Goodbye Love, Hello Disease, 1/1
Title: Goodbye Love, Hello Disease
Fandom: RENT
Characters: Roger, Mark
Pairing: Roger/Mimi
Rating: T
Warnings: Character deaths
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: Neither could admit that on this day, Roger Davis would finally pass from this world.
"Mimi!"
The cry rang forth, as heart wrenching and as tragic as it had been one year ago. But this time, there was no Musetta's Waltz in the background, no twitch of a finger signaling life. There was only the sound of a flat line on the heart monitor, steady and constant, telling everyone what he or she already knew.
"She's gone."
Dead silence.
And then, Maureen, sitting in the corner, her arms wrapped around Joanne, began to sob violently. Joanne soon began her own rush of tears, burying her head in Maureen's dark hair as if to block out the reality of the situation. Roger still sat on the bed, clutching Mimi's lifeless body with all his might, kissing her forehead over and over, whispering desperately for her to come back.
A shaky sigh. The heart monitor shut off. A large hand rested on his shoulder comfortingly. "She's gone, man."
Roger shook his head rapidly, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't. Crying meant that she wasn't coming back.
"She's dead, Roger." Collins's voice again, stronger this time. Final.
"No…" Roger whispered. "She's not - she can't…she…Mimi, please…" His body began to shake from suppressed sobs as he clung to her. "Don't…you - you can't leave me like this, baby. Mimi, please come back." His voice was frantic now. She had to come back. She had to. He needed her.
Please Angel, send her back again.
"Roger," Mark spoke, watching his best friend sadly.
"No," Roger repeated. She couldn't be gone. Not now. Not so soon. Please, God…anyone…not yet. "Mimi, I love you," he spoke into her ear, breathing in her scent, the same as he had done every day. He lover her smell…and her laugh…and her smile…and…oh god…please, not yet.
Silently, Collins wrapped his arms around him while Mark gently pried Mimi's body away from Roger. He struggled against them both, shouting and pleading, his shrieks of "NO!" echoing throughout the room. She wasn't gone…she wasn't gone…she wasn't…
Roger broke down into a fit of hysterical sobbing, crying his very soul out on the anarchist's jacket. Collins held him tightly while Roger clawed and scratched, fighting not to accept the truth.
She was gone.
-----
"Do you wanna dance?"
"With you?"
"No…with my father."
"I'm Roger."
"They call me - they call me Mimi."
-----
Five days.
Five days without her.
Five days of staying in his room. Five days of depression. Five days of sleepless nights. Five days of continuous tears.
Five days worth of empty beer bottles littering the floor, of uneaten bowls of Cap'n Crunch sitting by his bed.
Five days worth of dust on his guitar.
Five days worth of AZT still in the bottle.
-----
"Watch your step."
"Where are you taking me?"
"You'll see. Now, open your eyes."
"Roger! It's beautiful! It's perfect."
"Happy Valentine's Day, baby…"
-----
A light knock at the door jerked Roger out of his doze. He weakly raised his head a fraction of an inch to find Mark standing in the doorway, his face grim and tired.
"I brought you a sandwich," he said quietly, motioning to the stale-bread-and-two-day-past-expiration-date-turkey sandwich he held in his hand. Roger eyed it for a moment, then shook his head silently.
"Rog, you have to eat something."
This statement was met with a guilty silence, and Roger squirmed uncomfortably underneath his threadworn blanket. Roger couldn't bring himself to tell him that he was purposefully not eating, that he had long ago turned off his beeper so he wasn't reminded to take his AZT. Mark knew, of course; he could see the denial written all over his face, but he couldn't face him and tell him he was slowly killing himself.
Mark stared at him, pleading silently for him to eat the sandwich, but Roger couldn't. He couldn't live anymore, not when everyone he had ever loved was gone. At night, his hands groped for Mimi, begging for her soft skin. Visions of her brown eyes and loving smile haunted him; everywhere he looked, he saw her. But it wasn't her. It was never her. It was just a figment of his damn imagination.
Roger needed her. He needed to hold her, to kiss her. He needed to be near her…forever. And this was the only way he knew how to accomplish that.
"Rog, please…"
I'm sorry, Mark… "I can't."
"Damn 'you can't'," Mark whispered. "Don't you want to live?"
-----
"Oh, so you're just going to kill yourself, is that it?"
"I'm already dying, Mark. This is just speeding up the process."
"You're not dying! You're fine…you're…perfectly healthy."
"Tell that to the damn virus."
