Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun! RENT is the creation of Jonathan Larson, Tosca is the creation of Puccini, and AZT is the creation of a bunch of scientists trying to cure cancer. But hey, it's all brilliant.
When Mark returned to the loft, clutching his messenger bag protectively, he glanced around and knew at once that Roger had barely left his room. The bathroom door was open and the cup of pills gone; otherwise, the loft was undisturbed. Mark set his camera gently on the table, then brought his bag into the kitchen-space, flipped it open and set it on the counter. From the inner pocket, a safe, zippered compartment, he withdrew Roger's medications.
What am I supposed to do if he doesn't take them? Mark wondered. Only a few weeks ago, Roger had called from the rehab clinic and asked Mark to take legal responsibility for him. As Mark sniffed the remaining milk in the bottle, he remembered Roger's exact words: "Will you take legal responsibility for me?" He had turned the necessity into a proposal, unconsciouslymimicking the emphasis used in so many films. Will marry me? Will you take legal responsibility for me?
And, like a fool, without half a thought Mark had answered, "Sure." Now he wondered. Should he have refused? Might someone else have been better suited to the task? Collins always had an almost magical ability to understand Roger's inanities, to respond to him. Roger never shouted at Collins, or stood and left the room midway through a conversation with him. Lucky, Mark thought with a twinge of envy. Why didn't Roger like him?
Don't, he warned himself. There were more important things than whether or not Roger liked him. For example, what would he do if Roger stopped taking his pills? It was suicide, an illegal act. Mark had a legal obligation as well as a moral one to stop that from happening.
Shaking his head, Mark eyed the milk. The bottle was filled only halfway; with a heavy sigh he held the bottle under the tap and watered down the milk within. They managed on the few-days under-the-counter-pay jobs Mark occasionally worked and what was left of Roger's "rock star cash". They managed. Nevertheless, Mark wished Roger would leave the apartment, find work, even under-the-counter cash or playing on street corners, as he had in their early days.
Mark sighed. I don't care if he plays on street corners, he thought, I just wish he'd play. Anything. He pulled from his bag their provisions for that week and however long it was until he had cash enough to shop again. A bag of cereal--some day I'll be able to afford the boxed stuff, Mark promised himself. Some day I won't have to buy the cheap stuff from the back of the market. This particular day, 'the cheap stuff' meant a box of stale donuts, nearly-stale crackers, powdered soup and a plastic-wrapped assortment of fruits just barely past their best.
Rather than focus on his pathetic haul, Mark pulled the final item from his bag. Cradling the chocolate bar in his hands, he thought at it, Please make Roger happy. Make him come out of his room. I don't know what I'll do if… Mark squeezed his eyes shut. He would not cry. He could not! Why, the chocolate might work the miracle of pulling Roger from his room.
Mark knocked on the bedroom door. "Rog?" he called. "You awake?" The sound of scuffling feet answered his question, then Roger knocked once. "You gonna talk to me?" Roger knocked again. Mark's eyes itched. Come on, Roger… He crouched down and held the chocolate bar under the door. As with most of Roger's junk food, Mark had purchased this with the understanding that Roger would pay him back. "If you come out, you can have it," he offered.
More scuffling replied, then three crumpled dollar bills appeared at Mark's feet. He bit his lip. "Okay, Roger." He pushed the candy under the door. "You won't come out for a little while?" Mark asked. "We could…" What could they do? "We could finish the crossword," Mark suggested hopefully, "or…"
Why could he think of nothing they did together? Maybe because he only came back after April, and then it was only drugs and isolation. "We could talk… about… stuff?" But depressed Roger rarely talked with Mark. He talked with Collins. Mark knew that Roger would say no.
Roger threw a shoe at the door. Mark recoiled; unfortunately, he was already crouching near the ground. Recoiling sent him sprawling; Mark tried to tell himself the tears in his eyes were products of the fall. "Ow. Roger--" Roger, I need you to stop this. I don't know what else to do. Roger, I care about you, you're my best friend, you're all I have,and it's killing me to watch you suffer and die! "What are you so angry about?" Mark asked. "What did I do?" After a lengthy silence, he said, "Well, if you don't want to talk to me, we could call Collins." If you want to get over yourself and actually speak to someone... actually use the telephone.
