Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I affiliated with RENT. Story is most definitely rated R and not for the kiddies or close-minded.
Notes: This chappie focuses more on Mark's understanding of the situation and their relationship than what is actually happening to Roger. Next chapter will get back to that, but this is quite important as well. Thanks as usual for the reviews, you guys fucking rock! ;)
Chapter 6
–You Have Broken Through My Armour-
Maureen is here again, yelling at Mark. I'm not sure why yet. I push some cereal around on top of my guitar case and try to listen, but even through the paper-thin walls I don't know what she's saying. I can't concentrate on the words. I hear a barrage of accusatory sounds, rising in pitch, falling in rhythm, but I can't seem to make sense of them.
My bone-hand flexes it's long digits, the skin taunt around the knuckles, sagging over the rest of each finger. I drum them against my guitar case, making my own rhythm to Maureen's words and Mark's attempts to defend himself. I had been out there earlier, sitting on the couch, when Maureen came. She stared at me for a while, stared, then dragged Mark into his bedroom and started yelling. And I came in here.
My eyes fall onto the broken clock near my bed. Its time telling abilities are permanently 3 hours and 4 minutes ahead, but it's enough to tell me that over an hour has gone by.
I sigh, and using the wall to brace myself, stand up. Maybe if I can get closer I'll know what they're talking about. I almost fall by the door, but manage to keep my footing. I twist the knob, pulling the door open and head out to stand by Mark's door. It's open slightly, just enough to see Mark gaping at Maureen who's glaring at Mark like he's the biggest idiot on the planet.
"Mo, are you sure? I mean he's depressed and shit but..."
"Marky! I've been there! I know what it looks like and I saw it in him last time I was here! And I don't think you're taking it seriously!"
"Maureen, he's a guy. I mean, guys don't..."
"Yes they do! And Roger is anorexic!"
I lean against the wall and slide down till I'm sitting. I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them. Shut up, Maureen. Just shut up. Mark can't know. Stop telling him. I don't want him to understand. Mostly because I know he won't. He doesn't. I tried to make him understand.
Maureen looks past Mark suddenly and sees me. I don't bother to retreat, I know I'm caught. Captured by the enemy. POW in my own apartment.
"Roger?" She asks gently. Far too gently. Not Maureen at all, and worlds more intimidating than Mark ever could be.
I say nothing.
She comes over to me and kneels beside me.
"You have a problem, sweetie." She says. I glare at her and roll my eyes. Not from you. I don't care if you know. I look past her at Mark who has the most peculiar look in his eyes.
I tune out her next words, choosing instead to continue to stare at Mark, who has been avoiding me for six days. His gaze is full of shock, fear and what I hope isn't pity. I almost prefer when Mark tells me to stop making an ass of myself, as opposed to his consistent protection and forgiveness. His gaze slips from me and he looks down at his hands. For a moment, I hate him.
"Roger? Are you listening?" Maureen asks, in that same horrible voice. It's not her. It's a new drama, a new character she can play. Concerned Maureen. Loving, delicate, 'I've been there before' Maureen. Not her at all. I can realize that Mark doesn't know Maureen at all. She always acts in front of him. She doesn't want him to know what she's really like. He knows her as Goddess Maureen, Diva Maureen. Drama Incarnated Maureen. He doesn't know Real Maureen, who used to try to talk to me about how frustrating Mark can be, and who used to tell me at four in the morning when I came in that heroin was bad for me. And who told me last week that I should eat something and talk to Mark. She's the only Maureen I'll actively respond to. I don't play her little game.
She sighs dramatically and closes the door to Mark's room, leaving him alone inside. When she looks back at me her expression has changed. No act, no character. My friend who's done stupid shit in the past. Just like me.
"Why are you doing this, Roger?" She asks.
I shrug. "I'm not hungry."
"Bullshit you're not hungry. And I know you're not trying to be thin. So why are you punishing yourself?"
"I don't deserve this Maureen. I don't deserve you trying to help me." I laugh bitterly. "And I really don't deserve him trying to help me." I feel my face contort into a scowl. "I don't deserve him. At least he seems to think so."
