Author's Notes: I've been wanting to write this for a while, and have been working on it for a good while. :) I wanted to explore Roger's withdrawal a little, how it went and how Mark reacted to it. That's the best explanation I can give - this one's kind of a weird one. :p I'll say as a quick warning that it's probably a bit AU - I'm sure I've mucked with the canon timelines a bit. This started as an entry for speedrent where we were prompted with some lyrics from "Heal Me, I'm Heartsick". I wasn't happy with it and knew I'd rework it a bit and continue it ... and here I am. :) Anyway, I know it switches from past tense to present tense at the beginning there. I did it for a reason that makes sense to me, anyway, just to let you know. :p I hope you enjoy!
Prologue
He'd stumbled into the loft that night, already coming down from the high and restless, wanting to see April. It was always best when they could shoot up together, have mind-blowing sex, and then lie side by side, coming off the high but less anxious about it because they had each other.
He couldn't even remember how the show had went by the time he entered the loft. He didn't care anymore, anyway. He just wanted to see April. He laughed a little as he tripped over his own feet traveling through the loft, almost ending up on the couch but straightening himself just in time.
"April? Baby?" he called out, laughter still in his voice. It struck him that it was awfully quiet in the loft – not only that, but it was a different kind of quiet from usual. Something was off – something …
Roger stopped where he was, screwing up his face in his effort to concentrate. There it was again – a dripping. Water.
Roger walked over to the kitchen sink, but it was dry as a bone and no water dripping from the faucet. It didn't seem like an empty dripping, anyway; it seemed like water dripping into a bigger water, he thought.
No fear had entered his foggy mind yet, so when he entered the bathroom he did it without hesitation.
It took a moment to register what he found there. At first he thought April had fallen asleep in the tub, and he started to smile. Then he saw that the water wasn't clear and white like it should be. It was red, streaks of pink running through like a sunset.
Roger staggered back, eyes frantically searching April's body until he saw clean-looking lines on the insides of her wrists, lying limply at her sides. He gasped a breath, and went and kneeled down beside the tub, touching April's face.
"Baby?" his voice cracked a little as he gently stroked April's cheek. She was so goddamn cold.
"Who did this to you, baby?" Roger asked brokenly, practically whispering as he looked around the bathroom, for what he didn't know. Help. Anyone but him to deal with this.
Mark and Collins found him like that, sitting with his body leaning against the bathtub, his fingers absently stroking April's cheek, his strong, calloused fingers looking impossibly pink against the faint bluish tinge of her skin.
"Jesus," Collins said, coming in and pulling up Roger. "C'mon, man, let's get you out of here."
Mark stood stock-still in the doorway, frozen as he took in everything. "Oh, my God."
Roger didn't fight Collins as he dragged him up, away from April and towards the door. He was going to ask if he should maybe call for an ambulance when he heard Mark take a pained, hissing breath. He was the first to see the note.
"Get him the fuck out of here, Collins," he said desperately, darting over to the bathroom mirror. But not in time.
Roger turned and took in the little piece of paper taped to the mirror. He looked at it a moment, then put his head down and let himself be led into his bedroom by Collins.
"I thought someone had done that to her," Roger said wonderingly. Collins just looked at him, preternaturally solemn, for him.
"You just lay down, okay, Roger?" Collins said, guiding him down onto his bed. "Me and Mark – we're gonna get some stuff done. You just … just stay here, okay?"
Roger nodded, looking at Collins's somber face. "Collins – what are you going to do to her?"
Collins swallowed, the breaking of Roger's voice reverberating through the room. "We're – we're gonna call some people, Rog – they'll … They'll take good care of her, okay?"
Roger nodded silently from his place on the bed, laying flat on his back and staring unseeingly at the ceiling, his arms at his sides, just like he'd seen April. April, who last time they'd been together in this room, high on the drugs, had raised her arms to the ceiling and giggled. "I'm lonely as a star," she'd cried, smiling brilliantly as she stared up at the same ceiling Roger was staring at now. But then she'd looked down at him, and placed a sweet soft kiss on his lips.
"But it's not so bad when I'm with you."
As he lay there, he could hear strange voices in the loft, footsteps past his door. He waited quietly, muscles frozen, until he heard the loft door clang shut. Sobs came then; silent wracking sobs that hurt every single part of him as he curled his body, wrapping his arms around himself, unable to breathe and barely aware he was crying, feeling like the whole world had disappeared.
