2. Revelations
Mark was unsure of how much time had passed. Opening groggy eyes, all he was truly sure of was that he was still alone. The others hadn't come back yet.
'Or if they did, they just decided they didn't want to fuck with it and left again.' He thought bitterly. Only to feel immediately guilty.
Mark knew they cared. Maybe even loved him as much as he did them, if it was possible. It was only in this golden moment of silence and sanity after destruction that he could truly see. 'More irony, it's killing me.'
Ever since this downward spiral had started, they'd been concerned. Roger had noticed the withdrawel first. Best friend, roommate, he was there every day. He'd seen from the beginning that this was different from the other Mark-depressions that had come and gone over the years.
Collins, Mimi, Joanne... Even Maureen after a time. They'd all seen. Seen and commented, wheedled and prodded. Each in their own unique way. All trying to make him open up. All trying to include him, as they had tonight.
No, it was HIM pushing THEM away. Just because they weren't the clingy, 'stay at home and watch him mope' types that he was didn't mean they didn't care. And worry. How could they know and understand if he refused to tell?
"Revelations." Mark murmered to the walls and shadows. When they simply stared impassively back, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "Zoom in on Mark, alone in the loft..." But the tidal wave of despair seemed to have withdrawn, for now.
Staring down at the wreckage of what had been his life around the kitchen and door, he briefly considered cleaning it up. "Fuck it, I'll get them tomorrow." Talking to himself in a bemused, half asleep way, he pulled off his shirt, dropping it in the general direction of the growing pile of laundry and headed to his room. Stopping only once beside the answering machine.
Mark's face was impassive as he stared down at the mocking red light. Solid now, the message listened to. But it lurked there, daring him to press the button and hear it over again... And again... And again... His sentence.
With very little emotion clouding his weary features, he reached down and pulled it from the stand. Trailing wires, it went soaring over his shoulder to land with a crash in the heap of junk.
Crawling into the hurricane of pillows and blankets that was his bed, Mark sighed and sprawled out. Minutes later, not moving from the contorted position, he was asleep.
3. Leave A Message At The Tone
Roger walked up the stairs to the loft, grinning to himself. Rehearsal couldn't have gone better. Collins had been more like his old self than he had been in ages, talking philosophy with the drummer and laughing frequently. And he and Mimi hadn't faught once. Even when the bassist, Xaine, had good naturedly hit on her. 4. Running
Mark was jolted out of sleep by the sound of the phone. Ringing and ringing. It was while waiting for the machine to pick up that everything clicked back into place. The machine couldn't pick up, because it was on the floor along with the rest. Color stained his pale face at the memory of his tantrum. 'At least the others didn't come back and see...' He started, then groaned inwardly as he heard someone fumble through the living room. 5. Hey, Artist!
As it turned out, Roger didn't know ALL of Mark's hiding places after all. As he walked confidently towards the Life Cafe, he unknowingly walked farther from his friend. Not stopping to think that the timid camera man might explore the area around the apartment. There were several abandoned buildings nearby. Slowly crumbling, decaying with an unnatural life and death sequence of their own. One was kitty-cornered to their own building. Mark found it easy to fade into the building and simply disappear. 6. Lamentations
Roger rushed up the stairs and unlocked the door. Opening his mouth to greet and chastize his friend at the same time. Only to snap it shut once more when the feel of the apartment surrounded him. It was silent, and felt empty. Even so, he checked every room before he let himself believe that Mark wasn't there. 7. I'm Shivering
Mark rose slowly to consciousness. Aware of a small pocket of warmth at his side, he realized that he couldn't move. The rest of his body was completely numb. He struggled to open his eyes, and peered blearily at the ceiling. 'This isn't the loft.' Was his only thought before letting his eyes drift shut again. 8. Anyone, Help!
Roger jerked awake, unsure of what had brought him to consciousness. For one disoriented moment, he couldn't remember where he was, or why. Sitting up, he realized that he had been curled on the kitchen table, and the events of the previous day flooded back. 9. How Could We Lose
Mark could hear a voice. The tone of it seemed familiar, though he couldn't place it. It was comforting, the murmer of sound, the rise and fall of words that he could not piece together. 10. This Moment
Roger was slumped in one of the chairs in the semi-secluded waiting room. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, or if it was even the same day. People came and wait, life flowed around him, but all he could bring himself to do was sit and stare. Watching numbly as the world passed by. 11. Am I Dead?
Mark opened his eyes slowly, trying to blink things into focus, before remembering that it wouldn't work. He was surrounded by white. Turning his face forward, he stifled a gasp. Standing at the foot of his bed was a figure in black. 12. Personal Nightmare
Roger sighed as he stalked around the apartment once again. He'd tried to keep occupied, force himself to be understanding. Consideration had always come hard to him. It had been over two weeks, and he was going insane. Sheer boredom combined with a sickly sense of role-reversal deja vu to make him more stir crazy than he could remember being in his entire life. 13. I Remember Everything
Just when Roger had begun to become truly concerned about the duration of Mark's crying jag, it slowly began to taper off. Mark still held tightly to his shirt, forehead pressed against his stomach, shuddering. But the tears seemed to be ending.
14. By The Time You Read This
Folding open the letter, Roger looked down at the familiar writing. Not quite sure what to expect. 15. Reflections And Reunions
It was dark, and for an instant Mark found himself considering flicking on several lights, before it hit him once more how pointless that effort would be. With a humorless laugh, he returned to his chair. Only to tap the arm several times in a nervous reaction before pushing himself to his feet and pacing about his small apartment once more. 16. A Little Q&A
Roger checked the address once more, the paper in his hand battered and crumpled, but carefully legible. From Mark, though not in Mark's writing. A letter sketching a brief picture of a year spent in a place none of them would have thought to look. Extending a simple invitation to visit. That had obviously been all he intended to say, but there had been a second slip of paper in the letter. The writing was done by a young man who bought Mark's groceries once a week, and occasionally dropped by to make sure that they were eaten. A young man, Lee, who said he had to extend the letter, thought Mark would be angry if he knew. Saying that his friend rarely went outside, rarely laughed or smiled. He was worried, Lee said, that Mark had given up hope. And was afraid that if Roger refused to come, that eventually their mutual friend would fade away. 17. Regrets
There was a long, hurt silence after Mark asked his question. In that moment, he wished that he could rewind the conversation and erase it, like he used to do with his films when things went bad. But he was trapped in the real world now. And such things weren't possible, here. He didn't need his vision to know what Rogers expression would be. A mixture of pain and sorrow and anger all rolled together into one helpless mix. It was, after all, an expression he'd seen there before. The 'After April' expression. This time, though, it would be so much worse. Because Mark didn't believe that Roger had loved April. With Mimi... With her it was different. There was no haze of drugs to cut him off from reality. And when he'd come back from Santa Fe, they all knew he'd come back for her.
Now, keying open the door, he looked forward to walking in and telling Mark all about it. His roommate always sat up waiting for him to come home. Even when it wasn't until the sun began making the sky grey with the coming dawn.
Mark. Rogers smile faded slightly as he thought about him. Something was up with his friend, he knew that much. 'Maybe tonight's the night to weasel it out...' He started thinking, pushing the door open.
But all conscious thoughts faded, along with the remainder of his self-satisfied smile, as he walked into the wreckage before the door. His heart froze in his chest as he looked at the broken plastic, the scattered pages, and in the middle of it all, Mark's glasses. 'Oh god...'
Roger stood frozen in the doorway, conscious of the close silence of the loft. Unable to force his feet to move, to look for his friend. Until a low moan made his gaze jerk towards Mark's bedroom door.
It was slightly ajar, and he had a fleeting, yet vivid flashback. Three years ago, coming home to an unnaturally quiet apartment. Expecting his girlfriend to greet him, and instead walking into a white bathroom turned red with blood. And smelling of the last moments of fear and hopelessness that April must have felt. Or had that just been him?
"Please no. Oh no... Please no..." Roger was unaware of the tortured words spilling from his own mouth as he kicked the mess aside, moving quickly towards the door. He'd heard a sound, it couldn't be too late. "Please... Please god... Mark..."
Stumbling slightly, he tripped against the door, pushing it open. Stopping dead, he stared at the form lying on the bed. Mark's pale skin shone in the bit of light spilling from the hallway. His chest rose and fell in another soft moan as he twisted against the blankets. Trapped inside another nightmare, fighting half-heartedly to break free.
Anger rose in the musician, burning away the last of his terror. At Mark, for bringing back such horrible memories. At himself for being afraid. But it was gone almost as soon as it had come, leaving him trembling in it's wake.
Standing at the door, he watched the smaller man sleep. Watched him, and assured himself that he was breathing. He was all right. 'Not all right. That's beyond obvious. But alive. God Mark, you can't do this to me...' He thought, finally turning to leave. Pulling the door shut gently behind him, Roger walked back to the kitchen, shutting the front door just as quietly.
"What a mess." He muttered, surveying the damage in a confused glance before kneeling and beginning to clean it up. As he sorted through the tapes, putting aside those that were obviously broken, he knew what he was looking for. Each had a date, the day that Mark had made the recording. If last nights' was in the pile, perhaps it would shed some light on what had happened after he and the others had left.
He found it finally, buried under a thick and yellowing script. A corner was chipped, but he thought it would play. Setting it carefully on the counter, he continued gathering scattered sheets of paper. None of them numbered, and hopelessly shuffled, he stacked them in one large pile and hoped that they could eventually be sorted. 'Preferably by someone other than me.'
When his hand closed over the camera, all of the humor fled from his mind. Until then, he'd viewed this all as not truly serious. But the camera, spilling pieces onto the floor as he picked it up, changed his mind. Mark would never destroy his camera, not in his right mind. 'Not in his right mind...' He repeated inwardly, and stood, picking up the tape on the counter and leaving the rest of the mess for later. He was going to find out now what had happened, and figure out how to deal with it before Mark woke up, if he could.
