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ATTN: Roger or Maureen - Measure in love...
the_cameraman:
inspiration_rpg
Days of Inspiration: A Rent RPG
Mon, Dec. 19th, 1988 11:50 pm
ATTN: Roger or Maureen

With a deep breath, Mark pushed the loft door open, cringing as it slid open with a dying cry. It was late, he knew, and Roger might be sleeping. He sighed, shouldered his duffle bag, and shoved his other bag (filled with "supplies" as insisted by his mother) through the door.

Quickly tossing a plastic bag of leftovers on the counter to put away, he unraveled his scarf from his neck and ran a hand through his hair, listening for the sounds of life in the loft. Although all he could hear was the creaking of the cold winter air through the walls of the building, he couldn't help but allow a small smile to creep across his face.

He was home.

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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 05:29 am (UTC)

Roger walked into the loft from the fire escape, and froze when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Mark?"

Oh thank God...

He couldn't help that thought from popping into his head. One more day of this solitude and he'd probably go crazy. Roger walked in further, set his guitar down, and scratched the back of his head, a half smile on his face at the sight of his best friend. The first time in months he'd come even close to expressing happiness.

"Uh, hey, I didn't expect to..." Roger trailed off, "How was the trip? Your...family?"


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 05:34 am (UTC)

Mark nearly laughed at the look what he could only describe as relief that crossed Roger's face. Seeing his best friend climb in through the fire escape had been a bit of a shock - he was sure the musician would be asleep by then - but he couldn't help but feel happy.

"They're... alright. You know, same old shit," He said, as he began putting away leftovers as he mimicked his mother's voice, " 'Mark, have you thought about going back to school yet? How's Maureen, put a ring on her finger? What?! She left you for a girl, well then, she wasn't worth anything anyway!'"

He laughed and then gestured to the container in his hand, "At least she gave us enough food to last a few weeks, though. Said I was becoming 'skin and bones'."

With a sigh, he closed the refrigerator and turned back towards Roger, who had yet to move from his spot.


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 05:53 am (UTC)

Roger rolled his eyes at Mark's incredibly accurate imitation of his mother. "The Cohen clan...really are somethin else."

He plopped down on the couch, one hand on the fender which rested against the couch as green eyes looked from Mark to the refrigerator.

"Real food? Hell..." He leaned back so he could stare at the ceiling (something he'd taken to doing alot lately), "Maureen made me real food. She made fuckin spaghetti. I didn't know she could even boil water."


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 06:22 am (UTC)

Mark laughed to himself, shaking his head as Roger leaned back on the couch. He knew Maureen could cook - she had made dinner for them on their three month anniversary, right before things began to go sour. Right before April and Roger's using became excessive- right before Maureen began disappearing for nights on end as Mark turned a blind eye to it.

"She's a ball of surprises, that Maureen," He replied, sarcastically, as he disappeared into his room, leaving his door ajar as an invitation for Roger to come in if he liked. From his spot in his room, where he was dutifully emptying clean clothes and a few new sweaters his mother insisted on buying him ("Everything you own has holes in it!" She had proclaimed when she had done his laundry without his permission.), he spoke loud enough for Roger to hear -

"So, what else you do in your week long vacation from having a camera in your face?"


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 06:43 am (UTC)

Oh fuck, not this question...

Roger sighed, walked over, and stood in the doorframe of Mark's room. He watched Mark unpack and mulled the question over in his head.

Is there any way to say this that will make this week seem less shitty than it was?

"Uh, y'know, I played the fender on the fire escape. Sometimes played inside too. And uh, I slept."

Apparently not.

Roger ran a hand through his hair and looked away, "Yeah, that's about it."

Great. Not like this was any different from what he'd done while the filmmaker was here, but Roger knew it would only worry Mark more. Shit. Change the fucking subject.

"So what about your grandma? You didn't say anything about her." Roger leaned against the right side of the doorframe, "I thought that was the whole reason you went down there."


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 07:03 am (UTC)

Mark nearly scoffed aloud at Roger's blatant attempt to change the subject. One look at his roommate and he knew, knew knew that Roger was worried about him well, worrying...and Roger was right. Mark WAS worried.

He decided, though, that it would slide for now. That, much like every other time something like this happened, Mark himself would let it go and then eventually it would come to and they'd talk about it... but no, the look in Roger's eyes just proved that it was not the time nor place.

On the other hand, he didn't want to talk much about his grandmother and her possible pending death, either. It just reminded him how mortal everyone around him was.

"She's alright for now," He said, pulling the last of his laundry from his bag and tossing it under his bed. With a sigh, he crossed over to his closet, feeling Roger's eyes on him, as he hung up the clothes.

"I dunno, honestly," He finally spoke up, "I guess only time will tell, you know?"

He looked up at Roger, as he crossed back over to his bed. Quickly, he perched himself on the edge of the bed and wrapped his new-old blanket around his shoulders.


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 07:23 am (UTC)

Shaking his head, Roger stepped inside the bedroom. He realized, of course, that Mark's grandmother was probably far from alright. That it had been Mark's way of avoiding the subject.

So they both had shit they didn't want to talk about. Like that's anything new.

But still...

Roger watched him for a moment and decided to help both of them avoid the things they didn't want to think about by changing the subject again.

"New blanket?"


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 02:54 pm (UTC)

This conversation was getting awkward, fast. Both of their attempts to avoid topics they didn't want to discuss was leading to a conversation about a blanket. Since when did stuff like this happen?

Since April, thought Mark, looking up at his roommate almost sadly. Here they were, Roger standing just inside their bedroom, while Mark stared up at him from his spot on his bed, warm blanket curled around his frame.

"Sort of, not really -" He said, shrugging, causing the excess material to tumble to the floor. He had forgotten how big this blanket was - "It's from my house - Mom told me to bring it. It's warm, so, yeah..."

