A/N: Okay so I lied. There will be another chapter (or two if I get another brilliant idea). So yeah, keep reading. I own nothing but the plot.
The loft had been so cold for mid-April. Mark hadn't bothered to turn the heat or electricity on while he was here. When he got that call in LA he knew that he had to come back, but wouldn't be home long. Roger had moved downstairs with Mimi as soon as he showed signs of not being able to take care of himself. Which Mark found funny. Roger could never take care of himself. Even when he was clean and healthy, he could barely dress himself. There would be times when Mark would come home to see piles of clothes scattered in random order around the loft. He always left jars open, and was the cause of many a strange smell in their little home.
Mark sat on the ratty couch, staring blankly at an old magazine. Not reading it, but trying to look like he was doing something normal, should someone come visit. The pages were limp and wet, probably from being used to catch a leak or something. They were always thinking of creative ways to fix up the loft. Pillows in the windows to stop the drafts from blowing in...
No. He wouldn't remember. He couldn't let himself remember, because then he would almost be admitting that it actually happened. But he couldn't help it! Roger had been his best friend, his companion, his advice-giving therapist for so many years. So the advice had been less than stellar. Hell, Roger's advice usually consisted of him telling Mark to "bust some heads" whenever he was angry, but it was advice none the less.
The silence was getting to him. It was allowing him to think, and he didn't want to think about anything ever again. What could he do? What would Roger do?
Mark stood and marched to the small kitchen, which was still stocked with plates and glasses, coffee mugs and silverware. He reached up into one of the shoddy cabinets and pulled out the first thing his fingers fell on. A black porcelain mug. Roger's mug. Mark frowned, holding it, inspecting it like it was some foreign specimen he had discovered.
And then he just let go.
The mug flew from his hands as he let his fingers uncurl from the handle, reflecting a few spots of light before it hit the hardwood. Shattered. The noise was beautiful, a tinkling of cheap plaster spreading into a crash of cymbals as the little shards spread across the floor like a liquid spill.
He was pathetic. So desperate to quell the silence that he dropped a mug, just to hear it break. What was he doing? He didn't know and he didn't care. He just walked away from the wreckage and towards Roger's old room.
Mark, you know this is a bad idea, don't go in there, there's nothing for you in there, they didn't move his stuff, just DON'T go in there. His thoughts were continuous and flowing, not fragmented and full speed as usual. Something inside of him was slowing down, causing everything around him to slow down. He took what seemed like hours to actually pull the door to Roger's room open and step inside.
Nothing had changed. Roger's bed was still unmade and clothes were piled high on top of it. A few empty bags of Doritos and chips lay scattered on the floor, near the garbage, but not exactly in it. Pictures and posters covered the walls. Mark looked up to the huge Jim Morrison blanket that Roger had hung above his bed, and then to the other posters for different bands. He didn't look at the pictures. That would come later. Now was a time for action.
He flipped the blankets that hung over the side of the bed up and onto it, crouching down and sticking his arm under the bed. He felt around for a moment before pulling out the long, black guitar case he had been looking for. Sitting back on the floor, he inspected the sticker covered case, running his fingers over the latches and flicking them open with a muffled clicking noise. He pulled out the monstrous Fender and examined it quickly.
And then he ran his fingers across the strings. He knew something was sharp or flat, but he couldn't place what. Was it the D? Or the F string? Was there even a D string or an F string? He knew nothing about guitars, just that this one was somehow connected to his best friend. Somehow this was the link back to him.
But Mark wanted to hear it being played, and he couldn't do it. Mark wanted to hear the persistent notes that kept him up at night and woke him in the morning. The smooth arpeggios and grunting power chords that fueled his songs. He didn't know how Roger made those notes out of this mix of wood and plastic and metal, and that made him angry.
He put the guitar back with less care than he should have and stood. His fists clenched, his jaw set...he wanted to break something else. The guitar? No. A window? No, too cold...
"What do you want me to do!?" He called out to no one in particular. He was tired. Weak. Angry. Slamming the door to Roger's room behind him, he retreated, collapsing on the couch and falling into a restless, dreamless sleep