I've never felt so many things...
[Immediately following the conversation with Mark.]
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so determined.
Once Roger had torn himself away from where he'd stood with Mark, which would be what his heart painfully understood as the last time he'd ever have a chance to touch his best friend, he bolted up the stairs with the intention to search every room with an open fucking door. The clear methodic pattern of sequential room-to-room sharply juxtaposed against his random, barbaric, sloppy searches of the rooms, themselves.
At some point, and truth be told, he couldn't remember when, he'd walked in on John Constantine and another man, which distracted him for a moment but, only a moment. Once the initial amusement wore off, he realized that John's was the last open door on the second floor, and he now had to risk seeing Mark again by going back downstairs. But, better to risk it now, go for broke, than ever be in this shithole building, again.
Once in the rec room, he saw it immediately, sitting carefully at the bottom of the shelf as if Roger, himself had put it there. A guitar case, covered in stickers and spray paint. The paint was a color April had deemed "Anarchy Red," and clearly spelled out the words in delicate graffitti:
Sharona
Property of Roger Davis, the Well Hungarian's (Pretty Boy) Frontman
Yes. Oh, fuck yes.
Roger grabbed the handle and yanked the case off of the shelf, setting it on a nearby table and snapping it open, pushing the case up and basking in her glory. God, there she was, exactly as Roger had left her. He ran his hand up her neck lovingly, his eyes saucers with a relieved smile on his face.
This? This was love. She was all he could ever need.
[For Jay Guthrie but, anyone is free to tag, as it will be Roger's last time in the Compound.]
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so determined.
Once Roger had torn himself away from where he'd stood with Mark, which would be what his heart painfully understood as the last time he'd ever have a chance to touch his best friend, he bolted up the stairs with the intention to search every room with an open fucking door. The clear methodic pattern of sequential room-to-room sharply juxtaposed against his random, barbaric, sloppy searches of the rooms, themselves.
At some point, and truth be told, he couldn't remember when, he'd walked in on John Constantine and another man, which distracted him for a moment but, only a moment. Once the initial amusement wore off, he realized that John's was the last open door on the second floor, and he now had to risk seeing Mark again by going back downstairs. But, better to risk it now, go for broke, than ever be in this shithole building, again.
Once in the rec room, he saw it immediately, sitting carefully at the bottom of the shelf as if Roger, himself had put it there. A guitar case, covered in stickers and spray paint. The paint was a color April had deemed "Anarchy Red," and clearly spelled out the words in delicate graffitti:
Sharona
Property of Roger Davis, the Well Hungarian's (Pretty Boy) Frontman
Yes. Oh, fuck yes.
Roger grabbed the handle and yanked the case off of the shelf, setting it on a nearby table and snapping it open, pushing the case up and basking in her glory. God, there she was, exactly as Roger had left her. He ran his hand up her neck lovingly, his eyes saucers with a relieved smile on his face.
This? This was love. She was all he could ever need.
[For Jay Guthrie but, anyone is free to tag, as it will be Roger's last time in the Compound.]