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Roger decides to keep the car when he comes home from Santa Fe. “Just in case”, he says. In case of what, Mark isn’t exactly sure, but he doesn’t care. It’s not his car. So not his problem.
Even three years later, the car is still running quite well. Sure, Roger’s had to get it serviced a few times, but for a used car, it’s almost a miracle it still works. Nowadays, Roger uses it mostly for transporting gear to and from gigs, both his own gear and the gear of some musician friends he’s met. He hasn’t used it to go much of anywhere beyond the city limits, not since Santa Fe.
The first place Mark and Roger ever kissed was the loft. The second place was the fire escape outside the loft. The car was the third place, right before Roger went inside a club to prepare for a gig. That was also one of the few times Mark had ridden in the car. He didn’t like it much—it was cramped and smelled a little too strongly of smoke, but he didn’t really mind it when he was there with Roger.
Sometimes, the car makes its way into Mark’s dreams. Sometimes it’s just in the background, sometimes it’s a focal point. One recurring dream involves him sitting in the car with Roger at the wheel, only for them to crash into a curb or a light post or a wall.
It’s one of these dreams that awakens him on a cold fall evening. Roger had run into something, and Mark had frantically tried to get him to turn around, go back and see what damage he’d caused. And then they’d crashed into something else, making Mark wake up in his room in a puddle of sweat.
It’s pitch black in his bedroom, and he’s alone—Roger’s out playing some show. And this realization makes Mark feel so much worse. It’s not like he woke up screaming or anything, but his heart is racing, and he’s yearning for the comfort of Roger’s embrace. But he just has to settle for trying to calm himself down.
God, how did he ever live without Roger?
The phone rings, jarring Mark’s brain to full consciousness. A phone call at this hour—oh fuck. He stumbles into the living room on shaky legs and picks up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, may I speak with Mark Cohen please?”
“This is he.”
“Hi, Mark, my name is Jason. I’m a nurse at Mount Sinai Hospital, and I’m calling you on behalf of Roger Davis.”
A “what?” squeaks from Mark’s throat. He tries to swallow his fear, but it gets caught in his lungs, making him feel like he’s choking.
He doesn’t believe in a divine power or anything like that, but the thought slips into his mind: what if his dream was a premonition? What if it was a vision of sorts, a sign of the things to come? What if Roger is—
No. He can’t jump to conclusions. Instead, he says, “What happened?”
“Roger was admitted after falling down some stairs. His nose is bleeding badly—quite possibly broken—and we want to keep him for a few hours for observation to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion. He gave your name and number as his emergency contact.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ… okay.” Mark lets out a sigh of… relief? Not quite. He hates that Roger got hurt, but at least he’s not sick. At least he’s not on the verge of death. And it didn’t have anything to do with the fucking car. A broken nose? They can handle that.
The nurse laughs a little. “He wanted me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Everything’s gonna be fine, don’t worry too much, you should see the other guy’.”
Mark would laugh if he wasn’t scared out of his mind. That sure sounds like Roger. At least he’s okay enough to make a joke.
After getting the hospital’s address from the nurse, Mark grabs his jacket, throws on his shoes, and begins his walk. He would normally bike, but he doesn’t want to risk any sort of injury, not when it’s so late and already pitch black outside. Not when Roger’s already out of commission.
He’s feeling alright when he arrives—actually, he’s a little grateful for the walk. The cold night air makes him feel a little more alive, a little more sane.
But then he goes inside, and it’s as if the hospital steals the breath right from his lungs. The last time he’d been here was when Collins had a health scare a few months ago and had to be hospitalized for a few weeks. Before that, he thinks it was after Christmas three years ago, when Mimi’s health got really bad again. And before that, it was when Angel was succumbing to her illness. There’s so much death and so much sadness and so much pain within these walls that Mark feels like he might collapse just at the thought of it.
He can barely speak when he reaches the receptionist’s desk, but he manages to choke out Roger’s name, with a slight upward inflection to indicate that he’s asking after him. The receptionist seems to notice the look in his eyes, because she moves quickly to find Roger’s name and room number.
Mark forces himself to take the stairs, just to give himself something to do. He counts the steps to keep his brain occupied. He fiddles with a button on his jacket to keep his hands busy. But his head is spinning, his body is shaking. It’s too much. It’s all too much. He can’t stay here.
But he has to. For Roger.
There’s only a door between them now. Mark takes a breath and pushes it open.
“Oh, hey, Mark.” Roger grins at him from the bed. “You actually came.”
“Of course I did.” Mark forces a smile, but he feels the cold sensation in his chest that always precedes tears. “How are you feeling?”
Roger shrugs. “Tired. But they want me to stay awake.”
“Okay.” With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one sees, Mark plants a soft kiss on Roger’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re… well, at least you’re conscious.”
“Yeah.” Roger smiles up at him, no trace of pain or tension on his face.
It’s as if the panic melts out of his body; Mark finally allows himself a real, genuine smile. Something about seeing Roger in front of him, awake and (mostly) okay, makes him feel so much better—although he’s still shaking a little bit. So he smooths out the edge of Roger’s blanket and says, “Did they give you some painkillers or something?”
“I think. Not anything super strong, though.”
“You do seem quite coherent for someone who might have a concussion.”
“Maybe I don’t have a concussion.”
“That would be nice.” Mark gives him another kiss.
