(no subject)
Title: Far From Chelsea
Feedback: please?
Pairing: Mark and Roger, but it’s really underdeveloped Mark/Roger
Word Count: 981
Rating: PG-13
Genre: general/angst
Summary: At the end of Roger’s withdrawal, he and Mark have a chat.
Notes: Last minute… again! Sorry!
Spoilers: Roger used smack
Warnings: some OC’s (family members), depends on what you read into it
Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson’s.
Roger
The room is dark, dark, so dark I can’t see. There’s no water dripping. There’s no clock ticking. And because it’s so quiet, there’s a tiny noise growing louder and louder and louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s my pulse: It’s not my heart. It’s my blood slamming through my ears. If the sun came up behind me they’d flare bright pink and light would catch on my eyelashes and the ends of my hair and my high school girlfriend would come back and kiss me like a blow job on the mouth.
For half a blink the room lights up with my imagination, but when I remember where I am again the light goes out. Imagination’s strength persists only in absence of reality, as darkness persists only in absence of light.
It’s dark.
I used to play a game in the dark. Dark. I hated dark. I had a light, a little red piece of plastic shaped like a truck, but apparently big boys don’t get scared of the dark. Or wet their beds.
Who the fuck decided that six years constitutes a “big boy”? Asshole. I cried, I wanted my goddamn nightlight and my mommy and my blankie. I loved that blankie. It was pretty and soft and blue. Blue is a boy color. I never understood why I couldn’t have my blankie. It was cold.
Someone shuffles through the next room.
Is it morning?
Is it light out?
I had a dream where I made friends with the monster in my closet. He was blue with polka-dots and horns on his head and looked like my older sister’s skirt with our cat’s shaggy fur. I loved that monster. I wrote stories about him in my first and second grade classes, until the dream where the monster was mean and hurt me.
Then I couldn’t sleep and I started wetting the bed again.
It was years ago. Why am I thinking about that? Why am I thinking about anything?
A flash of memory overwhelms me. I’m seven years old, trying to ride a bike, but I’ve been falling off all day. I start to cry. “I can’t ride!” I weep. “It doesn’t like me!” I say, pointing an accusing finger at the bike.
My brother laughs. “Really?” he asks.
In response, I kick the back tire. Hard.
“Hey, hey, that’s not going to help anything. Come on. You wanna try again?”
I shake my head.
“No? You try again, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
That’s the ticket! Yes, Gregory, that’ll get me back on the bike! Brilliant, Greg! Brilliant! Delicious!
I know he bought me a Fudgesicle and held my hand all the way home-apparently everyone thought I was retarded because at seven I knew when to cross the street-but that’s not in the memory. Those are facts. The memory happens to me all over again. All over again, I fall off my bike for the umpteenth time and ride it for the first.
A new noise: Knock. Knock. Knock. A new noise comes from someone who knows I like things rhythmic.
“Roger? Could I come in, please?” Mark’s voice tells me there’s something making him mildly uncomfortable. It’s a physical discomfort, or maybe it’s something making him angry. But at this time of day…
…what time of day is it?
“Yes.”
How long has it been since I spoke?
“Come in.”
Mark
“Shit, it’s dark in here.”
“Sorry.” Roger turns on a lamp. It’s so ready, I wonder if he hasn’t kept his hand on the lamp. Will he use it to smash the monsters in the darkness? “And about last night.”
I shake my head. “Last night was nothing.” Just a scar I'll lie about to my grandkids.
Then I stop worrying about that. “Jesus, Roger.” He looks worse today. His skin is sallow and there are smudges under his eyes. His hair, the hair I know is soft and silky when clean, is so oily it has separated into limp tendrils. His hands are shaking.
“You’re Jewish,” Roger says. “At least your dick is.”
“Can we not talk about penises for a minute?”
He cocks--no, he tilts his head. He thinks. “Do we talk about penises often?”
“Mhm. May I sit?”
Roger smoothes the blanket. “Join me on my mattress,” he says. “I can offer you no refreshments but I give a mean footrub.”
“You’re offering to actually touch my feet?” This from the boy who once put my stinky sneakers out in the rain? I sit on the mattress. “Toast and honey,” I say, extending a plate.
Roger bites into it. “Mm,” he says, giving me a smile. He looks pained at the gesture. “And a bowl of oranges, too?”
I laugh. “We’re pretty far from Chelsea, Roger.”
We’re pretty far from anywhere but maybe a slum. We’re far from somewhere warm. We’re far from somewhere where life is orderly and makes sense. We’re far from somewhere where girlfriends don’t kill themselves, or turn lesbian, or kill you. We’re far from somewhere where it’s safe and we don’t question if we’re loved and-
“Hey.” Roger’s staring at me. He sets down his toast and pulls me onto his lap. Why the hell. No. Roger shouldn’t be comforting me, I should be comforting him. His girlfriend is dead. He has a disease that will kill him, probably damn soon, and I’m crying because I’m cold and hungry and alone.
Roger presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I wouldn’t give anything,” he says, “to be warm and safe and fat in Chelsea if it meant I couldn’t be right here with you.”
“Mm.”
And I notice that Roger isn’t shaking as bad, and his sheets smell fairly fresh. He sweated last night, but he didn’t soil himself. He hasn’t thrown anything in days. Roger’s getting better.
It’s looking like a really good day.
