Mark read by the windows that afternoon, always distracted on some level
that Roger's daily departure hadn't included a note or a phone call. But
he turned the pages and settled into the ledge against the windows, because
like most days he convinced himself he had accepted that this way the way
their friendship worked. The only way Mark could read was to finish
everything else first and give his mind some room to remember plots and
characters. So he'd finished filming and was satisfied with the shots he'd
gotten. He'd show it to Collin's or Roger later on. He would have been able
to focus completely if Roger had been around.
As the minutes ticked by, his green eyes lifted more and more frequently to the scattered sheets of music resting in the corner. He stared at what he thought Roger could be and let him-self be led down the well-defined path of thought. When Mark thought about Roger this way- alone- he always felt he was violating something by trying to figure him out. That feeling was how it began, and how it would end was the same question. Did Roger ever try to do the same for him?
Mark could feel the tension between them before Roger even came home. He didn't understand anything that was happening to them. Nothing he could say was right and nothing Roger said assured him that the apprehension between them would ever go away.
Mark thought more and more that he was doing wrong by checking up on Roger and watching how he acted. It wasn't that Mark didn't think that Roger couldn't take care of himself. He didn't want to have to take care of Roger. More than anything, he didn't want this feeling that he needed control. He always felt that he was waiting for Roger to stumble just enough to let Mark move forward, closer to him. Roger to falter for just one moment, just enough so Mark could understand more, just enough so that Mark wouldn't feel so alone. Just enough so that Mark wouldn't feel as if he was the only one who cared or worked in their friendship. Mark had fought so long to be Roger's friend that he was afraid he had defined himself by it. When Roger finally stopped, Mark needed to be there as much as Roger would need him to be.
Mark fought fiercely to maintain the pose and calmness he needed around Roger. He wasn't blind, and he didn't try to hide from the fact that Roger was spinning out of control. He thought that if he could wait until Roger was ready to tell him why he treated himself so badly, it would be easier for him. He thought that if he remained steady, and appeared self- sufficient then Roger wouldn't have to think so hard about keeping Mark out.
Mark's head leaned back against the wall as he gazed out the windows. He watched the people walking by him and wondered if everything should be simpler. He wondered if he thought too hard and analyzed the meaning out of the simple company he needed. He brushed the hair away from his glasses and peered at the man walking down the street. His green eyes narrowed and watched as Roger avoided eye contact with everyone who passed him, and moved with a pervasive angry, careless stride. Mark gave a husky laugh to himself. The way Roger walked shouldn't reveal anything to Mark. He shouldn't be watching.
He stared half-heartedly back down to the book and listened to Roger's familiar scuffle and key search at the door- knob. He looked up as Roger walked in. And once he saw him, he didn't have to consider anything.
"Hey Rog," Mark said as he started towards the kitchen.
"Hi Mark," Roger said absently. He looked around the room and saw that Mark had only been reading. He wondered why Mark hadn't gone out.
"How are you?"
"Fine. And you?"
"Why fine?" Mark didn't even realize he hadn't bothered to bring himself up.
"Lets not bicker over my choice of words."
"Ok." Mark fleetingly thought that their conversations had become like battles. He choose to retreat. "What did you do today?"
"Nothing important." Roger opened the refrigerator door and looked for a bottle of water.
"Ahh. Ok. Nothing important. Do you want to have dinner or anything?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"No, why?"
"Nothing important, ahh, I see," Roger imitated Mark.
"Nope, I'm not mad. I was just restating your comment, Roger." The frustration of another failed conversation between them came out in Mark's voice.
"Allright, what the hell did I do?" Roger resigned himself to an argument and looked at Mark with a drawn expression.
"Talking to me isn't an obligation."
"I fuckin know that."
"Then how about you say something. Tell me what you did, tell me where you went, and tell me how you are and what you're working on. Tell me how you're feeling." Mark didn't bother to make his words anything but the truth. He knew Roger wouldn't tell him how he was with such a blatant request but night after night it got harder to try.
"I did say something. It sounded like I'm fine." Roger's voice started to rise and came out cold. Roger turned away from Mark and wondered who would stay in the loft tonight.
