Visits to You

Chapter Seven

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: Last chapter was, basically, an intermediary chapter. I guess it left people without the sense of.. finality that the other chapters did. I really don't know.

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And when you go
Where you're going
Where will you be going?
I know I'll keep going
On my visits to you

He'd imagined a steady beep-beep-beep from a machine situated next to a hospital bed. He'd imagined painfully white walls and too-perky nurses whom you just wanted to shoot in the face, giving the room 'a little color'. He'd imagined flowers surrounding aforementioned bed, balloons tied to the handles of the baskets they resided in, spreading out over the room and spilling into the neighbor's area, though the neighbor didn't mind. He'd imagined the figure in the bed to be sick, but in good spirits. He'd imagined that the background music would be something soothing and melancholy, though with a dark undertone, foreshadowing the inevitable demise of the patient.

And then he'd remembered that life was not a movie.

The beep-beep-beeping machine was present, yes, but little else remained the same as he'd imagined it to be. The room was a pleasant, sickening light blue, and there was no neighbor to smile sweetly at the nonexistent flowers. AIDS patients were kept alone.

"Fuck.. go home, Mark."

He said nothing, but the pale hands situated in his lap gave a twitch, the only acknowledgement that the one in the bed would receive. His visitor had just woken up from an uncomfortable nap in the single chair sitting beside the bed. There was no need for any other chairs--Thomas wasn't yet old enough to sit on his own, and there was no one else to inhabit another chair. Thus, there was only the bed and the cold blue and steel chair.

"Aren't you supposed to be picking him up soon?"

"I've got another thirty minutes."

It panged him horribly to hear how hard it was for Roger to speak, but he didn't want him to stop. It was almost sadistic, he knew, but he feared that he'd be completely lost if not for the perverted familiarity of the rockstar voice. Though he rasped and gasped with each word, Mark felt shivers travel up and down his spine whenever he caught sound of the shadow of the voice that had once sent fangirls screaming and grabbing at his pant legs while the star's best friend sat in the back of the club, camera to his eye, a soft chuckling escaping him as Roger literally kicked at the horde of females while continuing to sing.

Needless to say, the story had been shared a number of times, but never in polite company. The aftermath of Roger -missing- one of the girls, who just happened to be missing a shirt, had not been pretty, to say the least. Nor had the vomit stains that had taken three cycles through the nearby laundromat's washing machine to get out, but it was a fond memory nonetheless.

If only fond memories lasted into times like this. Times where you just held your breath every time you screened, certain that this call would be the one that caused you to stop holding your breath every time the phone rang but would leave a gaping hole in your heart.

".. he looks just like her, doesn't he?"

"What?" Mark questioned, startled into speaking, breaking the silence that he'd been working on for the past five minutes while Roger's fingers twitched against the guitar held lightly in his lap, unable to play more than a few notes without shifting the entire thing, his right hand nearly immobile with the various IVs extending from beneath his skin. The only purpose they served was to keep him alive for a few more days and add to the holes and scars already present on the pale, sallow skin that hung limply from his skeleton, muscles ravaged by the disease no longer there to add some sort of shape to the limbs. His once perfectly formed musician's body had diminished over time, leaving little to be sought after by his absent fans. They'd all either overdosed or moved on by now. Perhaps a few had even followed April's example, however horrible it was. Suicide brought immortality in those rings.

"Thomas. He looks just like Mimi."

It was so matter of fact, so blatant, that the blonde could not find it in himself to respond. He wanted to just explode into details. Details of how, yes, yes, the boy looked so much like Mimi it hurt, but he had Roger's eyes and lips, and his nose was the perfect mixture of them both, a button on his sandalwood skin, but even though his lips were Roger's his smile was so painfully Mimi's that his throat closed up each time he turned it in his direction. He wanted to say all of these things, but all he could do was nod, reaching up to lightly massage around his adam's apple, turning his gaze away from the shattered man before him.

And yet, through all this, Mark also wanted to scream that Roger hadn't looked at the boy for two consecutive seconds since the day he was born. He wanted to shove the toddler in his face and point out just how wrong that statement was. It had almost been a relief, the day Roger was checked into the hospital. He no longer had to hide Thomas in his room whenever the musician emerged from his own, stepping into the light streaming in through the large windows, thus denying the baby of it. It was an unspoken agreement in the loft--wherever Roger was, Thomas was not. One of the three parties involved in this had been unhappy with it, though conceded to its necessity, while the second of the three parties merely giggled and gurgled in his babyish way, pressing tiny hands against the window, upset only when pulled away from this freedom with the arrival of the third and final party. They had spent maybe five minutes in a room together before Roger stormed out, giving no reason for his sudden departure.

It had been for this reason that Mark had spent an entire day looking for a nearby daycare center, all the while hating the idea of leaving the child with strangers for so long but knowing that he couldn't take him into the hospital room. Roger may just rip himself apart while trying to get away from his son.

Wasn't that a disgusting thought?

A few stray notes drifted through the empty, oppressive silence. The air in the room suddenly felt as though all of the oxygen had been sucked out, leaving two frail figures behind, just waiting for their lungs to collapse. Only the filmmaker seemed affected by this sudden change, but that could be because Roger was hooked up to a respirator.

"Why do you hate him?" Mark finally blurted out, his hands clenching around his knees, unable to keep his mouth shut any longer. Immediately he regretted the question as tired aquamarine eyes turned toward him, locking him in a gaze as intense as their owner could muster. He recoiled, bringing one of his legs up beneath him, hands moving from his knees to each other, gripping so tightly that the knuckles turned paper-white. He didn't want to upset Roger. The doctors had advised against any excitement, and this might just be the conversation they were supposed to avoid.

