[band practice & tom's loft VI]
Alex and Jay take a break from band practice to sit down in a corner and quietly talk.
"I'm worried."
"You're always worried." Alex snorted. "You have to quit worrying. You're going to die before Roger does if you keep worrying."
Jay shot him a look and sighed, reaching for his diet coke and unscrewing the cap. "Seriously, though, Jay. Stop worrying. No more teeth have been knocked out and Tom will only freak out a little bit if he needs plastic on his nose too. And he's getting the tooth back. Everything'll be fine."
"It's just this is not the way to keep a band together."
Alex shoots him an incredous look. "Jay, we're a street kid, two upper-class snobs - no offence - and a Bohemian. Did you really think this was going to work? I knew this was fucked the moment Tom came him and told us the new lead was from Alphabet City. Man, even I don't go to Alphabet City. You can't get more Bohemian druggie then that."
Jay deflated, playing a few little notes on his Fender. "This sucks. I'm a rich snob. I should be able to get what I want. I want a good fucking band where everyone agrees."
Alex laughed. "I'm a converted rich snob. I wish Roger would get into this money thing. It's really a lot of fun, once you swallow your pride. But I'm really a street kid. Tom still doesn't know I stole his wallet all those years back, does he?"
Jay shook his head. "My lips are sealed and have always been."
"You're the best."
"Hey!" Tom looks up at them, waving his hand. He looks different with a bruised nose and missing a tooth. "Get back here!"
The two of them grin at eachother and return to their spots.
Roger and Tom act civilly to eachother. Well, that's not exactly true. They force the smiles and the 'pleases' and the 'thank yous' and when they look at eachother and they never do, you can see the simmering hate. You can tell Tom wants to shatter Roger's face and you can tell Roger wants to shatter Tom's face more. After the incident two nights ago, they took Tom to the hospital, to get his face cleaned up, and then to the cosmetic dentist, becuase upper-class snobs do not walk around with missing teeth.
And the music sucks. Let's be honest here. The music sucks. You cannot possibly have a good band when the lead guitarist and the bassist hate eachother. Every time Roger has to walk past past Tom, he hears 'faggot' and 'boho' and 'Mark' and he wants to turn around and slam his guitar into Tom's face.
Jay asked Tom why he's letting him still stay at the loft. Tom shrugged and told him that Roger was obviously tearing himself up about staying, so why make him go?
After practice is over, they all go back to the loft. Roger mutters something about crashing before closing his door. The three of them sit down on the couch. It's a while before Alex summons up the guts to approach Tom, who is absorbed by California Games II.
"Tom, you know this is never going to work out, right?"
Tom's hanglider hits a rock. He pauses and looks at Alex. "Yeah, I know. Nothing could work with that retarded freak." His voice is laced with hate. Jay turns the other way and winces.
"You know, this is partially your fault too, being a jerk to him."
Tom narrows his eyes, and Alex shuts up really quick. Tom smiles a smile that makes him look way too vicious, and returns to hangliding. Jay picks up his guitar and strums at it. Roger's pretty much stopped writing music that is even remotely good, and they're all somewhat stumped for something good. Jay glances to Roger's room.
"Did you guys hear that?"
Tom rolls his eyes. "He's probaly just jerking off to his roommate again. Let it rest, Jay, he's a fag."
"That didn't sound like a moan, Tom. It sounds like he can't breathe." Jay frowns, putting his guitar down to knock on Roger's door. "Davis? Are you alright?" He presses his ear to the door, and can hear the strangled gasping even more. "He doesn't sound like he's doing too well."
"Then check on him." Alex shrugs.
Jay opens the door and slips inside.
Roger is on his bed alright, nearly gasping. He's flushed scarlet red, slick with sweat, curled into a fetal posistion and shaking so hard it looks like he's doing to fall off the bed.
"Roger?!" Jay isn't much of a nurse, but he only needs to hold his hand to Roger's sweaty forehead before dashing into the bathroom for the thermometer. He only needs to put it in Roger's mouth for a second and watch it shoot up.
"Alex, Tom!" He sprints out. "Roger has a 102.8 fever. Call fucking 911."
Alex sprints to the phone. Tom doesn't move from playing MMX. Jay disapears back into Roger's room, to make sure he doesn't die, at least. He reaches for Roger's hand, to give him comfort, anything. Roger's grip, hot and wet, is suprisingly strong. He looks up at Jay with delusional eyes. "Mark..." He gasps. "I'm sorry.."
Mark. Mark will know what to do. Jay dashes out of the room and nearly throws on his boots and his wallet. Where did ROger say they lived...avenue B? uh...eleventh? He shakes his head and prays that whatever Roger told him during one of their practices is true. And although he's a little edgy about going into Alpabet City, he nearly demands the comfort of knowing someone knows what to do, even if he doesn't.
"Where are you going?"
"Mark. He'll know what to do, right? He's lived with Roger for forever." Jay is nearly out the door already before Alex can ask any more questions.
Jay isn't particularly athletic, but something about knowing that this guy that he's gotten kind of fond of, even though he punched Jay's best friend, could die. And generally, Jay's not a big fan of dying. Or watching people die. He slides his metropass through the subway and hops in, begging it to go faster, praying Roger doesn't keel over while he's gone.
When it does stop at the stop he wants, twenty minutes later, he's flying out of the station and up into the streets, and he wants to stop and marvel at the fact that heroin is being delt about fifty feet from him, but he can't. He knows people are staring, becuase he's wearing a brand new American Eagle jacket, and you don't do American Eagle in Bohemia, but he doesn't care.
The window, right? Roger mentioned a window. There's a window, way up top up there, but he doesn't have the energy to climb the steps.
