Fic: December 24th, 9 PM, Eastern Standard Time
Title: December 24th, 9 PM, Eastern Standard Time
Fandom: RENT
Pairing: None. Mark/Roger if you squint.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Major Character Deah, Drug Use
Summary: Brief snapshots of ten different Christmas Eves in the lives of Mark and Roger.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"What's that?" Mark asks.
Roger, trying to sneak across the loft without Mark noticing, jumps about a foot in the air and hastily hides his hands behind his back. "What's what?" he asks, his speech hurried and breathless like it has been lately.
"Behind your back," Mark says. "What are you hiding from me?"
"There's nothing behind my back," Roger protests, barely placing space between his words.
"Yes there is," Mark presses.
"Nope, there's nothing!" Roger maintains, laying his arms out in front of him, showing Mark he's not holding anything.
For one, Mark isn't fooled; he knows Roger just put it in his back pocket. And if he wasn't sure what is was before, he definitely is now. With Roger's arms outstretched like that, so his too-short sleeves ride up and the veins pop out against his thinning skin, his track marks are practically on display for Mark's viewing non-pleasure.
"You just put it in your pocket," Mark points out, trying not to look at Roger's arms.
"It's April's Christmas present," Roger finally gives in, except it all sounds like one long word.
"It's smack," Mark accuses.
Roger winces. "So what if it is?"
"It's almost Christmas, do you really have to shoot up?"
"It's almost Christmas, do you really have to get on my fucking case?" Roger's shout is a stark contrast to Mark's calm, tired tone.
"That can be your Christmas present to me," Mark offers, still sounding calm.
Roger just looks at him, confused.
"Not shooting up," Mark exclaims. "That can be your present to me."
"It's not Christmas yet."
"So you don't have to give that to April just now. And it's the seventh night of Hanukkah for me."
"You're not religious. You don't celebrate Hanukkah."
"You're not religious, either. You don't celebrate Christmas."
"Yes I do. You do too."
"Then spend Christmas Eve with me."
"I should spend it with my girlfriend! I'll spend Christmas with you tomorrow."
"No you won't. You'll either be so high you can't get home and I'll have to come rescue you from somewhere, or you and April will collapse after you get high and forget about me."
"Don't say things like that, Mark!"
"Things like what? The truth?" Mark's sharp challenge and shift from support is a direct response to Roger's yelling.
"Fuck you, Mark!" Roger screams, before stomping out of the loft.
The next day and Christmas only proves to show that Mark was right.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"It's okay, it's okay," Mark whispers, gently rubbing Roger's back as the latter vomits into their toilet.
Roger only heaves again and vomits up some more stomach acid in response.
"That it?" Mark asks when Roger's coughing no long produces anything.
Roger still doesn't say anything but he moves away from the toilet, slumping against the wall.
Mark stands up and flushes the toilet before he hands Roger a glass of water. "Drink," he says.
Roger obeys, taking the cup with shaking hands and sipping it slowly.
Mark waits until he's finished before helping Roger to his feet, and leading him to collapse on the couch. He sits down next to Roger and then drapes a blanket over the two of them. Roger still shivers and Mark pulls him closer to his own body, trying to share his body heat. Snuggling with Roger like this is hardly comfortable; Roger is skinny, far too skinny, all sharp angles and bones and he buries his head in Mark's neck and shakes.
Mark simply holds on to his friend, trying the best he can. December 25th hasn't been a special day for a long time, why should this year be any different? It's just another one of the 365 days in a year. They don't have any decorations, or a tree, or any of that suburban shit. There are no jolly Santas or twinkling lights or merry signs wishing everyone the best in Alphabet City. There are no radios to broadcast feel-good tunes or any of the "magic" of the holidays. No one's created any holiday wish lists. If Mark could make one, and give it someone who actually had money, he wouldn't even be sure what to put on it. All he really wants right now is some sort of Christmas miracle. For Roger to get better, for them to get money, for heat, for Maureen to stop cheating on him, for Collins to come back from Massachusetts, and for April to come back from the dead. He just wants everything to be okay again.
But Mark's known since the age of eight that Santa Clause doesn't exist and that Christmas miracles just don't happen like that.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"From here on in, I shoot without a script," Mark tells his camera. He needs something, anything, to give him hope enough to go on now. He figures that if he has to go through hell, he might as well document it. His scripts never work out anyways. "See if anything comes of it." He shrugs. "Instead of my old shit."
He swings the camera around to film Roger. At least it's something different for Christmas this year. "First shot: Roger. Tuning the fender guitar he hasn't played in a year."
"This won't tune," Roger grumbles to himself.
