It wasn't the thunder that woke him, though it could easily be mistaken for given the loud clanging coming from inside the penthouse. Mark's hands blindly reached out for the night table, feeling for the familiar frame of his glasses. Hastily putting them on, he ran a hand through his hair and leapt out of the bed. Was it an intruder? Collins? An animal trying to find refuge from the storm? He walked out of the room to inspect the situation. "Roger?" he called, wondering if his roommate too heard what happened. The hairs on his legs and arms stood up, the chill on his skin and bare feet against the cold floor. He was wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, despite the nights in the drafty apartment. It was summer after all, but the rain caused the room temperature to drop significantly.
His eyes widened at the sight of the apartment as he turned the corner. The whole place looked like a hurricane had passed through, furniture out of place, things strewn everywhere. What had happened? That question was soon answered with the sound of heavy, shaky breathing and the sight of his best friend, blonde waves reflecting the moonlight as he knelt on on the floor, the shuffling of various objects and papers being drowned out in the sound of the downpour hitting their skylight. "Roger, what are you–" he began, the musician becoming startled and glancing up at Mark from his position on the floor. He wore an expression Mark didn't think he had ever seen on his best friend. The pain in his green eyes was familiar of course, and seemed to deepen each day, but there was more. The look of guilt, maybe regret, amongst many other things one could find in the endless emerald abyss that was Roger's eyes.
"Where is it," came the voice, husky with a tone of irritation, laced with impatience. Mark was snapped out of his thoughts. "Where's what?"
"Don't play dumb with me." The musician's brows furrowed, anger now flaring in those eyes. He stood up from the floor, rising taller than his filmmaker friend. Mark looked down, feeling his face get hot as Roger loomed over him, intimidating as the moonlight cast a shadow on his bare torso. "Where did you put my stash?" Mark looked up quizzically at him. "What?" Suddenly he found strong hands pushing him back against the wall, trapping him. His roommate's voice came as a guttural growl. "Give it to me." He understood now. Mark's expression softened. He was suffering from withdrawal. He grasped Roger's wrists, trying to pry him off. "Rog, I know it's hard, but you're nearly five months clean. You're doing so well–"
"You have no idea!" came the reply. Mark faltered. He hated seeing his best friend like this, in so much pain. Roger continued, dangerously calm. "You don't know what it's like. I want to feel again. Anything. Anything other than this hurt. You don't know." His gaze stayed fixated on the floor, Mark at a loss for words. The only noise was now the rain crashing against the glass roof, and the rolling thunder. Before he could open his mouth to respond, offer reassurance and support, Roger's fingers curled around Mark's neck. A sort of strangled yelp escaped the filmmaker as the force tightened around his neck. "So now I'm asking," the musician spoke with cold eyes, "that you help me to take this pain away. Let me feel again. Let me have the high." Mark's eyes started to tear, the lack of oxygen to his brain making it hard to focus. "I'm not...going to let...you relapse..." he made out through grit teeth. His hands were now on Roger's, trying to loosen the grip. "Look, I know how you feel. Not in the sense that I've experienced your feelings, but I mean I know that those are your feelings. Collins, Benny, Maureen, they're all rooting for you. Because they want you to get better. And they don't want to lose you." He paused. "I...I can't lose you..."
This was not the first time this has happened, though granted it had been a while. He was sure it wouldn't be the last either, the last time he saw his best friend shaking on the floor, begging him to give in. Sometimes there was screaming, through tears. Times where Mark wasn't even sure Roger knew who he was or where he was, just that he needed to feel something. He would sit down next to Roger, hold him, stroke his hair, telling him it would be okay with such sincerity he almost believed it himself. Sometimes it would be thrashing and screaming in his own bed, and again Mark would be there until his breathing had steadied and he fell asleep again.