The couch looked truly bare without all of the clutter around it. Shaking his head, he pushed the tape into the VCR and settled in to watch. Waiting impatiently as it rewound and started. For several long minutes, there was nothing but a view of the loft, seemingly empty. Until he heard Mark-sounds in the background. Murmering and shuffling, the sounds of shifting tapes in the old box where he stored all of his old footage. The camera stared into the corner unswervingly. Directly, Roger finally realized, at the answering machine.
Finally, Mark's shadow, and then the man himself appeared before the camera, sitting on the floor next to the phone. Sighing softly, he focused into the lens of the camera. "I keep telling myself that I shouldn't get my hopes up. I know myself enough to know the signs... And yet I can't help it. Can't help but think that once more I've convinced myself that things are worse than they actually are. That maybe I'm wrong..." He kept speaking, analyzing himself, speaking of hope. But his eyes behind the glasses were filled with fear, and he was sickly pale.
When the phone rang an indeterminate amount of time later, Mark visably jumped, and turned to stare at the machine as if it would come alive and bite him. ~*SPEAK!*~ Rang out into the silence, and Roger leaned forward, closer to the television, knowing that this was it.
After the single tone, a male voice with only a slight New England accent began speaking. "This is Doctor Callahan, calling for Mark Cohen. I'd like to repeat for this record that I dislike doing this sort of thing over the phone. But with your persistant permission, and knowledge that you are standing over this machine, camera in hand, I will do so. The tests have come back conclusive. Your condition is deteriorating as quickly as we had both suspected." Roger frowned, glancing at the door to Mark's room. Drawn back to the screen, though, by the change in the doctors' tone.
Voice softening slightly, and sounding as close to human as a doctor could, the man said, "I don't want you to think that there's no hope. I know it's slim, but there is a 3 percent chance that the symptoms will plateau, and there will be no further problems. And even if not, there are options. I've pushed aside my appointments on Friday, and left a chunk of time open from two until four, so that we can discuss where to go from here. Show up."
With this command, Dr. Callahan signed off. Roger watched Mark stare at the answering machine, motionless, barely breathing. His face was stunned when he finally turned back to the camera. He walked forward, and picked it up from it's tripod and walked back, focussing in on the answering machine as he played the message once more.
Leaning forward, Roger snapped off the television and sat back heavily. 'What's wrong with him? And why hasn't he told me?'
"What?!" Roger snarled into the phone. He hadn't gotten to sleep until after six, and it was only 9 now. Rolling his eyes at the voice on the other end of the line, he sighed. "No, Mrs. Cohen. This is Roger, not Mark."
In his bedroom, Mark's eyes grew wide and he hid his head under the pillows. Maybe if he pretended he wasn't here, Roger would feel the 'hang up' vibes all the way to the other room. Maybe he'd disappear. Maybe Roger would remember that he never spoke to his mother. And now wasn't the best time to start. Maybe...
"Yeah, he's right here. Let me go get him." Setting the phone on the stand, Roger grinned maliciously as he headed for his friends' room. Most of the time, he'd have made an excuse for Mark and gotten him off the hook. 'But it's nine in the morning, and he's the one that broke the damn machine.'
"Good morning, sunshine." He said drily, watching Mark shake his head and burrow further into his blankets.
"Tell her I'm gone?" Mark asked hopefully. When Roger chuckled and shook his head, Mark sighed. "Tell her I'm in bed with pneumonia, my legs have fallen off, I have no ears to hear and my voice has disappeared?"
"C'mon foolish, she's waiting." Roger said, reaching to pull at the blankets. Since that fateful Christmas, Benny hadn't gotten on them about paying the rent. But even he couldn't work it so that their apartment was warm in the winter. Yanking off the covers was the best way to get Mark out of bed and to the phone. 'And who knows. Maybe his mom can dig out what's wrong with him. Can't hurt to try.'
Jerking upright, Mark reached for the first shirt his hand fell on. Voice rising suddenly, angrily, he snapped, "Tell her I'm in mourning for a wasted fucking life then. I'm not going to talk to her. I don't care what you tell her."
Sliding off the bed, he brushed past the stunned musician and out the door. Walking past the phone without even a glance, Mark left the apartment. Slamming the door violently behind him. He raced down the steps, pulling the T-shirt he'd snatched down over his head. Anger drove him, and was so overwhelming that the brittle cold did not even register.
Roger stared after him. Even starting to follow before he remembered the phone. Still staring at the door, he picked it up and said numbly, "I'm sorry, I guess he's not home after all. I'll tell him to call you." Without letting her reply, he dropped the phone back on the hook and stood in the silence. Before shaking his head and started unthinkingly setting up the answering machine once more. It had landed in a heap of garbage, and wasn't damaged.
The tape, though, was gone. After a few moments thought last night, he'd thrown it away. "Damn it." He muttered under his breath, digging through the draw on the stand for another. Dropping it inot the space, he jabbed the button down impatiently and growled, "Leave a message."
That done, on the off chance that Mark called, Roger shrugged into his jacket. Pausing to grab Mark's as well. He knew all of Mark's little hiding places. They were usually no farther than the Life Cafe, or Angel's grave. He planned to find the man and bring him home. Kicking and screaming, if necessary. Then he'd set him down and force him to explain himself. Mark wasn't the one who pulled shit like this.
It was that thought that gave him pause, standing before the door. He was the one, after all, that ran away from it all. Time after time, he'd left the loft in just such a rage. For hours, for days... Hell, he'd gone all the way to Santa Fe, once. Never explaining himself before he left. Never listening to Mark's attempts at reason. Roger simply knew when he had to get away.
Did he, then, have any right to track down his friend? To make him explain himself when he so obviously was not ready?
'Oh, give me a break. I sound like him even when I'm talking to myself.' Roger thought, half bemused, half horrified. They'd been friends for a long time, but caring this much was getting too close. It suddenly felt like he was setting himself up for a fall. 'Too late. I can't just step back and watch him tear himself apart. Not without trying to stop it.'
Decision made, Roger grabbed his keys and left the loft. Stepping out into the dirty snow on the sidewalk. As soon as the cold morning air hit him, he headed for the Life Cafe. Mark hated the cold, and wouldn't subject himself to it if he didn't absolutely have to. Squinting in the harsh morning light, Roger sighed to himself. 'Mark... You have so much explaining to do.'
That hadn't been his plan, in the beginning. At first, he'd simply crept through the buildings with his camera. Watching the homeless and junkies, all seeming to mesh together into a blend of faceless hopelessness. It didn't take long for him to start shying away from such places. Life seemed hopeless enough without going out of his way to confront it every day. And yet, when things got to be too much, and he needed a place completely unexpected to escape to, this is where he came. A nameless face among all of the rest.
Even in the stunning morning light, the house was unnaturally dark. Several slats from the boarded windows had been pulled to let in some of the light. But Mark did not have his glasses, and stepping from the blurred streets into the abandoned building was like walking willfully into a nightmare. Unable to focus, or truly see, Mark had to rely on memory as he stumbled through the rooms. Banking on the fact that he would look like just one more anonymous addict.
"Hey, artist!" A voice called suddenly from behind.
Mark froze, closing his eyes. 'Maybe not so anonymous.' Turning, he squinted into the darkness. Trying to force his straining eyes to pick up something, anything. As expected, nothing happened, and he stood shivering in a ring of blind silence. Waiting.
"Where's your camera, artist?" The harsh, ugly, almost sexless voice came from directly in front of him. When he was pushed roughly in the chest, Mark stumbled backwards with a loud gasp, falling awkwardly to the floor. Laughter burst out around him at the sight. "You look scared, artist."
'Oh God...'
"Ain't no God here, honey. You learned anything at all coming here?" When Mark simply sat stunned on the floor, trying to grasp the fact that he'd spoken aloud, the woman shook her head. "I thought not."
Panic began to well in the man as he heard footsteps coming closer. Crackling in the scattered rubble on the floor. "Please.. Please..." He stuttered, shielding his face. The last he heard was scratchy laughter before everything went completely black.
~*~*~*~
Cold and frustrated, Roger walked into the Cat Scratch Club. Not truly convinced that Mark would ever come here, but he'd looked everywhere else. He'd even gone to Maureens' place and put up with her bullshit, just in case he'd gone there to cool off. In retrospect, it seemed unlikely, but he'd been coming up blank everywhere else. This was the last place he could think of. 'Of course, there's always the loft. If he's back there, I'll merrily strangle him.'
His eyes automatically scanned the floor for Mimi. When he saw her dancing at Benny's table, he forced himself to stop where he was until he'd beaten down the usual surge of jealousy. When he thought he could face the man without beating him more senseless than he already was, Roger walked up to join him.
"Hey babe." Roger said, nodding towards Mimi. He saw the look of resignation in her eyes and knew she expected yet another scene. But he hadn't forgotten that her boss was threatening to fire her if there were too many more fights. Looking down at the seated man, he added coolly, "Benny."
Delighted at this chance to toy with his rival for the woman's attention, Benny smiled smugly. "Roger. Come to check on your girlfriend again? She's busy at the moment. Get in line."
"Benny!" Mimi hissed, taking a step back. But Roger just shook his head and rested an arm around her waist.
"No, I trust Mimi. I know that she won't cheat on me. Especially with a slimy little weasel like you. I know that she has to dance at a table if she's paid to. What I don't understand is why Alison puts up with you, and why you'd want to do this to her." Roger could feel the shock rising from the woman at his side. He felt he'd acted in a more mature manner than he normally would, but he couldn't help but grin at the look of dull anger on Benny's face.
"Actually, I'm here looking for Mark." Ignoring the other man entirely now, he glanced down at Mimi. "Have you seen him?"
"Here?" She laughed, before she realized that he was serious. "Hon, Mark has been here just that once, and never came back again. This isn't exactly his type of place."
"I know." Pushing his hands through his hair, Roger sighed with a shrug. "I've looked everywhere. I just don't know what else to do."
Mimi caught the bosses eye, letting the older woman know that she was taking her break. Pulling Roger over to the side, she asked, "What happened?"
Relieved at the chance to let someone else share the burden of this, Roger told her about what he had walked into last night. Ending with the phone call and his fruitless search around the City. He knew that she'd been worried about Mark, too. The fact that Mark wasn't truly one to storm out in fits of rage just added to the mystery. And the worry.
