(no subject)
[From here.]
The loft's exactly as he left it. A few more disbelieving seconds tick by before he can close the door; the light of Milliways spills out around him, tinting the bare floor and sparse furniture a pale yellow-orange before it narrows to a sliver and disappears. Roger moves as quietly as he can manage, stripping off his shirt, jeans, and shoes as he crosses to his futon. His bare toes try to curl up when they hit the icy floor, eliciting a surprised wince. He'd nearly forgotten that it's just a couple days before Thanksgiving on this side of the door.
His cuts still sting, but he's too giddy to care.
He's home.
Roger even almost forgets to check for the AZT in his back pocket before dropping into bed and yanking the covers around himself.
"Roger?"
It's Mark, shaking him awake. Rush hour traffic howls on the streets below. With a groan, Roger extricates one arm from the blankets to shield his eyes from the sun and mumbles, "'m awake, 'm...." Mark keeps shaking him. "Knock it off, you asshole, I said I'm awake."
"About time. What's got you so -- Jesus, Roger." Mark gapes down at him, wide-eyed.
"What?"
"What happened to your arm?"
Roger frowns. He turns his arm over and stares at the long, livid gashes trailing up his skin. It's an examination that goes on a bit longer than it should.
"I don't know," he says at last, and runs his thumb over the marks with genuine confusion.
He can't understand why he dreams of opera, or hears whistling winds that jerk him awake with a shudder.
He has no idea where that other half-healed wound came from, either: the one across the back of his neck that he discovers as he's washing his hair in the kitchen sink, making him think he got mugged and nobody told him.
On Christmas Eve, as he's getting dressed, his eyes catch on the Fender acoustic propped in the back of his closet...and for once, he doesn't look away. Instead, Roger silently reaches in and wraps a hand around its neck, pulling it through the hangers and out into the open.
One great song. It should be an epiphany, the way it settles on him, but it's more of a quiet nudge. A reminder, nearly.
Soon the loft's filled with the atonal twang of Roger running scales on an untuned instrument. It's not as hard as he expected, which gives him an fleeting upswell of pride. (As for why he keeps circling back to the melody of "Musetta's Waltz" whenever he hits a high C...hell if he knows, but he blames his newfound, inexplicable, and fucking irritating fixation on opera music.)
And then Mark's got the camera pointed in his face, narrating something about shooting without a script, and Roger just rolls his eyes as he tries to shift out of view.
This won't tune, he mutters to himself, picking at the strings.
Mark just smirks as the camera handle clicks out its rotations, steady as a metronome. So we hear.
That night, the girl, the dancer -- Mimi -- knocks on their door. For a minute, he's frozen.
You look familiar, he tells her as he lights the candle stub cupped between her smooth, cold hands.
Like your dead girlfriend?
Roger shakes his head. Only when you smile --
April, her hair curling around her ears, smiling tentatively as he brushes his fingers through it --
-- but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else, he finishes, and the way he leans against the table could almost pass for casual, were it not for how his legs tremble briefly.
There's no uncertain you look familiar when Collins escorts Angel Dumott Schunard into the loft an hour later, though. It's unmistakeable recognition. Roger almost opens his mouth to say it as it flashes over him -- I know you -- but stops himself, forcing his mouth closed.
She doesn't see. She doesn't understand. Nor does Mark, when he tries to explain in St. Mark's Place as the snow catches in their hair. Mimi is each of his losses and temptations neatly catalogued to be tossed at his feet. April. Heroin. Existence without memory, life without regret.
Outside the Life Café, on the first night he's willingly left the loft in six months, she becomes his redemption.
Ankle-deep in the snow, they share a small, lovely kiss.
It's not perfect. Far from it. They fight; sometimes, weeks go by where it seems that's all they do. They make up. He struggles to ignore the way Benny starts finding excuses to spend more time on the Lower East Side.
Angel is the first to fade. While the rest of the group clusters around her hospital bed, Roger sits by the wall, arms folded and eyes on the floor.
She's as close a friend as any, and all he can think is, this is a fucking preview. This is me in five years. Collins in two.
Mimi in less.
After Collins takes her home for the last time, he sits in Angel's hospital bed and wraps loose, jointless fingers around the IV pole.
It's why he runs, in the end. Every Goddamn person at the funeral calls him on it, but he doesn't care.
He sells the car as soon as he reaches Santa Fe and buys the first guitar he can get his hands on. It's not bad, but it's not his Fender. For a month and a week, Roger stands on a street corner with the case propped open and busks to earn his keep. Most of the money goes toward black-market AZT. The rest of what he can spare feeds him and puts a shitty roof over his head.
Too often, as he's walking down the street, his head whips around when he sees curly hair, tanned skin, a familiar smile.
It's never her.
And that's why, in the end, he returns. Eastbound Greyhounds leave the city every hour on the dot; he packs up what little he owns and boards the three o'clock to New York, music humming in his ears.
December 24th, ten PM eastern standard time. Exactly one year after Mimi walked into the loft for the first time, Roger's cradling her to his chest and sobbing out her name.
Even after it's taken so much from you already, sometimes the world keeps on taking.
And sometimes....
I jumped over the moon, she whispers.
Roger lifts his head, swiftly, suddenly unable to breathe. What?
Sometimes, it gives back.
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.
It's a pretty little mantra. And it's a whole, whole hell of a lot easier said than done.
But Roger thinks he might be starting to figure it out.
