Blackbird
By: Ethiwen
Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT or the characters of said show. It all belongs to the late (and great!) Jonathon Larson. Blackbird belongs to The Beatles, and a later version belongs to Sarah McLachlan.
Summary: In his last days, Roger Davis finds flight in the love of a friend.
Ships: MarkRoger!friendship Will be eventual MarkRoger. If you don't like it, then don't read it.
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Deals with the severity of the AIDS virus.
Spoilers: April committed suicide. This is post-RENT, so Angel has passed on. Didn't know that? Go watch the show…Listen to the soundtrack…anything. In my Story Collins has also passed away, and Maureen and Joanne have moved away.
Author's Notes: I have noticed a distinct lack of MarkRoger fiction in the fandom these days, and that depresses me. This is the brainchild of that frustration-- a serious angst MR fic that deals with a primary issue people seem to conveniently forget about: The AIDS virus. RENT is a fun show full of the promise of hope and new life, but it also deals with very serious topics, and I often feel that adversity can become lost among our desire for triumph and happiness. Misfortune has it's own set of advantages.
Thanks go out to The Versatile Scarf, who remains the inspiration for everything I do.
"Trouble is a part of your life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough."—Dinah Shore
Chapter 1
Blackbird singing in the dead of night;
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life, you were only waiting
for this moment to arise.
His knuckles turned white as they gripped the side of the pedestal sink in the bathroom, face staring at the water as it ran down the drain of the porcelain abyss. Trickling down, down, down into nothingness. He closed his eyes and lifted his face slowly, almost as though he was afraid. Despite the persistent efforts of his best friend, he knew he had to do this. His eyes opened cautiously, to look at the reflection in front of him.
Before him stood a corpse of a man he once used to be. His hair was long and disheveled, the bleached ends faded, his roots brown and dark; his green eyes that were so used to being kohl lined and vivid were dim and distant—blurred almost. His face was gaunt and thin, pale from not being exposed to light other than the florescent glow that a hospital offered, a tinted yellow—jaundice. He now knew why Mark did not want him to see himself. A calloused hand reached up to his brow to touch one of the dark wounds that graced his once Adonis-like features—Kaposi's sarcoma. It had spread to his internal organs as well, forming tumors on his liver, and he was grateful he could not see those.
Roger Davis was dying.
He never heard the hushed words that the doctors whispered to Mark, but he could feel the sickness in his blood, and he knew the end was coming. He could see it in the way Mark looked at him, and they sickly tone the nurses adopted. Did he need anything? 'Yeah', he would think sarcastically, 'another chance at life if you don't mind.'
He looked down further on his body to his swollen abdomen and legs bulging through his white hospital gown, a sure sign of fluid build up due to the cancer that ravaged his liver. The doctors had told him also that due to decreased liver function, his kidneys were also ceasing to function properly. They said they could no longer medicate, because they did not want to risk any more buildup of wastes in his body if it did not metabolize correctly. His muscles had dissipated leaving his skin loose and he had lost nearly all strength. The IV scars of his last days met with heroin scars of his glory days painting angry colors against his nearly translucent skin.
"Roger?"
The door to the bathroom opened, without a sound, well oiled and mechanic like the rest of the hellhole he now called home. Not even a small annoying creak to reassure Roger that there was still life in this place of death. Every door in the loft creaked, as did some of the floorboards and the eleventh stair. When Mark used to step on a creaky floorboard Roger used to joke that it was off-key, and had thrown him off of his groove. Mark would reply that he needed to have a groove first or something to that effect. He missed that. He missed the way his body sagged into the left side of the couch, and the way you couldn't push the bathroom door too far open or it would unhinge. He missed the sight of the sky, and the way the birds sang. He missed breathing in the smog and angry cab drivers who honked their horns even at fucking 3:00 AM in the fucking morning. He missed feeling the humid heat of the summer and the frigid chill of the winter. He missed the Life's horrible coffee and teasing Mark with pork hot dogs on the Fourth of July. He missed the sun on his face and the rain on his skin.
He missed feeling alive.
"Roger, you really shouldn't be up. I mean, the doctors say that if you move too much, then the fluid in your legs could increase and—"
"Take me home, Mark."
"Rog, you know I'd like to, but the hospital—"
"—is the best place for me. I know." Roger turned to face his best friend. "Mark, look at me."
"Rog, I can see you perfectly, I'm only standing two feet from you."
"No, Mark. –Look- at me." Green eyes welled, "I'm dying, Mark." Roger turned to his reflection and reached his hand up to touch the cold image of himself in the mirror. "No," he growled. "No, I'm already dead."
"Roger, please don't say that." Bright blue eyes met dim hazel pleadingly.
"Why not? It's true. I'm already dead. I was dead before now, Mark. It just took this sanitary graveyard to make me see it. They kill everything that could have lived in here, don't allow plants for fear of "contamination". Like they're going to get me sicker than I already am. Well, what's sicker than dead? I can't even breathe half the time, just because I forget what it's like to draw fresh air into my lungs. Everyone holds their breath around me, avoiding anything that resembles human emotion, and I've stopped trying to feel emotion myself. I just lay here staring at one white wall after another until I forget which white wall I'm staring at until I'm not even sure I exist."
"Roger…"
"Mark, -please-. –Please- get me out of this shit-hole. I'd rather breathe contaminated air than not breathe at all."
Roger waited in silence, staring at the filmmaker, searching for signs in his eyes. Mark's eyes were bottomless, neither light nor dark; Just pools that were too deep to see into. Like an ocean, beautiful, but holding an infinite unpredictable power, too strong and immense to take in. Roger had often wondered what was hidden behind those eyes, but he had never wanted to know more than he did right now.
Mark sighed. "All right, Roger. I'll get you out. But we do it on my terms."