Disclaimer: you all know it's not mine. It's Jonathan Larson's. Well, it was. I'm not sure who has the rights to it, now.
After Roger and Mimi left one another, despondence colored his moods and actions for a decent time. He showed sorrow, but I never believed he was sorry. I believed he was lonely. It was hard for him to sleep every night not for missing her, but for being alone. And then one night, after a decent time, he wasn't alone. He was mine.
---
Maybe this was one of his hide-and-seek games, one of his let's-toy-with-Mark phases.
Maybe it wasn't.
"ROGER!"
By this point, I had become quite frantic, racing through the loft, poking into rooms we didn't use, hadn't used:
The room Benny and I shared when we first moved in. Then Benny moved out. And he stopped collecting our rent, until it gathered so much set aside in a box hidden I-won't-say-where that we stopped putting it I-won't-say-where and put it in a savings account and gathered interest instead of dust and we never had to worry about buying food or AZT again.
Collins' bedroom, the one with the door, the one I sometimes wished Roger and I could use. Why not? Collins was at NYU, accepting housing through the university (claiming Roger and I needed all the peace and quiet to disturb). Roger's room still had a huge hole in it. But somehow I knew there was no way he would move into Collins' bedroom, especially since he still considered it Collins'.
Roger wasn't there, though.
He wasn't in our room, the kitchen. He wasn't on the roof or in the bathroom. It was nearly six o'clock, and Roger wasn't home.
"Roger!"
I kept shouting, like he might magically hear me.
He had to be here. Had to be somewhere here, even if something had happened to him I would be the one calling an ambulance, even if even if even if…
Mark.
That was when I saw the note, left inconspicuously on the table. Roger's writing splashed across the page, blue ink letters digging deep gouges on the paper; but the letters were neat. Roger hadn't been angry. He just pressed too hard.
Mark.
I'm going over to Maureen and Joanne's.
Back later.
X
Roger
X? X?! Was that X was in cutting something off, as in no more "us"? Or was it X as in "XO"? Maybe it was Maureen having a breakdown.
No, I knew it wasn't. It was Roger. I sighed and slumped down into a chair. Why didn't I see this coming? Worse, why did I cause it? I shouldn't have ever done it.
That's what I thought when I was standing in the empty apartment, holding the note in my hand, crumpled, not needing to look at the words. They were burned into my head already. Gone to Maureen's. But how long was he gone to Maureen's? Was he coming home soon?
I shouldn't have ever done it.
It had been last night. Since Roger slept late and I worked in the mornings, this afternoon should've been the first we spoke since… it. Really, it isn't much of a big deal, is it? I do it all the time. I only asked him once—once! How could he call it degrading and still love me, when he made me do it?
But then…
Roger told me, the first time, when I swear I could feel how much he wanted it, he told me he wasn't a bottom and never would be. "It just… makes me uncomfortable." I had kissed his mouth and told him that I was okay with that.
And until last night, I was true to my word. Then last night I told him I wanted to top. I told him it wasn't fair he always topped, I just wanted to this once, and if he loved me…
I assumed it was an angry sulk. After I finished, Roger turned away from me. He curled up to the wall, and would not answer when I spoke to him. When I touched him, his body tensed against shivers. I stopped trying to bring him around. The child!
Today, I came home and found him gone. Then the note told me his location, and I didn't even telephone ahead. I grabbed my coat and scarf and ran outside. I bounced in my seat on the subway, unable to sit still. At least when I was running, though I didn't move as quickly, I was doing something.
Later it occurred to me that I could have been angry. I could have thought, Let them deal with him! I think, had I not initially been so frightened, I would have. Now, I needed to get there. I willed the train to hurry.
When it pulled to a stop in my station, I was out the doors before they had fully opened, shoving my way through the throng of people, pounding up the stairs. I had to get there, had to find Roger…
What was I going to do? The thought never occurred to me. As I turned onto their street, huffing and racing, I wondered if I was at all wanted. Had Roger wanted me to come fetch him? Probably not. If the X stood for a kiss, wouldn't he have coupled it with an O or another X? Did this mean Roger was leaving—had left me? Part of my mind insisted that on the bright side, he had left his stuff. Roger's clothes and notebooks were in the loft. His guitar was here. He would never leave it behind, not forever. But the most important part of Roger's belongings—Roger—was absent.
"Mark?"
I stopped and blinked. "Joanne." She looked cool, collected, professional, and utterly surprised. I was surprised, too, but with less reason. Running into Joanne outside her building should have come as no surprise; Joanne just home from a late night at the office, a common picture, proved less a surprise than… me, standing there wiping flakes of snow off my coat.
