RENT - AU Roger - This Broken Boy
This mix is for a very specific Roger of mine - he is an AU Roger. Mark got him into drugs. Mark was sleeping with him. Both Mark and April left Roger when the three of them were diagnosed as HIV+. Roger later met Pam (yes, from Life Support, though that's not where he met her), who moved in with him and took care of him. So. Yes.
Also, his PB is Joe Donohoe, a current understudy for Roger on the Rent tour, though he has never actually played Roger in any show. Most people agree this is a good thing, because Joe is Very Gay, and has the lisp to prove it. And "One Song Glory", when pronounced "One Thong Glory", is probably not quite as effective.
Warning: Drug use, massive amounts of angst
complete mix
(click on the pictures below to download individual songs)
The first time Roger really went through withdrawal, shaking and retching and crying, Mark was there, rubbing his back, telling him he'd get through it. Mark had gone out to get him some more smack, slid a needle into his arm for him and made it all better.
The first time he got a bad hit, Mark was at his side, took him to the hospital, was there when he woke up, smiling with relief that he was alright.
When Roger got his positive test results, and April's, and Mark's, Mark told him he needed some time, he needed to do something before he... Roger knows he's not coming back, so this time, he's curled in bed, shaking and trying not to cry because this time there's no one to soothe the tears away and tell him it's going to turn out alright.
It's not.
I'm not sorry, Roger, the note reads, and he doesn't need to look at it, because he's memorized it. This is your fault. Your fault about the drugs, your fault we've got AIDS, your fault I'm leaving. Bye.
It doesn't matter that she left, that she didn't tell him where she was going, that she abandoned him so soon after Mark... It matters that she didn't give a shit, that she couldn't tell him to his face, and that the loft is now so echoingly empty that Roger can't imagine there's anyone left in the world outside these walls.
He wishes he had the energy to ball up that letter and burn it, or throw it out the window, something. He doesn't, and it just sits there on the table, reminding him of his inadequacy, reminding him of how few people care, reminding him of his fate.
There's nothing in the needle, and Roger hates that. But he's holding it, and staring at his arm, scarred and still bruised though the track marks there are weeks old.
Without a thought, he flips the needle around in his hand and sinks it into his arm, and fuck, it hurts, but it doesn't matter. He's found the vein, he uses his thumb to draw the plunger. None of it's rational, none of it even has anything to do with thought, it's all anger and hurt.
The syringe fills with blood, red-black, and Roger stares at it, sick to his stomach in a way that's not just from the withdrawal. He's lost his life, and what's left now is poison the color of blood.
It's hard to remember he's not dying right away.
It's hard to convince himself he doesn't want to, when there's no one there holding his hand, reminding him that this too will pass.
And maybe it won't pass, maybe he's just going to stay here alone the rest of his too damn short life, maybe he's going to wither and fade and no one's going to see or care.
But he's still alive, and he's not sure why. He still breathes, his heart still beats. He's not sure whether he ought to be glad for that, or whether he hates it as he does all the rest of it.
Roger hasn't really slept since Mark and April left, so he's a little surprised when he wakes up on the couch and realizes he'd been completely asleep, without dreams or the pain of withdrawal to wake him. He's more surprised when he hears a noise from the kitchen and jumps, tumbling off the couch. It's been so damn long since there's been anyone around in the loft but him...
Pam leans over the counter, frowning at him in concern. "Roger? Are you alright?"
He rubs at his forehead and gets up slowly, ignoring the vague wish for a hit. It's fading. It'll be gone in a while. "Yeah. Fine."
Fine. Fine. Please, God, leave me alone... Please, God, don't ever leave.
He's not sure which thought's more true, which he'd rather she listen to.
"Roger? You eaten today?"
He makes a noise that might be a yes or might be a no, it's hard to tell and certainly Pam won't be able to tell the difference. He's not really listening to her anymore, just staring across the room at his guitar. It's got dust on it, it hasn't been moved, even touched in so long...
"You slept in the past couple days?" she asks, and her voice has softened a little. She takes a few steps closer to him, trying to catch his attention, and still, his thoughts are elsewhere. She touches his shoulder and he looks up, not even questioning, simple acknowledgment. She lets out a slow breath and says, "If I make you something, will you eat?"
He shrugs slightly, but that's all the answer she'll get, and she knows it. She goes to make him soup, while Roger returns his gaze to the guitar, trying somehow to capture just one of his thoughts, but they're all flying by so fast, there's nothing to catch hold of.
Something about Pam's smile makes something in Roger's stomach twist, and he wishes he didn't like that feeling quite so much. But it takes so little to make her happy, and after a while, Roger can't help but smile back, cautious, almost fearful, never quite meeting her eyes. It's easier to handle when he's not looking straight at her, if he keeps his eyes focused on his feet, the window, anything but her, he can ignore that too-warm-too-pleasant feeling in his stomach, the slight ache in his chest...
