* Author's Note: I'm going to do a separate explanation of my take on this
so you don't have to wade through it all to get to the actual story. Here
I'll just say I reckon something happened between Mark and Roger shortly
before the start of the show and this is one possible version of it. Also,
please take into consideration that I've never actually seen RENT, I have
the CD and piano music and I know it practically off by heart and I've been
on a ton a sites and seen a ton of pictures and read a ton of fics but
that's nothing to seeing the actual show, these are just the feelings I get
when I listen to the CD and stuff. I've probably been reading to much M/R
fluff *grin* however, if there's something wrong with this that's a result
of my not seeing the show (some continuity error or something maybe, I
don't know) then please tell me because I really don't want to look like
some uneducated thickie who's trying to write a RENTfic, I've done my
research, honestly!!!
* Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I own RENT, the lyrics, the setting etc etc etc or anything else included in this fic, all are property of Mr Jonathan Larson. Nicht mich.
* For Choco, without whom I would not have discovered the wonderfulness that is, RENT. Danke schön.
Shoot Without A Script by Purple Mango (a.k.a. najuk a.k.a. Trirarien)
Roger just stood there, looking like he couldn't believe it. I don't think I could quite believe it either. He'd just kissed me. Or had I just kissed him? I don't know, everything had gotten so confused from the second our lips met. I'd never been kissed like that before, that was for sure. It was so different, so ... so overpowering, so much passion, desperation, pushing, pulling, wanting, taking, needing, holding, fear, heat. So much contact, lips, tongues, skin, teeth, mouths, roaming hands, chests, hearts beating, legs, movement, urgency, haste, taste ... so much everything. One of those kinds of kisses. You know if you've ever had one.
I didn't know what to do afterwards though, usually kisses like that end up in bed or something - well that's what I guess, I don't really know seeing as that was the only one like that I'd ever had, but I would imagine they should - but this one had ended abruptly when I'd backed into the door and Roger had suddenly jumped back, realised what we were doing and there we were. Him looking like he couldn't believe it and me probably looking pretty damn similar. He lifted his right hand to his lips, held it there for a moment and then pulled a face and rubbed at his lips as if trying to wipe away what had just happened. I'd watched him before trying to rub the scars off his arms. He should know by now - it's not that easy.
"That didn't just happen," he muttered.
"You know that won't work Roger, it obviously did happen -"
"Well I want it not to have happened, just ... just forget it or something."
"I'm sorry, we shouldn't have ... but we, I, you ... we did and I ... I don't know, we can't just leave it."
He turned away from me sharply, momentarily defeated.
"Damn you Mark!" he shouted and turned back to glare at me, a face full of anger, "You're right again! You're always so fucking right. Even when you don't mean to be, you simply are. Always right. It must be easy, always being right, never making a mistake. Why can't you be me; always wrong. You know what being wrong does to you don't you? Me, that's what happens, a fucking mess who hasn't been outside in six months and seventeen days, who wouldn't be fucking here if it wasn't for fucking you with your always-right-ness, who just fucking kissed you."
He stopped, paused for breath, searched for words, I don't know, but he stopped, crossed his arms and looked straight at me. Maybe he wanted me to say something, but there was nothing to say, everything had already been said and shouted and screamed and moaned and wept ten times over in the six months previous to this. I'd heard things in a similar vein to this outburst several times before, you managed to get used to it after a while, your skin thickened to it. But no matter how many times he had shouted at me before, no matter how unreasonable and temperamental he had previously become, it hadn't hurt this much in months.
