Seven

by UnnamedElement

Mark has known something was wrong with him since high school, but when he told his parents, they didn't believe him. At that point, he simply gave up on himself. But when Roger asks, years later, Mark takes a chance. Counting has really gotten old. One-shot.

A/N: I've been wanting to write this for a while, and after reading GorgeousSmile's story, I though I'd give it a shot.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

I pick at a string on my sleeve, staring blankly at the strip of negatives in front of me. I didn't always want to be a filmmaker. There were other options. Photography, dance, theatre. . . This strip of negatives is from high school. I can't even tell what they are because they're lying on the table. I don't care, though. I don't feel like moving to hold them up to the nearly nonexistent light in our apartment anyhow. But I know what they are. I've memorized them.

46th Street. Allie and Matt skipping by a coffee shop. A pigeon to the left. An open sign in the background and a parking meter in the foreground.

I close my eyes.

Dance class. Allie stretching. Leg on barre. Light from high window falling across her face. Right eye darkened by her delicate nose's shadow. Her body's shadow on the floor. Someone's foot doing tendus on the left edge of the picture.

I tap my feet in rhythm to my words.

The theatre. Close up of Matt alone on the stage. His face open and laughing. His braces catch the light. The curtains are dark in contrast to his light shirt.

Tap Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right-Left-Right.

Anita in dance class. She's yelling at me and I'm hiding behind the camera. She's wrong; she's not the dance captain. I'm the leader for this choreography.

Tap Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right-Left-Right.

I open my eyes. I blink.

Seven times.

And seven more times.

And seven more times.

And five times.

And I stop.

I hear the door creak open and Roger walks in, gingerly lowering his guitar case to the ground. I slip the negatives back into their folder, standing quickly and grabbing a random paper from the table to look like I'm actually doing something.

"Hey," he says, moving to the kitchen.

"Hi," I say, looking down as if to study the paper in my hands. The truth is, I'm concentrating so hard on the paper that my eyes aren't even focusing enough to tell what it says.

"What's that?" Roger asks, with half a piece of dry, day-old, burnt toast in his mouth.

I fold the paper up and put in by the folder, to the left of three new rolls of film I'd rolled yesterday. "Just some notes on something I shot earlier today."

"Cool," he says, sucking the bread crumbs off his thumb and brushing the strays off his black tanktop.

I turn back toward the table and pick up my camera for still photographs, an old AE-1 Canon that I pulled out of the closet yesterday. I don't understand photography as much as filmmaking, but everyone used to tell me that I was good at it. I press the release button and begin winding up the film.

One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven. One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven. One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six—

"So do we have any other food?" Roger asks.

I pretend to be engrossed in my camera and don't answer as I keep winding and counting.

Seven. One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven. One—

"Mark, did you hear me?" He steps toward me. I try not to blush, I don't blush very often but when I do it's tremendous.

Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven.

I feel the resistance of the film stop, but my face is still burning. I pull the thing that releases the film (I never actually learned technical terms in photography) up and hold it, looking to Roger.

"What?" I ask, buying time. I hold the release thing up.

One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Seven-One-Two-Three-Four-Five.

I breathe a sigh of relief and I know my face is returning to it's normal pasty shade.

"Do we have any other food?" Roger asks again, slightly concernedly.

I pop the back of the camera open and take out the rolled film, placing it on the table in one steady motion of five counts.

One-Two-Three-Four-Five.

I close the camera and put it back on the table. Reloading it will take much too much time at this point and Roger probably already thinks I'm crazy.

"Um, no," I say.

"Have you eaten at all today?" He walks up to me and looks at me so hard it's like his eyes are metal and mine are magnets. I can't help but look at him. I am so bad at metaphors.

Still, I have to think about this question.

"I don't think so," I say after a moment. "I can only steal so many apples from the store to eat at break before they notice."

He laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "That explains the wooo-wooo," he says, making noises like the wind and waving his fingers around. "It's only lack of food that's making you crazy."

"Yeah."

He looks at me sidelong and crosses his arms. "So I guess you really are broke then."

"No shit," I say.

"Guess that means I have to buy dinner," he says.

I shrug. "Guess so."

"Well then!" He exclaims in a fairly decent Aussie accent. "Com'on, mate!"

"Right." He must've seen Maureen today. Their overly dramatic personalities feed off each other.

He struts out the door, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket. His jeans are so tight it's clearly evident to pickpockets where his wallet is, though Roger would probably beat them to a shriveled pulp or poke them in the eye with a guitar pick before he let them get his money.

I stare at my huge camera bag.

Roger walks back into the loft and to grab his guitar and looks back at me. "You coming, Mark, or what?"

"Um, yeah, just a sec." My eyes flit back and forth between the camera bag, my camera, and the three new rolls of film sitting by the negatives.

"Okay," he says, sliding down the wall into a sprawling position with his guitar case nestled in between his legs.

