Mark didn't think Roger realized just how much he changed, since April died. Hell, Mark hadn't realized it himself until Roger finally picked up his guitar again. It was funny, how something that should have signaled everything returning to normal made the differences suddenly apparent. Artists were supposed to like change, embrace it. Artists were supposed to bring about change in the first place. This one, though, left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Mark's stomach.
Roger used to use his guitar to connect with people. Mark could remember so many times when Roger had been on stage, in a club somewhere, and no matter what the rest of the band was doing, every eye in the place was inevitably drawn to Roger, through the hazy, smoke-filled air. Part of it was his confidence and cocky air, part of it was his voice, part of it was that he was just so damn attractive – and knew it – but it was the guitar that carried all of that, bound it all together in a way that made him completely irresistible, in a way that caught people's hearts.
An image flashed into Mark's mind, of Roger on stage, fingers moving quickly, easily over the strings, the way he'd sidle up to the microphone, his mouth right on it, head tilted ever so slightly to one side, flushed and sweating a little under the lights and still absolutely beautiful, in a way that didn't even necessarily have anything to do with sex or desire. He didn't even have to be looking at you for there to be a connection, then.
Mark glanced over at Roger, biting back a grimace at the way he bent over the guitar with a determined frown, fingers faltering over the strings in a way Mark had almost never heard from Roger before. Yes, things had certainly changed. As he turned away and started to walk back to his room, he was almost certain he could hear another melody underneath the faltering, not-quite-music Roger was so carefully picking out, an echo of the past. Roger calling him or Collins or Benny or Maureen, anyone who was around, to him, and he'd play whatever song he'd just written while one of them sat there and listened, certain and sure and fluid. Connection and warmth and light and love.
That was gone now, and Mark couldn't quite figure out why he kept playing the fucking theme from Moonstruck over and over – and getting it wrong, at that.
He took his time putting on his coat and winding his scarf around his neck, both listening to and somehow trying not to hear Roger's attempts at playing. He hadn't really played in a year, Mark reminded himself. He'd be fine, he just had to get used to it again, and then... then maybe things would be more like the way they ought to be.
By the time Mark stepped out of his bedroom, Roger had stopped actually playing, back to playing random notes and making tiny adjustments. He glanced up as Mark walked in, raising an eyebrow when he noticed Mark's coat. "Where're you going?" he asked, and Mark shrugged helplessly.
"Maureen calls."
"You're such a sucker," Roger sneered, but it was more gently teasing than his taunts had been a week, a month before. Mark made a face at him, not that Roger was even looking at him just then, not that he would see.
"Hey, you want to come to her show tonight?" He paused, waiting for an answer, and when he got only silence prompted slowly, "Or... come to dinner? We're all going out afterwards..."
Roger glanced over his shoulder with a faintly sardonic smile. "Zoom in on my empty wallet."
Mark couldn't help but smile faintly in response. "Touché." A moment's pause, and then he reminded Roger softly, "Take your AZT." Roger shot him a disgusted look before pushing himself off the table to grab the pill bottle, guitar still in hand. Almost without thought, Mark lifted his camera and focused it on Roger as his roommate stalked back to the table, shook out the pill and downed it without water.
Close on Roger, he thought, unable to stop the constant narration in his head, and for once he wasn't sure if the narration was meant with a hint of irony, or dead seriousness. His girlfriend left a note saying 'we've got AIDS' before slitting her wrists in the bathroom. Close on what's left of the immortal rockstar and the goddamn junkie, groupie love of his life, who thought they'd last forever.
He shut the camera off.
"I'll check up on you later," he sighed. as expected, he got no response. "Change your mind." He took a step back, toward the door, his eyes still on Roger. "You have to get out of the house."
Roger gestured almost violently toward the door, and with a sigh Mark turned around and walked out. He paused just outside, standing there for a moment as he listened to Roger painfully trying to pick out the tune once more. He faltered and stopped, and Mark could hear a frustrated sigh before he started over. When he faltered this time, he didn't start again, and after a moment longer Mark closed the door as softly as he could and left. Hurrying down the stairs, he bit his lower lip and fought down that churning, uncertain feeling in his stomach.
Roger used to use that guitar as a connection, brilliant and vibrant. Now it seemed more a barrier, a shield to hide behind, and Mark wished that he could pinpoint exactly when the change had happened. But it was there, out of absolutely nowhere and staring him in the face, and as Mark stared back he realized he didn't like it, he wanted it to go away, back to how it was, and knew that it probably wouldn't, now or ever.