Authors Notes, 7/19/02: Well, this beast has been rewritten, revised, and restructured. What was once part one has been broken up, and there's nothing truly new until Part 2. HUGE thanks to Lola. Without her help (and constant nagging...:P), this never would have been finished. And Dulcey? Thanks for pushing me to get this posted. I want more Crashing Down now. :)
Hang on, guys. It gets angsty from here.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're all property of Jonathan Larson.
**
After the Fall
by sashay
**
[Mimi]
Cold. Cold. Cold.
How was it that I could be cold in jeans and a sweatshirt, with three blankets and Roger wrapped around me?
In the end, it didn't matter. This cold was different-wholly consuming, eating me alive. I'd never been cold like this before. My teeth chattered so hard I thought they would shatter, leaving me with nothing but a mouthful of sharp, jagged fragments of white.
Roger hugged me tighter, seemingly trying to will my body to stop shaking, and whispered something I wish I could have heard into my ear. All I felt was the wet warmth of his breath, and his mouth pressed against my ear. The pain was blinding, searing, and was occupying not just my head, like earlier, but my entire body. Tears began to stream freely down my cheeks; I whimpered and squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this helpless. I was tough, damnit. I was Mimi Marquez: exotic dancer, HIV positive, independent single girl in New York trying to make a living while doing a little living. I rarely cried in front of people. Now it seemed that all I was capable of were tears.
"Shhh....baby, its okay. You'll be alright, you'll get through this," Roger's voice finally faded in through the gauzy veil over my senses. I could hear him crooning in my ear. I struggled to focus on his voice.
After what seemed like an eternity later, the pain finally started to recede. I let out a slow, shaky breath and let myself free fall into unconsciousness.
**
[Roger]
Not even a full minute after Mimi had finally fallen asleep I bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and turned on the water. Fierce, choking sobs knocked me first to my knees, then flat onto the floor; my face pressed into the grungy, gunky blue bathmat, and on any other day I would have been repulsed. Instead, I was reminded of many nights spent the same way in various bathrooms across the city back about five years ago, and that made me cry even harder. I cried for April, for Mimi, and for myself. For Angel and everyone our strange little family had lost along the way. For Mark, who had fought so hard to keep me among the living when I wanted to be anywhere else. For all of the mistakes I had made, and all of the wasted time.
Mostly though, I cried for Mimi.
Twenty minutes later, I picked myself up off of the floor and managed to make my way out into the living room, collapsing onto Mimi's sofa. It was soft-too soft-and normally I hated this piece of furniture with a passion, but at that moment I didn't have the energy to care. She had been sleeping back in her bedroom after the latest-and worst-bout of chills and tremors had finally subsided. My eyes burned from the tears, but I made myself focus on Mimi. Withdrawal was a bitch unlike anything I had ever experienced before or since. Now, by whatever kind of twisted luck happened to strike me, I had lived through it twice. First with myself, Mark taking care of me after April's suicide. I hadn't wanted to live, but he had forced me to. Now, thinking of the woman asleep only feet away in the other room, I was so thankful he had made me wake up every morning, eat, sleep, and take my AZT. I know without a doubt that I wouldn't be here if Mark hadn't loved me enough to take care of me.
Seeing Mimi in this much pain was slowly tearing me apart, piece-by-piece. As horrific as I knew what she was going through was, I would have taken her place in an instant if it would mean that she would be spared all of this. She was undoubtedly the love of my rather unsuccessful, nothing life, and I didn't even want to think about what might happen if I lost her. Each scream, gasp of pain, and shudder tore a chunk out of me and tossed it carelessly aside until I didn't think I could take any more. Each time, it would eventually end and she would drift, mostly peacefully, into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, I'd find myself collapsed in the bathroom sobbing uncontrollably until I was so spent I could barely stand, like earlier tonight. This had been going on for the past six days. As endearing as she might find that particular display, I really hope she never finds out I did that. I do have certain masculine standards to live up to and manly men don't collapse sobbing on the floor.
"Rog? Are you in there?" Mimi's soft, breathy voice floated out into the living room where I'd been unsuccessfully trying to doze for the last few minutes.
"Yeah, I'm just out on the couch," I called back to her. I grabbed a worn green chenille throw pillow off the couch and hugged it to my chest. "How are you feeling?"
Mimi quirked an eyebrow. "Like shit."
"I figured," I said, grateful the past six days hadn't seemed to damage her sense of humor. Setting the pillow to the side, I sat up, resting my forearms on my thighs. I stared at the gritty wood floor, memorizing the cracks and almost invisible grain in its worn surface. "Anything I can do?"
