How can you connect in an age where stranger, landlords, lovers

Leave your mail at the tone.

With the Catscratch Club closed, Roger had plenty of time to think about all of the ways he could fuck up in his spare time. In his entire time on the island, he had never been so capricious with his cigarettes, but this was time for a Goddamn exception. Two nights ago, Roger had been propositioned by a smelly menace of a man to try some glowy-ass drug, and the next morning he'd woken up with his entire upper body aching, the cough punctuating his every thought, and every single one of his joints creaking and pained. He knew this was his body's way of reminding him that he was an addict, that old habits never really died, and that his life wasn't quite the cakewalk he'd so successfully been pretending it had been.

He came back into the Hub from his eighth cigarette break and ordered another two drinks, one for him, and one for his companion. Roger didn't want to talk at all, and Dean would somehow get him to spill his guts about all of the temptation, and Bridge just sort of... calmed him, sometimes, so he decided to go with that. Plus, it might have made him feel better to see Bridge tipsy.

With his shoulders tight, his coat wreaking of cigarettes, and the mesh shirt underneath revealing all ribs and what was left of Roger's muscle, he tightened his shoulders and turned back to Bridge, lifting his glass and inquiring further about the mechanics of the toaster-dog that Bridge loved so much.

Everything seemed to be in order.

'Order' was, of course, the wrong turn of phrase for how things were to the untrained eye. Nothing in the kitchen seemed to have a place of its own, the drafty and suffering loft had no storage for as much space as there was, so tattered and threadbare blankets lay almost-folded in nearly every corner, some under exposed wiring in the walls, some under buckets that still had water gathered from the last rainstorm that gushed through the giant skylight that sat uneven on its foundation. It was the dead of winter -- that was how Roger remembered it -- and the only heat provided was from what Mark had termed an 'illegal woodburning stove' which was actually a metal trashcan that rebelliously declared "Property of New York City Waste Department" and over that, a sloppily marked symbol that shouted anarchy. One of these hadn't been there before the cylinder had been pilfered for a better cause that waste disposal.

The space in the tenement housing was wide, but this was no blessing, as the barely-insulated walls weren't close enough together to conduct any kind of heat. Stacks of scarves and jackets lay out for available use, but the member of the tenement loft had a better idea of how to stay warm. Bottles of half-depleted alcohol lined the bar side of the kitchen from wall to opening, plastic cups littered every surface of formerly available space, but to the residents, this wasn't clutter: this was the promise of a good time.

Each bare wall gave way to a bedroom, save for the far side wall that housed a giant picture window with a chilling view of the bare and frozen street eight elevator-less floors down. These bedrooms -- closet-sized at best -- had doors that were perpetually open, and out from each of them came a resident of the famed loft. Collins had produced two more jackets for the freezing masses, one of which had a bulging baggie of contraband in one of the pockets, and when he produced the bag, his chestnut eyes sparked from behind yellow-tinted lenses. Mark nodded, responded by lifting his camera in greeting, and ducked over toward the awaiting crowd, scarf billowing behind him. Roger, out from the last bedroom, met Collins halfway through the hallway, and clad in tight blue jeans, thick socks and a leather jacket over a thermal sweater, he slung his arm around his estranged roommate, grinning so hugely his eyes were reduced to tiny slits.

By then, the party was in full swing. As soon as Roger had seen where he was, he'd rushed to the balcony to breathe in the freezing, rotten twilit air. He'd let out a whoop and not an hour later, the loft had become swarmed with people. Past midnight now, the party had died down a bit, some asleep, some stumbled home drunk, some out at the park to get their late night fix, but the hardcore partiers and island residents still scattered the apartment. Roger took a seat on the windowsill and lit up a cigarette, content to the point of momentary silent observation.

After five months of staring into the crowd at the Catscratch Club and its brother the Willows Room, he could pinpoint exactly who left the biggest messes, who was prone to getting drunk and spilling their beer in an emphatic sweep while arguing the closed door policy that had once been adapted by China, who sometimes passed out on their tables even at the feet of gorgeous and half-naked women. He was never surprised to see a table dirty, feel the bar sticky, see a chair overturned. Hell, it made it feel like home. What was a party and his and Mark's place without the most epic cleanup that was usually left for Collins and Mark?

Only now it was Roger doing the cleanup, not emerging from behind the bar unless Helen in her sugary voice requested he put his skinny-ass elbow grease into tidying a table or replacing an overturned chair. All of the hard work was left to the people who owed hours, but the bartenders (in this case, Dean and Roger) had to do inventory, check the stocks, clean the glasses, terribly interesting shit like that. Of course he had help, like Dean and the dancers (watching Helen overturn chairs in next to nothing was usually the highlight of his life) and the bouncers, of which Roger more or less only knew Bridge. The others were there, but not as friendly or curious or wide-eyed. He didn't seem to fit in, but then again, who did? Working at a strip club was nothing more than a band of misfits who only had naked chicks or severe boredom in common.

That naive quality was exactly the reason Roger had talked to him the first time, but he actually turned out to be an alright guy, and that was why Roger kept talking to him.

"Hey, Bridge," Roger called to him. Dean was off probably grabbing shit from downstairs and God only knew where Helen was. He nodded to the glass he was cleaning. "Wanna drink?"

