It's not like it's anyone else's business what he does with his body. At least, that's what he tells himself - he's his own person, he makes his own goddamn decisions. (and fuckups, and stupid words, and shut up Mark just shut up, why do you ever open your mouth-) They don't have to know, anyways, and that's why they don't.
Nobody can keep a secret like Mark Cohen.
Nobody feels as horrible as Mark Cohen, either. He imagines in the daytime as the fabric of his sweater snags on scabs and scars, drags like fire each time he moves over fresh wounds still weeping, that he is the only one in the world who feels like they're dying with every breath they take. And he plows on. He lives. It's astounding, how much he can put himself through, when even breathing makes him suicidal. He would pat himself on the back, if he could stand to remember that he was himself.
Roger doesn't know. That in itself is impressive, considering Roger seems to know everything about him. He knows things that Mark doesn't even know - how he scratches his nose with his left hand and never his right, the count of words before he begins stammering in conversation with a stranger.
Roger doesn't know that Mark turns the faucet on and sits curled up on the bathroom floor, staring at the stain on the side of the tub from April's final performance as he digs the razor into his wrist.
Roger doesn't know that lies in bed and bites his bicep until his jaw aches, that he's got a stash of his own beneath his bed, knives instead of needles. Old razors and blades from the insides of dollar store pencil sharpeners, wires from spiral bound notebooks, staples all bent out of shape.
Roger doesn't know that he hates himself so much that he can't breathe, sometimes, and that it hurts all the more when he has to inhale.
Mark tells himself that he's just taking the edge off, that everyone must feel this way once in a while. It's not as though he believes it, but it's a nice notion, and Roger doesn't know anyways.
He has the feeling that he's going to be in deep shit the day Roger knows.
The thing is, though, that Roger does know. At least he does one Tuesday when he comes home from work to find blades glittering, scattered across the floor, and Roger's flushed face in his as he yanks him inside and slams him against the wall. There is screaming, there is crying, and his sleeves are nearly torn off in his desperation for it not to be true.
Roger knows and he sinks to the floor with his head in his hands, sobbing. Roger tends to be overemotional. Roger tends to make everyone into April, but it doesn't seem like that's what he's doing right now. Mark can't make out his words anymore, so he slides down the wall and sits beside him.
Sometime in the next few days Roger takes his hand and brings his arm up to his face. He's pale as he scrutinizes them, the brands of his emotion on his skin, and when his lips press delicately to the first of them Mark thinks that maybe Roger knowing isn't such a bad thing after all.