RENT: Portrait of a Junkie
Title: Portrait of a Junkie
Characters/Pairing: Mark and Roger
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mark barely recognizes Roger now, and isn't sure why that surprises him.
Notes: Written for rat_jam prompt Roger, portrait.
Disclaimer: I do not own the show or any of the characters. I do this for fun.
Mark held his breath as the nurse unlocked the door for him, and didn't let it out until he'd already taken several steps inside and the actual place hit him. He'd expected the psychiatric unit to be loud, chaotic, frightening... It was quiet, except for music he noticed playing from some unidentified source. A large room with couches, television, ping pong table, someone's pathetic attempt at a welcoming space. His eyes shifted around the room, automatically cataloging patients (half of them hollow-eyed with the look of detoxing junkies), nurses (in blue or green scrubs, one nearby dismissing medications), doctors (a pair of them in white coats, in deep conversation as they passed him)... He seemed to be the only visitor.
"Which patient are you here to see?" the nurse asked, as the door closed behind her with the sound of a lock clicking. Mark turned back to her to respond, fighting to focus thoughts that had become increasingly fragmented by one thing after another, April's suicide, Roger's diagnosis, Roger's overdose and all the shit that went with it...
"Uh, Roger. Roger Davis."
She nodded. "He's in the back," she said, pointing him in the proper direction, and departed without another word. Mark glanced after her for a moment, took another breath, and headed down the hallway that led back, a long row of doors opening to patients' rooms. Glancing in, Mark noted that they looked almost like small hotel rooms, with the same sense of false welcome, just suicide proof, as most hotel rooms were not.
He would have expected Roger to be in his bed, staring despondently out the window, or maybe sleeping, but as the nurse hadn't directed him to a specific room, Mark followed the hallway to its end. Another large room, though smaller than the first, and a row of padded green chairs facing a plexiglass window looking out over the East River. A piano in the corner - Mark glanced at it, recognizing that as the source of the music he'd noticed before, then froze, recognizing the man who played it. Almost recognizing, half recognizing. Not quite, though. He seemed changed since the last time Mark had seen him.
Mark found himself holding his breath as he watched Roger play, completely unnoticed. Roger's fingers danced across the keys with a delicate ease Mark had seen before, but that was with a guitar. He'd never known Roger could play piano. The tune was familiar, and gradually Mark realized where it was from - one of the operas April had so loved. Mark swallowed back an involuntary sob as that realization hit.
The music ended without flourish, and Roger simply sat there in the silence that followed, eyes closed, fingers still on the piano keys. Mark took a few cautious steps forward, and said softly, "I never knew you could play piano."
Roger didn't jump, which seemed strange to Mark. Under the circumstances, he should have been high-strung, but drugged as he probably was... He turned around slowly, unsmiling. "You never asked," he said, and paused. "And we don't have a piano."
Mark sighed and shook his head and said simply, "Yeah," though he was distracted by wondering how many things about his best friend he'd never know because he never asked, never knew the questions to ask. None of that came out, as he pulled a chair up beside Roger at the piano, and smiled faintly. "I missed you."
Roger nodded, with the same hollow-eyed look Mark had seen from the other junkies, and Mark couldn't say why it horrified him, because why would Roger be any different from the rest of them? "Yeah," Roger said, without meeting his eyes. "I know."
Characters/Pairing: Mark and Roger
Word Count: 619
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mark barely recognizes Roger now, and isn't sure why that surprises him.
Notes: Written for rat_jam prompt Roger, portrait.
Disclaimer: I do not own the show or any of the characters. I do this for fun.
Mark held his breath as the nurse unlocked the door for him, and didn't let it out until he'd already taken several steps inside and the actual place hit him. He'd expected the psychiatric unit to be loud, chaotic, frightening... It was quiet, except for music he noticed playing from some unidentified source. A large room with couches, television, ping pong table, someone's pathetic attempt at a welcoming space. His eyes shifted around the room, automatically cataloging patients (half of them hollow-eyed with the look of detoxing junkies), nurses (in blue or green scrubs, one nearby dismissing medications), doctors (a pair of them in white coats, in deep conversation as they passed him)... He seemed to be the only visitor.
"Which patient are you here to see?" the nurse asked, as the door closed behind her with the sound of a lock clicking. Mark turned back to her to respond, fighting to focus thoughts that had become increasingly fragmented by one thing after another, April's suicide, Roger's diagnosis, Roger's overdose and all the shit that went with it...
"Uh, Roger. Roger Davis."
She nodded. "He's in the back," she said, pointing him in the proper direction, and departed without another word. Mark glanced after her for a moment, took another breath, and headed down the hallway that led back, a long row of doors opening to patients' rooms. Glancing in, Mark noted that they looked almost like small hotel rooms, with the same sense of false welcome, just suicide proof, as most hotel rooms were not.
He would have expected Roger to be in his bed, staring despondently out the window, or maybe sleeping, but as the nurse hadn't directed him to a specific room, Mark followed the hallway to its end. Another large room, though smaller than the first, and a row of padded green chairs facing a plexiglass window looking out over the East River. A piano in the corner - Mark glanced at it, recognizing that as the source of the music he'd noticed before, then froze, recognizing the man who played it. Almost recognizing, half recognizing. Not quite, though. He seemed changed since the last time Mark had seen him.
Mark found himself holding his breath as he watched Roger play, completely unnoticed. Roger's fingers danced across the keys with a delicate ease Mark had seen before, but that was with a guitar. He'd never known Roger could play piano. The tune was familiar, and gradually Mark realized where it was from - one of the operas April had so loved. Mark swallowed back an involuntary sob as that realization hit.
The music ended without flourish, and Roger simply sat there in the silence that followed, eyes closed, fingers still on the piano keys. Mark took a few cautious steps forward, and said softly, "I never knew you could play piano."
Roger didn't jump, which seemed strange to Mark. Under the circumstances, he should have been high-strung, but drugged as he probably was... He turned around slowly, unsmiling. "You never asked," he said, and paused. "And we don't have a piano."
Mark sighed and shook his head and said simply, "Yeah," though he was distracted by wondering how many things about his best friend he'd never know because he never asked, never knew the questions to ask. None of that came out, as he pulled a chair up beside Roger at the piano, and smiled faintly. "I missed you."
Roger nodded, with the same hollow-eyed look Mark had seen from the other junkies, and Mark couldn't say why it horrified him, because why would Roger be any different from the rest of them? "Yeah," Roger said, without meeting his eyes. "I know."