Mark scoffs. "So we hear." Honestly, the guitar's ugly sound is doing a good job at grating on Mark's eardrums. But at least Roger's playing again. Maybe this is a sign. A sign that Roger's finally starting to live again. Maybe Mark will finally get that Christmas miracle's he's been wanting. All the rough patches in his withdrawal seem to be past them, maybe now Roger can really start to recover. There's still no money, no heat, no Maureen, no Collins, and no April, but a rebounding Roger is a start.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
Roger comes into the loft, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
He doesn't say anything and Mark doesn't ask. It's obvious that his search for Mimi didn't go well. Instead Mark asks, "Were you out looking in the dark?"
Roger shrugs. "It's really not all that dark. You know, city that never sleeps and all that jazz."
"Here," Mark offers, holding the cup of coffee in his hands out to Roger. "It's still hot."
"Thanks," Roger says, sitting across from Mark and taking the proffered mug and sipping it.
Mark wants to ask. All those months when he had to be suspicious of Roger, they've given him these habits. Habits like doubting Roger when he's out later. Habits like checking the little bit of wrist he can see as Roger's coat falls down his arms when he lifts them to sip. Habits that send off the warning signals in his brain. But he can't ask. It will only piss Roger off. If Roger really is using again, he's bound to be on edge and defensive. And if he isn't, he'll just be upset that Mark would think he's relapsed again. Mark doesn't want a fight right now. Right now, he'll just fall into the old habit of taking care of Roger.
"Mark?" Roger asks suddenly.
"Hmm?" Mark responds, his head snapping up as he leaves his thoughts.
"Why are we drinking coffee at 9 o'clock at night?"
"Oh." The sensible question brings Mark up short. He doesn't really know why. "Um...because it's warm?"
"Good enough for me." Roger shrugs, taking another sip.
Mark reaches out an hand and Roger slides the cup over the table to him. They sit like this for a while, sharing the coffee and not talking. But it's comfortable silence, and if Roger's going to take some sort of drug, Mark prefers it to be caffeine.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"It hasn't even been a year, Mark," Roger slurs, tipping his head back into Mark's lap.
"I know," Mark says, gently petting his friend's head.
"Only two years since I met her."
"I know," Mark says again. He feels like a broken record tonight.
Roger hiccups sadly. "I had a little more than a year with her. And I wasted a lot of it in Santa Fe."
"That's your own fault," Mark mutters. Roger's far too drunk to hear or be offended by this.
"Mark?" Roger asks, a sudden note of fear in his voice.
"Yeah? Yeah, I'm here," Mark assures, starting the stroking of Roger's head again.
"Mark, I want some heroin," Roger says. "Mark, can I please have some heroin?"
"What?" Mark asks, caught off guard by the sudden question. He's thought about Roger using again from time to time, but Roger hasn't actually asked for any in years.
"I wanna shoot up!" Roger whines.
"No," Mark says firmly. Roger's drunk, he doesn't mean it. He doesn't.
"Please?" Roger almost begs, his voice dropping down to a whisper after its sudden volume.
"No."
"But I need to forget."
"That's why you're drunk," Mark points out.
Roger lets out a noise of frustration. "It hurts too much, Mark."
"What hurts?" Mark starts petting Roger's head with a bit more force. Maybe his hangover headache is already starting.
"Everything. I don't want to feel any more."
"It will go away," Mark promises.
"No, no it won't!" Roger protests. "It never does." Roger sits up, lifting his head out of Mark's lap and his body off of Mark's leg, turning to face him. This takes a while, with Roger falling back down into Mark's lap a couple times before he's able to steady himself by leaning against the back of their couch.
The whole time, Mark simply watches Roger. He knows that if he tries to help Roger would just get pissed at him.
"How do you do it?" Roger asks, his voice low and quiet once more.
"Do what?"
"Disengage," Roger says simply, dragging up old wounds of old fights. "I hate that you do that, because I wish I could," he explains.
Mark just shrugs. "I don't know," he whispers back.
"Teach me," Roger pleads.
"I can't," Mark says. "I'm sorry."
"Please," Roger asks, one more time.
"I don't know how."
Roger chokes on a little sob, and Mark brings him into a hug. "Don't ever give up your emotions, Roger. They're too much a part of you," he whispers into his friend's ear.
Roger just gives into his tears and cries onto Mark's shoulder as he holds him.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"Happy Christmas Eve, Marky!" Maureen chirps when Mark opens the door to the loft.
He winces. "I told you not to call me that," he complains, rolling his eyes.
"I got you a present!" Maureen says, thrusting the package into Mark's hands.
"Thanks," Mark says, shaking it to try and guess what's inside.
"I have one for Roger too," Maureen continues, pulling a second wrapped present out of her purse. It is beyond Mark's understanding how she can fit so much shit into that little thing.
"Hell yeah, presents!" Roger yells, appearing suddenly behind Mark's shoulder.
Mark flinches in surprise and swears as Roger takes his present from Maureen and proceeds to shake it, like Mark did.
"It's been a long time since I had one of these," he remarks.
"Because we're always broke," Mark points out.
Roger shrugs. "Nice hat, Maureen," he adds, nodding at Maureen's festive Santa hat.
