IMPORTANT NOTES:
So… I'm back. I went on a little vacation from fanfiction. I kinda missed it. So I decided to make a comeback.
Here's the lowdown: I'm terrified about posting this. It may sound ridiculous, but I'm very self-conscious about my writing, even though it may not seem like it. I never have any trouble posting random crackfics or humor stories, because those aren't taken seriously anyway. So I want this to become my first ever full-length RENT fic that isn't like that, and actually my second ever full-length non-humor fic in general.
I need support on this, guys.
But at the same time, I'm SO AMPED to write this. I have been wanting to write this story for basically forever. It's one of those plot bunnies that nested in my mind and never went away.
Title: Dies Irae
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating: T
Extended summary: After Mimi's death, Roger ran away to Santa Fe, leaving a gaping rift in his friendship with Mark. He had landed a record deal with Desert Fire Records, a local-based company and put out some songs. Joanne and Maureen moved into town a few months after Roger did, Joanne following a job offer for a high-paying law firm in New Mexico and Maureen following Joanne. Roger is in close contact, especially with Maureen. He, however, rarely calls Mark and Collins in New York. A project brings the bohemian family together one last time...
What I Want to Achieve with This Story: Write a full-length RENT fic that isn't in the humor genre. Manage to write a story during most of which, Mark and Roger are not on such good terms. Try to establish a close friendship between Roger and Maureen. Familiarize myself with Maureen's character a bit and grow to love her more. (She's not exactly my fave.) Make you cry. (That's a big maybe...)
PRESENT (1991)
Beep, beep, beep, beep.
The alarm sounded in the silence of the arid, desert home. A raspy groan punctuated the abrupt smack as the alarm was shut off, and the man sprawled upon the couch awakened.
He stared at the insides of his eyelids for a few agonizingly long moments, content to let the seconds slip by.
With a cough, Roger Davis sat up, hair mussed from sleep. Stretching, he stood slowly, making his way through the cluttered room. A shiver completely unrelated to the stale breeze that stirred and rustled through the cracked window ran down his spine as he idly took in the spotty sunlight streaking in from outside. Squinting, he selected the chipped mug of his choice and began to drowsily prepare a cup of coffee. He coughed again, glancing sideways out the dust-coated window of the vacant, dilapidated desert shack beyond the hills, on the outskirts of the city.
Without conscious thought, he reached for the phone.
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Roger pressed his forehead to the cool window of the Santa Fe Transit Authority bus, staring blankly out at the blighted landscape, and the looming edifices of downtown Santa Fe. A sudden pang tightened his face and he closed his eyes, just as the bus pulled to a noisy halt outside the large corporate office of Desert Fire Records.
Steely resolve filling him, he forced himself to edge through the crowded aisle and step out onto the sidewalk, squinting in the sunlight that suddenly bombarded him. It was late morning. With a nonchalant glance at his watch, he entered the swivel doors. He rode the elevator to the sixth floor and entered the office with barely a thought straying into his mind.
Most of the space of the office was open, segmented by shelves that were lined with pictures of musical artists in contract at Desert Fire. Roger sat down in one of the stiff chairs and pulled out a somewhat wrinkled sheet of paper, followed by a pencil.
"Done?" A voice rang out as George Gardener rounded the corner with a velocity that startled Roger from his empty line of thoughts.
George half-smiled as Roger turned to look at him. "Close to done?" He amended.
"I'm working on it." Roger answered quietly, voice strained and hoarse. "I'm thinking of adding a little guitar solo bit after the first chorus and..."
"Forget the guitar solo, Davis." George snapped suddenly, looking at Roger seriously and chomping on his gum. "Who said you could write in a solo?"
"Well, I..." Roger began, annoyed.
"No, Davis." George cut in, frustrated. "Look, I've been in the business much longer than you. I know what sells. And at this point, it ain't you. So if you want a future with Desert Fire, you'd better mind yourself. No guitar solos. Do as I tell you, and then, only then... I'll make you a star." Roger bit his lip, trying to keep his temper in check.
"Mr. Gardener..." He started, but a cough tickled his throat and he stopped.
"Listen, Davis. I want you to write a powerhouse song. No more pussy little weepy love songs. I want an anthem to propel you up the ladder, you know what I'm saying?"
"I was going to start writing something new next Monday, but..." Roger managed to croak.
"Trust me, fans like rock anthems. Something huge. No more pulling heartstrings, that approach ain't selling any records. I want you to bust some guts, Roger."
