Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!
Mark returned to the loft at the tail end of dusk, feeling foolish. He had barely been able to discern what he filmed, and at last resorted to filming the sunset because the light indicated the object. As he inched towards the loft, setting his feet down carefully, he kept one hand on the wall, feeling his way forward.
Some good this had done him. Moron, Mark told himself. Going up to the roof, oh, brilliant. Blind and stripped, there's a good time to stand exposed to the elements in November. And now you're bringing a cold into the apartment, in all probability, with an immuno-compromised roommate. Can't you do anything right? Or at least un-stupid?
He found his glasses before setting down his camera. Once it was nestled comfortably on the table, he dressed, pulling on three layers of clothing before he was satisfied. Mark then risked what little self-esteem he had: he knocked on Roger's bedroom door. "Rog, you awake?" he called quietly, in case Roger was not at all awake. "Listen, I'm going to make something for dinner. You can come out if you feel hungry, okay?" Still no reply.
Mark sighed, but found himself unable to blame Roger. After all, he wasn't excited about powdered soup, either. It wasn't even interesting from a culinary perspective. Mark checked the packet. In bright, hopeful letters, in proclaimed, With Real Dried Lentils! This depressing statement assured Mark of one thing: Roger would not be having supper that night. If a Hershey's bar couldn't lure him out of his room, if Mark could not entice him to leave, dried lentils would not do the trick.
The cutlery drawer squeaked, though under the racket of shaken spoons, forks and knives the sound disappeared. Mark reached into the back of the drawer, his fingers scrabbling around until they touched a tiny wad of tin foil. Grinning, Mark withdrew his prize and carefully spread the foil out on the countertop. Half an oxo cube remained; half of this half disappeared into a pot of simmering water. Mark stirred the pot hopefully, almost pleased at the ensuing discoloration.
He turned down the flame and knocked on Roger's door. "Hey, it's alliteration night," he said. "Roger! Come on, I worked hard on this… it's not easy to have four b's in one sentence, but I managed it: beef broth and..." Please, please let this amuse him... "bruised bananas. So would you come out please?"
Luckily for Mark, Roger's door had no lock. Previously it had, but when Roger took to locking himself away for days with only paraphernalia, it had been Collins who, undisturbed by the sight of his friend sprawled out with a needle in one hand, a Bic lighter and spoon beside him, removed the lock. Roger might have been livid, had he had the energy and presence of mind.
The entire episode had terrified Mark. Seeing Roger high always terrified Mark.
Now he took a deep breath, twisted the doorknob and entered the dankness of Roger's lair. To his surprise, the room did not repulse him. It had aspects of logical repulsion: a balmy heat due to poor ventilation, Roger's beloved dank, a mess on the floor and a smell of sweat and salt--the smell of Roger when he hadn't eaten or bathed in over two days. Part of Mark knew this to be the quintessence of disgusting, yet as he padded through the mess of dirty clothes and discarded pages from legal pads, he found himself fully willing to continue forward. The room was disgusting, but it did not disgust him.
Mark's toe connected sharply with Roger's lamp. Swearing gently, Mark illuminated the room. "Hey, Rog," he said.
Roger moaned. "Turn off the light," he said.
Ignoring him, Mark sat on the stained mattress, careful not to sit on any part of the shadowy mess that might be Roger. Mark knew for sure only that Roger was lying on his stomach, his head resting on his left arm and most of the rest of him buried under the blanket. At the end of the bed, Roger's toes curled angrily. "You're letting the cold in," he muttered.
"You're letting the stupid in," Mark retorted.
"I didn't let you… you just showed up," Roger said.
Haltingly, Mark reached out a hand. He nearly let it rest gently on Roger's head, but lost his nerve at the last second and dropped his hand clumsily onto a spot that might have been Roger's shoulder. "Why don't you get up and have dinner?"
"Not hungry," Roger replied. "I already ate. Chocolate."
Mark dragged his left foot backwards and forwards across the floor. As he did, he encountered something out of place. He picked it up. "Rog, I'm holding the chocolate bar right now. You haven't eaten anything." Roger mumbled an obscenity. "Come on, Roger! Look, you're losing weight… you're already compromised. You know that. Please eat." Mark moved his hand to touch Roger's hair, petting him as one might a kitten. "Roger…" he crooned. "Get up, Roger. Come and have dinner with me. It's alliterated…"
Roger couldn't help himself: he laughed. Unfortunately, this only encouraged Mark. "We can have a Poetry Dinner."
Roger groaned. "No… Poetry Dinner's no fun without Collins. He was always the best."
"Yeah," Mark admitted, "but it'll still be fun. Come on." When Roger said nothing, Mark tugged his hair gently. "C'mon, Rog. Eat something. Bolster that immune system!"
"That's just it," Roger said.
"What is?" Mark asked, surprised. Not only had Roger responded intelligibly, he had engaged in the conversation.
Roger sat up, twisting awkwardly until he had the blanket half-wrapped around one shoulder like a drunken toga. Despite his bleary appearance, he explained quite lucidly, "I'm sick, Mark. I'm dying. I'm taking AZT, but… you know how many pills there are."
