Title: Love
Author: Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the estate of Jonathan Larson. I'm sure he's rolling in his grave. ^^;; The story is mine and no copyright infringment is intended.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Note: This was written late at night. Yeah. And it has an alternate title at the end, that would totally give away the plot if I posted it at top. Also, I really didn't mean for it to be m/r, honestly, I set out for it to be Mark confused about his feelings, but it sort of morphed before my eyes.


Love

Roger used to say that I had "control" issues. He would say it with a laugh, and punch my arm playfully and I would laugh as well and everything would seem all right, just for a moment. Just for one, shining moment everything was all right. We were laughing again and Roger wasn't ignoring me and I was oblivious to everything else in the room, everything but the sound of his voice and my voice and..and...

Oh god. I wish it were still like that.

It was warm then. Always warm. When I was with him...them...it was warm. It wasn't cold like this is. He used to always joke with me, prod me in the side and tug on my sleeve and ask me why I was wearing a sweater...it was warm, it was sunny, I should be in a t-shirt, not another ribbed sweater. I'd overheat. That smile to show that he was joking and I would shrug, and explain that I was cold. A different look, a look that could stop traffic, a wash of concern and love and a million and one other things would drift over his face and the two of us would freeze for a moment. Something would interrupt us and it would all be over and we'd go our separate ways (something always interrupted us, I don't know why, it seemed that every time a quiet, frightened moment like that started to overtake us a garbage can would smash outside, or a car would speed by and honk or someone would knock on the door...) and forget about it.

I found a piece of film the other day, one with that amazing look on it. I watched it once and then ripped it from the projector. I tore it up and dropped it in the stove and sobbed until my throat was too raw to speak.

They all said I loved him. I think I do. I know I love him, but I don't know if it's the way they think I do or not. I guess I'll never know now. They won't either, well, except for Joanne, who held me at the funeral and told me it would be okay. Maybe I did love him that way, because I hadn't cried like that at any of the others'. Not Collins' when he was taken almost a year to the day after his Angel. Not Mimi's when she passed that winter, not Maureen's when she was struck by that car the next spring. Certainly not Benny's. But at Roger's.... I gave my eulogy. I held it all together as I told everyone how wonderful he was and how much I loved him. How he was my best friend. I sat down. And sobbed. I held onto Joanne so tightly she was afraid to leave me to give her own memoriam and when she did I didn't hear it. I was curled up too tightly, crying too hard.

I was cold. God, I was cold again.

I still am cold. Joanne says that I will adjust. That I will move on. When I moved into her apartment, she told me that I didn't have to be cold anymore...that her heating would be running, that I didn't have to warm the room with burning papers anymore. I laughed feebly. I think we both knew that the cold didn't stem from that. But I humored her for a day or two and then went back to my long sweaters. We didn't talk about it, and it seemed to work out best when we did that. Didn't talk about it, that is, ignored it and let it fester and prayed to god that it would go away. Like my nightmares. About him, mostly, about being with him in the end and wanting to say it to him, tell him that I loved him, but being afraid to, and not knowing what love really was. About that last day, lying next to him in his starchy hospital bed, holding his too-cold hands in between mine, trying to warm him the way that he had always managed to warm me.

"I'm sorry we didn't," he had said so softly I barely heard. I smooth his hair from his face and kissed his forehead.

"It's okay," I told him. "It's okay, we'll never know. We can guess, but we'll never know and I'm okay with that." I should have said it then. And I almost did. "Roger, I--"

"I know. It's okay. But I want you to know that I am sorry that we didn't. That you mean more to me than any of them did. And I mean that. And more than anything, I'm sorry that we didn't." I pulled him so close then, trying to hide the tears...his smell was fading, that punky, glam rockstar smell that was his, it was quickly being replaced by baby powder and disinfectant. It wasn't musky and cool and flowers and wine and music and home anymore, but just hospitals and doctors and death. I tried not to think about it, but as I held his frail body and the new smell surrounded me, it was all I thought about. I wanted to hold him like that forever, but the nurse came in...sent me away. I kissed his forehead again, and brushed my warm lips against his cool ones and told him I would see him tomorrow. To rest up. He smiled at me and I went out into the waiting room, ready to sleep for four hours before they let me back in again. I would tell him the next time I went in, I decided, regardless of what he said to me, I would tell him right then that he was my angel and that I thought I was in love with him.

I wish I could have seen him just one more time to tell him that. I wish he could've held on for fifteen fucking minutes.

They called him at 4:50.

I would have been in there at five on the dot.

They didn't even wake me as he slipped from them.

The dreams remind me of this, they rip through my skull every night, taunting me. After the first week, Joanne sent me to see a "doctor" friend of hers, a brooding psychologist who sat there and listened to me talk. I told him all sorts of things about us, but nothing he wanted to know. I knew exactly what that was, and I wasn't about to tell him. Finally, after two frustrating weeks he gave up and asked. I told him about the last day, about not telling Roger. I told him the dreams were about fixing that and I cried at night because when I woke up I knew they really weren't. He told me I had control issues and put me on a medication.

I don't think he meant it the way Roger did.