Sick of being interrupted, Roger stared vehemently at his boss, muscles bunching in his jaw as he listened to him talk. He dared a quick glance out the small window, peering at the thick, loud traffic in the street below. The sky was a blanket of hazy blue, the sun beating relentless down upon them. He suddenly felt nauseated by it all.
"Roger?" George's voice made its way to his ears, and he turned sharply. "Did you hear me? I said my manager, Bryan Burke, wants to meet with you. His office is up on the next floor, as you probably remember. Now, I'm sorry man, but I think I might know what this is about."
Roger stood, his knees feeling slightly weak and his head spinning.
"He is pretty... well, displeased with your apparent lack of progress in the company. Personally, I hope he gives you a second chance, because I think you could make it big. He thinks you're not writing and producing good material fast enough."
"He's right." Roger replied softly. "I'm not."
George put a hand on Roger's shoulder and he shivered involuntarily as his boss said, "Not the right attitude to have, man. You really could make it in the business... move out of that shitty dump you live in, go on trips all over the world, meet a new girl, buy her nice clothes..."
Roger winced, then whispered, "You mean I could sell out?"
George frowned. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by that. Tell me something, Roger. What did you have in mind for yourself when you signed on to Desert Fire?"
"I'm starting to wonder that myself." Roger's voice was suddenly clear and louder. "Now if you'll excuse me, you said I had a meeting?" And he strode from the room, fuming.
A few minutes later he was walking through pockets of cubicles to a tiny desk, at which sat a smiling blonde secretary.
"Good morning." She chimed at him. Scowling, he failed to answer. Before she inquired as to his business there, the door behind her opened and out stepped Bryan Burke, a well-tailored man in his late forties.
"Mr. Davis!" He waved, motioning Roger over to the door that led to his spacious work space. "Come on in, have a seat."
Roger's feet carried him toward Mr. Burke and into the room, and he sank sullenly into yet another uncomfortable chair. Bryan sat down across from him, behind the desk and motioned to several containers and a jug nearby. "Orange juice? Croissant?"
"No, thank you very much, Mr. Burke." Roger said flatly, eyeing the man warily. He hadn't spoken with him since first signing the contract about eight months previous. Mr. Burke's eyes were wandering over Roger and he snapped from thought as he said, "What are you on?"
"Excuse me?" Roger asked, bemused.
"How much weight have you lost? I mean, wow."
"Oh." Roger waved a hand uneasily. "Nothing. About fifteen pounds..." He looked up at Bryan, smiling lackadaisically. "I just haven't been very hungry." He finished feebly.
"How's your girlfriend?" He asked.
He lowered his eyes, cringing. "When I went back to New York to find her nine months ago..." he emphasized the time to display his annoyance. "She was very sick. Now? She's dead."
Bryan nearly choked on a chunk of croissant and swallowed hastily. "Damn. I'm so sorry, Roger. I didn't know, I wondered why you came back to Santa Fe, but I always assumed you brought her with you."
"No." Roger replied, with difficulty. Then, he took a breath, shaking his head. "Two of my friends from New York moved here though. My friend Maureen moved in just outside the city with Joanne, her girlfriend. Joanne got offered a better job out here and Maureen just wanted to be with her... and keep tabs on me, I guess."
Mr. Burke nodded. "Jefferson? The lawyer? She's becoming a well-known name around these parts. Good for her."
The fake kindness was really starting to get to Roger. "Yes." He said tersely. "I'm glad this law firm gave her a higher paying job than the other one. She deserves it for how hard she works." He decided to move forward with the conversation. "Mr. Gardener told me that Desert Fire collectively hates my songwriting methods. Is this true?"
"Well, sort of... I..." Bryan shifted in his seat. "You sure you don't want a croissant?"
Roger shook his head slowly, started to feel angered by the events of the morning. Bryan wrapped the remains of his croissant in a napkin and tossed it in the trash, clearing his throat.
"Desert Fire is losing steam. We can bring in a whole new group of fans, a wave of them, rushing to buy something tangible and something big. Like a real powerhouse song, Roger. But you won't change."
"Getting fans and making money isn't why I like to write songs, Mr. Burke." Roger spoke, the queasy feeling returning. "Maybe it was back when I was young and stupid. Now, my something real and tangible is my songs I've been writing."
Mr. Burke sighed. "We're all sacrificing for the good of the company, Roger. Whether we like it or not, we are."
"I'm not." Roger stated bluntly. "I won't."
"I know." The older man answered. "Which is part of the reason our record sales have been declining at a steady rate recently."
"You can't pin that all on me. Desert Fire started tanking noticeably about a year and a half ago. I've been here eight months, Mr. Burke!" Roger exclaimed heatedly.
