Fanfic--Mimi// 006. Hours/ 007. Days/ 008. Weeks
3:33 AM on New Years Day, and the whole new world that had opened up over the past week was going straight to hell. It was the cold that brought Roger back to his senses, and the creaking of room 508’s ancient olive-green couch as he sat up. Outside the clouds had finally burst and the wind was howling, and hurling bits of ice and debris against the filthy loft windows. Nature’s own riot. Perhaps in sympathy with the vanquished protestors of 11th Street and Avenue B.
He’d fallen asleep after one too many shots from the bottle of awful cheap champagne he’d bought at the corner drugstore earlier that evening, but as he got to his feet he felt none of the usual symptoms of over-indulgence. Just numbness. And a slow, acidic guilt.
He made his way into the bedroom slowly, making sure the floor didn’t creak too loudly. Suddenly the loft seemed more rundown than usual, more decayed. More broken. He had the sudden fear that he could fall through the floor with any misstep and end up in the apartment below. The world seemed to be spinning, cracking, falling down around him. Placing one hand firmly on the wall, Roger shook himself and pressed on, dismissing the thought as ridiculous.
Mimi was sprawled out across the bed, though Roger had no recollection of her returning to the loft at all. Her hair was splayed out of the covers, and even in sleep she seemed restless. Angel of chaos. Roger sat on the edge of the bed, deciding to chance whatever was coming. He deserved any and all of it, after all.
“You’re not gone?” she asked softly, opening her eyes more out of instinct than anything else.
“Uh…you’re in my bed, babe,” he muttered, not sure whether to apologize or pretend that nothing had happened.
“And you’re sitting on my foot.” She kicked at him under the covers and Roger chuckled, feeling for the umpteenth time that they’d been together years, not days.
There was an awkward pause then, during which some frighteningly large piece of debris smacked against the window, making them both jump. Next door, the lights flickered out. Yet another power outage. Not that they had any heat to lose.
“Did you want me to be gone?” he asked at last, wishing suddenly and ridiculously that his guitar was readily handy. He didn’t really feel like playing, but the weight of it in his hands was always reassuring. A sort of shield. An excuse to tune out from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it was in the other room, and going to get it did not seem like the most courteous thing to do given the circumstances.
“I…” He couldn’t see her face in the darkness, but the sound of her voice sent a current of ice through him. Abruptly, he got to his feet, the bed creaking pathetically at the shirt of weight.
“Fine. Tell Mark Happy New Year for me.” He stormed off into the other room, then couldn’t bring himself to actually go out into the storm. Instead he grabbed his guitar case from the corner and sat back down on the couch, pulling the blanket over his lap. It was so cold he could barely feel his fingertips, and the guitar sounded oddly muted without amplification.
After a long while he was dimly aware of Mimi sitting down next to him, mostly because of the noise the couch made, but he kept his eyes on the fingerboard, pretending he hadn’t noticed. Roger jumped a little as she put a hand over his, stopping the sound. Her fingers were icy, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly protective.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to go,” she said quietly, staring at the floor as well.
“And you didn’t say you wanted me to stay, either.”
“That’s not the point.” She sounded exhausted, though not quite angry.
“Isn’t it? What do you want me to do?” He shook her off and began playing again, as loud as he could, unsure of whether he wanted to hear her answer.
“You could apologize.” Her hair had gone flat in the cold, and for a moment he had a vision of frost hanging in her dark locks. He reached out and fingered a piece of it thoughtfully, surprised when she didn’t pull away.
“And would that fix this?”
Shaking her head slowly and at nothing in particular, Mimi grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his face, gently wrapping her fingers around his the way she’d done the night they first met.
“I warned you,” said Roger bitterly. “I told you this wouldn’t last.”
For a moment she looked like she wanted to slap him, then her face softened. Wordlessly, she dropped his hand and took hold of the guitar, placing it on the floor beside the sofa. Grabbing both his hands, Mimi got up on her knees and leaned over until her hair was in his face.
“Roger, babe, it doesn’t work like that. You want this or you don’t.”
“I…do.” He trailed off, breathless as always under her spell.
“Then you gotta forgive yourself. And me.” She leaned over and brushed her lips against his, freeing one hand to brush against his temple. Roger pulled away after a second and drew in a deep breath, surprised as always at the intensity of feeling.