I gently place my Canon into the camera bag alongside my 16mm Bolex, since there's plenty of room to accommodate for them both. I check and make sure they're not touching so they don't scratch each other. It seems silly, but I don't think most people know exactly how much a decent Bolex actually costs.

I reach toward the rolls of film.

I pull my hand back and check that my cameras aren't touching again before grabbing a washcloth off the table (go figure where that came from) and slipping it between them.

I reach toward the rolls of film again, meaning to pick up the one on the left.

But I can't tell if it's the right one.

I close my eyes and let my hand hover over each one, checking to feel which one is right.

I go for one, but change my mind.

My eyes are still closed when Roger says, "Jesus Christ, Mark, how long does it take to pack a camera bag?"

"Uh, just—just a second. Just a second."

I clench my eyes tighter and grit my teeth. Still waving my hand over the film and feeling ridiculous.

I lower my hand toward another roll, but draw it back quickly before touching it.

I get a nervous sensation in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to jump to shake it off.

I'm getting overly anxious and my breath is coming faster and faster.

Okay, if I can just choose one of these damn rolls of film, I'll be fine.

As the sensation in the bottom of my abdomen burns more intensely, I close my eyes as tightly as possible (so tightly it hurts), wave my hand at an even higher speed, wriggle my toes in my hand-me-down Birkenstock sandals and begin counting in time to their wiggling.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-seven-one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-seven-one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-seven-one-two-three-four-FIVE.

On FIVE I stop moving my hand, open my eyes, unclench my jaw, stop wiggling my toes, and look to see where my hand has stopped. It's closest to the roll on the right. My breathing becomes even again and the sensation in the pit of my stomach has lessened.

I reach to pick the roll up, but Roger's hand falls heavily on my shoulder. "You okay, man?"

"Um, yeah," I say, grabbing the roll before this distraction puts too much time between the deciding and the acquiring and I have to start anew.

I stuff it in right side pocket of my camera bag and turn to face him. "Yeah, let's go."

I turn to follow him, but the tingling sensation has come back in its full fervor. I grab the other two rolls of film and stuff them in the center section with my two cameras as quickly as possible, then zipping the flap back. It stops and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes momentarily to compose myself.

"You sure you're okay?" Roger asks, holding the door open for me.

"No." I say flatly, walking out of our apartment and moving away from the door as quickly as possible so Roger has to shut and lock it. If I'm to the stairs by the time he closes it, I won't have to run back to touch the door knob and the locks.

"Hey, wait up!" He shouts as I run to the stairs, the numbers always in my head, one for each footstep.

I hear him grunt as he throws the guitar case over his shoulder to catch up with me.

As I start down the stairs, he falls into step with me.

"So," Roger says.

"So," I say back, trying to keep all emotion out of my voice, though it's quaking slightly. I abhor myself for that. I can't believe I'm practically crying over something so stupid. It's a wonder he even hangs out with me.

"You know you can tell me what's wrong, right? I mean, not to sound completely girly or anything, but, y'know, we're best friends for a reason, y'know? Right?"

Best friends. Heh. I wouldn't be best friends with me.

He rubs his ear awkwardly and lets his guitar case fall to his side.

"Right," I say. "Right." It's at moments like this that I am so thankful to Yahweh or whoever the hell is up there for bad sight. Glasses are amazing when trying to hide tears, not that I have to hide them often. I never cry. I can't believe I'm about to. This is—I am—ridiculous.

"So, what's up? Is there anything I can do?"

He pushes the door to our apartment building open and we stroll onto the sidewalk and into the humid June atmosphere.

I step over a bottle, dodge a girl in a multi-colored miniskirt, and look up at him.

"It's called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder," I say, pushing up my glasses. "And no, there's nothing you can do."

I cross my arms and pick at the same stray string that always dangles there.

"Oh," Roger replies. I'm not looking at his face so I don't know what that "oh" means. He steps out into traffic, commanding the whole world stop for him. They do.

I look down at the ground and follow Roger, still counting in my head.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-seven-one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-seven-one-two-three-four-five—

Roger grabs my arm and jerks me back towards him. I look up just in time to see an over-sized van with the Buzzline logo emblazoned on the side of it roar by us, right over the spot I stood in moments ago.

Now wouldn't that have been ironic.

"Um, thanks," I say with a weak smile.

"No problem."

We continue walking.

Silence.

"You're gonna have to explain yourself at some point, y'know."

I pull at the string on my sleeve.

"I know. I will." I look at him. "Just let me have some food first. Its torture working in a grocery and watching fat people buy food while your stomach practically eats itself."

He laughs. "Okay, okay. Fair deal. Food and then talk."

"Right."

I fall back into my counting pattern. It's still in the back of my head as I turn to Roger.

"So how was your day? I picked up your AZT."

A/N: I won't be able to update for about a week (tech week, dress rehearsals, and shows. . .) But it will be updated eventually.