Mark is aware, when the whole thing starts, that it's going to end badly.
Everything with Roger seems to end that way - slammed doors and finger-shaped bruises around delicate wrists, angry voices, sobbing, a girl dead in the bathtub. Sometimes Mark wonders why he likes Roger at all (why he loves him like this) but then he catches that hint of a smirk and he's hooked, drawn in, and it begins again.
"What are you doing in my room?"
He doesn't breathe, doesn't whip around and stare like he's guilty of murder. He knows better. He's always known better, better than all of the girls that came before him. April and Mimi and an endless string of groupies dating back to god knows when - Roger was probably getting laid at twelve, with his personality. And Mark, Mark knows he's in trouble no matter what he does now, as calm as he can act now.
So he'll just have to take it, then, won't he?
"I'm looking for my jacket," he says in response. (calm, calm, I am calm) And continues rummaging. As if he's not in Roger's space, as if said man isn't standing in the doorway like a death omen, probably getting ready to punch him in the mouth for coming in here when he wasn't home.
Collins would punch Roger in the mouth if he were here but he's not, never is anymore.
He hardly has time to brace himself for the footsteps, three of them, long strides and boots falling on the ratty carpeting and a hand hard on his shoulder, calloused fingers clamping and yanking him back to his feet. He holds back a wince, adjusts his glasses with the arm he still has free, and looks at him. Fearless.
(scared shitless)
(but then, he has to be most of the time)
"What the fuck, Mark," and now he's really angry, eyebrows drawn together and teeth bared.
"I'm just looking for my jacket," he says again, and doesn't shrug him off because that would be a Bad Thing to Do. He's seen it countless times, with Mimi and April and all of those girls far braver than he is, stupidly brave, thought they could just act however they wanted to in Roger's space.
Roger is like a cat, he reasons. He needs his space. Needs his privacy. Mark should have known better, timed it better. He could have done this half an hour ago, would have had time enough to be gone when Roger got home, already at the Laundromat scrounging around for quarters left on the floor.
"I told you to stay out," he shouts, and his fingerprints are going to be purple on Mark's shoulder for the rest of his life, probably.
But still, Mark doesn't let his voice waver.
Roger doesn't mean it. He's not trying to hurt him.
He squeezes harder and releases him, practically throws him away as though he's disgusting, eyes tight and voice tighter, dangerously low. "Just get out," he snaps, and Mark doesn't even open his mouth to complain, doesn't smile nervously.
He leaves, goes to find his camera. Roger's door is slammed shut.
Stilted strumming and the twang of a broken guitar string, Roger's cursing, echo through the loft and into Mark's room. He stares down at the cold metal in his hands and doesn't breathe, just wonders when the ache in his heart is ever going to subside.
Roger loves him, doesn't he? That should be enough.
He supposes that it's his own fault he feels like this.
Later Roger comes in to apologize with his body. It goes unspoken, communicated in moans and rough thrusts, rough hands between his thighs and clamped on his hips, that Mark's room is his, too. Mark is his.
I'm sorry, he says, mouthing just under his ear, and Mark believes him.
I'm sorry, Mark says, broken, as tears streak his face in the darkness, and Roger just gives him that half smirk again, the one he's always falling in love with.
Yeah, Mark thinks, it's probably his own fault he feels like this.
Because Roger loves him too much to hurt him like that.