Over two years since publication. I decided I might as well write a little SOMETHING to keep you guys satisfied. ;
Bold are Roger's thoughts.Kai? Thanks, enjoy!
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Disclaimer;;
Characters courtesy of the fabulous Mr. Larson. Always in our hearts babyy. I know you're jumpin' over the moon! (love)
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Chapter Two:
You Make Me Better.
"Roger, I...I'm sorry," Mark whispered. Roger's muscles tensed at the sound of Mark's voice, and he automatically slid the needle out gently and silently undid the tourniquet. Damn, so close...Only half of it used...
"It's fine, Mark. I was just looking for my pick. Seen it anywhere?" Roger's voice sounded strange to him. Strained. Secretive.
Mark looked around helplessly, a tense smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well, er, about your guitar..." Roger slid the syringe in a swift motion into his coat pocket. For later. "What about it?"
"Well, uh...alright, I can't wait. I'm sorry." Mark said as he slip something out from underneath the sofa. A large, black blob.
"Uh, what's this for?" Roger inquired, as he strained his eyes to see what the blob was. "Not that it's unappreciated or anything..." he added quickly. Mark smiled, a small, crooked smile. "It's something I've been saving up to get you for some time. It's a present for staying clean. I've got the last ten bucks to pay for it in my coat." His cheeks flushed a light pink. "I hope you like it."
Roger swaggered cautiously over to Mark, regret burned in his heart and coat pocket. "Mark, you didn't have..." he lost his voice when he saw what Mark had pulled out. A solid black guitar case. Hard shelled. His heart beat a bit faster. Sorrow pulsed through his veins. He bent down and gently undid each silver latch. The case alone must have cost at least eighty dollars...Mark barely makes enough to get us both by as it was. How could he ever have afforded this? His breath caught when his eyes rested on the most beautiful guitar Roger had ever seen. A Fender Kingman S Dreadnought Acoustic Guitar. He ran his fingers gently over the rosewood fingerboard. Flawless. Absolutely perfect. And...costs at least 400... "Mark...I..."
"You like it right?" Mark's eyes were eager and nervous. The blue looked almost like glass as he hung on every word.
"Mark, it's perfect but...I can't...I'm not...I haven't..."
"Great! I can't wait for you to play it! I'm so happy you like it! I'm sorry, I just couldn't wait to give it to you," Mark babbled, his nerves settling more as he watched Roger lovingly lift the guitar from its case. He strummed it gently, a smile electrifying his normally solemn features.
"Mark, thank you so much. It's exactly what I've been wanting..." Roger sounded breathless, the syringe burned in his pocket. A reminder that he was leading Mark on. He hadn't stayed clean. "Rog, you earned this. You deserve to have that smile on your face every day. You deserve so much..."Mark's voice faded into nothing, the rest of his words lost. Mark I don't fucking deserve this. Fuck, you're making this so much harder! Take this damn thing away from me. Mark, look in my coat pocket! I'M STILL A DRUGGIE! A WORTHLESS, AIDS RIDDEN DRUGGIE!
"Roger, I just want you to know, I'm really proud of you," Mark's smile was soft, comforting. God, how can I do this to you? Betray you this way? "You are my inspiration for my films. Did you know that?" Mark, you don't mean that. You don't. "I really mean it, Rog. You are so strong. I could never be half of who you are, although I hope I can be one day."
"Mark, I'm really not--"
"But you are Rog! You don't even see it! You have overcome so much! April's death, having AIDS, quitting drugs...You're my inspiration. You make me better."
Those words hit Roger hard. You make me better. "Mark, you have no idea what you're saying. You're tired." Roger's fingers flexed over the neck of the guitar. The rush was starting, he could feel it. The gentle, soothing, electric rush of drugs. He gently laid the guitar back in the case.
"Rog, why are you putting it away? I thought you would play...I thought you'd..."
"I'm really tired, Mark. I'll play in the morning, no doubt. I just...need to crash." He slipped into his room, hand jammed into his pocket lovingly cradling the needle. Roger revelled in the sweet feeling of his high. Of this intense buzz. "Baby, I've missed you..." he whispered, as he slid the tourniquet back on to his arm. He tied it tight, his vein quickly bulging. He grabbed his needle, and without regret slid it into his vein, injecting the very poison that had fucked him up in the first place.
Oh how I've missed you...
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Short, but it's something at least, right? Better than nothing. Feedback is always appreciated. I haven't written in ages so I'm not expecting much.