Work Text:
Roger sat idly in his and Mark’s loft. The power and heat were off and Mark was out of the house, something Roger could never dream of doing. He leaned back, staring at the guitar which was in the corner of his cramped room. It was his old guitar, one he would use back in his “glory” days. The days when he was the frontman of a band, before he had met April.
That guitar brought back so many memories, a rush of thought, and of sound. Sound playing in his head, a picture of the colored lights, and the small crowd that would see them. Should he even dare to try and play the guitar? Previously, he’d been trying. Trying to tune it, much to his own failure. So what was the point?
There was no point. Roger scoffed, continuing to stare at his guitar. There was no point to anything. He couldn’t even try to get in another relationship. There were two reasons for that, he wasn’t over April, and worst of all..what if he made someone else get AIDS, what if he ruined them? He couldn’t handle ruining another person.
If he did that…and they got hurt, he’d never forgive himself. So, Roger did what he thought was most logical. Closing himself off from everyone (except his male roommate) and being a total ass. It was the best he could do. To protect himself, and to protect others from him.
The guitar. It just being there haunted him. It was a symbol of the past. The past. How horrifying was that? Sighing, Roger finally got up, grabbing the guitar and continuing to attempt to tune.
Then the door opened. Mark was home.