"Y'know, what? Whatever. Go ahead and kill yourself. Be selfish. See if I fucking care."
A pause.
"I miss April."
A sigh.
"I know."
-----
Roger could feel himself dying. He was more fatigued, weaker, colder. He shivered and coughed. His nose ran. His temperature rose.
And hideous purple and black lesions formed on his skin…
Death was swiftly approaching.
Roger embraced its call. He needed this - needed to "move on." Life was too painful for him. Ever since…that day. His life had ended with Mimi's, right there in that hospital bed, as she fell limp in his arms…
-----
"Roger…it's time."
"I can't go out there…I can't face them."
"You have to. She'd want you to."
"Well, we'll never know what the fuck she would've wanted, will we?"
"Roger…"
"She's dead, Mark! She's…oh god…why? Why did she have to leave? Why can't…why her
"I don't know."
-----
Mark could barely look at him now. Roger saw the grimace whenever the filmmaker walked into the room. He saw how his friend paled significantly as he gently dabbed a wet washcloth on Roger's burning forehead. Mark had begged him several times to let him take him to the hospital, but Roger refused. He couldn't go there - not to the place where April, Angel, and Mimi had died. He couldn't die hooked up to a bunch of tubes and machines, unable to even piss for himself. He couldn't receive the pitying looks from the nurses, nor could he watch as the doctor gently ushered Mark out of the room to quietly explain that Roger wasn't going to make it. But most of all, Roger couldn't die alone. It was what he feared the most, dying without his friends by his side. He couldn't take his last breath in a sterile hospital room void of anyone but himself because visiting hours were over. He needed his friends to be there, just for awhile longer.
"T-thank you…" Roger whispered quietly as Mark wiped his forehead with a cool cloth, providing but a moment of relief.
"For what?" he asked, confused, trying to keep his voice strong but soft.
"For…" Everything, he wanted to finish. For helping me through April and withdrawal and rehab. For putting up with hours upon hours of Musetta's Waltz. For pushing me towards Mimi. For being my friend. For…for being here.
When Roger didn't finish, Mark shook his head and smiled sadly. "Don't worry about it…you'll be back on your feet in no time…back to normal…" His voice cracked, and his gaze fell to the floor.
They both knew that was bullshit.
-----
"Just one more fix, please Mark…and then I promise I'll quit! Please, just one more…"
"No, Roger."
"It's just one more! It won't hurt me…one tiny hit…that's all…that's all I want. One more."
"I said no."
"Mark, you have to let me have one. You fucking have to!"
"Calm down, you'll hurt yourself."
"You don't know what the fuck pain is! It's killing me, Mark, it's fucking killing me!"
A tired sigh.
"It's not killing you."
"How the fuck would you know? Have you ever gone through this much fucking pain? Why don't you try it?"
"Because I'm not the one addicted to smack."
"Fucking bastard…"
A scuffle.
Then a thud.
Mark groaned.
-----
"I'm sorry…" Roger whispered regretfully to his friend, who hadn't left his bedside in forty-eight hours. Mark had done so much for him over the years, and he had repeatedly treated him like shit. Every time Mark had tried to help, Roger had pushed him away…sometimes literally. And Mark hadn't deserved that…still didn't deserve it. Yet he kept doing it, even on his fucking deathbed. What kind of a friend was he?
Mark sighed tiredly. He looked worse than Roger…so weary and thin. He needed to go to bed, get some sleep, but he was too damn worried about Roger to take care of himself. This was what Roger was doing to him - what he had been doing to Mark since they had met. Take, take, take… He had taken Mark's patience and tried it until it snapped. He had taken his relationship with Maureen and ruined it by constantly diverting his attention to making sure Roger didn't escape the loft. And...he had taken what should've been Mark's best years and made him worry about every single damn runny nose possibly being the end. And he couldn't give all that back to Mark. Take, take, take…never give.
"There's nothing to forgive," Mark replied seriously, looking Roger in the eye. The songwriter shook his head desperately…that wasn't true. There was plenty. His whole life had been one big mess that Mark had paid for instead of him.
"But drugs…" Roger weakly protested. "And withdrawal…and…"
"Shh," Mark interrupted, shaking his head. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Those weren't your fault."
"But they were," Roger croaked. They were his fault, and he knew it. And he couldn't leave this world knowing that Mark hadn't forgiven him. He needed to hear those words. "Please, Mark…"
Mark sighed and hung his head. "All right," he whispered. "I forgive you."
-----
"First shot Roger...tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year."
"This won't tune!"
