[For Curt] Been down one time, been down two times

[ishouldtellyou]

For all that there was fondness in Roger's heart, there was no one to bestow it upon. This was by design -- a never-ending fit of self-destruction. If he were without fear, he could say with confidence he was a lover. If he had any time for self-awareness, he would even admit he masqueraded as a fighter. His rage was deep, but it ran much shallower than love.

That was the worst part. He could throw a thousand punches, and not amount of it could ever stamp out what he knew he was missing: a song. What he called glory. It had to be in someone else. There was nothing left for Roger to find himself.

It wasn't cold, but Roger's fingers were stiff. Before he pushed his way out onto the roof of his building, he flexed his hands like that might make a difference. Today was an achy one, filled with doubt and side-stepping altruism. There was one person in all of Darrow that he could consider a friend, and still, Roger couldn't bring himself to trust her enough to tell her the truth. Molly was classy, upwardly mobile, but she had this mischievous thing that somehow reminded Roger of Benny's cooler days. There was Rafael Barba, but he was old and a sellout. Also, Roger got the feeling he was being followed by him. Maybe he knew a New York vagrant when he saw one and was waiting for the moment he could put another unsuspecting misfit behind bars for something he didn't do -- or only did because he had to.

The concrete of the building was cold, and Roger's plaid pants did little to dull this when he sat. He crossed his legs under him just at the edge, and scooted his guitar into his lap. He strummed one, tuned, moved onto the next. His old, beat-up girl slipped out of tune quicker than she once had, and even faster when Roger left her to sit without touching her. Her strings slipped and his hands were losing dexterity. How much longer until the two of them could no longer find each other?

Without thinking, Roger wound his way into Never Going Back. The album reminded him of his mom, and he'd learned the guitar so he could play it for her. The first time he did, it was flawless. She cried. For the first time, Roger had found something that made his heart visible. Words fell short. Melodies were easy -- perfect.

His recitation was certainly not perfect. While he could slip from chord to chord, he couldn't pick the strings fast or precise enough to get past a few bars of that rolling sound. It sounded like a skipping record. Roger winced every time. He started over. He picked up again from the middle. He hummed and strummed and wanted to cry when the ache in his fingers broke him down to a place where he needed a break.

He didn't stop. He strummed harder, picked faster, and beat himself down harder. This was not hard. He could have played this with his fucking eyes closed.

Comments

[feel_myhell]

It was a quiet place to write, to think, to be alone. The roof access was supposed to stay locked, but someone had broken the latch ages ago, and owners of the building weren't known for getting shit fixed quickly. Or at all. Still, despite the broken lock, the roof tended to stay deserted. The few cigarette butts littering the concrete were his own.

That day, however, when Curt ascended the stairs, he heard the sound of a guitar. Stuttering, fumbling chords, but passion in the execution. He opened the door slowly, careful of the squeaky hinge, and leaned there, just outside.

Each note spoke of rage, of pain, of nasty self-fucking-doubt, and Curt considered sneaking off without making his presence known. Maybe he wasn't kind enough for that.

There was a brief silence and he stepped forward, boots scraping on concrete. "Time for that raincheck?"

[ishouldtellyou]

He stopped. He had to stop. Before he dared to look down, he thought he'd see raw bone, plucking against cheap nickel and chipping onto the concrete below. The discord of the last attempt was still a twitch of pain behind the junction of his jaw. He cleared his throat.

When his hands moved, there was no bone protruding. It was just spindly fingers and knobby knuckles and grooves where calluses used to be. He had a cigarette at his lips, the lighter ignited before he saw a pair of boots. They belonged to a certain head of hair.

"Union break," Roger said, cigarette bounding between his lips. He steadied and lit it. Then, he offered the open pack up to Curt. "Wanna wait it out?"

[feel_myhell]

"Why the hell not?"

With a smirk, he stepped forward and plucked a cigarette from the offered pack. He lit up and sat his ass down on the cold concrete, close but not touching.

"Having trouble getting that piece of shit tuned?"

[ishouldtellyou]

Roger smiled. It was a thing that started in his middle and radiated its way out to his face. In better days, Roger was all personality, smirks and sidling over, and Collins was all calm wit -- his own kind of cool. Roger typically didn't get along with other Rockstar types. It was a Highlander kind of thing.

Still, this was clearly a musician's swagger and Roger didn't want to throw him off the building. Quite the opposite, unfortunately. Since when did he get caught in a gaze like a fucking tractor beam?