He can't feel like this again. He can't be, because he'd chased all those feelings away a long time ago.
But she smiles at him, and God, he'd do anything just to make her do it one more time.
It's been so long since Roger's been here in Battery Park, it's like it's all new, and the way Pam had dragged him out here made it feel almost like some sort of excursion for small children, but... He leans against a railing, looking out over the water, toward the Statue of Liberty, while the sun sinks to the left of him. A wind rises, and he shivers, and doesn't much care.
He glances over his shoulder to Pam on his right, and she catches his eye. "You should've brought a jacket," she says, seeing him shiver, and he shrugs.
"I'm fine."
For once, he actually means it. For the first time in he doesn't now how long, he feels like he's actually almost alive.
Roger doesn't talk to people about nothing at all anymore. Except for when that person is Pam, and for some reason these days he'll say anything, however stupid, just to keep talking to her. It's not like she's going to go anywhere - she lives with him - except that he's scared she will, just like Mark, just like April. Keep her talking, smiling, laughing, and she won't leave.
They're sitting on the couch at two in the morning, Roger cautiously plucking at his guitar and wincing at every sour note, and somehow Pam manages to make a comment every time that makes him smile instead of hating himself, and at one point he shifts a little, turns toward her, and their faces are so close he could just lean over and...
Roger pulls back, clearing his throat, and ducks his head, focusing on his guitar. "This never used to be so hard," he says, trying to make a joke of it, but it falls flat, because he's not sure what it is that used to be easier for him, the guitar, or the other thing he doesn't dare to mention.
The bed's warmer with two than one, is his reasoning, and they don't have the blankets to make it worthwhile for them to sleep in two separate beds. And he doesn't tell Pam, but he sleeps better when she's sleeping beside him. Even when he doesn't sleep, the cadence of her breathing is something solid and real he can hold on to to remind himself he's not alone anymore.
And he's lying there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling and listening to her breathing and the occasional cars coming down the street outside the window, and she wakes with a soft gasp as if waking from a nightmare, curling toward him in a half-asleep, unthinking movement. And Roger, not unthinking but perhaps thinking too much, rolls onto his side and puts an arm around her and ducks his head to place a delicate, careful kiss on her lips, and that makes her eyes fly open as she wakes fully. Roger's heart stops for a moment.
And then she smiles, and it's all the reassurance he'll ever need.
Also, his PB is Joe Donohoe, a current understudy for Roger on the Rent tour, though he has never actually played Roger in any show. Most people agree this is a good thing, because Joe is Very Gay, and has the lisp to prove it. And "One Song Glory", when pronounced "One Thong Glory", is probably not quite as effective.
Warning: Drug use, massive amounts of angst
complete mix
(click on the pictures below to download individual songs)
The first time Roger really went through withdrawal, shaking and retching and crying, Mark was there, rubbing his back, telling him he'd get through it. Mark had gone out to get him some more smack, slid a needle into his arm for him and made it all better.
The first time he got a bad hit, Mark was at his side, took him to the hospital, was there when he woke up, smiling with relief that he was alright.
When Roger got his positive test results, and April's, and Mark's, Mark told him he needed some time, he needed to do something before he... Roger knows he's not coming back, so this time, he's curled in bed, shaking and trying not to cry because this time there's no one to soothe the tears away and tell him it's going to turn out alright.
It's not.
I'm not sorry, Roger, the note reads, and he doesn't need to look at it, because he's memorized it. This is your fault. Your fault about the drugs, your fault we've got AIDS, your fault I'm leaving. Bye.
It doesn't matter that she left, that she didn't tell him where she was going, that she abandoned him so soon after Mark... It matters that she didn't give a shit, that she couldn't tell him to his face, and that the loft is now so echoingly empty that Roger can't imagine there's anyone left in the world outside these walls.
He wishes he had the energy to ball up that letter and burn it, or throw it out the window, something. He doesn't, and it just sits there on the table, reminding him of his inadequacy, reminding him of how few people care, reminding him of his fate.
There's nothing in the needle, and Roger hates that. But he's holding it, and staring at his arm, scarred and still bruised though the track marks there are weeks old.
Without a thought, he flips the needle around in his hand and sinks it into his arm, and fuck, it hurts, but it doesn't matter. He's found the vein, he uses his thumb to draw the plunger. None of it's rational, none of it even has anything to do with thought, it's all anger and hurt.
The syringe fills with blood, red-black, and Roger stares at it, sick to his stomach in a way that's not just from the withdrawal. He's lost his life, and what's left now is poison the color of blood.
