O Rose Thou Art Sick
Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything that rightfully belongs to the genius Jonathon Larson. Credit also goes to go William Blake for the title, from his poem, the Sick Rose, and to Pablo Neruda for the chapter title, from his poem, Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines.
Chapter Two: Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, "The night is shattered,
and the blue stars shiver in the distance,"
-Pablo Neruda
"Mark?" Roger called. Christ, the apartment was freezing! Roger glanced at the phone, considering calling Benny to complain. He didn't. He knew the former Bohemian-turned-landlord tried hard to keep the building running, but the utilities, such as heating and electricity, often broke down. Benny tired to get the building fixed up, but it was difficult, considering his boss and father-in-law still seemed to think Benny intended to turn Tent City into a studio, and therefore paid no attention to Benny's mission of having the building fixed. Still, Benny helped however he could, bringing the Bohemians blankets to keep warm. In fact, the blanket that hung limply around Roger's shoulders belonged to the landlord; it smelled slightly musty, as if it had been pulled from the back of a closet. But it had no major holes in it, and it was warm. At this point, Roget would take what he could get.
"Mark?" he called again, confused. He had slept most of the day, and now it was two o'clock in the morning. Mark should have been at home; the pasty white Jewish boy was so easy to mug, it scared Roger. Especially at the beginning of their friendship, he worried all the time about the filmmaker. Now he knew Mark could pretty much take care of himself, but that didn't stop him from worrying.
Besides, when Roger had gone to bed at nine in the afternoon, Mark had said he'd be back at the Loft by twelve, at the latest. That was two hours ago. Mark, if anything, was always on time to be with Roger, to tell him to take his AZT, to yell at him for continuously playing 'Musetta's Waltz' on his guitar. He was always there.
Of course, there was the possibility that he had simply forgot, something Mark often did when he was out filming. Or, on the other hand, it could have just been Roger trying not to freak out…
A thought crossed Roger's mind. Quickly, he got up and hurried across the Loft to Mark's bedroom. He carefully opened the door, in case Mark was sleeping.
Mark wasn't there. The bed, although messy, was empty. The camera was also gone. 'He's just out filming,' Roger tried to reassure himself. It did him no good. Mark had been missing for nearly three hours. Nothing in Roger's mind could rightly justify that.
Roger ran a hand through his hair. If Mark was conscious, or could get to a phone, he would have called to tell Roger he was going to be late, and to tell Roger to take his AZT.
Then there was the fact that Mark hadn't been feeling well recently. This troubled Roger further; he was worried about Mark. The obvious role-reversal had to make Roger chuckle a little bit, if a bit unwillingly. He wondered if Mark felt this sickening worry all the time, about him He hoped not.
Roger grabbed the abandoned blanket and sat on the tattered couch, making a silent promise to himself: if Mark wasn't back by four, he'd call somebody. Maybe they would know something.
Roger sat back, waiting for the return of his best friend.
A/n: I told you it would get a little confusing. Then again, I don't write confusing stuff very well, so you're probably not confused. Please review. Constructive criticism is heartily accepted.