When Mark walks through the door, Roger is trembling so violently that for a moment he seriously wonders if Roger's relapsed. He is sitting on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, muscles tense except for where he's shaking, and he doesn't even notice Mark's entrance until he slams the loft's heavy metal door with a clang. Then Roger jumps, and quickly struggles to look normal, reaching for his guitar which is leaning against the side of the couch.
Mark frowns. Whatever's going on, Roger doesn't want him to know. With Roger, this usually means that Mark should know. "Roger," he says softly, in a stern tone that can leave no doubt that he knows there's something wrong. "What's going on?"
Roger tries to look innocent when he looks at Mark, but his eyes are bruised and terrified. The look on Mark's face tells him he's failed. "Mark," he rasps, uncertainly. "Look, I… I love you."
"Love you too," Mark answers, soft and shortly. "But I think I need to know what's going on, Roger."
"It's… it's just… we knew it was coming, Mark," Roger says in a tiny voice, and Mark's stomach sinks. No, is all he thinks, trying to convince himself he must be jumping to conclusions. "We've both known, so long, but I never expected…"
Even knowing it's real now, Mark's first reaction is no, Roger must not mean what he thinks. He can't, because if he does, then that means… "Roger…" he breathes, adopting the same vaguely horrified tone his lover's using. "You don't…"
"It's active stage, Mark," Roger mutters, and his tone is strangely hollow now. "It's AIDS. It's… I mean, I'm…"
Mark swallows around the lump in his throat and sits beside Roger on the couch, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. There will be time for them to grieve together later, for Mark to cry too, but not now. Now, when it's beginning and Roger's still healthy enough to be able to secretly deny the diagnosis as Mark knows he will, this is when Roger will need him to be strong.
Except he can't do it, not when Roger lets out a choked sob and reaches out to hold Mark as if he's the only thing he's got left that's right in the world, and really, he almost is. Mark opens his mouth to whisper something reassuring, but the words stick bitterly in his throat and he ends up sobbing convulsively into Roger's shoulder. He should say that things will still be okay, that they'll make the most of the time he has left, that he still loves him and he still intends to keep his promise to be there to the end. That Collins lived years after they told him he was active stage, even though Roger would probably reply that Mimi only lived about two and a half years after she contracted HIV, never mind when it became AIDS. But he can't, because even though it's all true, one fact still remains: there can be no more pretending Roger's time isn't running out; there can be no more forgetting. Even if he holds on as long as Collins did, even if he holds on longer… every day will be tainted with the knowledge that it could well be one of the last. He could be months wasting away in the hospital, alive but in excruciating pain. He could be…
"Mark," Roger breathes into his hair, and he sounds surprisingly calm, almost at peace. He's stroking the back of Mark's neck now, in a steady, soothing rhythm. "We knew it had to happen, Marky. It'll be okay. Baby, there's nothing we can do about it. Just stay; just keep going on like we have… As long as I have you, I can deal with it. There's nothing to do but make the most of it." Roger pulls him a little closer and kisses his forehead, rocking back and forth a little.
Mark is too distraught to think it, but later he'll realize that in the coming months it will be Roger who is his strength, unlike how it's always been between them. No matter how much Mark's reminded him to take his AZT, to bundle up when he goes outside… Mark has largely been able to ignore the fact that Roger's time had to come. Roger, being the person directly affected by it, has lived with the knowledge every day for years and has come to terms with it as much as he ever will.
Roger wishes they weren't even in this situation, but there is something calming about the fact that Mark needs to be taken care of for once, that it is Roger holding him. It's so strange, though, that it takes this much for their roles to be reversed. That when most people would say it is Roger who should be beside himself, Mark finally needs him. He makes a silent promise, then: as long as he's capable of it, he will be there for Mark. He will make sure Mark's as ready as he can be to lose him, he will be awake at four in the morning for hours-long talks about anything Mark's worried or scared about. It's nothing more (and in fact much less) than Mark's done for him.
