A/N: This was the rough draft for Streetlights. It's more than likely that most of you have already read it, but I figured I'd include it so people could comment on things they liked in one that wasn't included in the another or things they wished had transfered. You catch the drift.
When the light flashes through the loft window, it remains only long enough to show the dark circles under Mark's eyes. The room echoes with emptiness, a strange void of limbo with a soundtrack of film being wound into a camera. For some reason, he can't help but wonder…if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up?
Mark used to be used to this; the staying up for three, four days at a time. Back when Roger was the Rock God, he would disappear for days to reach for temporary baggies of amnesia. The filmmaker enjoyed the time without groupies and band members, without the stoned rocker, with nothing but him and his camera. He would film the silence so that he could play it on the cracked wall in his room and disappear into the silence when it wasn't peaceful in the loft. Maybe that's when he developed the same addiction to his camera that Roger had to a leather belt around his arm, but he can't be sure. Nevertheless, that all changes when April's gone.
The rock star's heroine was far too into heroin, and she was too vain about poising her veins. April gilded use, and when she offs herself, the note she leaves leaves the guild's leader weak for weeks. Days like this, when the rains falls and the only light comes from lightning and almost burnt out candles, Mark need not be kneaded into a knight for the night. This junkie—roommate—friend—Roger has wales from nights of wailing and pain and withdrawal, and there are times when Mark thinks it's better to let Roger spend his time in a smack-induced daze than to have to count the days without him. It's almost pathetic, how dependent he is on Roger. The filmmaker looks at him for support; an outlet he can live through. Being behind a camera is nirvana, allowing you to capture life as it's happening so that you can allow it to happen again whenever you want to. It's been four months since April left that note, left the world, and left Roger alone, afraid, and positive. For four months, the two have been withdrawing; Roger from the drugs, Mark from the camera.
The bad thing about being behind a camera is that your brain starts to work as one, too. So even when Mark scrubs and scrubs and scrubs his memory, the blood –stained letters, "WE'VE GOT AIDS," flicker, the red of the liquid mixing with the red of her hair, both contrasting brightly against the white tile of the bathroom.
Even when the track marks are gone, the dark circles remain and his too-thin frame reminds the two what disease is wreaking havoc on Roger, making him so weak that he reeks from weeks of being unable to stand in the shower. Four nights ago, the rocker decided it's not worth is, tied a knot around his arm with a belt, and fazed into a phase of rebellion. No more withdrawal. No more rules. No more rehab. No more Mark.
Now, he must quickly adapt. It has been four days since Mark last slept, but he refuses to do so until Roger gets home.
Mark hates filming the silence now, just because it's a reminder that without Roger, he's alone. It's a reminder that he films an HIV-positive ex-rock star so that when he dies, Mark won't forget him. Hours and hours of film, and he'll simply have to throw it away—Roger's not on it.
When he dropped out of Brown, Benny told him he was making the biggest mistake of his life. And then, when he sold his every last possession for a $500 Bolex 16mm camera, Collins laughed and told him it would be the best thing to ever happen to him. Kind of like Intro to Bohemia 101, except without the warm dorm and roommate to return to.
He wants to shout at them now—the hypocrite for being right and the philosopher for being wrong. It's all April Erikson's fault.
Mark was raised better than to talk rudely about the dead, but he can distinctly remember a summer conversation with April on the fire escape in which she said, "You know, Mark…for some people, hell is better than their life on earth."
A lot of things could have brought up that conversation, from Manhattan heat to their illegal wood burning stove. Nevertheless, it happened, and it makes Mark feel like it's his fault she's no longer here. It's a warning sign, isn't it? Why is it that every single person that gets around Mark has to die? Collins, AIDS. Roger, HIV. Maureen…well, Maureen left him for a woman. That's a completely different story.
When Collins was here, they never had this problem. Collins always knew what to do; despite his anarchist ways, he was the rules of the loft. No girls tonight, Rog. Okay, Collins. Mark, get that damn camera out of my face. Sorry, Collins. Maybe it was because the philosopher spoke so much about blurred lines and distortions and the difference between what is and what should be. Mark should be getting a life, not filming others. Roger should be facing actual reality instead of dipping into drunken stupors. And when he's gone, what isbecomes the new what should be, and the two are stuck with their obsessions and no one to help them out.
The loft door slides open, making Mark jump. Roger slams it closed just as fast, dripping water all over the place. He grunts a hello upon seeing the filmmaker and disappears into the back, and when he comes back in dry sweats, Mark's filming him. The light flickers again and forces Roger's image into the grain of the strip of paper, watching him walk around the loft and put the kettle on.
"What's your problem?" He snaps at the filmmaker, pouring the steaming water into a cracked mug.
"Huh?" Is the best Mark can muster because your voice gets a little hoarse when you haven't spoken in four days.
"All you've done is film since I've left, isn't it? God, you're so pathetic, Mark…"
The words sting more than Roger will ever know, but Mark refuses to give up. "Take your AZT. It's in the living room."
The rock star slams the kettle back on the hot plate and turns, green eyes glaring at him. Mark doesn't care, though, because he only sees it through his camera lens, and for some reason that makes it a hell of a lot less worse. "Since when do we call it a fucking living room? We don't have much room to live."
"Roger, when you were gone, how much did you—?"
"Damnit, Mark! Can I not just have ten minutes of peace?!" Roger flings the top off the pill bottle and pops one in his mouth, swallowing.
A lot of unsaid words go between the two. Mark points out the dangers of heroin use, how it'll only make his immune system weaker and make him die sooner. Roger argues that he's not dying, he'll never die, he's immortal and secure in the world. The two fight about blurred lines and distortions, what is and what should be, and now, what will never be. The lightning stops as Roger sits Indian style on the window seat, leaving him only rain to watch.
"I…I didn't do any. I did some counseling," The rock star whispers. Mark takes this as a sign that he's calmed down, so he sits across from Roger on the window seat, leaning against the freezing cold glass.
"…Oh…"
"M-Mark…" This choked out whisper is so much different than the yelling voice that had previously embodied itself in Roger, and Mark almost thinks he's just hearing things. A single tear rolls down Roger's cheek, pushing dirt off the skin and dropping from his chin. "Mark…I don't want to die."
The filmmaker's fingers itch for the camera; itch to get this moment on film and have it forever so that when the rock star is losing his hair and getting KS lesions, he can look back and remember that this is who Roger really is. But something about Roger's words paralyze him, and he starts crying, too.
"I know, Rog…I know."
The men—roommates—best friends—Mark and Roger sit on the window seat, watching the streets of New York flood. For now, Roger is there, healthy, and beating his addiction. He is not in need of a walking stick or oxygen mask. He is not covered in whelps and lesions and cuts and bruises. For now, Roger is here, still shining in his rock star glory with his bleached hair and tattoos and leather jacket. For now, Roger is home, and things are back to the way they always were before smack and April and New York when it was just the two of them tackling life.
And for some reason, Mark can't help but wonder…if he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, will it all be the same when he wakes up?