"Have you checked back at the loft?" Mimi asked, after a long pause to think it over. Roger had covered everything that she could think of, other than checking back in at home off and on. "He could have gone back there."
Although just a few moments ago, Roger had been looking at just that thought with a certain amount of anger, he found himself now hoping that it was true. It would mean that he'd spent all of this time freezing for no real reason, of course. But it would also mean his chance to corner his friend. "I thought about it," he admitted finally. "But I didn't want to go back there and chance missing him somewhere else."
Dipping his head to kiss her before he left, he felt slightly guilty. Knowing that while it was done mostly out of love and gratitude, part of it had to do with the fact that he knew Benny was watching them from his table. 'Staking your claim? Christ, she doesn't need to know that.'
Pulling away slowly, he grinned, looking into her eyes. "Thanks love. Don't work too hard, okay?" Brushing her cheek and nodding when she asked him to call her and let her know what happened, he left the club. Consciously keeping his eyes from meeting Benny's as he left. He'd made his point, no sense in driving it in farther. Besides, he felt better about the whole situation now. Mark would be home, and he knew that if he pressed hard enough, he'd get his answers.
A/N: I know, I'm awful, always leaving it hanging. I can't help it, it's more fun that way. More soon, if ya like. :)
"Damn it." He sighed to the walls. Moving vacantly through the loft, he turned off all of the lights that he'd flicked on in his search. Climbing up onto the table, he folded his legs and rested his arms on them. His eyes focused on the door. There was no other place he could think to look. For now, he would take Mark's own position, and wait. Only vaguely amused that he had for the first time put himself into the other mans position. It was normally him that walked through the door after however many hours and found Mark sitting on the table, watching the door, waiting for him.
'Is this how he feels? When I run off and he doesn't know where I've gone or for how long?' With a weary chuckle, he thought, 'Hell, maybe he ran off just to give me a taste of my own.'
But then, that was something that *he* would do, not Mark. Idly picking at the thread-bare cuff of his jeans, Roger mentally went over the bit of film he'd watched the night before. 'Only last night. It seems like longer. Must be getting old if just two nights of no sleep make me this groggy.' Frowning, he twisted so that he could glance behind him towards the TV. Realizing just then that he had stopped the video when Mark had started replaying the message. Not even thinking that there may have been something else after that.
It was grasping at straws, he knew that. But at the same time, it seemed better than sitting around, waiting helplessly as the sun rose once more over New York. Relieved, he slid from his perch and positioned himself once more in front of the television.
So he watched the answering machine as it once more played back its message. Noticing that the image seemed to shiver slightly, and feeling his heart clench when he realized that it was because Mark's hands had been shaking. 'And I drove him out into the cold. I didn't even ask, I just joked...'
When the message was through, the image on the screen faded into blackness. With teeth gritted in frustration, Roger slumped back, pushing his hands through his hair. Only to propel himself forward once more as the image faded back in. The view was Mark, the camera obviously back up on it's tripod.
**Even more pale than usual, the young filmmaker looked heartbreakingly vulnerable. Slumped in the corner, his hair falling into his eyes, glasses dangling from one hand. The seconds ticked by as he sat, motionless.
Finally, he took a deep breath, and forced his eyes up, into the lens. "There you have it. The final prognosis." A semi-hysterical chuckle burst from his mouth, seeming to suprise him. "it sounded awful, didn't it? Like brain cancer or kidney failure. But it really isn't anything that bad." Frowning slightly, he rephrased. "It really *wouldn't* be that bad, i suppose. To anyone else. To me? To me it may as well *be* cancer. I may as well be dying."
His voice trailed off, and he twirled the glasses around between his fingers. Not seeming to notice that he did so. Mark squeezed his eyes shut for another moment, then sighed. "It seems that I'm going blind."**
"What?!" Roger cried to the screen. Jumping up, he hit the rewind button, much harder than necessary. Mumbling, "There's no way in hell I heard that right."
But when he watched it over again, and then again, he realized that he *had* heard it correctly. Pushing pause, he slid to the floor, back pressed to the couch, unknowingly imitating Mark's own position of just the night before. "Blind?" He asked the stilled image on the screen. Mark, frozen in an attitude of confession, eyes full of anguish. 'Oh, Mark.'
Stunned, Roger flicked off the machines and moved slowly back to the table. He felt like he'd suddenly aged years. And he couldn't bring himself to watch any more of the tape without his friends' permission. Roger was more afraid for the man, and about this disappearance, than he had been before. Mark... Well, Mark loved his work, he lived in his work. His life, as sad as it seemed to Roger, was his film, his camera.
Now, what would he do? Roger could make guesses, but each thought was worse than the one before, and he cut them off short. Running back out to the streets would do no good. Mark had holed up somewhere, and until he came out, he wouldn't be found. 'I should go anyway.' He thought, but it was halfhearted. He didn't want to miss him, if he came back. Instead, he climbed back onto the table and stared at the door, as if his gaze could open it and bring Mark home.
Tense and tired, he didn't move as darkness slowly gave way to the grey of dawn. The sun came up on another day, and still no Mark. 'Where is he?'
Until the bit of warmth shifted slightly. 'Soft.'
It seemed too much effort to investigate, but there was a tickle in the back of his mind, telling him that something wasn't right. Moving his head took more energy than he thought it should, but he was floating in a calm, half-conscious state, and it didn't worry him. Slitting his eyes, he stared down at his side. It took several seconds for comprehension to set in. 'It's a rat. A fucking rat!'
With a hoarse cry of disgust and fear, he pushed his body aside. The rat blinked up at him for several seconds before scurrying away. The burst of adreneline sent a small surge of heat through his frozen body, and brought him fully awake. Mark reached up and rubbed his head gingerly, wincing as his fingers brushed over a large lump, crusted over with what must be dried blood.
"What happened?" He croaked, shivering. Without his glasses. everything was a blur. After a moment, he realized that he was staring down at bare feet, and his arms were wrapped around a pale, bruised, naked chest. Slowly, the events of the night before started coming back. The voice of the woman, the harsh laughter of the men that had surrounded him as she taunted and sneered.
'They took my shoes. My shoes and shirt. Why would they do that?' Though he'd lived in the city for several years, he realized that he was still naive. Anything to provide warmth in the winter, a winter spent living on the streets, would do. He'd had nothing else for them to take, he'd forgotten even the keys to the apartment when he stormed off.
Staring at his feet, he was captivated by their color. White, almost blue, his nails bruised looking. When he shook himself out of it, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. "Gotta get home." He murmered, pushing himself to his feet. Pain knifed through him, leaving him gasping, and settled into a dull ache surrounding his ribs.
Mark leaned against the wall until he'd gotten his breath back, eyes tracing the outlines in the dimness around him. He didn't think that the people who'd hurt him were still here, but didn't want to take any chances. Keeping within arms distance of the wall, he felt his way towards where he was fairly sure the door was.
Once outside, he stood on the cracked pavement, blinking in the bright sunlight. Ignorant of the stares of the people walking by. Ignorant of the livid bruises covering his sides and chest, the blood dried to the side of his face. He'd forgotten that he was shoe-less, and though he was up to his ankles in the slush of melting snow, they were so numb that he didn't feel it.
In the stronger light, he could see much better. Disoriented, he stood on the sidewalk, staring at the cars driving by. Only brought back to himself by a young voice at his side.
"Hey mister? Hey mister!"
Mark looked down at the child, who was looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. He frowned slightly, reminded of someone, but shook it away.
"Hey mister, you're bleedin'." The boy stated matter-of-factly. There were no adults in sight, but the child didn't look neglected. He pushed his glasses up his nose and cocked his head to the side. "Did you know you're bleedin'?"
"You shouldn't talk to strangers." Was all Mark could think to say, before wandering across the street towards his building. He remembered he didn't have his key, and hoped that Roger was home to let him in. Half way across the street, he stumbled, and looked down. 'I don't have any shoes.'
Bemused, he chuckled, arm wrapped around his ribcage. He looked back at the boy, calling as he did so, "Didja know I didn't have any shoes?" But the boy was gone. A horn beeped behind him, and brakes squeeled as the car pulled to the side, narrowly missing him.
"Get out of the road, y'bum!" Called an irate voice, as the car pulled away once more.
"Oops." Shaking his head, he finally made his way into the stairwell of his own building. It wasn't much warmer inside than out, but at least the wind was gone. Raising his eyes to look up the flights of stairs, he sighed and began the trudge up them. Pausing frequently to rest, catch his breath, and try to stomp some feeling into his feet. The last thing he needed was to get half way up and then fall back down again.
It took almost half an hour to get up the stairs that would have taken thirty seconds to dash up just yesterday. He reached a hopeful, shaking hand to the door. 'Maybe something will just go right. Just this once.' But, inevitably, the door was locked. Slumping to the floor, he thumped his head against the bottom of the door, closing his eyes. "Roger, let me in." He whispered. "Please let me in, I'm sorry. Please..."
Voice trailing away, he listened for any sound from inside the loft. After an undetermined length of silence, Mark lay down at the base of the door, curling around himself. Trying in this fashion to trap any body heat he could. Shivering only slightly, he closed his eyes and waited. 'Soon. He'll be back soon. Inside soon. I'm sorry. Won't run away again, I'm sorry. Soon... So cold...'
"Damn it!" Scrambling from the table top, he fumbled his way to the answering machine. Looking down, he growled under his breath at the sight of the red light. Unblinking and mocking, it stared back at him until he turned away.
Roger stalked through the empty apartment, cursing lowly. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. In fact, he'd been sure that he was fine. The last he'd noticed, the sun had been rising. It only took one glance out the window to see that the sky was now dreary and overcast. "Wonderful, more snow."
Pacing restlessly, he finally reached for his coat once more. Mark hadn't returned while he was asleep. So he'd go looking for him again. Already dull anger was rising to replace the shock of the night before.
Yanking open the door, he came within inches of stepping on his friend. Mark was huddled in the corner of the stoop, unmoving.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Roger could only stand gaping at the man's body, as the clock behind him in the kitchen ticked away the seconds. "No."
