Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's
Wednesday
evening
Mark
I don't know how anyone can cook like this and not eat. There have been weeks, had been, before Roger, of nothing but tinned soups and Kraft. I would eat that. With him cooking, I'm surprised my pants still fit.
I watch Roger poke and pick and slither a shred of meat into his mouth. He chews and chews and chews and swallows then pokes more with his fork.
I'd feel better as it is if he ate off a plate, not out of a cup, but he's eating so I keep my mouth shut about that.
"This is good, Rog."
He shoots me a shy grin.
"No, I mean it. You can make this, like, whenever you want to."
The comment earns me another grin. I smile in return and Roger's grin lasts an extra couple of seconds before he ducks down.
The door slides open. Enter Tom Collins, looking like he just got hit by a bus.
"Hey, Collins."
"I hate staff meetings."
I suppress a smirk. "Well someone's Mister Joyful this afternoon." Roger murmurs something semi-intelligible. I guess at his meaning. "Roger says dinner's over there," I translate with a vague wave. Roger nods.
Collins pauses. "You cook it?" he asks me.
"Nope."
"Okay." Collins grabs a plate. "Man, I'm gonna miss this stuff."
I roll my eyes. "It's not like there's a cow plague," I say. "Maybe if we continue heaping on praise, Roger will make it again." Roger gives a little shiver that's his version of laughter.
"Yeah, but I won't be here," Collins says casually. He takes a bite and chews as the implication of this statement hits us.
"A-a-a," Roger stammers. The stutter comes and goes. It helps, actually, though it makes intense conversations extremely frustrating, it helps me to know when he needs a hug. "D-did you… i-is it-t-the… A-AIDS?"
That's probably the worst I've ever heard him stammer. Tears gather in Roger's eyes. Myself, I only feel the beginnings of a numb flush.
Collins shakes his head. "No! No, no, it's not that." He keeps eating. How can he eat? How can he make me think he's dying, make Roger think it, so casually? "I got a job offer, out in Cambridge." He shrugs. "I took it."
"You're leaving?" I ask stupidly.
"Yup."
"D-d-does it," Roger says, then hunches deeper within himself and shakes his head.
"When?" I ask.
"They want me there by the tenth. Twelfth, at the latest."
"B-but…"
I squeeze Roger's hand. That's less than two weeks away. Roger shakes his head and takes his hand away. "I'm g-g-going to b-bed," he says. "'Night, Mark." It's the longest speech I've heard him give all night, and with it Roger retreats. He pauses to give one final glance at Collins before shutting the bedroom door.
I look at Collins, then at the cup containing Roger's dinner. He has barely touched it. "How long will you be gone?" I don't want to be outwardly rude, though I would much rather dash into the bedroom and cuddle. Roger's upset.
It is awful how much I savor these traumas of his, but when Roger is upset, he wants to cuddle. Skin on skin, there's nothing better, no greater comfort, and I love how he needs me. Maybe I was useless to protect Roger, but I can keep him safe now.
Collins shrugs. "It depends," he says. "Summer and fall, at least. Maybe you better see how your boy's doing."
Roger is a lump on the bed. He has the lights off. I don't disturb the darkness, just undress as quietly as possible and slip beneath the covers.
Without a word, Roger cuddles up to me. He lays his head on my chest and stretches an arm over me. "Hey, Mark."
"Hey." I rest my hand on Roger's head. "You okay, Roger?"
"Mhm," Roger mumbles. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Roger? Do you ever think about…" I didn't used to worry. It used to be that I was out in the evenings and Collins was out during the day, so always someone else was here, but without us… "Do you ever think anymore about killing yourself?"
Roger stiffens. "No," he says, and I breathe again. There's nothing to say in follow-up, and any subject change would be forced, so instead I stay perfectly still until we both fall asleep.
To be continued...
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