Work Text:
//
Opening bars
The bar is dingy, sweaty, and cramped, and Mark doesn't want to be here. It's not so much the dingy, sweaty, and cramped part that bugs him; this sort of place is a dime a dozen in Alphabet City, and he'd never get so much as a decent cup of forty-cent coffee if he wasn't willing to venture into holes in the wall. No, Mark's just never been much of a concertgoer, what with the watered-down, overpriced beer, music so loud his ears ring for days afterward, and the girls who'll push past him to get closer to the stage claiming height challenges, but in reality looking for a better vantage point for panty throwing.
But Maureen asked him to come and -- dirty implications notwithstanding -- when Maureen asks him to come, Mark usually does.
She's in her element at the center of the crowd, of course, one arm around a girl, one leg slipped between the thighs of some muscular guy. Mark feels the familiar twinge of jealousy, but swings his camera up to the stage, looking for the bassist who's apparently a friend of Maureen's and, instead, finds the lead singer.
Freeze. Zoom in.
Mark can kind of understand why girls would throw panties at this guy.
His hair is bleached blond, the color even lighter than Mark's eyelashes, and he's smeared on a ton of eyeliner, apparently choosing to ignore punk's rumored demise. The voice is the right mix of raspy and melodic, and he's got on jeans so artfully worn and torn that Mark can't decide whether they're actually old or if the guy once stood in front of some laundromat dryer waiting and watching as the cotton tumbled and stretched and faded and ripped, like Mark did with his jeans that time two years ago.
The singer focuses right at the front of the stage, his eyes glued to a girl who surprisingly isn't Maureen, and the girl (the very hot girl, Mark's brain supplies) is gazing back adoringly. Definitely not a groupie. Their sex is probably fantastic.
Someone standing right behind Mark screams "ROGER!" loud enough to cause temporary deafness, and the singer looks up at that, looks straight at Mark, straight through Mark's lens, and smiles.
Roger, then.
Close on Roger.
//
First verse
When he and Maureen leave later that night, they're already arguing, which is no surprise, only it's Maureen who sounds jealous, which is.
"What do you mean you've found your muse?" she demands, red-faced and sweaty from dancing, her dark hair plastered to her forehead. She looks pretty like this, and Mark wonders if he'll get laid that night. Maybe, if she's angry enough. "I thought I was your muse."
"I--" Oh. "I, er, of course you are. It's just--" Mark racks his brain, trying to think of something, anything. "Well, but you're not a stage performer, and I was thinking my next documentary could focus on that sort of--"
"I'm working on a one-woman show, you know."
Mark stares. "You are?"
"Yeah," says Maureen, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "You know the performance space next door? I've reserved it for a week. I'm protesting the yuppification of the bohemian lifestyle." She smiles, her fake, bright Maureen-smile. "You've already got your muse! Screw the singer boy."
"I thought you were a writer now." He also wants to know where the hell she got the money for this, considering he's covered her rent the last two months.
"People change, Mark! People other than you, that is!" She runs up the stairs to the loft, but Mark's too baffled to run after her. He hefts his bag over his shoulder and trudges up, hearing the echoing slam from their bedroom just as he slides the door open.
Collins stands at the sink, washing dishes -- well, dish, seeing as they only have the one.
"She's cheery tonight," Collins observes, shutting off the water and reaching behind his ear for the spliff he's stored there.
Mark nods and reaches under his glasses to rub at his eyes.
"Do you have this month's rent?"
Mark shakes his head. Oh, God, he's going to have to borrow money from his dad again, and that means a visit to Scarsdale, and he can't deal--
"Well," says Collins mildly, "I suppose it's time we get another roommate then."
"Or three," Mark says, dejected.
Collins laughs his deep, throaty laugh and sparks up, taking a hit and passing it over to Mark. "Three, then."
Maureen opens and slams the door again. For emphasis, Mark supposes.
//
The hook
"YEAH!" shouts Mark, jumping up and down, his free hand thrust high in the air. He knows his footage will be ruined by his enthusiasm, but he doesn't care. Maureen never lets him dance this way when she's around, claiming that he looks like a complete dork, but Mark feels pretty cool.
He stops to catch his breath and push his glasses up his nose. This is the fifth time he's gone to see Roger perform at Trinity, and he's enjoyed the experience more every time. It could be because Maureen isn't along to scrutinize his moshing abilities or because the bartenders wear black shirts with white collars and say "Bless you" or cross themselves as they hand over drinks. Whatever the reason, even the speakers cranked to eleven and hordes of jostling groupies don't bother him anymore.
