Disclaimer: Not mine.
"First shot Roger," Mark narrated into his camera, focused on the thin musician sitting on the couch. "He just finished playing his guitar for the first time in a few days. He's sounding really good…"
"Stop." Roger's voice was weak, but adamant.
"What?" Mark peered from behind the lens.
"Stop filming me," Roger said. "You have enough footage of me."
"But…" Mark was confused. Sure, he filmed Roger plenty of times in the past and there was always a snide comment from the rocker, but he never seriously told him to stop.
"Why do you want to film me like this anyway?" Roger asked.
Mark lowered his camera, holding it to his chest. "I-I just want to remember you. I want all of our memories recorded just in case I forget one." It was hard for him to vocalize the cruel reality he had to face with Roger. He didn't want to admit his fear of losing Roger and being alone. And being left with just Roger's cinematic form. "I just want… I want to have something left for when… for when you're," he looked down, quietly uttering the last word, "gone."
Roger's cloudy green eyes looked at the filmmaker on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall. "But why do you want to remember me like this?" he asked. Mark looked up at him. "Why do you want this me in your movies? Don't you want to remember me how I was before? This isn't how I want you to remember me. I want you to remember me when I was slightly less fucked up." He stood up, slowly making his way across the room to where Mark was. "I don't want to be permanently etched into film this way. Films aren't your memory Mark. You're only going to look at them on important days, like my birthday and my death anniversary." Mark cringed at the word death. "And in reality, all I'll be is a little figure ingrained in plastic. I don't want that. That's not how I want to be remembered."
"How do you want to be remembered?" Mark looked at Roger, who was now standing right in front of him. He dropped his arms to his sides, still holding tight to his camera.
"I want you to remember me here," he touched his calloused fingertips to Mark's forehead, "and here," he touched his hand to Mark's chest where his heart was.
With his free hand, Mark touched his hand to Roger's. He breathed heavily, trying not to let the tears forming in his eyes come out.
"And here," Roger leaned in, softly touching his lips to Mark.
Mark was surprised at first, but he kissed him back. For the first time in his life, Mark willingly released his grip on the camera. And when a crack rang out through the loft as the piece of equipment made contact with the hardwood floor, he didn't even cringe. Because Roger was right. In years to come when all Mark had left of Roger was those old films, they wouldn't matter. Cinematic likenesses preserved on film weren't memories at all. The real memories were deep inside of Mark exactly where Roger said they were. And that's where Roger would remain. Not on a film reel, but his music and wit in Mark's mind, his taste on Mark's lips, and his memory in Mark's heart.
Fin