The first thing any person familiar with Roger's quarters would notice would be... well, that he was in it. On Saturday night, no less, when he was supposed to be working double duty at the club. The second thing that could be noted was that it was significantly more crowded. A portable wardrobe had spring up by the window. A small foot locker sat seemingly overturned next to it, pills and vials and paper and plastic bags flowing from it, and a moderately sized liquor cabinet sat closed next to that. It was as if a rebellious teenager had taken up Roger's habitation, and following suit, there was a person-sized lump in the bed, hidden under the comforter and eerily motionless -- only his eyes weren't closed. His breath came in deep, slow breaths, hitched by the occasional aftershock of a sob, but he was far from sleep. His eyes tinted red, he stared at the thatched ceiling, thinking only that he could still smell him. On the pillow. The pillow was the source of the scent and it smelled just like that shampoo he had no business finding on a deserted fucking island.

Roger sat up to distance himself a bit from the smell. It occurred to him that maybe the scent didn't linger, but the memory of it did, and Roger sat up just to distance himself from the lingering smell or thought or whatever the fuck it was. His hair hung in limp, sweat-matted waves, ratted about his head. He dropped his gaze to a plain white envelope that lay on the comforter labeled 'Roger' and read the letter inside for the second time.
Rockstar,

If you're reading this, you're either a snooping asshole and there's
going to be more hell to pay than you can believe, or I've gone back
home. I'm going to assume it's the second, because if it's the first,
none of this is true anymore, anyway. And I'm going to fucking kick
your ass.

First, the practical things. I don't know what might be left behind,
but whatever there is, it's yours. I want you to have it. Of course,
if Mikey wants any of it, you'd better fucking give it to him, but I
doubt he'll want much. Please don't let him have any of my suits, he
doesn't know how to wear Armani right. And for Christ's sake, take
care of them, whether you wear them or not.

There's something I've thought about telling you for a while now, but
it's not something I'm good at saying. Hell, I /hate/ saying it, but
you deserve to know it, to read it at least. I love you. You're
important to me, you've made me feel things I never expected to
feel--and I like it. It scares the shit out of me, but if I can't be
honest now, when? I love you, Roger Davis, and I know I won't be able
to tell you in person, but I want you to know. I don't want you to
doubt it after I'm gone. So tell Bill he can shove it up his ass. I'm
not boyfriend material, but that doesn't mean you don't matter to me,
more than anyone's mattered since--well, since Mikey.

Speaking of Mikey, take care of him, will you? He sucks at dealing
with shit, and without me around to kick his sorry ass into shape...I
worry about him. Just--don't let him mope too much. Remind him--no
apologies, no regrets.

I'm not going to say I wish I'd stayed, because I don't. I miss
Pittsburgh. I miss my life, my job, Babylon. I miss sex with twinks
that I don't have to see at breakfast. I miss my friends, my son.
Hell, I even miss Ted, a little. At least you know I'm happy, right?

You'll be okay, I know. You have plenty of people that care about you,
and most of them will be glad to see me gone, I know. Don't become
some emo little shit just because I'm gone, okay? You know how I feel
about self-pity. Just take care of yourself. Get laid, get over it,
and move on. And enjoy the knowledge that you did something no one
thought was possible. You got Brian Kinney to love you.

-B

Tears stung at his eyes so badly he couldn't even finish it, but he forced himself through, jaw clenching tighter and tighter as the words washed over him. He was devastated that Brian was gone... and yet he was furious. Furious that after everything they'd been through, Brian had gone, furious that he hadn't left of his own devices like Roger always kind of figured he would, and more than anything furious that Brian had loved him back and that Roger never had the chance to know.

The drugs in the locker taunted Roger like the ghost of his past. Now would be a good time. No one would fault him for falling back into some old habits, just as long as he didn't touch heroin. And there was none of it on the island -- at least, none that Roger knew about. he could just grab a vial, push the gaseous contents into his nose, and fall into nothingness for a while. Instead, he stayed in limbo, staring down at the letter, motionless and hunched over and doing nothing but shallowly breathing around the lump in his throat.

The building crew had left almost two weeks ago, and Roger had himself a full-on hut. It was exactly what he'd wanted: a bedroom larger than the closet he'd squeezed himself into at home and attached to Dean and Angua's section. It was like an apartment without a kitchen, and Roger found he spent the most time on that couch, shooting the shit with his roommates, playing his guitars, and keeping poor Angua up with chatter about Pearlygates, who had the shrine she deserved in the corner of Roger's room.

Yes, the building crew had gone, but a part of Roger had missed the project. Not only was his body toned in a way that made him look a hell of a less gaunt (and led to him more or less never wearing a shirt; really, why should he deprive the world of a stomach that verged on washboard, finally), but he got to spend more time being manly with Dean, and it felt good, the sunlight versus the concrete walls of the radio station, just for a little bit. So when Roger mentioned something about the roof, it hadn't taken much to get the ladder back and Dean working with him, again. It was a dick joke extravaganza, and really, a reinforced roof was so crucially important, right?

Said dick jokes and work left them both covered in sweat and in desperate need for water, so Roger climbed down to grab some water... that layed on a bed. A bed that hadn't been there when he'd been in the room hours before. It had appeared the same way Rockband had the previous year, and with the same un-addressed card. He laughed. He had to. And when he emerged from his room with a water bottle in each hand, he was still laughing.

"Some fucking crazy shit, this island," Roger called up to Dean as he threw the water bottle up to him. "I got a bed." Big fucker of a bed and a few pair of sheets. And Roger was smiling. Because he was pretty sure that meant he was where he belonged.