“I’m…sorry?” he muttered, laughing because it suddenly sounded ridiculous. Mimi poked him in the ribs and crawled into his lap, straddling him much to the chagrin of the couch, which seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They were still laughing when the click and grind of the loft door signified the arrival of a newcomer, and still more when Mark poked his head around the corner and promptly turned beet red.
“What-“ he stammered. “What-“
“Keeping warm,” said Roger in between gasping breaths.
“Wanna join in?” asked Mimi, sticking her tongue out at Mark.
“H-happy New Year,” said Mark, and fled.
“Still think it’s gonna be?” asked Mimi softly, moving over to sit beside Roger on the couch.
“Maybe,” he muttered. Then, wrapping his arms around her sideways, seemed to reconsider. “Yes.”
Title: Days
Characters: Mimi
Prompt: 007. Days
Word Count: 161
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sometimes at night she thinks she's insane.
Author's Notes:None
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, though I have claimed her, Mimi still belongs to the late, great, Jonathan Larson. Probably for the best.
007. Days
Sometimes at night she wonders if she’s insane. She lies awake and looks at all the colored lights and everything just seems so pointless. She watches the people hurrying home from parties, or from delayed Christmas shopping, thick coats and huge bags in their arms.
Arguing. All of them. Arguing. Pushing. Shoving. Clawing at each other. Survival of the fittest.
Sometimes she doesn’t even want to live anymore. But she’s too afraid to die.
Afraid of going on, afraid of giving up.
Every day is another 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, 86,400 seconds.
Sometimes at night she thinks she can hear a clock ticking. And then she wonders if this is all real, or if it’s some bizarre dream she’s having. Or if it’s someone else’s bizarre dream. And she starts wondering if she even exist at all, or if she’s maybe already dead. And if it matters.
And then the day comes.
And she can’t bear to think anymore.
Title: Missing
Characters: Roger, Mark
Prompt: 008. Weeks
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG13
Summary: The posters have disappeared.
Author's Notes:None
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, though I have claimed her, Mimi still belongs to the late, great, Jonathan Larson. Probably for the best.
008. Weeks
It isn’t long before the posters have all disappeared. Roger and Mark pay to have them reprinted at first, replacing them nearly every day. But every night, as they walk around to see if there is any news, the posters are gone again.
“We need to do another batch,” says Roger. “Someone knows something we don’t.”
“Roger, we can’t afford that,” says Mark sadly. “You know we can’t. We can make our own posters.”
“It’s been two weeks!” says Roger desperately. “She might not even know we’re looking for her. That we want her to come back.”
He’d fallen asleep after one too many shots from the bottle of awful cheap champagne he’d bought at the corner drugstore earlier that evening, but as he got to his feet he felt none of the usual symptoms of over-indulgence. Just numbness. And a slow, acidic guilt.
He made his way into the bedroom slowly, making sure the floor didn’t creak too loudly. Suddenly the loft seemed more rundown than usual, more decayed. More broken. He had the sudden fear that he could fall through the floor with any misstep and end up in the apartment below. The world seemed to be spinning, cracking, falling down around him. Placing one hand firmly on the wall, Roger shook himself and pressed on, dismissing the thought as ridiculous.
Mimi was sprawled out across the bed, though Roger had no recollection of her returning to the loft at all. Her hair was splayed out of the covers, and even in sleep she seemed restless. Angel of chaos. Roger sat on the edge of the bed, deciding to chance whatever was coming. He deserved any and all of it, after all.
“You’re not gone?” she asked softly, opening her eyes more out of instinct than anything else.
“Uh…you’re in my bed, babe,” he muttered, not sure whether to apologize or pretend that nothing had happened.
“And you’re sitting on my foot.” She kicked at him under the covers and Roger chuckled, feeling for the umpteenth time that they’d been together years, not days.
There was an awkward pause then, during which some frighteningly large piece of debris smacked against the window, making them both jump. Next door, the lights flickered out. Yet another power outage. Not that they had any heat to lose.
“Did you want me to be gone?” he asked at last, wishing suddenly and ridiculously that his guitar was readily handy. He didn’t really feel like playing, but the weight of it in his hands was always reassuring. A sort of shield. An excuse to tune out from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, it was in the other room, and going to get it did not seem like the most courteous thing to do given the circumstances.
“I…” He couldn’t see her face in the darkness, but the sound of her voice sent a current of ice through him. Abruptly, he got to his feet, the bed creaking pathetically at the shirt of weight.