I hadn't meant to say that. I hadn't meant to give myself away, but Maureen doesn't notice my slip. I don't think she knows what I meant.
"Of course you do. Don't be an ass, Roger. And don't do this to yourself. You have to let Mark help you. You have to let me help you. You'll die if you don't."
"I'm going to die anyway." I mutter, looking away.
"Oh fuck off!" Maureen yells. "It's always that! It's the fucking AIDS cop- out! I'm going to die anyway so I might as well waste any time I have left being stupid!"
I say nothing, watching her like she's the crazy one as she yells at me. She rolls her eyes and drops to my side again.
"He doesn't get it, Maureen." I tell her. "He said it's no big deal. All of it. He said I can handle it."
"Well, you can handle it." She says. "But he's wrong. It is a big deal. It's a huge deal." She pauses carefully. "It might be like a rehab-sort of big deal."
"No." I say, looking up at her. "I won't go and you can't make me. I'm not going to a fucking hospital."
"Roger." She says, exasperated. She pulls a mirror out of her purse. "Look at yourself. Really look. Just in your face you can see it. You look like death."
She's right. My eyes are bruised and bloodshot, rimmed with red. My skin looks sallow, a sick sort of yellow gray. My cheekbones have never stuck out and my jaw has never been as defined. I see the missing skin in my cheeks, the tired and sick expression in my eyes and I know I might finally succeed in an ultimate mission if I keep going on. I hand the mirror back to Maureen, but I can't bring myself to look at her. I feel the weight of her eyes when she gives me one last long look and reopens Mark's door. He's standing in the same place, the same look of hopelessness and fear.
"Take care of him, Marky. He needs you to take care of him." Soap Opera Maureen. Melodrama and bad acting. The wrong words are the focus, the meaning lost behind an overdone story line. Her fingers trail over my arm, the last remnant of the Maureen it seems only I know and then she's gone. She has another performance scheduled.
I stare at Mark. I watch him come over to me and drop down beside me. I watch his hand reach for mine and his fingers, warm and soft, burn their way into a hold on my hand.
"I'm sorry." He says, carefully. "That I wasn't taking you seriously."
I shrug. "Whatever."
"And." He continues. "I'm sorry that I kissed you back."
I find his eyes and glare into them. "I'm not."
My contempt surprises him. "Well Roger, you were..."
"No I wasn't, Mark. I was perfectly sane. I didn't just want somebody at that moment, I wanted you."
"Why?" He asks, incredulous. "What have I done to make you want me?"
I don't answer him. I pull him closer by the hand that he's holding onto so tightly, and kiss him again. I hate that he's avoided me, and I hate what I must look like to him and how desperate I must seem. He deepens the kiss before I can, his arm going around me and pulling my body closer to his. He runs his tongue along the inside of my lip, melding his mouth onto mine until his taste is all I can focus on.
When he pulls away, I still feel the gentle massage of his kisses, the warm press of his hand on my back.
"Roger." He says, his voice quiet and tired, almost afraid. "What are you trying to do? What are you trying to start?"
I can only shake my head. I don't know and don't understand either. I move closer to him and nestle myself against his body. He wraps his arms around me again and holds me close. I can hear the gentle beating of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, deep and easy. So calm. And the pressure of his hands, the soft hands that to me are always warm, is strong. He's smaller than me, but right now he has the power. He could break me in an instant by moving away, but I know he won't.
"Are you hungry?" He asks gently.
More than anything. Hunger has never bitten me more sharply. I'd never thought about it as much. I want to cry with him holding me, but I don't. I nod and choke out a 'yes'.
He moves away from me and helps me stand, and sits me at the table.
"What do you want?" He asks. "I'll make you anything."
"Fuck Mark," I tell him. "You can't cook and you know it."
He laughs softly. "I'll get you anything."
I shrug. "Whatever there is. Please make it small." I tell him quietly.
He goes into the kitchen and I hear him moving shit around. I can hear his worry and his desperation. He wants to help me, but doesn't know if he can. I don't know if he can, but I'm honoured that he'd try.