Moping around Dean and Angua's yurt was getting tiresome. Luckily, self-pity had woven itself into a much more productive boredom, and sometimes he ever left. He went to the radio station to say hello, even to work. He'd stop by the site of the strip club and feel a tinge of excitement and nostalgia and eventually run home to report to Dean or Angua some minutia. His moods were improving, however to the naked eye that may have been a little hard to see. He was drinking less, but not much, and there was something else going on. Something that hadn't presented itself in a while.

Roger what writing.

Not a lot, and it wasn't awesome, but his notebooks had reappeared, and sometimes he'd fashion himself a torch, bundle up in layer after later, and sit outside of the yurt late at night, guitar safely inside, and scribble away lyrics, tapping and humming melodies, crossing out failed attempts at human emotion. It wasn't bad. It spoke of longing more than love, but it came from his soul, and that was all he'd ever asked for.

It hadn't taken much prompting to get Roger to the annual New Year's Eve party. There was always really good food and he was ready to leave for a bit, not to mention he was afraid Mark and Bill were going to go out of their minds with worry if he didn't show up more often. He even dressed up. Since he looked leaner than he had in a while, he broke out his leather pants, and it only assisted the good mood that they didn't gape as much as they had even a month prior. In fact, his thighs looked pretty good, and his ass, but that always looked good.

A long-sleeved tight black shirt went with it, and he was weaving his way through the crowd, picking up food as he passed. He could feel his perpetual buzz lifting, so he set out to fix that. With vodka. Good fucking Christ, how he'd missed vodka.

Every time Roger went to the bathroom, he had to pass by his room. All of his shit still inhabited it, he discovered, and it looked like Hunter was still around. He felt a certain amount of guilt about that -- he should have said something to Hunter... but he wasn't living with Dean and Angua, he was just... staying there. Indefinitely. They both seemed to like having him around and Roger had yet to even get slightly annoyed with either of them and they put up with his sulking and moping and dirty underwear... He wanted to do something great for them he just had absolutely no idea what that would be.

That day, he made the mistake of peeking into his room. Everything was as he'd left it, and he bet that if he stepped in, he'd see some remind of Brian. An errant shirt that was too classy for Roger and too big for Hunter, a pair of slutty looking underpants that had gotten flung carelessly over a guitar case...

He wouldn't allow it to happen. He backed up the three steps it took to no longer be able to see into the room and headed for the bathroom. He just needed... something. A wakeup call. Cold water on his face, maybe to drop a fucking toilet seat on his foot to get him to snap the fuck out of it...

Cold water wasn't enough. Soon Roger was stripping out of his clothes, discarding them in a haphazard pile by the sink. He padded over to the showers, towel flung over the nearest stall divider, and turned the water on. He cranked it over until steam rose in curls and stepped into the spray, lowering his head as if in prayer to let the warmth and wetness bead over him. How the fuck could he escape something when there was nowhere to escape to, and when not even his hobbies were distracting him? The long, fretted neck of his guitar had been replaced by the rounded, cold neck of bottle after bottle... and all Roger could do was turn the water up another notch and pray the pressure and temperature could beat him into consciousness.

Roger needed a shower. He could feel his skin, all grease and oil, sand and saltwater. He hadn't been back to the Compound since it had happened, since his vision of his life had begun resembling a daytime soap, and he didn't want to have anything to do with.

But long as the shower was, it didn't wash Roger clean of it. He'd tip his head back and get a mindful of moans, skin too dark to be his own caressing across skin he knew too well to say it wasn't Brian's. Roger turned the water up, scalding himself in curls of steam and straight-line bolts of water, but he still felt the anger and embarrassment rising within him. He scrubbed against his body until it beat read, practically pulsing with abuse, hands ripping through his hair in rough passes. His brain was working too fast, too much thinking and screaming and moaning and regret and bruising and alcohol....

The water was slammed off with the palm of Roger's hand, free one leaning him against the wall, head down, steam thick enough to be seen curling from his skin. He grabbed his towel and made quick, numb work of getting dressed. He just wanted out of the Compound. He wasn't hungry, he had a change of clothes, and he didn't need his guitars. He just wanted to be gone, to leave without incident.

As he emerged from the bathroom in his black faded jeans and sweater, he began stalking for the door. Peace. He just wanted peace. But the universe wouldn't even grant him that. The door was so fucking close, too.

For his part, Brian had no idea what he was walking into as he came around the corner and spotted Roger. "Hey, Rockstar," he said with a faint smile, slowing his pace to a stop, his gaze quickly taking in Roger, cataloguing the clear signs of agitation. "What's got your panties in a knot?"

The invitation was there. Roger had the option of continuing on like it had never happened. Forgiveness by forgetfulness, in a way. Only at that moment, Roger had no forgiveness in him because Brian had no apology. Brian never had apologies or regrets. It was his motto, and right then, Roger loathed it.

"Hello, Brian," Roger growled as he walked by, not even beginning a slow-down, just a push past him.

Brian's smile disappeared in an instant, becoming a scowl as he turned around, taking a step after Roger. "Hey! What the fuck is your problem?" It couldn't be about the other day. If it was...Roger had no idea who he was dealing with, which was a thought that boggled Brian a little, even as it gave some part of him a twist of perverse pleasure.

Roger had to laugh. There was nothing nice or inviting about it, despite the fact that it did stop his steps toward the door. The sound was hollow and cold, just like Brian.

