Title: Like a Candle
Rating: T, only because it's RENT, you know.
Genre: Angst/Romance
Summary: Songfic, oneshot. Pre-RENT. Mentions of ROGERAPRIL, foreshadowing of ROGERMIMI.
Notes: I just couldn't ignore how Roger-y this song was. :D
Whether it had been an absent, fleeting look as their eyes met, or exchanging ephemeral hints of a smile in greeting, he was sure that he'd seen her before. He couldn't place where, exactly, but, he reflected dryly, that could very well have been because he hadn't been outside the loft since April's funeral in mid-winter.
I took a ride on a February morning,
Just getting over it and dealing with the mourning.
It was now early September, and although he'd been clean since July, withdrawals would still silently haunt him, the symptoms not nearly as intense or as painful, but there all the same. Mark, following the duty of being the encouraging voice, insisted that he felt Roger was really starting to get better, and he suspected, he'd announce, pride trickling into his voice as he did, that by the time winter set in, he'd be completely healthy.
"Completely healthy?" Roger would scoff, unable to stop himself from doing so. "Unfortunately being healthy is a luxury I'll never have again." He wouldn't complete the thought out loud, only too pleased to feed Mark's optimism and only too willing to hide the fact that he already felt sick.
Nothing serious yet, of course, but he felt it all the same. The acute influenza he'd been afflicted by post-diagnosis was long gone, abolished finally in early April. What he felt now was a sinking, sick feeling that something was slowly eating away at him as the seconds ticked by. This depressing notion gave way to exhaustion, and so he consequently found himself quite lethargic lately.
As if there was much too do in the loft in the first place, he would think to himself mildly, entertaining the thought with a tiny smirk.
He would eat, but every time he did, a gag would rise in his throat for nothing seemed to taste appealing anymore.
He would think, but thoughts were dangerous, indeed they had an uncanny way of taking him to painful places.
And he would sleep, dreams plagued by her, whether it was the lifeless arms slumped against the side of the bathtub, leaking infected blood, or her sad, bottomless blue eyes drowning him forever as she begged his forgiveness.
I started thinking out loud: I'm so sick and tired of being sick and tired,
My baby's flying off the edge of the road,
She's saying, "I'm so sorry about that note",
That left me all alone,
But I'm so sick and tired of being sick and tired.
He wanted out, but every time he'd take a step toward the door, his mind would scream at him and his heart would race. Outside… that was where enticement lay, surely The Man would not have forgotten one of his most loyal clients, and he'd belurking in the shadows of the lot outside, powdery temptation burning in his pockets.
Fear would always win out, and Roger would remain, a prisoner of himself.
His guitar sat in its case, gathering dust.
And he sat by the window, gathering resolve.
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me what's wrong,
I'd be lying if I told you,
Losing you was something I could handle.
He cursed himself for being afraid, for not being strong enough. His friends were supportive and gentle, and he pretended not to hear their anxious whispers as they hurriedly conversed, exchanging wistful reflections about his failure to come out from his entombment.
And then he saw her.
Sometimes, at night, when he was staring unseeingly out across the skyline and the blinding neon lights of the city, he'd sense movement on the street below and catch a glimpse of her, a flash of faded-animal print moving steadily across the sidewalk. He'd watch, intrigued, as she rounded the corner, always finding himself foolishly wondering where she went every night and even more foolishly finding himself filled with the seemingly random but urgent desire to follow her there.
Once, he ventured out onto the fire escape, the closest he'd been to the outside in a long time. The air in the loft had long since filled his lung with mustiness that became unbearable, and he greedily breathed the city air as if it were the purest and most untainted clean oxygen on the planet. Mid-thought, he heard a rustle below and looked down.
She was out on the fire escape too, a level down, cigarette dangling between two of her fingers. She glanced up as well, sensing that she wasn't alone. He pondered her for a moment, and she smiled at him, something that oddly sent a burst of pain through him.
Darkness seemed to envelop her then, a strange curtain that withheld her from him, and the pang of longing he'd felt as she walked briskly across the cracked cement of the sidewalk returned, as he found her walking briskly across the cracked cement of his damaged heart.
Fear arose in him; a feeling of being vastly ill-equipped for whatever emotions were welling up inside him shook his senses. He looked away, pained to do so, but just as pained to look into her curious brown eyes, depthless pools of light that he realized then put the city lights to shame.
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me how long,
All this darkness will surround you,
'Cause I'm burning for you,
Burning like a candle.