The loft's exactly as he left it. A few more disbelieving seconds tick by before he can close the door; the light of Milliways spills out around him, tinting the bare floor and sparse furniture a pale yellow-orange before it narrows to a sliver and disappears. Roger moves as quietly as he can manage, stripping off his shirt, jeans, and shoes as he crosses to his futon. His bare toes try to curl up when they hit the icy floor, eliciting a surprised wince. He'd nearly forgotten that it's just a couple days before Thanksgiving on this side of the door.
His cuts still sting, but he's too giddy to care.
He's home.
Roger even almost forgets to check for the AZT in his back pocket before dropping into bed and yanking the covers around himself.
"Roger?"
It's Mark, shaking him awake. Rush hour traffic howls on the streets below. With a groan, Roger extricates one arm from the blankets to shield his eyes from the sun and mumbles, "'m awake, 'm...." Mark keeps shaking him. "Knock it off, you asshole, I said I'm awake."
"About time. What's got you so -- Jesus, Roger." Mark gapes down at him, wide-eyed.
"What?"
"What happened to your arm?"
Roger frowns. He turns his arm over and stares at the long, livid gashes trailing up his skin. It's an examination that goes on a bit longer than it should.
"I don't know," he says at last, and runs his thumb over the marks with genuine confusion.
He can't understand why he dreams of opera, or hears whistling winds that jerk him awake with a shudder.
He has no idea where that other half-healed wound came from, either: the one across the back of his neck that he discovers as he's washing his hair in the kitchen sink, making him think he got mugged and nobody told him.
On Christmas Eve, as he's getting dressed, his eyes catch on the Fender acoustic propped in the back of his closet...and for once, he doesn't look away. Instead, Roger silently reaches in and wraps a hand around its neck, pulling it through the hangers and out into the open.
One great song. It should be an epiphany, the way it settles on him, but it's more of a quiet nudge. A reminder, nearly.
Soon the loft's filled with the atonal twang of Roger running scales on an untuned instrument. It's not as hard as he expected, which gives him an fleeting upswell of pride. (As for why he keeps circling back to the melody of "Musetta's Waltz" whenever he hits a high C...hell if he knows, but he blames his newfound, inexplicable, and fucking irritating fixation on opera music.)
And then Mark's got the camera pointed in his face, narrating something about shooting without a script, and Roger just rolls his eyes as he tries to shift out of view.
This won't tune, he mutters to himself, picking at the strings.
Mark just smirks as the camera handle clicks out its rotations, steady as a metronome. So we hear.
That night, the girl, the dancer -- Mimi -- knocks on their door. For a minute, he's frozen.
You look familiar, he tells her as he lights the candle stub cupped between her smooth, cold hands.
Like your dead girlfriend?
Roger shakes his head. Only when you smile --
April, her hair curling around her ears, smiling tentatively as he brushes his fingers through it --
-- but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere else, he finishes, and the way he leans against the table could almost pass for casual, were it not for how his legs tremble briefly.
There's no uncertain you look familiar when Collins escorts Angel Dumott Schunard into the loft an hour later, though. It's unmistakeable recognition. Roger almost opens his mouth to say it as it flashes over him -- I know you -- but stops himself, forcing his mouth closed.
She doesn't see. She doesn't understand. Nor does Mark, when he tries to explain in St. Mark's Place as the snow catches in their hair. Mimi is each of his losses and temptations neatly catalogued to be tossed at his feet. April. Heroin. Existence without memory, life without regret.
Outside the Life Café, on the first night he's willingly left the loft in six months, she becomes his redemption.
Ankle-deep in the snow, they share a small, lovely kiss.
It's not perfect. Far from it. They fight; sometimes, weeks go by where it seems that's all they do. They make up. He struggles to ignore the way Benny starts finding excuses to spend more time on the Lower East Side.
Angel is the first to fade. While the rest of the group clusters around her hospital bed, Roger sits by the wall, arms folded and eyes on the floor.
She's as close a friend as any, and all he can think is, this is a fucking preview. This is me in five years. Collins in two.
Mimi in less.
After Collins takes her home for the last time, he sits in Angel's hospital bed and wraps loose, jointless fingers around the IV pole.
It's why he runs, in the end. Every Goddamn person at the funeral calls him on it, but he doesn't care.
He sells the car as soon as he reaches Santa Fe and buys the first guitar he can get his hands on. It's not bad, but it's not his Fender. For a month and a week, Roger stands on a street corner with the case propped open and busks to earn his keep. Most of the money goes toward black-market AZT. The rest of what he can spare feeds him and puts a shitty roof over his head.
Too often, as he's walking down the street, his head whips around when he sees curly hair, tanned skin, a familiar smile.
It's never her.
And that's why, in the end, he returns. Eastbound Greyhounds leave the city every hour on the dot; he packs up what little he owns and boards the three o'clock to New York, music humming in his ears.
December 24th, ten PM eastern standard time. Exactly one year after Mimi walked into the loft for the first time, Roger's cradling her to his chest and sobbing out her name.
Even after it's taken so much from you already, sometimes the world keeps on taking.
And sometimes....
I jumped over the moon, she whispers.
Roger lifts his head, swiftly, suddenly unable to breathe. What?
Sometimes, it gives back.
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss.
It's a pretty little mantra. And it's a whole, whole hell of a lot easier said than done.
But Roger thinks he might be starting to figure it out.