"No problem," he said, turning around to face the other man. He shifted his weight and cocked his head.

"Right." Brian's voice dripped with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing as he watched Roger. "You always shove past me like a pissy little queen."

Oh, if Brian wanted pissy little queen, Roger could do pissy little queen. Competitive by nature, Roger was almost ready to meet him blow-for-blow, to get in his face and threaten his livelihood and shove him right out of everything he'd worked his way into. That was what Roger didn't understand: if this was some casual, easy thing, why the fuck had Brian tried so hard to get there in the first place? Hospital visits and continued trysts and the scene with Mark on the beach...

"If I was shoving past, you would be on your ass," Roger corrected him, thinning his own eyes down to slits.

"No," Brian disagreed flatly, crossing his arms over his chest, "I wouldn't." He watched Roger for a second, irritated that all he was getting was attitude without answers. "So are you going to tell me what's got you all worked up or not?"

"No," Roger countered, taking a step in. "Because I don't need to hear your fucking disdain again. I know it's bullshit and I know you don't give a shit, so let's call a fucking spade a fucking spade." It was clear that Roger wasn't entirely sober. He hadn't wanted to deal with a hangover, so he'd simply began drinking the next morning and just... never stopped.

Brian clenched his jaw. "If I didn't give a shit I wouldn't be standing here," he snarled, freeing an arm to run his fingers through his hair in agitation. "But I'm not going to hold your hand and beg you to pour your heart out to me, either. So if you're not going to tell me..." he shook his head in disgust and headed for the stairs down to his room. Fuck this, he wasn't going to lose sleep over it if Roger wanted to sulk, too. That seemed to be the popular thing to do these days, after all: sulk and blame Brian Kinney for all that ailed you.

"It doesn't matter," Roger interjected, bringing his eyes to Brian's with a great deal of effort, only to see him retreating. "You weren't mine to begin with." He'd managed to drown the pain in moonshine and Dean's words, to numb it out with broken glasses and stolen moments of sleep, but there, standing in front of Brian, it was all exposed, ripped up from the root and he was choked up. He'd seen the backside of Brian Kinney too much the past few days, and while it was once a pleasant sight, it was warping in his mind, changing. Like his entire outlook on the situation.

So that was what it was about, after all. Brian whirled back to face him, eyes flashing. "No, I wasn't," he agreed in a snarl. "I belong to nobody, Roger. I belong to me. And I always will." He laughed, shaking his head, and then shouted, "I'm BRIAN FUCKING KINNEY!" As if that should explain everything. Of course, for Brian...it did.

The anger rose in Roger before he could even make a single step toward controlling it. He rocketed himself forward until he was steps before Brian. "And BRIAN FUCKING KINNEY visited me in the clinic!" Roger shoulder just as loudly. His eyes fell on Brian, again, blazing and defiant and so fucking hurt. "Be who you want to be, Brian. And fuck who you want to fuck. I never expected anything more from you." And it was mostly true. From Brian fucking Kinney, Roger didn't expect shit. But from Brian who had checked in on him, held him close, kissed him, shielded him from harm... from that guy, Roger expected something more. Foolishly.

"I know who you are," Roger continued, "that's why I didn't say anything. Why I stayed away."

"I will," Brian answered coldly, Roger's taunts only serving to convince him that he was right about human nature. Not that he'd ever had any doubts. "I'll be who I want to be, I'll fuck who I want to fuck, and I'll care about who I want to care about." And somewhere along the line in this godforsaken place, the man standing in front of him, full of righteous fury and wounded pride had become one of the few on the last list.

But that didn't mean Brian had to change. He refused to change. He would be who he was, no more and no less, and if Roger couldn't accept that, then Roger could walk away.

"Who do you care about?" Roger didn't want Brian to change, he just wanted to understand. No, he understood now, he wanted to know. There were adjustments that had to be made, claims that had to be staked, rules to be set and possibly ignored. If Brian said it, right then and there, all would be forgotten and Roger would deal with the rest later. If Brian could look him in the eye and just fucking say it, just once, terms could be set later, agreements faked, and life would go one. The challenge was extended.

"Don't be an idiot, Roger," Brian snapped, scowling. "You think I would've been there if I didn't care?" Of fucking course he cared about Roger. Hell, hadn't he said as much before, granted while under duress thanks to this fucked-up island's games.

Oh. OK. Well, Roger hadn't quite expected Brian to just... say it like that. It had taken so much to get him to say it the first time... But Brian was right, they'd come so ridiculously far since then; through disaster and sickness and island weirdness. It seemed so odd that something so pedestrian would put them there when something so bizarre had gotten them together (for whatever looseness there was to that term) in the first place.

"Thank you," Roger said, scuffing his foot on the compound floor in a bit of resignation. Honesty from Brian Kinney was always used as a weapon rather than a shield in times of danger. Seeing that flipped, seeing Brian speak truth on the defensive... it was kind of nice. If Roger squinted and glanced right into the land of Kidding Himself, he could almost believe it was something he brought out in the other man. "I just... disdain. Your disdain. When I..." That had been the worst part: the way Brian didn't even flinch, never even considered stopping for a second. Because for a second, Roger had felt like another mere mortal in the realm of Kinney, and he hated that feeling. It was something he so rarely caught a glimpse of in the company of Brian.