"Hate who?"

"You know exactly who I'm talking about." He murmured in response, resenting the note of defensiveness in Roger's voice. Sure, play the ignorant. Act as though you haven't barred your son from your life, thus cutting off any connection you may have had to Mimi after her death.

Mark waited for the response that had to come, his cold blue eyes unmoving, even as Roger squirmed, as much as he could, uncomfortably beneath it. The musician finally settled on staring off, seemingly focused on the window, though his eyes held a faraway look. They'd known each other long enough for the filmmaker to recognize a moment of deep contemplation--hazy eyes, tight jaw, curled fingers. It was a good minute before he relaxed, gaze sliding back to Mark before flickering to the ceiling, where it remained as he spoke with a new strength, sending a new wave of shivers running relays up and down his spine.

".. I don't hate him."

"Could have fooled me.."

"Shut the fuck up, Mark."

His response was silence.

"I don't hate him. I'm.." He inhaled through his teeth, the hissing noise momentarily overpowering the beep-beep-beep. ".. afraid of him. He.. He killed Mimi. I killed Mimi, Mark. He's my f-fault." A violent coughing fit cut him off, and Mark felt himself growing sick at the sound of the liquid in Roger's lungs, but remained where he was, knowing that the other absolutely detested needing and or receiving help. He remained most self-sufficient, even in this state.

"Mimi made a choice, Roger." Once the coughing fit had ended he resumed the conversation, his statement completely heartfelt. Mark had no use for those weak pick-me-ups like 'It'll be alright!' or 'It wasn't your fault!' He'd faced the terrible truth of the disease for too long to manufacture bullshit responses. In the beginning, perhaps, but after losing so many people he knew that owning up to the reality was the only way to survive the disappointment that came with each death.

"She wanted an abortion, Mark." He whispered, turning his haunted gaze toward the filmmaker. "She wanted an abortion and I promised her that if she took her AZT every day that he'd be negative, and that we'd be fine and he'd live to a ripe old age." He was nearly gasping now, his strength having faded beneath the weight of this new information. New to Mark, anyway. Perhaps the strength had come from the weight on his shoulders, and now, as it slipped away from him, he grew weaker and weaker. "I.. I just wanted a baby so badly.." His teeth grit and his eyes closed against the water threatening to spill over and down his cheeks.

As a hand slipped into his, aquamarine eyes slid open to see pale digits wrapping around his own. His gaze travelled up the arm, across a covering shoulder, up a neck adorned with silver beads, past a hairless chin and up a wet streak to meet Mark's own.

"She still made a choice, Roger. You didn't control her. Some part of her must have wanted him as well." He discreetly wiped at his face with his free hand, inhaling deeply and regretting yet another action. Roger couldn't do that. His breathing was labored and painful. Taking a deep breath was near impossible now.

The musician did not show any signs of being offended by this, though. In fact, he looked as though he were no longer a part of this conversation, a sudden dawning taking over his features and thus lighting them up, even if only for a moment. It was then that Mark knew that portion of Roger's inner turmoil had come to rest, clearing the storm overhead enough for a light to shine through.

There was a lull in conversation, filled again by disjointed notes from the guitar, played by a now peaceful guitarist. The blonde said nothing, his eyes merely sliding shut after a glance at the clock. Ten minutes until he had to leave. The center was nearby, thus giving him more time to be with Roger. He never knew if it would be the last chance he got to talk to the man, and wanted to make every moment of it count. To some, a silence may seem like a waste of time, but between this particular pair of friends it meant the world. Some of their best times had been passed in such a quiet. Songs had been written and scripts had been finished in this setting.

So it came as a great surprise to Mark when Roger interrupted it.

"What are you going to do, Mark?"

"... Well.. Move somewhere with a nicer school, maybe. Get a job. The money from Collins only holds out so long. Maybe I--"

"That's all good, Marky, but what are you going to do?"

".. I don't think I get what you're asking.."

The sigh heaved conveyed Roger's frustrations quite well, though there was a kindness behind it that may not have been there if he was not lying in a hospital bed on the verge of death.

"... Remember, when I left for Santa Fe, how I said that you were alone?" A nod. "... I don't want you to be alone, Mark. You'll have Thomas, but he's just a kid. I want you.. I want you to find someone, Mark. Someone who makes you happy, okay?" Roger didn't like the hesitant look on the other's face. "You can't die alone. You may be the one of us to survive, but that doesn't mean you can't find a new family. No, not find. Make one. You already have Thomas."

".. I don't know if I can, Roger." His voice was terribly small and barely audible over the incessant sounds of the hospital room.

"You can. You can do a lot more than you think you can, Mark. Just remember that, and remember us." He gave a lopsided, sad smile. "Now, isn't it time for you to pick up Thomas?"

Mark glanced at the clock, blinking slowly. "Oh.. I guess it is time for me to pick him up.." There was regret in his tone, but he managed a smile as he turned back to Roger. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Of course." And, as they hugged, the musician breathed in deeply. ".. Bring him with you tomorrow, all right?"

The filmmaker was startled, but as he pulled back he nodded, the nervous grin fading into a true smile. He gathered his camera bag, moving toward the door. As he waved goodbye, he nodded once more. "All right, Rog. See you tomorrow."

And yet, when he walked through the sliding door of the loft twenty minutes later, Thomas on his hip, he had a great sinking feeling. The boy was set down, and he moved toward the kitchen area.

He was halfway there when the phone began ringing.

Holding his breath, he turned to face the machine.

"SPEAK."

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