Title: Rites of Purification (1/?)
Rating: R
Summary: Post-RENT. Events the morning after the show's timeline ends.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of the Jonathan Larson estate.
Rites of Purification
I am pulled awake by the soft sensation of someone stroking my cheek. Sore and achy everywhere else, it is as though all the pleasant sensations in my body are concentrated underneath those smooth, gentle strokes, given by strong, sure fingers. I open my eyes, and Roger smiles at me. Laying his head back down on the pillow next to mine, he whispers, "Good morning." I smile widely. He runs his fingers into my hair and massages my scalp for a moment. I could purr. Looking into my eyes again, he murmurs, "I love you." My throat burns with a sweet feeling, the way your mouth kind of hurts if you swallow a lot of honey at once. I can't even speak, just mouth the words back at him as he watches my face. Closing his eyes, he moves his hand to my chest, settles it over my heart, and just…waits. Sighing, he presses harder, feeling the heartbeat. A tear slowly makes its way from the inner corner of his eye to the crevice on the side of his nose.
"Why are you crying?" I manage to get out, a whisper of wonder.
"Because I'm happy," he says, and leans his forehead against mine. Now I know that I have really been reborn, that I've woken up in a world full of endless possibilities, where Roger can cry in front of me and we can say "I love you" as though it is the most natural thing. I like this new version of the world.
Roger wraps his arms around me, like a promise that we could stay in this new, tiny universe bounded by the sheets and covers as long as I want, but his stomach growls loudly and I laugh. Pressing a kiss to his lips, I throw back the blanket and slide out. I will pay no mind to these cramps in my lower abdomen. I just won't.
In the kitchen, Mark is eating cereal, and as he looks up, he smiles shyly at me, standing quickly, pulling out a chair for me. Aw, chivalry is not yet dead. Roger swipes the box away and pulls down two bowls, clearing his throat aggressively. Digging through that messy drawer for spoons, he offers the box to me. My stomach, in an attempt to try out for the U.S. gymnastics team, seems to reject that idea, and, with a despairingly sinking sensation, I realize what that familiar ache in my calves is. Gesturing for Roger to follow me back into his bedroom, I look at the floor. Damn. So much for my brave new world.
"Babe…I'm illing," I say, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. This is it. He'll slam out the door and never give me a chance to explain. But when I look up, Roger's face, although lined by pain and anxiety, is still looking down at mine.
"Meems, you can't, I mean, I just can't let—"
And then the truth, the one thought I've carried around for almost two years, is coming out of my mouth, and I'm giving it to Roger like a precious gift: "I wanna get clean." I can see his eyes close in relief. "I'm scared," I add, as a second thought.
We agree that I will shower and he will eat and then we will sit down and plan…something. I don't know. Kissing him before I enter the bathroom, I notice he leans away quickly, barking a dry cough into his hands. Damn. What a time for him to get sick. When I step out of the bathroom, enjoying the warmth of terrycloth all around me, I can hear voices from the kitchen—well, one voice and that damn cough.
"…not worried about you, Roger…"
I enter the kitchen to find the two them standing on either side of the table, Roger with his arms crossed tensely over his chest, defensive, while Mark leans forward with his hands on the tabletop, his shoulders tight and raised. Maybe I haven't spent enough time with them to know for absolutely sure, but this arrangement generally indicates that Mark is in the right, and Roger knows it and doesn't want to admit it. (When Roger knows he is correct, which isn't necessarily very often, he'll thump the table. I learned early on not to argue while anyone was attempting to eat—too much clean-up.) My entrance seems to be enough to stop conversation. Mark glares at Roger before pushing away and resettling on the couch, where he picks up the camera lying there and proceeds to methodically clean the lens. I look at Roger, my hands on my hips so he'll know I mean business. He avoids my eyes but uncrosses his arms, sitting his hands in his back pockets.
"I told Mark about your…about our conversation," he begins, and I glance at Mark, since this is when anyone with normal-friend boundaries would leave the room for a minute. But Mark is still polishing away, checking the viewfinder and grimacing to himself. Roger lowers his voice a little, although maybe his throat is just scratchier than I thought. "You know we both totally support you in, you know, whatever. And we should talk about what you want to, um, do…I assumed you weren't too big on going to a hospital—" I involuntarily take a step backwards, feeling the muscles in my neck and back tense. I hate those fucking places. They're cold and if you don't have insurance they treat you like shit and Angel died in one. Fuck that shit. But Roger is smirking at me, and I calm down enough to smirk back. Okay, so the boy knows me well enough. "Right," he continues, "but that does leave us…um, you…"
"It's okay to say 'us'," I put in quietly. I want to sit, because the pain in my abdomen is growing and snaking upwards into my arms. My legs hurt too, like the growing pains you get when you're a kid, but stronger and deeper, but I want to hear Roger out first.