He didn't know how long it was before Collins showed up at his door, Mark not far behind, looking exhausted and sad. He'd calmed down somewhat by then, his face wiped clean on his shirt and his arms at his sides, again staring unmovingly at the ceiling above him.
Roger didn't say anything as Collins came over and leaned against the wall beside his bed, sliding down into a crouching position, his arms hugging his legs as he watched Roger.
Mark came and lay beside him in his bed, his weight as he sunk down pulling their bodies together. Mark didn't look at him, but after a moment Roger felt Mark's hand take his, tangling their fingers together, Mark warming him slightly.
They all stayed like that for a long time, letting Roger be silent but making sure he wasn't alone. He didn't know how long it took for him to finally speak.
"I've got AIDS."
They didn't respond, except Mark squeezed his hand painfully. He turned his head to Collins and laughed wetly. He didn't know why.
He thought of April – his love – cold in that bathtub. He could never go in there again.
"Fuck it," he said wetly, using his free hand to wipe at his face. "Mark, get the fuck up."
Mark stood, struggling to keep the hurt out of his eyes.
"Listen," Roger continued, not looking at either of them. "In the bottom drawer there, under the shirts and the notebooks, is my stash. And needles. Fucking get them out of here."
Mark looked at him a second, then walked over to Roger's dresser. Roger suddenly sat up, crying out. Mark whirled back, coming over to Roger's bed.
"Get gloves," Roger said hoarsely. Those fucking needles. They could still have it on them. He wouldn't let Mark or even Collins touch anything until Collins went out and bought some gloves. Then they disposed of everything Roger asked them to throw out, including the clothes April had left there.
When they were done, they came back into his room. Mark climbed into bed beside him again, and Collins threw a pillow on the floor and settled down beside Roger's bed.
Roger didn't look at them. "Get out of here, both of you. You two can't baby-sit me forever."
Mark stayed silent, but Collins spoke up from the floor. "Won't hurt us for a few days. And we're not leaving you alone, so get used to it."
Roger stayed awake long after Mark and Collins went to sleep. He didn't know if his mind was blank or if he was simply thinking too rapidly to retain any thoughts.
When the morning light started invading the loft, though, and he felt himself slipping into sleep against his own will, one thought came through, stuck with him. He held onto it, like holding on to a ball of razors. April's smile.
In that moment he thought he was going to miss her smile most of all.
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - -
Two months later
Mark wakes up really slowly, fighting it for as long as he can, not letting the fuzzy edges of his brain clear and ask why he doesn't want to wake up. He just keeps his eyes closed tight and drifts, he stomach feeling tight and sick.
But eventually reality creeps in and he finds he can't ignore it anymore. Collins is in his and Benny's room and Mark is sleeping on Roger's floor, trying hard to be there for him but not cross any invisible and silent boundaries that have been set up between them.
Mark rolls over, wincing as he tries to stretch out his back and legs. Sleeping on the floor … is not ideal. But not much is these days.
Mark still doesn't let himself think about some of it. He'll think about cleaning up the bathroom after Roger has weakened and then strengthened again; he'll think about the necessities of everyday living, of getting Roger to eat something and drink water and get pills. He'll think about the gratitude he feels towards Collins for sticking around when he could be in California or Hawaii or some equally warm and exotic place, and he'll think about getting another job – just for a while – and about calling his parents to ask for just one more emergency loan.
But he won't think about April. He won't think about that first night, or seeing that note, or grabbing for Roger's hand while they were in the clinic, Roger staring stoically ahead.
Those things he puts away, for now.
With a sigh he rolls upwards into a sitting position, automatically hugging his knees to his chest and staring at Roger, who is still sleeping. Finally.
Mark's eyes are still burning with exhaustion – he's surprised he has been able to wake up as dependably as he has. But every moment there is the danger of Roger sneaking out and getting the drugs. In the worst times he's confined to the bathroom, sick in every part of his body and shivering like an animal. And every time he seems to be getting better – every time the shivering stops and he actually manages to collapse, exhausted, into sleep – that's when the danger comes. Mark starts to wonder if the other side of this even exists at all.
But now that impossible hope is rising in his chest again – eight days. It's been eight days since Roger last had a hit – the longest amount of time he's gone since that horrible night two months ago.