Besides, the music rocks.
Roger is singing to Mark -- to Mark's camera, that is, flirting with the lens the same way he does with April after his sets. Mark found out Roger's girlfriend's name from Maureen after he recorded part of a rehearsal for her one-woman show. That's just Maureen's way; give her something, and she'll give you something, too. Luckily, Mark's a giver, so they work. Mostly.
The song ends, and Roger takes a bow. His face is covered in sweat, and he uses the hem of his wife-beater to wipe it off, then tugs the shirt from his skin to fan himself.
Mark films it all.
Roger leaps off the stage, grinning in a roguish sort of way as the audience manhandles him to the bar. He shrugs them off as he speaks to the bartender, and Mark finally notices April's unusual absence. His camera whirs as the bartender hands Roger a Stoli on the rocks. The bartender makes a cross with his thumb on Roger's forehead, and Roger rolls his eyes and grins and doesn't have to pay.
A drop of condensation rolls from the glass onto Roger's thumb, which Mark catches because he's busy zooming in on Roger's callused hands.
"Hey."
The camera jolts as Mark jumps and looks up, ruining more film. It's not like he can afford to do that -- can't afford film at all, in fact -- but that's the farthest thing from his mind now.
Roger is looking at him. Speaking to him.
"Uhm." Mark stops rolling and lowers the camera to his side. "Sorry about the-- it's just-- well, I'm a filmmaker-- you look-- you give good-- the camera loves you!"
Sometimes Mark wishes he'd been born mute.
Roger laughs. "I don't mind," he says, climbing onto an empty barstool and patting the torn vinyl of the seat next to his. "All part of the fame game." Mark sits, and Roger slaps his hand down on the warped wood of the bar. The bartender pours another vodka and ice, placing it in front of Mark.
Mark crosses himself by way of thank you, knowing damned well his mother would kill her nice, Jewish son if she could see him now. No wonder he likes this place. He takes a sip of his drink. Well, free vodka helps, too.
"I see you here a lot," Roger says with another grin. No one has a right to look that attractive; it makes Mark miserable. "Big music fan?"
Mark slouches, trying to look cool and aloof, only it doesn't work so well because he's on a barstool. He wonders how exactly Roger makes it look so effortless. "Nah. Just another struggling filmmaker, making films and trying to make it in New York City. You know how it is."
Roger nods and reaches over to clink his glass against Mark's. "If you can make it here..."
"There are five hundred people waiting for you to fuck up," Mark finishes.
He gets more than a little satisfaction making Roger laugh that hard. "What's your name?"
"Mark Cohen. Nice to meet you." He holds up the camera sheepishly, feeling more like himself. "Er, officially. You're Roger."
"I am," Roger agrees. "So, struggling filmmaker Mark Cohen, what makes me such an interesting subject?"
"Oh, I film all sorts of things." In the last two weeks, Mark has recorded six hours, fifty-two minutes of footage, not counting the hour of Maureen's rehearsal. Roger plays two forty-five minute sets a night, is in between sets right now, and took seven minutes getting from the stage to his drink. "I'm making a documentary."
"And you're including me?"
Mark shrugs. "If you're all right with it, I'd like to keep filming you. You have a lot of...er, what's it called...?"
"Sex appeal?"
Yes. "No. Kinetic energy. You connect with the camera, with the audience, with the music. I can almost see the music course through you and flow out your fingertips."
"You're a writer, too, aren't you?"
"Not a very good one," Mark says, immediately sorry he admitted it. He's feeling pretty okay, though; he skipped dinner and the vodka's already going to his head. "Just screenplays. Nothing too serious."
Roger doesn't say anything, just stares at Mark for awhile, studying his face. Mark hopes he isn't blushing too badly, but there's nothing he can do about it; at the very least, he can blame it on the alcohol.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" asks Roger, suddenly.
"Er, yeah," says Mark, trying not to look taken aback. "Maureen-- we live in a loft with our friend Collins. She-- she couldn't make it tonight." Too busy figuring out lighting cues with that huge, Swedish friend of hers. What was his name? Bjrn? Hans? Mark pushed the thought away with a frown. "You?" he asked.
"You already know the answer to that."