"Roger, I'm sick of fighting with you. All I want to know is what's going on. That would help me explain why we don't talk, why we just move past each other like strangers."
"Mark, I'm tired, ok?" Roger softened his voice and hoped a quiet admission would stop this argument before he gave into himself and turned away.
"It won't work." Mark threw a calculating glance at Roger and hoped he started a conversation between them instead of an argument.
"What won't work?"
"You're not going to bullshit me. I know what your doing. Telling me you're tired or you had a bad day or you're not in the mood to talk isn't going to finish this."
"Maybe I did have a bad day." Roger raised his eyebrows.
"Then it wasn't fine, you lied to me, and I still have no idea what's going on."
"You have nothing to do with what's going on." Roger's words were caustic and he knew it. But he couldn't stop feeling that it was too close. Too close.
"Roger, just tell me what's going on. Just give up and tell me." Mark tried one last time before Roger made it to his room and closed the door.
"What's going on? You want to know what's going on?" Mark looked at Roger surprised Roger hadn't ignored the question.
"I could tell you everything. I could tell you about growing up abused. I could tell you about addiction. I could tell you about watching people die and treating the rest like shit. I could tell you fuckin everything Mark, and you still wouldn't know what I'm thinking. Because no matter how far we go, there will always be those things I don't tell anyone, not even you. And if you think you can change that with some heart wrenching little speech or wear me down by pleading, you're wrong. You will NEVER know what I'm thinking Mark, you will NEVER know." Roger threw the words at Mark trying to divert him. He saw that the other man knew.
"You're right, I will never be able to know what your thinking. But I do know you're scared. I know your fears, I know your insecurities, your weaknesses, your thought patterns. I know you blame yourself for what's gone wrong in your life. I know you need help and I know that you want it. I know stupid things like how you take your coffee and what you like to eat, but I know how you think and I know you would die for your music and your friends. I wish you would tell me if you are." Mark raised his eyes and gazed past Roger to the sheets of music strewn forgotten on the floor. He wondered why he'd never heard them played.
"This is all you've left me with. You don't help me but you make me to study you. You make me work at knowing you. Don't cover pain with insults thrown at me, Roger, because I know you too well for that." Mark tried to keep his gaze even with Roger's angry eyes.
In a low, rough voice Roger said, "You don't know me. And you fuck you Mark, if you're going to tell me you do." He turned his back on Mark and closed his door, rattling the cups on the counter.
Mark refused to let it end this way, end again tonight. He stood alone in the middle of the loft, shouting to Roger through his door.
"You're scared of dying alone. You're scared that no one will love you again. You're scared that nobody will see through your reputation without being intimidated. You're scared you won't find your song before its too late. You're scared I'm too close. You're scared you'll never know your Dad. You're scared of loosing your friends. You're scared of hurting me, of hurting us. You're scared of the dark, you're scared of flying. You're scared of hospitals, and of those times you know you'll end up in the bathroom with a razor again. You're scared to death of your temptation."
Mark moved closer to Roger's door. "You think everything that goes wrong is your fault. You think people will be turned off by your past. You think your friends will leave you after one argument. You think you're not worth anything. You think no one notices how hard your trying. You think no one really wants to get to know you. You think nobody will change you. You think you shouldn't hurt or feel or cry. You think none of your friends will stand by you when that time comes."
"And I know," Mark closed his eyes and forced the word's through Roger's door, "I know that you're standing silent on the other side of this door scared most of all that somebody knows you this well. That somebody accepts you this completely. That you cannot avoid how you are not alone or loved or needed if you want to be. I know that you are waiting too long, too LONG, to open your door and see me RIGHT HERE." Mark closed his fists and slamed Roger's door as his voice broke. "RIGHT HERE."