She beams at the praise.
"I'm sorry we don't have anything for you," Mark tells her.
Maureen just shrugs and continues smiling. "We're friends, you don't have to pay me back."
"But it's common courtesy," Mark objects, completely floored. Since when has Maureen been so giving?
"Joanne told me to be more giving," she explains. "She told me to get you two gifts. It's like giving to charity and being nice to friends, all in one!"
"Well, thanks," Mark says again, still kind of stunned.
"No problem! But I've got to run, sorry, pookie," Maureen says. "If you two want you can come over to Joanne's tomorrow. We'll have real food and some heat to share," she offers.
"Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Maureen."
Maureen shrugs again and hugs Mark, kissing his cheek. "It's no problem." She hugs Roger too. "Collins will probably be there too, so..." she trails off. "We'll make a party out of it, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, we'll be there," Mark promises.
Maureen smiles and practically skips down the steps.
It's the first actually nice Christmas Mark and Roger have had in a long time.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"Merry Christmas," Mark says, kneeling down before the grave. "I mean, it's not technically Christmas yet, but close enough, right?"
Collins' grave doesn't respond and there's no sign from beyond to show that Collins has heard him. But Mark keeps talking.
"Roger hasn't been home in a long time," he says. If Collins can really hear him now, shouldn't he already know this stuff? Or maybe he's been too busy shaking things up with Angel to really pay attention to Mark and Roger. The thought makes Mark extremely depressed. "Well, I guess you already knew that. I mean, I hope you're watching us enough to see that. Or are you? Am I just being stupid and taking to a headstone?" No response. Mark laughs a little to himself. "Probably. But I'm still going to talk as if you're here."
He sighs then launches into his worries. "I'm afraid Roger's shooting up again. He's been really depressed about Mimi and April, and, well...you too, but it's really none of your faults. Roger just doesn't handle intense emotions well. But I'm afraid that he's been out doing drugs to feel better, or forget. I don't think he really cares much anymore if he dies or not. But I do, I want him to come back safe and alive. I keep telling myself that he's not dead. I can't even really handle the thought. But I'm also worried that he's too afraid of me to come back. That he's afraid I'll get mad at him for getting high again. Or running away again. But that's stupid. I'll always forgive him, I always have. Roger's just stupid. He's a fucking dumbass. And sometimes I really want to leave and stop taking care of him all the time. But then the next moment I feel guilty, and realize that I can't ever leave. Not if someone needs me."
Mark sighs. "God, I'm pathetic, huh? Roger's right, I am a sucker." Then Mark smiles, imagining Collins' response. "Not like that. Well...I guess that's all I really wanted to say." Mark stands up, brushing the snow off of his knees. "Thanks for listening," he says, patting the headstone. "And if you do have any powers to, like, influence what goes on over here, could you send Roger back to me? Thanks."
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
It's another Christmas Eve spent with Roger shaking.
"You're so fucking stupid, Roger," Mark points out.
"I know."
"Never do it again."
"I won't."
"It was really fucking stupid, even by your stupid standards."
"I know."
"Well, as long as you know." Mark's really complete shit at fighting with Roger, especially when he's like this and so obviously needs Mark.
"Never again," Roger repeats. "What the hell was I thinking?"
"I don't think you were."
Roger shakes again and scratches at his arms.
"Stop that," Mark demands, taking Roger's hands in his own. "Scratching at the marks isn't going to make them go away." Roger's fingers still scrape anxiously against Mark's palms, but he doesn't let it bother him.
"Can you talk about it without getting upset?" Mark asks.
"Yeah," Roger says, but his fingers pick up their anxious scratching.
"Is this the first time you've relapsed since Mimi?"
"Yes. Well, sort of," Roger admits, looking down. "Last year, when I disappeared. I didn't use, but I would just stab myself with the needles. It gave the right illusion, I guess."
"Is that all?" Mark whispers, rubbing his thumbs against the back of Roger's hands. "Is it?"
Roger nods. "I swear. Well, right when Mimi started to really die. That week after Christmas. Whenever she was using. I would just stab or cut myself. It was easier than watching."
"Jesus, Roger," Mark whispers, his thumbs picking up speed with Roger's fingers.
"I'm sorry," Roger apologizes quickly. "I-I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to use. I don't want to cut. Help me stop."
"No more," Mark promises him. "We're going to hide everything sharp, okay?"
Roger nods.
"And I'm going to watch you, okay?"
Roger nods. "Anything. I'll do anything if you help me."
"I will," Mark promises.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
The hospital has more decorations than Mark's seen in years. Despite the obvious best efforts of the hospital staff, Mark does not feel cheered at all. He's tucked into a hard plastic chair, his legs resting against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around his ankles, leaning half against the back of the chair and half against the wall it's leaning against. Roger's lying in the bed in the center of the room, a few feet away from Mark, and he's currently asleep, something he's been doing a lot more as of late. Mark's morbid side tells him that this is a bad sign. He's sick of death. It's Christmas; shouldn't things be all cheery around Christmastime? It's not like they really participate in all the festivities, but still. Don't they deserve some sort of holiday cheer?
