"All day long they surround me like a flood; they have completely engulfed me"
-Psalm 88:17
Chapter 3: Movin' On
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Roger held the guitar, weak fingers playing out that same old tune. If only he had words for it, but he just couldn't think of any. The music expressed how he felt without lyrics. Words are highly over rated.
He couldn't play for long periods of time anymore. He got too tired. How fucking embarrassing… too tired to play guitar, to pluck strings in a constant beat.
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Every day that beat got slower and his hands grew weaker. Deterioration was not a fun process. Roger hadn't dared to look in the mirror for days. It's a terrifying thing, feeling yourself die. He'd be screwed if he saw it too.
"Roger's getting sicker everyday, but he refuses to stay in bed and I don't know-"
What the hell?
Mark had somehow managed to enter the loft stealthily, and now he was narrating to that damned camera…
"He doesn't listen to anything I have to say, I mean I try to be helpful but he's just-"
"Mark, I can hear you, y'know."
"Oh." Roger could hear the blush in Mark's voice, as the filmmaker set his camera down. "Well that's some irony for you…"
"…what?" Roger was only half listening as he turned his focus back to the guitar, though his energy to play had been severely depleted.
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"Y'know…I said you don't listen and then you were all I can hear you. Listen..hear.. uh…" Mark trailed off when Roger didn't respond, "Never mind it…it wasn't…yeah."
Roger sighed, he couldn't play anymore.
"Are you okay? Do you need some tea or a blanket or soup or anything?"
Not this again…
"I'm fine. I'm… just gonna lie down for a little while s'all." Roger ran a pale hand through his sweaty hair. "Oh and no fucking tea, okay?"
Mark's blue eyes were exploding with worry; it made Roger feel nauseous. As if he didn't have enough feelings to deal with… stupid eyes. Roger stood slowly, guitar still in hand. On second thought, just… leave the fender on the couch. His legs were shaking. What the hell?
Mark looked like he wanted to approach, to help.
Shit! think of something…funny. Something so he'll leave it alone.
But there was nothing funny to say about not being able to stand.
Just let me make it to my bed… I can't be weak. I don't do that. He took a few steps towards his door, and his legs gave out under him. He collapsed on to the floor.
Terrified, frustrated laughter escaped from his pale, chapped lips, because he didn't know how to brush this off. This wouldn't be ignored any longer, and he couldn't deal with it on his own, because now that Mark had seen it… now that Mark had seen this…
The laughter turned into a cough that had him sprawled out on the floor gasping for breath, a terrified Mark watching, frozen.
God, here it comes...
The filmmaker helped him sit up when the coughs had subsided, "Roger… you need to go to the hospital."
"No!"
"Yes!" Mark sighed, "Roger, I'm not fighting you on this one. You can't stand, you can't walk! I'm not going to just sit back and let you…"
"Die?"
Mark stood to get the phone, but with all his remaining strength, Roger latched onto Mark's wrist, "Don't! Mark, I only want one thing for the rest of the time I've got left… to die in my own loft…my home, and if it's the last thing I ever ask of you, don't take me to a fucking hospital. Don't, Mark please…please…"
He hated begging. He was Roger 'I-don't-take-shit' Davis…or he used to be. Now he was just Roger 'one-weak-son-of-a-bitch' Davis… lying on the floor pleading…
Mark was staring at the wall, "But Roger, they could help you get better… I mean you might not be… y'know…"
"I am. Mark. I am. I can feel it… I've seen three of my friends die from this disease… I think I'd know more than any fucking doctor. You know it too…" Roger kept a tight grip on Mark's wrist. "Please… it's the only thing I'm going to ask from you. Just this one thing…this one thing… before I go."
Mark never took his eyes from the faded white wall, a sharp intake of breath…"All right."
"Thank you." Roger whispered, as a thin arm wrapped around his back.
Mark wasn't very strong, but together they managed to get Roger into his bed and under the covers. Never remembered covers feeling so heavy before…
A glass of cool water pressed against his hot, sweating forehead. Shit, he couldn't stop shaking…
He opened his eyes to Mark holding the glass delicately over his head. And for the first time in weeks Roger really saw Mark. He was skinnier than Roger, which was terrifying. There were bags under his eyes from nights without sleeping, and looking at his hand as the glass hovered just below his lips…Roger could see that their skin matched in its shade of pale.
Mark was shaking too…
Roger wasn't dying alone… Mark was going with him. They were dying together. Fuck. He couldn't do this… he couldn't handle this…
"Mark…Mark…" Roger called out, desperately, grabbing on to his arm.
"Roger…?" Mark's blue eyes screamed their concern, "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Promise me you'll live. Promise me that you'll keep on living and just keep on going making your films and..." God, he was suffocating! Drowning.. "Just keep on damnit! Eat, sleep, breath don't let me destroy you too! Don't let me destroy you too, Marky, I couldn't handle that. I can't die knowing that you… that you…"
"I can't!" Mark whispered hoarsely as he wrenched his arm from Roger's grasp. "You have no right to ask me to keep on living when I'm the only one left! It's too much! I can't do it… I don't want to do it!"
"But Mark… you have to."
"No, I don't…" He choked. "If I want to let go and give in…I can… I don't have to do shit. Without you, all of this means nothing! There is nothing!"
"Don't say that…" He put a hand on his sweating temple, desperately trying to massage the ache in his head away.
Mark shifted nervously, "God, Roger…you're my best friend. You're the only person who ever understood me. And I'm losing you."
Roger sighed, as much as they tried to brush this off, to avoid it, here it was… There's no escape from death, you can't run far enough and detaching wasn't going to make it easier. Fuck. He watched Mark close his eyes and swallow deeply, fighting for control.
"If I could stop this…I would. I'd give anything to…"
"Yeah..me too."
It hurt to look into those blue eyes laced with heartache, but it hurt more to look away.
"Y'know, screw women." The filmmaker laughed brokenly, "I'd give up ever being in love again, to live the rest of my life with you in this fucking loft."
The rocker smiled, "So would I…"
Roger tried to suppress his next coughing fit, but failed miserably. That pale slender hand held his arm tightly for support.
"I'm sorry…" Roger rasped. "I'm sorry for being such a fuck up."
"Don't… you're not…"
Roger could see Mark struggling. The whole world seemed to be breaking down, crumbling around them in pieces. Their whole world. The end…
"Mark, come here…"
Setting the glass down, Mark crawled into bed next to him. Roger's thin, pale arms went around Mark's stomach and they leaned into each other. It meant nothing and everything to them. He could feel Mark shaking within his embrace… crying. Roger closed his eyes, resting his head on Mark's.
They didn't need to say anything.
Words are highly over rated.
In his head, Roger could hear that melody. He imagined his fingers plucking away and he imagined Mimi dancing to that tune, smiling, laughing, and kissing him.
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His hands were wet with sweat and tears.