(Don't think about it, don't even go there, stop stop stop)
He wouldn't wake Roger up for the world right now. He needs to take the medicine the clinic gave him, but he hasn't really slept in four days. It can wait. Mark is going to sit there and stretch and drink in the sight of Roger sleeping, no matter how tired and sick and skeletal he looks –
(No, not sick, not skeletal, he's just sleeping, he's gonna be fine – )
Mark sighs, but makes sure he's quiet as he does so. And he sits there a long time, in the dark and closeness of Roger's room, just watching that sleeping face and trying not to think.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -
Roger is lying with his eyes closed, breathing evenly and pretending he doesn't exist.
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - -
Only once has it been too much for Mark, so far. It was two weeks ago – well, sixteen days, if you wanted to be completely accurate – and Roger had been retching and shaking and clutching at Mark's shoulder after sneaking some of the drugs the night before. And Mark, trying to be calm, trying to seem peaceful and be the everything is all right that Roger needs, tries to put his arms around the shivering boy in front of him begging for help.
And Roger hit him. In the chest, not enough to cut or bruise. But it hurt like hell all the same. Mark hadn't pulled away – he'd just tried to tighten his grasp, get closer to avoid another blow and to tell Roger he wasn't going anywhere.
But Roger had skidded away, his feet scrabbling against the cracked tile of the bathroom floor, and then he seemed – God, Mark couldn't even place how it was Roger had seemed. He was scared and pissed and hurting and shocked at the same time, eyes wide and body collapsed in on itself.
There hadn't even been words – just a pained look exchanged between them before Roger crawled over to the toilet again, and rested his forehead against the cold porcelain, not looking at Mark.
Thank god, Benny had shown up then, and Mark had practically catapulted himself out of the loft, without even a word or backward glance to Benny. He hadn't been able to breathe properly until he was a good three blocks away.
Then he'd just stopped in the middle of the street and taken a deep breath. It had felt good, cleansing. He closed his eyes, but they soon shot open when unwelcome thoughts started to pour in. Mark, for the first time since leaving the loft, glanced around and took in his surroundings. And it was then that he saw the poster.
There were big dramatic red letters but Mark didn't pay attention to them. He paid attention to the picture of the girl in the middle of the poster, long curly hair and big eyes. Mark quickly scanned the information – a performance art protest – where and when, about a month away. He hadn't known he'd memorized it until a few days later when he found Roger cloudy-eyed again, and he'd chanted the details to himself. He realized he had something to look forward to.
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - -- - - -
When Roger opens his eyes – not wakes, exactly, but decides after a while that it's okay to open his eyes – he slowly starts to realize that the muted sounds he's hearing are probably Mark and Collins talking. Even before … Before. Even then Benny had been disappearing more nights than he'd been home.
Roger's body wants to yawn and stretch but he doesn't allow himself the luxury. There's a big part of him that wants him to feel bad – as bad as he possibly can, for as long as he can, so his body matches everything else.
Roger doesn't stop to consider that this might be why he keeps going back to the drugs.
A small fire is in his belly. It's not enough to be real anger, but it kind of pisses him off, Collins and Mark in the main room of the loft and obviously talking about him. What the hell is so interesting about him, anyway? Why don't they just leave, let him be as numb and drugged and dead as he wants to be?
He rolls over, still not letting himself stretch, staring at the wall in front of him. Not dead. He doesn't want to be dead. Doesn't want to be like April.
Even when he knows that's how he's going to end up, anyway.
Roger wonders at his own calmness. Sure, when the drugs are bad, are kicking his ass and making him shiver and feel like his bones are gonna jump out of his skin, then he lets loose a little without even really being aware he's doing it.
But whenever he's sober – caught in the limbo of what everyone else is calling reality – he can't let go. He's quiet and still and sad. But not angry. And it's weird that he's not angry, because April leaving him –
Roger pulls himself up. He should … do something. But he doesn't want to face the dual masks of concern that Collins and Mark have become. So he plods quietly into the bathroom, hoping they don't hear, and runs a trickle of cold water in the sink, catching it in his hand before bringing it to dry, cracked lips.
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - -
"I don't know what to do," Mark is saying quietly, body turned towards Collins on the couch but not looking at his friend. Eye contact feels too dangerous lately, so he avoids it for the most part. He more senses than sees Collins reach his arms over his head in a quick stretch.
