Title: A Word for Everything
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-RENT, one-shot, scene sketch.
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of the Jonathan Larson estate.
I'm almost done drying dishes when you call me over to the couch. Dish-drying is not a common activity around here, but considering the amount of dishes we used at tonight's little gathering, it's kind of necessary. I flop gracelessly beside you; you're grinning and pointing at the TV. The metro news is doing some two-minute spot on NYU's indie film festival, and I'm just in time to see my name, part of the long list of participants, scroll up and off-screen.
"You're fucking famous," you say, happily, with just the tiniest bite in your voice. "When do the checks start rolling in?"
"Fuck you," I say amiably, switching the set off. "What do you want to do now?" I'm not sure when it started, exactly, this nightly ritual. Probably when you got too sick to go out regularly. We play checkers and watch old movies and listen to Hendrix for hours and reminisce about who we dated in middle school and sometimes we just talk. We make normalcy, really, since we're sure as hell not finding it anywhere else.
"I don't know," you say, your tone leaning towards grumpy as I pass you the med-box. That's what I call it, anyway; your name for the place we keep all of your various prescriptions hasn't really stuck, despite the fact that you scrawled "Shoebox of Doom!" along the top in purple permanent marker. A pause, while you hunt for your Fortovase, which, even after all this time, you insist on calling "the squishy ones".
"Maureen told me today that she and Joanne have been talking about…uh…you know, starting a family," I offer.
You snort without even looking up. I don't need to know what you think, because we have covered this topic already, debating into the wee hours of the night the many, many ways those two—bless their souls—could seriously fuck up a child. As you pointed out, though, most of our best friends are fuck-ups, including us. You finally find the right vial and start counting, lining them up on the chipped coffee table, moving on to the next one.
"You ever eat M&Ms that way when you were a kid?" you ask, and I nod.
"Yeah. Sometimes in rainbow order, too." I expect you to snort again, but when I glance at your face, you're grinning wryly.
"Thought so," you say, looking back down at the pills. "You're just fucking anal enough to do that. I was lucky if I managed not to eat the bag when the candy."
"Sounds about right," I concur, and you punch me in the arm. You're a lot weaker than you used to be, all the time now, but that still hurt, and when I let out a loud "Ow!" I know a small piece of your smile is dedicated to the fact that you're still strong enough to make me say that. Tonight, your eyes are bright and you seem to have just a ghost of a smile on your face, like you're remembering something a little sad and a little funny. We sit silently for a few minutes, you counting pills, me counting silently along with you and, because it pisses you off,pretending that I'm not.
"D'you ever think about after?" you ask me all of a sudden, in that same matter-of-fact tone, and I'm so surprised that I go still, momentarily frozen on our shitty couch. After a moment, the shock goes to some other part of my mind, and I consider for a second before I shrug.
"Sometimes."
"What do you think about?" you ask, and I have to say that I'm surprised at your persistence. We've never had this particular conversation before, and I guess I always assumed you were happier leaving this sort of thing quietly unsaid, mutually inferred, like so much of the story we have. I'm not shaken by your question until I start to answer, and there's that intense burn at the back of my eyes. I don't feel the way I usually do when I think about it, that dropping in my stomach, but the tears threaten anyway.
"It's gonna be quiet," I say, and pause.
"The loft," you nod, still looking at the pills, making some design with the Videx and the Procrit.
"My life," I add, and at that you look up. By way of explanation, I sigh, "It's like, my whole life was quiet before I knew you, and then there was noise—there were sounds—and one day it'll go quiet again." You lean your head against the back of the couch, but keep looking at me. When I finally meet your eyes, they're moist, but you're smiling. "What?" I say, uncomfortable with what I just shared with you, hoping you'll make a lewd joke or something, so my little moment of emotional vulnerability will just slide on by. You give a quiet chuckle.
"Well, it's kind of fitting, then," you say, your voice a little husky. "My whole life was kind of, I don't know, blank, or something, and then I knew you and there was," and you wave your hand around in front of us, "stuff happening, you know, details." Your eyes are very bright, and I know that you know how much it means for me to hear that, for the both of us to say these things to each other. We kind of half-smirk at each other. Sometimes, I wish I could just say everything—everything in the whole damn world, like there should be a word that encompasses it all, and when you say it, you just leave your own skin because it's too much for one person to take. We sit quietly for a few minutes, and when everything is all laid out on the table, I rise and bring you a glass of water. The ritual of consuming all of these pills takes a few minutes, and I know you get weird and antsy when I watch, so I wander over to the window and look down at the street. Some kids are throwing a ball against the stoop and talking. From up here, it just sounds like murmurs, but I pretend that they're best buddies, talking about movies and music and who they want to date now that they're in middle school.
"You know," I say, and turn to face you, lifting your eyebrow at me with one hand holding the glass an inch from your mouth, "I'm really glad you're my friend." I hope that it makes sense to you, that you understand what I've tried to say, and I think, watching you put the water carefully down, that you do. You look up at me, and even though I see your eyes filling, you suddenly break out in a huge smile, a genuine look of joy, and you nod as you make sure to look directly into my face.
"Me, too," you say, and we just smile at each other for a moment. When my lips twitch, I turn back towards the window, listening to your noisy swallowing. You start telling me about some movie that's on tonight that we should watch, and I can hear myself agree with you. You get up to turn the TV back on; you're moving slower these days, but you're still moving. I close the curtain, and resume my seat on the couch next to you. We settle into companionable silence, having said everything we need to say tonight, and the movie plays, full of noise and detail. It's not quiet in here yet.