"I love you," Roger tells him again urgently; it must seem to Mark to be out of nowhere. "I love you so much, Mark. And that's enough. Not because it has to be, just because it is. I know this is really hard on you, and…"
"On me?" Mark interrupts hoarsely, trying not to sniffle. "What about yo-"
"I'm scared, Mark," Roger admits softly, kissing his jaw. "Of course I am. But I'm okay right now, and you're not. Just let me help you, just this once, Mark, let it go and let me take care of you. When I'm gone…" Mark sobs again, but he can't regret his honesty, honesty will be necessary if he ever expects Mark to heal. "When I'm gone, I'll be fine. I'll just be with Collins, and Mimi, and Angel… I know it'll be hard, Mark, but I want you to be okay when I'm gone. I don't want to see you up there with us too soon. You've got more than half your life ahead of you. Your career's just starting to take off, you'll have time to meet new people, new friends, another new family… A new lover," he finishes, and it catches in his throat a little. In truth, imagining Mark with someone else makes jealousy rise bitter like bile in his throat, but he has to give Mark his blessing to move on.
"But I don't want all that," Mark protests, and his voice is almost a childish whine. "Things have changed too much already, Roger. I've lost two families already, and the parts of them that are left just hurt me to think about. Is it so wrong that I want to keep the one thing that's always been the same? I mean… God, I love you, you know that, but it's not just that. You're the only person left in this whole fucking city who's known me more than six or seven years."
"No, Mark, it's not wrong," Roger breathes quietly, clenching his jaw against his sudden urge to yell. At Mark for not understanding, at the world for not being fair, he doesn't really know. "Not at all. But in the end, it's not going to change anything, and…"
"Shh," Mark interrupts again, pressing a finger to his lips to silence him before kissing him, sucking his bottom lip in and tracing it once with his tongue. "I know, Roger, I know. But can't we just… not? Just for tonight?"
Roger wants to protest at first, then realizes he can't. What is a night, really, when it's going to bring them comfort they both sorely need? What is a night when Mark is kissing him in a way they both know he can't help but respond to? And if they both know where this is going, still, it's a lot slower than usual, and Roger's not sure if it's the toll the stress has taken on their respective sex drives, or if the slow gentleness has been brought on by the knowledge that it is these times they will want to remember towards the end, not the loud, sometimes bruising, passionate sex that leaves them spent, together, and happy, but not especially emotional.
"Bed," Roger whispers in a hoarse, cracking voice, pulling Mark up gently into arms (How long until he won't have the strength to do that? his mind wonders traitorously) and heading for his stated destination. Mark whimpers when Roger lays him down on the mattress, and it's not in response to any touch, so it pierces right through Roger's defenses and breaks his heart once more. He turns the pity and the worry into something else, though; remembering his unspoken promise, he silences Mark not with words but a gentle, probing kiss that lays both of their emotions bare at the same time they're hiding them.
Mark's lips are swollen and his breathing is uneven when they part, and he meets Roger's eyes pleadingly. "Please," he whimpers, "just…"
He knows what Mark wants, and he understands why – it's not driven by lust, though there is a very distinct hardness against Roger's thigh, but by a desire for closeness. Two made into one and all that shit Roger hadn't even believed until Mark, the kind of experience that would almost be remembered as spiritual rather than sexual.
He does intend to oblige Mark rather quickly, but he wants to indulge himself a little first. He presses a quick, chaste kiss to Mark's lips before sliding down his body and pushing up the hem of his shirt slowly, making sure to glide his hands over every inch of flesh as it becomes available to him, kissing it once he's touched it. Mark is squirming and his hands are curled lightly into fists, but when Roger reaches his ribs he giggles, jerking a little, and Roger wants to remember that sound, record it and keep it in his mind to come back to when things get hard. As serious as they both are about making this about something more than sex, they're supposed to be forgetting, and that means more than not talking about it. It means acting normally. Mark chokes a little when Roger gets to his chest, kissing each nipple with a little more teeth and tongue than he'd been using before, and Roger moves on to his collarbone, sinking his teeth into the skin there and sucking. Mark hisses – it hurts, just a little too much to be enjoyable or even comfortable, but Roger has always liked being able to leave some sort of claim on him, and Mark thinks suddenly that he might just like being claimed. He'd always indulged Roger, but he thought he might really understand why he did it, now. Even if it was temporary, the marks on his skin were a reminder – of Roger himself, of what they had, Mark wasn't sure, but it was something sentimental that he couldn't quite fathom.