"Mark, why you still here?" Roger asks, sleepily, slowly blinking his eyes open.
Mark shrugs. "I'd rather be here with you than alone somewhere else on Christmas Eve."
Roger blinks a few more times to wake up and then glances at the clock. "Aren't visiting hours over?"
"Um...yeah, they are."
Roger gives Mark a look.
"I hid in the bathroom," Mark explains.
"A nurse is going to come in and catch you," Roger teases. But his voice is scratchy and weak; it doesn't have the lift it would normally have when teasing Mark. His hair hangs limply on his head and his smile is nearly as weak as his voice. Maybe more than the morbid side of Mark knows that time is fast running out.
Mark just shrugs. "They'll have to drag me out."
Roger doesn't respond and Mark panics.
"Roger? Roger, wake up."
Roger opens his eyes again, with what looks like an effort. "Yeah?"
"Just, stay awake, okay?"
Roger nods sleepily.
Mark uncurls himself from his chair to slide down onto the floor and drag the chair closer to Roger's bed. "Don't sleep," he demands, taking hold of one of Roger's thin hands.
"But I'm tired, Marky," Roger protests.
"Don't call me that, and don't sleep."
"Why not."
"Because." Because you'll die if you do.
"That's not a good answer," Roger tells him, slurring again.
"You don't need a good answer, just listen to me," Mark pleads desperately.
"Keep talking then," Roger says.
But now Mark finds the words stuck in his throat. These are going to be his finals words to Roger, and he wants to make them count, but he doesn't know how.
"December 24th. 9 PM. Eastern Standard Time," he whispers. "That's what time it is now."
"Mmm," Roger says.
"And I wish I had a script, because I don't know what to say."
There's silence and Mark jerks on Roger's hand to wake him up. His eyes blink open again, staying half-way closed.
"Roger, you're my best friend," Mark says. "And I can't..." He takes a deep breath. "Whatever I'm going to say is going to come out corny and stupid."
"Mmm," Roger grunts when Mark shakes his hand again.
"But, um, you know, you're my Roger. I know that sounds weird, but...you are. I mean, throughout everything, you're the person that's always there with me."
"I left..." Roger mutters.
Mark shrugs. "Once or twice, but that's not what I mean."
"I know," Roger whispers. It's barely audible. "Same here."
"Please don't leave me now," Mark begs in a whisper, trying to fight off tears.
"'M sorry, Mark," Roger slurs.
Mark kisses Roger quickly, just long enough for Roger to barely return the pressure, before pulling back and letting the tears fall. It isn't really meant to be a romantic moment. Love is found in all sorts of ways, and Mark and Roger have their own type of love. The kind that links people together when they have nothing else. The kind that makes being with each other as natural as breathing. Why not end it with a kiss?
Roger flat lines.
Mark screams.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
Mark walks through the graveyard again slowly, kicking at the little clumps of snow, watching as his foot breaks them into millions of different snowflakes.
For once Mark is extremely grateful for the East Village's overall lack of Christmas decorations. The little cafés and shops might have some decorations, but overall Christmas cheer is completely lacking. It's good, because Mark really fucking hates Christmas. Technically he should hate Christmas Eve, but really, he hates the whole damn holiday. Stupid fake cheer and people's fake charity. Christmas is fake. And Mark is not going to buy into that societal bullshit.
"Merry Christmas," he whispers to Angel's grave when he comes to it. "Thanks for all those years ago."
He keeps going though, pausing once again at Collins's grave. "Merry Christmas, bitch," he teases, smiling.
But his real destination isn't a real grave. Roger protested to the idea of being buried, said it was too conventional or something. His mom had just rolled her eyes and cremated him, giving some of the ashes to Maureen and Joanne and some more to Mark. It seems weird to distribute Roger that way, but, hey, Roger had wanted to be weird.
Finding the tombstone that just marks a spot on the ground Mark pauses again. It's a simple thing, marked with Roger's name and graffitied (per his request, the odd bastard) by Mark and Maureen. Just staring, Mark fingers the box that holds Roger's ashes.
"Your requests were really fucking crazy, you know that, right?" he says finally. Nothing answers him and Mark simply falls into silence again. "It feels like a lot longer." Mark stays silent for a while thinking. "Well, just thought I should say 'Merry Christmas'. Fuck, you're probably just laughing your ass off at me, aren't you? Whatever, glad I could entertain you." Mark lapses into silence again. "How did we get here, how the hell?" he mumbles. He knows these words; he's said them here before.
"Christmas," he sighs. "Christmas eve, last year."
Mark stands up and leaves the graveyard, his fingers brushing over Roger's tombstone, lingering for just a few extra moments.
