Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.
Roger
"Roger! You almost ready?"
Sitting backstage of CBGBs on an overturned crate, Roger tuned his guitar without looking up, ignoring the voice.
"Roger, we gotta be onstage in about two minutes or this isn't going to be pretty."
Still, he kept his head bent, watching his pick vibrate against the strings without sparing a glance for Dane, who was standing nearby, tapping a stand with his drumsticks and sounding increasingly impatient.
CBGBs. A real, New York club. Even if it was a shitty hole-in-the-wall like all the others, it was a fucking known shitty hole-in-the-wall. People ended up getting discovered at CBGBs, and Roger was somehow, miraculously here. There was nothing outwardly glamorous about it, but it embodied everything that Roger had wanted from New York ever since he had started to think about coming here. Now, here he was, only seven months after moving to New York.
Living in New York was just about everything Roger had hoped for, and even though he'd been there for such a short time, he felt that his naivety had worn thin. It hadn't been long before he'd learned an awful lot that would have given his mother more premature gray hairs than she deserved.
His favourite thing about the city was the huge loft apartment that he'd moved into, which was above what was once a music publishing factory. It just seemed so poetically appropriate that he be there. At one point he had tried to explain it to one of his roommates—how it was just right to be in a place so saturated with the remnants of up-and-coming musicians, but Dane had just stared blankly at him and said, "Yeah, whatever man."
"Roger fucking Davis, are you even listening to me? One minute. We are not getting fucking kicked out of CBGBs just because you're…I don't even know what you're doing, but what you should be doing is getting the fuck onstage."
Finally Roger looked up at his roommate and drummer, who was glaring at him and sparing the occasional glances for his watch. Dane was the only guy who Roger had known from Scarsdale—he was the drummer of the former Incendiary, and Roger was glad that it was him that he'd formed up their new (much better) band with, because other than Roger himself, Dane had undoubtedly been the best member.
Besides, his older brother had already lived in the city, studying to be a mechanic, and he and the NYU graduate student that he was rooming with were happy to further split the rent of their apartment. With three bedrooms between the four of them, Roger, who was the last minute addition, ended up sleeping on the couch. It seemed like something a New York musician would do, so he didn't really mind.
From somewhere onstage, he could hear someone introducing them, and then a smattering of laughter at the words "The Well Hungarians" from those people that weren't already too drunk or wasted to catch the humour behind the name. Forestalling any further comment on Dane's part, Roger stood, rolling back his shoulders. "Calm down, dude, I'm ready," he reassured, patting a seething Dane as he walked past and towards the stage door.
As he strode onstage, a sea of faces looked up at him, and Roger felt the surge of confidence that he did anytime he performed, though mixed with a dash of trepidation that maybe they weren't good enough, and maybe they wouldn't ever get to play here again. Behind him he could hear Dane and the other two guys that made up The Well Hungarians giving last minute adjustments to their instruments, and settling themselves in. They were muttering in low voices, and he knew that the mixture of pleasure and fear had them all on edge as well.
It was a tiny stage, and didn't take Roger long to get to the microphone, which he picked up with a practiced hand and enough bravado to cover up the fluttering in his stomach. He growled a greeting to the crowd, and then with a deep breath, dove straight into the first song of their set.
By the time they were through their songs, it seemed like people had actually started to take notice (or else they were so high that it didn't matter). Still, it was a better reception than any of them had hoped for, and it left Roger with the heady feeling of confidence. On a whim, he blew the crowd a kiss, and they screamed louder at that than they had at perhaps any of his songs.
"When're you going to start taking advantage of that charm?"
Roger wiped sweat from his eyes, trying to avoid smearing his eyeliner as he looked up at Cory, his bassist. "What?"
Cory lounged against the wall, smirking, and for once Roger felt the age gap between them. Usually the fact that Zach and Cory were both in their early twenties while Roger and Dane, who had really formed the band, were still only nineteen didn't matter at all, but every once in awhile Roger wondered if they were just humouring him by letting him be their frontman.
He kept his face impassive, though, as he stood, leaning his guitar beside him. Laughing slightly, Cory reach out to tug at Roger's hair which, he thought silently, was starting to get a little bit too long. "You've got a crowd of girls that are dying to have you fuck them. Probably some guys too, if you're into that," he added snidely, shooting a glance over at Dane, who was bent over picking up a water bottle from the floor.
With a roll of his eyes, Roger shoved Cory. "Asshole. Fuck off."
Cory shrugged, and just kept smiling in a frustratingly knowing way. "To each his own." He started walking backwards across the small backstage area towards Zach, who was waiting, presumably so they could both go out and get themselves utterly smashed and laid by the very willing patrons still in the club.
Just before he reached the door, he called back, "Go out and get some pussy. Or cock. Or both. Just go get laid," to which Roger flipped him off.
