A fanfic by Theo
Rating : T
Pairing : Mark/Roger
Disclaimer : Mark and Roger don't belong to me. If they did, I would make them fall madly and passionately in love.
You never knew a heart could feel like this.
You've seen love a lot of times, you've filmed the way that Collins looks at Angel and gets all choked up.
You've seen the way that Roger got angry after April's death, the way he blamed her for everything, but we all knew it was because he missed her.
There are times when you think you miss April too, because he would listen to her. They would take their pretty little needles up to Cloud Nine and amongst their pretty little babbling, you would hear the serious undertones. The hesitant "I love you"s, said as if we were back in high school, back sitting in the table in the corner with the writing on the back of the chairs.
There are also times when you think life would have been a lot better if you'd never met April because then you know that Roger wouldn't have cried in the nights and he wouldn't be too scared of hurting anyone else to move on, but then you curse yourself for being callous and embarrass yourself at Life Support to punish yourself.
Sometimes you'd like to take a hammer to that guitar, to tell him to stop playing that goddamn tune over and over, that the note's just out of tune, he hasn't quite stretched his hands far enough. But then you know he'd look at you like he does with that look in his eyes and you wouldn't be able to help yourself, you'd fall apart right in front of him.
Fuck it Mark, you're twenty-seven years old now. Too young for the cynicism that the wise give romance, too old for the naivety you once portrayed. And yet, it's still there. Somehow, you just give and give and they take and take, until there's nothing left.
You miss the days of his withdrawal; selfish, you know. He would come crawling into the apartment at some god-awful time with that lazy smile of his and he'd just look at you. He never said anything, he'd just come to you and he'd allow you to wrap my arms around him, more for your comfort than his. He doesn't need you in the way that you need him. To you, he is your sanity, the one drug you need a fix of. You can sense his desperation behind his kisses, the salty tears that drip from his face as he asks me repeatedly where she is.
You lied when you said that he didn't talk.
It hurts more to remember that he used to punch your chest as you remained silent to his questions. There would be no use patronizing him in this state, he knows that she is not coming back. You know it isn't his fault, the shaking as you pour him yet another glass of water, the smashing of the glass on the floor as it falls from his hand. And yet, you cannot stop your jaw from clenching and for a moment, the rush of anger you felt almost thrilled you. This is the one boost you need, the icing on top of the fucking metaphorical cake, because everything in this cold, damp hell is metaphorical. There is no line between friends and lovers; there are no guidelines to cross.
Would he cry, you wonder, if you died? If you went out one day and never came back, iff the pay cheques from Buzzline stopped paying the rent. No, he wouldn't, you speculate, because he would have Mimi. Ah, the famous Mimi with her skin so taut you could see the bones underneath, her one claim to fame being the raw, red skin on her wrists.
You left the money on the table, not bothering to leave a note, because he would probably burn the note for heat. There was no romance in New York, you decided. It would be time to leave for sunny, sunny Santa Fe.
You never knew his heart could break like that.