Mark dropped his arms and stepped back, picturing Roger's closed eyes and clenched jaw, Roger wishing for the heavy silence that would cover and finalize Mark's words. That would end them. And even as his face flushed with the anger of being ignored and pushed away again, Mark tried to convince himself to close his fingers on themselves, to thrust into his pockets or to roughly pull them through his hair. Anything-anything to keep his calloused hands away from the door- knob and away from taking back all the biting words he couldn't help regretting. His bare feet turned on the floor and his thoughts ebbed away, and only the pull of companionship and impeding loneliness was left. His feet padded to the front door where he focused on the simple task of wearing sandals and taking a key from the counter. The tumultuous silence magnified the rustle of his shoes and the clink of his keys and let him hope that Roger's door had quietly opened just enough for him to see Mark's self-control and calmness. But he refused to turn around for fear he would run back to a friendship that was safer. The one he understood and gave him the same strength he used to fight back. Mark opened the door, and hoped he closed it opposite to what Roger's slam would be.\
Roger's room stayed dark for an hour after Mark left. Inch by inch Roger's lean figure slid down the door- frame until his stub bled chin could fall against his knees. He stared steadily from the doorway as the dark and night chill crept in, tracing his guitar's dusky figure with his eyes. Roger's mind stayed clear of any doubt for minutes. Mark had been wrong, Mark had been cruel, Mark would come back in and apologize for the time Roger was wasting right now. Right now. Right here. Roger's anger couldn't change the fact that Mark was right here.
As his finger's uncurled and his face softened, Roger's anger slowly burnt out with only an empty apartment to fuel it. Roger had never felt the apartment so empty before. He didn't know if Mark would come home. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't know how long he would have to be alone there.
"The silence must be deafening for Mark when I leave him," thought Roger. When Roger left to live as hard and as fast and as reckless as he could.
"And he lives in this. When he comes home and eats and sits waiting to help me find my way across the floor and to the bed. This is what he lives in. This is what I've made him live in."
Roger stumbled to his feet and hurled the door open. He flicked on the lights and opened the rest of the doors in the house. He closed the windows to make it warmer and cozier and stood by the couch.
"It isn't any better. Nothing can change this."
He rubbed his arms and stood with the city silence for a moment. Begrudgingly he closed the doors and turned off the lights, returning to the center of the room to look again at the loneliness that surrounded him.
"He lives in this." The words seemed heavier and final with no one there to hear them.
He walked slowly to his bedroom, closing his door behind him, his eyes lowered to the ground as if ashamed. He sat back down against the door and listened for a moment as if to check for anyone to observe his sorrow. The silence could not have been shattered more sharply by a scream then when Roger's voice broke as he stuttered, "I don't think I'm allowed to cry."
As the minutes ticked by, his green eyes lifted more and more frequently to the scattered sheets of music resting in the corner. He stared at what he thought Roger could be and let him-self be led down the well-defined path of thought. When Mark thought about Roger this way- alone- he always felt he was violating something by trying to figure him out. That feeling was how it began, and how it would end was the same question. Did Roger ever try to do the same for him?
Mark could feel the tension between them before Roger even came home. He didn't understand anything that was happening to them. Nothing he could say was right and nothing Roger said assured him that the apprehension between them would ever go away.
Mark thought more and more that he was doing wrong by checking up on Roger and watching how he acted. It wasn't that Mark didn't think that Roger couldn't take care of himself. He didn't want to have to take care of Roger. More than anything, he didn't want this feeling that he needed control. He always felt that he was waiting for Roger to stumble just enough to let Mark move forward, closer to him. Roger to falter for just one moment, just enough so Mark could understand more, just enough so that Mark wouldn't feel so alone. Just enough so that Mark wouldn't feel as if he was the only one who cared or worked in their friendship. Mark had fought so long to be Roger's friend that he was afraid he had defined himself by it. When Roger finally stopped, Mark needed to be there as much as Roger would need him to be.
Mark fought fiercely to maintain the pose and calmness he needed around Roger. He wasn't blind, and he didn't try to hide from the fact that Roger was spinning out of control. He thought that if he could wait until Roger was ready to tell him why he treated himself so badly, it would be easier for him. He thought that if he remained steady, and appeared self- sufficient then Roger wouldn't have to think so hard about keeping Mark out.
Mark's head leaned back against the wall as he gazed out the windows. He watched the people walking by him and wondered if everything should be simpler. He wondered if he thought too hard and analyzed the meaning out of the simple company he needed. He brushed the hair away from his glasses and peered at the man walking down the street. His green eyes narrowed and watched as Roger avoided eye contact with everyone who passed him, and moved with a pervasive angry, careless stride. Mark gave a husky laugh to himself. The way Roger walked shouldn't reveal anything to Mark. He shouldn't be watching.