It had been horribly hard at first, when I was still reeling from April's death, when I wasn't used to the effects of heroin withdrawal on Roger, when I didn't know how to treat him, but I'd learnt what to do, what he needed, I'd managed to get him this far without giving up entirely. I'd learnt how to ignore his taunts and threats and screams and yells, I'd been able to shake the insults out of my mind like water off a duck's back, but this, this ... was different. We'd kissed and now his words hurt once more. He'd hated it, or rather he was acting as if he did because somewhere in the past six months he'd found that anger was his easiest line of defence - it could hide whatever he was really feeling and had the handy advantage of keeping everyone else at a safe distance. But it hurt me that he was even acting like this, it hurt like hell. I knew it was wrong, that we shouldn't have done it and it was predictable that Roger would behave like this afterwards, but still, something inside me had stirred and now that something ached, stung, twisted, fucking hurt. I wished, not for the first time that Roger wasn't so damned temperamental.
"But there it is," he seemed calmer now, sarcastic and cutting, but slightly calmer as well, "we kissed and, as ever, you are right and we can't just leave it."
Now I'd dug myself a lovely hole, I'd said we couldn't leave it, had to talk this through and now I didn't know what I wanted to say.
"Yeah, shit, I don't know Roger, I'm sorry,"
"For what?! I kissed you!"
"I thought it was me," I mumbled.
"You looked like you ... Maureen and the film and all ..." he trailed off, I don't think either of us knew quite why it had happened or really who had initiated it, we were both just taking the blame because it was easier that way.
"No, I ... it was me, you were ... I ... Oh Roger, I don't know, everything's so confused," I stumbled over my words, trying to fill the silence rather than explain what had happened.
I turned away slightly away, still backed up against his bedroom door; I distracted myself by picking at the cracked, scarred yellow paint. I remember painting the door with Collins back when it was Collins' and Benny's room. (A/N: Not implying that they were together, simply that the bedroom (2, I always imagined) to inhabitant (5 and April, who I imagine stayed there a lot too) ratio goes that they had to double up seeing as Mark was with Maureen and Roger was with April, but if you want to think of them as together well that's up to your twisted minds *shudders*) Benny hated the colour, when we went out for paint he specifically requested "No nancy colours, you know like yellow or blue or something." so when we found yellow paint on special offer we simply had to buy it.
In the few years since, Roger has attacked it with knives, fists, his head, my head, whatever he could throw around, I've stood for hours beatings my fists against it until they were raw to get him to come out, in our better hours we had scrawled song words around the edge and there were patches all over where either me or Roger had stood picking away at the paint, like I was doing at that moment. The crack I was picking at was one of Roger's own creation from when April died, I can tell because it's one of the deepest there and he's tried to cross it out with other knife marks, yet again trying to pretend something didn't happen. After we found April he went round slashing everything in sight with the penknife April had used, he'd picked it up from beside her body, washed off all the blood with a completely numb and empty look about him and then he had run through the loft sobbing, viciously scoring all the walls, doors, tables, beds, everything. So many memories from one door, and now another one would be added to it, that kiss and now this horrible, uncomfortable, desperate silence between us.
I don't think I could ever be able to explain what had happened; it was all mixed up in my head. Nothing quite made sense in the world. I remember I'd just come in, pissed because I'd seen Maureen with Joanne in the Life Cafe and she'd just rubbed it all in my face. Roger was sitting on the table his guitar in his hands, gazing at it like he didn't quite recognise it, well he wouldn't; he hadn't touched it for at least the last ten months except to pull off the A string and put it in his 'April Box'. And then somehow, in the time between then and now we'd talked and then suddenly we were kissing and ... and ... it just happened ... inexplicable.
I looked back up at him, his blue eyes still fixed on my face, that burning energy that I hadn't seen since before the drugs had suddenly come back and I could almost feel its physicality. I could still feel it, on my lips, in my mouth. That feeling wasn't going to fade for a long time. I carefully took a step towards him, he continued to stare at me, hoping I would break the silence,
"Roger, I ..." I took a breath, prayed he wouldn't kill me, "I don't think I'll be able to forget that ... that kiss. It was ... different ... from anything else, Roger, I don't know about you, you probably get fantastic kisses all the time but not me, that was, I don't know ... unique. I won't be able to forget it and I doubt you will be either, but I don't want to forget it Roger, I don't want to wipe it out of my memory, leave it on the cutting room floor. I don't mean I want to go on like this, do it again, you know, I'm not, you're not, we're not gay but it was different and I'm not going to forget about it. I couldn't even if I wanted to. The memory of those moments will always be imprinted in my mind and I'm glad. I won't forget it even if you do, which you know what, that hurts that does Roger, that fucking hurts, one moment I really want to treasure in my life and you try and pretend it never happens, that fucking kills."