Honesty was one thing. An apology, though...that wasn't going to happen. Brian had done nothing he felt he owed an apology for, after all. He'd been who he'd always been. "I fuck men, Roger. Plural. It's who I am, it's what I do. I like it. I don't want to stop." He looked at him in silence for a moment and then shook his head before saying quietly, "I won't stop. I've told you before, I don't do boyfriends. You and I..." Ohh, but he wasn't going there. Just saying those two pronouns together had made his stomach clench, his heart thud in his chest. "Brian Kinney doesn't do monogamy. I don't believe in it."

Roger found himself nodding, head down, scolded, like a fucking battered housewife. Here he was, making excuses for behavoir that was... No. Brian Kinney fucking other guys, that was one thing. Hell, maybe it was even what Roger needed, to curb the jealousy, the rage, the mistrust...

"I appreciate you talking about it," Roger said, lifting his head. "I know you don't usually take the time for explainations and it... means a lot to me." And there he was again, making excuses, caudling the cruel, becoming the victim. How many more tally marks did he have to inflict on himself as a statistic before he gave up, gave in? Once upon a time, there had been no rules, and Roger had lived in Anarchy and sin and delicious conquest after delicious conquest. But then April came. And then diagnosis came, and Roger changed, not grew up, but changed, shifted into skin that seemed adult to an outsider but just stretched over into a suit of fear and discomfort. Loyalty out of necessity and mooching and leaving and apologizing and screaming...

"It's not the fucking around that bothers me. I was an idiot to think that I was... I mean, that you weren't..." Roger clenched his jaw in frustration, took a breath before he attempted to speak again, "I wasn't thinking. OK? I was just... surprised. And then you... Did you even..." The back of Roger's fist connected with the doorway with a startlingly loud crash. He ignored the throb, it was dull anyway and very much on the backburner, and continued speaking. "Maybe we should just..."

Brian waited, watched, one eyebrow arching slightly. He was curious to see just how Roger would finish that thought, or if he would for that matter. Something told him he wouldn't, not in any coherent, proper grammar and sentence structure kind of way. He's just stammer his way to whatever the fuck it was he was trying to say and then...Brian didn't know what then, honestly, and he hated not knowing, not having even an inkling. "Just what, Roger?" he prompted, trying to keep that frustration at his lack of precognition from infusing the words.

"I don't know!" Roger boomed, responding in kind to Brian's projected irritation. His hands carded harshly through his hair, likely taking a good amount with them as they passed. He was getting dizzy from nerves, that low, dull pound that Roger used to silence with a hit. His nerves were overextended, knees loosing ground as fast as he was.

This was just the sort of scene Brian hated; a lovers' spat, right out in the open for anyone to overhear, and here he was in the fucking middle of it. "Let me know when you figure it out," he said coldly and turned to make his exit. He was done. He'd said all he was willing to say and still Roger persisted, so he would do what he did best: walk away.

Blood that was already well above room temperature began to boil within the songwriter, and before he had any idea what he was doing, his hands flattened near Brian's shoulderblades and he shoved him, hard and from the chest. His peripheral vision was gone, breath reduced to audible rasps. It was a damn good thing Brian hadn't reached the stairs yet.

"You stupid piece of shit!" Roger spat at him. His limbs were like rubber, his mouth made of cotton and bile.

Brian caught himself as he stumbled against a wall, hands curling to fists as he spun, eyes flashing. "Don't touch me, asshole," he growled. Christ, why was Roger and everyone associated with him so fucking violent? "In fact, stay the fuck away from me." He baked toward the stairs this time, wary and ready to defend himself if Roger came at him again.

Though Roger had not yet quite registered what he'd just done (he was still very much under rage's spell, a problem that seemed to afflict him far too often), he knew some of his energy had been utilized, and he was somewhat satiated. He coughed once into his fist before he turned, stalking for the door, but not before tossing one last parting shot over his shoulder.

"I'll be sure you get an invitation to my funeral, you fucking slime." And with that, he was gone in two more sounds: the Compound door slamming open and then shut again.

The words hit Brian harder than the physical violence had. "Don't expect me to show up," he said hoarsely, the words having almost no volume. He turned and staggered a little before regaining his mental footing and hurrying down to his room. He still had three or four tabs of E left, stashed away for emergencies, and this was a fucking emergency.

It was over. Over was dramatic, but it was different. Different like the angle Roger had seen Brian from, different like the way his stomach bottomed out at the sight, different like a magical fucking island that, had he never landed there, Roger never would have met Brian Kinney and wouldn't be where he was.

Where was he?

He'd started off in the Compound, and judging by the drink in his hand, he guessed he was at the Hub. But it was late, past midnight, it looked like, so clearly the alcohol hadn't just been lying around. There was a large jug of moonshine open and supply dwindling in front of him, and it looked like one of the ones he'd stashed ages ago. He remembered it being fuller. He remembered his glass being fuller, too, though. And he remembered his stomach being emptier. He'd been drinking. And judging by what happened when he turned his head, he'd been drinking a lot.

Also, the painted pterodactyl. That was a pretty good case for his being in the Hub.

Brian had put him there. Not physically, but he kept getting gritty close-ups of Brian's ass, jackhammering himself into some fucking guy's willing ass, his words, his fucking words echoing off the walls with a soundtrack of moans and grunts from Random Stranger Bottom. I'm a little busy. Did he even know, did he even fucking care?

That fucking painted Pterodactyl had been watching him all night. What the fuck was that?