-----
The guitar sat silently in his hands. He had become far too weak to play it, but its familiar weight was comforting. Mark sat in his usual spot next to the bed, occasionally helping him sip from the cup of water he had brought him.
"Do you remember when you tried to live on the street," he asked with a smile, "but Collins kicked your ass back to the loft?"
Roger smiled weakly at the memory, unable to do anything more than that. That had been after he had dropped out of high school halfway through his Junior year. He had been prepared to make a living as a street performer, but Collins (after Mark had informed him of Roger's decision) had come to Roger's corner and had dragged him to his loft, where he had insisted that Roger was to live with him if he wasn’t going back to school.
He opened his mouth to speak, but ended up having a coughing fit instead. Mark was at his side in an instant, helping him tilt up as far as he could to cough. God damnit, it hurt so badly. It hurt to do anything now. It hurt to move, to breathe - hell, it hurt to blink sometimes.
Roger took a shallow, shaky breath as the pain subsided and his muscles relaxed again. How much more of this was he going to suffer through? He just wanted to be with Mimi…was that so much to ask for?
For a moment, the two friends remained silent. They both knew this was the end. He wouldn't make it to sunrise. But neither could admit that these were the last moments they would spend together. Neither could admit that on this day, Roger Davis would finally pass from this world, leaving behind a life filled with drugs, pain, depression, death, life, love, and friendship. And both knew that they never would admit this, for admitting it meant that it was truly over.
Roger would let Mark keep his denial for a few more hours.
Involuntarily, in an effort to rid the room of the awkward silence, Roger's hands ran lightly over the strings of his guitar, making no definite sound but a chorus of all sounds. Back and forth, back and forth he strummed. Mark smiled sadly as he watched Roger. It was almost like old times when Musetta's Waltz would play for hours and hours. If he tried hard enough, Roger could almost hear it in the mess of sounds.
-----
"I can't believe he's gone. I can't believe you're going. I can't believe this family must die. Angel helped us believe in love. I can't believe you disagree."
"I can't believe this is goodbye."
-----
Roger struggled to take a breath, but none would come. He was shaking; his body was inflamed. Pain seared through him. Mark was calling his name desperately, pleading with him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Then, light…bright light.
Angel, April, and Mimi surrounded him.
-----
Roger Davis
1966 - 1993
Beloved friend, lover, and songwriter
Glory
Fandom: RENT
Characters: Roger, Mark
Pairing: Roger/Mimi
Rating: T
Warnings: Character deaths
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: Neither could admit that on this day, Roger Davis would finally pass from this world.
"Mimi!"
The cry rang forth, as heart wrenching and as tragic as it had been one year ago. But this time, there was no Musetta's Waltz in the background, no twitch of a finger signaling life. There was only the sound of a flat line on the heart monitor, steady and constant, telling everyone what he or she already knew.
"She's gone."
Dead silence.
And then, Maureen, sitting in the corner, her arms wrapped around Joanne, began to sob violently. Joanne soon began her own rush of tears, burying her head in Maureen's dark hair as if to block out the reality of the situation. Roger still sat on the bed, clutching Mimi's lifeless body with all his might, kissing her forehead over and over, whispering desperately for her to come back.
A shaky sigh. The heart monitor shut off. A large hand rested on his shoulder comfortingly. "She's gone, man."
Roger shook his head rapidly, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't. Crying meant that she wasn't coming back.
"She's dead, Roger." Collins's voice again, stronger this time. Final.
"No…" Roger whispered. "She's not - she can't…she…Mimi, please…" His body began to shake from suppressed sobs as he clung to her. "Don't…you - you can't leave me like this, baby. Mimi, please come back." His voice was frantic now. She had to come back. She had to. He needed her.
Please Angel, send her back again.
"Roger," Mark spoke, watching his best friend sadly.
"No," Roger repeated. She couldn't be gone. Not now. Not so soon. Please, God…anyone…not yet. "Mimi, I love you," he spoke into her ear, breathing in her scent, the same as he had done every day. He lover her smell…and her laugh…and her smile…and…oh god…please, not yet.
Silently, Collins wrapped his arms around him while Mark gently pried Mimi's body away from Roger. He struggled against them both, shouting and pleading, his shrieks of "NO!" echoing throughout the room. She wasn't gone…she wasn't gone…she wasn't…
Roger broke down into a fit of hysterical sobbing, crying his very soul out on the anarchist's jacket. Collins held him tightly while Roger clawed and scratched, fighting not to accept the truth.
She was gone.
-----
"Do you wanna dance?"
"With you?"
"No…with my father."