Roger stares at him a long time once he's removed Mark's shirt, and Mark looks back, not as intently, but enough that their eyes meet and many silent messages that neither of them can decode at the moment are exchanged. Finally, Roger shakes his head and sits up, hands going to the buttons on his shirt. Mark stops him with a hand in the center of his chest, guiding him back to lie on the mattress, then begins a process not unlike what Roger had done to him. He starts at the top button of Roger's shirt, though, and stops once he's undone the first button for a long moment, uncertain. Roger seems to know what he's considering, because he rolls his head back lazily, exposing his throat and inclining his head slightly in what might be a nod. Mark takes it for one, at least, and carefully sinks his teeth into a small patch of the exposed skin, sucking more gently than Roger had but working at it longer, oblivious to Roger's growing discomfort. Mark notices when he squirms, but ignores it, but he can't miss when Roger groans and shudders, he's too close not to be acutely aware. He pulls back to observe his handiwork, and sure enough, there is a small purple bruise where his mouth had been, dark enough that it's obvious it will linger for weeks. Roger shivers just from the way Mark's looking at him, all pale skin and dark eyes filled with tender feelings.
"I think," Mark whispers, right against his ear as he begins working on the rest of the buttons, even though there's no real reason to be so quiet, "that I just figured out why you like to do that."
Roger chuckles from low in his throat, a thumb stroking down Mark's side from his ribs to just under the waistband of his boxers. "Oh yeah?"
Mark doesn't answer, just undoes the last of the buttons and nips at him again, this time the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, and Roger grunts almost silently, twitching restlessly. Mark glances up at him, amusement almost but not quite masking the sadness in his eyes. Roger bleeds a little inside but forgets like he's supposed to be doing when Mark does it again, the beginnings of a smirk playing on his face.
Roger sighs out, "Mark," in a soft, pleading voice, trying to express the feelings within him and his desperation simultaneously, and all of a sudden there are hands at his fly, then hooked around the waistband of both his jeans and his underwear. All he's really thinking as his skin begins being exposed to the humid summer air is God, yes, but then Mark stops and reaches for a condom, and there's an awkward silence as they're both reminded of what's happening to them in the broader world. Finally, Mark shakes his head, muttering, "Not now," and tears through the package with his teeth. He slips the condom onto Roger with practiced ease, somehow managing to barely touch him as he does so, and it's enough to bring Roger back to the here and now with a small, startled sound. Mark begins to work on his own pants, but Roger stops him.
"There's no rush," he whispers against Mark's neck, feeling gooseflesh raise down the blonde's exposed skin as he takes his hands and moves them. "Just relax."
Then he treats Mark to a taste of what he'd been inflicting on Roger, pulling the fabric away millimeter by millimeter and dragging his teeth lightly over the skin as he exposes it. Mark leans back, supported by the pillow at the small of his back and resting his head against the headboard, and Roger smiles to himself when he realizes Mark's still wearing his glasses. He's not sure what exactly about the sight he likes, but he's always enjoyed watching Mark come so completely undone that he forgets about little things like his glasses or the hemp necklace that hardly anyone even knows he wears.
Neither of them really expects or wants any great amount of foreplay – Roger has the lube in hand, and Mark's already positioning himself, one pillow under his head and another under his hips – but they both stop when someone, neither one's sure who, leans in for another kiss. Mark's hand starts out on Roger's shoulder, then slides down the length of his arm slowly, running each of his fingers down one of Roger's before taking the bottle from his hand and squirting its contents into his palm. Some of it runs down onto his stomach and the sheets, distracted by Roger's lips and teeth and tongue against his own, Mark's small motor skills aren't quite what they should be. But they're good enough that he can reach down and coat Roger, stroking up and down just long enough to make him ache before stopping.
Their eyes meet again for another fraction of a second before Roger settles over him, but Mark's eyes close when Roger pushes inside of him, and they don't see one another long enough to read what's behind each other's eyes this time. What Mark has on his mind now is fairly apparent, though, because all he does is groan and roll his hips back against Roger, who has to fight to keep from giving him what he wants hard and fast, from snapping and turning it into something neither of them meant it to be.
He manages, though, leans down and kisses Mark's forehead before whispering, "Open your eyes. They're beautiful; I wanna see them."
If it was anyone but Roger, Mark would dismiss it out of hand. In fact, Maureen had been fond of saying that, and he got more and more tired of it every time she did, mostly because it sounded more like a lie every time but the first. It's Roger, though, not Maureen, and Mark would oblige him even if he didn't believe it, which he does. He opens his eyes wide and tries pleading with Roger that way, but Roger just laughs – a little too tensely, Mark notes with satisfaction – and strokes Mark's cheek, still supporting himself with one arm. "Love you," he murmurs again, and Mark's not sure how many times they've said that tonight, but he knows they both need to hear it.