Mark nodded. "A lot," he admitted. "But, Roger, they're working--"
"For how long?" Roger demanded. "I'm already dying, Mark. So why don't you go eat a decent dinner, because you're not dying." He grabbed the chocolate bar and offered it. "Here. You eat it. You're skin and bones, you know."
Mark laughed. "You're not much more," he replied.
"Except, dying," Roger said.
"I want you to live," Mark told him, his voice nearly breaking as he fought to suppress a sob.
Sadly, Roger smiled. "Sometimes I want me to live, too." Mark blinked hard and looked away. "I'm sorry," Roger said. "It's just that… you aren't dying. I don't want you to give up anything for me. I'm a corpse already."
"Don't say that," Mark sniffled.
"Don't cry," Roger bartered.
Mark stopped crying. "If you promise to eat, we can have Poetry Dinner on your bed."
Roger frowned. "Okay," he said.
"Great!"
Within minutes the boys sat opposite one another, cross-legged on Roger's bed, each with a bowl, a banana and a spoon. Ignoring his spoon completely, Roger drank directly from his bowl. "I can't believe you did that/You're eating like a street rat!" Mark rhymed. He loved Poetry Dinners. Usually he spoke very little during them, but the words exchanged always encouraged laughter and camaraderie. Nothing soothed a fight like Poetry Dinner, when every sentence had to be poetic.
"Yeah, but you lied/causing the oxo cube to hide/so you're not so…" Roger paused and thought for a moment. "You're not so cool/You're really quite the fool!"
Mark laughed. "A fool I may be/But my life's no fantasy/Leave the room, Roger. You can help me with the dishes."
"I can swim with the fishes!… Actually, I kind of think swimming is fun."
"Maybe it is when you're not the one/Whose trunks fell off when he jumped in the pool--"
"Poor fool!" Roger knew he was going to laugh; the air bubbled in his chest. Momentarily he debated spitting his mouthful of broth into the bowl, then he realized that the alternative involved very warm broth and the very tender skin inside his nose, coupled with quite a mess of his dinner. He spat and laughed. "I'm laughing at you," he specified.
Mark's shoulders slumped. "My best friend, it's true," he admitted sadly. Roger laughed. "Hey, you're looking better--see, if you try/It doesn't hurt to go on living, Roger, please don't die!"
"Did you really swim tackle-out?"
"It's nothing to go on about!" Mark blushed.
Roger grinned horribly. "Where did this happen? And when?"
"At the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center," Mark admitted, "when I was thirteen."
"That didn't rhyme/It seems this time/You don't care for rules/But words aren't your tools!"
"Hey, that was really good."
Roger rolled his eyes. "Could you sound a little more surprised? I don't think I was quite offended enough."
To his surprise, Mark found that his happiness felt more than happy. He was happy: with Roger awake, upright, talking and cheerful, Mark couldn't have been unhappy if he tried. But his jeans felt a little tighter than they should have in an inopportune region, and his stomach was turning somersaults. No. It's not like that, Mark told himself. But then, wasn't it? He should have known when he walked into the room and wasn't repulsed by the overwhelming smell of sweat.
And of course, as Mark began to blush, he knew Roger would ask why. Luckily, he knew just the distraction to provide. Mark grabbed the fruit he had brought for dinner and began to consume it in a casually sensuous manner. Roger laughed, as Mark had known he would, but Mark found himself longing for a different laugh, the fully Roger laugh, head thrown back, his mouth open wide in a pathetic attempt to continue breathing.
Roger never laughed that way for Mark.
That night, Mark's bed felt colder than ever. He shivered with the blankets drawn close around his chin. Aware of the tears trickling down his cheeks and the itching need to excite his nerves, Mark stuffed a pillow into his mouth.
They don't want me.
He wept quietly.
Roger won't even stay alive for me. He won't even try to care… Two days and he's still not left the room.
As Mark's need to weep grew fiercer, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep the secret much longer. Don't. Don't, just don't cry. It's easy. Roger needs you right now… Roger's always needed you! It was April, the drugs, the clinic… Why do I always have to be the one picking up the pieces?
I guess this is why all the drugs. April fell apart… just like Roger. She couldn't handle life. Mark understood, then, why Roger had started relying on heroin. It hurt. Being responsible, holding onto that, made Mark want to hit the walls until they crumbled. Just for a little while, he wished he could stop feeling. He wanted to shut down, or, failing that, to feel good.
Mark could think of only one way to make his body feel good, to forget the pain. He rose as quietly as he could, inched carefully across the loft, holding in a hiss of pain at the cold. Roger had completed the list of self-destructive ways in which to avoid life. Now it was Mark's turn for euphoria. It was his turn to run away.
He paused at Roger's door and listened. From Roger's muttering, Mark knew he was in a deep sleep. Smiling, Mark tiptoed to the bathroom, locked the door, and masturbated himself to a state of oblivion.
