A/N: So! I'm 20 years old, it's August of 2016, and after five years of continuously failing to finish this damn story, I've finally picked it up again. My life has been ridiculous since I started this piece of fanfiction. I ended, and began, and then ended, several significant relationships; I left an abusive household; I dealt with a lot of PTSD and mental illness issues of my own. Over the years I've continued to receive reviews and favorites for this story, and many people have asked me to continue it. Good news - I never intended to leave WIWH unfinished. I'm reworking the plot right now, and revising each of the published chapters. When I'm done with that, I plan on continuing to update it as regularly as I am able. I'm so grateful for each and every one of you, so please leave a review or a favorite if you're still reading! It really motivates me, and I need all the motivation I can get. Thank you! -Toni

Chapter 1: How Habits are Formed


bohemian : noun ;

2. a person who has informal and unconventional social habits, especially an artist or writer

synonyms : nonconformist, free spirit, dropout, hippie, beatnik, boho


Mark's breathing was slow, calm; he slid the tip of the knife along the pale, almost translucent skin of his wrists and several of the blue veins that were always so easy to see. His intense gaze followed the thin line of scarlet that trailed behind the glinting blade as his skin tore, stinging. The expression on his face was blank, brow slightly furrowed as he watched, and his hand was steady.

As always, the blood welling up from the new wound mesmerized him. He set the dirtied knife down in the sink before him and leaned heavily against the counter, holding his arm out in front of him so he could stare, transfixed.

When exactly had this become a habit? It couldn't have been so long ago that he'd started; but then, Mark mused, why were there so many scars? They crisscrossed his left arm, from the inside of his wrist to the crook of his elbow in various stages of healing. The oldest were fading, a light, shiny pink or dusty lavender, while the newest were still scabbing over in ugly, dark ruby lines. The fresh cut still glistened, hot and painful, but Mark didn't register the pain. At least, not in the way that he was supposed to.

Objectively, some part of him realized that this probably wasn't normal; he shouldn't relish the stinging of cold metal slicing into his skin, the blood that belonged in his veins rushing to the surface. No one should.

But this was bohemia, right? He smiled grimly at the thought.

Everyone around him was the very fucking embodiment of the word- they were all about freedom in their choices, being unorthodox, doing whatever the hell they felt like doing whenever they felt like doing it and not caring what anyone else thought. Mark was an anxious, uninspired wreck of a person, but his friends had it down. Mimi, the free spirit, the stripper who loved her job shamelessly. Roger with his guitar, who had never really bothered to pay the bills even when he had the money, because fuck Benny and fuck every landlord before him who had cut their power on the coldest nights of the year. Angel the drag queen and Collins the anarchist, happily and flamboyantly setting out to destroy the status quo. Maureen with her earth-shattering protests and her fluid sexuality, always so loud and proud and moving on to the next thing. Joanne, who chose this group of friends, this way of life, despite her higher calling, and still managed to fit in better than him. April with her heroin, who chose her own way out, who had dreams so beautiful she'd nearly taken Roger with her.

And then there was him. Mark. The geeky guy with the camera and the uncanny ability to blend effortlessly into the background. Not an ability he'd cultivated on purpose, and it certainly ranked in his top five least favorite things about himself - but who had stopped to consider that? Who really cared? Who was he kidding, pretending to be as good, as real, as incredible as these people?

Cute, awkward, innocent Marky.

Oh, he tried, but Mark didn't really see himself as creative. He didn't think he was all that inspirational a person, and in his opinion, neither should anyone else. They all had lit a fire in him the moment he'd met them, the second he'd set foot here, and he'd desperately tried to fan it, to be like them, like that, to use his art to stand up for what was right - but he just... couldn't. Nothing came out right. He wasn't right.

He'd never fit in back home. It didn't really seem fair that he wasn't right here, either. Bohemia, that's what Collins liked to call Greenwich village, but bohemia was apparently for talented people. For better people.

Not for a wannabe filmmaker from Scarsdale.

It was never going to be for him. They were never going to look at Mark, just another skinny weird suburban kid hanging around at the edges, and see an artist really worthy of being part of the group - part of the change.

Frankly, it was fucking incredible that his friends had put up with him this long.