His own whispered word brought him back to himself, and he knelt, reaching a trembling hand out. "Mark. Don't do this, wake up." He murmered, still unsure. 'He can't be...'
Fingers curling into a fist before they could reach his chest, Roger stared at the damage done. The blood and bruises, the blue-tinged feet. 'Dear god, was he here all night? While I was sleeping, did he try to call? Did he call for help, and I didn't hear? Oh god...'
Brain whirling, he forced himself into action, any action. Reaching out once more, fingers cringing away from the red-brown stains, he pressed his fingers to the side of Mark's neck. He gasped slightly at the coldness of his skin, shivering himself. "Please..."
At first he thought what he was feeling was the racing of his own heart. Until he finally realized that it was much too slow. Slowly it registered. Mark was still alive, there was still time. But for several long minutes, Roger couldn't force himself away. Afraid that if he turned his back to call for help, that Mark would slip away.
It was only after the pulse beneath his fingers seemed to catch, lagging before picking up it's steady beat once more that he could jump to his feet and race to the phone. "Be okay, be okay, be okay..." He chanted, as he dialed the number.
"Pick up!" Roger cried at the steady burr, turning to keep his eyes on the stair-well. Jerking slightly when a monotone voice broke through his panic.
"Hello, 911, what is your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance. We're in the old music publishing place on 11th and Avenue B."
"What is your emergency?" The man repeated in the same monotone voice.
With a snarl, Roger snapped, "My friend's been beaten, and he feels like he's half frozen. His heart beat's slow, and if he dies because you're talking to me instead of sending an ambulance, I'll kill you myself."
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and then the sound of clicking keys. "All right. Stay on the line and..."
Dropping the phone back on the hook, Roger ran into Mark's room, grabbing several blankets, before returning to the landing. The man seemingly hadn't moved in the time he was gone. He wrapped him up the best he could, before realizing that it would do little good if there was no body heat to trap.
"Slow down and think, you're being an idiot!" He muttered aloud, before sliding down to the floor beside his friend, and wrapping the blankets around them both. "You're going to be all right." He murmered to the unconscious man, without looking down at him. He couldn't stand the sight of Mark so motionless. Mark had always been the observer, but he radiated life at the same time.
Now, he lay unmoving. The chill from his body causing Roger to shiver, and he pulled Mark closer. "Everything will be fine... Where are they!"
Roger focussed intently on the stair well, as if his concentration could bring paramedics racing to the rescue. It seemed an eternity before the sounds of sirens could be heard. Waiting tensely, repeating over and over aloud that everything *would* be all right, Roger wondered how it could be that he could keep a promise like that.
'It has to be. I won't let him go!' With that fierce thought in mind, he waited impatiently as the sirens came closer. 'He has to be all right.'
There was a hint of warmth along his spine. A comforting pressure across his chest. Someone held him. Someone kept him safe. And even when there was a distant thud, a keening wail from somewhere nearby, he was unafraid. Because the arms simply held him tighter. Held him together.
It seemed only an instant later, though, that the warmth was gone. The calm, soothing voice replaced by others, harsh and clipped. Heat was quickly overcome by numbing cold once more. Mark tried to open his eyes, move, understand, and was unable to do more than voice a feeble whimper.
'What's happening? Why can't I move? What's happening to me?' Questions zinged through his consciousness. Utter frustration about his inability to affect anything, even himself, rose.
There was a sensation of movement, and the feel of the wind suddenly reaching out to rip away any lingering warmth. Every last hint of comfort. He could feel something hitting his face, and tried to analyze it. He was ripped from his thoughts by a jolt, the wailing louder now. A rough hand wiped the moisture from Mark's face.
Mark was surrounded by strangers. That is all he could understand. Voices he didn't know flew around him. The only recognizable voice in the darkness had been yanked away from him. Frustration was damped by rising fear. 'Where are they taking me?'
A quick stab of pain in his arm sent him into panic. 'Needle, they've got a needle, why a needle!?' Sheer terror sent his limbs into motion. Flailing wildly, he dislodged the needle, attempting to scream. All that came from his throat were raw gasps as he struggled to free himself. Heart lurching and thudding at a sickly rate, eyes feeling glued shut, he forced himself into a roll. Any way to move, to get away. As far as he could, any way that he could.
The voices rose in anger around him, and unfamiliar hands grabbed him. Even knowing that he was defeated, Mark continued to fight until his feeble strength gave out. Vaguely, he was aware of another stab in his arm as his wrists and ankles were secured.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the terror receeded. Large, warm hands, familiar hands, cupped his cheeks. The voice returned, speaking directly into his ears. "It's... Gonna... Okay... Promise... Mark?" Bits and pieces breaking through over the thud of his heart.
Even as a creeping numbness slowly spread through him, Mark ripped his eyes open, narrowing them, trying to see. His sight dimmed slowly as paralysis set in, but he kept his eyes locked on the image above him. If he could understand nothing else, he understood this.
Roger was there, with him. Everything would have to be all right. Despite the dawning horror in Roger's face as Mark's muscles relaxed gently against their restraints, despite the shallow, slowing throb of his heart, despite it all, he was safe. Roger was there.
Roger was the last image that he saw. Straining, he fought to open his ears to the voice of his friend. To have it be the last sound he heard as his heart finally gave out. But he could not hear it over the wailing in his ears. As his eyes dimmed beyond true sight, the last word he heard was, "Clear!"
And then all there was, was darkness.
At some point, Maureen and Joanne had shown up. Frowning slightly, he pushed himself forward, glancing around. The jackets tossed on the chair beside him made it clear that they hadn't left yet, and he slumped back against the wall. Against his will, his eyes began to slide shut.
"Has there been any word?"
Maureen's voice brought him back to consciousness, and Roger shook his head slowly. Keeping his eyes closed against his irritation. 'It figures that anyone else would realize that if I'd heard anything, I wouldn't be sleeping. What kind of asshole does she think I am, anyway?'
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and forced them open. As soon as he looked up at the woman, he felt a small stab of guilt. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Hands laced tightly together, knuckles white. He realized that she likely hadn't thought before she'd spoken, and relented. "No, I haven't heard anything."
Slumping into the chair at his side, Maureen stared down at her feet for a long moment before asking in an almost whisper, "What did he do?"
Startled, Roger turned to study her. Her lower lip trembled, and she didn't look up until the silence had gone on for several minutes. "What do you mean?"
"He's been acting strange for weeks. Then he wouldn't return our calls, wouldn't talk to any of us, he just... Shut off." Turning damp eyes to meet his, she asked in a small voice, "Did he... I mean, did he try..." Unable to finish the sentence, she trailed off, clutching Joanne's hand convulsively.
"He didn't try to kill himself." Even to himself, his voice seemed cold. "Not that I know of."
Roger debated with himself. He wasn't sure that this was his story to tell. Glancing at the frozen clock on the wall, though, he reminded himself that he may be the only one who ever could tell it. 'No, that's not true. He'll be all right, everything's fine. Mark's a survivor, remember? He's the one of us to survive.'
"Roger?"
Joanne's calm voice brought him back to himself, and he shivered. "I found him. Outside the door. He went running off yesterday morning, and I couldn't find him." When he finally looked at them, his face looked young and hurt, nothing like the Roger they knew. "I did look, I looked everywhere. But he just disappeared."
Pushing his hands through his hair, he leaned back against the wall again. "When I went out to try again, he was outside the door. Someone beat him up and stole his shirt, his shoes. I thought..." Clearing his throat, he stared at the white wall before him and started again. "I thought he was dead."
He could hear Maureen, turning to Joanne with a sob, but continued. They'd asked, they wanted to know. "He was out of it, unconscious, until the ambulance finally came. But when they tried to start some kind of IV, he just freaked out as soon as the needle touched him. I don't know, I didn't know he was scared of needles."
Shaking his head, he sighed. "I tried to get to him, and finally they were too busy to stop me. By the time I got next to his head, they'd tied him down and given him some kind of muscle relaxant." Eyes blazing, he turned to the others and growled softly, "They killed him. They knew that his heart wasn't working properly, they knew his body couldn't take it, but he just shot him full of that shit and sat back, congradulating themselves that he wouldn't be making a problem again."
Roger pushed himself out of his chair, pacing around the small room. Too angry to sit still in one place any longer. "And he died. Right in front of me. Opened his eyes and looked up at me and... And was just gone..."
Joanne looked up from comforting her distraught girlfriend at the sound of Roger's voice breaking. He'd stopped pacing, and stood, facing away from them, shoulders tight. "He's going to be all right, Roger."
"How do you know?" The question was whispered, childlike. Not quite trusting.
"Because I know him." She replied calmly, ignoring the tears on her own cheeks. A motion at the door caught her eyes, and she stared at the doctor looking in at them.
"Roger Davis?"
"Right here. Is he okay? Is he *alive*? Can we go see him?" Roger turned and advanced on the doctor, who stood in silence until the small outburst was over.
"He's alive." Holding up a hand as Roger started forward, the man warned, "Alive, but not awake yet. I have reservations about letting anyone in to see him just yet, but..." Clearing his throat, he glanced at Joanne, who simply raised a brow. "But I will make an exception, in this case. Just don't expect a reaction." Having said his piece, the doctor turned and started down the hall.
Glancing back once, Roger turned and followed without a word. Echoing in his head, the only words that mattered. 'He's alive.'
"Am... Am I dead?" Voice hoarse and halting, he narrowed his eyes, trying to see. But the figure remained blurred and unfocused. His mind tried to convince him that things were perfectly fine. That it was normal to wake up to a world of white with a figure clad in black watching over you. The only sound was a soft beeping to his right, as he waited fearfully for an answer.
"No, Mark, you're not dead." The voice was familiar, and he frowned at the quiet reply.
"Roger? What's going on? What are you doing?"
"Just waiting for you to wake up. They promised to bring a chair, but... You know nurses." Roger replied softly, gazing down at the man. He walked forward slowly, not wanting to frighten his friend. Remembering at that moment just why Mark would look so scared, so vulnerable. He reached into his pocket, and leaned forward, placing the glasses he'd been carrying onto Mark's face.