Mimi strolled over to the couch, and I raised my face to meet her eyes. Their dark irises met mine without fear, without reservation. Her eyes, I thought fondly. Just one glance at them and I was gone, a captive man.
"Just hold me, Roger," she whispered.
I smiled softly and pulled her to me. Laying us back on the battered sofa, I sighed content for a short moment. It wasn't paradise, I realized, as Mimi laid her head down on my chest. But it was something. In the end, it was probably everything.
I felt a slight puff of air as Mimi chuckled against my chest.
"What?"
"Its too quiet in here," she replied. "You can even hear that damned clock ticking." I glanced over at the black and white cat clock, with its swinging tail and moving eyes. I'd always found that clock particularly creepy.
"Good point," I noted, wisely choosing not to bring up her lack of interior design skills.
"Talk," Mimi implored. "About anything."
I hummed softly into her curly hair, trying to come up with 'anything'. Why was it that the broadest topics were always the most challenging? Anything left too many things open, too much to chance. I stroked her back through the thin fabric of my grey sweatshirt that she had claimed weeks ago and tried to buy some time.
"Where's your guitar, Rog?" she asked.
I paused, startled. Since moving down here to help Mimi out, I'd barely even thought about my guitar. "Up at the loft," I finally answered.
"You should get it later," she murmured, nuzzling my neck. "I miss hearing you play."
I nodded against her hair, where it was pulled into a messy, puffy ponytail.
After a few minutes, "Did you ever want kids?" I asked.
Mimi lifted her head off my chest, looking down at me oddly. She seemed almost amused, her eyebrows knit together and lips pulled into a smirk. Of course, I suppose it was a rather odd question, especially coming from me. "Yeah," she began, settling back on my chest. I tangled a hand in her hair and waited for her to continue. "A little girl," she sighed. "I wanted to spoil her rotten and braid her hair and tie her shoes. All the things my mom did for me that I never really appreciated."
"You had it all figured out," I grinned.
Mimi snorted. "Hardly. Why did you want to know?"
"No reason," I replied. In truth, I wasn't entirely sure where it had come from. I imagined I could see her mind turning, wondering whether to press the subject or not. Her eyes finally settled back on mine and I mentally sighed with relief. She'd moved on.
"Did you?" she asked.
"No," I replied immediately, noting how her face fell at my answer. "I never thought I'd want them. Too much responsibility. I mean, I can barely take care of myself."
Mimi instinctively tightened her thin arms around me. She was amazing; always seemed to know someone needed just a little more support to make it through whatever it was had happened to them. "But?" she prodded. That was the other part of Mimi. Sure, she'd build you up. But in the end she was also going to get whatever she wanted out of you.
"Then I met you," I replied, kissing her temple gently. "And my opinion changed."
Mimi laughed. "You suddenly think you can take care of yourself?"
"No!" I answered, feigning indignation. Smiling, I poked her in the ribs. I suddenly wished I wasn't quite so able to feel them through my sweatshirt-her sides were beginning to resemble a washboard. Mimi still had a long way to go, I realized.
She yawned. "Fate sure has a lousy sense of timing."
For lack of a better response, I tightened my arms around her waist. Mimi simply took my hand in hers, and entwined our fingers. She squeezed my hand briefly.
"Love you," I whispered. She smiled softly in response and after a minute I felt her breathing even out. "Sleep, Mimi," I murmured, closing my eyes and allowing unconsciousness to claim me.
**
[Mimi]
I awoke to Roger's arms wrapped tightly around my waist and the solid warmth of his chest was pressed up against my back. I sighed. The omnipresent headache of the past few days was back, and I knew the cravings, tremors, and all of the other wonderful symptoms of heroin withdrawal would soon follow. It would be so easy to disentangle myself from him and slip out the front door. Looking across the room, I spotted his battered brown leather wallet on the small table near the door where he had thrown it down days ago. I knew he didn't have much money, but it would probably be enough to buy a fix.
Despite the heat radiating off of Roger, I began to shiver again and pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa. My grandma had made the blanket for me when I turned 16. It was a deep crimson color-my favorite. God, my family would be so ashamed if they saw me now. While I'd been raised as a good Catholic girl, I was currently huddling on a couch that should have been condemned ten years ago with a man I wasn't married to, craving heroin so badly I wanted to cry. I glanced over my shoulder at Roger. He was deeply asleep, his mouth open slightly and his goofy yellow-blonde hair sticking in every direction. He didn't look particularly attractive at that moment, but God, I loved him.
