Author's Note: This story is being written in collaboration with rexmanningdays. We thought it would be fun to write a Mark and Roger story in the 1950's- when Bohemia is first forming in New York City. We made Mark a Beatnik, like Allen Ginsberg before him, and Roger, rather than a rockstar, is a traditional jazz musician playing clubs and poetry slams. Not only that, he is also running off to voluntarily fight in the Korean War- which has commenced a few months prior. Mark cannot find reasoning for Roger's sudden bout of patriotism, and is absolutely devastated. Yes, this IS slash...the boys are in love. But homsexuality is not something most people are aware of (or accepting of) in this era, and they must keep their love under wraps- kind like, 'Rebel Without a Cause'. Our story begins a few days after Roger breaks the news to Mark, when Mark is home from college for Christmas vacation. Being a beatnik, Mark is anti-war and wants nothing to do with any of Roger's choices. The cafe' Roger refers to in this chapter is the Gaslight Cafe', a frequent Greenwich haunt of Neal Cassady and Ginsberg in their prime. This is our tribute to the fifties, and the boys. Hope you enjoy!

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Chapter One: Mark's POV. December 19th, 1950

It must be 20 below outside. The hyacinths I put in the windowsill are starting to precipitate and little flimsy bridges of ice are forming between the bulbs and the vase. There's a nasty draft seeping in through the windowpane, and when I move the curtains I notice that the sill is damp and beginning to collect mold. The back of the curtain is getting a little green and flaky, and the lace along the bottom is full of little frozen moldy green curls. I wrinkle my nose and stuff the dishtowel in the soggy crack and leave it there.

Suddenly Roger's awake. Somewhere in the back of the apartment there's a muted 'thump', the boards between the bedroom and the hallway creak, and then the bathroom door slams shut.

It's about time he's up. But now I have to hurry with supper.

I'm making salmon patties. I'm not even sure if Roger likes fish, but it's too late now, even if he doesn't. He only had a few tablespoons of olive oil in his cabinet, and now it's already in the bowl. If he wanted something else he could go buy it. He needs to quit being so picky, especially since I volunteered to do this for him.

I roll up my sleeves, and my bare arms immediately protest, goose bumps creeping up to my elbows. I watch as every hair stands briefly, before adjusting to the temperature and calming down. Roger doesn't have a can opener (which isn't a surprise), so I have no choice but to stab at the 14 oz. can of salmon with a kitchen knife, giving it several puncture wounds and leaking brine all over the countertop. I toss the spouting can in the bowl and let it leak, fumble for the dishtowel, and realize it's plugging the draft. The brine, and the little bits of pinkish salmon drift over the marble counter and drip onto the floor, seeping into the floorboards and out of sight.

The toilet flushes.

I set the mixing bowl over the leakage and pry open the side of the can, squeezing the piles of fish out a fairly large slit in the tin. Then I begin kneading the salmon into good-sized patties and toss them into the pan.

Behind me a lighter clicks and the stink of a cigarette mixes with the smell of frying fish.

From the doorway, "What is that?"

"Fish."

"Oh."

"You sleep well?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not for fish."

If only I would've followed my hunch. He really insists on being negative. I decide against turning around.

I grab the vase of hyacinths by the neck and gently holding the stems, dump the glacial water down the drain. A little brown spider no bigger than my pinky nail scuttles out of the roots and up a leaf. What was he doing on the roots? They were submerged, poor thing. I take the recipe card and scoop the little thing into it, bending it to form a C shape, and holding him in. He runs frantically, instinctually in a chaotic circle over the words, stopping to collect himself on 'three tablespoons'. Then he splays his legs and allows me to carry him to the balcony.

"What are you doing?"

"I found a spider."

Tired footsteps follow me to the door, and the recipe is snatched from my careful grip. Two seconds later it's back in my hands, badly crumpled, with a tiny brown smudge over the measurement.

Very calmly, and with a hint of annoyance I ask, "Why did you do that?"

He sighs. "What were you gonna do with it?"

"Let it outside!"

"In the snow?"

I don't say anything.

"To let it freeze to death? At least I killed it when it wasn't suffering."

I slowly face him.

"Either way we both would've killed it."

He glares at me smugly and settles into the only chair at the table, resting his chin on his fist.

"Hey Mark- what's that on your shirt? It looks like you've got a chip on your shoulder."

I swallow. It doesn't make a sound, but my Adam's Apple slides and Roger watches it. He chuckles quietly. Evilly.

I restrain myself from lashing out at him, coolly turning back to face the windows and staring at the pile of snow balancing on the tree branch outside. Very smoothly, but still with a hint of agitation I utter, "Supper won't be ready for another fifteen minutes."

He shrugs, still staring at me, searching my face. "That's all right. Do you need any help preparing?"

"No, I don't."

