Categories > Theatre > Rent > Blood Brothers
Blood Brothers
1 reviewRoger's drunk and tormented by an evil little thought. Mark is sleeping. This won't end well.
2Ambiance
Roger doesn't remember when he first started looking at Mark this way, when his gaze was first drawn irresistibly to hands and lips and the way Mark moves with an awkwardness that's somehow beautiful.
He also doesn't remember when this particularly poisonous little thought first occurred to him. Mark's been his best friend for years. Mark was the one who held him when he had the shakes and the sweats, who stood between him and the door when he needed a fix so bad he thought his brain was going to explode from pure need, who patiently dragged him back into the world after April, and again after Mimi. Despite all that, he wants to... No. Not despite all that, because of all that. Because Mark's all he has left.
Roger creeps a little further into Mark's room. Mark sleeping is pretty. There's no other way to describe it. People say everyone looks innocent when they sleep, but Roger's experience has been that most people just look like themselves, only drooling or snoring or both. Mark... Mark is an exception. Once asleep, he's a child again, that scrawny pale kid with the skinned knees and bruises that Roger took under his wing, years ago. He's innocent and beautiful and so fucking perfect that Roger's heart clenches at the sight of him.
Roger steps closer. Mark went to sleep drunk, and he won't wake up for anything short of the building collapsing. Of course, Roger's a bit drunk himself, and he's probably not quite right in the head at the moment. But, who is he kidding? He hasn't been right in the head since Mimi died. Even Maureen's been acting concerned, and she never notices anything that doesn't affect her directly. Mark's been very concerned. Mark organized tonight for his benefit, to get him out of the apartment, to make him cheer up. And he's grateful for that, he really is. Which is why...
"I kind of admire how you're still going," Mark had said, after the fifth beer or so. "I mean, no offense, but I couldn't be with someone who had AIDS. Not unless I'd gotten it too. I've got enough problems with watching my friends die. I couldn't lose someone I loved that much, let alone more than one, and just being alone after that. And... oh shit, I should shut up."
He was cute when he was babbling drunkenly, Roger reflected. And for once, probably due to the warm and fuzzy alcoholic haze, he wasn't offended. "Well, damn," he said, grinning. "So much for our true love." It was a joke. Just a joke, nothing serious, no matter what thoughts he'd been having lately.
And then Mark looked at him, his eyes strangely bright, and there was something pained, almost wistful, in them. And Roger forgot how to breathe.
And everything made sense.
The last few steps to the bed take too long, but finally Roger's looking down at Mark's sleeping face. His glasses are still on, crooked on his nose, and Roger takes them off, folding them with care and setting them aside. There's a small voice in his head screaming that he's crazy, that he has no way of knowing if Mark really wants him just because of a look in his eyes... He ignores it, bending to kiss Mark's forehead, his closed eyes with their silken fringe of ginger-colored lashes. Mark stirs, mumbles something, and falls back to sleep. Everything's going to be okay.
Mark will be able to love him. He won't be alone when he dies. And it's fitting, in a way. Everyone he loves has been doomed from the start. He ignores that small voice when it yells that he's being drunk and stupid. He's been thinking of this for a long time. Tonight just gave him the clarity he needed. Mark wants this too, he knows it.
The syringe is already in his hand, black in the darkness. Roger remembers April, remembers the needle sliding into a vein, easy and sweet. He remembers how to do it, even after all this time. Mark stirs again, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm up, Mom." But Roger's found the vein, and it's easy as breathing to just slide it in. A moment later, they're closer than they've ever been before. Blood brothers. Lovers. It's going to be okay.
It's not murder, this slow death deposited into Mark's bloodstream. It's best for both of them. Really, it is.
He also doesn't remember when this particularly poisonous little thought first occurred to him. Mark's been his best friend for years. Mark was the one who held him when he had the shakes and the sweats, who stood between him and the door when he needed a fix so bad he thought his brain was going to explode from pure need, who patiently dragged him back into the world after April, and again after Mimi. Despite all that, he wants to... No. Not despite all that, because of all that. Because Mark's all he has left.
Roger creeps a little further into Mark's room. Mark sleeping is pretty. There's no other way to describe it. People say everyone looks innocent when they sleep, but Roger's experience has been that most people just look like themselves, only drooling or snoring or both. Mark... Mark is an exception. Once asleep, he's a child again, that scrawny pale kid with the skinned knees and bruises that Roger took under his wing, years ago. He's innocent and beautiful and so fucking perfect that Roger's heart clenches at the sight of him.
Roger steps closer. Mark went to sleep drunk, and he won't wake up for anything short of the building collapsing. Of course, Roger's a bit drunk himself, and he's probably not quite right in the head at the moment. But, who is he kidding? He hasn't been right in the head since Mimi died. Even Maureen's been acting concerned, and she never notices anything that doesn't affect her directly. Mark's been very concerned. Mark organized tonight for his benefit, to get him out of the apartment, to make him cheer up. And he's grateful for that, he really is. Which is why...
"I kind of admire how you're still going," Mark had said, after the fifth beer or so. "I mean, no offense, but I couldn't be with someone who had AIDS. Not unless I'd gotten it too. I've got enough problems with watching my friends die. I couldn't lose someone I loved that much, let alone more than one, and just being alone after that. And... oh shit, I should shut up."
He was cute when he was babbling drunkenly, Roger reflected. And for once, probably due to the warm and fuzzy alcoholic haze, he wasn't offended. "Well, damn," he said, grinning. "So much for our true love." It was a joke. Just a joke, nothing serious, no matter what thoughts he'd been having lately.
And then Mark looked at him, his eyes strangely bright, and there was something pained, almost wistful, in them. And Roger forgot how to breathe.
And everything made sense.
The last few steps to the bed take too long, but finally Roger's looking down at Mark's sleeping face. His glasses are still on, crooked on his nose, and Roger takes them off, folding them with care and setting them aside. There's a small voice in his head screaming that he's crazy, that he has no way of knowing if Mark really wants him just because of a look in his eyes... He ignores it, bending to kiss Mark's forehead, his closed eyes with their silken fringe of ginger-colored lashes. Mark stirs, mumbles something, and falls back to sleep. Everything's going to be okay.
Mark will be able to love him. He won't be alone when he dies. And it's fitting, in a way. Everyone he loves has been doomed from the start. He ignores that small voice when it yells that he's being drunk and stupid. He's been thinking of this for a long time. Tonight just gave him the clarity he needed. Mark wants this too, he knows it.
The syringe is already in his hand, black in the darkness. Roger remembers April, remembers the needle sliding into a vein, easy and sweet. He remembers how to do it, even after all this time. Mark stirs again, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm up, Mom." But Roger's found the vein, and it's easy as breathing to just slide it in. A moment later, they're closer than they've ever been before. Blood brothers. Lovers. It's going to be okay.
It's not murder, this slow death deposited into Mark's bloodstream. It's best for both of them. Really, it is.
Sign up to rate and review this story