He comes out a few minutes later with half a loaf of bread. I laugh at him, but in all honesty, it's a good start. He pulls a piece out and to my relief rips the crust off of one side. He holds it out to me and I stare at it, feeling the fear and apprehension grab hold of me.
"C'mon, Rog. It's ok." He says, but this time I know he understands. I take the bread from him and pull off a little piece. I let it soften in my mouth, chew slowly and carefully swallow. Mark stands behind me, rubbing my back and shoulders and telling me that I'll be all right. I'm an addict all over again. I'm waking up screaming for him in the middle of the night, sweating and cold in my bed. I'm threatening him, and hurting him and yelling at him, and he takes it all with an exasperated sort of patience and tells me that I will be all right.
I make my way slowly through half of the piece of bread, then hand it back to Mark. He smiles at me, tells me I did good, and puts it away. When he's back at my side his fingers rake through my hair and he lays a hesitant kiss on my forehead. His smile is sad, scared and worried.
"You look tired." He says softly. "You should sleep."
He takes my hands and pulls me off of the chair and toward my room. I stop at the foot of my blankets and stare down at them.
"Stay with me." I find myself whispering before I'm aware of it.
His grip on my hands tightens. He nods slightly, waits. My eyes land on my bed. Mimi. My Mimi. Shake my head, try to block out the image. Have to remember that Mimi's gone. I move slowly toward the bed, see Mark watching me. I let my fingers trail over the mattress, and then I slowly lower myself down onto it. Mark sits beside me and I feel the gentle pressure from his fingers pushing me down onto the mattress. I lay back and he pulls the blanket around us, taking one off of the floor to lay over this one. When he lies down beside me, he reaches for me but I pull away.
"Roger." He says. "You don't have to be the strong one now." He smiles, an expression of more kindness than pleasure. "You're allowed to be weak once in awhile, you know."
I cautiously inch closer to him under the blankets, allowing his arms to pull me into a cautious embrace that fills me with an incomparable feeling of warmth and comfort. He kisses my face lightly, his lips a soft little touch against my skin.
"Let me help you." He whispers against my ear. I nod into his shoulder, letting him hold me, his steady breathing and rhythmic heartbeat rocking me to sleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes: This chappie focuses more on Mark's understanding of the situation and their relationship than what is actually happening to Roger. Next chapter will get back to that, but this is quite important as well. Thanks as usual for the reviews, you guys fucking rock! ;)
Chapter 6
–You Have Broken Through My Armour-
Maureen is here again, yelling at Mark. I'm not sure why yet. I push some cereal around on top of my guitar case and try to listen, but even through the paper-thin walls I don't know what she's saying. I can't concentrate on the words. I hear a barrage of accusatory sounds, rising in pitch, falling in rhythm, but I can't seem to make sense of them.
My bone-hand flexes it's long digits, the skin taunt around the knuckles, sagging over the rest of each finger. I drum them against my guitar case, making my own rhythm to Maureen's words and Mark's attempts to defend himself. I had been out there earlier, sitting on the couch, when Maureen came. She stared at me for a while, stared, then dragged Mark into his bedroom and started yelling. And I came in here.
My eyes fall onto the broken clock near my bed. Its time telling abilities are permanently 3 hours and 4 minutes ahead, but it's enough to tell me that over an hour has gone by.
I sigh, and using the wall to brace myself, stand up. Maybe if I can get closer I'll know what they're talking about. I almost fall by the door, but manage to keep my footing. I twist the knob, pulling the door open and head out to stand by Mark's door. It's open slightly, just enough to see Mark gaping at Maureen who's glaring at Mark like he's the biggest idiot on the planet.
"Mo, are you sure? I mean he's depressed and shit but..."
"Marky! I've been there! I know what it looks like and I saw it in him last time I was here! And I don't think you're taking it seriously!"
"Maureen, he's a guy. I mean, guys don't..."
"Yes they do! And Roger is anorexic!"
I lean against the wall and slide down till I'm sitting. I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them. Shut up, Maureen. Just shut up. Mark can't know. Stop telling him. I don't want him to understand. Mostly because I know he won't. He doesn't. I tried to make him understand.