I gently pried myself from his arms and stood up, wrapping the afghan around my shoulders more tightly. I needed to walk. Somewhere, anywhere. I settled for pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, attempting to think of anything other than the lancing pain that was currently shooting through my head. I didn't get far. After a minute or two I ended up against the wall, my fingers scrabbling for a grasp of something as the tremors became too much and my knees gave out. I slid down the rough stucco wall and ended up sitting on the dusty, splinter-ridden wood floor, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. Huge, gasping sobs wracked my body; partially from pain, and partially from exhaustion. I was so tired of fighting. Between HIV and withdrawal, life barely seemed worth living anymore.
"Mim?"
Roger's bleached head stuck up from over on the couch. He looked around the room, slightly confused and obviously not fully awake.
"Oh God," he muttered, and was by my side in an instant. I had to admit, the man could be quite selfless when he wanted to be, despite his self-destructive, self-centered tendencies. "Baby, are you okay?"
I shook my head violently as tears cascaded down my cheeks. "Please Roger," I started, then curled into a tighter ball pressing my forehead down to my knees. I was too ashamed to even finish my own sentence.
"Please what?" he asked, his voice raising to a near panic level. Up until this point, I hadn't asked for anything much. I'd cried, hurt, and generally taken out whatever I was feeling on him, but I'd yet to beg. "You know I'll do anything for you,"
"I need..." I pleaded with my eyes for him to understand.
"No," he replied, his voice firm yet gentle. "Anything but that."
"But,"
"No," he repeated.
I had one last card to play. "If you love me..."
He sighed, running a hand through the messy bleach blonde curls on his head. "I do love you. You know that. And that's exactly why I won't let you."
"Oh fuck you, Roger," I snapped, tugging the afghan tighter around my shoulders. "You don't love anyone but yourself."
"Mimi..."
"No. I feel like hell, you know that Roger? And you won't give me the one thing that'll make me feel better. So fuck you. I don't need you, and I certainly don't love you."
Putting my hands on the floor, I tried to push myself up to my feet. A sharp stab of pain shot through my hand and I gasped. A jagged piece of wood bigger than a splinter and only slightly smaller than a small stick had embedded itself in my palm.
"Stupid fucking apartment!" I screamed, finally succeeding in pulling myself to my feet. I made it two steps before falling again. This time, however, the wall wasn't there to catch me. The last thing I remember is my head making contact with the floor, then more darkness.
**
Reviews make my day. :)
Hang on, guys. It gets angsty from here.
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're all property of Jonathan Larson.
**
After the Fall
by sashay
**
[Mimi]
Cold. Cold. Cold.
How was it that I could be cold in jeans and a sweatshirt, with three blankets and Roger wrapped around me?
In the end, it didn't matter. This cold was different-wholly consuming, eating me alive. I'd never been cold like this before. My teeth chattered so hard I thought they would shatter, leaving me with nothing but a mouthful of sharp, jagged fragments of white.
Roger hugged me tighter, seemingly trying to will my body to stop shaking, and whispered something I wish I could have heard into my ear. All I felt was the wet warmth of his breath, and his mouth pressed against my ear. The pain was blinding, searing, and was occupying not just my head, like earlier, but my entire body. Tears began to stream freely down my cheeks; I whimpered and squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this helpless. I was tough, damnit. I was Mimi Marquez: exotic dancer, HIV positive, independent single girl in New York trying to make a living while doing a little living. I rarely cried in front of people. Now it seemed that all I was capable of were tears.
"Shhh....baby, its okay. You'll be alright, you'll get through this," Roger's voice finally faded in through the gauzy veil over my senses. I could hear him crooning in my ear. I struggled to focus on his voice.
After what seemed like an eternity later, the pain finally started to recede. I let out a slow, shaky breath and let myself free fall into unconsciousness.
**
[Roger]
Not even a full minute after Mimi had finally fallen asleep I bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and turned on the water. Fierce, choking sobs knocked me first to my knees, then flat onto the floor; my face pressed into the grungy, gunky blue bathmat, and on any other day I would have been repulsed. Instead, I was reminded of many nights spent the same way in various bathrooms across the city back about five years ago, and that made me cry even harder. I cried for April, for Mimi, and for myself. For Angel and everyone our strange little family had lost along the way. For Mark, who had fought so hard to keep me among the living when I wanted to be anywhere else. For all of the mistakes I had made, and all of the wasted time.
Mostly though, I cried for Mimi.