"Maybe that's too long."
"Maybe it is." Roger said, voice almost hopeful, but still angered by it all.
"It's too long, Roger." Mr. Burke confirmed quietly. Roger simply nodded and stared blankly, which seemed to unnerve him considerably. He continued, "Look, I did some digging and found out that with your dise-..., I mean your... condition in mind, you can recieve some benefits even after you leave. I got you six months regular salary and medical, too. All covered because you managed to release a single that made it to the charts. It'll help you, Roger. Give you some time to find another job."
He looked at Roger, rattled by the blankness on his face. Taking a sip of his orange juice, he leaned back in his chair.
"When Mimi died and I left all my friends, everything I had left to care about back in New York," Roger began softly. "My friends were worried about me. My roommate was concerned because I was... never emotional. I didn't even cry at her funeral. Maureen asked me about it and I tried to explain that she had sucked all the emotion from me. When you love someone, I guess that can happen to you. Make you afraid. Make you not want to feel anything."
Bryan leaned forward, trying to figure out what to say.
"You're from New York, aren't you?" Roger continued drily. "Used to play in your own band at CBGB's. Made a name for yourself there, then moved out here to get rich."
Bryan lit up a bit at mention of his old band, not catching the scathing tone of Roger's statement. "Yeah! It was a blast."
"How old were you when you left?" He asked. "A young successful rock musician about to become a businessman?"
"Let's see... I guess I was twenty five."
"Twenty five. I was twenty one when I found my ex-girlfriend dead in my bathroom. Slit her wrists. She was HIV positive and she wasn't willing to go on."
Bryan made a strange face, obviously not liking where this conversation was headed.
"Then after I met Mimi, one of my other good friends, Angel died of AIDS. It was like slowly watching my own future play out before me, Mimi's too. I think about her still."
Wanting this to end, Bryan stops Roger with a raised hand. "Listen, maybe I can pull some strings and get you a year's salary."
"I hate this job." Roger cut in, disgusted.
"What are you talking about? You love making music. I know you do."
"I came back out here to get away. To start a new life and try to be happy again. But from the day I signed that piece of paper to today, I have hated this."
Perplexed, Bryan watched as Roger stood and pushed himself from his chair. "Then it sounds like I'm doing you a favor by letting you go then, Mr. Davis. Now you're free to go out and do whatever you like. I'm doing you a real favor."
"It may sound that way." Roger told him, eyes rising to meet his. "But my life has never been about what I like or don't like. You obviously weren't listening to my story, were you?"
"I didn't know there'd be a pop quiz, Roger. I wasn't preparing myself to unravel some puzzle of your life or pass some test. I don't have time to sort out the lives of all my clients." Bryan said, sounding irritated.
"Mr. Burke, life is a test." Then, he briskly changed the subject. "Thanks for everything." Roger extended a hand and Bryan accepted, shaking it.
"Well, I suppose I feel better about this now." He smiled, looking down at Roger's hand.
Roger released the man's hand and said, "Good. That's what I was hoping for." With a half-eye roll that Mr. Burke didn't notice, he added, "I have one favor to ask though."
"What can I do for you, Roger?"
"Like you said, I released my first and only successful single here five months ago. There are hundreds of framed single covers in this and in Mr. Gardener's office. I know you have mine. I was wondering if maybe I could have that?"
Bryan recoiled a bit. "Um... well, I... those... I mean, we usually don't let the clients keep their work in that respect. We want to preserve the history of the company. Those out on display let the world know what we've accomplished. You know? Maybe I can get Mr. Gardener to make a copy of yours and send it to you? How about that?"
Roger didn't reply.
He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. You go out there and pick out the single you want and take it. We'll make a copy of it for us, I'll have Rita scan one off the computer records."
"Thank you."
"It's the least I can do."
"Yes it is."
Before he knew it, Roger was walking out of Desert Fire Records, cradling the sole surviving physical representation of his life thus far in Santa Fe. Sweating, he walked slowly toward the transit stop, grasping the frame tightly in his fingers. The queasy feeling returned in a tidal wave and cascaded over him. He coughed, his lungs aching for breath.
People swarmed around him on the sidewalk, blurred and indistinct. Trying to orient himself, he stopped. A shaking hand let set the frame down on the sidewalk in front of him as he paused by the side of the building. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling like a huge weight was crushing on his chest.
Roger tried vacantly to lean against the wall, but stumbled. He heaved for breath, and his vision failed him.
With a tiny sigh of pain, he fell forward into the cement, crushing the frame and the story of his Desert Fire career beneath him.