Silence erupted, awkwardness ensued. A standoff of sorts, but Mark wouldn't let Roger leave, not yet.

"I remember this blanket from when I was younger during the holidays. Cindy and I used to make forts with it because it was so big - and Mom and Dad would let us open our Chanukah presents while in the tent," He said nostaglically, with a soft grin as he covered his nose with the blanket, "It still smells like cinnamon - my mother used to put out these cinnamon scented pine cones during the holidays. They were so strong, everything would smell like cinnamon - our clothes, the furniture, our dog. I guess it just never washed out."

He laughed lightly, shaking his head to himself before looking up at Roger.


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Mon, Mar. 20th, 2006 07:12 pm (UTC)

Roger approached and took a bit of excess blanket in his rough hand. He brought the material to his nose and sniffed, making a face at the strong smell, "Yeah, that's cinnamon alright."

The only smell he ever associated with his mother was heavy, cheap perfume; he was sure his mom had tried every kind she could afford to attract men.

"The Cohen clan... building tents out of blankets and making shit smell like cinnamon." Roger half smiled, letting go of the blanket, watching it fall to the floor next to Mark. "Somethin' else."

Actually he enjoyed hearing about Mark's family life. He never realized people could actually do the shit most people associated with families. Not that the Cohens were a perfect family, hardly, but they tried really fucking hard to be and that filled Roger with both amusement and though he'd never admit it, longing.


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Tue, Mar. 21st, 2006 01:29 pm (UTC)

"Yeah, well," Mark said, standing and tucking the blanket around him like an over-zealous cape. He walked past Roger, the sound of the blanket dragging across the floor resounding in his ears, and fell onto the couch in the main room. He laughed as the blanket tumbled down around him as he sat, and looking at Roger, who was still in his bedroom doorway, said, "My family isn't as sweet and wonderful as that story made them seem."

With a sigh, he lifts a corner of the blanket, gesturing for Roger to sit with him on their ratty old couch. Whether the songwriter joined him (the blanket was huge, it's not like they'd be cuddling) was up to him, but it was fucking cold and Roger couldn't deny that.


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Tue, Mar. 21st, 2006 10:23 pm (UTC)

"Yeah, I know, but sometimes it's nice to pretend they are..." Roger said as he stepped out of the doorway, glancing at Mark and the blanket.

It was tempting. The blanket would be warm and smell like cinnamon, which is a combination that Roger felt could rarely be denied, but there was something about warmth that he hadn't been comfortable with in months. He had come to like the cold with its numbing effects. And he found it hard to believe he deserved warmth and friendship when April's body was freezing, decaying, alone six feet under.

Sometimes he felt as dead as she really was.

You and me forever, baby.

"I guess it's late, long trip, you're... probably tired." He spoke the first words that came to mind, because his silence had lasted too long and he didn't want Mark to think-

Roger walked to the window facing outside, but not really looking at anything. His hands curled into fists in frustration at himself for not being able to hold a fucking conversation, for not being able to get over April, for not living, for fucking up his life and bringing Mark along for the ride.

Every day it's the same damn thing. Same shit running through my head. I can't keep doing this.

But what else is there?


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Wed, Mar. 22nd, 2006 06:24 pm (UTC)

Mark watched Roger walk past his offer and sighed, biting his tongue. Leaning against the side of the couch and resting his head in his hand, he studied Roger's stance, watched the musician's fists clench, and felt an overwhelming sense of pitiful loss coming over him.

He's seen so much tragic stuff in the past couple of years he's lived in the loft - held Collins after the diagnosis, watched April appear, observed the rollercoaster of her and Roger's destructive lifestyles. He remembered the bloodshot eyes and the waves of Roger's emotions as he fought withdrawal and struggled with what he thought was a death sentence. When Roger's dignity was gone, when he cried against the very couch he was sitting on. He remembered the blood, the smell of death, the loss of a redhaired angel that he, despite the drugs, had been a good friend of.

But never, never once, through all of that- did Mark ever feel the way he did now. He felt helpless, alone.

"Don't push me away," He said suddenly, and he knew he sounded pitiful, weak. The words had just spilled from his lips and he wished he could reach out and capture them in his fingers before they reached Roger's ears.


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theonesong
theonesong
Roger Davis
Thu, Mar. 23rd, 2006 05:33 pm (UTC)

Roger closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the cool window as he let Mark's words roll around his brain and eventually settle like a mountain in his chest. It was the desperation, the loneliness in Mark's voice that pressed those words so tightly within him. He felt guilty, torn, and ultimately exhausted.

He turned towards the couch...towards Mark, "Don't push you away? What else am I supposed to fucking do?"

I'm dying.

I'm trying to save us both from being too close.


Roger shook his head, walked to his bedroom. Before he entered he looked back at Mark one last time, green eyes filled with regret.

I'm sorry.

It's what he'd meant to say, but the words just wouldn't come. Disgusted, Roger turned back into his room, shutting the door behind him.


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the_cameraman
Mark Cohen
Thu, Mar. 23rd, 2006 06:29 pm (UTC)

Mark watched Roger go, the desperation festering in his chest building into anger. Roger's few words said so much to Mark - he knew his best friend was fighting to keep a distance.

A safe distance, he thought, knowing that Roger's thoughts on April, on HIV, on the diagnosis only pushed him further away.

But Mark's anger? It wasn't towards Roger, not at all. It was towards himself, it was towards his own unconscious tiptoeing. Around the fact that he's just been letting too many things slide.

He hated that he let Roger keep this distance, and he hated that he hasn't been able to save his best friend, not the way he wanted to.

He felt the angry tears rise in his throat, but he refused to let them bubble up and over his eyes -

Mark Cohen simply didn't cry.


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