It's been a rough... Christ, I don't even know. It's been a rough fuckin' year, and instead of getting better, it feels like it's getting exponentially worse. But it's easier, it's always easier, to pretend like everything's just fine. The longer I pretend, the more I start believin' it myself.
"What the fuck are you doin'?" I ask, squinting up at him on the goddamn roof, skinny and shirtless and sweating in the midday sun.
Neil. If there was anyone that was entitled to misery, it was Neil. How many people had he lost in the last few months? 5? Two of which had been his husbands and the others were all close family-type friends in varying degrees. It's not like Neil likes to talk about it, and it's not like Roger takes any pleasure in Neil's pain, but somehow, not even this alters Roger's mood.
"Fixing the fucking roof," Roger strains as he pushes himself back up to stand and squint down at Neil. He looks okay. Not like he's doing flips, but he looks like he's on his feet enough. "A big old fucking thing just flew off for no fucking reason." The color of his language has no direct link to his mood, really, and this is proof of that. "What about you? What the fuck are you doing?"
It takes about three seconds for Roger to jump down the ladder (what's the fun in climbing down?) and then he's in front of Neil, who Roger knows is putting on something of a happy face, but he'll take it.
"What do you want, asshole?" he asks, unable to keep the smile from wrapping around his face. It's good to see Neil smirking, even if it is just that little bit forced.
"Jesus," Danny says, shielding his gaze from the sun as he stares up at the guy with a large amount of sympathy on his face. "That's a bigger hole in the roof than there was in my old place, which is saying something, because I'm pretty sure my roof was the entrance into the pit of hell, with a hole that big. That, or it was preparing for Noah's Flood, take two, letting in as much water as it did." He squints a little more to make out the faint outline of the man. "
"Hey, you're the one fixing it, you're already better than I was. I just chose to live in the squalor until I got forcibly evicted." He's in casual wear, on his way back from baseball, and he offers a wave. "Danny Williams," he introduces himself. "You want some help? While I was too lazy to fix my own roof, I do remember how to nail down a couple shingles."
After considering this for a moment, Roger shrugs with a friendly enough, "Sure." He indicates the ladder on the left side of the house and watches the guy as he heads toward it, wondering whether this guy has so much energy because he's about to murder Roger in a manic sort of rage.
Dean stumbles out of the house around noon, a half drunk cup of coffee in one hand and a Glock in the other. He's halfway to pointing it right at the roof when his mouth drops open.
"That was you making all that noise?" There's a moment in which Dean considers not lowering the gun. Between the late night at the Club, the hours at the Clinic he has to look forward to later, and the splitting headache that never seems to go away, murder is becoming a more and more attractive option for anyone who disturbs his sleep. "Stop being productive and sleep, you skinny asshole."
"Lay down your arms," Roger instructs, holding his hands out in surrender before he slightly lowers them in instruction. "Our roof fell apart." He's sure that Dean isn't going to deem this an appropriate excuse, but the fact that Roger never said anything as Dean was shoving his arms full of some magical liquid deserves a little bit of recognition, he says.
"Oh," says Dean, regarding the roof, but he can't see a single piece out of place. Which, right, because Roger apparently just fixed it. "Okay then, new house rule. No patch jobs before noon unless it's raining."
Rocking back on his heels, Dean drains the last of his coffee. As always, the taste is caught somewhere between sludge and salvation, and he is totally not sharing. "Come down here and drink some water."
It's tough for Roger to see this. He wants to just bail and not come back until the worst is over with, maybe because it's painful, but also because he's so mad at Dean for doing that to himself that he barely wants to look at him. He does anyway, of course, because he loves him and thanks to Mark, Roger will never have to know what it's like to detox alone. So, Roger decided long ago that neither would Dean.
Roger obeys, climbing carefully down the ladder and trying not to be too obvious in the way he inspects Dean. "Want some more coffee?"
He hadn't even told Freddie that he was almost out of AZT. And he certainly had told him that he was coming to ask Roger for help with that.
But putting off wouldn't help anymore, with the way the last pills were rattling around in his last bottle of the stash Belize had found here on the island so long ago. So Prior dragged himself over to Roger's hut, annoyed that it was a day bad enough on his leg that he had to use his cane.
He might have worn his favorite shirt, the one that made his eyes pop. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do with exes?
When he approached, he was surprised to see Roger on the roof, but was glad that he didn't have to go through his roommate to find him. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up.
Roger knows who Prior's boyfriend is, and that makes him more irritated than any other reason he can think of that Prior might be there. The fact that Prior is so fucking righteously indignant about dating a guy that looks like old-ass Roger really makes him want to scream from inside his rape shower.
Time is passing, though, so Roger speaks, finally. "That's the shirt that makes your eyes pop," he comments because he knows Prior, and he knows that Prior never just throws on clothing. Unless it's a really, really bad day in the way of pain.
Roger descends the ladder because he knows that some kind of not-light conversation is about to ensue. He wants to go inside to snatch up his shirt, but Dean will ask why he's making that face, and with how Dean's been acting, he doesn't really wish that on Prior. Yet.