Since always, you pathetic sack.

Roger inhaled on his cigarette and exhaled all dichotomy. If this was a person he felt comfortable around, maybe he should try and take that for what it was worth. Eventually, he'd disengage and leave him in the dust like everyone else.

Only he couldn't leave in Darrow. Sort of like he couldn't leave fucking New York.

"She's not the problem," Roger said, defensive through his teeth where they held his cigarette in place to talk. As a matter of fucking fact, he didn't like the idea that Sadie was a piece of shit.

Okay, she was, but only Roger could say it.

[feel_myhell]

"Hope not. Considering I blew a hundred bucks on her rescue," Curt muttered, cutting the guy a sideways look and snorting a vague laugh at his defensiveness.

Curt shifted, leather creaking as it stretched across his shoulders, and settled in with long legs stretched out and his ankles crossed. He'd always existed in extremes, bursts of wild energy balanced by long stretches of feline laziness. He could be patient, when it suited him.

[ishouldtellyou]

There was a lot here. Roger wasn't sure if he was excited to meet someone kindred or if this was the sort of effect he'd once been accused of having on people. What was that bullshit his dad used to say? Cut from the same cloth. To a lot of people, there was a religious connotation, to his late father this meant only money. Roger didn't get along at school because he just wasn't cut from the same cloth.

The Bramford Building was a big ol' slice from a Roger-comparable fabric. Maybe it drew people like them. If they'd had a choice in where to settle. Still, the city ID of his blank face in the clothing he arrived in freaks him out. The Bramford Building feels similarly eerie. Most of the time. There were times it didn't seem so haunted.

He watched Curt stretch, watched what he assessed as a kind of show. Was he wondering if Roger was watching? Maureen did that dumb shit. Roger hated it because he did it, too.

"If I pay you back will you get off my ass?" Roger asked, lifting a bemused brow over a particularly languid exhale. He wondered if Curt was watching.

[feel_myhell]

Curt shrugged wordlessly.

He didn't need the money, but he was a poor kid at heart, and even if a hundred bucks wasn't going to break him, he still felt the loss. But that debt wasn't at the root of him being there, and it sure as hell wasn't the reason why he saw fit to give the guy a hard time.

It was boredom. It was curiosity. Whatever else could be said about him, Curt Wild was incapable of letting things lie. Pushing people to the fucking breaking point was his greatest talent.

[ishouldtellyou]

If there was one thing Roger appreciated, it was silence. That wasn't true back in the day, but it was true post-withdrawal. In the joint, Roger had been unsettled by silence as much as noise. On the outside, he valued it. It meant Mark wasn't fussing. It meant no one was getting shot our evicted or domestically disputing. It meant all was right with the shitty world. Having a guitar in his lap solidified this eerie peace.

"I work at Styx," Roger said. The words tasted as shitty as they sounded. Likely he wouldn't work there long, since he'd already been 86'd from two different bar positions at two entirely separate bars. At Styx, he did well in tips. He wasn't expected to flirt. All he had to do was pour drinks in tight pants. Roger could do that in his sleep. "Come by and I'll pay you back in drinks."

The worst part was that Roger wanted to see him again. No, even worse: he was already plucking out a melody on his guitar.

[feel_myhell]

"I've played there," Curt murmured, his head bobbing in a nod as he ashed onto the concrete rooftop. "As long as it's not one of those shitty themed drinks."

Without consciously thinking about it, Curt listened to the melody plucked out on Roger's guitar and began humming an accompanying harmony in his low, rough rocker's voice.

[ishouldtellyou]

Roger snorted, "that fruity shit is the worst." As he was learning to make them, he was more focused on what was around them. He'd pull something together and it would be fine. Most people didn't even notice, and Freddie either didn't know or didn't care.

Curt started and Roger smiled. His face was in a state of whiplash, warming and cooling as he let the music move him. He exhaled and tried for something new; he tried to let go. Before he could stop himself, he was singing... something. Whatever came into his head, really.

"Find
One song
One last refrain
Glory
From the prettyboy frontman
Who wasted opportunity..." Roger's heart ached. It felt like a song he'd been singing deep down for some time. Curt weaved his own way through a melody. Roger was both aware and terrified of him. It hurt. He didn't know how much longer he could feel -- this. Anything.

The answer was a few more chords. He ended in what Mark always referred to as some Gay-Ass Waltz. He could never figure out how to end it so he didn't. He let his hand drop and stared down at the street far below them from around his dangling legs.