His lips tightened as he inhaled sharply through his nose, gripping his wrist with his other hand and squeezing. Crimson began to drip down his arm, sluggishly moving towards his fingers, and he sighed before letting go, eyes falling closed for a moment.

To be perfectly honest, he was looking for reasons lately. In the beginning (oh, God, was it really only a year ago? Maybe a few weeks more? It seemed like forever he'd been doing this) he could have told you the reasons behind every distinct slash and recall, with perfect clarity, the moment and the method he used to create it.

Roger wasn't talking to him? Slash, bleed, then clean it up and hide it beneath the sleeves of his sweaters with his roommate none the wiser, eternally grateful to himself and to his mother for picking a wardrobe virtually devoid of short sleeves. There was never any reason for anyone to question it, to peek beneath the fabric and discover the gory evidence of his slow deterioration.

Mimi had another relapse? Hello, bloody bandages smuggled out to the dumpster in the alley behind their building where Roger wouldn't see.

Maureen and Joanne fighting, both of them bitching to him about the other; Roger screaming April's name in his sleep, shaking and sobbing in Mark's arms as he woke up in tangled sweaty sheets; Collins leaving again, leaving him alone - with all of these friends he didn't deserve, wasn't like, wasn't good enough for, these friends he couldn't possibly keep supporting forever - leaving for another college job in another state, and Roger moving downstairs into Mimi's apartment.

Slash. Wince. Bleed. Watch it trickle out. And one more for good measure.

Except one often turned into two, and two often turned into ten.

Before he'd stolen Roger's old pocketknife - that is to say, before this had become a regular thing - he'd had to make do with other means. The first time… He struggled to remember, but Mark was fairly certain that the first time he'd felt the urge to take something sharp to his wrist rather than just letting his emotions fester and build up inside him like a tidal wave (and wash out in stupid, ridiculous tears later, when no one was watching) was when Roger had been drawn out of the loft for the first time in months by their provocative downstairs neighbor.

Oh, Mark had seen her before. Mimi. She had a sweet smile and a killer body, which he'd appreciate more if he weren't in unrequited crush hell with the worst possible person. He'd said hi to her on the stairs several times, in passing, and never, never imagined that Roger would go tripping after her a day after learning her name.

He'd been jealous. Of course he had! It was like a monster with fiery fingertips clawing its way into his chest, or perhaps out of it- why could this, this complete fucking stranger do for his best friend what he couldn't seem to no matter what painstaking lengths he went to?


Flashback

Alone in the silence of the loft, which was dark and cold and only slightly less cluttered and dirty than the alley outside, Mark still felt the need to restrict the tears burning behind his eyes. He had his dignity, God damn it. Slumped against the door he squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, barely breathing.

Why this? Why Now? He'd worked his ass off for months, trying to coax Roger into rehab and therapy and just out for a fucking walk, just out to lunch, just to see some sunshine for once - he just wanted to see him smile, genuinely, just once. Once because of Mark, and nothing else. He just wanted to see his best friend getting better, to be his reason to drag himself through the day. Because Roger had been his for so long. Even if he didn't seem to know it.

And God, Mark wasn't asking for much. He was fine with letting this all go unspoken.

He just... he just wished...

But here was another pretty girl to swipe the chance from under him. To take Roger's attention and his heart with it, all in one go, and leave Mark behind in a whirlwind. Pining behind his camera, as always. Useless, alone, unnoticed...

Something was jabbing him in the thigh, distracting him from his maudlin thoughts. It took him several miserable, dizzy moments to realize it and when he did he fished it out of his pocket, still fighting for the elusive emotionless he craved. He squinted at the shape cupped in the middle of his palm.

The jagged teeth of his apartment key shone dully in the minimal light, grim and tempting.

For a couple of seconds, Mark just stared at the little silver instrument in his hand. Contemplating. A dark thought took root in his mind and wouldn't let go, despite the pathetic level of desperation that it implied in him. A flurry of protests formed in response, a last-ditch defense mechanism.

What if someone found out? Was it even safe, doing something like that with a key? Living in the city slums with four HIV positive friends, including of course the one that lived with him, occasionally even shared a bed with him when it got too cold for both of them- it was something to think about. It was probably dirty…

But, suddenly, the urge was maddening. It was something he shouldn't do, something that he knew in the back of his mind that Roger would probably murder him for even considering.

