How do you measure a year in the life
Mark had known for years that it would eventually be Roger's time. Eventually the disease would take its toll. He'd been there when April had taken her own way out. When Roger had overdosed. He'd been there for Angel and he'd been there for Mimi on Christmas, and later when Angel wasn't waiting to tell her to turn around and listen to that boy's song, and after that when she was here. He'd been there through it all, bearing witness as he lost his family one by one.
He'd stayed in the clinic until he couldn't. Until it was ridiculous to just sit there. Roger had to sleep if he was going to recover from this infection. Mark needed to eat. More than that, he needed to pull his shit together and come to grips with the fact that all the times they'd fought and all the times they'd laughed, all the music and film and talking and life that had happened when they had been too wrapped up in themselves, all that was on the cutting room floor now. He kept thinking about Mimi and Angel. About Steve and Gordon and Allie and Sue. About all of the people in the ward who had had no one come to visit. That was the past. All he had was what was to come and how he chose to face it.
He'd known that eventually it would be Roger's time. He knew it had to happen because it was inevitable. He knew every day that his best friend was dying, and it was Roger who hurtled the fate like a weapon just when it could hurt the most. It wasn't Roger that had dealt the blow this time, though. It was just another minute on the clock that had been counting down since those three little letters and a plus sign had taken over what defined his best friend. Another tick and another tock and he didn't want to think about the fact that it was Roger's turn to lay in the bed as HIV+ got itself recast as AIDS...like no one would notice just like no one noticed the Dick swap on Bewitched until it was too late.
He heaved a sigh and stepped outside. His Cap'n Crunch was long gone and the rec room wall had gotten the best of the Stoli. The coffee was gone, too. What remained of the contents of the bucket was a paper cup and a carton of cigarettes. Mark didn't make a habit of smoking. Just when he was really drunk or under a lot of stress. He figured this counted.
In front of the compound with his back to the wall, Mark pulled out a brand new pack of Marlboros and lit one, thinking that the scenery was all wrong. It should be cold. It should be a fire escape. It should be a moment shared with Roger, both of them way too drunk. It should be a Camel, but when you were hungry and frozen, you smoked whatever you could get. He took a drag and looked up to the sky. One cigarette and he'd go back in. There were things that needed to be taken care of. Organized. He'd check up on the radio. He'd make sure Roger had clean sheets for when House released him. He'd...He'd smoke a cigarette and try not to worry. It was just a respiratory infection. Roger would still be there when he went back inside.
He'd stayed in the clinic until he couldn't. Until it was ridiculous to just sit there. Roger had to sleep if he was going to recover from this infection. Mark needed to eat. More than that, he needed to pull his shit together and come to grips with the fact that all the times they'd fought and all the times they'd laughed, all the music and film and talking and life that had happened when they had been too wrapped up in themselves, all that was on the cutting room floor now. He kept thinking about Mimi and Angel. About Steve and Gordon and Allie and Sue. About all of the people in the ward who had had no one come to visit. That was the past. All he had was what was to come and how he chose to face it.
He'd known that eventually it would be Roger's time. He knew it had to happen because it was inevitable. He knew every day that his best friend was dying, and it was Roger who hurtled the fate like a weapon just when it could hurt the most. It wasn't Roger that had dealt the blow this time, though. It was just another minute on the clock that had been counting down since those three little letters and a plus sign had taken over what defined his best friend. Another tick and another tock and he didn't want to think about the fact that it was Roger's turn to lay in the bed as HIV+ got itself recast as AIDS...like no one would notice just like no one noticed the Dick swap on Bewitched until it was too late.
He heaved a sigh and stepped outside. His Cap'n Crunch was long gone and the rec room wall had gotten the best of the Stoli. The coffee was gone, too. What remained of the contents of the bucket was a paper cup and a carton of cigarettes. Mark didn't make a habit of smoking. Just when he was really drunk or under a lot of stress. He figured this counted.
In front of the compound with his back to the wall, Mark pulled out a brand new pack of Marlboros and lit one, thinking that the scenery was all wrong. It should be cold. It should be a fire escape. It should be a moment shared with Roger, both of them way too drunk. It should be a Camel, but when you were hungry and frozen, you smoked whatever you could get. He took a drag and looked up to the sky. One cigarette and he'd go back in. There were things that needed to be taken care of. Organized. He'd check up on the radio. He'd make sure Roger had clean sheets for when House released him. He'd...He'd smoke a cigarette and try not to worry. It was just a respiratory infection. Roger would still be there when he went back inside.