"MARK!" He shouts up, praying that Mark is up there. Please, god, let Mark be up there.
"I'm worried."
"You're always worried." Alex snorted. "You have to quit worrying. You're going to die before Roger does if you keep worrying."
Jay shot him a look and sighed, reaching for his diet coke and unscrewing the cap. "Seriously, though, Jay. Stop worrying. No more teeth have been knocked out and Tom will only freak out a little bit if he needs plastic on his nose too. And he's getting the tooth back. Everything'll be fine."
"It's just this is not the way to keep a band together."
Alex shoots him an incredous look. "Jay, we're a street kid, two upper-class snobs - no offence - and a Bohemian. Did you really think this was going to work? I knew this was fucked the moment Tom came him and told us the new lead was from Alphabet City. Man, even I don't go to Alphabet City. You can't get more Bohemian druggie then that."
Jay deflated, playing a few little notes on his Fender. "This sucks. I'm a rich snob. I should be able to get what I want. I want a good fucking band where everyone agrees."
Alex laughed. "I'm a converted rich snob. I wish Roger would get into this money thing. It's really a lot of fun, once you swallow your pride. But I'm really a street kid. Tom still doesn't know I stole his wallet all those years back, does he?"
Jay shook his head. "My lips are sealed and have always been."
"You're the best."
"Hey!" Tom looks up at them, waving his hand. He looks different with a bruised nose and missing a tooth. "Get back here!"
The two of them grin at eachother and return to their spots.
Roger and Tom act civilly to eachother. Well, that's not exactly true. They force the smiles and the 'pleases' and the 'thank yous' and when they look at eachother and they never do, you can see the simmering hate. You can tell Tom wants to shatter Roger's face and you can tell Roger wants to shatter Tom's face more. After the incident two nights ago, they took Tom to the hospital, to get his face cleaned up, and then to the cosmetic dentist, becuase upper-class snobs do not walk around with missing teeth.
And the music sucks. Let's be honest here. The music sucks. You cannot possibly have a good band when the lead guitarist and the bassist hate eachother. Every time Roger has to walk past past Tom, he hears 'faggot' and 'boho' and 'Mark' and he wants to turn around and slam his guitar into Tom's face.
Jay asked Tom why he's letting him still stay at the loft. Tom shrugged and told him that Roger was obviously tearing himself up about staying, so why make him go?
After practice is over, they all go back to the loft. Roger mutters something about crashing before closing his door. The three of them sit down on the couch. It's a while before Alex summons up the guts to approach Tom, who is absorbed by California Games II.
"Tom, you know this is never going to work out, right?"
Tom's hanglider hits a rock. He pauses and looks at Alex. "Yeah, I know. Nothing could work with that retarded freak." His voice is laced with hate. Jay turns the other way and winces.
"You know, this is partially your fault too, being a jerk to him."
Tom narrows his eyes, and Alex shuts up really quick. Tom smiles a smile that makes him look way too vicious, and returns to hangliding. Jay picks up his guitar and strums at it. Roger's pretty much stopped writing music that is even remotely good, and they're all somewhat stumped for something good. Jay glances to Roger's room.
"Did you guys hear that?"
Tom rolls his eyes. "He's probaly just jerking off to his roommate again. Let it rest, Jay, he's a fag."
"That didn't sound like a moan, Tom. It sounds like he can't breathe." Jay frowns, putting his guitar down to knock on Roger's door. "Davis? Are you alright?" He presses his ear to the door, and can hear the strangled gasping even more. "He doesn't sound like he's doing too well."
"Then check on him." Alex shrugs.
Jay opens the door and slips inside.
Roger is on his bed alright, nearly gasping. He's flushed scarlet red, slick with sweat, curled into a fetal posistion and shaking so hard it looks like he's doing to fall off the bed.
"Roger?!" Jay isn't much of a nurse, but he only needs to hold his hand to Roger's sweaty forehead before dashing into the bathroom for the thermometer. He only needs to put it in Roger's mouth for a second and watch it shoot up.
"Alex, Tom!" He sprints out. "Roger has a 102.8 fever. Call fucking 911."
Alex sprints to the phone. Tom doesn't move from playing MMX. Jay disapears back into Roger's room, to make sure he doesn't die, at least. He reaches for Roger's hand, to give him comfort, anything. Roger's grip, hot and wet, is suprisingly strong. He looks up at Jay with delusional eyes. "Mark..." He gasps. "I'm sorry.."
Mark. Mark will know what to do. Jay dashes out of the room and nearly throws on his boots and his wallet. Where did ROger say they lived...avenue B? uh...eleventh? He shakes his head and prays that whatever Roger told him during one of their practices is true. And although he's a little edgy about going into Alpabet City, he nearly demands the comfort of knowing someone knows what to do, even if he doesn't.
"Where are you going?"
"Mark. He'll know what to do, right? He's lived with Roger for forever." Jay is nearly out the door already before Alex can ask any more questions.
Jay isn't particularly athletic, but something about knowing that this guy that he's gotten kind of fond of, even though he punched Jay's best friend, could die. And generally, Jay's not a big fan of dying. Or watching people die. He slides his metropass through the subway and hops in, begging it to go faster, praying Roger doesn't keel over while he's gone.
When it does stop at the stop he wants, twenty minutes later, he's flying out of the station and up into the streets, and he wants to stop and marvel at the fact that heroin is being delt about fifty feet from him, but he can't. He knows people are staring, becuase he's wearing a brand new American Eagle jacket, and you don't do American Eagle in Bohemia, but he doesn't care.
The window, right? Roger mentioned a window. There's a window, way up top up there, but he doesn't have the energy to climb the steps.
"MARK!" He shouts up, praying that Mark is up there. Please, god, let Mark be up there.