Maureen looks past Mark suddenly and sees me. I don't bother to retreat, I know I'm caught. Captured by the enemy. POW in my own apartment.
"Roger?" She asks gently. Far too gently. Not Maureen at all, and worlds more intimidating than Mark ever could be.
I say nothing.
She comes over to me and kneels beside me.
"You have a problem, sweetie." She says. I glare at her and roll my eyes. Not from you. I don't care if you know. I look past her at Mark who has the most peculiar look in his eyes.
I tune out her next words, choosing instead to continue to stare at Mark, who has been avoiding me for six days. His gaze is full of shock, fear and what I hope isn't pity. I almost prefer when Mark tells me to stop making an ass of myself, as opposed to his consistent protection and forgiveness. His gaze slips from me and he looks down at his hands. For a moment, I hate him.
"Roger? Are you listening?" Maureen asks, in that same horrible voice. It's not her. It's a new drama, a new character she can play. Concerned Maureen. Loving, delicate, 'I've been there before' Maureen. Not her at all. I can realize that Mark doesn't know Maureen at all. She always acts in front of him. She doesn't want him to know what she's really like. He knows her as Goddess Maureen, Diva Maureen. Drama Incarnated Maureen. He doesn't know Real Maureen, who used to try to talk to me about how frustrating Mark can be, and who used to tell me at four in the morning when I came in that heroin was bad for me. And who told me last week that I should eat something and talk to Mark. She's the only Maureen I'll actively respond to. I don't play her little game.
She sighs dramatically and closes the door to Mark's room, leaving him alone inside. When she looks back at me her expression has changed. No act, no character. My friend who's done stupid shit in the past. Just like me.
"Why are you doing this, Roger?" She asks.
I shrug. "I'm not hungry."
"Bullshit you're not hungry. And I know you're not trying to be thin. So why are you punishing yourself?"
"I don't deserve this Maureen. I don't deserve you trying to help me." I laugh bitterly. "And I really don't deserve him trying to help me." I feel my face contort into a scowl. "I don't deserve him. At least he seems to think so."
I hadn't meant to say that. I hadn't meant to give myself away, but Maureen doesn't notice my slip. I don't think she knows what I meant.
"Of course you do. Don't be an ass, Roger. And don't do this to yourself. You have to let Mark help you. You have to let me help you. You'll die if you don't."
"I'm going to die anyway." I mutter, looking away.
"Oh fuck off!" Maureen yells. "It's always that! It's the fucking AIDS cop- out! I'm going to die anyway so I might as well waste any time I have left being stupid!"
I say nothing, watching her like she's the crazy one as she yells at me. She rolls her eyes and drops to my side again.
"He doesn't get it, Maureen." I tell her. "He said it's no big deal. All of it. He said I can handle it."
"Well, you can handle it." She says. "But he's wrong. It is a big deal. It's a huge deal." She pauses carefully. "It might be like a rehab-sort of big deal."
"No." I say, looking up at her. "I won't go and you can't make me. I'm not going to a fucking hospital."
"Roger." She says, exasperated. She pulls a mirror out of her purse. "Look at yourself. Really look. Just in your face you can see it. You look like death."
She's right. My eyes are bruised and bloodshot, rimmed with red. My skin looks sallow, a sick sort of yellow gray. My cheekbones have never stuck out and my jaw has never been as defined. I see the missing skin in my cheeks, the tired and sick expression in my eyes and I know I might finally succeed in an ultimate mission if I keep going on. I hand the mirror back to Maureen, but I can't bring myself to look at her. I feel the weight of her eyes when she gives me one last long look and reopens Mark's door. He's standing in the same place, the same look of hopelessness and fear.
"Take care of him, Marky. He needs you to take care of him." Soap Opera Maureen. Melodrama and bad acting. The wrong words are the focus, the meaning lost behind an overdone story line. Her fingers trail over my arm, the last remnant of the Maureen it seems only I know and then she's gone. She has another performance scheduled.
I stare at Mark. I watch him come over to me and drop down beside me. I watch his hand reach for mine and his fingers, warm and soft, burn their way into a hold on my hand.
"I'm sorry." He says, carefully. "That I wasn't taking you seriously."