Twenty minutes later, I picked myself up off of the floor and managed to make my way out into the living room, collapsing onto Mimi's sofa. It was soft-too soft-and normally I hated this piece of furniture with a passion, but at that moment I didn't have the energy to care. She had been sleeping back in her bedroom after the latest-and worst-bout of chills and tremors had finally subsided. My eyes burned from the tears, but I made myself focus on Mimi. Withdrawal was a bitch unlike anything I had ever experienced before or since. Now, by whatever kind of twisted luck happened to strike me, I had lived through it twice. First with myself, Mark taking care of me after April's suicide. I hadn't wanted to live, but he had forced me to. Now, thinking of the woman asleep only feet away in the other room, I was so thankful he had made me wake up every morning, eat, sleep, and take my AZT. I know without a doubt that I wouldn't be here if Mark hadn't loved me enough to take care of me.
Seeing Mimi in this much pain was slowly tearing me apart, piece-by-piece. As horrific as I knew what she was going through was, I would have taken her place in an instant if it would mean that she would be spared all of this. She was undoubtedly the love of my rather unsuccessful, nothing life, and I didn't even want to think about what might happen if I lost her. Each scream, gasp of pain, and shudder tore a chunk out of me and tossed it carelessly aside until I didn't think I could take any more. Each time, it would eventually end and she would drift, mostly peacefully, into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, I'd find myself collapsed in the bathroom sobbing uncontrollably until I was so spent I could barely stand, like earlier tonight. This had been going on for the past six days. As endearing as she might find that particular display, I really hope she never finds out I did that. I do have certain masculine standards to live up to and manly men don't collapse sobbing on the floor.
"Rog? Are you in there?" Mimi's soft, breathy voice floated out into the living room where I'd been unsuccessfully trying to doze for the last few minutes.
"Yeah, I'm just out on the couch," I called back to her. I grabbed a worn green chenille throw pillow off the couch and hugged it to my chest. "How are you feeling?"
Mimi quirked an eyebrow. "Like shit."
"I figured," I said, grateful the past six days hadn't seemed to damage her sense of humor. Setting the pillow to the side, I sat up, resting my forearms on my thighs. I stared at the gritty wood floor, memorizing the cracks and almost invisible grain in its worn surface. "Anything I can do?"
Mimi strolled over to the couch, and I raised my face to meet her eyes. Their dark irises met mine without fear, without reservation. Her eyes, I thought fondly. Just one glance at them and I was gone, a captive man.
"Just hold me, Roger," she whispered.
I smiled softly and pulled her to me. Laying us back on the battered sofa, I sighed content for a short moment. It wasn't paradise, I realized, as Mimi laid her head down on my chest. But it was something. In the end, it was probably everything.
I felt a slight puff of air as Mimi chuckled against my chest.
"What?"
"Its too quiet in here," she replied. "You can even hear that damned clock ticking." I glanced over at the black and white cat clock, with its swinging tail and moving eyes. I'd always found that clock particularly creepy.
"Good point," I noted, wisely choosing not to bring up her lack of interior design skills.
"Talk," Mimi implored. "About anything."
I hummed softly into her curly hair, trying to come up with 'anything'. Why was it that the broadest topics were always the most challenging? Anything left too many things open, too much to chance. I stroked her back through the thin fabric of my grey sweatshirt that she had claimed weeks ago and tried to buy some time.
"Where's your guitar, Rog?" she asked.
I paused, startled. Since moving down here to help Mimi out, I'd barely even thought about my guitar. "Up at the loft," I finally answered.
"You should get it later," she murmured, nuzzling my neck. "I miss hearing you play."
I nodded against her hair, where it was pulled into a messy, puffy ponytail.
After a few minutes, "Did you ever want kids?" I asked.
Mimi lifted her head off my chest, looking down at me oddly. She seemed almost amused, her eyebrows knit together and lips pulled into a smirk. Of course, I suppose it was a rather odd question, especially coming from me. "Yeah," she began, settling back on my chest. I tangled a hand in her hair and waited for her to continue. "A little girl," she sighed. "I wanted to spoil her rotten and braid her hair and tie her shoes. All the things my mom did for me that I never really appreciated."
"You had it all figured out," I grinned.
Mimi snorted. "Hardly. Why did you want to know?"
"No reason," I replied. In truth, I wasn't entirely sure where it had come from. I imagined I could see her mind turning, wondering whether to press the subject or not. Her eyes finally settled back on mine and I mentally sighed with relief. She'd moved on.
"Did you?" she asked.
"No," I replied immediately, noting how her face fell at my answer. "I never thought I'd want them. Too much responsibility. I mean, I can barely take care of myself."
