RENT: Tell Her I Miss Her Smile
Sep. 22nd, 2006 07:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: Tell Her I Miss Her Smile
Characters/Pairing: Roger/April, Mark
Word Count: 926
Rating: PG
Summary: Now that she's gone, there's only one thing Roger really wants to do.
Notes: Purgatory-verse. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
speed_rent challenge #237.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Roger, Mark, April, or the song "Tell Her."
If you see my girl
Just tell her I miss her smile
Roger had gone into his bedroom almost immediately after getting home from rehab, closed the door, curled up in his bed and not moved for two days straight, clutching at his pillow and shaking – not crying, never crying, because he'd gotten all that out before and now he just felt drained and tired, but shaking and shivering like he were going through withdrawal all over again. Rehab had taken care of the one addiction, the one everyone knew about and recognized as such, but the other hurt just as much, and there wasn't anyone to help him through this, not Mark or anyone else. He'd been fine being away, but being home now...
She ought to be here. This had always been their place, the place where they both belonged, and her absence now was wrong, in some deep way he couldn't even begin to explain. There was her in every corner, there and yet not there, and so for a while he couldn't do anything but sit there, shaking and shivering and half expecting in some far too optimistic part of his mind that she would suddenly sit down on the bed, wrap her arms around him and cuddle up against him.
It didn't happen. Would never happen.
Mark, at least, had the courtesy to leave him alone for those two days. Or maybe it wasn't so much courtesy as disgust, or anger... Maybe he didn't want to see or speak to the one responsible for his baby sister's death. Roger couldn't blame him for that either.
When, at last, he managed to make himself move, sit up and get out of bed, it wasn't to get food, go to the bathroom, anything like that. Instead, he carefully pulled open his door and shuffled out into the living room, barely looking at Mark. There was a box of photographs on the bottom shelf of one of the bookshelves, from when April got a Polaroid camera not long after they moved here. A lot of the pictures were of him, of course, but he'd stolen the camera from her often enough...
He grabbed the box and carried it to the table, thumped down into one of the chairs and dumped the box out on the tabletop. Photographs spilled out, a few of them dropping unnoticed to the floor. He rifled through them slowly, biting his lip to keep himself from tears at a few of the pictures – one of the two of them, his arm wrapped around her while he held the camera out with the other arm to take the picture, or of her tucking a flower back behind her ear with a distracted smile, of her half-glaring with a "give me back the camera, you idiot" expression while trying not to smile.
And then he froze at the sight of something else buried at the bottom of the pile, not a photograph, but a flash of yellow... He pulled the Post-It note out, swallowing hard as he saw just what it was – April's handwriting on it, eight words, addressed to him ("R"), signed with the name he'd been calling her for as long as he could remember ("Angel"). He glanced over his shoulder at Mark, who didn't look at him. Mark had to have put it there, because there was no one else who could have, but...
Well, of course he had. Painful or not, this wasn't the sort of thing you could throw away, or ever get rid of. He turned back to the photographs, his hands shaking again as he picked up one of her smiling at the camera, hands clasped in front of her, the rose tattoo on the back of her wrist clearly visible, the April he hadn't seen for years, bright smiling angel before her wings got lost.
It wasn't until he'd started crying, head bowed, that Mark got up from the couch, and Roger didn't notice him until Mark lightly touched his shoulder. He froze for a while, entirely silent except for the occasional gasps for breath between stifled tears.
"I miss her, Mark," he whispered at last, hoarsely. "She's gone and I can't... I don't know..."
"I know," Mark murmured, his voice softer and more subdued than usual. The way it used to be when Roger first met him, when he hardly ever spoke at all.
Silence for a moment or two, except for the sound of Roger's breathing, harsh and ragged. Then, a soft, halting confession. "I want to be with her now, Mark. I think... I might want..."
"Roger," Mark said, his voice a little sharper than before, almost scared, and Roger shook his head.
"No, I'm not going to do anything. I just... want to." He paused, and then looked up at Mark, April's picture still in hand, and the smile he gave him was shaky, broken, an expression that in no way resembled a real smile. "Not gonna be that long anyway, is it?"
The look that flickered across Mark's face was shocked, hurt, uncertain, but Roger couldn't bring himself to care, turning back to the photograph and biting his lip again, with that same shakily hesitant smile as he looked down at that picture of his smiling angel years ago, not even bothering to blink back the tears stinging his eyes.