Prior realizes that now that he's here, he really should have thought more about how this conversation was going to go. He doesn't know what to say. And Roger's comment about his shirt doesn't help, the reminder that he knows him so well.
Just like he doesn't look at Freddie and see someone who looks like Roger anymore, he looks at Roger and hardly sees Freddie at all. He just sees Roger, which is... complicated enough in itself.
"I need to talk to you," he finally says. "Do you have a minute?"
Great. Roger's a cliche walking, but now he's sure he wished he had a shirt. All of a sudden he's keenly aware of the fact that he's lost a significant amount of weight in muscle mass since he and Prior were together, and there he is, slouching down with his rips prodding out, waiting to know what shitstorm is about to tear through his freshly-patched defenses.
"Yeah." He pauses for a moment. "You uh, want water or something?" He really hopes he won't have to go inside, but if he does, it's an excuse to get a shirt.
Bill had been trying to focus on the good, lately, and there was a hell of a lot of good just in the fact that he had two of his younger siblings on the island. He had good friends around still, that was good too. Sometimes, he was even able to convince himself that it balanced out how Sirius was now gone, that it balanced out that look on Harry's face. The good was really fucking good, but the bad was really fucking bad too.
"Oi, need some help?" he called up to Roger, a bit surprised - though not completely - to find his best mate up on the roof.
"Keep it down," Roger warns, glancing down at the doorway to see if Dean runs out and tries to shoot them all. When he doesn't, Roger nods over to the ladder. "I'm almost done; come on up." There's no point in telling him that Dean is basically withdrawing from whatever he thought was a good idea to push into his veins when some underwater cavern mysteriously opened up.
In lieu of a response, Bill simply scaled the ladder and made his way over to sit next to Roger. "I ought to have brought beer," he said, then commented, "You're rather productive today."
"Beer at noon?" Roger asks, squinting into the question with some sort of amusement. He reaches past Bill for another nail, sees that he's almost done, and takes a long pull on his water. "So what's up?"
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"What the fuck are you doin'?" I ask, squinting up at him on the goddamn roof, skinny and shirtless and sweating in the midday sun.
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"Fixing the fucking roof," Roger strains as he pushes himself back up to stand and squint down at Neil. He looks okay. Not like he's doing flips, but he looks like he's on his feet enough. "A big old fucking thing just flew off for no fucking reason." The color of his language has no direct link to his mood, really, and this is proof of that. "What about you? What the fuck are you doing?"
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"Come on, man. Get the fuck down here."
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"What do you want, asshole?" he asks, unable to keep the smile from wrapping around his face. It's good to see Neil smirking, even if it is just that little bit forced.
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"Hell of a hole," Roger concurs, a little bit amused by this unsolicited anecdote, but not put off by it.
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"I'm Roger."
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"That was you making all that noise?" There's a moment in which Dean considers not lowering the gun. Between the late night at the Club, the hours at the Clinic he has to look forward to later, and the splitting headache that never seems to go away, murder is becoming a more and more attractive option for anyone who disturbs his sleep. "Stop being productive and sleep, you skinny asshole."
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Rocking back on his heels, Dean drains the last of his coffee. As always, the taste is caught somewhere between sludge and salvation, and he is totally not sharing. "Come down here and drink some water."
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Roger obeys, climbing carefully down the ladder and trying not to be too obvious in the way he inspects Dean. "Want some more coffee?"
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He hadn't even told Freddie that he was almost out of AZT. And he certainly had told him that he was coming to ask Roger for help with that.
But putting off wouldn't help anymore, with the way the last pills were rattling around in his last bottle of the stash Belize had found here on the island so long ago. So Prior dragged himself over to Roger's hut, annoyed that it was a day bad enough on his leg that he had to use his cane.
He might have worn his favorite shirt, the one that made his eyes pop. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do with exes?
When he approached, he was surprised to see Roger on the roof, but was glad that he didn't have to go through his roommate to find him. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up.
"Very butch," he said cheerfully.
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Time is passing, though, so Roger speaks, finally. "That's the shirt that makes your eyes pop," he comments because he knows Prior, and he knows that Prior never just throws on clothing. Unless it's a really, really bad day in the way of pain.
Roger descends the ladder because he knows that some kind of not-light conversation is about to ensue. He wants to go inside to snatch up his shirt, but Dean will ask why he's making that face, and with how Dean's been acting, he doesn't really wish that on Prior. Yet.
"What's up?"
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Just like he doesn't look at Freddie and see someone who looks like Roger anymore, he looks at Roger and hardly sees Freddie at all. He just sees Roger, which is... complicated enough in itself.
"I need to talk to you," he finally says. "Do you have a minute?"
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"Yeah." He pauses for a moment. "You uh, want water or something?" He really hopes he won't have to go inside, but if he does, it's an excuse to get a shirt.
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"Oi, need some help?" he called up to Roger, a bit surprised - though not completely - to find his best mate up on the roof.
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