After that day, he didn't see her for a week. Her nightly outings were interrupted by a lull of inactivity, and though he couldn't tell himself why, anxiety filled him concerning her absence. Hopes that she was well soon surfaced, and he pushed them back, determined not to let himself care too much about a stranger, one whom he'd never even dared to speak with.
Yet, as he sat in silent vigil by the window, sipping at a cup of gritty coffee one morning, he squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a feverish ache in his head and an ostensibly misplaced worry in his heart.
Seven days since I've seen your face,
Seven nights I have laid to waste,
I'm burning out now,
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
"Roger?" Mark had stopped pouring himself a chipped mug full of the brown sludge and sent a concerned look his way. "You ok?"
He hated the worry on Mark's eyes, the strange sense of fragility Mark had come to regard him with. He was starting to get used to it, but he hated it all the same.
"Fine." He muttered all too quickly, taking another sip and coughing at its bitterness.
Mark's doubtful eyes swept over him, but he nodded slowly. "All right… well, I'm going out to the park for a bit to film…" he began, looking up. For an instant, Roger thought his friend was going to ask him to come along, and panic swelled over him.
Mark, perhaps perceiving this, finished lamely, "I'll see you, later, ok?"
And his roommate wrapped his striped scarf around his neck once and started for the door.
"Mark?" Roger croaked suddenly, and Mark spun around, trying to conceal his shock and hopefulness that his friend had stopped him.
"Yeah?" He intoned.
"Do you know who lives beneath us?"
A bolt of confusion knitted Mark's pale brows into a v-shape as he shook his head. "I've never met her. I hear she's a dancer. Seems pretty young." He looked back up at Roger, the question "Why do you ask?" written all over his face.
"Oh." Roger tried to sound disinterested. "I haven't seen her around lately. I was just wondering."
"Maybe she's sick or something." Mark said innocently, but seemed to recoil upon speaking the words, glancing at his friend with a gaze of horror and worry.
Roger mentally sighed, intentionally pretending not to notice what Mark saw as a verbal blunder, and calmly replied. "Oh. She could be. Oh well, I guess I'll see you later."
A bit relieved, Mark reached for his camera, feigning checking to see if the reel was in or not. Awkwardly, he responded, "Bye, Rog."
"And Mark?" Roger was awed at himself for speaking up again.
"What?" Mark paused, flicking distractedly at a piece of film reel on the table.
"I'm sorry." Roger half-whispered, unable to look him in the eye.
Mark walked toward him. "For what?"
"For…" A breath. "Not coming with you."
A warm arm was draped across Roger's shoulders a moment later, and Mark grinned supportively. "Its fine, Roger. Really. I don't want to force you to do something you're not ready for."
He stopped for a second, and Roger managed to look at his best friend's face. "I feel like you're on the edge. You need to get out, and you will when you're ready. I'm not pushing you."
Roger tried to say thanks but his lips wouldn't move. Mark patted his shoulder and without another word, exited the loft.
I know we're hanging at the end of the road,
We've flown too high, make a swarm too low.
That night, he saw her again, and he quelled the wave of relief he felt, again wondering what the hell caused him to feel such a substantial amount of liberationseize him at the sight of her. He watched her as she crept into the dark lot, and for a moment, he lost sight of her. His eyes wandered out across the city again, satisfied, until he heard a shrill yell from below.
I heard a screaming out loud,
I heard a screaming out loud.
Instantly, his gaze fluttered back down to where she'd been.
She was clutching desperately at the front of a man's jacket, his identity concealed by his position and the lack of light in the alleyway. Roger's heart was snatched by the fear he could see in her eyes even from a distance, the moonlight highlighting the frantic sheen that had glossed over the lulled calmness and steadiness he'd seen in them that night on the fire escape.
Worried, he felt the need to grab his jacket and go down to help her, convinced she was in trouble, but he was frozen to the spot, legs stiff as he watched from the window. The conflict seemed to die down and the intensity of the confrontation with it. She was crying, and finally, she extended an arm and gave the man something. He wrapped his arms around her and something dark and cold clutched at Roger's heart. She stuffed her hand in her pocket and tore herself from him, sobbing.
Not sure what else to do, Roger pried himself away from the window and filled a splintered mug with water, quenching his throat which had suddenly gone dry. For a few minutes, he stood there, empty thoughts ebbing and flowing in his mind.
A faint creak floated into his perceptions and he turned to the window. Below, the girl had come out onto the fire escape, shivering slightly. He swallowed, his hand dropping the mug softly into the sink and his eyes roving over her upturned face. She silently regarded the dimmed stars, her mocha-colored cheeks traced with silvery tear tracks, which glittered in the moonlight in a way that Roger found strangely beautiful.