Tell her I'm counting the minutes
Gonna see her in a little while
Characters/Pairing: Roger/April, Mark
Word Count: 926
Rating: PG
Summary: Now that she's gone, there's only one thing Roger really wants to do.
Notes: Purgatory-verse. Written for
speed_rent challenge #237.Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Roger, Mark, April, or the song "Tell Her."
Just tell her I miss her smile
Roger had gone into his bedroom almost immediately after getting home from rehab, closed the door, curled up in his bed and not moved for two days straight, clutching at his pillow and shaking – not crying, never crying, because he'd gotten all that out before and now he just felt drained and tired, but shaking and shivering like he were going through withdrawal all over again. Rehab had taken care of the one addiction, the one everyone knew about and recognized as such, but the other hurt just as much, and there wasn't anyone to help him through this, not Mark or anyone else. He'd been fine being away, but being home now...
She ought to be here. This had always been their place, the place where they both belonged, and her absence now was wrong, in some deep way he couldn't even begin to explain. There was her in every corner, there and yet not there, and so for a while he couldn't do anything but sit there, shaking and shivering and half expecting in some far too optimistic part of his mind that she would suddenly sit down on the bed, wrap her arms around him and cuddle up against him.
It didn't happen. Would never happen.
Mark, at least, had the courtesy to leave him alone for those two days. Or maybe it wasn't so much courtesy as disgust, or anger... Maybe he didn't want to see or speak to the one responsible for his baby sister's death. Roger couldn't blame him for that either.
When, at last, he managed to make himself move, sit up and get out of bed, it wasn't to get food, go to the bathroom, anything like that. Instead, he carefully pulled open his door and shuffled out into the living room, barely looking at Mark. There was a box of photographs on the bottom shelf of one of the bookshelves, from when April got a Polaroid camera not long after they moved here. A lot of the pictures were of him, of course, but he'd stolen the camera from her often enough...
He grabbed the box and carried it to the table, thumped down into one of the chairs and dumped the box out on the tabletop. Photographs spilled out, a few of them dropping unnoticed to the floor. He rifled through them slowly, biting his lip to keep himself from tears at a few of the pictures – one of the two of them, his arm wrapped around her while he held the camera out with the other arm to take the picture, or of her tucking a flower back behind her ear with a distracted smile, of her half-glaring with a "give me back the camera, you idiot" expression while trying not to smile.
And then he froze at the sight of something else buried at the bottom of the pile, not a photograph, but a flash of yellow... He pulled the Post-It note out, swallowing hard as he saw just what it was – April's handwriting on it, eight words, addressed to him ("R"), signed with the name he'd been calling her for as long as he could remember ("Angel"). He glanced over his shoulder at Mark, who didn't look at him. Mark had to have put it there, because there was no one else who could have, but...
Well, of course he had. Painful or not, this wasn't the sort of thing you could throw away, or ever get rid of. He turned back to the photographs, his hands shaking again as he picked up one of her smiling at the camera, hands clasped in front of her, the rose tattoo on the back of her wrist clearly visible, the April he hadn't seen for years, bright smiling angel before her wings got lost.
It wasn't until he'd started crying, head bowed, that Mark got up from the couch, and Roger didn't notice him until Mark lightly touched his shoulder. He froze for a while, entirely silent except for the occasional gasps for breath between stifled tears.
"I miss her, Mark," he whispered at last, hoarsely. "She's gone and I can't... I don't know..."
"I know," Mark murmured, his voice softer and more subdued than usual. The way it used to be when Roger first met him, when he hardly ever spoke at all.
Silence for a moment or two, except for the sound of Roger's breathing, harsh and ragged. Then, a soft, halting confession. "I want to be with her now, Mark. I think... I might want..."
"Roger," Mark said, his voice a little sharper than before, almost scared, and Roger shook his head.
"No, I'm not going to do anything. I just... want to." He paused, and then looked up at Mark, April's picture still in hand, and the smile he gave him was shaky, broken, an expression that in no way resembled a real smile. "Not gonna be that long anyway, is it?"
The look that flickered across Mark's face was shocked, hurt, uncertain, but Roger couldn't bring himself to care, turning back to the photograph and biting his lip again, with that same shakily hesitant smile as he looked down at that picture of his smiling angel years ago, not even bothering to blink back the tears stinging his eyes.
Gonna see her in a little while
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-03 03:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-03 03:16 am (UTC)