"I'm Roger."
"They call me - they call me Mimi."
-----
Five days.
Five days without her.
Five days of staying in his room. Five days of depression. Five days of sleepless nights. Five days of continuous tears.
Five days worth of empty beer bottles littering the floor, of uneaten bowls of Cap'n Crunch sitting by his bed.
Five days worth of dust on his guitar.
Five days worth of AZT still in the bottle.
-----
"Watch your step."
"Where are you taking me?"
"You'll see. Now, open your eyes."
"Roger! It's beautiful! It's perfect."
"Happy Valentine's Day, baby…"
-----
A light knock at the door jerked Roger out of his doze. He weakly raised his head a fraction of an inch to find Mark standing in the doorway, his face grim and tired.
"I brought you a sandwich," he said quietly, motioning to the stale-bread-and-two-day-past-expiration-date-turkey sandwich he held in his hand. Roger eyed it for a moment, then shook his head silently.
"Rog, you have to eat something."
This statement was met with a guilty silence, and Roger squirmed uncomfortably underneath his threadworn blanket. Roger couldn't bring himself to tell him that he was purposefully not eating, that he had long ago turned off his beeper so he wasn't reminded to take his AZT. Mark knew, of course; he could see the denial written all over his face, but he couldn't face him and tell him he was slowly killing himself.
Mark stared at him, pleading silently for him to eat the sandwich, but Roger couldn't. He couldn't live anymore, not when everyone he had ever loved was gone. At night, his hands groped for Mimi, begging for her soft skin. Visions of her brown eyes and loving smile haunted him; everywhere he looked, he saw her. But it wasn't her. It was never her. It was just a figment of his damn imagination.
Roger needed her. He needed to hold her, to kiss her. He needed to be near her…forever. And this was the only way he knew how to accomplish that.
"Rog, please…"
I'm sorry, Mark… "I can't."
"Damn 'you can't'," Mark whispered. "Don't you want to live?"
-----
"Oh, so you're just going to kill yourself, is that it?"
"I'm already dying, Mark. This is just speeding up the process."
"You're not dying! You're fine…you're…perfectly healthy."
"Tell that to the damn virus."
"Y'know, what? Whatever. Go ahead and kill yourself. Be selfish. See if I fucking care."
A pause.
"I miss April."
A sigh.
"I know."
-----
Roger could feel himself dying. He was more fatigued, weaker, colder. He shivered and coughed. His nose ran. His temperature rose.
And hideous purple and black lesions formed on his skin…
Death was swiftly approaching.
Roger embraced its call. He needed this - needed to "move on." Life was too painful for him. Ever since…that day. His life had ended with Mimi's, right there in that hospital bed, as she fell limp in his arms…
-----
"Roger…it's time."
"I can't go out there…I can't face them."
"You have to. She'd want you to."
"Well, we'll never know what the fuck she would've wanted, will we?"
"Roger…"
"She's dead, Mark! She's…oh god…why? Why did she have to leave? Why can't…why her
"I don't know."
-----
Mark could barely look at him now. Roger saw the grimace whenever the filmmaker walked into the room. He saw how his friend paled significantly as he gently dabbed a wet washcloth on Roger's burning forehead. Mark had begged him several times to let him take him to the hospital, but Roger refused. He couldn't go there - not to the place where April, Angel, and Mimi had died. He couldn't die hooked up to a bunch of tubes and machines, unable to even piss for himself. He couldn't receive the pitying looks from the nurses, nor could he watch as the doctor gently ushered Mark out of the room to quietly explain that Roger wasn't going to make it. But most of all, Roger couldn't die alone. It was what he feared the most, dying without his friends by his side. He couldn't take his last breath in a sterile hospital room void of anyone but himself because visiting hours were over. He needed his friends to be there, just for awhile longer.
"T-thank you…" Roger whispered quietly as Mark wiped his forehead with a cool cloth, providing but a moment of relief.
"For what?" he asked, confused, trying to keep his voice strong but soft.
"For…" Everything, he wanted to finish. For helping me through April and withdrawal and rehab. For putting up with hours upon hours of Musetta's Waltz. For pushing me towards Mimi. For being my friend. For…for being here.
When Roger didn't finish, Mark shook his head and smiled sadly. "Don't worry about it…you'll be back on your feet in no time…back to normal…" His voice cracked, and his gaze fell to the floor.
They both knew that was bullshit.
-----
"Just one more fix, please Mark…and then I promise I'll quit! Please, just one more…"
"No, Roger."