Everything had come out in a rush, I meant it though, but the words had just suddenly tumbled out of my mouth. I wished I'd caught it on camera. We'd moved still closer, I don't know if I had moved or he had, I hadn't noticed, it was more as if someone had tied a rope around us and we were being compelled towards each other. But we had stopped a foot or two apart. I looked back up at Roger's eyes, scared of how he would react. He looked stunned. And was it me or were there tears forming in Roger Davis' eyes? A look of complete confusion took over his face and he moved his eyes to hold my gaze.
"I didn't mean it," he mumbles.
"Didn't mean what?" I jumped in, "the kiss? Because if you didn't mean that, if it was all some joke of your twisted mind, a 'Lets-Screw-With- Mark's-Mind' game, well, it didn't feel like that to me Roger, oh no, not by a long shot."
"I didn't mean that, I meant I didn't mean what I said about forgetting it all happened. I was just ... being me."
He looked back at me, hoping I knew what he meant, I met his eyes for a second then nodded, I understood. He had reacted in the typical Roger Davis-push-everything-away-don't-commit-acting-tough-and-most-definitely- not-gay way that he always did. Actually backing down was a very non- typical Roger Davis kind of thing. Miracles clearly do happen.
"It was ... unique ... for me too and I did feel something but I don't know Mark, it shouldn't have happened."
"You're right, and it won't happen again," I prompted.
"Can't happen again, because we're not ... like that. And I won't remember it like you will because I'd rather not. I won't forget it, but I won't revel in thinking about it and it would be a hell of a lot easier if it had never happened."
"Undoubtedly."
"Because that sort of thing never should happen between people like us."
"No, not people like us,"
"And it was probably because we've got too much emotion, you've been upset about Maureen and shit and I ... I've got April it was like a rebound thing."
I swear to whatever gods there are it wasn't that but I wasn't about to tell Roger that, I just continued to push him in our rushed prompting of each of other that we were using to find a solution. If this had happened two months ago we would have been shouting the house down and swearing a hell of a lot more. But we weren't and I was grateful for it.
"Too much emotion, too much has happened, we're different now," I said.
"But not different in that way."
"No, definitely not," I said shaking my head, definitely not gay.
"And it can't happen again," Roger repeated.
"Won't happen again," I confirmed.
"Not ever, not even if ... if we ..."
"If we find ourselves in the same situation ... too much emotion, you know," I continued his sentence for him, knowing what he was saying.
"Yeah, not then,"
"But what if things change, our situation, you know, what if it might be ..." I trailed off unsure if I should be asking that right then.
"No. No matter how right we think it would be at the time, we've done it once and it was wrong, we can't make that mistake again."
Roger lifted a hand, grasped my chin in that strange, gentle but strong way of his, he held my head so that I was looking straight into his eyes and he was looking straight into mine. We were even closer than before.
"Can we?"
"No," I shook my head and he released his grip, letting me look down, "but we can't just deny our emotions Roger."
"No, but ..." he trailed off, I'd stumped him.
I looked back at his eyes; I couldn't help but keep looking at them, so intense, like his whole being. Those eyes though, I'd gotten used to them constantly being empty and blank but now they were so alive it was a shock to see. I was held captive by his eyes as he gazed back into mine, trying to find a reply.
"We have to," he finally said, "if we're going to get anywhere in this shitty life we have to. Things like this don't happen to successful people. I've come so far, I don't want this shit to hold me back."