Roger's grip loosened, still shaking. His hand moved from a threat to a tender gesture, cupping Mark's cheek. Mark smiled and threw his arms around the others neck, burrowing his face in the taller's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Soon enough he found strong arms around his waist, pulling him close. They held each other, the raging storm outside turning to white noise. Mark's cold fingers traced over the muscles of Roger's back, his body shuddering from shaky breathing. He loved Roger so much. Breaking away to face the other, Mark pressed his soft lips against Roger's chapped ones. It started out as innocent, as caring, but then Roger's hands slid down from the other's waist to his hips, tongue delving into Mark's mouth.
Mark was taken aback at first, but soon became lost in the smell and metallic taste of Roger. He moaned against the other's mouth, hands driving into the dark blond waves, tugging him closer. Roger began to pull away, trying to catch his breath, but Mark gave a sigh of resignation that wrung into a groan, and pushed back, kissing with more fervor. They couldn't get a satisfying enough taste off of each other. Roger's legs caught the edge of the couch, and fell back. Mark straddled his lap, only breaking away from kisses for Roger's calloused hands to slide up the smooth skin, tossing his t-shirt off. It was too easy for the two to get caught up in the heat, hips grinding together, creating friction. They were desperate to lose themselves in each other, to stop this numbness that shrouded their lives. Even if it was only tonight.
Mark's teeth kneaded over Roger's bottom lip as he ground down faster on the growing arousal, the other's hips moving up to meet his. Mark broke away, breathing heavily as Roger's hand dipped into his boxers to grasp his erection. As he began stroking, Mark's head canted to the side. Roger took the opening to press his lips against his neck, tongue and teeth gliding over the muscle to leave prominent bruises all over the pale skin. Mark moaned, the liquid heat on his neck as well as the agonizingly slow strokes of his dick causing his head to reel with pleasure. He could feel it, pooling at his abdomen. A breathless gasp escaped Roger, almost sounding like Mark's name.
Mark's body shuddered as he came hard in the other's hand, Roger biting down on the smaller's collarbone to leave yet another mark. He shifted on Roger's lap, earning a growl as he felt the musician's neglected length through his sweatpants. Even though Roger's eyes were closed, Mark could still see the hurt in his face. He needed Mark to take the pain away. Roger's eyes opened, looking into Mark's. Those sharp blue eyes, worn with such soft expression...he couldn't do this to him. He didn't want to put his best friend at risk for suffering from the very disease that was killing him. How could he live with himself, knowing that he did such a thing? God, his mind was a mess. He was so tempted, not only from carnal desire but also anything to make him feel. "I...we can't..."
Mark grabbed Roger's face, and smiled weakly. "I don't care. You're my best friend, and I love you." He eyes slid closed as he pressed another chaste kiss on Roger's lips. After pulling away, he wrapped his arms around the taller's neck in a hug, and whispered in his ear. "I'll help you in any way I can. I'll try my best to take your pain away." They leaned in for another kiss, the message clearly received. This time it was Mark's turn to take control, tongue tasting every inch of the musician's mouth. Moaning against Mark's soft lips, he stood, hoisting the filmmaker up. The smaller's legs wrapped around Roger's waist as he was carried to his bedroom.
Roger's room had a worse draft than Mark's. Not that they cared, Roger dropping his roommate on the bed and looming over him. They stared at each other smiling, moonlight casting shadows on their faces. Roger took Mark's glasses and tossed them on the box that served as a bedside table. He then kissed those sweet lips before dipping low, lips barely grazing over the taut muscle of his neck. When he reached Mark's Adam's Apple, he bit down and sucked to leave yet another hickey on the pale canvas that was the filmmaker's body. This earned him a breathless moan, Mark's hands tracing abstract patterns over Roger's back. Nimble fingers ran over the muscles of his back, feeling each contour, the dip of the shoulder blades. Roger then trailed kisses all along the smaller's torso, pausing at the naval. His hands slid down Mark's sides, fingers hooking into the band of his boxers and yanking them down, erection exposed. Mark let out a whimper at the gesture, expression pained with anticipation. Roger smirked, eyes hungry and challenging. He kissed the prominent hipbones, tongue gliding over smooth muscle. He left marks trailing up his inner thighs. "Roger, please."