So there are hidden depths within the pretty boy. That just makes Mark like him more. He nods. "April, right?"
"April," repeats Roger, only when he says it, it sounds like the doors just blew open and sent a gust of fresh air whipping around the room. "She'd be here tonight, only she's visiting her parents and they live too far out of Manhattan. She's my everything. My light. My muse."
Mark blinks at that, feeling idiotic. This documentary was a stupid idea. Every idea he's ever had has been stupid. His father was right about him never amounting to anything, and he--
"All right," Roger says, the thousand-watt smiling still lighting his face. Mark swallows. "I'll be in your documentary."
"You will?"
"Yeah." Roger hops off the barstool; Mark glances at his watch, shocked that it's already time for the band's next set. "On one condition."
Mark regards Roger warily. "What is it? I can't pay--"
"Not pay," interrupts Roger, already sounding exasperated with him, just like any other of Mark's friends. "Just don't hide behind that lens all the time, okay?"
Now it's Mark's turn to smile. "Okay."
Roger runs up to the stage, Mark sets up his camera, and they're off again. But things feel different this time -- not that that's a bad thing.
//
Refrain
Roger's late to meet him, but that's okay. Mark's used to nursing his tea for hours, and he's still a little bit in awe that Roger actually wants to be his friend. Mark's friends are all too cool for him.
About forty minutes later as Mark is tipping back his mug and draining the final, cold, sugary dregs of his drink, Roger stumbles in. He fiddles with the frayed sleeves of his flannel shirt, looking apologetic. Mark immediately forgives him and kicks out the seat on the opposite side of the table.
"Hey," says Roger, scratching his hand. He looks different in daylight. Without makeup, Mark can see the dark circles under his eyes and the welts blooming red on his hands and wrists. Mark frowns, taking in the sunken cheekbones and the jittery, jumpy way Roger sits in the chair, restlessly crossing and uncrossing his legs.
"Hey," Mark replies, still frowning. "Are you okay?"
Roger's eyes widen. "What? Oh-- oh no, I'm fine. Just...hungry. Haven't eaten today. Starving artist and all."
Mark's not stupid. He also hasn't eaten today either and has only enough money on him for a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. He stares down at his empty teacup. "Want me to buy you some soup?" he asks. "I'm not hungry."
"I couldn't ask you to do that," says Roger, but Mark's already flagging down the waiter to order.
For the first time since meeting Roger, Mark wonders if he's in over his head. He doesn't leave, though, even knowing this is probably his last opportunity for escape. Instead, he watches Roger slurp down his clam chowder, notices the scratch marks and too-skinny arms when Roger pushes up his sleeves, stays for hours and talks about girls and music and film and loves every second of it.
And now, instead of wondering if he's in over his head, he knows he is.
//
Second verse
"Re-ent," Collins sing-songs as Mark stumbles into the loft. He cringes and nearly stumbles out again.
"You know," Collins continues as Mark shrugs out of his coat and scarf, "it's awfully sad that the richest person living here is a grad student."
Their new roommate, Benny, looks up from his spot on the couch. "Don't worry, I'll support all of you when I'm rich and famous."
Mark snorts and plops down next to Benny. "Don't have it, sorry. I don't suppose you'd be able to--" Collins throws a pen at Mark's head. Mark sighs. "Fine, I'll borrow it from my parents."
There's a loud knock then, and everyone looks up. At the same moment, Maureen bounces out of Mark's bedroom and throws open the door.
"HEY!" shout April and Maureen in unison, exchanging hugs.
If Mark's eyebrows can get any higher, they'll fly right off his head.
Roger, hands stuffed into his pockets, ambles in after April and looks around. He lets out a low whistle.
"Roger!" exclaims Mark, jumping out of his seat.
"Hey," Roger says, lifting his chin in greeting. "Nice place you have here."
"Much nicer than ours," agrees April, wrapping her arm around Roger's waist. Mark's insides twitch. "Look! All the walls are intact, and the only portals to the outside are windows."
"Amazing." Roger smiles and places a kiss on the top of April's head.
"Want to live here, too?" Collins asks immediately. He probably thinks splitting rent six ways means it'll actually get paid, and Mark likes the idea of Roger living under the same roof as him so much that he doesn't bother to disavow Collins of his notion.
"Yeah!" Maureen exclaims, grabbing April's wrist and tugging her away. "There's so much testosterone here, you don't even know."