Screw you Roger. I held his eyes for one last minute, knowing one of us would break, knowing it would be me, wanting it to be me. I felt like he was a magnet drawing me to him. We were both so close, pulling and resisting. In the bottom corner of my eyes I could see his lips. I wanted to feel their touch again, that passion and intensity. I almost ached for it. I could feel it was so close but I knew I couldn't give in. We'd decided on this, it wasn't right. No, definitely not right, but I knew that those few seconds would feel most incredibly, deliciously right, but afterwards, Roger being Roger all over again, I didn't want that again. He didn't want it, I knew, but I also knew he could feel this pull, this attraction, as well, he was so damn twisted and confusing. Screw you Roger.
I mumbled something that might have been yes, might have been no or might just have been an affirming noise. This 'conversation' may not be going anywhere, but I was. I turned away from Roger and went straight into my room, praying my camera was in there so that I wouldn't have to come out and get it.
I fell on to the mattress, face down in my pillow, breathing hard. Screw screw screw you Roger Roger Roger. I lay there for an hour at least, just thinking. Thinking thinking thinking. Some words have a nice sound if you just repeat them over and over, over, over over. It would be useful in a narrative, fade out on their lips ... lips lips lips ... kiss ... kiss ... kiss. I'd have to try it out sometime. I thought about everything, replaying the last half hour in my head, trying to remember it, to savour it for I knew I would never get another time like that. Moments like that can never be regained, like a film recorded over. I don't think I would mind if those moments were retrieved but I knew Roger would. He would never let it happen again and I had to live with that. I could live with that I supposed, I had done for all the rest of my life.
I'd tried to think of something to say that would come out right and would solve the whole mess but there was nothing. Even if I could think of the right thing, I'd screw it up the second I opened my mouth. Nothing could be done about this now, it would just be left unfinished, we would move on, try to forget it and act like it never happened (Roger especially) and the wonderfully fresh and vivid, raw memory of that special kiss that I was holding at that moment would grow stale. Stale stale stale.
I realised that my face was wet with tears I hadn't noticed had fallen. I rubbed my hands over my face to dry it. Forefingers digging into my eyes, splayed hands messing my hair up, palms pushing my hot cheeks round in circles, one thumb flicking the end of my nose, a knuckle scrubbing at the five o'clock stubble on my chin, lastly a tentative finger touching lips. My lips. Lips that had momentarily belonged to Roger and now felt strange, detached.
I could hear Roger moving about in the next room, faint clunks and knocks. Was I dreaming or did I just hear Roger pluck at the strings on his beloved acoustic? Yes, he was definitely playing it, well tuning it but it could only lead to playing. Wow. He had been holding it about two hours ago, not sure whether to play it or not, but now he was definitely playing. From what I could hear he was trying to pick out a song he had written at least a year and a half ago, well, half written, he never managed to finish it, but some of the chord patterns where definitely there. I listened, mesmerised, for several minutes.
Well, Roger had moved on, I supposed I should try.
Everything in my life had fallen apart lately, including my precious film, the collapse of which had come to a head that very morning. However, Roger was going for a new start, I might as well. I didn't have any ideas for a new film right then but maybe if I just filmed, something would happen. It was a vague and fanciful artistic hope that this would work and I knew it probably wouldn't but you can but try. It would all be my world, what was happening there and then, improvising on the spur of the moment, what I'd been doing a lot of today. Not improvising it for the camera though, as actors do, just living life and I'd have it all on film. Proof of my existence. I looked at my watch. Almost nine. I rubbed my face once more, sat up from the mattress and eventually got to my feet. I bent down to pick up my camera, jammed a new reel in, switched it on and turned it to face me.
"Well, here goes nothing, the beginning of who-knows-what," I murmured slowly.
