Title Visits
Summary Mark visits Roger in the hospital. (I suck at summaries but I swear that my fics are better:)
Notes I don't own Mark or Roger. This is highly based upon Anthony Rapp's "Visits To You" which I also don't own (the song or the man). Go read the lyrics before reading this. I'd post them, but I don't think would appreciate that. Even since I said that I don't own them…
"Mr. Cohen."
I think that maybe he said it, and start to grin, but realization hits that it was a feminine voice and I look up, trying to hide the disappointment in my face and failing miserably.
"Hi," Forcing a smile as the nurse nodded before leaving me in privacy with Roger. He was lying in a hospital bed, his disease having caught up with him at last. Taking a seat in the chair beside his bed, I took off my scarf and coat, laying them on the arm of the chair, my eyes never leaving Roger's form. The room is so white that it's blinding. The tubes and liquid dripping into Roger's arm are all so clear and transparent. I can see his veins and I have to tear my eyes away before I start to realize how skinny he is, that I can see bones that I never saw before. I turn my gaze around the room and see that there are a few cards and two bundles of cheap flowers that were probably bought in the gift shop downstairs. Their sad attempt at brightening the room is futile against the room itself. It seems to suck the life from everything, including Roger.
Today his eyes are open but facing the window opposite of me. Two months ago, he would at least face me, but not anymore. He's getting thinner and he stopped speaking a good few weeks ago. I don't think he even realizes that he has visitors anymore. I half wonder if he can even tell the difference between the nurses' and my voice.
The others visit but I seem to be the most persistent, coming everyday while the others come at least once a week. It's not that they don't care, they do, it's just that they have their own lives to lead and since I don't….I come here. The nurses know me by name and they keep me updated even if I don't understand the medical terminology.
My mind begins to wonder if this is the last time that I'll see him and I immediately push the thought away. No, I refuse to think on it. Roger'll get better. He has to. I can't live without him. I can't face this world without him.
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Weeks pass and Roger is still in the hospital. I had a small hope that he might miraculously get better and come back home, but even then I knew it wasn't possible. I hold his hand as the tears fall. Every time I come now I cry, taking his hand in mind and thinking that this is the time. That this will be goodbye.
Everyone tells me that I'll have to let go, or at least try and face it but I refuse. No, I'll live in today and today only. I won't think on what tomorrow is, on what it could bring. But still, my mind deceives me and releases the thought that I won't have him much longer. And a tiny part in me answer to it saying that yes, it knows.
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Everyone stands and says something about Roger Davis. It's only when I feel the weight of everyone's stares that I realize that it's my turn. Taking off my glasses, I wipe at my eyes, before nodding, more to myself than to anyone else. Stepping forward, I place a shaking hand on Roger's casket. I know that I'll still come here to this place. Probably every week, even when it seems useless or like I'm holding onto the past, I'll come. Words refuse to come to my throat, all I can do is stand there in my rented suit and cry, my hands tracing the grain of the wood and wondering when time had become such a haunted figure in my 'life'.
"I miss you." I say, my voice raw with emotion, wanting to say more but I know that there's no need. Roger heard all that I said during my visits, he understands and knows. There's no need to repeat it.
I look to his face and place my hand over his, the meaning behind it known to only us.
He's my brother, and my life will be empty without him. But I won't forget him; I never can; never will.