks for coming."
"Yeah, of course." He sat beside me and held my hand as a nurse began to clean and suture the tear in my scalp. "It'll be okay," he repeated. I was in pain, but it was Roger who was frightened. I knew he would be. I also knew he would be more there than anyone else and that he would never forgive himself for not being. He babbled on, comforting himself.
As the nurse was adding the twelfth suture of what would eventually be sixteen, Roger said, "I knew that driving thing was a bad idea."
What could I say? He needed that. He needed his little piece of control. I sniffled and grinned. "Yeah, Rog. You were right." For a week Roger babied me and insisted on doing everything he could to help me with the most basic tasks, insisting he had seen this coming and should have acted on it.
To this day, I cannot drive. Roger assumes BuzzLine paid because they insured me. I never had the heart to tell him that my head was nicked by a teleprompter.
END!
Yeah, it's a one-shot, written for speedrent.
Enjoy? Review! Please?