He used to say that he loved life. I would tell him that I didn't know what love was and he would always laugh and tell me he would teach me one day. He never did. And I never knew. And I could've been in love with him for all those years, I could still be in love with him and I will never know because I still don't know what love is. Maybe love is what kept me with him, what kept him coming back to me after all those impromptu trips to Santa Fe. He would always come back, always, and when Mimi was alive he'd say hello to her and then come up to see me and say I kept him coming back...that he knew I needed him. After Mimi he would rush up to see me, and if I were sleeping he would climb in next to me, curling up and surrounding me. I would stop tossing and turning then and wake up in his arms, his breath warming my face and heart.

"I didn't want to wake you," he would whisper to me. "I came back last night. I couldn't leave you all alone." And he would hold me for a minute, and let me cry, and then not say anything about it the rest of the day. He was like that, so good about me crying when he came home. He never mentioned it, never teased me about it. He would hold me, and that seemed to say more than any of his gentle words could. And we would go on with our lives after that. Like nothing ever happened and I liked that. It was safe and it made me warm. Whenever I was with him I was warm. Did I mention that to you already, Dr. Murphy? I think I did. But it's the truth, he made me so warm...

Sometimes I think that's what love is. The warmth. Because I would always feel it when I was with him...and the rest of them...but never by myself. And I don't really think I love myself, not at all. I mentioned that to Joanne one day at breakfast, and she decided I should see you. I told her that I already saw Dr. Sarizio but she said some pretty nasty things about him and called you instead. I think she thought a woman's point of view would help. I guess she was wrong again.

Maybe I did love him. But if I did, then should I have felt it? Known it somehow? That's what people say, when you're in love you just know that's what it is. You can feel it. And I felt something, but I just don't know if it was love or anything. Maybe I never felt anything. Maybe it's all in my head, a product of my grief. Dr. Sarizio said there were lots of products of my grief rolling around in my head. The dreams and the crying and the music...I play his music all the time, and Dr. Sarizio seems to have a problem with that. But I don't think it can have just been in my head. Christ, just thinking about those nights he came home fills me up again, waking up and rolling over and seeing his beautiful blue eyes. He had the most amazing eyes...they were soft and blue and you could see right into him through those eyes of his...

I dream, sometimes, that I roll over in the morning and wake up and stare back into that face and those eyes. That he smiles at me and says that he came back because he couldn't stand to leave me all alone for so long. And I hug him and I ask him to show me what love is so that I can finally tell him and he does. It makes such perfect sense to me, and I throw my arms around him and I tell him and we make love and everything is perfect. Like with all the rest, I wake up in tears, because in the back of my mind, I know it's a dream and I know that it can never happen. It never will happen. I will never see him again. At least, not here.

It's cold. As I type this, it's so very cold. I'm wearing a turtleneck and a sweater and a coat. And I will visit him today, first at his grave, where I plant those little yellow flowers that he liked so much, and where I can sit against the cold stone slab for hours, wishing that his name would make me as warm as his arms did. I will sit there and sob this all to him. Read this letter to him. Then I will print this out and send it to you. And then I will find him. I will find him no matter what it takes and I will ask him to show me and I will decide if that is what I feel and that is what I think of him. And most importantly, I will be with him again.

They will probably spend a good amount of time examining my body, trying to figure out what it was that killed me. Yes, I am coherent enough to realize that's the only way to go back to him. This isn't some fairytale, this is suicide, and I know it, and it's better than the cold, bleak life I'm stuck in here. Alone all day, never leaving the house for long...everyone gone, Joanne at meetings, with friends, and Mark here, all by himself...this will be better. And I will tell you right now how it will be done, so you can hand this over to the police, weeping, explaining that I was sick. I am not sick. I am actually well for the first time ever. And, strangely enough, the last time ever.

The entire bottle of Zoloft will be gone. I will take it all and chase it with some red wine. That was the only time I came close, I guess, to having Roger like that. We drank so much red wine, and he kissed me and I kissed him back, and that was normal. But the groping, the tearing at clothes...that was new. And we were naked and holding each other when the phone rang and we snapped out of it. Blushed...apologized...got dressed and went to bed. And he always smelled of red wine, and I think it's a sort of mental metaphor. I'm not sure, I only know that it feels right. I will play his music in my room, loudly, as I drink, and I will lock the doors and windows. And I will be with him again.

I hope, Dr. Murphy, that you realize that this is the only way. None of this helps, and nothing will get better. Dr. Sarizio said once that suicide was a "control" issue. It is, but it is one of Roger's loving ones, not the cold, selfish type that I associate with that stuffy office. It is for Roger...for our family. I was the center of them, the strongest link in the chain. They used to tell me I would be the one to survive, but I don't want that. I want to be with them, and no one else seems to realize this. A link is useless without the rest of the chain. The center veers off course when there is no one left to keep it in orbit. And I will cease to exist with no family to take care of.

This isn't your fault. It isn't Joanne's. It is only mine. Because I think I suddenly discovered the real meaning of love. And as I sit here, sobbing, typing this note, I realize that my downfall was having much, much too much love in the first place.

Regards,
Mark Cohen


Alternate Title: Dear Dr. Murphy

Comments to kait@frowl.org