Feedback: please?
Pairing: Mark and Roger, but it’s really underdeveloped Mark/Roger
Word Count: 981
Rating: PG-13
Genre: general/angst
Summary: At the end of Roger’s withdrawal, he and Mark have a chat.
Notes: Last minute… again! Sorry!
Spoilers: Roger used smack
Warnings: some OC’s (family members), depends on what you read into it
Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson’s.
Roger
The room is dark, dark, so dark I can’t see. There’s no water dripping. There’s no clock ticking. And because it’s so quiet, there’s a tiny noise growing louder and louder and louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s my pulse: It’s not my heart. It’s my blood slamming through my ears. If the sun came up behind me they’d flare bright pink and light would catch on my eyelashes and the ends of my hair and my high school girlfriend would come back and kiss me like a blow job on the mouth.
For half a blink the room lights up with my imagination, but when I remember where I am again the light goes out. Imagination’s strength persists only in absence of reality, as darkness persists only in absence of light.
It’s dark.
I used to play a game in the dark. Dark. I hated dark. I had a light, a little red piece of plastic shaped like a truck, but apparently big boys don’t get scared of the dark. Or wet their beds.
Who the fuck decided that six years constitutes a “big boy”? Asshole. I cried, I wanted my goddamn nightlight and my mommy and my blankie. I loved that blankie. It was pretty and soft and blue. Blue is a boy color. I never understood why I couldn’t have my blankie. It was cold.
Someone shuffles through the next room.
Is it morning?
Is it light out?
I had a dream where I made friends with the monster in my closet. He was blue with polka-dots and horns on his head and looked like my older sister’s skirt with our cat’s shaggy fur. I loved that monster. I wrote stories about him in my first and second grade classes, until the dream where the monster was mean and hurt me.
Then I couldn’t sleep and I started wetting the bed again.
It was years ago. Why am I thinking about that? Why am I thinking about anything?
A flash of memory overwhelms me. I’m seven years old, trying to ride a bike, but I’ve been falling off all day. I start to cry. “I can’t ride!” I weep. “It doesn’t like me!” I say, pointing an accusing finger at the bike.
My brother laughs. “Really?” he asks.
In response, I kick the back tire. Hard.
“Hey, hey, that’s not going to help anything. Come on. You wanna try again?”
I shake my head.
“No? You try again, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
That’s the ticket! Yes, Gregory, that’ll get me back on the bike! Brilliant, Greg! Brilliant! Delicious!
I know he bought me a Fudgesicle and held my hand all the way home-apparently everyone thought I was retarded because at seven I knew when to cross the street-but that’s not in the memory. Those are facts. The memory happens to me all over again. All over again, I fall off my bike for the umpteenth time and ride it for the first.
A new noise: Knock. Knock. Knock. A new noise comes from someone who knows I like things rhythmic.
“Roger? Could I come in, please?” Mark’s voice tells me there’s something making him mildly uncomfortable. It’s a physical discomfort, or maybe it’s something making him angry. But at this time of day…
…what time of day is it?
“Yes.”
How long has it been since I spoke?
“Come in.”
Mark
“Shit, it’s dark in here.”
“Sorry.” Roger turns on a lamp. It’s so ready, I wonder if he hasn’t kept his hand on the lamp. Will he use it to smash the monsters in the darkness? “And about last night.”
I shake my head. “Last night was nothing.” Just a scar I'll lie about to my grandkids.
Then I stop worrying about that. “Jesus, Roger.” He looks worse today. His skin is sallow and there are smudges under his eyes. His hair, the hair I know is soft and silky when clean, is so oily it has separated into limp tendrils. His hands are shaking.
“You’re Jewish,” Roger says. “At least your dick is.”
“Can we not talk about penises for a minute?”
He cocks--no, he tilts his head. He thinks. “Do we talk about penises often?”
“Mhm. May I sit?”
Roger smoothes the blanket. “Join me on my mattress,” he says. “I can offer you no refreshments but I give a mean footrub.”
“You’re offering to actually touch my feet?” This from the boy who once put my stinky sneakers out in the rain? I sit on the mattress. “Toast and honey,” I say, extending a plate.
Roger bites into it. “Mm,” he says, giving me a smile. He looks pained at the gesture. “And a bowl of oranges, too?”
I laugh. “We’re pretty far from Chelsea, Roger.”
We’re pretty far from anywhere but maybe a slum. We’re far from somewhere warm. We’re far from somewhere where life is orderly and makes sense. We’re far from somewhere where girlfriends don’t kill themselves, or turn lesbian, or kill you. We’re far from somewhere where it’s safe and we don’t question if we’re loved and-
“Hey.” Roger’s staring at me. He sets down his toast and pulls me onto his lap. Why the hell. No. Roger shouldn’t be comforting me, I should be comforting him. His girlfriend is dead. He has a disease that will kill him, probably damn soon, and I’m crying because I’m cold and hungry and alone.
Roger presses a kiss to my forehead.
“I wouldn’t give anything,” he says, “to be warm and safe and fat in Chelsea if it meant I couldn’t be right here with you.”
“Mm.”
And I notice that Roger isn’t shaking as bad, and his sheets smell fairly fresh. He sweated last night, but he didn’t soil himself. He hasn’t thrown anything in days. Roger’s getting better.
It’s looking like a really good day.