I opened the door and went through into the main room. Roger looked up and acknowledged me before going back to plugging in his Fender. Breathe in, breathe out. Who knows what could happen? It could be good. Then again it could be bad. Well, we all have to start somewhere, for a minute or two I just filmed the flat, every inch of it, narrating it carefully, it could be edited out later if need be. I hoped it was good, or at least decent enough to make a film of. Focus on Roger. Breathe in.
"December 24th, nine p.m. From here on in I shoot without a script."
* Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I own RENT, the lyrics, the setting etc etc etc or anything else included in this fic, all are property of Mr Jonathan Larson. Nicht mich.
* For Choco, without whom I would not have discovered the wonderfulness that is, RENT. Danke schön.
Shoot Without A Script by Purple Mango (a.k.a. najuk a.k.a. Trirarien)
Roger just stood there, looking like he couldn't believe it. I don't think I could quite believe it either. He'd just kissed me. Or had I just kissed him? I don't know, everything had gotten so confused from the second our lips met. I'd never been kissed like that before, that was for sure. It was so different, so ... so overpowering, so much passion, desperation, pushing, pulling, wanting, taking, needing, holding, fear, heat. So much contact, lips, tongues, skin, teeth, mouths, roaming hands, chests, hearts beating, legs, movement, urgency, haste, taste ... so much everything. One of those kinds of kisses. You know if you've ever had one.
I didn't know what to do afterwards though, usually kisses like that end up in bed or something - well that's what I guess, I don't really know seeing as that was the only one like that I'd ever had, but I would imagine they should - but this one had ended abruptly when I'd backed into the door and Roger had suddenly jumped back, realised what we were doing and there we were. Him looking like he couldn't believe it and me probably looking pretty damn similar. He lifted his right hand to his lips, held it there for a moment and then pulled a face and rubbed at his lips as if trying to wipe away what had just happened. I'd watched him before trying to rub the scars off his arms. He should know by now - it's not that easy.
"That didn't just happen," he muttered.
"You know that won't work Roger, it obviously did happen -"
"Well I want it not to have happened, just ... just forget it or something."
"I'm sorry, we shouldn't have ... but we, I, you ... we did and I ... I don't know, we can't just leave it."
He turned away from me sharply, momentarily defeated.
"Damn you Mark!" he shouted and turned back to glare at me, a face full of anger, "You're right again! You're always so fucking right. Even when you don't mean to be, you simply are. Always right. It must be easy, always being right, never making a mistake. Why can't you be me; always wrong. You know what being wrong does to you don't you? Me, that's what happens, a fucking mess who hasn't been outside in six months and seventeen days, who wouldn't be fucking here if it wasn't for fucking you with your always-right-ness, who just fucking kissed you."
He stopped, paused for breath, searched for words, I don't know, but he stopped, crossed his arms and looked straight at me. Maybe he wanted me to say something, but there was nothing to say, everything had already been said and shouted and screamed and moaned and wept ten times over in the six months previous to this. I'd heard things in a similar vein to this outburst several times before, you managed to get used to it after a while, your skin thickened to it. But no matter how many times he had shouted at me before, no matter how unreasonable and temperamental he had previously become, it hadn't hurt this much in months.
It had been horribly hard at first, when I was still reeling from April's death, when I wasn't used to the effects of heroin withdrawal on Roger, when I didn't know how to treat him, but I'd learnt what to do, what he needed, I'd managed to get him this far without giving up entirely. I'd learnt how to ignore his taunts and threats and screams and yells, I'd been able to shake the insults out of my mind like water off a duck's back, but this, this ... was different. We'd kissed and now his words hurt once more. He'd hated it, or rather he was acting as if he did because somewhere in the past six months he'd found that anger was his easiest line of defence - it could hide whatever he was really feeling and had the handy advantage of keeping everyone else at a safe distance. But it hurt me that he was even acting like this, it hurt like hell. I knew it was wrong, that we shouldn't have done it and it was predictable that Roger would behave like this afterwards, but still, something inside me had stirred and now that something ached, stung, twisted, fucking hurt. I wished, not for the first time that Roger wasn't so damned temperamental.