He blows a stint of smoke out of his nose and waits for it to disappear before speaking again.

"Do you want company?"

I whirl around, almost too fast. I didn't want him to see me this angry, but I can't hold it in anymore. I'll just let him do what he pleases with my vulnerability. There are some things that I need to say.

"What do you think? Really Roger. Think. Just think. Do I want company? Your company? Now?"

"Can I talk to you over dinner then?" He smirks. Damn him. Damnit!

I shake my head and sift the fish around in the pan. The oil sizzles and pops and I have to speak over the noise. The smell wafts out in a white steamy cloud and blows over to Roger in the draft from the window. He pulls back, squinting in disgust, turning a little green in the face. Suddenly I'm glad I made fish.

"You only have one chair Roger. And unless you'd like your houseguest to dine on the floor, then I suggest you just eat alone tonight. Think things over yourself."

He pouts, still smirking. "I eat dinner alone every night. I'll only get to see you for three more weeks. I want to talk to you."

I remove my glasses and hold them at my side. I tend to do this when I'm on edge. I face Roger but I don't see him. "Why?"

"Well. There's nothing more to explain, but you can't hold a grudge forever Mark," He laughs it off. Like I'm a child at fault.

Why must he be so conceited?

"…There's nothing you can do anymore. I made up my mind. For myself! For once. You're just mad- ha- maybe you're jealous because I made a decision without your influence."

"Roger!" I slam the pan onto the burners, making the flames jump. Roger cringes at the little flare of fire. "But you didn't even tell me! You waited till now to tell me! Three weeks Roger, and now you break the news."

My eyebrows form a 'V' and my retinas start to burn. I try to keep a steady voice. I want to sound as smooth as Roger looks. I want to be as calm as he is. As he's always been. How does he do it? How can he keep so cool? To be so damn stoic, all the time? I want that kind of impudence. I want that kind of control. I want that kind of bravery. Something clicks.

"Do you think you're being brave?"

"What?"

"Because you're not." I punch on the little radio I bought him last Christmas.

The timing of the broadcast couldn't be more perfect. Benny Goodman's brassy voice crackles into the kitchen over the sputter of dinner cooking away:

"…a command post above the Naktong River last week. The woman warned the 1st Calvary on the Sousa March to '…go back home to your corner drugstores. Already there are 6,000 U.S. dead."

I literally punch the off button. He looks from me to the radio and raises his eyebrows. There's a vacant stare, his pupils quiver in anticipation of my breakdown. I nearly squeeze my glasses to pieces in my sweating palm. I toss them on the counter and push on my eyelids. Roger sits back.

"Six thousand Roger!" Here's the breakdown, impulsive yet envisioned. Is it just me or is he reveling in it over there? I want to shut my mouth. I want to knock myself cold. I want him to knock me cold- anything but calmly stare at me as I lose it.

"That's not bravery! That's not…" There's nothing else to say. "That's stupidity! You're… You're just- damn stupid."

I find myself sitting on the floor with my back to the cabinet door. The little wooden knob presses into the nape of my neck and I push back at it, just as hard. If I can't fight Roger I'll fight the door handle…

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he pushes the chair out from under him in one swift motion. The corner of his mouth twitches, first up, then down, then remains soullessly cold and straight. He pushes his hair back through his fingers, rotating his shoulder blades in a little ellipse. Then he's back in the doorway, still as stone, smoking, just like he came in.

"You can't go!" I'm wailing. Like a baby, I'm calling from the floor like I'm helpless and powerless, which, in every way, I am.

"Three weeks Mark. Twenty-one days, as of yesterday. I'm counting. You should be too. You're wasting a good fifteen minutes sitting down there." He sneers and jerks his chin at the stove. "You're also wasting the fish. I really hate fish."

Defeated, I pull myself out of the brine puddle on the floor and turn off the burner, replacing my glasses and pelting the slashed-up can into the other basin of the sink.

I shake my head. All I can do is shake my head.

My voice cracks. Already I'm repentant. "…Well, you don't have anything else to eat-" I swing my hand to indicate the cabinets. "What do you… what are you gonna eat?"

"I'll go out. To get coffee. I don't need-"

"You don't need what?"

"Guilt. Whining. Feeling wrong."

"You are-"

"I'm not."

"I told everyone I'd meet them at the Gaslight. We're having a session-"

"In Battery Park, I know."

"You're coming?"

I snort.

"Go to the café Roger," I turn away yet again and smile in mock apathy. "Drink coffee. Talk to your 'friends'. They understand you I guess, better than I can. Meanwhile I'll just…dump this fish. It's one less meal you'll have in the IX Corps. When they find you starved in a fucking trench I bet you'd have been wishing for a pan of salmon."

"Save it."

"Save it till when? Three weeks? It'll be too late."

"I gotta go."

But you can't Roger. You can't...