i. the beginning
"So this… is the end…." Roger staggered backwards into the slide, clutching at his chest as the six- and seven-year-olds surrounding him continued to "shoot" him with their sticks.
"POW!" the youngest (four, if Roger remembered right) screamed again as he slid down to the ground in as dramatic a matter as possible, twitching like he was being electrocuted. One of the kids kicked him (Roger mentally thanked god that one'd kicked his shoes off earlier) before they ran off screaming and cheering.
Roger sat up and grinned into the camera watching from the bushes. "The kids are gone, Mark, you don't have to fear death by stick anymore."
"I'm more scared of them killing my camera," Mark corrected, shaking his head a little and moving out from behind the bushes. But he was smiling, and that made Roger grin even wider. It seemed like since they'd met four months ago (could it actually be four months? Roger didn't believe it had been that long. Or maybe that short) his main goal in life had been getting Mark to smile. And, thank god, it turned out to be one of the (very few) things he was good at.
"No one's gonna kill your camera. Well, maybe me. But you're not supposed to know my evil plan yet, so we'll pretend I didn't say that, okay, baby boy?"
"Okay. But just be warned, if you attempt to hurt my camera I will have to destroy you."
"But you can't do that unless you know my weakness!"
"Ah, but I do know your weakness."
"Noooo! Who told you about the toasters?"
"You just did."
"Curses! Foiled again!"
Mark laughed, finally breaking the act, and shook his head. "C'mon, Rog. Let's go."
"Aw, do we have to?"
"I'm hungry."
"Oh, in that case! M'lady—"
"Hey!"
"--your chariot awaits!"
ii. the middle
"Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you huming I Feel Pretty?"
"…No."
"Liar!"
"I am n-not!"
"You're blushing and you're stuttering, which means you're lying."
"No, I'm not!"
"Hey, guys, what's going on?"
"Mark feels pretty and witty and gay."
"Roger!"
"Well, pretty, anyway."
"I d-do not. You don't believe him--"
"Hey, I'm just passing through."
"Bye, Ril!"
"I hate you, Roger Davis."
"I love you too, Mark."
iii. interlude
"H-hey, Rog."
"Hi." Roger's tone was flat, and even though there was a kick of guilt when he saw Mark's hopeful expression fall, it was gone in barely a minute.
"C-collins says hi. He's doing p-pretty g-good." Mark waited, but Roger couldn't even get himself to grunt in response. "The d-doctors think you can leave s-s-soon…"
"Good."
Mark winced from the harshness of that one word, and that kick of guilt happened again. Roger's eyes flickered down so he didn't have to see Mark's face, hit the marks on his arm for a moment, and he looked up feeling a little sick.
He forced himself to sound less hostile, and ended up sounding weak. "Hey, Mark?"
"Yeah, Roger?"
"I… I want…." He trailed off, scared to say the words.
"What?" Mark's voice was soft and scared and all the encouragement he needed.
"I want to stop." Roger wasn't sure if Mark could hear him clearly, his voice was so quiet. "I—I want to stop. But I'm… I'm gonna need your help."
iv. the end
"Mark?"
Roger was afraid his voice was too quiet, but Mark's response was, as always, immediate. "Yeah, Roger?"
"Can you… sing to me?"
"Course."
Roger smiled weakly. "Love you, baby boy."
"I love you too, Rog," Mark said, and even though his voice cracked a little as he spoke, he started singing. "Come on along and listen to the lullabye of Broadway…"
Roger closed his eyes to listen, with a slight smile on his face despite the pain.
Two verses later, the flatline and the sobbing made it impossible for Mark to finish the last chorus.