It's hard to remember he's not dying right away.
It's hard to convince himself he doesn't want to, when there's no one there holding his hand, reminding him that this too will pass.
And maybe it won't pass, maybe he's just going to stay here alone the rest of his too damn short life, maybe he's going to wither and fade and no one's going to see or care.
But he's still alive, and he's not sure why. He still breathes, his heart still beats. He's not sure whether he ought to be glad for that, or whether he hates it as he does all the rest of it.
Roger hasn't really slept since Mark and April left, so he's a little surprised when he wakes up on the couch and realizes he'd been completely asleep, without dreams or the pain of withdrawal to wake him. He's more surprised when he hears a noise from the kitchen and jumps, tumbling off the couch. It's been so damn long since there's been anyone around in the loft but him...
Pam leans over the counter, frowning at him in concern. "Roger? Are you alright?"
He rubs at his forehead and gets up slowly, ignoring the vague wish for a hit. It's fading. It'll be gone in a while. "Yeah. Fine."
Fine. Fine. Please, God, leave me alone... Please, God, don't ever leave.
He's not sure which thought's more true, which he'd rather she listen to.
"Roger? You eaten today?"
He makes a noise that might be a yes or might be a no, it's hard to tell and certainly Pam won't be able to tell the difference. He's not really listening to her anymore, just staring across the room at his guitar. It's got dust on it, it hasn't been moved, even touched in so long...
"You slept in the past couple days?" she asks, and her voice has softened a little. She takes a few steps closer to him, trying to catch his attention, and still, his thoughts are elsewhere. She touches his shoulder and he looks up, not even questioning, simple acknowledgment. She lets out a slow breath and says, "If I make you something, will you eat?"
He shrugs slightly, but that's all the answer she'll get, and she knows it. She goes to make him soup, while Roger returns his gaze to the guitar, trying somehow to capture just one of his thoughts, but they're all flying by so fast, there's nothing to catch hold of.
Something about Pam's smile makes something in Roger's stomach twist, and he wishes he didn't like that feeling quite so much. But it takes so little to make her happy, and after a while, Roger can't help but smile back, cautious, almost fearful, never quite meeting her eyes. It's easier to handle when he's not looking straight at her, if he keeps his eyes focused on his feet, the window, anything but her, he can ignore that too-warm-too-pleasant feeling in his stomach, the slight ache in his chest...
He can't feel like this again. He can't be, because he'd chased all those feelings away a long time ago.
But she smiles at him, and God, he'd do anything just to make her do it one more time.
It's been so long since Roger's been here in Battery Park, it's like it's all new, and the way Pam had dragged him out here made it feel almost like some sort of excursion for small children, but... He leans against a railing, looking out over the water, toward the Statue of Liberty, while the sun sinks to the left of him. A wind rises, and he shivers, and doesn't much care.
He glances over his shoulder to Pam on his right, and she catches his eye. "You should've brought a jacket," she says, seeing him shiver, and he shrugs.
"I'm fine."
For once, he actually means it. For the first time in he doesn't now how long, he feels like he's actually almost alive.
Roger doesn't talk to people about nothing at all anymore. Except for when that person is Pam, and for some reason these days he'll say anything, however stupid, just to keep talking to her. It's not like she's going to go anywhere - she lives with him - except that he's scared she will, just like Mark, just like April. Keep her talking, smiling, laughing, and she won't leave.
They're sitting on the couch at two in the morning, Roger cautiously plucking at his guitar and wincing at every sour note, and somehow Pam manages to make a comment every time that makes him smile instead of hating himself, and at one point he shifts a little, turns toward her, and their faces are so close he could just lean over and...
Roger pulls back, clearing his throat, and ducks his head, focusing on his guitar. "This never used to be so hard," he says, trying to make a joke of it, but it falls flat, because he's not sure what it is that used to be easier for him, the guitar, or the other thing he doesn't dare to mention.
The bed's warmer with two than one, is his reasoning, and they don't have the blankets to make it worthwhile for them to sleep in two separate beds. And he doesn't tell Pam, but he sleeps better when she's sleeping beside him. Even when he doesn't sleep, the cadence of her breathing is something solid and real he can hold on to to remind himself he's not alone anymore.
And he's lying there in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling and listening to her breathing and the occasional cars coming down the street outside the window, and she wakes with a soft gasp as if waking from a nightmare, curling toward him in a half-asleep, unthinking movement. And Roger, not unthinking but perhaps thinking too much, rolls onto his side and puts an arm around her and ducks his head to place a delicate, careful kiss on her lips, and that makes her eyes fly open as she wakes fully. Roger's heart stops for a moment.
And then she smiles, and it's all the reassurance he'll ever need.