Don't Say It

Roger really is just a big, over-hormonal girl.

If anyone actually said that, Roger would give him a black eye and maybe worse. But then he'd snort and walk away and pout in his room, so Mark figures the pouting beats out the fighting. Besides, girls can fight, too. He's seen Maureen get into a catfight with some girl before, and whoa that can get dangerous. He'd much rather fight Roger.

All of this is making sense while he's downing yet another countless, free shot. He loves making friends with the bartender, even if it involved his girlfriend almost showing the guy her tits. Get enough drinks and that stuff really fails to matter. Mark has more important things to think about, anyway.

Maybe it comes from being raised by a single mom. Mark has met Roger's mother before. She looked at Mark and then looked at her son and then in the most accepting voice possible said, "It's so nice to meet one of your boyfriends, Roger." Mark and Roger had ended up nearly on the floor, laughing their asses off. His mom had just stood there, watching the two of them, a smile creeping onto her face as they explained. She took all of that, from thinking her son was gay to watching them crack up over it - with grace and determination that Mark's mom would have never shown. Anybody raised by that woman couldn't possibly be all bad, but Mark isn't sure what that says about Roger's whole girl issue.

Maybe it's just part of being a songwriter. He needs all those emotions, right, like Mark needs to be able to observe (things other than that fact that long after they have their drinks Maureen is still leaning over the bar like that. That gets an automatic edit in his mind). Something has to go into his music, and Mark guess that makes the most sense. You can't sing about love without being a little emotional. So it's a good thing, but still not something Roger would ever admit to.

The thoughts are getting to hard to keep in. Another shot and, yeah, that isn't going to happen anymore.

"You're such a girl," he teases, leaning onto Roger's shoulder until he can see his pen flying across the scrappy paper of his notebook. Roger scowls and elbows Mark in the gut. He takes it with a laugh, his breath sounding a little too sharp because, damn, that actually sort of hurt.

"Says the guy whose balls are currently tucked safely away in Maureen's purse," Roger quips as he quickly closes the notebook and bends it until he can tuck it into his jacket pocket. Mark likes that bout Roger, how he caries his art everywhere. He can appreciate that in someone. It drew him to Roger, when he first came to the city thinking how easy this was all going to be to finish his film and become Avant Guard Famous. Then here is this guy who loved music more than food, who believed the same thing despite living in the city his whole life and seeing a million other people beat downIt's why they're friends, he thinks, is because they have that whole... art... connection thingy.

He pauses and thinks for a moment, hoping that he's more eloquent sober. And that he never, ever tells Roger any of that.

He must look goofy, face all scrunches up as he tries to clear his head enough to put the word eloquent together. Roger laughs at him. In the bar where they're hanging out until someone kicks them out, his laugh is absorbed right into all the rest of the noise, but Mark hears it anyway and laughs back. "She needs them more than me."

"Pussy," Roger says, clipping Mark in the shoulder just enough to shake him up, his glasses going slightly crooked.

He pushes them up before he does anything else. He's dressed in some of Collins' old clothes and smells like pot and trash and still he has to straighten his glasses, like he doesn't look like a crazy homeless guy anyway. "Says the guy writing love poetry."

"It's rock..." Roger's voice fades like the end of the song, his eyes no longer focus on Mark. He hasn't had anything to drink tonight, so Mark is confused. He can't be passing out. He pushes his glasses back up his nose as he looks back around, following Roger's gaze. Trying to , but at the moment he's having a hard time even staring in a straight line.

He doesn't really need to look much longer, because in a moment his vision would black out.

"Roger," a brisk voice asks from above his black out. Not his black out, but someone standing so close that all Mark can see is their shirt. He looks up to a neck and chin and hard eyes. Dark like coffee, and with nearly the same effect. It sobers him up, is the point, and burns at his throat leaving him with that vile morning taste in his mouth. He knows those eyes, and he really hates them.