“God, I’m glad you’re here,” Roger whispers, sounding almost breathless. “Your presence is all the painkiller I could ever need.”
A flustered laugh escapes Mark. A few years ago, Roger would never have said that, never would have even considered it. Not when he was in the grip of heroin. Maybe this is just a mark of how far they’ve come. “Of course I’m here, Rog. You know I love you, right?”
“I love you too.” Roger blinks, and his smile slowly fades. “Are you alright? You look a little pale.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I was just stressed out getting here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” Even though, by technicality, it is Roger’s fault, Mark doesn’t want to make him feel guilty.
“What time is it?”
“Just after midnight.”
“Did I wake you up? Shit, I’m so sorry—”
“No, it’s okay, really. I was already awake.”
The words slip out before he can stop himself—great. Now he’s given Roger a reason to worry about him. Which is the absolute last thing he wants when Roger is literally sitting in a hospital bed.
Roger’s face falls. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just had a bad dream.” Mark notices his hands seem to have a mind of their own, fiddling with the edge of the blanket that sits across Roger’s lap, pulling at a loose thread. “Freaked me out a bit, that’s all.”
“D’you wanna talk about it?”
Mark shrugs. “Don’t worry about me right now, okay? I’m supposed to be worried about you.”
“Aw, Marky, I’m gonna be okay.” Roger gently caresses Mark’s cheek. “I know you’re worried, so maybe if you tell me what’s wrong, that could help ease some of it.”
All Mark can do is shrug again. “It was just a dream. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.”
Mark steps away from Roger and sits in an empty chair. Great. He’s ruined it by bringing up his dream. He rubs his hands on his shoulders, trying to force away some of the strange tension that’s creeping back into his body. Maybe it would be good to just tell Roger what happened.
But then the nurse comes in. He says some things that Mark can’t remember—lots of medical words that can’t stick in his sleepy brain. And then Roger is in a wheelchair, being taken away for a CT scan.
Mark is told to sit in the waiting room—it doesn’t help his anxiety in the slightest. His foot bounces up and down, his hands tremble in his lap, his lungs are constricted by some invisible force.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but then there’s a doctor talking to him. Roger’s scan is done, he’s back in the room, Mark can go be with him again.
So he goes and sits in the room, back in a different uncomfortable chair. Roger isn’t very talkative, almost half asleep. A vague thought floats into his head—Roger needs to stay awake. He gets up and nudges his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Hey, Rog.”
Roger turns his head and looks at Mark. “Hey, Marky.”
“How are you feeling?”
Roger shrugs. “I wanna go home and sleep.”
“Okay.” Mark kisses his cheek. “Hopefully soon.”
Soon doesn’t even begin to describe it—it feels as if it’s only a few moments later when there’s a knock on the door, and a doctor comes in.
“Alright, Mr. Davis.” The doctor flips through the papers on his clipboard. “Your nose is definitely broken, but you don’t seem to have a concussion.”
Roger nods, then seems to think better of it. “Okay.”
“You’re going to have some bruising around your nose and under your eyes.”
Roger chuckles. “Badass.”
“For the next day or two, I would suggest don’t drive, don’t do anything that involves looking at bright lights… just try to get some rest.” The doctor turns to Mark. “And you’re…?”
“I’m Mark. His, uh, roommate.” The word feels slightly bitter on his tongue.
The doctor nods. “Alright. Well, Roger, I think you’re alright to go home. As long as Mark is okay with it. He’ll have to wake you up every few hours and ask you a couple questions, just to make sure you’re still alright.”
Roger looks up at Mark. “You okay with that?”
Mark nods. “Better than spending the money for you to stay overnight, yeah?”
“And Mark, if anything goes wrong with Roger in, say, the next forty-eight hours, bring him back here, okay?”
“Okay.”
The doctor nods again. “Alright. I’ll be back in a few minutes with Roger’s discharge information.”
It’s a whole packet of paper, full of any possible relevant information, plus phone numbers to call if anything changes with Roger’s condition. Mark folds it up and tucks it into his jacket.
The nurse tries to help Roger into a wheelchair, but Roger says, “Nah, I’m okay to walk.”
“Are you sure?” Mark asks.
“Yeah, I’m good, really.” He leans against Mark. “I’ve got you.”
“If you say so,” the nurse says. “I’ll be here if you change your mind.”
As they start down the hallway, Roger pauses. “Oh yeah, I just remembered, my car is down in the parking garage.”
Mark stops and turns around. “Did you drive here?”
“Yeah.”
“When you thought you might have a concussion?”
“I didn’t think that. I was just bleeding from my nose. Really badly.”
“Jesus Christ, Rog.”
“It’s fine. I got here no problem, didn’t I?” He shrugs and starts walking again.
“I guess…” Mark starts after him, then stops and grabs Roger’s sleeve. “Well, how are we gonna get the car home?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t the doctor say you couldn’t drive?”
“Well, yeah. But you can drive it.”
Mark can’t answer. The words won’t come out of his mouth.
Roger must take his silence to mean no , because he says, “Shit, did your license expire or something? We’ll be fine, it’s not very far—”
“I never learned to drive, Rog.”
The silence after his words lingers for just long enough that they both burst into laughter.
Roger can barely speak, he’s laughing so hard. “Oh my god… Mark Cohen… doesn’t know how to drive?”
“We live in the city, man!”
And that’s why, at two in the morning, one Thomas B. Collins finds himself going to the hospital to drive his best friends home.