"But there it is," he seemed calmer now, sarcastic and cutting, but slightly calmer as well, "we kissed and, as ever, you are right and we can't just leave it."
Now I'd dug myself a lovely hole, I'd said we couldn't leave it, had to talk this through and now I didn't know what I wanted to say.
"Yeah, shit, I don't know Roger, I'm sorry,"
"For what?! I kissed you!"
"I thought it was me," I mumbled.
"You looked like you ... Maureen and the film and all ..." he trailed off, I don't think either of us knew quite why it had happened or really who had initiated it, we were both just taking the blame because it was easier that way.
"No, I ... it was me, you were ... I ... Oh Roger, I don't know, everything's so confused," I stumbled over my words, trying to fill the silence rather than explain what had happened.
I turned away slightly away, still backed up against his bedroom door; I distracted myself by picking at the cracked, scarred yellow paint. I remember painting the door with Collins back when it was Collins' and Benny's room. (A/N: Not implying that they were together, simply that the bedroom (2, I always imagined) to inhabitant (5 and April, who I imagine stayed there a lot too) ratio goes that they had to double up seeing as Mark was with Maureen and Roger was with April, but if you want to think of them as together well that's up to your twisted minds *shudders*) Benny hated the colour, when we went out for paint he specifically requested "No nancy colours, you know like yellow or blue or something." so when we found yellow paint on special offer we simply had to buy it.
In the few years since, Roger has attacked it with knives, fists, his head, my head, whatever he could throw around, I've stood for hours beatings my fists against it until they were raw to get him to come out, in our better hours we had scrawled song words around the edge and there were patches all over where either me or Roger had stood picking away at the paint, like I was doing at that moment. The crack I was picking at was one of Roger's own creation from when April died, I can tell because it's one of the deepest there and he's tried to cross it out with other knife marks, yet again trying to pretend something didn't happen. After we found April he went round slashing everything in sight with the penknife April had used, he'd picked it up from beside her body, washed off all the blood with a completely numb and empty look about him and then he had run through the loft sobbing, viciously scoring all the walls, doors, tables, beds, everything. So many memories from one door, and now another one would be added to it, that kiss and now this horrible, uncomfortable, desperate silence between us.
I don't think I could ever be able to explain what had happened; it was all mixed up in my head. Nothing quite made sense in the world. I remember I'd just come in, pissed because I'd seen Maureen with Joanne in the Life Cafe and she'd just rubbed it all in my face. Roger was sitting on the table his guitar in his hands, gazing at it like he didn't quite recognise it, well he wouldn't; he hadn't touched it for at least the last ten months except to pull off the A string and put it in his 'April Box'. And then somehow, in the time between then and now we'd talked and then suddenly we were kissing and ... and ... it just happened ... inexplicable.
I looked back up at him, his blue eyes still fixed on my face, that burning energy that I hadn't seen since before the drugs had suddenly come back and I could almost feel its physicality. I could still feel it, on my lips, in my mouth. That feeling wasn't going to fade for a long time. I carefully took a step towards him, he continued to stare at me, hoping I would break the silence,
"Roger, I ..." I took a breath, prayed he wouldn't kill me, "I don't think I'll be able to forget that ... that kiss. It was ... different ... from anything else, Roger, I don't know about you, you probably get fantastic kisses all the time but not me, that was, I don't know ... unique. I won't be able to forget it and I doubt you will be either, but I don't want to forget it Roger, I don't want to wipe it out of my memory, leave it on the cutting room floor. I don't mean I want to go on like this, do it again, you know, I'm not, you're not, we're not gay but it was different and I'm not going to forget about it. I couldn't even if I wanted to. The memory of those moments will always be imprinted in my mind and I'm glad. I won't forget it even if you do, which you know what, that hurts that does Roger, that fucking hurts, one moment I really want to treasure in my life and you try and pretend it never happens, that fucking kills."