"We're doing all we can," Collins says, voice deep and rumbly and somewhat comforting. "He has to do part of it, too, you know. I think we've learned the hard way that we can't watch him every minute."
"But we should," Mark mumbles quietly, stopping to glance down the hallway towards Roger's door. Both he and Collins know that he says 'we' without meaning it. Mark really means that he should be able to watch Roger every minute; that he should want that.
Collins sighs. "We've still gotta live our lives. Help him as much as we can, but – " He shrugs helplessly. "I have faith that he'll stop, that this will get better."
Mark forces a smile. "How's Jamie?"
"He's … very fuckable."
Mark snorts quietly.
"Nah, he's nice and sweet, and he's a good distraction." Collins starts to lean forward, to get up, but is surprised to feel Mark shoot out a hand and grab his arm. He sits back down.
"You okay?"
That makes Mark want to laugh, but he doesn't. "It – it's just I'm usually the only one here. Benny's hardly ever here anymore, and you go out with Jamie, and I don't mind," he hurries to add, watching a little darkness flash over Collins's face, "But stay, would you, a little longer? Just, you know, to talk."
Collins looks down at his friend, almost as thin and pale and haggard as Roger himself. He'd pull Mark into a bearhug – he knows that's what he wants to do – but he also knows how this boy shies away from touch, especially when bad shit is raining down. So he gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and settles more comfortably into the couch.
"So, how's the writing?"
Mark smiles. "Nonexistent. I haven't written … well, in a while. And I'm fed up with everything I've done." He looks up, seeming a little faraway. "I need something different, you know?"
"Like what?" Collins asks, even though they both know that what Mark needs is to get away from Roger. But Collins only has a small inkling of just how impossible that is. Mark shakes his head.
"I don't know," he says. "I'm thinking … soon the cash we've saved up is gonna be gone. So I'm probably gonna get a job – just, I don't know, bussing tables or something."
"Mark – "
Mark holds up a hand. "I know you're not going to be here forever, Collins. And neither is Benny. And I gotta figure out some way to pay the rent and get food and – and AZT."
The men pause, both looking forward, shoulders just touching on the couch. After a moment Mark swallows and slightly pulls away.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How – how did you deal with it? How – when you found out – "
Collins exhales deeply. "Jesus. I don't know, Mark. I don't know if there's any way to actually 'deal with it'." He says, emphasizing his words. "You just – you just live through it and get reacquainted with yourself once you hit the other side."
Mark sits back, face impassive. "That's not very comforting."
Collins laughs, and pats his shoulder again. "It wasn't supposed to be. But I'm not dying today, and that's good. So I go with that. But Roger," and Collins sighs. "Roger won't talk with me or anything. Looks like he's gonna haul off and kick me in the balls whenever I try."
Mark laughs a little wetly. He knows that face too well.
Collins looks forward, and Mark pretends Collins can see that far-off time of the other side, when everything is settled and Roger is Roger again.
"All we can do is give him time." Collins looks at him hard then. "And a little space. Scary as it is, I think he needs that, too."
Suddenly Mark's chest is tight and full with everything he's been holding in and he has to stretch his neck and face to the ceiling to just give himself a little room.
"She was always kissing me. April. She was always grabbing me and kissing me on the cheek."
"I know, man. I miss her, too."
- - - - - - - - - --
- - - - - - - - - --
Hours later, Mark walks into Roger's bedroom, dressed and fiddling with the zipper of his coat. That date, time, and address are singing through his mind, annoying him, telling him to leave when all he really wants is to stay.
"Hey," he says softly, looking at Roger lying curled up on his bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," Roger answers quietly.
Mark pauses, unsure of how to do this or even if he should. There's so much warring inside of him right now.
"Um, listen," he says finally. "There's – there's this protest … thing, going on, and I was thinking of going, maybe seeing what it was all about …"
Roger rolls over and stares at him, and Mark feels as if those eyes are burning through him, accusing him. He's leaving. Just like her.
"Do you … do you want to come with me? We could – "
"No," Roger interrupts him. Then, in the same breath, "Protesting what?"
Mark smiles that new awkward smile he's getting so used to and rolls his eyes, desperately trying to convey normalcy. This is just a normal night, a normal event, a normal friend.
"I don't even know – I think the poster said something about a panhandling campaign."