"It's just one more! It won't hurt me…one tiny hit…that's all…that's all I want. One more."
"I said no."
"Mark, you have to let me have one. You fucking have to!"
"Calm down, you'll hurt yourself."
"You don't know what the fuck pain is! It's killing me, Mark, it's fucking killing me!"
A tired sigh.
"It's not killing you."
"How the fuck would you know? Have you ever gone through this much fucking pain? Why don't you try it?"
"Because I'm not the one addicted to smack."
"Fucking bastard…"
A scuffle.
Then a thud.
Mark groaned.
-----
"I'm sorry…" Roger whispered regretfully to his friend, who hadn't left his bedside in forty-eight hours. Mark had done so much for him over the years, and he had repeatedly treated him like shit. Every time Mark had tried to help, Roger had pushed him away…sometimes literally. And Mark hadn't deserved that…still didn't deserve it. Yet he kept doing it, even on his fucking deathbed. What kind of a friend was he?
Mark sighed tiredly. He looked worse than Roger…so weary and thin. He needed to go to bed, get some sleep, but he was too damn worried about Roger to take care of himself. This was what Roger was doing to him - what he had been doing to Mark since they had met. Take, take, take… He had taken Mark's patience and tried it until it snapped. He had taken his relationship with Maureen and ruined it by constantly diverting his attention to making sure Roger didn't escape the loft. And...he had taken what should've been Mark's best years and made him worry about every single damn runny nose possibly being the end. And he couldn't give all that back to Mark. Take, take, take…never give.
"There's nothing to forgive," Mark replied seriously, looking Roger in the eye. The songwriter shook his head desperately…that wasn't true. There was plenty. His whole life had been one big mess that Mark had paid for instead of him.
"But drugs…" Roger weakly protested. "And withdrawal…and…"
"Shh," Mark interrupted, shaking his head. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Those weren't your fault."
"But they were," Roger croaked. They were his fault, and he knew it. And he couldn't leave this world knowing that Mark hadn't forgiven him. He needed to hear those words. "Please, Mark…"
Mark sighed and hung his head. "All right," he whispered. "I forgive you."
-----
"First shot Roger...tuning the Fender guitar he hasn't played in a year."
"This won't tune!"
-----
The guitar sat silently in his hands. He had become far too weak to play it, but its familiar weight was comforting. Mark sat in his usual spot next to the bed, occasionally helping him sip from the cup of water he had brought him.
"Do you remember when you tried to live on the street," he asked with a smile, "but Collins kicked your ass back to the loft?"
Roger smiled weakly at the memory, unable to do anything more than that. That had been after he had dropped out of high school halfway through his Junior year. He had been prepared to make a living as a street performer, but Collins (after Mark had informed him of Roger's decision) had come to Roger's corner and had dragged him to his loft, where he had insisted that Roger was to live with him if he wasn’t going back to school.
He opened his mouth to speak, but ended up having a coughing fit instead. Mark was at his side in an instant, helping him tilt up as far as he could to cough. God damnit, it hurt so badly. It hurt to do anything now. It hurt to move, to breathe - hell, it hurt to blink sometimes.
Roger took a shallow, shaky breath as the pain subsided and his muscles relaxed again. How much more of this was he going to suffer through? He just wanted to be with Mimi…was that so much to ask for?
For a moment, the two friends remained silent. They both knew this was the end. He wouldn't make it to sunrise. But neither could admit that these were the last moments they would spend together. Neither could admit that on this day, Roger Davis would finally pass from this world, leaving behind a life filled with drugs, pain, depression, death, life, love, and friendship. And both knew that they never would admit this, for admitting it meant that it was truly over.
Roger would let Mark keep his denial for a few more hours.
Involuntarily, in an effort to rid the room of the awkward silence, Roger's hands ran lightly over the strings of his guitar, making no definite sound but a chorus of all sounds. Back and forth, back and forth he strummed. Mark smiled sadly as he watched Roger. It was almost like old times when Musetta's Waltz would play for hours and hours. If he tried hard enough, Roger could almost hear it in the mess of sounds.
-----
"I can't believe he's gone. I can't believe you're going. I can't believe this family must die. Angel helped us believe in love. I can't believe you disagree."
"I can't believe this is goodbye."
-----
Roger struggled to take a breath, but none would come. He was shaking; his body was inflamed. Pain seared through him. Mark was calling his name desperately, pleading with him. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Then, light…bright light.
Angel, April, and Mimi surrounded him.
-----
Roger Davis
1966 - 1993
Beloved friend, lover, and songwriter
Glory