Everything had come out in a rush, I meant it though, but the words had just suddenly tumbled out of my mouth. I wished I'd caught it on camera. We'd moved still closer, I don't know if I had moved or he had, I hadn't noticed, it was more as if someone had tied a rope around us and we were being compelled towards each other. But we had stopped a foot or two apart. I looked back up at Roger's eyes, scared of how he would react. He looked stunned. And was it me or were there tears forming in Roger Davis' eyes? A look of complete confusion took over his face and he moved his eyes to hold my gaze.
"I didn't mean it," he mumbles.
"Didn't mean what?" I jumped in, "the kiss? Because if you didn't mean that, if it was all some joke of your twisted mind, a 'Lets-Screw-With- Mark's-Mind' game, well, it didn't feel like that to me Roger, oh no, not by a long shot."
"I didn't mean that, I meant I didn't mean what I said about forgetting it all happened. I was just ... being me."
He looked back at me, hoping I knew what he meant, I met his eyes for a second then nodded, I understood. He had reacted in the typical Roger Davis-push-everything-away-don't-commit-acting-tough-and-most-definitely- not-gay way that he always did. Actually backing down was a very non- typical Roger Davis kind of thing. Miracles clearly do happen.
"It was ... unique ... for me too and I did feel something but I don't know Mark, it shouldn't have happened."
"You're right, and it won't happen again," I prompted.
"Can't happen again, because we're not ... like that. And I won't remember it like you will because I'd rather not. I won't forget it, but I won't revel in thinking about it and it would be a hell of a lot easier if it had never happened."
"Undoubtedly."
"Because that sort of thing never should happen between people like us."
"No, not people like us,"
"And it was probably because we've got too much emotion, you've been upset about Maureen and shit and I ... I've got April it was like a rebound thing."
I swear to whatever gods there are it wasn't that but I wasn't about to tell Roger that, I just continued to push him in our rushed prompting of each of other that we were using to find a solution. If this had happened two months ago we would have been shouting the house down and swearing a hell of a lot more. But we weren't and I was grateful for it.
"Too much emotion, too much has happened, we're different now," I said.
"But not different in that way."
"No, definitely not," I said shaking my head, definitely not gay.
"And it can't happen again," Roger repeated.
"Won't happen again," I confirmed.
"Not ever, not even if ... if we ..."
"If we find ourselves in the same situation ... too much emotion, you know," I continued his sentence for him, knowing what he was saying.
"Yeah, not then,"
"But what if things change, our situation, you know, what if it might be ..." I trailed off unsure if I should be asking that right then.
"No. No matter how right we think it would be at the time, we've done it once and it was wrong, we can't make that mistake again."
Roger lifted a hand, grasped my chin in that strange, gentle but strong way of his, he held my head so that I was looking straight into his eyes and he was looking straight into mine. We were even closer than before.
"Can we?"
"No," I shook my head and he released his grip, letting me look down, "but we can't just deny our emotions Roger."
"No, but ..." he trailed off, I'd stumped him.
I looked back at his eyes; I couldn't help but keep looking at them, so intense, like his whole being. Those eyes though, I'd gotten used to them constantly being empty and blank but now they were so alive it was a shock to see. I was held captive by his eyes as he gazed back into mine, trying to find a reply.
"We have to," he finally said, "if we're going to get anywhere in this shitty life we have to. Things like this don't happen to successful people. I've come so far, I don't want this shit to hold me back."
