Disclaimer: It's not mine. I'm just playing!
Mark sat on the couch, looking at nothing in particular. It was far too early for his mind to be functioning. He had been in at half-past two from work the previous evening, and the prospect of being awake at ten o'clock was inhumane, but Mark had been unable to sleep and now he sat on the couch staring at nothing and trying to wake himself up.
"I can't eat toast," Mimi announced. She stood in the center of the room, her hair unbrushed, wearing sweats and resting her hands on her very prominent belly. "Roger. I can't eat toast."
Roger looked up from the three pieces of toast in front of him (two with honey, one with strawberry jam) and asked, "Why not?"
"Because, I can't," Mimi said.
Roger sighed. "What can you eat?" he asked. Obscure cravings had become fairly commonplace in the loft, and Roger had learned that just going along with it was the best solution.
Mimi smiled. "Peanut butter?" she asked. "Not the crunchy kind," she added, as Roger turned towards the refrigerator. "It can't be the crunchy kind."
"Mimi, love, all we have is the crunchy kind."
"I know." Mimi pouted.
Roger glared. Mimi pouted, widening her eyes just a hair. Roger broke. "Fine! But this is the only time today!" He picked up the toast with jam and slipped it onto a plate and kissed Mimi's cheek. "I love you."
"I love you, too!"
Roger shoved the plate into Mark's good hand. "Here." Once Mark held the plate, Roger slapped his hip gently. "Scoot, you're on my jacket." Mark did. Roger retrieved his jacket and dropped a quick kiss on Mark's cheek. "Take care of yourself, Mark."
"You won't be gone half an hour," Mark protested, but Roger was already dashing out the door.
Mimi waited until she saw him through the window, striding down the street and tossing his head as he muttered to himself, then she grabbed the abandoned toast and plopped down on the couch next to Mark. "Ooh…" Mimi moaned. Plopping down with two seven-and-a-half-month-old babies, hurt!
"Are you okay?" Mark asked.
Mimi laughed. "I should ask the same," she said. "Are you okay, Mark?"
Are you okay? But what terrified him was the touch on his arm. Mark's pale eyes flicked from Mimi's hand to her face, his heart racing. She knows, she knows-- no. Mimi just touches, it's okay, she's just trying to help. She doesn't know.
But what terrified him was the touch on his arm. Mark's pale eyes flicked from Mimi's hand to her face, his heart racing."I'm fine."
Mimi nodded. "That's good. 'Cause you know if you ever weren't, you know me and Roger are always here, whatever you need…"
"Yeah," Mark said, "I know." He drew away from her, taking a bite of toast as an excuse. The cooled toast was chewy and gave the jam a sour compliment, but it was better than nothing. Mark pulled a face. "It's gone off," he admitted, "but you know how Roger gets…"
Well if you don't like that, I'll make you something else! Just eat something, Mark…
something"He really cares about you," Mimi said.
Mark snorted. "After all the shit we've been through, it's not even like that," he told her. "It's like, we don't… I mean, not thinking about Roger, it doesn't occur to me." But Roger… has you. Roger doesn't need me. It's different.
"He was really upset about your arm."
"Mark? Oh my g-d. What happened? Are you okay?"
Mark barely stepped into the loft but Roger was at his side, hugging him and petting him. "It's nothing," he admitted, loath though he was to give Roger any reason to cease his attentions. "They gave me some painkillers."
"Well…" Roger ushered Mark to the couch and sat him down. "What happened?" he asked, offended by the world that would do such a thing to Mark.
Mark forced a smile. "It was nothing," he said. "I fell…"
"Wha… how? Where?"
As Mark floundered for a response, Joanne, to his surprise, intervened. "Roger," she said. "Mark's pretty hurt. Let's just let him rest up, okay?"
"Oh, yeah," Roger agreed, eager to do what was best for Mark. "Yeah, yeah. Do you want me to make you some tea so you can take your pills, or… um…maybe you should go lie down."
Mark laughed. "It's just a fracture," he said. "It's okay, Rog, just a fracture and I'm already on the pills," Mark added, hating himself. He wanted Roger to make him tea and take care of him, but there was nothing for Roger to do.
"Well…" Roger bit his lip, apparently realizing this and not liking it one bit. "If there's anything you need, just tell me, okay?"
"What about you?" Mark asked. "You're stuck carrying his children who you don't even want."
Mimi sighed. It was true, she had tried to abort the twins, and yes, they had been unplanned, but… "You know, Mark, after seven months, I really can't imagine it any other way. So I'm unhappy when things go wrong or Roger acts like an idiot, I laugh when it's funny… the babies just are. I've accepted that."