Fandom: RENT
Pairing: None. Mark/Roger if you squint.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Major Character Deah, Drug Use
Summary: Brief snapshots of ten different Christmas Eves in the lives of Mark and Roger.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"What's that?" Mark asks.
Roger, trying to sneak across the loft without Mark noticing, jumps about a foot in the air and hastily hides his hands behind his back. "What's what?" he asks, his speech hurried and breathless like it has been lately.
"Behind your back," Mark says. "What are you hiding from me?"
"There's nothing behind my back," Roger protests, barely placing space between his words.
"Yes there is," Mark presses.
"Nope, there's nothing!" Roger maintains, laying his arms out in front of him, showing Mark he's not holding anything.
For one, Mark isn't fooled; he knows Roger just put it in his back pocket. And if he wasn't sure what is was before, he definitely is now. With Roger's arms outstretched like that, so his too-short sleeves ride up and the veins pop out against his thinning skin, his track marks are practically on display for Mark's viewing non-pleasure.
"You just put it in your pocket," Mark points out, trying not to look at Roger's arms.
"It's April's Christmas present," Roger finally gives in, except it all sounds like one long word.
"It's smack," Mark accuses.
Roger winces. "So what if it is?"
"It's almost Christmas, do you really have to shoot up?"
"It's almost Christmas, do you really have to get on my fucking case?" Roger's shout is a stark contrast to Mark's calm, tired tone.
"That can be your Christmas present to me," Mark offers, still sounding calm.
Roger just looks at him, confused.
"Not shooting up," Mark exclaims. "That can be your present to me."
"It's not Christmas yet."
"So you don't have to give that to April just now. And it's the seventh night of Hanukkah for me."
"You're not religious. You don't celebrate Hanukkah."
"You're not religious, either. You don't celebrate Christmas."
"Yes I do. You do too."
"Then spend Christmas Eve with me."
"I should spend it with my girlfriend! I'll spend Christmas with you tomorrow."
"No you won't. You'll either be so high you can't get home and I'll have to come rescue you from somewhere, or you and April will collapse after you get high and forget about me."
"Don't say things like that, Mark!"
"Things like what? The truth?" Mark's sharp challenge and shift from support is a direct response to Roger's yelling.
"Fuck you, Mark!" Roger screams, before stomping out of the loft.
The next day and Christmas only proves to show that Mark was right.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"It's okay, it's okay," Mark whispers, gently rubbing Roger's back as the latter vomits into their toilet.
Roger only heaves again and vomits up some more stomach acid in response.
"That it?" Mark asks when Roger's coughing no long produces anything.
Roger still doesn't say anything but he moves away from the toilet, slumping against the wall.
Mark stands up and flushes the toilet before he hands Roger a glass of water. "Drink," he says.
Roger obeys, taking the cup with shaking hands and sipping it slowly.
Mark waits until he's finished before helping Roger to his feet, and leading him to collapse on the couch. He sits down next to Roger and then drapes a blanket over the two of them. Roger still shivers and Mark pulls him closer to his own body, trying to share his body heat. Snuggling with Roger like this is hardly comfortable; Roger is skinny, far too skinny, all sharp angles and bones and he buries his head in Mark's neck and shakes.
Mark simply holds on to his friend, trying the best he can. December 25th hasn't been a special day for a long time, why should this year be any different? It's just another one of the 365 days in a year. They don't have any decorations, or a tree, or any of that suburban shit. There are no jolly Santas or twinkling lights or merry signs wishing everyone the best in Alphabet City. There are no radios to broadcast feel-good tunes or any of the "magic" of the holidays. No one's created any holiday wish lists. If Mark could make one, and give it someone who actually had money, he wouldn't even be sure what to put on it. All he really wants right now is some sort of Christmas miracle. For Roger to get better, for them to get money, for heat, for Maureen to stop cheating on him, for Collins to come back from Massachusetts, and for April to come back from the dead. He just wants everything to be okay again.
But Mark's known since the age of eight that Santa Clause doesn't exist and that Christmas miracles just don't happen like that.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"From here on in, I shoot without a script," Mark tells his camera. He needs something, anything, to give him hope enough to go on now. He figures that if he has to go through hell, he might as well document it. His scripts never work out anyways. "See if anything comes of it." He shrugs. "Instead of my old shit."
He swings the camera around to film Roger. At least it's something different for Christmas this year. "First shot: Roger. Tuning the fender guitar he hasn't played in a year."
"This won't tune," Roger grumbles to himself.
Mark scoffs. "So we hear." Honestly, the guitar's ugly sound is doing a good job at grating on Mark's eardrums. But at least Roger's playing again. Maybe this is a sign. A sign that Roger's finally starting to live again. Maybe Mark will finally get that Christmas miracle's he's been wanting. All the rough patches in his withdrawal seem to be past them, maybe now Roger can really start to recover. There's still no money, no heat, no Maureen, no Collins, and no April, but a rebounding Roger is a start.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
Roger comes into the loft, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
He doesn't say anything and Mark doesn't ask. It's obvious that his search for Mimi didn't go well. Instead Mark asks, "Were you out looking in the dark?"
