blair rushed down the hall to harris' apartment, stopping at the door. he was disheveled, his hair a mess, and his mind was blank except for one thing: talk to roger. this wasn't blair's fault, it wasn't. “roger?!" he frantically knocked his fist against the door, blinking quickly, “uh- congressman harris?! it's me, blair pfaff!” he knocked again, panic only increasing. he received no answer. he cursed under his breath before fumbling for the keys roger had given him, unlocking the door and throwing it open.
he wished he hadn't.
if you had asked blair what he'd prepared to open the door to, this would never, in a thousand years have been his answer.
there roger hung, a chair kicked to the side from under him, a rope taut around his neck. blair stared, not comprehending what he was seeing. his eyes flicked down at a small thud, catching on the shoe that had now fallen from harris' foot. the fucking lucky shoe.
blair's ears rung. it was like nothing existed anymore, nothing happened anymore. how could it, when roger was gone? dead? and by who's hand? did blair tie that knot in the end, kick the chair from under him? was it roger's undoing, or blair's own?
blair's vision blurred, though from dizziness or tears he couldn't tell. his head spun, and he shook it, locking his eyes onto the floor. how could he do this? how could roger do this?!
blair looked up again, meeting the cold eyes of his dead lover, before tearing them away with a wince. his arm reached out, clutching the door frame, and he leant on it entirely. he clenched his eyes shut, words ripping themselves from his throat.
“you fucker!! you bastard- how-” blair cut himself off, his chest tight and his heart in his throat, “how could you do this to me?!”
how could roger do this to him? that was always the question. how could blair be so victimised by roger? how could roger not see his own actions and what they did? yes, that was always it. roger always wanted the last word, and now he got it. in the worst way possible, but he got it nonetheless. blair could imagine the triumphant smirk of victory on roger's face as he fit the last jab in before bringing his hands to blair's waist, pulling him in for a kiss, his lips working in the way blair loved-
blair gasped, quickly realising how wet his cheeks were. he could barely breathe, air catching in his throat. oxygen quickly turned to a solid as he inhaled shallowly, and he choked. the bastard. he slowly sank to the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest. his hair was completely messed up now, and blair's hands reached up to pull it. an anchor. he needed that.
he didn't move from that place, and there roger hung.
he supposed at one point somebody walked in and called 911, because then people were there. someone had grabbed blair's shoulders, pulling him outside. when had he stood up? when did he move? where was roger? roger; the bastard. always had to be the winner, always had to win, always had to say how blair should behave himself. how dare he, even in his last moments- even in death- control blair? control how he feels?
in the end, he never did get to say goodbye. now he never will. the dickhead never gave him the chance.