To his surprise, Roger ripped open the door and shouted, "I fucking told you I'm not crazy!" Then he stopped. "Mark?"
"Here."
Roger glanced down. "Oh. Hey."
Mark blushed, feeling a complete fool. "Um… hey," he said. He had always known that Roger was taller than him, but he had never fully appreciated Roger's exact, considerable height. Mark brushed his knuckles across his eyes. Say something, anything, Mark thought, uncomfortable with the sudden shifted perspective. His leaden limbs refused to help heave him to his feet. Say something! "So, how about some Monopoly?" he asked hopefully.
Roger made a sound that might have been a choked laugh or a groan of disgust, then muttered, "Stop being such a fucking Tosca," and retreated into his room.
Mark covered his face with his hands. How had he become so pathetic? How had he been reduced to this lonesome, pathetic thing, sniffling on the apartment floor, biting his lip so Roger wouldn't have to hear him? You know what Roger will think, Mark told himself. The difficult truth was, Roger reacted to his emotions like a teenager. Hearing Mark crying, Roger would know he was responsible and he would apologize. He would apologize too much. He would punish himself, depress himself, lose the will to live--to swallow AZT. That was all it took. One day without AZT and Roger was as good as dead. One day, and the disease progressed exponentially.
Knowing this, Mark forced himself to his feet. He headed for the bathroom, locked himself in and filled the sink with cold water. He folded his jacket carefully and set on the back of the toilet, then folded his glasses and set them carefully on the counter. Briefly he squinted at the figure in the mirror, recognizable only as human, not any specific person or even of a specific age. Then Mark pulled his shirt over his head.
He gasped and took a moment to catch his breath. "Fuck… cold!" he managed to squeak. The chill of early December pressed his heart painfully. Mark folded his shirt and set it atop his jacket, nearly shaking from the cold. How does Roger manage to sleep like this? he wondered. The answer loomed darkly at the edges of conscious thought, but Mark pushed it away with a splash of cold water.
"Gah!"
The cold brought him to his senses, shocking, almost a salve to his chapped cheeks. Mark found that he no longer wanted to cry. The cold water had washed away that desire. So Roger was difficult and unhappy. That was all right. Mark could handle that. It hardly mattered; he could manage. Already he had Roger taking his pills; clearly, Mark would manage. So Maureen had…
Maureen.
Mark bit his lip. He splashed water on his face again, but to no avail. The moment of zen had passed. All was not right in the world. Roger was miserable. Mark was miserable. Only Maureen was happy, and what right of hers to be happy? A scream bubbled up inside of Mark, and he clenched his teeth to keep it silent.
I can't do anything about that, Mark told himself. Maureen chose. Maureen decided to leave me. His squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the edge of the sink.
But why had Maureen left him? What had he done? Always, always Mark had tried to make her happy, to show his affection. He knew her constant flirting to be no threat, and he accepted it though he hated it. He always set up her equipment, helped clean up after performances--hell,he did all the cleaning up. He still did all the cleaning up, the setting up. He had done everything he could think of, everything she indicated as correct, and still Maureen had left.
Mark bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. What had he done? Nothing made sense. Why had she gone? If only he knew the moment things had gone wrong, but thinking back, all Mark found was tears and pity. Next time, how could he do right when he didn't know what wrong was?
Suddenly he understood a sliver of what Roger had been through with April.
At that, Mark marched out of the bathroom and knocked on Roger's door. "What?" Roger demanded.
Teach me not to care. The words were at the base of Mark's tongue. Teach me to heal. You did it. You managed. I can, too. Tell me, Roger. Tell me how to make it all make sense."You okay?" he asked.
There was a moment's silence. Mark listened for any sound, any minor indication of what Roger was doing. As the seconds ticked by, Mark expected a knock at the door as a response. When Roger answered, his voice cracked. "No," he said. "I'm dying," he said, matter-of-factly.
Mark bit his lip. You don't have to. But Roger was not denying himself pills. He was trying, in his twist way, to accept it. Mark knocked again. "Can I come in?" he asked.
Roger cried, "I don't want to talk right now!"
Neither do I, Mark thought. He grabbed his camera and fled, half-naked and half blind, to the roof.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Reviews are always appreciated.
Oh, and yes, this is the sequel to 'Call'.