He's visibly approaching a part he doesn't like. "So, maybe, we could do this at home…" I start to nod, but stop when Roger breaks out with another round of dry coughing, this time strong enough to make his whole torso shake. "But, um…" And he coughs again. The veins in his neck stand out. When he finally stops, he looks exhausted. "But…" and he can't seem to finish his sentence, gesturing angrily to Mark, who's risen from the couch and somehow procured a glass of water when I wasn't looking. Roger takes the glass and wraps his hand around his forehead, massaging his temples with thumb and pointer.
"Mimi," Mark begins, and even though his voice is soft, I jump when I hear it. "Roger's obviously getting sick. Your immune system is already pretty tired, and detoxing's only going to make you more vulnerable."
"I will not go to a hospital, Mark Cohen, I—"
"Nobody wants you to," he throws in quickly, one hand held up as if to stop my impending flight. "Nobody wants you to," he says again, softer. The question is clearly written on my face. "Stay here. But let's get Roger out of the house for a few days." I can almost palpably feel my jaw drop, and I turn to Roger, who looks like he's ready to break something, clenching and unclenching his fists. He meets my eye and then looks away. Mark continues.
"It'll be okay, Meems. I know Roger won't be here, but, uh…" and he glances at Roger, shifting his shoulders apologetically, "I, um, actually kind of know what I'm doing…" He looks from my face to Roger's, sighs heavily, and excuses himself.
For a moment, the silence is immense, weighing on us heavily. I may be lucky—shit, I may be the luckiest person alive, because I am alive, and I am in a room with the man I love and he loves me and we're clear on that—but I better remember that I'm not in a fantasy land, that this world didn't change too much just because I left for a minute. Same old shitty decisions here. But this time, if Roger leaves, he'll be leaving because he knows he loves me. It makes a difference.
"Does he know how to make good hot chocolate?"
Roger's head snaps up and he stares at me like I'd spoken in Martian. "What?"
"Does Mark make good hot chocolate? It's one of my comfort foods, and I imagine I'm going to want—"
"You're not going to want anything." He looks ashamed for having said it, but continues anyway. "Well, except for one thing." We both stare at our feet for a moment, and then suddenly he has caught me up in his strong arms. "Oh, God. I want to be here for you so bad, you know that, right? I want—"
"Shhh," I say, soothingly, running my hands up and down his back. "I know." And, maybe just because I remember that I can say it now, I whisper, "I love you so much that it fucking hurts, and I'm terrified, right? Fucking terrified, but I love you and I'm worth this and we're worth this and it'll be okay. Right?" That last word out, barely a squeak, makes Roger tighten his arms around me, and my arms around his back clasp tighter too, and I think he's crying and I know I am. A long moment passes and suddenly I am feeling a tiny bit calmer, still scared, but like maybe Roger squeezed the panic out. There are soft steps in the hall and we release each other and turn to face Mark, who is peeking tentatively into the kitchen. Roger takes my hand, holding tightly, and Mark smiles at us. Roger manages a lopsided smile at Mark, who is slowly circling the table, his hands stuffed in his front pockets.
"Want me to call Maureen?" he asks, grinning, and Roger throws his head back in mock dismay and moans. "Hey, hey," cautions Mark, laughing, "you just better work on this whole social thing. You clearly need more negative friends. In the meantime, go pack some stuff for yourself." Roger groans again and drags himself out of the room. "Bring some earplugs; she's got a new piece going up in a few weeks!" From the bedroom, Roger bellows magnificently and slams the door.
Picking up the phone, Mark swivels towards the door, looks at me, seems to change his mind and plunks down on the sofa. He immediately slides over to indicate that I am welcome, so I sit too.
"Hello, Maureen," he says after a pause. "How are—oh, really? That's great…No, I didn't—hey, Maureen, can we…" He rolls his eyes melodramatically and I giggle; I can't tell if this show is to calm him down, or me. "Mo! Can I get a word in here? Please?" There seems to be a pause on the other side of the line. Mark takes a deep breath and grasps my shoulder comfortingly. The pain is worsening, and I'm having trouble focusing on one image at a time. "I need to ask a favor…"