Before he could escape into the cool spring air and start the trek back towards the loft, another voice stopped him—Dane's, this time. "Out of curiosity, Davis—what is stopping you from ever going out there? No strings attached and you'd cut down on how fucking long you take showering so that not all our funds contribute to you—"
He broke off, laughing, as Roger cuffed him behind the head. "I'm working more hours that you anyway, bastard," he pointed out, "and I found us a job where they wouldn't ask about age and they'd still give you discounts on the merchandise. Also, I write the songs that are getting us in here."
Dane raised his hands in obvious surrender. "Point made, point made," the drummer laughed, edging his way out the door and back into the club.
This left Roger alone, looking down at his guitar, Cory and Dane's words ringing in his head. What was stopping him? He was lonely and bored, and it wasn't as if he had anything or anyone to be holding off for. Resolutely, he pushed the thoughts that were trying to crowd at his mind away (seven months without a phone call was enough of a signal, and he'd have to be blind to not know what it meant), and walked out into the dingy club interior.
"Order me a drink, you fuck," Roger hissed, slipping onto a barstool next to Cory, who was throwing back a shot easily. Cory grinned, and then laughed outright, holding out a hand into which Roger shoved some money, and then caught the attention of the bartender.
Once Roger had his long fingers curled around a drink, he could feel his confidence rising, and he chanced a long look around, seeking, hunting without being sure what he was looking for. The crush of bodies crammed into the room made it almost difficult to distinguish one person from another, until a pair of thin hands were suddenly on his shoulder from behind and he started so badly that he nearly toppled out of his seat.
Trying to regain his composure he turned, finding himself face-to-face with bright blue eyes and stick-straight blond hair. "Hey," the girl breathed, invading his space, stifling him, "I'm Amy. You were the lead for the last band, right?"
This was exactly the kind of girl that Roger had hated back in high school, who was looking for nothing more than an easy fuck, using the way that she stood, chest barely held into her shirt and touching against his shoulder to try to lure him in. He almost pushed her away in disgust, but then Dane's words rose up in his mind again: No strings attached, and rather than brush her off, he leaned back into her a little and gave her a predatory smile.
If she looked just like a female version of Mark, Roger pointedly didn't think about it.
"I'm Roger," he replied, and let her walk around until she was in front of him, slipping forward to straddle him and say, "You were really fucking good onstage."
He winked and wrapped his hands around her thin waist, forcing himself to stay in the here-and-now, murmuring, "I'm better offstage," and leaning in to kiss her. She tasted like pot and lip gloss, wrong wrong wrong, but he ignored how nothing about her felt right and made himself keep kissing her, holding her tightly against him as she squirmed in his lap, and it was almost enough to convince him that this was what he wanted.
Two hours later, Roger found himself trudging back to the loft alone, considerably more relaxed than before, and wondering why exactly he'd put that off for so long. The answer was a nagging idea that he would rather ignore, but couldn't quite manage to. But he was the one that gave up on me, not the other way around. He was the one who decided it was over, Roger told himself, and then, out loud, "He gave up on me. He ended it."
When he pushed the door open it was quiet inside, and he was pretty sure that Dane wasn't back yet. There was a light on, though, and he could make out a shape curled up on the couch near the lamp. Drawing a little closer, he could see that it was Collins, the NYU grad student, with books and papers strewn out around him.
At the sound of Roger's footsteps Collins looked up and waved with a friendly grin. Then again, he almost always looked friendly, except when he was talking philosophy. At those times he was just serious, and maybe a little sad.
Roger wandered over to the couch and took a seat, where Collins was looking at him speculatively. "Let me know if you need me to move so you can sleep," the bigger man told Roger softly, but Roger shook his head.
Collins was by far his favourite of his roommates, and honestly, Roger had a little bit of a hero-worship complex when it came to Collins. Collins was the one who had taken some time to show Roger around the city, let Roger talk about pretty much anything without actually prying or asking the wrong questions, and had a way of producing alcohol out of thin air. He was also apparently a computer programming genius, and always knew what to say.
"Studying for a midterm?" Roger asked, voice scratchy from singing for most of the night, and whispering to Amy for the rest of it.
Nodding, Collins responded, "I think I'm about done for the night, though. You're in awfully late for…you."
His voice was pitched with understanding, and Roger looked up, thinking about back door fucks and short skirts and girls, damn it. "Yeah, well…"
"You don't have to make excuses," Collins replied, and for a second, Roger thought wildly that he somehow knew about Mark, knew about everything that had gone on in Roger's life before he made it to New York. Then he realized that Collins may have been a genius, and may have had an intuition for feelings, he didn't actually know everything, and he was just saying that Roger didn't need to make excuses for needing someone.
Face twisting into a smile, Roger shot back, "Why would I have to?"
Collins chuckled, reaching into his pocket and producing a joint and a lighter. Roger's eyes followed the large hands as he lit it and brought it to his lips, taking a long drag and leaning back, looking more comfortable than the lumpy couch should have allowed. "You want some?" he asked, offering the joint to Roger.