Brian Kinney is the God of Destruction, Ted's voice chimed in. Debbie'd had something to say about him, too. Michael did. Everyone did. Everyone knew, and here was Roger, in the fucking Hub, drinking his fucking decaying body into a fucking stupor over Brian fucking someone else. He wasn't Roger's to lament. He wasn't Roger's to claim.

He was going to kill that flying dinosaur with the stink-eye issue.

Roger heard the crash before he felt the glass leave his hand. The line of his jaw seemed to parallel the line of his shoulders, and once he realized his hand was empty and that there was glass under the fucking dinosaur, a bit of moonshine dribbling down the walls, and Roger was freezing in his little fucking sweater. His hands jammed through his hair; none of it stopped the spinning, the images, the silence.

[from here]

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that," Brian purred, grinning. The look in his eyes left no question as to where this was headed. "So you want to put the guitar away?" It was one way to get them to a bedroom, anyway.

Roger did. Hell, he'd waited 2 months just to be able to leave the clinic, much less go to Brian's room and do what he'd wanted to do for weeks.

So, Roger grabbed Sadie by the neck, then gathered his free hand in Brian's shirt and pulled him in for a much more urgent version of the kiss that had started this mere moments ago. He didn't have to answer. He'd done a pretty good job of answering, already.

The sound of tiny feet running down many flights of stairs likely couldn't be heard over the din of many other pairs of feet scurrying about. Roger was just a fluffy-haired face in the crowd, bouncing along to try and right things. Occasionally, he had a straight adult thought, but most of it was muddled through kidspeak, and when he tried to talk, it was absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes he struggled with words and his hands were probably too small to even fit around the neck of his guitar, much less play her or carry her.

The worst part, though, was that Roger was still sick. Sometimes his tiny chest would rise and fall with soft rasps and then tiny coughs into a tiny fist and the contortion of his tiny, chubby face. His whole body hurt. He couldn't seem to get his fingers to tie his shoes. He was alone in a world that suddenly seemed so overwhelmingly big and with nowhere to call home. Where could he go? Where was safe? Where wasn't so... scary?

Smash cut to Roger, sitting in the center of a bed known to many as Brian Kinney's, only Brian Kinney wasn't in it. The covers were pulled back as if he had been, but he wasn't now. It had taken Roger three tries to launch himself up unto that bed, and he'd had to belly himself up, kicking his legs. His shoes were untied, his little sweater hung loosely off of his tiny shoulders, his hair curled out, wild and familiar, and he flattened his hands out over the crease of the covers... and cried.

The noise coming from the kitchen and rec room suggested that it was well into the mid-afternoon, and yet Roger was not out of bed. Most mornings he was up pretty early for coffee with those addicted to Ianto's perfect rendition of the libation, then he'd fall back asleep for a few hours and rise with the smell of breakfast. Both of these things had come and gone, the smell of lunch was beginning to fade, and still Roger slept. The previous day hadn't been particularly trying, he didn't have too much to be upset about, so he figured it wasn't the mask of self-pity that glued his eyes shut. He knew this, though: the room was spinning. Quickly.

He rolled over and his hand hit the bedside table, the wood feeling eerily cool against his hand. His brows knitted as he tried to sit up and was met by a rush of blood behind his eyes that knocked him back. He could hear the rasping of his breathing for two short intervals, then he was coughing into the blanket. What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?

No, Roger decided. There was no possible way he was dealing with this. Not even a little bit. Fuck mid-afternoon, fuck the dissipating odor of lunch that was making him queasy rather than enticing him, and fuck the hollow wheeze in his breath. He was going to go back to sleep and forget this ever happened.

Working toward that ending bonus, Roger decided, was a fucking bitch.

There was all that build-up, the crazy button-pushing (or out-of-control drumming or random and hilarious shouting into the mic, as the case may have been), and if you missed that last little note? Nothing. That mocking little meter in the middle with it's zero points and then poof -- in a literal cloud of smoke, gone. It was like life. Only life didn't usually warrant that much laughter.

But that time, the ending bonus was secured, and Roger felt like fucking cheering. He vaguely recalled the days when he had to play that son of a bitch on easy just to get the hang of it, but he was on expert, now, rocking the Rockband with the greatest of ease, fucking up only when outside forces committed hilarity with their own instrument, or when he was so into the damn game that he forgot to blink. This happened more than one would think, and Roger suspected that Serena had caught him more than once.

Fucking "Enter Sandman." That song was easier on actual guitar than it was on Rockband guitar. Although with the Fender-model game control, he could almost pretend he was just playing the world's smallest guitar, and with that image in mind, it made it a little easier, barring embarrassingly bad hand-eye coordination. Sometimes it just didn't happen.

But the song was over, the ending bonus was secured, and Roger almost felt like windmilling that guitar, but he faked a rockstar kick and laughed as the song ended, applauding his bandmates rigorously.

"Congratulations, Well Hungarians," Roger said as his character on the screen jutted his stone jaw and raised both hands in the air with ridiculously understated triumph. "I think we just gave Metallica a run for their money." He was grinning. How could he not be? These people were awesome.

[Gathering style! Tag Roger! Tag each other! Start a new song for grate lulz!]

Many days had passed since the being-in-Hunter's body, incident, and enough had happened that Roger had almost forgotten. Not enough to leave Hunter alone, of course, as the chance to give him shit was never passed up, but when it came to Brian, he forgot. Did his best to. There was no other way to deal with it. And since Brian had gone about fucking a chick as far as psychology was concerned, Roger reckoned Brian was doing his best to forget, as well. So they went about doing what they did best, and it didn't involve talking or really even thinking at all.