For just a split second, Roger looks a little amused, there's a spark of his old self, and Mark feels his heart flip over before Roger catches himself and turns back to the wall.
Mark waits a couple seconds. "So, Collins will be home soon."
Roger looks at him. "I know."
"So, I think – I – "
"Mark, go," Roger interrupts tiredly, running a hand over his face. "I just – I really want to stay home. But I'll be fine. You go and have fun."
There's no smile in his voice, or anywhere, no acknowledgment that there's any meaning in the word "fun" anymore, and Mark's heart constricts a little, thinking of his roommate jumping off a stage and twirling April around in the audience, grinning and shouting and alive. He turns away.
"Take your AZT," he says, getting used to the way the words slip off his lips. He's said them twice a day now for almost two months, varying his tones from soothing to furious, depending on Roger's current mood and behaviour.
Roger just stares at him, then turns his face away. Mark's shoulders slump a little, and he silently leaves the loft.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -
When Mark gets to the huge alleyway the address leads him to, there's already a pretty sizeable crowd there. He stands in the back of the area, far from the stage where he won't feel the danger of being trampled by a mob. He continues to stay on the edges, taking in everything around him before the sun fully sets and everything is dark. After a long boring interval, where Mark is about ready to give up and go home, there's a huge growl just behind him. Mark looks up, fascinated, as a motorcycle roars past. A few moments later an unamplified voice comes out over the crowd. "Lights? Lights … fuck, there are supposed to be - "
And suddenly there are lights and the pretty girl from the poster is illuminated onstage, and her face goes from annoyed to smiling performance in an instant. She strikes a dramatic pose, says into the mic, "Thank you for coming – you ARE the light" and then launches into a monologue.
Mark stares at her. She's beautiful. And he can't help but wonder uneasily if he's missing something – because he can't understand one fucking word this girl is saying. Something about Little Red Riding Hood. And the lights keep missing their cues and every so often the mic gives a sharp report and stops working.
But when she's done the people cheer madly, and Mark isn't surprised. She's beautiful and vibrant with a gorgeous voice and it's like she's literally holding the crowd in her hand. Suddenly Mark feels a little dizzy and crazy and pissed at everything he's been through since he came to New York – since Roger came into his life. He decides to go and try to talk to the girl.
Of course, he's not the only one to have this brilliant idea. Dozens of people are surrounding this girl, shaking her hand and trying to talk and blushing. Mark waits patiently, keeping his eyes on the girl with her long dark hair and snapping eyes. Soon the crowd around her disperses and the girl wilts a little bit, her posture softening and the grin sliding slowly off of her face. She starts dismantling her stage, struggling with a huge amp as she tries to get it off the platform she's set up. Mark hurries to help her, grabbing one side of the amp before he ever says a word to her.
"Thanks," she says, smiling, but not the grin she gave to her other admirers. Mark's glad he gets a different smile.
Mark grunts, taking the amp completely from her and setting it on the floor. "No problem." After a moment of hesitation, he sticks out his hand. "I'm Mark."
"Maureen Johnson," this girl says, shaking the offered hand and then lightly jumping up onto the platform and unplugging a thick cable, wrapping it in circles around her arm.
"Oh. Cohen," he continues. "I mean – my name – it's Mark Cohen." He swallows, seeing her smile to herself as she turns away a bit. "Is there anything else I could help you with?"
She turns around, and looks at him. Mark feels this is the first time she's actually seeing him. "I don't know. What are you offering?"
Mark tries not to laugh. "Help. As in hauling around some of this heavy shit for you."
The girl – Maureen – crosses her arms just below her chest. "You think you can handle that?"
Mark scoffs, affronted. "Of course I can. Jesus."
Maureen laughs. "You don't look like you could handle much."
Mark suddenly decides he doesn't need this shit. "Fine. Haul your crap yourself."
"Wait!"
He turns around, barely keeping a small smirk off his face.
She looks at him, a little bit pleading, acquiescing. "I would like some help hauling this stuff to my van."
Mark raises an eyebrow and holds out his arms. "So, what do you need me to do?"
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - -
An hour later they both collapse on the platform after dragging the last heavy coiled cable out to her van. They haven't talked much, but Mark figures the many smiles exchanged count for something.
Maureen turns to him. "Hey, thanks, really. This was really nice of you."