Roger's chair scrapes against the floor and he pats Mark on the shoulder. "See you later," he says, taking his rough and heavy hand from Mark's shoulder and slipping it into his pocket, pulling out some bunched up bills.

Mark watches Roger walk away with the hard-eyed man. He doesn't finish another shot, walking to the bar and explaining to Maureen that, yes, they have to get home now and, Jesus, would she pull her shirt up?

It's amazing how a little drug deal can change your mood.

Maybe, Mark thinks hours later while he is undressing Roger, he was wrong. He strips his best friend out of the cloth that smell like alleyways, that smell like clubs and rock and roll life styles gone wrong, and thinks maybe he's the girl. Or at least the mom of the loft, because it sure as hell isn't Maureen. Only Mark has met Roger's mom, sweet and understanding and strong, and hopes to God she never had to see her son like this.

Mark, on the other hand, takes it all without whining. He strips Roger down and tucks him in, listening to him say that he isn't a rock star or human at all, because he's there with every rise and fall of every twist the earth makes. Mark isn't sure what this means, but he just nods along with it and Roger laughs, a light sound with no club noise to block it out so it echoes through the whole loft.

Roger says things that don't make sense about music and love and a million other topics he seems to flitter over without landing on. He says, "You're my best friend because you're not in a band, I never have to worry about you and songs." Mark isn't sure what that means, but he keeps nodding. Why does he agree to this? "And you're so fucking big on all of it," Roger mutters with his eyes closed so that it makes no difference when Mark turns off the lights. He's still just as awake, if you could call anyone on heroin really awake. "And you're fucking pure in some ways like a good song, you know, and that's why-"

"Don't say it," Mark says, not sure why he always cuts Roger off right there in the same old nonsensical ramblings. "Just get some sleep, Roger." And then he'd close the door and go to his room so they could repeat this act in the morning.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Even worse than when things are hopeless is when everyone is telling you just how hopeless they are.

Like the way Mark finally gets Roger to stop shaking and actually lay down for a while, and the second he steps out of his room he hears, "You know, you're not helping any by babying him."

That's Maureen with her arms covered in bracelets and crossed over her chest. She looks like she belongs at a club, and her boyfriend must look like hell. He's been up all night with Roger, listening to him whine, listening to him beg. Holding him, not for comfort, but because someone has to make sure he doesn't run out of the loft for a hit.

Maybe that's why he can only manage to glare at Maureen, dressed up like today is nothing more than another day out for her. Looking really rested and not beat up and spit at and cried on. Fuck her.

Then Benny has to get his say in, of course, because what would a conversation about Roger's bad habits be without Benny to break in? "She's right," he says, and Mark wants to shove him back against the wall. Maybe that's the three nights without sleep talking, but the urge is strong and makes him shake when he represses it. "He's fucking insane right now, Mark, and you can't really help him."

This is an intervention of sorts, because next even Collins steps up. Collins, who is supposed to be like the cool uncle who just gets things, and now he is going against Mark when he says, "He needs a rehab center, Mark. You've done what you can."

He's being selfish, is what they're saying. He's trying to be the great best friend and the hero and the bohemian artist who doesn't need institutions and he's being selfish by following Roger's request. He said no heroin, he said no rehab, and that is all Mark is trying to do for him, and now he's friends are ganging up to call him an idiot for that.

If Mark weren't so good at bottling things up, he might scream. He feels like a pressure chamber as is, just waiting for someone to pop one little hole into him so that he can explode outward. They don't. They just keep staring at him, concerned and honestly trying and that is the worse part: that they really do think they're doing the right thing.

Maybe if Mark had some sleep, he'd understand and he'd take back his word and he'd throw Roger to some doctor who doesn't know him and doesn't care.

Instead he brushes past the three of them and Maureen nearly screams, throwing her hands into the air and marching out of the loft in that way only his drama queen can manage. Mark marches over to the coffee machine and Benny sighs and shakes his head, going back to his room. He gets Roger some food and some coffee and heads back into his room, and before he can make it Collins is holding a hand in his way.

