Mamet's smoking as he wanders, the dogs a good ways behind him 'cause it's hot out and they're lazy. He pauses when he hears music playing, and then heads toward it. He stops again.
"Huh. Why does that sound familiar?" he asks, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as he ponders Roger's fingers and his chord arrangement.
Roger's cheeks flushed crimson the moment he looked up, but at least he had the good grace to keep playing through to the verse.
"There she stood in the street, smilin' from her head to her feet," he sang, glancing up to see if the song registered on Mamet's face. Maybe if they kept talking about music until Roger inevitably took off again, things would be alright.
If only Neil's words weren't echoing through his head over and over.
"Hmm..." Mamet says around the cigarette, then plucks it from his mouth and exhales. He doesn't seem perturbed about anything. "I recognize it, can't think of the band, though. That shit always bugs the hell out of me." He grins. "Spill."
Roger exhaled a playful breath that sent his hair cascading upward. He skipped to the chorus.
"All right now, baby it's a-alright, now..." He sang twice and then dropped off before the solo. "'All Right Now' by Free. It's... one of the best roc songs ever written. In my opinion." He dropped his hands from the guitar and finally looked up at Mamet.
"I guess it's pretty good," Mamet says, teasing. Yeah, he recognizes it now.
He smiles at Roger, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I'm sorry about before. I didn't get a chance to really apologize, and uh...I guess sometimes I come on kinda strong," he says, shoulders lifting slowly in a shrug. "My boyfriend disappeared. Kind of, um...kind of fucks with my head, when people leave. Can't have booze or drugs, next best thing is...well, you know." He grins a little, but quickly schools it, honestly apologetic. He really never meant to freak Roger out.
Something like awe passed Roger's face. He only fucking wished he could commit to that level of honesty and bareness, and there Mamet was, laying it all out like that. Did he do that for everyone? Or was the look in his eye that Neil saw something exclusive to him? Or was it too soon to tell? Roger had the spectacular habit of either moving too fast or too slow, and he never could quite find that middle ground. Relationship nirvana or some shit
( ... )
"Hey," Mamet cuts him off, motioning for him to stop with a hand. "It's okay. Okay? I'm not offended or anything. We're cool. I mean, if you wanna be cool." 'Cause sometimes, well, a lot of times, Mamet thinks, 'it's not you' is actually pretty much, yeah it's you. But Roger seems like a decent guy, and Mamet doubts that he ran 'cause he thought Mamet was an asshole. Probably just got weirded out by how strong Mamet came on.
"I do," Roger said immediately, flushing at how quickly he'd answered. He tried to find more words, about love, about his past, about his short-spanned, limited future... but he was interrupted. As he'd been interrupted before.
The shrill beeping of the pager went on for a few moments before Roger turned his gaze down to shut the thing off. It was an alarm. A reminder. To take his meds, which... were in the hut, so for the moment, he just sat where he was, eyes closed.
"Is that a pager? Shit...I'm getting all nostalgic now." It's like he knew someone, somewhere, was delivering the goods. Probably not on the island or anything, but somewhere.
"It's an alarm," Roger said, and as he stood up to duck into his hut, he heard the hollow sound of pills against a bottle from his pocket. As much as part of him was trying to avoid this... maybe it was better this way.
"It's not a page, it's an alarm," Roger said. "To take these." He popped one into his mouth while handing the bottle of AZT to Mamet.
Mamet looks at the bottle and his fingers twitch, yearning for the familiar and satisfying sensation of pouring pills into his palm, swallowing them so they can take him to a better place. Only, it's not better, and he had to come here to learn that.
"No...no thanks," he says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "What are they?"
Had Roger not been getting slightly... what? Not annoyed but... frustrated, more at the fact that he was going to have to say it than anything else, but had he not been, he probably would have felt like something of a dick, showing pills to a fucking addict. It was like waving a hypodermic needle and spoon in front of Roger.
"AZT," Roger said, watching Mamet's expression. If he blinked and saw footsteps toward the compound, that would be answer enough.
Oh, he was going to have to say it, wasn't he? He'd worked hard enough to say nothing of the sort, but this wasn't going to be that simple.
"It... treats... It's an immunosuppresant," he said, and God, he just needed to get the words out so he tumbled them sloppily, "AIDS. It's... for that."
Mamet's eyes widen, startled. "Oh fuck, why do you have AIDs?" he blurts out. He realizes, like a second after, just what he said, and blushes crimson. "I mean, not...I only mean, like, jesus, I was dead and I showed up here alive. I just thought, like, this place...this place cures stuff."
Or maybe Roger got AIDs here, for all he knows. Wow, he sucks at talking.
The outburst his Roger like buckshot to the chest. He was sure Mamet didn't meant it how it had sounded, even before the clarification, but this... was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. In his almost 8 years of living with dying, only one person had ever reacted in a way Roger could call favorably for the circumstances, and that man was gone, now. That man was fucking perfect, anyway, and back in Pittsburgh, Roger was sure he wasn't missing a beat, was still absolutely perfect.
"It doesn't," Roger said sharply, shifting from his shoulders. He couldn't subscribe to a blase attitude about death, since he'd spent his time running from it, fearing it, anything but ignoring it. "I guess it can cure dead but it can't cure dying." He stood up, guitar swinging in his hand.
"Huh. Why does that sound familiar?" he asks, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as he ponders Roger's fingers and his chord arrangement.
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"There she stood in the street, smilin' from her head to her feet," he sang, glancing up to see if the song registered on Mamet's face. Maybe if they kept talking about music until Roger inevitably took off again, things would be alright.
If only Neil's words weren't echoing through his head over and over.
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"All right now, baby it's a-alright, now..." He sang twice and then dropped off before the solo. "'All Right Now' by Free. It's... one of the best roc songs ever written. In my opinion." He dropped his hands from the guitar and finally looked up at Mamet.
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He smiles at Roger, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I'm sorry about before. I didn't get a chance to really apologize, and uh...I guess sometimes I come on kinda strong," he says, shoulders lifting slowly in a shrug. "My boyfriend disappeared. Kind of, um...kind of fucks with my head, when people leave. Can't have booze or drugs, next best thing is...well, you know." He grins a little, but quickly schools it, honestly apologetic. He really never meant to freak Roger out.
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The shrill beeping of the pager went on for a few moments before Roger turned his gaze down to shut the thing off. It was an alarm. A reminder. To take his meds, which... were in the hut, so for the moment, he just sat where he was, eyes closed.
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"Is that a pager? Shit...I'm getting all nostalgic now." It's like he knew someone, somewhere, was delivering the goods. Probably not on the island or anything, but somewhere.
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"It's not a page, it's an alarm," Roger said. "To take these." He popped one into his mouth while handing the bottle of AZT to Mamet.
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"No...no thanks," he says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "What are they?"
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"AZT," Roger said, watching Mamet's expression. If he blinked and saw footsteps toward the compound, that would be answer enough.
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"I've never heard of it," he admits, 'cause most drugs he's familiar with aren't exactly the helpful kind. "What's it do?"
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"It... treats... It's an immunosuppresant," he said, and God, he just needed to get the words out so he tumbled them sloppily, "AIDS. It's... for that."
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Or maybe Roger got AIDs here, for all he knows. Wow, he sucks at talking.
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"It doesn't," Roger said sharply, shifting from his shoulders. He couldn't subscribe to a blase attitude about death, since he'd spent his time running from it, fearing it, anything but ignoring it. "I guess it can cure dead but it can't cure dying." He stood up, guitar swinging in his hand.
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