Roger shrugs. "It's really not all that dark. You know, city that never sleeps and all that jazz."
"Here," Mark offers, holding the cup of coffee in his hands out to Roger. "It's still hot."
"Thanks," Roger says, sitting across from Mark and taking the proffered mug and sipping it.
Mark wants to ask. All those months when he had to be suspicious of Roger, they've given him these habits. Habits like doubting Roger when he's out later. Habits like checking the little bit of wrist he can see as Roger's coat falls down his arms when he lifts them to sip. Habits that send off the warning signals in his brain. But he can't ask. It will only piss Roger off. If Roger really is using again, he's bound to be on edge and defensive. And if he isn't, he'll just be upset that Mark would think he's relapsed again. Mark doesn't want a fight right now. Right now, he'll just fall into the old habit of taking care of Roger.
"Mark?" Roger asks suddenly.
"Hmm?" Mark responds, his head snapping up as he leaves his thoughts.
"Why are we drinking coffee at 9 o'clock at night?"
"Oh." The sensible question brings Mark up short. He doesn't really know why. "Um...because it's warm?"
"Good enough for me." Roger shrugs, taking another sip.
Mark reaches out an hand and Roger slides the cup over the table to him. They sit like this for a while, sharing the coffee and not talking. But it's comfortable silence, and if Roger's going to take some sort of drug, Mark prefers it to be caffeine.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"It hasn't even been a year, Mark," Roger slurs, tipping his head back into Mark's lap.
"I know," Mark says, gently petting his friend's head.
"Only two years since I met her."
"I know," Mark says again. He feels like a broken record tonight.
Roger hiccups sadly. "I had a little more than a year with her. And I wasted a lot of it in Santa Fe."
"That's your own fault," Mark mutters. Roger's far too drunk to hear or be offended by this.
"Mark?" Roger asks, a sudden note of fear in his voice.
"Yeah? Yeah, I'm here," Mark assures, starting the stroking of Roger's head again.
"Mark, I want some heroin," Roger says. "Mark, can I please have some heroin?"
"What?" Mark asks, caught off guard by the sudden question. He's thought about Roger using again from time to time, but Roger hasn't actually asked for any in years.
"I wanna shoot up!" Roger whines.
"No," Mark says firmly. Roger's drunk, he doesn't mean it. He doesn't.
"Please?" Roger almost begs, his voice dropping down to a whisper after its sudden volume.
"No."
"But I need to forget."
"That's why you're drunk," Mark points out.
Roger lets out a noise of frustration. "It hurts too much, Mark."
"What hurts?" Mark starts petting Roger's head with a bit more force. Maybe his hangover headache is already starting.
"Everything. I don't want to feel any more."
"It will go away," Mark promises.
"No, no it won't!" Roger protests. "It never does." Roger sits up, lifting his head out of Mark's lap and his body off of Mark's leg, turning to face him. This takes a while, with Roger falling back down into Mark's lap a couple times before he's able to steady himself by leaning against the back of their couch.
The whole time, Mark simply watches Roger. He knows that if he tries to help Roger would just get pissed at him.
"How do you do it?" Roger asks, his voice low and quiet once more.
"Do what?"
"Disengage," Roger says simply, dragging up old wounds of old fights. "I hate that you do that, because I wish I could," he explains.
Mark just shrugs. "I don't know," he whispers back.
"Teach me," Roger pleads.
"I can't," Mark says. "I'm sorry."
"Please," Roger asks, one more time.
"I don't know how."
Roger chokes on a little sob, and Mark brings him into a hug. "Don't ever give up your emotions, Roger. They're too much a part of you," he whispers into his friend's ear.
Roger just gives into his tears and cries onto Mark's shoulder as he holds him.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"Happy Christmas Eve, Marky!" Maureen chirps when Mark opens the door to the loft.
He winces. "I told you not to call me that," he complains, rolling his eyes.
"I got you a present!" Maureen says, thrusting the package into Mark's hands.
"Thanks," Mark says, shaking it to try and guess what's inside.
"I have one for Roger too," Maureen continues, pulling a second wrapped present out of her purse. It is beyond Mark's understanding how she can fit so much shit into that little thing.
"Hell yeah, presents!" Roger yells, appearing suddenly behind Mark's shoulder.
Mark flinches in surprise and swears as Roger takes his present from Maureen and proceeds to shake it, like Mark did.
"It's been a long time since I had one of these," he remarks.
"Because we're always broke," Mark points out.
Roger shrugs. "Nice hat, Maureen," he adds, nodding at Maureen's festive Santa hat.
She beams at the praise.