"Do you really think this is best?" He asks, and it isn't insulting. Collins is actually trying to understand. The problem is that, no, Mark isn't sure but it's really all he can do. So he doesn't answer at all, pushing back him and going back into Roger's room, setting the lame excuse for a breakfast up on his nightstand.

Roger is sitting up but bent over. He isn't trembling, though, with tears or withdrawals, and that is the best Mark has seen him in a way. It's a sad thing to think, maybe, but completely true since... Well, there are some things you don't think about. "You hungry?"

Roger shakes his head but barely moves at all. "You're going to send me away."

Is that why he's so still? Mark sighs, rubbing his forehead. He wants to scream and yell and film and tie Roger down to the bed until he's passed this and sleep for weeks. "No, I wouldn't do that."

Roger looks up to him, and his usually bright eyes look like hell. Red streaks and huge bags and he's lost so much weight his face is almost skeleton like. There is nothing remaining of that beautiful young songwriter he first saw. Maybe there never was, and that had all been an illusion of the fucking drug. Mark really doesn't know anymore. "I'm-"

Scared. Broken. Dying. Fill in emotion here. Roger is pretty much all of those things, and Mark can't blame him. His girlfriend killed herself because they're sick, and now he's going through withdrawals and all his friends want him out of the loft and he hasn't even told his mom yet. Yeah, Roger doesn't need to finish that thought. Mark already knows.

Roger stops, takes a deep breath and swallows hard. "I'm a coward," he mutters with a broken voice. "I should have... When I saw them taking April away I should have..."

"Don't say that shit," Mark tells him, and maybe he should be caring and understanding, but he's been up way too long for that. Right now, he just wants to keep Roger off heroin, and everything else, like caring, doesn't matter. "April was the coward, Roger."

He doesn't seem to hear or believe him. "I just, I couldn't do it," Roger says, looking back down to his lap. Staring at the walls or the ceilings, anywhere but Mark. "I couldn't..." No, suicide isn't passive-aggressive enough for Roger. He is more the run away type guy. The use heroin until your body collapses in on you type guy, and Mark can't let that happen.

"Thanks."

Mark shrugs, and he can't look at Roger either. This isn't the image of his friend he wants etched into his mind, moments like this. "Hey, what are friends for?" What are friends for? Could he have come up with a lamer line?

"You know," Roger says, and Mark hears him move on the bed. He glances up and Roger is staring right at him with those stung out, lost-looking eyes. "I-"

"Don't say it," Mark mutters, and he shoves the plate in Roger's lap. "Just eat."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Mark looks down at his camera, tucked safely in his arms. He should be out right now, filming and making money. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, but he should be out right now, selling his art.

He'd rather be yuppie scum than do what he's about to do.

In the room across from him, Roger is putting together his bag. Mark looks up and can see him packing. A few shirts and few jeans. Roger doesn't really own much expect for his guitar and, well, he doesn't own that now either.

"You're leaving more than just her, you know?"

Other than the mechanical voice on the answering machine, it is the first thing either of them has said all day. They can do that, easily, and not just at times like these. On perfectly normal days, they can go without talking at all. They have other ways to communicate if they have to, and sometimes talking just seems useless. Right now is one of those times, but Mark feels the need to talk anyway.

Roger obviously feels different. He zips up his bag, and that is the only sound that Mark gets as an answer.

"She still loves you," Mark tells him. He feels like a record, skipping and skipping and skipping. He must have told Roger that a million times already, and not once had he listened. He doesn't listen now. Instead he throws his bag over his shoulder and grabs the car keys off the counter. He looks like Mark's dad, going on another weeklong business tip. Yeah, sure I love you. Whatever. Bye.

And just like a rejected child, Mark follows along on his heels. He really should be over this by now. He really should be out filming for Buzzline. He's got a job now. He signed the contract. He can't just spend all his time trying to get his friends to stop running away and going to funeral.