He felt a prickle of pain jolt through his arm and a rush of liquid relief and solace suddenly began to caress him. Roger tried to sit up, but fell back softly against the starchy sheets of the hospital bed, blinking.
"That took care of the pain?" A female voice asked as she finished adjusting the IV poked in his arm. Roger turned to see the blurry form of a nurse standing beside him, smiling. In her hands, she held a tray of food. Setting it down on the table beside him, she eyed him carefully, waiting for an answer.
Roger sighed contentedly. "I could kiss you."
She laughed, and his vision cleared significantly. He couldn't help but smile when he saw that she had long, wavy brown hair the color of toffee, very similar to how Mimi's had been.
She lifted the cover off the food tray and motioned to it. "Are you hungry?"
He shook his head. "How should I know? I'm in painless bliss right now. Can't feel a thing, including whether or not my stomach is growling."
She ignored him, her professional opinion obviously being that he should eat. Pressing a tiny blue button, she raised the back of his bed so he was propped up well, and fluffed his pillows.
"What would you do if you had been given less than a year to live?"
She froze, looking down at him with a small, sad grin. "I would eat a lot of junk food. Chocolate. And I'd quit nursing. I've always loved to cook. I'd love to be a chef or something…" She stopped then, her face taking on an air of shock, as if she'd said too much.
Roger replied, "Good for you."
"What would you do?" She asked kindly.
"I'd open up a restaurant." He answered quite suddenly, hardly knowing why he said so himself, but liking how it sounded once it escaped his lips.
"What kind of restaurant?" She asked politely, but Roger thought he saw real curiosity in her eyes.
With a pang, he remembered the Life Cafe. "Have you ever been to New York?"
"No."
"Oh, well. I've got it all planned out in my mind." He said, realizing abruptly that he did. "It's like a big puzzle with pieces all over the place waiting to come together and make sense, you know? All I need is to go through the rest of design and review... and of course get permission. Call the planning commission and city council."
"Where will it be?"
The words tumbled from his mouth with ease. "I live on this shithole excuse for a lot just outside of town." He told her. "I'll stay with some friends. We'll get permission, tear down that rotting pile of wood, and build something beautiful."
She smiled softly again, helping him put the tray of food on his lap and gently handing him a plastic fork. "No one's really said you have less than a year, have they?"
"I have pneumonia. PCP, they call it. It's fucking with my lungs and I'm HIV positive. They haven't pretended to offer any treatment. Just told me I'll be prescribed meds for the pain. Tell me, when would you start your junk food binge? When would you leave this hospital?"
Taken aback, her eyes fell to meet his. "Can you open up a restaurant by yourself in less than year?"
"Who said I'd be alone?"
She grinned whimsically. "Okay, even then. You're not an architect, are you? Can you build and open a real restaurant, and do it even though you're sick?"
"I can die trying." Roger told her resolutely.
She pursed her lips and then told him, "Good for you." She bent down and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand. "I hope you do it, Mr. Davis."
He looked down at her hand in his, face frozen.
Suddenly startled, she withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry... I don't know why... I just..."
"No, its fine. Don't worry." He assured her, lips pulling into a ghost of a smile.
"Are you sure?" She asked him seriously.
"You have to touch your patients. Its part of your job description."
"I didn't have to do that." She told him. "I wanted to."
He looked at her. "What's your name?"
"Lena." She told him softly.
"Thank you, Lena."
She appeared not to have heard him. "Send me a menu when the restaurant opens. I'll be first in line."
"Of course." He murmured, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
"Goodnight then, Mr. Davis."
"Roger."
"All right…" She revised. "Roger." Then, like clockwork, her pager rang. With a quick smile at Roger, she sped from the room.
The other patient sharing the room with Roger awoke as she brushed past his bed.
"I'm hungry."
"I'm touched." Roger replied.
Then he laughed. Chuckles tumbled from dry, gravelly lungs, as he stabbed the unidentifiable hospital food mush with the fork.
-~-~-~-~-~
PRESENT
The camera stopped filming, though Mark failed to notice, as he'd also failed to notice that he'd been filming a rotting wood chair leg the whole time in the first place.
Tom Collins sat in the chair beside him, gazing at him curiously. "Mark, what's going on with you?" He asked abruptly, stirring the filmmaker from his empty line of thought.
He stared blankly at the chair leg, wondering silently at how it was just holding up under the pressure of the aging, tainted structure.
"What do you mean?"
Collins sighed, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Bullshit, Mark. You know exactly what I mean… you barely talk anymore. You haven't made any more films, you only eat in bite-size portions, and you sit for hours up here doing nothing."