That caught Roger off guard. Collins hadn't ever suggested that Roger get high with him before, presumably to protect him. For just a moment Roger considering resisting, saying no, that wasn't his thing, before deciding that it not being "his thing" was only true in a different world, one that had been deconstructed and left behind seven months ago. Instead he nodded, holding out a hand.
Before he handed it over, Collins warned, "Be careful. It's not going to be as easy as it looks the first time." Roger almost flipped him off, except that he could tell Collins was actually trying to help him out, not ridicule him, so he refrained and just accepted the joint.
Despite his inner preparation, when Roger tried to breathe in he overdid himself, the acrid smoke burning at his throat and causing his eyes to water. "You alright?" he heard Collins ask, concerned, and Roger coughed a little, nodding.
"Yeah, just….let me try that again," he finally managed, forcing a smile and raising the joint back to his lips, this time only letting a little into his mouth and holding it there for a moment, taking in the lightness, the feeling of the edge of a high creeping over him before he exhaled calmly. It was better this time, and he leaned back against the arm of the couch opposite Collins', Collins laughing and taking the joint back.
"It's not all for you. Even if we are celebrating your first CBGBs gig and everything it means for your career."
Now Roger understood the offer, and that it was actually Collins still watching over Roger. Roger thought about how readily he had accepted the joint, and thought that maybe Collins was just making sure that the first time Roger did this it was here, in the loft, with someone assuring he was okay, because he had crossed a threshold without warning.
Or maybe Roger was just imagining it.
Either way, as he reclined, stretching his fingers out for the joint again, he thought that he was glad that he was finally moving on.
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Three weeks later, he was even more glad. The Well Hungarians weren't playing CBGBs this time, though they had gotten a call asking them to come back and play there again in the future, and there was even a night lined up. Things were falling into place perfectly.
That Saturday, however, they were playing a little venue only a couple blocks from his and Dane's apartment. There weren't a whole lot of people there, and they'd only taken the spot because a little extra cash was always nice, and they didn't have anything else lined up. There wasn't nearly as much of a crowd as Roger liked, but there were a fair number of girls right at the foot of the stage, and they were all enthusiastically screaming.
In the last few weeks, he'd gotten good at the one-night encounters. He never took anyone home, but what harm was there if the girl was willing, and he was safe about it? As he bid the crowd before him goodnight and slipped off the stage, his eyes were already roving among the people before him.
Almost as soon as he'd gotten into the club, a drink appeared before him, the bartender grunting and gesturing a few seats over when Roger raised an eyebrow in question. There, leaning against the wall cockily, was a young man with three earrings in his right ear and spiky black hair. Once he was sure that Roger had noticed him he stood and wandered over. "You always gape like that?" he asked, sliding onto the barstool next to Roger.
"I'm…" Roger stopped, looking at him for a moment, because maybe…but then he was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but I'm not…I'm not into guys," he finished, standing up quickly and hurrying into a backwards retreat.
Almost immediately he ran into someone, and felt a slight splash across his back.
"Shit," he heard as he turned, and found himself face to face with a girl nearly a head shorter than him, who was holding a now-empty glass and sporting a wet stain down her left side.
"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry," he told her, looking around for napkins that weren't anywhere in sight. "I'll buy you a new…whatever. Or…"
Roger's voice trailed off when the girl looked up at him, because she didn't look angry as he had expected, but she was laughing. "Okay," she told him, resting her free hand lightly on his upper arm, "You can buy me a drink, as long as you stay to drink it with me."
Her smile was bright and wide, almost too wide for her face, and her hair was cut choppily around a pixyish jawline, a dark strawberry blond that he didn't think was dyed that colour. The girl had amber eyes that sparkled brightly when she smiled, and no, he definitely didn't have a problem with sharing a drink with her. "I'm April," she told him as he collected his thoughts and led her towards a table, where he left her briefly to go and pick up fresh drinks for them both (the bartender could have cared less about ID in a dive like this).
When he returned, April was leaning her elbows on the table, which was so small that their knees knocked together underneath. Not that Roger minded, even when April laughed and kicked him gently with a toe covered by a leather boot. "So, what's your name?" she asked, and he could have swallowed his tongue for forgetting to tell her, because he really didn't want to give this gorgeous girl any reason to stand up and walk away.
Taking a chance, though, because from how she was looking at him he was pretty sure she wasn't going to anyway, he teased, "Weren't you listening when we announced it onstage?"
April smiled and leaned a little closer. "I was distracted," she replied, eyes dancing, and Roger can't help but smile back at her.
"Good," he breathed, and then leaned in to nip lightly at her mouth until she laughed and pulled away.
"Slow down, gorgeous," she murmured, "We've got all the time in the world."
Roger thought that slowing down for April was something he would be completely willing to do.