Screw you Roger. I held his eyes for one last minute, knowing one of us would break, knowing it would be me, wanting it to be me. I felt like he was a magnet drawing me to him. We were both so close, pulling and resisting. In the bottom corner of my eyes I could see his lips. I wanted to feel their touch again, that passion and intensity. I almost ached for it. I could feel it was so close but I knew I couldn't give in. We'd decided on this, it wasn't right. No, definitely not right, but I knew that those few seconds would feel most incredibly, deliciously right, but afterwards, Roger being Roger all over again, I didn't want that again. He didn't want it, I knew, but I also knew he could feel this pull, this attraction, as well, he was so damn twisted and confusing. Screw you Roger.
I mumbled something that might have been yes, might have been no or might just have been an affirming noise. This 'conversation' may not be going anywhere, but I was. I turned away from Roger and went straight into my room, praying my camera was in there so that I wouldn't have to come out and get it.
I fell on to the mattress, face down in my pillow, breathing hard. Screw screw screw you Roger Roger Roger. I lay there for an hour at least, just thinking. Thinking thinking thinking. Some words have a nice sound if you just repeat them over and over, over, over over. It would be useful in a narrative, fade out on their lips ... lips lips lips ... kiss ... kiss ... kiss. I'd have to try it out sometime. I thought about everything, replaying the last half hour in my head, trying to remember it, to savour it for I knew I would never get another time like that. Moments like that can never be regained, like a film recorded over. I don't think I would mind if those moments were retrieved but I knew Roger would. He would never let it happen again and I had to live with that. I could live with that I supposed, I had done for all the rest of my life.
I'd tried to think of something to say that would come out right and would solve the whole mess but there was nothing. Even if I could think of the right thing, I'd screw it up the second I opened my mouth. Nothing could be done about this now, it would just be left unfinished, we would move on, try to forget it and act like it never happened (Roger especially) and the wonderfully fresh and vivid, raw memory of that special kiss that I was holding at that moment would grow stale. Stale stale stale.
I realised that my face was wet with tears I hadn't noticed had fallen. I rubbed my hands over my face to dry it. Forefingers digging into my eyes, splayed hands messing my hair up, palms pushing my hot cheeks round in circles, one thumb flicking the end of my nose, a knuckle scrubbing at the five o'clock stubble on my chin, lastly a tentative finger touching lips. My lips. Lips that had momentarily belonged to Roger and now felt strange, detached.
I could hear Roger moving about in the next room, faint clunks and knocks. Was I dreaming or did I just hear Roger pluck at the strings on his beloved acoustic? Yes, he was definitely playing it, well tuning it but it could only lead to playing. Wow. He had been holding it about two hours ago, not sure whether to play it or not, but now he was definitely playing. From what I could hear he was trying to pick out a song he had written at least a year and a half ago, well, half written, he never managed to finish it, but some of the chord patterns where definitely there. I listened, mesmerised, for several minutes.
Well, Roger had moved on, I supposed I should try.
Everything in my life had fallen apart lately, including my precious film, the collapse of which had come to a head that very morning. However, Roger was going for a new start, I might as well. I didn't have any ideas for a new film right then but maybe if I just filmed, something would happen. It was a vague and fanciful artistic hope that this would work and I knew it probably wouldn't but you can but try. It would all be my world, what was happening there and then, improvising on the spur of the moment, what I'd been doing a lot of today. Not improvising it for the camera though, as actors do, just living life and I'd have it all on film. Proof of my existence. I looked at my watch. Almost nine. I rubbed my face once more, sat up from the mattress and eventually got to my feet. I bent down to pick up my camera, jammed a new reel in, switched it on and turned it to face me.
"Well, here goes nothing, the beginning of who-knows-what," I murmured slowly.
I opened the door and went through into the main room. Roger looked up and acknowledged me before going back to plugging in his Fender. Breathe in, breathe out. Who knows what could happen? It could be good. Then again it could be bad. Well, we all have to start somewhere, for a minute or two I just filmed the flat, every inch of it, narrating it carefully, it could be edited out later if need be. I hoped it was good, or at least decent enough to make a film of. Focus on Roger. Breathe in.
"December 24th, nine p.m. From here on in I shoot without a script."