And yet…

He frowned to himself- what would Roger care? He was lovestruck- well, probably lust-struck- by some stripper downstairs. He sure as shit wouldn't notice one little gratifying mark…

Making up his mind, Mark brought the sharpest part of the key- which was still terribly dull- to his bare wrist, pulling one sleeve up just enough to expose the pale skin. The pocket-warm metal was almost comforting when it should have been foreboding. It took his mind off of Roger in any case, off of the irrational sense of betrayal that he felt towards his roommate, off of the weight of all of his friends' worries on his shoulders and the memories constantly swirling around his head. (Scarsdale and the hospital and his mother's despairing wails echoing off of the inside of his skull...)

He couldn't for the life of him understand what exactly was making him upset at this very moment, upset at Roger and himself and the world, but either way-

Unreasonably terrified, he pressed down more firmly.

Mark licked his dry lips nervously. It wasn't biting down the way he had hoped and maybe, maybe this was a stupid idea… Tentatively, he dragged it almost like a saw in a horizontal line across his inner wrist. A satisfying albeit faint sting followed and left the skin pink and irritated.

It was almost surreal. Every second was a thrill of adrenaline, and he couldn't help but wonder: was this what it felt like to shoot up, chase that high? Mark thought, feeling ridiculous for even making the comparison, that it might be the same crazy roller coaster feeling that Roger had been addicted to not even a year ago. His emotions were at their peak and he knew what he was doing, knew it was stupid and impulsive and God but it made him a hypocrite - but it just felt so good to have a distraction.

No one was going to find out anyways, right? Roger and Collins and Maureen, they wouldn't have a clue about one tiny, insignificant scratch.

The thought of Roger made his eyes burn again, threatening salty tears, and he tensed before more forcefully dragging the key across his sensitive skin. Why the fuck was this affecting him so much? Old thoughts, from high school and his early days in the loft, floated uninvited into the forefront of his mind and he shuddered, swatting them futilely away.

Again, again, again- he could see the thin layers of skin tearing away and it sickened him, at the same time bringing a strange, morbid thrill. Something forbidden to him, perhaps not in words, and he knew that any one of his friends would shit a brick if he ever so much as hinted at it.

Fucking Roger. It always came down to him, didn't it? Mark didn't like to think too hard about why, about the tears that he'd shed that first night that April had come home with the rocket, a baggie of foreboding white powder in hand. He didn't even want to acknowledge the number of times he'd found himself with his roommate's stubbly, smirking face at the forefront of his mind during long showers and late nights in bed, alone.

There were always just too many fucking things in the way, and Mark wasn't technically sure he was gay anyways, and so- so, none of these emotions even existed.

They couldn't exist. They shouldn't. They could burn in hell with him, because as far as Mark was concerned, he shouldn't exist either.

That girl downstairs with her sultry smile and her blue rubber pants… He'd seen the track marks on her arms, despite the fact that she could barely pass for sixteen, that she was probably just another runaway teenager with good looks and daddy's stolen cash in her pocket who'd gotten in way over her head. And damn it if he was going to go through it all again, right when Roger had finally stopped shaking and sweating and vomiting, just when he thought that things were getting back to whatever normal was.

It would be his secret. The only thing he'd ever done just for him, for no one else's sake.

The jagged teeth bit into him, more layers ripping away in that inch long line, thick and turning splotchy red. It was starting to feel raw, actually burning, and the pain was all he could focus on. No more images of his best friend and the forlorn, bitter look seemingly permanently plastered on his face - or the happier one, which was somehow more painful to see now, when he was prancing away with that little Latina on his arm.

No more. Nothing left to plague him while he tried to just forget.

He gasped as he drew blood, feeling the dull piece of metal finally break through to his delicate veins. (Nevermind that the imagery made him sick to his stomach.) It rose slowly to the surface in an irregular pattern of crimson. Mark forgot for a moment what he was doing, why he was doing this in the first place. His tears and his strange, unwanted jealousy dissipated as he stared curiously down at his newly marred wrist.