The thought seized him again: Where have I seen this girl before?
He felt the shady veil encompass her and although a part of him screamed to go out there onto his own fire escape, perhaps strike up words with her, he stood there still again. A voice told him not to interrupt this moment, and the darkness still clawed at the space between them, a quiet force that left him floored. A thought of April, the first one in days, entered his head and he turned away.
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me what's wrong,
I'd be lying if I told you,
Losing you was something I could handle.
He walked away from the window, seating himself on the moth-eaten couch to surrender himself to his thoughts. A few minutes later, he dimly registered the creak of her window again as she climbed back into her loft, the space between him and this strange girl who seemed to be haunting him widening even more.
He stayed there, long after that, until Mark walked in, astonished to find him awake at such a late hour. He couldn't tell Mark what had captivated his thoughts, how he'd been trying to fathom the intensity of his curiosity surrounding their downstairs neighbor and the strange feeling of longing he got when he looked at her.
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me how long,
All this darkness will surround you,
'Cause I'm burning for you,
Burning like a candle.
He found her again, on the fire escape, as he quietly watched the city come to life one morning. She was walking along toward the building with a light-skinned Latino man, with whom she talked animatedly.
"Well, chica." The man started as they stopped in front of the loft building. "I have to go, sorry we didn't get to chat longer."
The girl laughed and hugged the man. "No te preocupes." She reassured him in Spanish. "I have to go get ready anyway; I have a date with Ben later."
"You still dating that asshole?" The man asked, and then he backtracked. "Sorry, but there's something not right about him, honey."
She laughed at him. "I'm beginning to think you may be right… after that last fight, I thought he'd never come back. But he did, I guess I just want to give him a second chance."
"A second chance to prove my theory?"
"I didn't say that!" And then the two hugged again. The man adjusted a pickle tub he'd been carrying under his arm and waved goodbye, leaving with a sort of spring in his step. And the girl entered the building.
Roger winced, his head was throbbing again. Pressing the skin of his forehead against the cool glass of the dusty window, he watched the lives of other New Yorkers unfold before his eyes for several hours. None, he thought to himself, did he find as interesting as hers.
By that afternoon, his headache was gone, but he found himself pacing the loft, a bit stir-crazy and yet increasingly agoraphobic due to the strain he felt from desire to stay away from any possible encounters with The Man.
Several days passed on like this, during which he seriously considered leaving the loft to avoid going insane, but fear held him in place. Mark started to worry, sensing his tenacity beginning to disintegrate slowly under all the pressure.
"Roger, are you all right?" He asked for the fiftieth time that week, at least.
"No." Only this time Roger's answer was different. He lowered himself sadly to the seat by the window, feeling like a failure, too disgusted to even look at his roommate and not wanting to see the disappointment and concern in Mark's face.
He felt his friend come over and stand beside him. "You're going to be fine. You're doing great." He assured him lamely. "You know what might be good for you? I could have some people over, just you know… Maureen, me, some other people from the Life… I mean, you may not be ready to go out, but you must be sick of being alone in this place."
"No." Roger repeated dully. "I don't want people over."
Mark sighed. "It was a dumb idea anyway, I'm sorry, man. You want something to eat?"
"No."
"To drink?"
"No."
"Have you taken your AZT yet?"
"No." And he felt Mark's piercing look. "I will." He added quickly.
"Do you want me to get you anything…? I'm going to the store right now." Mark asked.
"No."
"Then what do you want?!!" Mark exploded suddenly, sounding really frustrated. As soon as he said it however, he looked sorry.
"I don't know, Mark. I don't know what I want. That's the problem." Roger replied honestly, his voice a quiet murmur.
"I'm sorry, Rog…" Mark started to apologize. "I… I… I really only want to help. I didn't meant to snap at you…"
"It's fine. You're fine." Roger dismissed.
"But you're not." Mark pointed out slowly. He sat down near Roger, looking at his hands. "Are you?"
Roger's eyes drifted out to the street below, where he caught sight of a familiar head of dark brown curly hair, catching in a slight breeze.
"No, I'm not. But I will be." He found himself saying.
Think,
All the things that you say,
What are the things that you mean,
What are the things that you say to me,
'Cause you're tragedy,
A queen for his majesty,
All these plans for me,
Your kingdom is crumbling,
You're a tragedy,
A queen for his majesty,
All these plans for me,
Your kingdom is crumbling.