Mark hates himself for how cold and cut off his thoughts are, and at the same time is glad that they aren't closer to the surface. He doesn't think he could take it if they scratched at him that close.

"Why won't you at least try and stay?" Mark asks as he follows Roger down to the car. It's a piece of shit. He'll be surprised if it makes it to Brooklyn, much less Santa Fe. "Don't you want to at least-"

"No." Roger goes around to the trunk, unlocking the door and throwing his bag in. It should seem really final when he slams it closed, but like most things in Mark's life nowadays, it just seems like a scene of a movie that he can go back and edit out if he has to.

Roger is at the driver's side door, staring out the shit-covered roof at Mark, who is still waiting on the sidewalk, one the sidelines with his camera, waiting for Roger to change his mind and come back. "Look, Mark, this isn't about you." Mark wonders if that is supposed to make him feel better, because it doesn't. After all that Mark has done for him, Roger would leave without a thought to what Mark might think. Because, well, it isn't about him. "You know..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and Mark's eyes go to his arms.

No new marks, but he had to check. It's an automatic thing.

"Look," Roger says again. "You know I-"

"Don't bother saying it," Mark says. Tucking his camera under his arm and walking away. Not towards the church with Angel. Not towards anywhere in particular. For once, he just wants to be the one running away, even if he knows he'll come right back. "Just go."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

When they finally get Mimi to the hospital, they all know it's already too late, but they pretend that it is some kind of saving grace. Mark isn't sure why they do it, but they're all smiling and talking like - whoa, this is really going to save her.

Of course, no one believes it.

Mark is standing next to Roger as they wait for the doctors to let them in to visit. It is the most useless spot in the world, standing next to Roger right now. Mark feels like he should be able to say something to make this better somehow, but what is he supposed to say that will give Mimi an extra year or two to live? What could he possible have to say that is more important than her life?

Still, he feels like he should say something so he says, "She really loved your song."

It amazes Mark still, how stupid he can be sometimes.

Roger smiles, almost, not quite. Maybe it's just the shadows on his lips. Mark can't be sure. "She's so beautiful."

What is he supposed to say to that? Taking a deep breath, uncertain that he should even be here at all since he's obviously no good to Roger or Mimi, he lays a hand on his shoulder. It's supposed to be comfort, but to Mark it just feels like patting Roger on the shoulder. What can that mean, really? He finds his song after all this time, she starts to fade away before he even has her in his arms again, and then Mark tries to fix it all with a good old hand on the shoulder. Yet he does it anyway, because Mark needs to feel like he's somehow doing something. Anything. Just being there for Roger should be enough. That is what people always say about times like this.

Only honestly, it isn't enough. It isn't even close, and nothing short of keeping Mimi alive and well would be. Of course, Mark can't do that outside of hollow pictures and celluloid. Right now his films seem like a cheap way to cheat death, though, and not something he wants to bring up.

So he has to settle for patting Roger on the shoulder, and Roger leans in to the contact but somehow that just makes Mark feel more useless. Like now he should be doing more, and obviously he has no idea where to start.

Roger makes the next move instead, reaching up for Mark's hand and squeezing it. Mark isn't sure what that means, but he squeezes back. It's the sort of small gesture between friends that means absolutely nothing at a time like this.

"I love her," Roger whispers, and the waiting room seems to quiet for these kind of confessions, even if everyone here already knew. "I just got her back and..."

He squeezes again, Mark squeezes back. Maureen leans against Joanne, who cries against her shoulder. Collins sits alone in a chair, looking down at his lap. Benny is to the side, not getting too close in case he upsets someone. It's all silences and chaos at the same time, when no one knows what to do to make this easier.