Mark looks for Roger's reaction and finds Roger already looking at him. "That all right with you?"
Mark just rolls his eyes and grins.
//
Guitar solo
Having more roommates is great. It really is. Mark tries hard to convince himself of that as he stares at the curtain now dividing his bedroom in half, then flops back on the bed to stare at the cracked ceiling.
See, the thing is he really truly believes that most of the time, even with his now-reduced living space. Having Roger and April around means Mark and Maureen are no longer the resident couple, and all six of them living there have been having a blast both in and out of the apartment. Mark routinely ignores the discovery of tiny, empty vials in odd spaces, along with the amount of time Roger and April spend in the bathroom, and now even that feels normal. Plus, it's not like anyone else is questioning their habits: Maureen never notices anything that doesn't involve her directly, Collins is either high or studying (or both) most of the time, and Benny is too busy babbling about his new job and the way his company is going to put Alphabet City on the map. It leaves Mark all alone, and he likes it that way.
Sort of. Mostly. He thinks.
But most of the time he's not in his bed by himself while Maureen is out with the girl who drew up the contracts for her first show, and most of the time Roger and April aren't having sex behind that curtain while Mark's still in the room.
He tries tuning out Roger's heavy breathing and April's quiet moans, and fails -- miserably. There's a rhythmic thumping against the opposite wall, and Mark can't even remember the last time he and Maureen had proper sex. His body is also very bad at tuning out the noise around him, and his brain is now providing grainy, flickering close-ups of what the two of them are probably up to. This isn't fair.
With a groan muffled into his pillow, Mark shoves a hand under his waistband. Doing this is normal. It's natural to think about sex when it's happening two feet away, he thinks, calling forth images of Maureen's wide mouth and ample breasts and all her smooth, pale skin. His brain revolts again, though, and he suddenly has a clear picture of Roger singing to him with no camera in between them at all.
"God, Roger," April breathes. Mark mouths it along with her and comes, cleaning up and falling asleep before the guilt overwhelms him.
//
Third verse
"Can I talk to you about something?"
Mark looks up from the frames he's been hand-splicing. Collins has a scary look on his face, and it's moments like this when Mark remembers Collins is a genius.
Collins laughs, breaking the tension. "Don't look so scared," he says, holding up something for Mark to see. Mark squints at it. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say this isn't yours, right?"
It's a vial, vague white dust still stuck to the sides of the glass. Mark wrinkles his forehead.
"I found this in the bathroom yesterday along with a used hypodermic," explains Collins. Mark glances over at the closed bathroom door; the faint sound of running water can be heard from inside. "It's not the first time, either. They're getting sloppy."
"I know," Mark says, reaching under his glasses to rub at his eyes. Not just sloppy, but sick and ugly. Roger and April have to have lost fifty pounds combined in the last few months, and Mark has found clumps of hair in the sink more times than he cares to count. They're not just addicts, not just sick; Mark knows they're dying.
Collins sits down at the table. "Shouldn't you say something to them? You're Roger's best friend."
A little rush accompanies that statement. Of course, Roger's been his best friend pretty much from the moment they met, but it's nice to see someone else can see that it's the other way around, too. "I should," Mark agrees. His tongue feels thick. "What do I say?"
"Stop sticking needles in your arm, stop killing yourself, stop killing all of us?"
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, picturing Roger's eyes wide-open and glassy.
"I'm not exactly the poster boy for drug prevention, Mark," says Collins, gesturing behind his ear. "But the way they're destroying their bodies is an insult to anyone who doesn't have that choice."
Most of the time, Mark also forgets Collins has HIV and it's going to kill his friend some day. It sucks to be so good at denying the obvious.
"I don't want him to die," Mark says in a small voice. Collins sighs and slings his arm around Mark's shoulders.
"So don't let him."
They both look at the closed bathroom door again. Mark nods and squares his shoulders and charges the door.
And freezes.
"Hey, what are you guys doing?" asks Roger's voice from somewhere behind Mark's shoulder.
"Roger, wait," says Collins, as Mark tries and fails not to throw up.
Water, pink water, is everywhere, and there's a dead body in their bathtub, and somewhere, distantly, Roger screams and screams and screams.
//
Refrain
Mark is tired. He got another rejection letter in the mail, and two of his best friends have AIDS, and one of his other friends is dead, and he's pretty sure his girlfriend is cheating on him eight times over.