"I'm sorry we don't have anything for you," Mark tells her.
Maureen just shrugs and continues smiling. "We're friends, you don't have to pay me back."
"But it's common courtesy," Mark objects, completely floored. Since when has Maureen been so giving?
"Joanne told me to be more giving," she explains. "She told me to get you two gifts. It's like giving to charity and being nice to friends, all in one!"
"Well, thanks," Mark says again, still kind of stunned.
"No problem! But I've got to run, sorry, pookie," Maureen says. "If you two want you can come over to Joanne's tomorrow. We'll have real food and some heat to share," she offers.
"Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Maureen."
Maureen shrugs again and hugs Mark, kissing his cheek. "It's no problem." She hugs Roger too. "Collins will probably be there too, so..." she trails off. "We'll make a party out of it, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, we'll be there," Mark promises.
Maureen smiles and practically skips down the steps.
It's the first actually nice Christmas Mark and Roger have had in a long time.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
"Merry Christmas," Mark says, kneeling down before the grave. "I mean, it's not technically Christmas yet, but close enough, right?"
Collins' grave doesn't respond and there's no sign from beyond to show that Collins has heard him. But Mark keeps talking.
"Roger hasn't been home in a long time," he says. If Collins can really hear him now, shouldn't he already know this stuff? Or maybe he's been too busy shaking things up with Angel to really pay attention to Mark and Roger. The thought makes Mark extremely depressed. "Well, I guess you already knew that. I mean, I hope you're watching us enough to see that. Or are you? Am I just being stupid and taking to a headstone?" No response. Mark laughs a little to himself. "Probably. But I'm still going to talk as if you're here."
He sighs then launches into his worries. "I'm afraid Roger's shooting up again. He's been really depressed about Mimi and April, and, well...you too, but it's really none of your faults. Roger just doesn't handle intense emotions well. But I'm afraid that he's been out doing drugs to feel better, or forget. I don't think he really cares much anymore if he dies or not. But I do, I want him to come back safe and alive. I keep telling myself that he's not dead. I can't even really handle the thought. But I'm also worried that he's too afraid of me to come back. That he's afraid I'll get mad at him for getting high again. Or running away again. But that's stupid. I'll always forgive him, I always have. Roger's just stupid. He's a fucking dumbass. And sometimes I really want to leave and stop taking care of him all the time. But then the next moment I feel guilty, and realize that I can't ever leave. Not if someone needs me."
Mark sighs. "God, I'm pathetic, huh? Roger's right, I am a sucker." Then Mark smiles, imagining Collins' response. "Not like that. Well...I guess that's all I really wanted to say." Mark stands up, brushing the snow off of his knees. "Thanks for listening," he says, patting the headstone. "And if you do have any powers to, like, influence what goes on over here, could you send Roger back to me? Thanks."
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
It's another Christmas Eve spent with Roger shaking.
"You're so fucking stupid, Roger," Mark points out.
"I know."
"Never do it again."
"I won't."
"It was really fucking stupid, even by your stupid standards."
"I know."
"Well, as long as you know." Mark's really complete shit at fighting with Roger, especially when he's like this and so obviously needs Mark.
"Never again," Roger repeats. "What the hell was I thinking?"
"I don't think you were."
Roger shakes again and scratches at his arms.
"Stop that," Mark demands, taking Roger's hands in his own. "Scratching at the marks isn't going to make them go away." Roger's fingers still scrape anxiously against Mark's palms, but he doesn't let it bother him.
"Can you talk about it without getting upset?" Mark asks.
"Yeah," Roger says, but his fingers pick up their anxious scratching.
"Is this the first time you've relapsed since Mimi?"
"Yes. Well, sort of," Roger admits, looking down. "Last year, when I disappeared. I didn't use, but I would just stab myself with the needles. It gave the right illusion, I guess."
"Is that all?" Mark whispers, rubbing his thumbs against the back of Roger's hands. "Is it?"
Roger nods. "I swear. Well, right when Mimi started to really die. That week after Christmas. Whenever she was using. I would just stab or cut myself. It was easier than watching."
"Jesus, Roger," Mark whispers, his thumbs picking up speed with Roger's fingers.
"I'm sorry," Roger apologizes quickly. "I-I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to use. I don't want to cut. Help me stop."
"No more," Mark promises him. "We're going to hide everything sharp, okay?"
Roger nods.
"And I'm going to watch you, okay?"
Roger nods. "Anything. I'll do anything if you help me."
"I will," Mark promises.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
The hospital has more decorations than Mark's seen in years. Despite the obvious best efforts of the hospital staff, Mark does not feel cheered at all. He's tucked into a hard plastic chair, his legs resting against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around his ankles, leaning half against the back of the chair and half against the wall it's leaning against. Roger's lying in the bed in the center of the room, a few feet away from Mark, and he's currently asleep, something he's been doing a lot more as of late. Mark's morbid side tells him that this is a bad sign. He's sick of death. It's Christmas; shouldn't things be all cheery around Christmastime? It's not like they really participate in all the festivities, but still. Don't they deserve some sort of holiday cheer?