Mark's blue eyes finally locked onto Collins, looking unabashed. "I don't understand, Collins. What are you asking me?"
"Why are you doing this?" Collins demanded softly.
Mark was no longer meeting Collins' gaze, gazing beyond him at something only he could see. "Doing what?"
Collins' eyes hardened, and before he could elaborate, Mark whispered, voice small and quiet. "Collins, I'm alone."
"What?" Collins questioned, confused. His inquisitive brown eyes swept from his friend to the untouched cup of coffee before him. "What do you mean, 'alone'? Mark, you're not alone at all, you have your old pal Collins... you have... me..." He broke off at the look on Mark's face, the voice dying on his lips as he finished lamely.
Mark's eyebrows knotted and his lips pursed, as if frustrated. "I'm alone." He repeated.
"Mark..." He was cut off when the phone rang.
He looked toward the other end of the room, just as Mark said in a cold yet nonchalant manner, "Let it screen."
Collins rolled his eyes, though concerned for Mark. "I know. I think I know by now that we don't pick up the phone."
"SPEEEAAK."
There was a beat of silence in which Mark cursed loudly, face scrunching into a painful wince at the sound of the voices, muttering, "We have to change that answering machine."
Collins frowned at Mark's anger, and he grimaced as Mark banged the chair against the table in aggravation, for the message began.
"Hey guys... fuck, why do I even bother to call if I already know you'll never pick up?"
"Roger?" Collins had walked slowly to the phone, grasping it in numbed fingers, his voice coming out tiny and surprised.
"Why so shocked, buddy?"
"Maybe because you haven't bothered to FUCKING call for MONTHS!" Mark shouted in Collins' direction, his sole purpose being for Roger to hear him on the other end.
"Tell Marky I apologize." Roger said after a small silence.
"Of course." Collins half-mouthed, dismissing it immediately. He absently noticed the soft hoarseness of Roger's voice, how different he sounded, in tone. "Shit, Roger... what's going on, man? It's been too fucking long..." Mark snorted at this remark. "How are you?"
Roger made a sound that resembled a small cough, but Collins suspected it was intended to be a sigh. "Roger?" He asked.
"Yeah?" Roger said, almost as if distracted. "Oh, I'm... well, you know. The usual."
Collins narrowed his eyes as Mark fell back into his seat, looking more than pissed. "The usual? How're things with the music?" Suspicion began to fill him.
"Fine." Collins sensed he was lying, and knew that Roger could hear his skepticism.
"Really? So what's the call for, man?"
Roger cleared his throat. "Listen, it's hard to explain. I need you here. Maureen and Joanne are already here, you know, and I can hardly begin to tell them..."
"Tell them what?" Collins asked, worried. He could sense that there was something more to what Roger was saying and the purpose for his call.
"Thomas." Roger said, and his voice was urgent. It unnerved Collins tremendously, because Roger never liked to ask anyone for anything.
"I want you to gather up Mark." Roger was saying. "Kicking and screaming if need be. Bring him here, to Santa Fe."
All the air in Collins' lungs blew out suddenly. "What? Are you fucking insane? Why?"
"I have this idea. And I need you all with me."
Mark, who could hear Roger's voice clearly still, got up and yelled, so Roger would hear, "Oh, NOW you need us with you! Now you want us to be together! Fuck you, Davis. We fucking needed you already... HERE."
Roger didn't indicate he'd heard Mark, but the silence that followed was reply enough.
Collins, for reasons he himself couldn't begin to understand, felt the importance of whatever Roger's situation was hit him. And he found himself replying without much hesitation, "Ok, Roger. Ok."
Roger chuckled. "Really? I was expecting to have to really convince you. Talk for awhile. Have you drag the details out of me."
Collins laughed. "Well, I do expect you to spill sometime. I'll beat the details out of you if I have to, when we get there." Idly, he wondered what exactly he was doing, even though it felt right.
"I know you will." Roger sighed tiredly. The phone fell into a jumble of incoherent shuffling as Collins heard what he could only guess was
Roger jostling the phone around. Whether it was intentional or accidental, he hardly knew.
What sounded like a muffled fit of coughing could be heard in the background.
"Roger?" Collins demanded into the phone. "You okay?"
More silence. Roger's voice, strained, replied weakly. "Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know…" Collins was confused.
"You worry too much, man. I feel great, actually."
Miles away, in Santa Fe, Roger felt the weight of those words hit him and he smiled, because for the first time in awhile, though it seemed unlikely, they were actually true.
:)
Soooooooooooo?
(bites nails)
Oh, I'm scared, did it suck?