The filmmaker couldn't stop the words from escaping his mouth, head too far gone in heat to think clearly. How could Roger resist when his best friend's request was a plea? He took the other's length in his mouth, feeling hands grip his blonde waves of hair, tugging at the scalp. His hands were keeping Mark's hips steady, restraining him from bucking up into his mouth. He hummed around the shaft, bobbing his head. He could feel each shudder run through Mark's body as he let out each shaky breath, along with the musician's name. The feeling of Mark's hands through his hair, pulling him deeper and his desperate voice only added to his arousal. When he could taste the pre-cum on his tongue he pulled away, licking the tip, causing Mark to growl in annoyance at the loss of heat. "F-fuck, Roger..." he panted, the musician getting off of him for something in a drawer. Freeing his own erection from the confines of his sweatpants, Roger grabbed a condom and put it on. He knew he was taking a risk, but Mark knew that too. Roger hesitated. Mark propped himself on his forearms, noticing Roger's reluctance. He took the musician's calloused hand, and brought it to cup his cheek. They locked eyes, the broken green ones meeting the helpless blue. They came to some silent understanding that they both needed this, needed each other. Roger didn't know how to feel, with his mind a mess from withdrawal and lust and passion. He knew he loved Mark. Maybe that was enough.
Mark's head leaned into Roger's hand, dragging his chapped lips over the calloused skin of his hand. He peppered kisses all along Roger's wrist, down the palm, and then his fingertips. He kissed them before taking the index and middle in his mouth, sucking on them in attempt to cover them with his saliva. Roger sighed, the warmth reminding him of his impatience. After he decided they were generously coated enough, Mark let go. Roger then crashed his lips on the smaller's, as his digit probed inside him to stretch him out. Mark was moaning against Roger's mouth, trying to lose himself in the taste and smell of Roger and not focusing on the foreign discomfort. His hands still held on to the blonde waves, pulling him deeper into the kiss to taste every last bit of each other's mouths. Another finger entered, and Mark bit down on the musician's bottom lip, sucking hard. It was an uncomfortable burn, and he reminded Roger of his own restlessness with pleading groans.
A hiss escaped Mark through clenched teeth from the loss of heat as the fingers were withdrawn. Roger hooked one hand behind the smaller's knee to spread his legs and the other holding Mark's neck. Slowly he began to enter him, and hands held on to his back, blunt nails digging into his back muscles. Roger's tenth ground together, the dull pain of the scratching and the tightness and heat of Mark making him lose his mind. His fingers curled, bruising Mark's neck. On Mark's end it was all pain. The fervor from the friction, the feeling of literally being split in two was just so much. But Roger wasn't impatient, and he let him adjust and pulled out just a bit before thrusting back in, a short moan vacating his lips before the hand around his neck closed even tighter. The pain, the heat, the hard but slow thrusts, and the fingers crushing his throat caused his eyes to mist, not being able to think straight with the lack of oxygen. But it wasn't all aching agony, for as Roger thrust at the right angle, hitting those nerves that turned pain into pleasure. Mark cried out, head reeling in ecstasy. Message clearly received, Roger's pace quickened, abusing that same spot over and over again. He felt himself coming undone, Mark's name endlessly rolling off of his tongue. His own name was called out in raspy breaths. Mark let out a strangled cry as Roger came, fingers crushing his throat. He rode out his orgasm, driving Mark to his, and stayed hovering over the other with heavy breaths. His grip loosened, moving up to ruffle Mark's own blonde hair as he pressed a shaky kiss on his lips. After getting up to clean them off, he laid down, face buried in the crook of Mark's neck, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took. Mark placed a kiss on Roger's forehead, nimble fingers carding through the blonde waves. Soon Roger's breathing steadied with light snoring.
Mark didn't sleep, not yet. He would stay awake wondering why he had to watch as his best friend slowly fell to destruction. He wanted to be there for him. But what if he couldn't? What happens when the disease takes over, and he's truly left alone? He didn't want to see that. But he couldn't leave. That night, in that moment he vowed not to focus on the future, or dwell in the past. Every day could be Roger's last. There's no day but today. His own vision grew dark, and he found himself asleep.