They didn't look like cuts, exactly, but they didn't look accidental either, so he concluded that he was utterly fucked if anyone decided to pay attention. Not that he thought they would. (Not that he even blamed them for it, either.) Layers of skin peeled raggedly, unevenly away from the blood beading up and staring him accusingly in the face.

Minutes passed and Mark felt himself let out a shaky breath, blinking slowly as if waking from a trance. His eyes widened as the realization came crashing down on him all at once, an avalanche to choke him, to send terror thrilling down his spine.

What had he done? Had he really, actually, finally succumbed to that hopeless feeling, that desperation?

Yes. He had. He'd hurt himself, bled- if only just the little bit- for those stupid emotions, those stupid feelings that he wouldn't let himself cry over anymore.

Fighting back the rising panic, fear of himself, fear of his own mind, Mark straightened out of his slump against the loft door and slowly stood, swallowing the lump in his throat trying to strangle him. An odd sort of calm descended as he stood, still clutching the key in his hand, and he walked to the bathroom in measured steps, kicking off his shoes as he went. He thrust his arm under the tap and allowed the unfiltered water to run over the wound, grabbing a bar of soap from the counter and lathering it under the gentle stream, rubbing the suds into the evidence of his lapse of control almost mechanically.

The rock that he always envisioned himself clinging to for strength in bleak times like these was beginning to crumble. But as long as he ignored the signs he could, he told himself, continue on as usual with no one the wiser- not even himself.

Alright then, he rationalized. He'd cut himself. Just the once, and he'd never do it again.

Mark dried his throbbing arm off, nodding to himself as he justified it, and went to find his camera. He pushed the disturbing episode out of his mind as he prepared to go out and shoot some more film for the documentary that, like all the others, he knew would never be finished.


Never again. Right? Mark laughed helplessly to himself at the thought, opening his eyes again and numbly surveying the brand new cut on his wrist. One to add to the collection growing all the way up his arms. The urge to continue, not to stop after just one, was stronger than ever and he itched to draw the blade over his arm one more time.

The sound of a metal door sliding open, however, put an end to his morbid ritual.

"Mark? You home?" Roger's hoarse, overworked voice called through the silent loft. Mark inwardly cursed, rushing to clean off his knife before pocketing it, hastily moving to wash out his newest self-inflicted injury. He fumbled with the soap and placed it back on the counter, splashing water carelessly up to rinse one last time and pulled his sleeve back down almost before the suds had washed away, and headed out of the bathroom to greet his friend.

"Yeah, how was practice?" he asked, feigning nonchalance and pretending to zip up his fly. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. He shoved down the guilt that rose up each time he faced his roommate after one of his sessions - it didn't really make any sense. Why would Roger even care? He had his band, his life, and even without his Mimi and the flickering light of her candle he certainly seemed to have inspiration. To Mark, at least, it seemed like Roger was writing something new and spectacular every day now.

He didn't care about Mark. Not that much. Not enough to pry, or to try to stop him from destroying himself even if he did manage to notice. Mark shouldn't have to feel so guilty for deceiving him.

It isn't deception. He never asked, and you never lied, his mind whispered treacherously, and he had to agree. He plastered on a smile as fake as the bottle blonde color of Maureen's hair and ignored the ache he felt as Roger's eyes lit up in response. He sat back and watched with carefully constructed enthusiasm as Roger launched into a play-by-play description of this night's jam session with the old band, and tried not to taste the bitterness sticking to the back of his throat.

Every day, every single fucking day, he was reminded of their differences. Roger had joined back up with two of his old bandmates months ago. He'd gotten back on the horse - not like nothing had ever happened, but like it couldn't stop him regardless. And what he was making, what was practically pouring out of him nowadays, was beautiful and heartwrenching and - and nothing like anything Mark was ever going to be able to produce, or even conceptualize.

Unconventional he may be, but never in the right ways. But that's fine, he thought distantly. He'd given up on bohemia months ago, had sat back to just watch, and now it was just a matter of time until he phased out completely. He just had to hold out, to pretend that he was his old self. That he still believed, or cared.

Roger, it seemed, had found his happiness. Good for him. He was finally content with his life, with himself.

And as the scars crisscrossing Mark's wrist underneath his sweater sleeve suggested - unbeknownst to his roommate or anyone else - Mark had not.