For Brian-- Dated to Halloween
The sound of tiny feet running down many flights of stairs likely couldn't be heard over the din of many other pairs of feet scurrying about. Roger was just a fluffy-haired face in the crowd, bouncing along to try and right things. Occasionally, he had a straight adult thought, but most of it was muddled through kidspeak, and when he tried to talk, it was absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes he struggled with words and his hands were probably too small to even fit around the neck of his guitar, much less play her or carry her.
The worst part, though, was that Roger was still sick. Sometimes his tiny chest would rise and fall with soft rasps and then tiny coughs into a tiny fist and the contortion of his tiny, chubby face. His whole body hurt. He couldn't seem to get his fingers to tie his shoes. He was alone in a world that suddenly seemed so overwhelmingly big and with nowhere to call home. Where could he go? Where was safe? Where wasn't so... scary?
Smash cut to Roger, sitting in the center of a bed known to many as Brian Kinney's, only Brian Kinney wasn't in it. The covers were pulled back as if he had been, but he wasn't now. It had taken Roger three tries to launch himself up unto that bed, and he'd had to belly himself up, kicking his legs. His shoes were untied, his little sweater hung loosely off of his tiny shoulders, his hair curled out, wild and familiar, and he flattened his hands out over the crease of the covers... and cried.
The worst part, though, was that Roger was still sick. Sometimes his tiny chest would rise and fall with soft rasps and then tiny coughs into a tiny fist and the contortion of his tiny, chubby face. His whole body hurt. He couldn't seem to get his fingers to tie his shoes. He was alone in a world that suddenly seemed so overwhelmingly big and with nowhere to call home. Where could he go? Where was safe? Where wasn't so... scary?
Smash cut to Roger, sitting in the center of a bed known to many as Brian Kinney's, only Brian Kinney wasn't in it. The covers were pulled back as if he had been, but he wasn't now. It had taken Roger three tries to launch himself up unto that bed, and he'd had to belly himself up, kicking his legs. His shoes were untied, his little sweater hung loosely off of his tiny shoulders, his hair curled out, wild and familiar, and he flattened his hands out over the crease of the covers... and cried.