Throughout the fall and early winter, Roger felt less and less sick and even less tired. An awakening of something… he wasn't sure what, had stirred within him. Despite all his progress, he still felt a twinge of fear each time he made any move or thought toward going out, and this caused shame to flood through him.
Christmas was soon on its way. And for awhile, Roger forgot about her, that haunting yet beautiful girl who didn't know it, but helped him through his withdrawal. Yet, one night, he and Mark had just gotten into another fight with Benny, because the asshole shut off their power and demanded rent as some sort of ransom.
Mark was walking downstairs to go talk to Benny, face to face, when Roger felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked down, and felt something comparable to an electric shock as the eyes of a familiar stranger engulfed him. She grinned up at him almost knowingly, and he wanted to smile back, but was seized again by a curtain of dark, something stopping him from doing more than acknowledging her presence. She merely continued to smile at him, until his inability to reciprocate unnerved him so much that he had to turn around. April's smile, much like hers, flashed before his eyes for the first time in… had it really been nearly a week since he'd thought of her?
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me what's wrong,
I'd be lying if I told you,
Losing you was something I could handle.
He winced, starting to follow in Mark's footsteps. As he trudged along, deep in thought, a conscious regret at allowing the girl's actions to go unrequited began to fill him and he half-thought of knocking on her door as he passed it. He clenched his fist and cringed when he found himself unable to summon enough strength to do so, his knuckles turning white.
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me how long,
All this darkness will surround you,
'Cause I'm burning for you,
Burning like a candle.
The guitar was beginning to frustrate him; all efforts to tune it had been fruitless. He'd tossed the instrument sadly to the side, soon becoming lost in thought as he often did. How am I supposed to write a song, he thought miserably to himself, when my guitar won't even tune? Thinking of this as a portent of things to come, he sighed, blowing a slow, cheerless breath past his lips. Then, he heard a knock on the door. Bemused, he lifted himself from the cool metal table and reached for it, pulling it open and saying, "What'd you forget?" , already preparing to grab any extraneous item for his roommate that he'd inadvertently forgotten again.
Burning for you,
Burning like a candle.
He was momentarily stunned to see her face when he looked up, and she smiled again, the steady beam of light from her eyes shining as she did so. Her hair tumbled in graceful yet wild curls onto her shoulders, and she leaned against the support of the doorframe, shaking a bit.
"Got a light?" She asked him simply, and her hand emerged from her coat pocket, producing a stubby, unlit candle.
Roger, seeing her shiver, instantly pulled her inside, and she laughed, insisting it was nothing. She held up the candle expectantly, and Roger felt that sensation again, the feeling of longing and sad desire well up in him.
"Would you light my candle?" she inquired, a hint of flirtatiousness accenting the question. Roger received the words, feeling a tug on his heart as he did so. Quelling the walls of doubt and fear that his mind was already starting to build around it, he reached into his back pocket, found a book of matches, lit one, and reached for the candle.
The flame transferred from his hand to hers, and warmth filled the air around it, the dancing orange sending flickering shadows across her face.
Roger, awestruck, took a step back, as the candle started to burn, filling the darkened loft with some much-needed light. The curtain that had fallen between him and the world blew open abruptly, and his lungs failed him for an instant. He regarded her quietly, watching her face as she flashed with another smile, enjoying the way his stomach and heart fluttered in tandem now as she did so, and feeling the ghosts of a grin climbing into his cheeks as well.
Astonished, he cast a quick glance to the candle, watching the waxy hardness of the candle's former state begin to feel the affects of the flame's steady warmth, bubbling and pooling, before starting to drip away.
"What are you staring at?"
Burning for you,
Burning like a candle.
He didn't know. But he knew that whatever he'd just lit fire to... that flickering, ebbing light he'd sparked, was the beginning.
Corny? Yep.
I personally feel that it sucked.
If you do too, I'd prefer if you kept that to yourself, I don't feel like crying should my fears be confirmed. Seriously. I have this huge problem with posting serious shit on this site. Humor stories, I never worry, those don't have to even make sense... but this... yeah, I'm nervous.
I guess I enjoyed writing this, though. The ending felt awkward, but I didn't know how else to word it in order to make what I wanted to happen happen as I wanted, with the right message. You know?
Ah, I don't even know. XD
Review if you liked it. Be the candle to my disheartened Roger-like soul regarding this piece of shit. XDD
That's poetic, that's pathetic. (goes off singing Halloween)