He enters the loft and drags himself into his bedroom, only to find Roger shaking and crying on the bed, needles and vials and an empty fifth of vodka littering the floor. It's been five months since April killed herself, and Mark's now afraid of entering any room in the apartment without knocking first. He remembers seeing smears of blood against tile, hearing rushing water, and tasting vomit as clear as it was yesterday, not that he ever talks about it. That particular pain isn't about him.
"Hey," he says, carefully avoiding the garbage and strewn clothing all over Roger's half of the room. Mark sits on the bed, and Roger ignores him. "Hey!" he says, louder. Roger makes a snuffling noise and turns on his side, still shivering. "You have to stop doing this to yourself."
Roger's voice is cold, angry, mean in a way Mark never knew it could be before April died. "And what exactly am I doing to myself, Mark?"
"What are you doing?" he repeats, frustrated. "You're dying!" Mark lets desperation creep into his voice because he can't help it. "The drugs are killing you."
"Fuck you," growls Roger. "Who fucking cares if the drugs are killing me? I've got AIDS."
Mark twists around and slaps the side of Roger's head. He's never hit anyone, not even the bullies in high school that called him a theater fag and gave him wedgies and wet willies, but he suddenly wants to give Roger a black eye.
Roger sits up, ramrod straight, and he's not shaking anymore. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Knocking some sense into you!" Mark says. "Just because you're sick doesn't mean you have to speed up the process!" He runs his hands through his hair, feeling so tense that he's sure his spine is about to snap. "Fucking live already!"
"I have nothing to live for," Roger screams, leaping up, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "April is dead, and I'm too much of a coward to join her."
"You're not a coward!" Mark stands again. He's so close to Roger he can see the sweat soaking his brow and smell the rank rottenness of heavy drinking and not bathing. "You have lots of things to live for!"
"Name one!"
"Me!" Mark says. Fuck.
Roger stills, stares at him. Mark bites his lip, but he doesn't look away. Doesn't run from this.
Suddenly, Roger lets out a loud, low cry of anguish, like something a wounded animal would make, and collapses on the bed. Again, Mark is reminded of the night April slit her wrists in the bathroom. He exhales hard and sits next to Roger. Their legs touch.
"I didn't want her to die. We could have-- have-- I don't want to die," Roger says brokenly.
Mark squeezes his eyes shut, blinking back tears that threaten to fall. "So live already," he repeats, his voice as cracked as Roger's because he wants to fix Roger and doesn't know how. Roger kind of crumples against his shoulder then, and Mark hesitates for a second before he rests his head against Roger's.
"Help me," Roger whimpers.
He's never been able to deny Roger anything.
//
Instrumental bridge
Mark's father stops speaking to him the day he asks for money to check his friend into rehab because Mark won't agree to come back to Scarsdale and live a normal life. He knows -- somewhere, deep down -- that his parents are just worried about him, but the idea of abandoning Roger is unthinkable. His mother gives him the money and an answering machine, and he's grateful enough for the former that he agrees to set up the latter.
Collins leaves for M.I.T. just as Roger goes into detox, and Mark is so grateful that Benny bought the building because there's only so much plasma and semen a guy can sell to make ends meet.
The one time Benny brings his new Westport wife over, she wrinkles her nose and refuses to leave the doorway. Benny shrugs apologetically as he gathers the last of his things and walks out the door.
Maureen and Mark, the only ones left, spend a lot of the time in the loft avoiding each other. Outwardly, they both claim being swamped with their respective projects, but when she tells him that she's leaving him, he not surprised. Lost and hurt, a little, but it's only the fact that she's leaving him for a woman that's a shock.
"Love is love," says Maureen as she hoists a bag over her shoulder and walks out. Mark, who's been looking at the free calendar from the Chinese restaurant and counting the days to Roger's release, is forced to agree.
The loft is huge when he's by himself, even if the only bills he has to worry about now are electricity and heat.
The heat goes out two days before Roger is scheduled to come home.
//
Refrain
When Roger returns, Mark is asleep on the couch, though he wakes at the sound of the door because it's the only noise he hasn't been the cause of in days.
He sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes and fumbling for his glasses. When Roger comes into focus, he just looks like Roger. He's gained some weight, and his hair is longer, curling around his ears and spilling over his collar, and his eyes look worn-out and tired, but he's still Roger.