The obligatory post-sex sandwich had been secured and devoured, and as soon as Roger padded shirtless and shoeless in nothing but jeans back into the room, he laid back down on the bed. There wasn't much room beyond bed in Brian's little cove of a room, but even if there had been, Roger figured he wouldn't spend much time out of the bed, anyway. The only thing that really sucked about the setup was that he had to put on pants to get the illustrious sandwich. And pants, as they say, are for the weak.

Roger's back hit the bed hard enough that he bounced, and he turned his head to grin at Brian.

Mornings without work were pretty much given by God to Jaye. They may have been in her mind the only inkling of proof that he actually existed. On the island, every morning was a morning without work though, so the thrill of being able to sleep in till all hours wore off real quick. Jaye would never, ever, ever say she was an EARLY riser, but she managed to drag herself out of bed while the sun was still on the rise.

That morning was different. 'Chipper' wasn't a good word to describe Jaye in the morning, but this overwhelming feeling of wanting to crawl back under the covers and ignore the world wasn't NORMAL for her either. Neither was the sore ache in her hand and in her crotch. She rolled over, feeling inclined to just ignore the whole damn thing when her cock rubbed against the sheets.

Her. Cock. Rubbed. Against. Sheets.

Her eyes immediately snapping open in fright, Jaye jerked bolt upright, threw the sheets back and pulled down her ridiculous boxers.

"Holy SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!"

The pit in his stomach was bottomless, as were the cascade of excuses Roger expected to come tumbling out of his mouth the moment the door opened. He wasn't sure which tasted more foul: the truth or the bullshit. On the one hand, bullshit was named so for its lack of pleasant taste, and on the other, the way his blood would taste in his mouth after Belize threw a bitchy swing at him wouldn't taste like Mom's meatloaf, either. But he had to do it, and not just because Mark had found him out, either. He had to man up. He just wasn't sure who he was doing it for.

A deceptively strong knock on the door and a push of his hands through his hair later, he was in deep enough. It had begun. Because ding-dong-ditch instead of a straight shot of the truth was too balless even for Roger.

Not that he would have any balls when this was all over, anyway.

Brian sat in the rec room, an actual book in his lap, for once. The bookshelf had only been giving him fucking comic books when he tried to get a decent magazine, so he gave up and went with Shakespeare, grudgingly. He was rereading Hamlet for god knew what time in his life, although he wasn't really paying much attention to the words he was reading. His mind was going over the past few weeks, wondering what the fuck had happened and what to do now.

Roger had been avoiding the rec room like the plague. He wanted to see Brian, sure, but if Brian really wanted to see him, he'd come find him, and if he heard Melissa Etheridge singing "Bring Me Some Water" one more time, he was going to put his boot through the God damn jukebox.
He peeked around the corner as if going slowly would outsmart the cursed wiring, and stepped in cautiously, guitar in his left hand... and then it started up.
Tonight I feel so weak
But all in love is fair
A turn of the cheek
And I feel the slap and the sting of the foul night air
And I know you're only human
And I haven't got talking room
But tonight while I'm making excuses
Some other woman is making love to you.
"Oh, come the fuck on!" Came Roger's suddenly-thick accent, and he ran over to the piece of shit and kicked its foundation. It didn't deter the thing at all.
Somebody bring me some water
Can't you see I'm burning alive?
Can't you see my baby's got another lover?
I don't know how I'm gonna survive
"Your mother!" And with that, Roger kicked it, again.

Brian had watched the exchange with an amused look and a raised eyebrow. "Mature, Rockstar," he drawled, closing his book and setting it aside.

The voice and the tone had the hairs on the back of Roger's neck standing up within in instant, and he froze, suppressing a shiver bodily before he could turn on his heels and look at Brian.
"It started it," he declared, and picked up his guitar gently.

Brian sat up a little, a Brian Kinney invitation for Roger to join him. "How'd you do that? By walking into the room?"

The more time Roger spent with Brian (and with less clothes, but he wasn't thinking about that, no sir), the more information his Brian-to-English dictionary collected, so he set the guitar down by the couch and took a seat very, very close to the other man.
"Yeah. It used to be Rent. The musical that I'm from. Now it's always... songs like that." Songs about cheating, broken hearts, dead bodies from broken hearts. Light stuff. Easy listening. Roger hated all of it.

Brian glanced at the jukebox, lifting a hand to absently run through Roger's hair. "Maybe it's trying to tell you something," Brian pointed out wryly. "Or maybe it's just a sadistic, possessed fucking jukebox that needs to be set on fire." He chuckled low, watching Roger with a somewhat contemplative look.

God, the fact that Roger could enjoy little things like that... no, the fact that Brian would do little things like that, it made Roger feel so... safe. Like he was in control of something. Despite the fact that he had no control whatsoever of anything except his untimely demise when Prior found out about his little affair. Ugh. That word sat like acid in his throat. But what else was it?
Eyes closing a bit, weight sagging against Brian, Roger said in a low, pleased sort of growl, "Mm... yeah. Doesn't matter, though. Smashed it, once. It was fine when I turned back around."