"Love you t—" he starts to respond, but his throat closes around the words when Roger draws back then pushes back into him, hesitantly, like he's trying to make sure it won't hurt. Mark pushes back, thinking that if that's what Roger's worried about, then he'll have to give him some reassurance. Roger grins when he does, almost nervously, then nods and does it again, and again, starting to build a rhythm. Mark moans, pressing his fingers into the small of Roger's back, and his eyes slide shut again. Roger stops moving.
"I meant it, Mark," he says huskily, leaning down again and nipping at his earlobe. "Eyes open."
All Mark can think about now is getting more of that feeling, the physical sensation and the emotional closeness alike, and so his eyes shoot open before Roger's even done talking. This time, when Roger starts moving again, Mark focuses intently on the green eyes locked on his own.
Roger's taking his time now, pushing into him with long, slow, measured strokes that should be making Mark fall apart underneath him. Mark's breathing is fast and quavering, and he writhes a little every time Roger presses all the way inside of him, but he's composed. He only makes tiny, choked off noises, and he's still staring into Roger's eyes, barely blinking. It's nice, this slow slippery pace that really does justice to the term "love-making," and there's something to be said for the way Roger's taking his time to enjoy the heat around him, but when he reaches down between them and takes Mark into his hand, he knows the time for savoring the feeling has passed. Mark whimpers and throws his head back, and his eyes are open but they're glassy and don't seem to be processing much any more. His eyelids flutter and he cries out breathily when he comes, and he recovers just in time to watch Roger follow him with a near silent groan. Roger collapses on top of him for a moment, pressing lazy kisses to any skin within the vicinity of his mouth, then Mark turns his head and turns one of the brushes of lips over skin into a languid, sloppy, awkwardly angled kiss that neither of them would change for the world. Roger breaks away from him regretfully, sucking Mark's lower lip between his own, then kissing the corner of his mouth when he gets far enough that he has to break that contact. He pulls out of Mark, ties off the condom, and tosses it in the general direction of the garbage can.
It's only when Mark murmurs, "Three point shot," in an amused but drowsy, sated tone that he realizes he actually got it in the trash. Well, good, now he won't have to deal with it in the morning. He'll have enough to deal with in the morning.
Roger collapses back to the bed, and Mark nestles to his side almost automatically, kissing his neck and murmuring endearments. It's then he knows. They can't do anything about the pain to come, about the virus that's destroying his immune system even as he lies here content… They can't do much about anything, any more; it's all out of their control. But they'll have each other, they'll love each other, and they'll make what they can out of the time he has left. It will be enough, because no matter how sick he gets in the months or years to come, he will always be able to think that he still has Mark to care about him, to keep him from dying alone and undignified. From the moment the tainted needle slid into his arm, he was doomed to a certain, likely painful death.
At least, Roger thinks a little wistfully as sleep begins to rob him of conscious thought, he's going as well as he could ever have expected. It won't be slow suffocation at the hands of an overdose or growing weaker and weaker as his blood flows out of his body from self-inflicted wounds. It will be with Mark at the side of his hospital bed, trying not to cry. Or maybe just crying, Roger plans to tell him that if he wants to he should. Mark keeps things inside too much, and oh God, how's that going to work when Roger's gone? Roger doesn't doubt Joanne and Maureen will take the best care of him they can, but they don't understand Mark like he does. They can't, it's knowledge earned by knowing him a lifetime and loving him at least half of it. And that's if Mark lets them do it; knowing Mark he'll just pack up his camera and leave New York with nothing but the clothes on his back. Where to, Roger wonders. Back to Scarsdale? No. Never in a million years. Santa Fe? No, not there either. Santa Fe was nothing but a reminder of the dream they'd shared with Collins. Maybe he'd…
"Roger," Mark hisses sharply, and Roger jumps, almost hurt by his tone. But then Mark kisses him and says softly, "Go to sleep. Think in the morning." He pauses, then adds, "Love you."
"Yeah," Roger concedes quietly. "Okay. Love you too."
Mark smiles sleepily. "I'll be here in the morning," he promises, a little shyly. He's shy because he knows he's not really promising to be there in the morning. He's promising once more to be there during what's to come, no matter how hard it gets. It makes Roger smile too, even if there's a markedly sad note in his eyes. No matter how bad things get, he'll always have a reason to face the next day.