"I'm back," he says unnecessarily.
Mark smiles, struggling to his feet. The blankets tangle around his ankles. "Hey."
"Hey," Roger replies. His duffel bag lands on the floor with a thump. "How are you?"
"Collins is leading revolts in Massachusetts, I haven't spoken to Benny in two months, Maureen left me for a lesbian, and we have no heat," Mark tells him.
They look at each other for one beat, two, then Roger pulls him into a hug, and Mark feels the lump he's had all year in his throat dissolve.
//
Coda
The frames flicker on the makeshift screen, and Roger's there, large as life -- blonder, younger, healthier. It's one of his first performances at Trinity, one of those shows his band played before moving on to CBGB's and The Pyramid Club. It's the very first one Mark ever saw, in fact, years and years ago -- before April died, before Maureen left him, before Angel, before Mimi.
Before Mark and Roger.
It all seems like a lifetime ago, and Mark has to remind himself it's only been about five years.
Roger's been strumming the Fender a few feet away, so quietly that Mark doesn't even notice when he stops and comes over to watch the film. He laughs, and Mark jumps, which only makes Roger laugh more. "God, why did I think that hair color worked for me?"
"I liked your hair that way," Mark murmurs without looking up.
"You would," says Roger, running his fingers through Mark's own light, spiky hair. "It was too hard to maintain."
Mark shrugs Roger away, too uncomfortable with the comfort Roger's fingers provide. This, however, is unfortunate as he ends up looking up to find Roger watching him.
"You changed your glasses," Roger observes.
"About a million years ago," he says. "The old ones broke. It happens."
"I liked them, though."
Mark looks at the screen again, where Roger is grinning down at a vibrant, living April. "Things change."
Roger's hand has somehow made it to the back of Mark's neck. Mark suppresses a shiver. "I barely remember this," Roger says, sounding a little wistful. "I barely remember her now. I missed so much that went on back then."
The Roger on stage lets his guitar hang around his neck as he wraps both hands around the microphone stand. For a few moments, he looks toward the camera and sings directly at Mark.
"Why do you put up with me?" asks Roger, when Roger-on-film finally looks away.
"You're my muse," answers Mark automatically. He closes his eyes, knowing that he's never told Roger that, never told anyone except mentioning it to Maureen an age ago. It's embarrassing, but it's probably time Roger finds out.
"That's silly," Roger says, though Mark notes he doesn't sound angry or anything. Just surprised. "I don't deserve you."
Mark ventures another glance and smiles. "Maybe not."
Roger grabs his chin then, holding him in place, and Mark's eyes widen in surprise. They freeze in that tableau. "You need a muse that's going to be here."
"You're here."
"You know what I mean."
Mark does. He's seen the way Roger's been losing weight in a way he hasn't since he stopped using. He hears the coughs that rack Roger's lungs most mornings. He knows that Roger's body is going to quit him, the same way Angel's did, and Collins's and Mimi's will, too. But Roger has always given up on Roger long before Mark has.
"I'm not going anywhere," says Mark stubbornly. He covers Roger's hand with his own, squeezing. "When have I ever been anywhere but right here? And if you're suggesting I should replace you because of something that might happen at a time neither of us can predict, then you're being more of an idiot than usual." Mark releases Roger's hand and looks at the screen where the other Roger beckons and gyrates. "Idiot," Mark mutters.
"Am not." But Roger flashes Mark one of his brilliant smiles before moving away to retrieve his guitar again. He throws himself over the armrest.
"You definitely are," says Mark, turning off the film and fiddling with his camera again. "How many muses do you think I'll need this lifetime?"
"Just the one?" Roger guesses.
"Exactly."
Roger is still smiling as Mark winds his camera. He starts to play something that sounds like Musetta's Waltz, only one of the strings has broken so it sounds like Musetta's Waltz with Missing Guitar String.
Mark films him. He records the circles under Roger's eyes, the sunken cheeks, the pointy elbows and stick-thin legs, the raspy voice, and the way Roger stares straight at his lens -- through his lens -- and Mark finally gets it. Roger's focus hasn't been Mark's camera any more than Mark's focus has been Roger's music, and even if a million people happened to pack into their living room right then, this would still only be about them. It always has been.
"Yeah!" Mark exclaims, pumping his fist into the air, and Roger laughs hard. Mark grins and zooms in.
Close on Roger.
//
Fade out.