He stared half-heartedly back down to the book and listened to Roger's familiar scuffle and key search at the door- knob. He looked up as Roger walked in. And once he saw him, he didn't have to consider anything.
"Hey Rog," Mark said as he started towards the kitchen.
"Hi Mark," Roger said absently. He looked around the room and saw that Mark had only been reading. He wondered why Mark hadn't gone out.
"How are you?"
"Fine. And you?"
"Why fine?" Mark didn't even realize he hadn't bothered to bring himself up.
"Lets not bicker over my choice of words."
"Ok." Mark fleetingly thought that their conversations had become like battles. He choose to retreat. "What did you do today?"
"Nothing important." Roger opened the refrigerator door and looked for a bottle of water.
"Ahh. Ok. Nothing important. Do you want to have dinner or anything?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"No, why?"
"Nothing important, ahh, I see," Roger imitated Mark.
"Nope, I'm not mad. I was just restating your comment, Roger." The frustration of another failed conversation between them came out in Mark's voice.
"Allright, what the hell did I do?" Roger resigned himself to an argument and looked at Mark with a drawn expression.
"Talking to me isn't an obligation."
"I fuckin know that."
"Then how about you say something. Tell me what you did, tell me where you went, and tell me how you are and what you're working on. Tell me how you're feeling." Mark didn't bother to make his words anything but the truth. He knew Roger wouldn't tell him how he was with such a blatant request but night after night it got harder to try.
"I did say something. It sounded like I'm fine." Roger's voice started to rise and came out cold. Roger turned away from Mark and wondered who would stay in the loft tonight.
"Roger, I'm sick of fighting with you. All I want to know is what's going on. That would help me explain why we don't talk, why we just move past each other like strangers."
"Mark, I'm tired, ok?" Roger softened his voice and hoped a quiet admission would stop this argument before he gave into himself and turned away.
"It won't work." Mark threw a calculating glance at Roger and hoped he started a conversation between them instead of an argument.
"What won't work?"
"You're not going to bullshit me. I know what your doing. Telling me you're tired or you had a bad day or you're not in the mood to talk isn't going to finish this."
"Maybe I did have a bad day." Roger raised his eyebrows.
"Then it wasn't fine, you lied to me, and I still have no idea what's going on."
"You have nothing to do with what's going on." Roger's words were caustic and he knew it. But he couldn't stop feeling that it was too close. Too close.
"Roger, just tell me what's going on. Just give up and tell me." Mark tried one last time before Roger made it to his room and closed the door.
"What's going on? You want to know what's going on?" Mark looked at Roger surprised Roger hadn't ignored the question.
"I could tell you everything. I could tell you about growing up abused. I could tell you about addiction. I could tell you about watching people die and treating the rest like shit. I could tell you fuckin everything Mark, and you still wouldn't know what I'm thinking. Because no matter how far we go, there will always be those things I don't tell anyone, not even you. And if you think you can change that with some heart wrenching little speech or wear me down by pleading, you're wrong. You will NEVER know what I'm thinking Mark, you will NEVER know." Roger threw the words at Mark trying to divert him. He saw that the other man knew.
"You're right, I will never be able to know what your thinking. But I do know you're scared. I know your fears, I know your insecurities, your weaknesses, your thought patterns. I know you blame yourself for what's gone wrong in your life. I know you need help and I know that you want it. I know stupid things like how you take your coffee and what you like to eat, but I know how you think and I know you would die for your music and your friends. I wish you would tell me if you are." Mark raised his eyes and gazed past Roger to the sheets of music strewn forgotten on the floor. He wondered why he'd never heard them played.
"This is all you've left me with. You don't help me but you make me to study you. You make me work at knowing you. Don't cover pain with insults thrown at me, Roger, because I know you too well for that." Mark tried to keep his gaze even with Roger's angry eyes.