“Fine. Tell Mark Happy New Year for me.” He stormed off into the other room, then couldn’t bring himself to actually go out into the storm. Instead he grabbed his guitar case from the corner and sat back down on the couch, pulling the blanket over his lap. It was so cold he could barely feel his fingertips, and the guitar sounded oddly muted without amplification.
After a long while he was dimly aware of Mimi sitting down next to him, mostly because of the noise the couch made, but he kept his eyes on the fingerboard, pretending he hadn’t noticed. Roger jumped a little as she put a hand over his, stopping the sound. Her fingers were icy, and he suddenly felt overwhelmingly protective.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to go,” she said quietly, staring at the floor as well.
“And you didn’t say you wanted me to stay, either.”
“That’s not the point.” She sounded exhausted, though not quite angry.
“Isn’t it? What do you want me to do?” He shook her off and began playing again, as loud as he could, unsure of whether he wanted to hear her answer.
“You could apologize.” Her hair had gone flat in the cold, and for a moment he had a vision of frost hanging in her dark locks. He reached out and fingered a piece of it thoughtfully, surprised when she didn’t pull away.
“And would that fix this?”
Shaking her head slowly and at nothing in particular, Mimi grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his face, gently wrapping her fingers around his the way she’d done the night they first met.
“I warned you,” said Roger bitterly. “I told you this wouldn’t last.”
For a moment she looked like she wanted to slap him, then her face softened. Wordlessly, she dropped his hand and took hold of the guitar, placing it on the floor beside the sofa. Grabbing both his hands, Mimi got up on her knees and leaned over until her hair was in his face.
“Roger, babe, it doesn’t work like that. You want this or you don’t.”
“I…do.” He trailed off, breathless as always under her spell.
“Then you gotta forgive yourself. And me.” She leaned over and brushed her lips against his, freeing one hand to brush against his temple. Roger pulled away after a second and drew in a deep breath, surprised as always at the intensity of feeling.
“I’m…sorry?” he muttered, laughing because it suddenly sounded ridiculous. Mimi poked him in the ribs and crawled into his lap, straddling him much to the chagrin of the couch, which seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They were still laughing when the click and grind of the loft door signified the arrival of a newcomer, and still more when Mark poked his head around the corner and promptly turned beet red.
“What-“ he stammered. “What-“
“Keeping warm,” said Roger in between gasping breaths.
“Wanna join in?” asked Mimi, sticking her tongue out at Mark.
“H-happy New Year,” said Mark, and fled.
“Still think it’s gonna be?” asked Mimi softly, moving over to sit beside Roger on the couch.
“Maybe,” he muttered. Then, wrapping his arms around her sideways, seemed to reconsider. “Yes.”
Title: Days
Characters: Mimi
Prompt: 007. Days
Word Count: 161
Rating: PG13
Summary: Sometimes at night she thinks she's insane.
Author's Notes:None
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, though I have claimed her, Mimi still belongs to the late, great, Jonathan Larson. Probably for the best.
007. Days
Sometimes at night she wonders if she’s insane. She lies awake and looks at all the colored lights and everything just seems so pointless. She watches the people hurrying home from parties, or from delayed Christmas shopping, thick coats and huge bags in their arms.
Arguing. All of them. Arguing. Pushing. Shoving. Clawing at each other. Survival of the fittest.
Sometimes she doesn’t even want to live anymore. But she’s too afraid to die.
Afraid of going on, afraid of giving up.
Every day is another 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, 86,400 seconds.
Sometimes at night she thinks she can hear a clock ticking. And then she wonders if this is all real, or if it’s some bizarre dream she’s having. Or if it’s someone else’s bizarre dream. And she starts wondering if she even exist at all, or if she’s maybe already dead. And if it matters.
And then the day comes.
And she can’t bear to think anymore.
Title: Missing
Characters: Roger, Mark
Prompt: 008. Weeks
Word Count: 100
Rating: PG13
Summary: The posters have disappeared.
Author's Notes:None
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, though I have claimed her, Mimi still belongs to the late, great, Jonathan Larson. Probably for the best.
008. Weeks
It isn’t long before the posters have all disappeared. Roger and Mark pay to have them reprinted at first, replacing them nearly every day. But every night, as they walk around to see if there is any news, the posters are gone again.
“We need to do another batch,” says Roger. “Someone knows something we don’t.”
“Roger, we can’t afford that,” says Mark sadly. “You know we can’t. We can make our own posters.”
“It’s been two weeks!” says Roger desperately. “She might not even know we’re looking for her. That we want her to come back.”