Mimi instinctively tightened her thin arms around me. She was amazing; always seemed to know someone needed just a little more support to make it through whatever it was had happened to them. "But?" she prodded. That was the other part of Mimi. Sure, she'd build you up. But in the end she was also going to get whatever she wanted out of you.
"Then I met you," I replied, kissing her temple gently. "And my opinion changed."
Mimi laughed. "You suddenly think you can take care of yourself?"
"No!" I answered, feigning indignation. Smiling, I poked her in the ribs. I suddenly wished I wasn't quite so able to feel them through my sweatshirt-her sides were beginning to resemble a washboard. Mimi still had a long way to go, I realized.
She yawned. "Fate sure has a lousy sense of timing."
For lack of a better response, I tightened my arms around her waist. Mimi simply took my hand in hers, and entwined our fingers. She squeezed my hand briefly.
"Love you," I whispered. She smiled softly in response and after a minute I felt her breathing even out. "Sleep, Mimi," I murmured, closing my eyes and allowing unconsciousness to claim me.
**
[Mimi]
I awoke to Roger's arms wrapped tightly around my waist and the solid warmth of his chest was pressed up against my back. I sighed. The omnipresent headache of the past few days was back, and I knew the cravings, tremors, and all of the other wonderful symptoms of heroin withdrawal would soon follow. It would be so easy to disentangle myself from him and slip out the front door. Looking across the room, I spotted his battered brown leather wallet on the small table near the door where he had thrown it down days ago. I knew he didn't have much money, but it would probably be enough to buy a fix.
Despite the heat radiating off of Roger, I began to shiver again and pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa. My grandma had made the blanket for me when I turned 16. It was a deep crimson color-my favorite. God, my family would be so ashamed if they saw me now. While I'd been raised as a good Catholic girl, I was currently huddling on a couch that should have been condemned ten years ago with a man I wasn't married to, craving heroin so badly I wanted to cry. I glanced over my shoulder at Roger. He was deeply asleep, his mouth open slightly and his goofy yellow-blonde hair sticking in every direction. He didn't look particularly attractive at that moment, but God, I loved him.
I gently pried myself from his arms and stood up, wrapping the afghan around my shoulders more tightly. I needed to walk. Somewhere, anywhere. I settled for pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, attempting to think of anything other than the lancing pain that was currently shooting through my head. I didn't get far. After a minute or two I ended up against the wall, my fingers scrabbling for a grasp of something as the tremors became too much and my knees gave out. I slid down the rough stucco wall and ended up sitting on the dusty, splinter-ridden wood floor, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. Huge, gasping sobs wracked my body; partially from pain, and partially from exhaustion. I was so tired of fighting. Between HIV and withdrawal, life barely seemed worth living anymore.
"Mim?"
Roger's bleached head stuck up from over on the couch. He looked around the room, slightly confused and obviously not fully awake.
"Oh God," he muttered, and was by my side in an instant. I had to admit, the man could be quite selfless when he wanted to be, despite his self-destructive, self-centered tendencies. "Baby, are you okay?"
I shook my head violently as tears cascaded down my cheeks. "Please Roger," I started, then curled into a tighter ball pressing my forehead down to my knees. I was too ashamed to even finish my own sentence.
"Please what?" he asked, his voice raising to a near panic level. Up until this point, I hadn't asked for anything much. I'd cried, hurt, and generally taken out whatever I was feeling on him, but I'd yet to beg. "You know I'll do anything for you,"
"I need..." I pleaded with my eyes for him to understand.
"No," he replied, his voice firm yet gentle. "Anything but that."
"But,"
"No," he repeated.
I had one last card to play. "If you love me..."
He sighed, running a hand through the messy bleach blonde curls on his head. "I do love you. You know that. And that's exactly why I won't let you."
"Oh fuck you, Roger," I snapped, tugging the afghan tighter around my shoulders. "You don't love anyone but yourself."
"Mimi..."
"No. I feel like hell, you know that Roger? And you won't give me the one thing that'll make me feel better. So fuck you. I don't need you, and I certainly don't love you."
Putting my hands on the floor, I tried to push myself up to my feet. A sharp stab of pain shot through my hand and I gasped. A jagged piece of wood bigger than a splinter and only slightly smaller than a small stick had embedded itself in my palm.
"Stupid fucking apartment!" I screamed, finally succeeding in pulling myself to my feet. I made it two steps before falling again. This time, however, the wall wasn't there to catch me. The last thing I remember is my head making contact with the floor, then more darkness.
**
Reviews make my day. :)