In a low, rough voice Roger said, "You don't know me. And you fuck you Mark, if you're going to tell me you do." He turned his back on Mark and closed his door, rattling the cups on the counter.
Mark refused to let it end this way, end again tonight. He stood alone in the middle of the loft, shouting to Roger through his door.
"You're scared of dying alone. You're scared that no one will love you again. You're scared that nobody will see through your reputation without being intimidated. You're scared you won't find your song before its too late. You're scared I'm too close. You're scared you'll never know your Dad. You're scared of loosing your friends. You're scared of hurting me, of hurting us. You're scared of the dark, you're scared of flying. You're scared of hospitals, and of those times you know you'll end up in the bathroom with a razor again. You're scared to death of your temptation."
Mark moved closer to Roger's door. "You think everything that goes wrong is your fault. You think people will be turned off by your past. You think your friends will leave you after one argument. You think you're not worth anything. You think no one notices how hard your trying. You think no one really wants to get to know you. You think nobody will change you. You think you shouldn't hurt or feel or cry. You think none of your friends will stand by you when that time comes."
"And I know," Mark closed his eyes and forced the word's through Roger's door, "I know that you're standing silent on the other side of this door scared most of all that somebody knows you this well. That somebody accepts you this completely. That you cannot avoid how you are not alone or loved or needed if you want to be. I know that you are waiting too long, too LONG, to open your door and see me RIGHT HERE." Mark closed his fists and slamed Roger's door as his voice broke. "RIGHT HERE."
Mark dropped his arms and stepped back, picturing Roger's closed eyes and clenched jaw, Roger wishing for the heavy silence that would cover and finalize Mark's words. That would end them. And even as his face flushed with the anger of being ignored and pushed away again, Mark tried to convince himself to close his fingers on themselves, to thrust into his pockets or to roughly pull them through his hair. Anything-anything to keep his calloused hands away from the door- knob and away from taking back all the biting words he couldn't help regretting. His bare feet turned on the floor and his thoughts ebbed away, and only the pull of companionship and impeding loneliness was left. His feet padded to the front door where he focused on the simple task of wearing sandals and taking a key from the counter. The tumultuous silence magnified the rustle of his shoes and the clink of his keys and let him hope that Roger's door had quietly opened just enough for him to see Mark's self-control and calmness. But he refused to turn around for fear he would run back to a friendship that was safer. The one he understood and gave him the same strength he used to fight back. Mark opened the door, and hoped he closed it opposite to what Roger's slam would be.\
Roger's room stayed dark for an hour after Mark left. Inch by inch Roger's lean figure slid down the door- frame until his stub bled chin could fall against his knees. He stared steadily from the doorway as the dark and night chill crept in, tracing his guitar's dusky figure with his eyes. Roger's mind stayed clear of any doubt for minutes. Mark had been wrong, Mark had been cruel, Mark would come back in and apologize for the time Roger was wasting right now. Right now. Right here. Roger's anger couldn't change the fact that Mark was right here.
As his finger's uncurled and his face softened, Roger's anger slowly burnt out with only an empty apartment to fuel it. Roger had never felt the apartment so empty before. He didn't know if Mark would come home. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't know how long he would have to be alone there.
"The silence must be deafening for Mark when I leave him," thought Roger. When Roger left to live as hard and as fast and as reckless as he could.
"And he lives in this. When he comes home and eats and sits waiting to help me find my way across the floor and to the bed. This is what he lives in. This is what I've made him live in."
Roger stumbled to his feet and hurled the door open. He flicked on the lights and opened the rest of the doors in the house. He closed the windows to make it warmer and cozier and stood by the couch.
"It isn't any better. Nothing can change this."
He rubbed his arms and stood with the city silence for a moment. Begrudgingly he closed the doors and turned off the lights, returning to the center of the room to look again at the loneliness that surrounded him.
"He lives in this." The words seemed heavier and final with no one there to hear them.
He walked slowly to his bedroom, closing his door behind him, his eyes lowered to the ground as if ashamed. He sat back down against the door and listened for a moment as if to check for anyone to observe his sorrow. The silence could not have been shattered more sharply by a scream then when Roger's voice broke as he stuttered, "I don't think I'm allowed to cry."