"So it could be a cathartic thing. Maybe we should try dragging it out to the beach, beating the shit out of it with a baseball bat and then setting it on fire," Brian suggested with a chuckle, resting his head against Roger's. "If it wants to crawl back up here after that--jesus, please tell me I haven't been here so long I'm talking about inanimate objects like this," he groaned, trailing off with a sigh. This place was fucking insane, no matter how you looked at it.

Roger chuckled and began to trace his index finger over the fabric covering Brian's thigh, patterns random and completely aimless.
"Baby, I've accepted the fact-- Jesus fact-- that I'm fictional. Beating a jukebox out of consciousness? Not as weird," he said, thankfully unaware of how comfortable he was. If he had been aware, it would have shattered the tableau.

"Maybe not for you," Brian muttered, shrugging and covering Roger's hand with his own--only to lace his fingers with Roger's. "Why don't we go back to your room?" he suggested in a low murmur right in Roger's ear.

It wasn't until the smile had faded with a low moan that Roger had realized he'd been smiling, at all. The way his stomach settled in his throat when brian took his hand, that was too noticible to ignore, but the curl of his lips was lost somewhere in the knowledge that he was so, so close to Brian...
"Can't go to mine," he murmured, turning his face up to better see Brian. "But we could go to yours..."

Brian rolled his eyes faintly and nodded, getting to his feet with a little sigh. "This is getting tedious, Roger," he commented as he led the way toward the stairs. "How much longer are we going to do this?"

"I have a roommate," Roger said, but the second it was out of his mouth, he closed his eyes over how ridiculous it was. Once a few floors down, he hopped a few steps to get in front of Brian and intercepted him, hands on either bicep.
"I... I don't know. I just... I haven't really seen him. So, I haven't had the chance..." He stopped himself before he could go any further into that half-lie. "OK, that's not true, but I just... don't know what to do, OK?"

Brian looked at him for a long moment and then nodded, but he added, "I won't be anyone's 'dirty little secret', Roger. You need to figure out what you're going to do and do it." And in case he needed a reminder of what was at stake, he pinned Roger against the wall of the stairwell, kissing him hungrily. Call it incentive.

"You said that," Roger said quietly, looking down at his hands, "and I know, I just--" And then Roger was against the wall, eyes wide and sentence forgotton. Once Brian's mouth was on Roger's, all hope for ever recovering said sentence was lost entirely, and he wrapped his arms around Brian, clutching him, trying his best to let him know that it was him. It had to be. The truth had come out without Roger being able to stop it, and the truth was simple: Brian achieved something to Roger that Prior didn't. And God, Roger hated himself for it.

It didn't matter to Brian who was chosen in the end. (Okay, it did, but he'd die before admitting it.) What mattered was that the choice was made, that Roger quit sneaking around with him. He didn't give a shit if Roger slept around, but he wasn't going to share him like this for much longer.
He'd said what he needed to say on the subject, though. He'd reminded Roger that this wasn't going to just play out until he made a decision, with no time limit on said decision. Now they could get to what they did best. The fucking. He slid a hand beneath Roger's shirt, caressing his chest as he slowly broke the kiss, smirking at Roger before he headed down the stairs again.

A blink, then two, then three and Roger was still standing on the same step he had been when Brain had seized him. He couldn't help but notice that he was no longer... seized. Brian was walking away, that lucrative 'you're lucky to have me' smirk adorning his lips, and Roger was his plaything... Only that wasn't true. Before that fateful weekend, it would have seemed true, but through every encounter, Roger heard the admission in his head, even though he would likely never hear it out loud ever again. He knew it was there. And that was enough. Not just because it had to be.
With a low groan, Roger followed Brian, suppressing the grin that threatened to overwhelm. A grin he was still wearing when he left to go back to his room several hours later.

The days of the summer dragged on like the slow stretch of a migraine, and the symptoms were all the same. Roger's paranoia left colors too bright, sounds too sharp. The steady thrum of his heart in his chest was a constant remind of his cowardice, his inability to chose, despite the fact that all signs pointed to 'already chosen.' His time was being devoted to Brian, and when he wasn't with Brian, he was alone with his guitar, plucking out songs more likely to have showed up on Claire's iPod than Roger's radio show. Most days- like today- Roger set his guitar away after writing an hour and a half of what amounted to easy listening, country my-dog-left-me-and-I-suck-different-cock-than-my-boyfriend's and took off for greener pastures. Or, in the case of the island, sandier pastures. He didn't like to think about the fact that he'd done basically the same thing in his love life.

His meandering stroll brought him to Prior's and he took a breath. He kept imagining telling him about it, admitting that he was a cheating bastard times two, but today was not that day, Roger was sure. The same thing would happen that always happened: Prior would open the door, smile, and Roger would look at him and smile back and beg himself to give Prior another chance. He hadn't done anything wrong, Prior hadn't, and at the base of the issue was the fact that he was a really, really amazing boyfriend. Roger wasn't worthy. And more than that, he was too much of a coward to not be a scumbag on top of it.

Roger had never noticed how difficult it was to avoid someone on an island that seemed to be a cubic foot in area, but he did alright. Since Brian had been forced to out himself about what was apparently some seriously strong feelings for Roger, Roger had been scarce. Maybe Brian could up and "forget about it," but Roger didn't posses that gene, the one that must have made Brian so... Brian.

So, avoiding Brian? Yeah, he was, but he wasn't sneaking around corners or anything, he just... wasn't going to the morning coffee jam that he and a few of the other island residents seemed to share, and he really wasn't hovering around the Compound too much. It was just safer that way. Easy.