"What are you doing here?" Not annoyed, just inquisitive. She probably thought I needed legal help.
"Roger's here."
"Oh." She headed in, then paused. "Why?"
"I don't know."
"Oh. All right. Well, you better come up. If nothing else for some water, you're bright as a cherry you know."
We stood together in the elevator listening to infuriatingly calming music. Joanne took off her coat and scarf and folded them over her arms. "So… how was your day?" I asked.
"Bad," Joanne answered emphatically.
"Oh," I said, feeling uncomfortable and guilty, like it was somehow my fault she'd had a bad day. Maybe it was. I'm sure she would rather have come home to her girlfriend than me and Roger.
"There's a new boss in the L.A. offices," she offered as an explanation.
"Oh." So it wasn't totally my fault. "Do you work closely with them?"
"Closely enough." She watched the door for a moment, holding a silent conversation with herself, hands flapping to illustrate a point. Then she turned to me and, still referring to her bosses, said, "They don't want me to defend Collins."
---
Roger was with Maureen. The first thing we heard upon entering the apartment was laughter, mostly hers, high-pitched and carrying, but the tentative chuckle accompanying it belonged to Roger. They were sitting at the table, Maureen carrying on an incredibly involved monologue between bites of popcorn and peals of laughter. She stopped, though, when she saw us.
Roger followed her gaze. "Oh." He had obviously been crying. His eyes were pink and his face pale. Roger's one of those people who goes all out when he cries. He sobs hysterically, can't breathe, and even if he's talking to you and cooking there are tears dripping down his face for an hour after.
He stood. "I should wash up." He turned his hands and I saw that they were indeed covered with something sticky. Then Roger disappeared into the bathroom.
"Maureen," Joanne started, "what—"
Maureen shook her head. She looked serious, the most un-Maureen-like Maureen I had ever seen. Joanne saw the change, too. She paused. "What's going on?" she asked much more gently.
"Umm… we… made popcorn balls!" Maureen replied. She picked up one, and I saw just how long they'd been making them. A large bag of popcorn balls sat on the floor. Some had been made with chocolate powder.
Roger emerged from the bathroom, still pink and pale but now dampened. Usually that description meant I was sucking his cock. He looked at me without looking at me, just sending his expectation. "Ready to head home?" I asked.
Roger nodded. "Thanks, Mo."
"Any time, sweetie."
Maureen called him sweetie. Just like that, standing right there, she just looked right at Roger and called him "sweetie".
We barely spoke on the way back to the loft. Roger was hunkered down in his mock-shearling jacket, the one he wore when it was cold and he wasn't feeling badass enough to wear leather. He just sat there, looking like he didn't know what to say to me, or like he was too scared to try. I had expected many things from Roger but never this. Anger I expected. Apology would have been welcome. But fear! Of me!
Who could've predicted that? Strong, manly Roger Davis cowering before meek little Mark Cohen. It was practically obscene.
At home he headed for the kitchen. "I think I'll make coffee." He poured water into a pot. We didn't have any coffee and he knew it, but before I could say as much Roger asked, "Do you want some tea?"
"No—I mean, I'll make it—I mean." I was still standing awkwardly by the door, and the longer I stood there the more awkward it became. I moved into the kitchen and touched his shoulder gently. Roger's breathing visibly shallowed. "Why don't you go to bed, Roger?" He looked like he needed the rest.
"O-okay," he murmured. My Roger. Murmuring. Shy. The world had turned wrong I didn't much care for it.
I followed Roger to bed a few minutes later. It was freezing. I turned on the radiator and pulled it close to the bed, shivering more than a little. Heck, Roger probably still had his jacket on and I couldn't blame him. It was our first winter as an us, and the hardest part was leaving the warmth of our bed.
When I saw Roger, I couldn't help but cry out. Well, actually it was more of a noise. Roger was shaking, obviously cold, but making no move to warm himself. He just lay there, face buried against a pillow, totally naked.
To say Roger wasn't the most beautiful thing to share my bed would be a blatant lie, especially to anyone who saw him then. But I just wanted to cry. This wasn't what I meant when I told him to go to bed. He looked tired. I just wanted him to rest.
"Oh, Roger." I pulled the covers up over him, then settled next to him. It wasn't until I was so close that I realized he wasn't only shivering from cold. "Roger?" I put my arms around him, but he didn't respond. "Roger, talk to me. Please, baby." I kissed his neck. That only made it worse.
I wouldn't say I gave up on him. That wouldn't be fair to say. Maybe just, I didn't know what to do. So I didn't. I didn't do anything. I just stayed there and held him and let him cry until he fell asleep.
to be continued!
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