"Mark, why you still here?" Roger asks, sleepily, slowly blinking his eyes open.
Mark shrugs. "I'd rather be here with you than alone somewhere else on Christmas Eve."
Roger blinks a few more times to wake up and then glances at the clock. "Aren't visiting hours over?"
"Um...yeah, they are."
Roger gives Mark a look.
"I hid in the bathroom," Mark explains.
"A nurse is going to come in and catch you," Roger teases. But his voice is scratchy and weak; it doesn't have the lift it would normally have when teasing Mark. His hair hangs limply on his head and his smile is nearly as weak as his voice. Maybe more than the morbid side of Mark knows that time is fast running out.
Mark just shrugs. "They'll have to drag me out."
Roger doesn't respond and Mark panics.
"Roger? Roger, wake up."
Roger opens his eyes again, with what looks like an effort. "Yeah?"
"Just, stay awake, okay?"
Roger nods sleepily.
Mark uncurls himself from his chair to slide down onto the floor and drag the chair closer to Roger's bed. "Don't sleep," he demands, taking hold of one of Roger's thin hands.
"But I'm tired, Marky," Roger protests.
"Don't call me that, and don't sleep."
"Why not."
"Because." Because you'll die if you do.
"That's not a good answer," Roger tells him, slurring again.
"You don't need a good answer, just listen to me," Mark pleads desperately.
"Keep talking then," Roger says.
But now Mark finds the words stuck in his throat. These are going to be his finals words to Roger, and he wants to make them count, but he doesn't know how.
"December 24th. 9 PM. Eastern Standard Time," he whispers. "That's what time it is now."
"Mmm," Roger says.
"And I wish I had a script, because I don't know what to say."
There's silence and Mark jerks on Roger's hand to wake him up. His eyes blink open again, staying half-way closed.
"Roger, you're my best friend," Mark says. "And I can't..." He takes a deep breath. "Whatever I'm going to say is going to come out corny and stupid."
"Mmm," Roger grunts when Mark shakes his hand again.
"But, um, you know, you're my Roger. I know that sounds weird, but...you are. I mean, throughout everything, you're the person that's always there with me."
"I left..." Roger mutters.
Mark shrugs. "Once or twice, but that's not what I mean."
"I know," Roger whispers. It's barely audible. "Same here."
"Please don't leave me now," Mark begs in a whisper, trying to fight off tears.
"'M sorry, Mark," Roger slurs.
Mark kisses Roger quickly, just long enough for Roger to barely return the pressure, before pulling back and letting the tears fall. It isn't really meant to be a romantic moment. Love is found in all sorts of ways, and Mark and Roger have their own type of love. The kind that links people together when they have nothing else. The kind that makes being with each other as natural as breathing. Why not end it with a kiss?
Roger flat lines.
Mark screams.
December 24th. 9PM. Eastern Standard Time.
Mark walks through the graveyard again slowly, kicking at the little clumps of snow, watching as his foot breaks them into millions of different snowflakes.
For once Mark is extremely grateful for the East Village's overall lack of Christmas decorations. The little cafés and shops might have some decorations, but overall Christmas cheer is completely lacking. It's good, because Mark really fucking hates Christmas. Technically he should hate Christmas Eve, but really, he hates the whole damn holiday. Stupid fake cheer and people's fake charity. Christmas is fake. And Mark is not going to buy into that societal bullshit.
"Merry Christmas," he whispers to Angel's grave when he comes to it. "Thanks for all those years ago."
He keeps going though, pausing once again at Collins's grave. "Merry Christmas, bitch," he teases, smiling.
But his real destination isn't a real grave. Roger protested to the idea of being buried, said it was too conventional or something. His mom had just rolled her eyes and cremated him, giving some of the ashes to Maureen and Joanne and some more to Mark. It seems weird to distribute Roger that way, but, hey, Roger had wanted to be weird.
Finding the tombstone that just marks a spot on the ground Mark pauses again. It's a simple thing, marked with Roger's name and graffitied (per his request, the odd bastard) by Mark and Maureen. Just staring, Mark fingers the box that holds Roger's ashes.
"Your requests were really fucking crazy, you know that, right?" he says finally. Nothing answers him and Mark simply falls into silence again. "It feels like a lot longer." Mark stays silent for a while thinking. "Well, just thought I should say 'Merry Christmas'. Fuck, you're probably just laughing your ass off at me, aren't you? Whatever, glad I could entertain you." Mark lapses into silence again. "How did we get here, how the hell?" he mumbles. He knows these words; he's said them here before.
"Christmas," he sighs. "Christmas eve, last year."
Mark stands up and leaves the graveyard, his fingers brushing over Roger's tombstone, lingering for just a few extra moments.