---
Roger paid Joanne a visit a week later. As he approached her office building, sweating inside his leather jacket but still cold under the water March sunlight, numbers slipped through his mind. For instance… three to five, the number of weeks until Mark's cast came off and, four, weeks until Mimi's cesarean (probably). Three, the number of weeks Mark had worn his cast, and zero, the number of satisfactory explanations for it Roger had received.
Then there was 35-- the number of dollars Roger earn for a half-hour guitar lesson. 50, the smallest number of dollars they usually spent on food for a week. By his standards that was a fair amount and not nearly enough. Mimi was, well, pregnant, and Mark wasn't eating enough at all.
But then there was the cost of AZT…
With what Roger made giving lessons and what Mark made, mostly in tips, tending bar, their lives would have been more than comfortable-- money enough for food, heat, at least some spare blankets. Their lives would have been, hell, cushy, but…
It's your own damn fault, Davis.
Roger shook his head and turned into the building. He scowled heavily at the security personnel who found him altogether too interesting, and stalked over to a manned desk. "Hi," he said. "Um, I need to see Joanne Jefferson, she works here."
"Is she expecting you?" asked a man in a tie and collared shirt who seemed generally unconcerned.
Roger shook his head. "She's not, but I think she'll see me anyway. My name is Roger Davis-- here." He showed his license to the man, who nodded and called Joanne on the telephone.
After a brief introduction and a conversation consisting entirely of "uh-huh" and "I see", the man hung up the phone and motioned Roger through. "Floor thirty-six," he said.
"Thirty-six?"
"Yessir."
"Woah."
As he stood in the elevator, twitching, Roger sighed. He knew he would never forget that Joanne works on floor 36. Another number, and Roger hated numbers. People liked to manipulate him, like Collins when Roger first moved in and damned if Collins didn't find Roger's SAT scores out some damned way, and want to know why he wasn't pursuing his education.
Fucking Collins…
Or it was the number of dollars Roger had in his box under the bed-- a big number, in his opinion, but it wasn't big enough. It wouldn't pay the bills when Mimi was in the hospital, and that was why he was here.
"I guess this sucks for you," Roger said, sitting opposite Joanne. She did have a nice view, though… "Everyone relies on you. Everyone asks you for help. But at least you know what's going on."
Joanne nodded. "Right," she said, trying not to snap at him.
"I'm just saying." You aren't the one who has to stand outside of Mark's bedroom and listen to him breathe, just so you know he's okay. You aren't the one watching Mimi for the tiniest sign of what she's holding back. You aren't the one whose best friend… Roger forced himself to stop. Mark and Mimi he could do something for, be there for, take care of, but…
And Roger missed him, he really did. That was the worst.
"What do you need?" Joanne asked. "Did Collins send you?"
"What?" Had she fucking read his thoughts?
"We got together about a week ago, he started talking about how… it was my turn, or something. How when you were in withdrawal everyone relied on him, the next year it was Mark, and now it's me."
Roger had never considered that, but he had to admit, it was true. He remembered withdrawal, a little, what he couldn't block out. He remembered that it was always Collins he turned to, that when he could walk it was Collins he sought out and when he couldn't, then it was crying and begging and Please, please don't leave me, please!
He made them promise. Over and over, he made them promise.
And then Mimi came, and Roger knew that whenever he fought with her he turned to Mark. What can I do, Mark? Advice or a hug or a punching bag, whatever Roger needed, and Mark always assured him that it was all right.
Now here he was, in Joanne's office.
"No," Roger said. "No, Collins didn't send me, actually, I need… I need legal advice. Kind of."
Joanne raised her eyebrows.
"Financial advice," Roger admitted. "Billpaying, okay? I thought… I mean, I don't have enough money, I know I don't, not for the hospital bills and… jeez, it's been hard enough getting all that baby stuff. I swear, whoever owns the Goodwill, I'm putting their kids through college."
Joanne bit back a laugh. "I'm fairly certain the Goodwill is a non-profit," she said. And college costs more than a couple of old bottles. "Anyway, what do you have?"
Roger gave the number. "I thought, maybe I could temp for you, like as a secretary or something?"
"I have a secretary," Joanne said, "but don't worry--"
"I can work however--"
"You have no assets, right?"
"What?"
"You rent the loft, you don't have a car, do you? Didn't think so. Do you have a bank account?" she asked, and again Roger shook his head. "Legal loophole. You got nothing. You appear broke."
"You're smiling."
"Yup. You're broke! The government pays your way, Rog."
Roger practically jumped over the desk to hug Joanne.
TO BE CONTINUED!
That loophole does exist.