"I just wish..." He trails off again, unable to finish around a sob. He looks up to Mark with desperate eyes, and Mark wishes he knew what he was pleading for. At least then he would have something to give. "She taught me that if you care about someone, you can't give up on them. You always took -"

"Don't say it," Mark says as the nurses come out of the room, and Mark lets go of Roger's hand.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It starts like any normal Monday. Mark crawls out of bed wondering why he chose this over, say, an actual job. He makes a pot of coffee, not that he drinks coffee but it's one of the best ways to get Roger up. He showers quickly so there is water left, dries off and gets dressed without a word. The loft is so quiet in the morning, so unlike the city that it seems a shame to wake it.

Of course, the second he is outside that silence is broken by the millions of people that seem to pour out onto the street and subway. Mark rides among them, lost in the crowds. He likes it that way, hidden from the rest of the world. The director in the back, taking notes and controlling without ever being seen.

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a guitar pick. He flicks it in his fingers a few times. Roger never had a favorite guitar pick or anything like that, but he didn't seem to have very many of them, either. So Mark just took one. He wouldn't miss one.

He gets off the subway, walking a few blocks to get some air. Not that there is much to say about the air in the city, but at least outside he can almost breath. He walks through early morning rush hours to get to the graveyard.

It's weird. He imagined that in the graveyard all the noise of the city would just fade away. It doesn't. He supposes that Roger might like that. He isn't the type of guy that liked to be alone.

There is no church. Roger wasn't into that. Just a hole where the coffin will go, and Mark is the first one there. Then Maureen and Joanne, Benny and Alison, and this girl Roger had actually made friends with at Life Support. He's charming when he tries. There is a car that stays parked by the lot, and Mark can see Roger's mom inside, shaking.

No one says anything. They've already used up all their words. There have been too many deaths to do it again. So they just stand there with each other, staring down at some meaningless hole.

Mark fingers the pick he plans to put on the coffin, watching as the truck finally gets here, sets it onto some rig they have hooked up to safely lower it down. He steps forward, and everyone watches him, expecting something.

And for a crushing second Mark could remember ever-single moment he spent with Roger, from the day they met right up to falling asleep on some chair in the hospital, listening to what sounded like the perfectly safe beeps of the machine. And worse, he remembered all the time they hadn't had. Every day he hadn't known his best friend, before New York when he couldn't imagine a guy like Roger even existed, and even after that when he had been busy working or Roger had gone to practice or they simple had other things to do without knowing that they wouldn't have years and years and eternity together. It's really only a flickering moment in the film that they had, and the rest is filled with this void Mark hadn't even noticed before.

Moments he missed, moments that could have been spent listening to Roger sing or complaining about the price of stings or just sitting around with his best friend doing nothing at all. He could think back on every time they hadn't been talking, every day they'd spent without each other, every fifteen-minute trip to the store alone that now hurts even more than the fights and the drugs. Moments where Mark can't remember Roger at all because he wasn't there.

And those holes without him were just as frightening as every day would be from now on. Every shower he wouldn't have to rush through to save water. Every pot of coffee he wouldn't make to get Roger out of bed. Every night he won't be woken up by Roger's pacing. It isn't like they had the most amazing times to remember - years of starving, withdrawals, freezing - but those were still moments together, and all those little things that he can't have anymore.

He knows Maureen's hand is on his shoulder, but he doesn't really feel it. Just knows it is there, like he knows Roger's body filling the cheap wooden coffin without seeing it, and that Roger's mom is still in her car begging with God to send her son back even now. His fingers slide over the smooth edges of the guitar pick and he watches the men come and turn the machines holding the coffin in place, creaks and bumps as they lower his best friend down into the cold dirt. And Mark can't even find it to scream at them to stop.

Somehow, everyone one else ends up walking away and the men take their equipment and leave and the sun goes off somewhere, and Mark is still standing there with the pick in his hand, waiting. "You know," Maureen says with a voice full of tears, her hand still resting on Mark's shoulder. He looks around then and notices these things, and how they're the only ones left. "He really did-"

"Don't," Mark says, pocketing the pick that he is supposed to be giving to Roger. He likes to think that maybe Roger would understand. Or maybe Roger would get pissed, in which case he can come back to get it himself. "Don't say it."