"Thanks." Reaching up automatically to adjust the lenses, Mark frowned slightly, gazing down at the blankets covering him. As everything had come into focus, he'd realized that he was in a hospital room. The walls and sheets were indeed white, but put in focus, not as frightening. Turning, he glanced to his right and took in the machine that was monitoring his heart. 'Not dead at all.'
"I wasn't going to wear these anymore." He said, tracing his finger over the bow of the glasses and watching the machine.
"I know." Roger perched easily on the side of the bed and studied Mark. It hit him how transparent he seemed. Pale and thin, almost wraith-like. 'He's been wasting away, alone. Did he ever try to tell me? I obviously never bothered to slow down and look. Did he think it would be a waste of time to even try?'
Shaking his head to banish the thoughts, he cleared his throat. "But you may as well. As long as they do some good." Watching Mark avoid meeting his eyes, he finally blurted, "Why didn't you tell me?"
Flinching slightly at the accusing tone, Mark lifted a shoulder. "I guess... I just thought..." Frustrated at his own inability to explain, he finally lifted his eyes to Roger. "Everyone already treats me like I'll break if they stare at me for too long. 'Poor Mark, hides from the world. Poor Mark, doesn't have a life. Be nice to Mark, don't want to hurt his feelings.' That's all bad enough, I don't need everyone's pity on top of that."
There was a lot he wasn't saying, Roger could see that. But he wasn't ready to push for the full answers. Instead, he sat back slightly, trying not to jostle the IV lines. Nodding to the needles taped to Mark's hand, he shifted subjects slightly. "I never knew you were scared of needles...?" Letting it trail off into a question.
Shifting uneasily, Mark shrugged slightly once more. "I never was. Dunno what brought it on." Closing his mouth tightly, he refused to say more, but his eyes landed on the tiny spots on the inside of Roger's arm, where it lay against the sheet.
To anyone who didn't know the man, they could be anything. Freckles, shadows, remnents of hospital stays due to the disease slowly eating him from the inside out. For that matter, people who didn't know him wouldn't likely notice them at all.
But Mark noticed, Mark knew. He'd seen what Roger had done to himself. All the shit that he'd pumped into his system, and the after-affects. Seen first the drugs, and then the illness. All from the needles he'd slid into his veins so carelessly. Mark had never been scared of needles before. Now, he couldn't even force himself into a doctor's office if he knew that a shot was involved.
Sitting in the silence following his question, Roger looked down, following Mark's gaze. When he realized where his eyes were, he stiffened slightly and unconsciously folded his arms over his chest. 'Because of me? My fault? Oh, Mark...'
When he finally looked back, meeting Mark's eyes, he was stunned by the fear and pain shining in them. They were studying his face, reading his thoughts like they always did. "Mark..."
Mark shook his head, looking away. "Doesn't matter. I just don't like them." Picking at the blanket, he asked quietly, "When do I get out of here?"
"I don't know. You only just woke up. I think they want to keep an eye on you for a while, to make sure that you're really all right." Roger slid off the edge of the bed, looking around the room, studying the bland walls. Suddenly unable to face Mark. He'd come back. Just like Mimi. Come back from death. And now that the shock of it was wearing off, he found himself wanting, just as he had wanted to with Mimi, to grab him and keep him close. To make sure that he was truly all there, that he wasn't going to disappear when his back was turned.
'Get a hold of yourself. He's awake, he's talking. He hasn't freaked out about the IV's, he hasn't freaked out period. He's going to be fine. It's you that's acting wierd.' Running a hand absently through his hair, he cleared his throat, glancing in Mark's direction without truly facing him. "I'll go find out, okay?"
Confused, Mark watched him withdraw into himself, and slowly nodded. "Yeah, sure." He tried to push down disappointment, and the fear of being left alone in this place. He hated hospitals, he hated doctors, he hated all of it. He just wanted to go home. 'To be alone again? Maybe not for a day, or two days. But he'll forget about this, forget about me, and go back to showing up at home once a week. Or whenever he and Mimi have a fight. My world's disappearing, and he's heading for the door.'
"Roger?" He called suddenly, startling himself. Immediately dropping his gaze once more as Roger turned to face him.
"Yeah?" Able to look at the man now that his face was averted, Roger studied him. Taking in the hands, usually so steady, trembling just slightly.
Mark wracked his mind, trying to think of a plausible reason for calling to him. Finally, he glanced up quickly, and said softly, "Thank you." He didn't remember much of what had happened. But from what he *did* remember, Roger had found him. Found him, and taken care of him. Most likely saved his life. 'Thank you' seemed so pathetic, next to that. But it was all he could say.
Holding his eyes for a long moment, Roger stood, stunned into immobility. Not knowing how to respond. Thank him? How could Mark be thanking him? He should be pointing fingers, screaming, blaming him for what had happened to him. But instead, he was looking up at him with those eyes, so easy to read, and thanking him. 'For what?!' He wanted to cry. Wanted to beg for forgiveness, promise to take care of him, never let anything like this happen again.
Instead, he grinned slightly and nodded. "Anytime." Before turning and slipping out the door to hunt down the doctor and demand answers.
Yet, he couldn't allow himself to simply walk away, even for just the night. Mark refused to leave the confines of the apartment. For the first few days, he'd holed himself up in his room and closed the door. He would never know how very close Roger had come to breaking in the door, if only to make sure that he was all right. If not for the occasional muffled sound, he would have done just that.
Roger had taken it as a good sign, then, when the man had finally opened the door. He wouldn't speak more than a few words, wouldn't make eye contact. But he was around friends. Naively, Roger thought that would be what brought him back to himself. Forgetting for a moment how it had been for *him*.
Secure in the knowledge that Mark was 'feeling better', Roger had agreed to go with Collins to 'their' ATM, and to the grocery store. Even after only three days, it had given him an intense feeling of freedom to simply leave the house.
When he came back, several hours later, carrying bags of food, he'd found Mark at his usual perch. Sitting at the window at the living room, staring down at the street below. This time, though, the window was wide open, frigid wind blowing past the man and through the apartment.
Mark had made no move to stop him from closing the window. Pulling his head back inside, he watched apathetically as the sash was brought down and locked securely. And then proceeded to ignore the rants of the confused musician.
Now, he stopped his pacing and leaned against the wall. Watching Mark watching the world pass by. It was all he did now. Refusing to eat, refusing to sleep until he collapsed at his perch. Only to wake up several hours later to watch the city transform with the coming night.
Eventually, the others had gone back to their own lives. There was nothing that they could do, and in the end, it wasn't their responsibility. Even Mimi had slowly drifted away. The last time she'd come up, it'd only been to start a low voiced hissing arguement about his 'obsession' with watching over Mark. She'd stormed out not long after that and not been back since.
'I don't know what to do with him.' Roger thought dully, arms crossed over his chest defensively. Tense and angry, and not knowing exactly why. 'If this was the way he felt when he was taking care of me, I don't know how he could stand it, I'm losing my damn mind up here!'
Pushing himself away from the wall, he stalked toward the still and silent man. "You need to go out. This is nuts." He said abruptly, his words sounding harsh and ugly in the stillness.
For a moment he thought that Mark wasn't going to bother replying, and he took a breath to continue when he heard the soft reply.
"You go out."
The words were simple, the tone as apathetic as everything else Mark had said in the last two weeks.
"It's not like you're fucking dying!" Roger snapped, stepping forward, eyes narrowed. "You don't even know really when it's going to happen. And you sit here staring out that damn window instead of going outside and taking it all in first hand. You could be out there living it!"
The words generated a reaction, if not the one that he was looking for. Mark turned slowly and looked up at Roger with horribly weary eyes. "When did I ever take in life first hand, Roger? When did I ever actually live life? You're the one that always told me I hid, I repressed, I lived a lie. Now, I don't have my camera to hide behind. So I decided that the window was a good substitute, since I won't be watching any of my films again anyway, now will I?"
Stunned, as much at the fact that Mark had finally broken his near silence as by what he'd just said. Roger had made those accusations, and more. But Mark had never brought them up before, never thrown them in his face. And the man's expression had never changed. He simply sat looking up at him, as if waiting for some sort of reply.
Finally, Mark shook his head. "No, this won't kill me. Nothing so simple as that. My world will just slowly fade around me. Eventually, you'll get awfully sick of just wandering around the apartment and watching out for me, and you'll make your way out of here. So I'm going to end up alone, in the dark, living in my own private nightmare. I would rather be dying."
Without waiting for a reply, he began to turn his back. Returning to the window and watching the street below. But Roger had seen the look in his eyes. Mark could school his voice not to tremble, he could make his face blank. He could do everything but conceal his eyes, and they gave it all away.
'He's terrified. He truly thinks I'm going to leave, that I'll simply turn my back on him and run.' At first he was hurt. Until it slowly came back to him that the thing he was best at was running away from any sign of trouble. First he'd run into himself, leaving only a shell for Mark to care for, like a mother or nurse. Then to Santa Fe, leaving his friend to deal with losing Angel, and with Mimi's steadily worsening condition.
'Where to now? What's left? If I start walking now, I can be in Alaska before next winter.' Disgusted with himself, Roger let the tension run out of him and moved forward hesitantly. Kneeling beside Mark and wrapping his arms around the smaller man's waist, his head resting against Mark's ribs. Roger could feel him trembling, and feel his heart racing against his cheek.
'What are you doing?!' His mind screamed. Refusing to listen, he simply sat there, holding Mark tightly as he continued to stare out the window. There were no words, nothing he could say to make this better. Nothing he could say now to take back the words he'd spoken all the times before to hurt his friend. He'd never stopped to think about it before. The words slipped out, and then it was over. They faught, they apologized, they moved on.
Thinking about it, though, *he* could still remember the painful words that Mark had thrown at him, mid-arguement. Why should it be any different for Mark? Especially considering that the slurs thrown at him were few and far between. He couldn't say as much for the screaming he did at Mark.
Pulled from his thoughts by a stiffled sound above him, he realized that Mark was crying. His heart froze for a moment, and he couldn't move. 'I'm no good at this! It should be Collins here, or Mimi. Even Maureen! I can't do this!' But there was no choice. Noone else was here, and noone would likely be coming up. It was up to him to set this right.
Standing, Roger swiveled the chair around. Ignoring the fact that Mark averted his face, unwilling to be humiliated, he rested his arms around the man's shoulders. He knew he'd done the right thing when Mark reached up and clung tightly to his shirt, pressing his face into his chest and crying quietly.
"It's going to be all right. Somehow, it'll work out. I won't leave you here, I promise Mark. God... Don't ever say you'd rather be dead. Don't even think it." Roger murmered, anything that came to mind, anything to stop the tortured sobbing. Staring blankly out the window as he tried to comfort his best friend. Watching the streetlights slowly fade in as the sun died once more over the city.
Roger began to pull away, attempting to look down, to speak, but Mark whimpered and clung tighter. 'I don't know what to do.' He thought wearily, resting his hands on Mark's shoulders. As much to reassure him of his continued pressance as out of simple frustration about his inability to help.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he finally became aware that Mark's grip had eased, and his breathing evened. An occasional shiver ran through him, but it seemed to be more of an aftershock. Relieved, Roger realized that Mark was finally drifting into sleep. Exhausted himself, he could think of nothing else to do but stoop slightly and lift the smaller man, carrying him to bed.
'He's so thin.' Roger thought. The bones of Mark's spine and ribs pressed uncomfortably into his supporting arm. He felt suddenly as though he were carrying a child. Mark had always been slim, but even glancing down at his face in the darkness, Roger could see the gauntness. 'I have to make sure he eats.'
Reaching Mark's room, Roger shifted, leaning to rest Mark on the bed. But as he stood to leave, the hand on his shirt tightened once more.
"Don't go?" More a question than a demand, the words were spoken in a shy, yet oddly frightened tone.
Afraid that Mark would be awake for the night if he disagreed, Roger nodded. 'Not,' he thought grimly, 'that I would disagree.' He knew all too well the horrors that waited, fangs bared in the darkness. Waiting for you to be alone before pouncing and tearing you to shreds. He understood terror, as well as the simple gratitude towards anyone who would keep the fear away. Even if only for one night.
Mark had played that role for him. Not just for a night, but for all his life, it seemed. Looking back, his life had been a nightmare from the beginning. If it hadn't been for the solid presence of his friend, he might not have made it through. So he made no protest, now that the situations were reversed. Instead, he slipped silently onto the bed beside his friend. Letting the man clutch his shirt. Lending his unspoken comfort.
Even when Mark's breathing finally evened out into that of true sleep, though, Roger could not follow his lead. Instead, he found himself remembering, back to the beginning of their friendship. They'd been an odd match from the start. There was Roger, brooding and sullen, disrespectful and rude, bruised and obnoxious. And then there was little Mark. With his timid smile, and glasses covering wary eyes. It looked to everyone as thought Roger looked out for him, though it couldn't have been farther from the truth. Even if Mark didn't know it at the time.
Mark had been his anchor. The only bit of sanity in his life, all through school and beyond. When life spiraled out of control, and hare-brained schemes of running away shifted to much darker thoughts of suicide and even murder, Mark had grabbed hold and saved him, without even realizing. Somehow, he'd gotten past his overbearing father and convinced his mother to let Roger come and stay with them. Probably on the basis that it was senior year, and they'd both move themselves out after graduation. As the bruises faded, the angry, hard to get along with boy managed to be polite, gratitude paving the way. For a little while, they'd been a family.
After graduation, the friends had drifted apart. With Mark going on to a year at the university, and Roger finally making it to New York City, they'd seen little of each other. Until the day he'd opened the door, and found Mark standing on his steps. With the same timid smile, and a camera clutched in one hand.
Just in time to save him from himself once more. Roger had come almost to expect it, and certainly to depend on it. Now, the roles were reversed, and he wasn't sure how to act. It was Mark who was the strong one. Little Mark, held their 'family' together. Held *him* together. And was falling apart himself.
For all his songwriting skill, Roger had never been good with words. Mark could speak for ten minutes and bare his soul. And somehow, in doing so, could make those around him do the same. Roger could never do the same. Even with those he was closest too... Even with Mimi. Everything came out all wrong, and left him feeling like a fool.
'I should call Collins. He'd know what to do.' But between the thought and the action, Roger finally fell into a light, restless sleep of his own.
When he woke, it was hours later, though still dark. Shifting slightly, he automatically moved to check on Mark. Only to find himself alone in the bed. 'Wonderful.'
Dragging his protesting body from the bed, he tripped his way out into the living room. Glancing automatically at the window, and then around the room. The bathroom door was standing open, dark and empty. Frowning, Roger made his way to his room, and peeked through the door. "What the hell?"
Striding into the kitchen area, he looked around for some hint. Until his eyes fell on a neatly folded piece of paper in the middle of the table. His name staring up at him. For a moment, he could only stare at it, his mind throwing out the absolute worst possibilities. Until he could stand it no longer, and opened the note with fingers that felt numb and distant.
**Rog,
I think that writing this letter is one of the hardest things that I've had to do. You'll probably never know how difficult it was, not to wake you up and say all of this in person. But I know you, as well as you know me. If I'd done that, I wouldn't have been able to leave. And I can't stay.
If I stay, then you will. When I first found out that I was losing my sight after all, I was terrified. Not only of a world of darkness, but of being alone. I was afraid that you wouldn't want the responsibility of watching out for me, taking care of me while I stumbled in trying to care for myself.
Last night I realized differently. I'm sorry that I didn't have enough faith in you. I should have known better. But this realization brought on a new fear. I don't want this to be your life, too.
I know that we don't speak of it much, as if it would go away if we ignore it. But you're sick Rog. Not bad right now, and that may last for some time. Who can say, right? What scares me is that you'll miss out on life because of me. That you'd focus on getting me through, and forget that you have so much that you need to see and do and be.
I don't want to know that I'm responsible for stealing what may be the best years that you have left. Selfish, probably. But I couldn't live with myself. Friends don't do that sort of thing, knowingly. And you know you're my best friend.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do now, or where I'm going to go. I know that I'm going to see it out to the end... Ha ha. Maybe do like you told me to last night. Go out and live in the world, instead of watching it second hand from a camera or window. Until everything is only black. And I know what comes after that as well. I just can't bring myself to write it down on paper, knowing that you'll be reading. Maybe if I still had the camera, it'd be easier. And leave you with something more lasting.
I'm sorry, Rog, I am. Maybe I'll call, or write while I can. If I can bring myself to do it, and if you'll still speak to me. But now I have to go. I can hear you starting to shift around in bed, and I know you'll be awake soon. Take care of yourself, please. If I've learned anything, it's that you just don't know. How much time you have, what's going to happen tomorrow.
No day but today.
Mark**
Roger sat down hard, legs going numb, and reread the letter. Words and phrases jumped out at him, and he realized that he was more afraid for Mark now than he had been when the man was missing. The words spoke of living life, but between the lines...
Dropping the letter back onto the table, Roger looked around the apartment. Everything seemed to be holding it's breath, in stasis. He knew that he should move, start calling friends, try to find Mark. But he couldn't bring himself to move. Even when he heard footsteps on the stairs, and a light knock at the door, he could only stare blankly at the collection of rooms that had once been home, but now seemed more a haunted, barren place.
The door behind him opened, and the footsteps continued to his chair. He tried to tell himself that Mark had come back, that he'd changed his mind. That he wasn't leaving Roger to deal with life alone. If he refused to turn, made the man speak first, then it would be okay. It would be Mark.
Instead, a small hand rested on his shoulder, and a bit of paper fluttered to the table before him. His eyes drifted over the familiar scrawl once more, and he couldn't bring himself to pull them away.
**Mi,
I love you, and I'm sorry. Go talk to Roger, please?
Love, Mark**
Short, but Roger thought that it said it all. Two small sentences, and everything was summed up neatly, and he'd have to speak to her. 'Not if it's Mark behind you. He could have brought the note back up. Realized that he was making a mistake. It might be him. It could...'
His frantic thoughts were cut off by a soft voice, speaking into his ear.
"Roger, what's going on? Where's Mark?"
He'd have to answer her, he knew that. But with disappointment crushing the air from his lungs, he could only stare at the table. Wishing that he still knew how to cry.
He was used to inactivity, of course. Especially in the early morning, when it seemed the world around him slept. Not that he'd been overly ambitious before, but he'd had *something* to do. Even if his friends and family hadn't understood. He'd had his film. Now...
Well, now he had a sparse little apartment just at the edge of Boston. A decision ruled by fear. Fear that Roger would spend what was left of his healthy life taking care of him. Fear that he wouldn't. Even worse, fear of returning to his parents. He was fairly sure that his mother would be agreeable. It was his father. His father who had kept him from visiting, even during the holidays. 'Mozeltov' indeed. Even kept him from answering the phone when his mother called the loft on her weekly basis. To the extent that when he'd actually called her to explain only that he was leaving the loft and to no longer call there, she hadn't recognized his voice. Believing for a moment that it was a crank call. Mark hadn't stayed on the line long enough to explain. Not sure that he'd be able to, even given the time needed. He loved his mother, but she, like all the others, wouldn't have understood.
With no phone, there was no way for her to reach him. And no way that his New York friends could somehow track him down. It seemed cruel, even to him. But he had to break away. And maybe learn that business of living while he had the chance to do it. Once he found his apartment, even smaller than the loft had been, his intent to learn to live had flown out the grimy windows. Windows that he'd spent much of his time peering out of. As winter faded slowly into spring into summer. The difference obvious in the sweltering heat of the small living unit, but not much changing in the view from the window. Boston was an ugly place. Dirty and grim and missing the vital quality found in New York City. A vitality that Mark hadn't thought he'd been any part of, until it was missing. Even living on the fringes, it was something that you couldn't help being pulled into. Here, with that missing, there was nothing to buffer him against the spiral into the ever present quagmire of bleak depression.
It wasn't long before the world outside the tiny windows began to fade, and Mark began to question the wisdom of the entire endeavor. Perhaps he'd been to quick to do something so final as to cut himself off from his only means of support, and only real human contact. Even something as once trivial as going to the grocery store was now a frightening venture. While he could easily manuvre about his apartment, with its sparse furniture and two rooms, anywhere else was almost impossible.
It was a year spent in misery, he reflected as the simmering heat of summer began to give way to chill once more. Of living alone, noone to talk to, or mor importantly, to listen to. No real work, watching life spin out from above. A year of fear and reflection. Enough time, he was sure, for whatever pain there'd been upon his leaving to receed. Enough time to learn to ride the system, bringing in enough disability to feed him, and to pay a young neighbor to do the grocery shopping. Enough to pay the rent. Sure that by taking this money, he was somehow selling out. Riding on the backs of those who worked hard, just so that he could stay alive. Making him that much more afraid to contact Roger, to let his best friend see how low he'd sunk and how fast.
The city was balanced on the very edge of winter. Lacking any real heating system, Mark was plunged into the cold just as he began the final spiral into complete darkness. It was then that he surrendered to the inevitable. Almost like giving in, finally. NOthing would bring back his sight, and he'd done just what Roger had said he would. Squandering the last bit of time substituting the glass of the window in the living area for his long gone camera. Memory, though, could not be erased as easily as vision. And the world was imprinted clearly in his minds eye.
Still, it was that surrender that brought him up to today. Fidgiting about restlessly, waiting for the knock on the door that would signal acceptance, forgiveness. Or the continued silence that would bring about the decision that had been stated so clearly between the lines in that note to Roger so long ago. Mark had found that in the end pride fell so much more quickly when pounded down by a terrible, aching loneliness.
So deep was he in his own thoughts, leaning up against a bare wall and staring blankly into space, that he failed to hear the door open. Or shut just as quietly, though he wasn't one to miss such things, normally. Often it was the difference between safety and, ultimately, an ugly death. The crazy love of life found in New York may not have been embedded in Boston, but the glaring poverty just below the surface was. And desperate people would kill just as quickly for the contents of a lax persons fridge. Normally Mark kept the door firmly locked, but today... Today was a special day. And though he knew it was far too early to expect anything, the door was unbarred.
The quality of the room seemed to change, though. As though the stale silence had broadened, deepened. Become something more, with a tang of sorrow and almost pity. Mark cocked his head to the side, still learning to take advantage of his remaining senses. Hearing a harsh, strained breathing that was not his own.
"Who's there?" The words, meant to be firm, came out almost tremulous, and he cursed himself inwardly. Straightening from his leaning position, trying to track the sound with his eyes, trying not to appear helpless. A semi-hysterical laugh was pulled from his lips as he walked easily to the one chair in the room and sank into it, feeling better with his back pressed against the cushions. "I know you're there, I can hear you breathing."
The words drew a surpised snort of near laughter, and footsteps approached. Closing in until they put the person nearly on top of him, then a strang shuffling sound, that of someone dropping to their knees.
"I missed you."
The voice was so caring, yet so familiar, that it brought a rush of tears to Mark's eyes. His exclamation of suprise and relief smothered as strong arms reached to envelope him from below, pulling him from his perch into a tangle of arms and legs and laughter on the floor.
It was some time before the laughter and babble of welcome tapered off into an expectant silence. One that lasted long enough for Mark to reach out carefully and find the face before him. To trace it's familiar lines with his fingers and palms. To utter simply, "Roger... I'm glad you came." Before words were cut off by tears. Of pain and joy, tension and relief, happiness and sorrow all at once. As once more he found himself sobbing into his friends' shoulder. IT wasn't the reunion he'd expected, but somehow... Somehow it was much more.
The additional commentary had been unnecessary to the decision. Of course Roger would go. For almost a year he'd searched the best he could. Worried and afraid that the lack of any communication at all would mean the worst. In contrast to what Mark believed in his heart, the pain of losing track of him hadn't receded. It was always there, pulled up whenever Roger glimpsed a man from the corner of his eye that could have been Mark, until closer inspection showed otherwise. Pain that doubled with the loss of Mimi, his precious Mimi. And tripled with the fading of Collins, who seemed to have given up as well. Though held on still, sounding almost himself when he heard of a letter from Mark. The mans disappearance had hit them all hard.
None, though, as hard as Roger. His rock had disintegrated and crumbled, leaving him adrift. With none to latch onto and carry him through the agony of watching Mimi walk away. No one to hold his hand and tell him that everything would be fine as Collins seemed to age and become more drawn with each passing day before his eyes. Even as his own health held and he continued to thrive, almost in spite of himself.
It was clinging to the knowledge that as long as there was no word, in the end there was still hope, that kept him slogging on. The loft seemed horribly empty and almost faded. With neither Mark nor Mimi to bring light to the rooms. Collins took to visiting often, and had all but moved in himself. Bringing with him company, if little else.
Now he stood outside a crumbling apartment building, and took a deep, bracing breath. Knowing that he couldn't let anything change. Couldn't fear this new Mark, or try to protect him, or everything could be lost. Though a year ago he'd been fully an adult, it felt to him as though he'd done all of his true growing up since then. And realized with sad certainty that even if he wanted it to be the same, it couldn't be.
'Then go up and make it better, or go run back to the loft like a kid running from shadows.' He berated himself, walking quickly up the steps. Surprised to find the lobby door unlocked, until he noticed that it'd been splintered, and felt a rush of fear for his friend. He'd been living here alone? For a year? 'Oh Mark, it didn't have to be this way.'
The apartment itself was easy enough to find. Roger was absently glad to see that this door at least had a good lock, as he lifted his hand to knock. Only to let it fall back to his side. He and Mark had been friends for nearly their entire lives. They'd left knocking for locked doors, and if he knew Mark at all... Going on his suspicion, he carefully twisted the knob, swinging the door inward and open. Stepping in and closing it quietly behind him, only to freeze at the sight before him.
Mark, leaning up against the wall, looking lost in thought. Thinner than he had been a year ago, more pale, and looking still a bit strange to Roger without the glasses that normally perched over his eyes. Wearing instead an almost full, if scruffy, beard. The sweater he wore looked new, but was the same style that he normally wore, and the corduroys were the same faded brown.
Though he hadn't moved since he'd stepped into the room, Mark suddenly seemed to sense his presence. His head cocking slightly to the side, his eyes seeming to track. But not quite landing on his face. At the words 'Who's there?' It finally truly set in. Mark couldn't see him. IT wasn't some bizarre, elaborate, and supremely unfunny joke after all.
Just as horror tried to set in, though, the man moved to a chair and cracked such a *Mark-like* joke that Roger couldn't help moving forward. Right up to Marks knees, before falling to his own. He couldn't help it, he'd been so afraid that he'd never see this man again. Afraid that the next time they came together, it would be to say goodbye. Now that it was hello, all that he could say was, "I missed you." Before grabbing Mark and pulling him down to hug him. If only to prove to himself that it was real. They were truly here, it was actually happening.
It was obvious that Mark felt the same way. Though now unable to see the scene as Roger did. When he reached out, Roger froze, not sure what he wanted or needed. Holding back tears as his friend used his hands as his eyes, mapping Rogers' face. Trying not to let the sorrow show through, trying to keep the smile on and normal. Almost glad when the tears started, so that his own could fall without notice. Now that he'd found them once more, it was impossible to hold them back. Especially when Mark began to apologize. For leaving, for making his friends worry. Making Roger hurt just that much more that he was going to have to pass on news that he never wanted to have to tell. That while Mark was learning to live without light, in a way Roger was as well. Mimi had left without ever knowing, or seeming to care, what had become of Mark. He knew that, and knew that when it sank in, Mark would blame himself. He always did. And he would ask. About all of them.
Even as he thought it, Mark was asking. "How is everyone? Mimi and Collins? Maureen? Joanne? Are they still together, is Collins still teaching, Mimi still at that awful club?"
It all came out in a rush, and Roger swallowed back the pain in his voice. "Well, that's quite a chunk of news..." Trying to sort it all out, starting with the easiest. And could only hope that Mark would ignore what was left unsaid, though it seemed too much to ask. "Somehow Joanne and the drama queen are still together. They finally went up to Vermont and got papers signed and everything."
Seeing the surprise and delight on Mark's face, he had to laugh. "You look like you don't quite believe it." He joked lightly, glad of the reprieve.
"Poor Joanne. Did Maureen drug her or something? They'll make each other crazy." Mark said, sounding almost darkly gleeful. Leaning against the chair with a foolish, happy grin on his face.
"Already happening. Every other week one or the other end up on the doorstep, swearing it's over and they don't know what they were thinking. But all it takes is the reminder that their marriage isn't valid in New York and that they can tear up the papers whenever they like. Then they gasp at the very thought and that's that for another week." Roger agreed, and joined in the laughter that came from it. For a moment putting grief aside and simply basking in being with Mark. IT was hard to shelve a year of worry, to put it away once it was no longer necessary. Half of his sorrow actually came from fear of what had become of Mark. With the man here with him, it should be a moot point, yet somehow it lingered.
Shaking the thoughts from his head, Roger continued. "Collins isn't teaching anymore. He was sick for awhile..." His voice trailed off, seeing the sudden fear cross Marks' face. "I think he's all right now. You know Collins, he's a fighter. But he moved back into the loft. And he's been writing." He couldn't keep the humor from his voice as he added, "Something like an Anarchists' Survival Guide. Even tells how to hot wire an ATM, in a pinch."
It set Mark off again, but his face seemed slightly wary as they both regained their calm. All things considered, Roger would normally have brought up Mimi first, even if they'd had one of their monumental fights. It was just the way he was. Mark knew that, and Roger knew he'd been playing along, though he couldn't understand what had truly happened.
'Or maybe he does.' Roger thought, when Mark as well didn't bring up the woman. Asking instead, in a hesitant and almost fearful voice, "And Benny? Does he still bother you about the rent?"
"I don't think I have to worry about him getting on my case about that anymore." Roger replied in a hollow voice. Before forcing a bit of lightness into it. "He does have a new Akita, though." He let that hand for a moment, until the inevitable question came.
"Not another Evita, I hope?" Marks' voice was still hesitant, but there was a smile tugging at the edges of his lips that lightened Rogers heart and made the entire process easier.
"No, get this. It's a male, so they named him..."
"CHE!" Spoken together, the word rang out, and there was another spontaneous burst of laughter. More laughter in an hour than there had been in the entire year proceeding it. It seemed to echo through the once still apartment, bringing with it a light that had been missing before. One that could be seen, even by the blind.
When the echoes tapered off, the silence drew itself out until finally Mark broke it with the final question. Already seeming to know the answer, but needing to hear it anyway. "Roger, how's Meems?"
"I'm sorry Roger. We don't have to talk about it now." Mark said, voice quiet. A blend of both comfort and soft despair. For the reprieve was not meant for Roger alone. Meems had been his love, but she had been Mark's light. On days when life seemed to claw at him, drag him towards darkness, she'd been there. When Roger had been working on a song and oblivious, she'd sat in silence beside him and watched endless reels of film. The night before Mark had left them all behind, her harsh words had cut him as deeply as any Rogers ever had.
Startled, Roger shook his head in denial. Mentally smacking himself when he realized what he was doing, he verbalized instead. "No, Mark she's not... She didn't die. Mimi's still alive." The words came out sounding shocked, but he could understand why Mark had made the mistake. The way he spoke of her, the way he mourned for her... She wasn't truly dead, but she was dead to him. He was in mourning, and it no doubt came through in his voice.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought, the way you... I mean..." Mark stumbled over his words, hand rubbing over his rasping beard, looking sheepish. "I guess it just sounded... Well. I feel like an ass."
"Well, if the saddle fits." Roger quipped with a small grin. Surprising himself at the sudden levity. Forcing himself to consider whether he'd truly been mourning the loss of a woman he'd loved for such a short time, or the disappearance of the friend he'd known for his entire life. And suddenly things weren't as clear as they used to be. Shaking the thoughts momentarily away, he added, "Seriously, *I'm* sorry. I guess it sounded as though... Nos, she's not dead. She... Left me. For, of all people, that prick Benny." That was what stung the worst, he realized. Not that she'd left him. No, they way they'd been fighting near the end, he could understand that. But she'd left for *Benny*.
Mark looked more than a little disgusted himself. He could imagine the man gloating at every opportunity. He'd known when he left that Benny's rocky marriage had been on the downward slope, but he'd never thought that even Benny would go so far as that.
"There's a bit of light in this particular story, though it took some time for me to see the humor in it." Roger said after a pause, picking up the story after giving Mark time to digest it all. "Not three weeks after they got back together, she left him as well. For Ginger, the lead dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, no less." There was a kind of grim pleasure in his voice as he stated this. Even so, he was surprised to see Mark trying to control twitching lips. "Something's funny?" He asked, voice colder than he'd meant it to be. Getting no satisfaction when the half smile immediately slipped from Mark's lips.
"No, it's not really funny, I'm sorry." Mark said contritely. "It's just... Benny always made losing Maureen so much worse than it had to be. Cracking awful jokes about how much she'd always been into men, and how it took being with me to change her mind." Another smile flickered, before disappearing completely as Mark sighed. "I guess I wanted to be happy that he's in the same position. Maybe if it was anyone else..."
Roger relaxed slightly. He'd liked to have thought that the reason he suddenly felt so much better about life was because Mark had just shown him that they were in the same boat. Nearly. But he knew that he'd be lying. Losing Mimi paled in comparison to finding Mark. Maybe she'd been right. Even Mimi couldn't compete with his best friend.
Attempting to avoid the melancholy that they both seemed to be falling into, Roger stirred from his cross-legged position on the floor. Reaching out without conscious thought to brush the back of his fingers over the soft hair on Mark's face. The beard had grown in too much to be prickly. Grinning at the obviously startled expression on the mans face, he said, "You're looking a bit scruffy, Marcus." Voice prissy and not a little Maureen-ish. Enough, anyway, to bring on a blush and self conscious laughter.
"Yeah," Mark admitted with a shrug. "Guess I've got an aversion to slicing off a lip or something." Not wanting to admit that he'd been scared. Scared to try to do it himself and not do it right. Dressing was easy. Tags in the back and on the inside. He'd never cared before if he clashed violently with colors and patterns, and he didn't care now. His hair had always been mussed, so swiping at it with a brush or his fingers didn't bother him either. But the idea that he'd miss patches of hair shaving and walk about without knowing it did bother him. Even more than the thought of cutting himself, though he'd never say it aloud.
He didn't have to speak the words though, for Roger to have a general idea of what the true problem was. Not wanting to pity him, he instead smiled once more, letting that and kindness and happiness at simply being here shine through in his voice instead. "Well, let me do it."
"What?" Startled again, he stared generally in Rogers direction. "You're going to shave me?"
"Oh, Pookie, you make it sound so *naughty*." Roger teased, voice lowering to an almost seductive purr. Inordinately pleased when Mark blushed again. Before making his tone more brisk, afraid that if he teased too badly, Mark would turn him down. "C'mon, I won't slit your throat. I manage my own stubble fairly well. Haven't killed myself yet."
Roger could almost see Mark's mind working back and forth. Between hating to have someone take care of him like an invalid and wanting to get rid of the unnatural feeling beard. The desire to be clean shaven once more won out in the end, and he nodded hesitantly. "All right, if you really don't mind."
"You know I don't." Roger replied quietly. Thinking of nearly a year spent in a fog of depression and withdrawal. A year that Mark cleaned up his messes, held his hand when he was terrified that he couldn't make it another day. Held him, when his body was wracked with terrible shaking. Sometimes he felt he owed Mark everything. His life, his sanity, sobriety, any chances of happiness. Everything. And everything that Mark would need from him now paled to that.
Chewing his lower lip, Mark nodded once more, gesturing towards the one chair. "It'll have to be out here. The bathroom isn't big enough for two." Uncurling from the floor with surprising, unconscious grace, he moved easily towards the chair. His knowledge of the tiny apartment granting Roger a slight reprieve from the numb horror that resided in the back of his mind at Mark's condition. For a moment, he could believe that everything was back to normal, and everything would be all right.
This lifted as Mark settled into the chair, looking slightly embarrassed. His eyes wandering almost aimlessly, never truly anchoring. Sighing, Roger stood as well and walked into the bathroom. It was barely large enough for just him, and he understood why they couldn't undertake this little adventure there. For a moment he was worried that Mark wouldn't have everything necessary. Until he found a mostly unused package of disposable razors, looking musty and somehow forlorn on the top shelf. Unexpected tears welled, and Roger blinked them back fiercely, grabbing what he needed and returning to the living area.
"Tilt your head back." He requested, waiting for Mark to do so before spraying foam into his palm and carefully smoothing the lather over Mark's cheeks and throat. Pausing for a moment to simply look down at the man. His head tilted back, eyes closed. Completely trusting. And suddenly wanted to bury his head in Mark's shoulder and sob. For all the fear and pain of the past year, for all he'd missed and all he'd never know. For all that Mark couldn't or wouldn't tell him about his slow journey into darkness.
"Rog?"
Mark's voice brought him back to the present with a start. Lifting the razor, he was surprised to see that his hand was steady. He contemplated the man for a moment longer, before shaking his head. "Won't work from back here. Scoot forward a little instead."
Unquestioning, Mark did as he was asked, sliding forward in the chair. Roger walked around and straddled his knees, resting on his legs, and reached to steady Mark's chin. Nearly sitting in his lap as he went to work. "Just don't sneeze." He said lightly, before carefully stroking up Mark's cheek with the razor.
Some time passed in silence. Roger working carefully, clearing the blade and making sure not to nick his friend. For some reason this simple task bringing forward a years worth of sorrow more than anything previous to it had. Even the first sight of Mark after the time had passed. It wasn't until he was nearly done with his task that he could bring himself to speak. The tears on his cheeks not as hard to shed as the words were to speak. "I missed you, Mark." His voice was slightly strained, and he was aware of how close they were for perhaps the first time.
Frowning slightly, Mark started to nod before thinking better of it. Instead simply replying just as quietly, "I missed you too."
"I know but..." Roger hesitated, both in voice and hand. Before plunging onward. "But you knew that you were alive. I was..." Looking away, as though Mark could see the shame in his face for the forthcoming admission. "I was terrified. I thought... I thought you'd gone off and done something stupid. I read that damn note and thought you were looking for a place to die." The words came out in a rush, stumbling over themselves to be spoken. Razor falling from suddenly shaking hands. Roger was surprised to realize that his entire body trembled. "We looked everywhere we could think of to look, but it was like you just... Disappeared. And I thought that by the time someone found you, and we heard about it, it'd be too late."
His words were met with stunned silence. Roger would have gotten up and moved away, if he could have been sure his legs would have held him. But his chest felt tight and painful, and his legs too weak.
Before he could gather himself together enough to move, Mark came to life. Reaching out carefully to pull Roger closer. Wrapping arms that held him tightly, despite their seeming frailty. Or maybe it was simply that he was weak. Or that he didn't want to pull away. Knowing that it was Mark holding him. *Mark* comforting. And Mark wouldn't berate him for his weakness. So it wasn't so hard to do as he'd imagined earlier, after all. Pressing his face into the curve of Mark's neck and trying hard not to sob like a child. Shoulders shaking painfully under Mark's hands.
"Shhh... I'm here now, and it's all right." Mark whispered, his breath warm against Rogers ear. "I never thought, I'm so sorry. All I could think was you didn't need me there, always in the way. Always needing you. I was afraid, too." The hushed admission sounded almost fearful in itself.
"Of what?" Roger asked. Voice muffled, because he felt safe and didn't wish to move. Although he was dimly aware that his larger frame must be uncomfortable for the smaller man to hold. Though if Mark was uncomfortable, he didn't say anything of it. Simply continued to grasp Roger tightly to him. As though Roger would somehow disappear, as he himself had.
"That you would end up hating me. That I'd be alone then, but... It would hurt more." Looking ashamed, he rested his cheek against the top of Rogers head with a sigh. "I guess I just ran first, to spare myself. And told myself that I was doing it for you."