I shrug. "Whatever."
"And." He continues. "I'm sorry that I kissed you back."
I find his eyes and glare into them. "I'm not."
My contempt surprises him. "Well Roger, you were..."
"No I wasn't, Mark. I was perfectly sane. I didn't just want somebody at that moment, I wanted you."
"Why?" He asks, incredulous. "What have I done to make you want me?"
I don't answer him. I pull him closer by the hand that he's holding onto so tightly, and kiss him again. I hate that he's avoided me, and I hate what I must look like to him and how desperate I must seem. He deepens the kiss before I can, his arm going around me and pulling my body closer to his. He runs his tongue along the inside of my lip, melding his mouth onto mine until his taste is all I can focus on.
When he pulls away, I still feel the gentle massage of his kisses, the warm press of his hand on my back.
"Roger." He says, his voice quiet and tired, almost afraid. "What are you trying to do? What are you trying to start?"
I can only shake my head. I don't know and don't understand either. I move closer to him and nestle myself against his body. He wraps his arms around me again and holds me close. I can hear the gentle beating of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, deep and easy. So calm. And the pressure of his hands, the soft hands that to me are always warm, is strong. He's smaller than me, but right now he has the power. He could break me in an instant by moving away, but I know he won't.
"Are you hungry?" He asks gently.
More than anything. Hunger has never bitten me more sharply. I'd never thought about it as much. I want to cry with him holding me, but I don't. I nod and choke out a 'yes'.
He moves away from me and helps me stand, and sits me at the table.
"What do you want?" He asks. "I'll make you anything."
"Fuck Mark," I tell him. "You can't cook and you know it."
He laughs softly. "I'll get you anything."
I shrug. "Whatever there is. Please make it small." I tell him quietly.
He goes into the kitchen and I hear him moving shit around. I can hear his worry and his desperation. He wants to help me, but doesn't know if he can. I don't know if he can, but I'm honoured that he'd try.
He comes out a few minutes later with half a loaf of bread. I laugh at him, but in all honesty, it's a good start. He pulls a piece out and to my relief rips the crust off of one side. He holds it out to me and I stare at it, feeling the fear and apprehension grab hold of me.
"C'mon, Rog. It's ok." He says, but this time I know he understands. I take the bread from him and pull off a little piece. I let it soften in my mouth, chew slowly and carefully swallow. Mark stands behind me, rubbing my back and shoulders and telling me that I'll be all right. I'm an addict all over again. I'm waking up screaming for him in the middle of the night, sweating and cold in my bed. I'm threatening him, and hurting him and yelling at him, and he takes it all with an exasperated sort of patience and tells me that I will be all right.
I make my way slowly through half of the piece of bread, then hand it back to Mark. He smiles at me, tells me I did good, and puts it away. When he's back at my side his fingers rake through my hair and he lays a hesitant kiss on my forehead. His smile is sad, scared and worried.
"You look tired." He says softly. "You should sleep."
He takes my hands and pulls me off of the chair and toward my room. I stop at the foot of my blankets and stare down at them.
"Stay with me." I find myself whispering before I'm aware of it.
His grip on my hands tightens. He nods slightly, waits. My eyes land on my bed. Mimi. My Mimi. Shake my head, try to block out the image. Have to remember that Mimi's gone. I move slowly toward the bed, see Mark watching me. I let my fingers trail over the mattress, and then I slowly lower myself down onto it. Mark sits beside me and I feel the gentle pressure from his fingers pushing me down onto the mattress. I lay back and he pulls the blanket around us, taking one off of the floor to lay over this one. When he lies down beside me, he reaches for me but I pull away.
"Roger." He says. "You don't have to be the strong one now." He smiles, an expression of more kindness than pleasure. "You're allowed to be weak once in awhile, you know."
I cautiously inch closer to him under the blankets, allowing his arms to pull me into a cautious embrace that fills me with an incomparable feeling of warmth and comfort. He kisses my face lightly, his lips a soft little touch against my skin.
"Let me help you." He whispers against my ear. I nod into his shoulder, letting him hold me, his steady breathing and rhythmic heartbeat rocking me to sleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .