it's new year's eve, moments before midnight. roger is huddled closely on the couch with april, maureen, and collins, the four of them passing a quickly-emptying bottle of champagne back and forth down the line until there's no more of it to be had and maureen, having downed more than her share of the bottle, throws it up in the air, screaming "happy new year!" and diffusing into drunken giggles as it hits the floor and shatters.
mark, who'd been asleep in one of two rusted folding chairs that had inexplicably made their way into the loft some time ago, wakes instantly, glaring at maureen as he diagnoses the situation. collins is already attempting to usher her to bed; maureen insists on being carried.
"jesus," mark growls, voice deepened and gravelly with sleep, and then wordlessly crosses to the couch, laying down on roger's non-april side and immediately burrowing under their fat plaid comforter. he falls asleep again in a matter of seconds, head slumped uncomfortably onto the couch's armrest and legs draped across roger's lap.
it is at this precise moment that roger first ponders the notion that maybe he's in love with mark.
but then, he reminds himself, he's pretty drunk, so nothing that he thinks he feels now is necessarily steeped in any reason.
sometimes he'll leave and cry. sometimes he'll go to somewhere desolate and talk into the familiar, battered lens for hours, knowing full well he'll look at the footage later and tape over it all in acute embarrassment. sometimes, if it's late at night and he's alone, he'll jack off. to nothing in particular, really, just abstract thoughts of his name or his laugh or his forearms.
most of the time, though, mark just pretends it's all fine, moves on with his life, and waits for the urge and the hurt and the lust and the love and the need to all pass.
he's put up with all of this shit for months now, pretending he doesn't notice or coming home late or just shutting up and setting to work like the night shift janitor. it's mark's birthday when he finally decides to give himself the present of going fucking berserk and kicking out the three junkies in his house whose names he doesn't know and who he's never seen before and throwing all the needles he can find down the garbage disposal and hurling a thick stack of books at roger's head, one by one, screaming everything he's ever thought on those long late nights of mopping vomit and heroin out of the carpet until he runs out of diatribe fodder and just howls at him to get out get out get out get the fuck out i don't care where you go roger i don't care just get out get the fuck out of here
he doesn't say anything, just collapses into mark's arms the instant he opens the door. mark is trying to steady him, grabbing him by the shoulders and roger can't find the breath to even begin to explain. he keeps saying "oh god" again and again and clinging to the fabric of mark's sleeves and mark keeps saying "what happened?" and roger's not sure that he knows.
"i called 911, i called and they said they... i mean, shit, i tried but she... the door was locked, mark, the door was locked and i didn't think anything was wrong..."
he makes the bed. he cleans him up. he makes him food in the knowledge he won't eat it, just tries and tries until roger finally gives in and winds up throwing it all up later. he takes mrs. davis's worried, teary phonecalls. he takes the occasional beating in roger's fits of passion. he doesn't know which is more painful. he reads to him. he talks to him. he stays with him the whole way through, over six fucking months of blood and vomit and sweat and tears and bruises.
and she gets him out.
"oh my god, roger," she howls. nothing he says is really audible, just blurry, heavy syllables and frantic grunts that keep the time. mark can hear the sound of the headboard squeaking. if it weren't for the walls, he thinks, squirming uncomfortably, they would probably be just inches apart.
now he can hear roger, too, over the sound of mimi's wails that all sound to mark too practiced, like they come pre-recorded with the profession. "jesus," he's growling, "oh, jesus christ..."
mark wants to go out for a smoke or something but he's afraid, genuinely terrified of disturbing them on the chance he'd have to see one of them in that aggravated state of half-dressed 'do-you-mind' coitus interruptus. he wouldn't know what to do.
instead he turns over in bed and reaches for the marlboros on his nightstand, lights one there in his room, and wishes he was dead or asleep or anywhere else except alone in his bed at 2:41 am, listening to roger's voice, muffled and desperate as he comes.
"i'll call," he says hesitantly, watching as mark does that thing he does when he's trying not to cry, looking up and blinking a lot and running a frantic hand through his hair.
he's very polite about it, which is almost more shocking than the fact that oh dear lord in heaven it's finally actually happening. they're out on the fire escape late one night, smoking and sitting in a comfortable silence when roger goes right out and asks, "mark. can i kiss you?"
there's no possible way to condense what he's feeling right now or how long he's wanted this into one concise response, so mark just puts his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and says, "yeah."