Mark tiredly waves a hand, brushing away her thanks. "It's no problem. And you should really talk to your sound guy. The mic shouldn't be doing that."
Maureen's face darkens. "Fucking David," she says. "He skipped out right after the show, didn't even give me a chance to tear into him." She grins suddenly at Mark, all white teeth and promise. "Pisses me off."
Mark grins back. "Well, if you ever want any help …"
She pounces, rolling over to plant her hands on his chest, almost on top of him. Mark's breath hitches. Oh, he likes this girl.
"I would really, really like that," she says, and Mark thinks, My God, she's actually purring, before she's leaning down and her lips are on his.
When he walks her to her van and she says she's been living in it, Mark doesn't hesitate. He's had enough bad shit go down the past little while and Roger is just going to have to deal with it so Mark can have this. He warns her about Roger, about the way the loft has been recently, but she just laughs and says she lives for drama, thrives off it, and then she kisses him hard, against his smiling lips, pushing him against the wall of her van.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -
Roger is alone.
For the first time in months, he thinks. Someone has always been with him up until this point. A stab of fear hits him right in the gut.
Okay, he reasons. This is nothing. Compared to what he's been through, nothing. It's just hanging out in the loft. He's done it before.
But then Roger stops and realizes that he hasn't done it before – that since moving to the City he has kept moving every fucking minute of every fucking day. He was so swept up in everything he barely remembered to sleep, only crashing late at night after shooting up.
With April.
It's that name, that memory, that more than anything else sends him back to the drugs. It happens almost like clockwork, every week. Collins isn't always there, Benny is never there anymore, and Mark can't stay awake forever.
Roger can, and it's killing him. After that horrible night, when he finally fell asleep, he woke up to cold and stomach cramps. He ran for the bathroom, just making it, retching for what felt like hours, kneeling against the toilet, shivering like he was being shaken by some supernatural force. He doesn't know how long he slept before he came to this point.
And then Mark was there, kneeling beside him, and Roger could barely see him, just mumbled something about a hit, just one more hit to make this go away, just a little one, make this sick go away …
But Mark shook his head, staying there, his legs shaking a little. He stays there even when tears start to leak out Roger's eyes. He doesn't give.
And when it's over, when Roger isn't shaking quite so much, isn't spending 20 hours a day in the bathroom where it all began, they both start to take deeper breaths. They both think that maybe the worst is over.
But then that name – that face – it just flits through Roger's mind like a butterfly and the damage is done. He can't sleep, and Mark has to. And he sneaks out, and it all starts all over again.
Roger sighs now. Eight days. That's the longest he's gone so far.
I can do this.
He rubs a hand over his face, feeling the long alien coarseness of his beard. He doesn't want to shave anymore. He wouldn't shower if he thought he could get away with it. And he'd piss off the balcony if he didn't think he'd get caught.
Suddenly everything in the loft seems a little too dark and a little too quiet. And that's just enough to send him over the edge. He doesn't think about Collins, or the band, or what he's doing to himself, or AIDS or April. He's not thinking about Mark and what a fucking betrayal this is going to be.
He's just picking up his jacket and heading out the door.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -
Mark and Maureen get back to the loft, Mark cutting off his laughter – god, it feels so good to really laugh again – and telling Maureen to make herself comfortable before tiptoeing to Roger's room. Roger is lying there, and his eyes are a little cloudy, and he's sleepy. And Mark knows he's not supposed to be sleepy. It's a comfort withdrawal won't offer.
Mark shakes Roger's shoulders. It takes a minute for Roger to look up and connect. "Oh, hey, Mark."
Mark clenches his jaw. "Fuck." He can't tear into Roger, not when he's like this, not with all he's going through. Mark knows that it's pain doing this to Roger now, not a hunt for pleasure or weakness or stubbornness or uncaring or anything. Just simple bone-crushing pain. And he can't blame him for that.
Even if he wants to.
So he pushes Roger's shoulders, gets him laying down and covers him with his bedclothes. "We'll talk tomorrow," he says softly, watching Roger slowly close his eyes, something he hasn't seen for a week. He always gives into sleep before Roger can.
"Thanks," Roger mumbles, and for some reason this infuriates Mark. He feels so fucking helpless against all this and Roger thanking him feels like a slap to the face, as if he's condoning this. As if he is, in any way, okay with all this shit they're both going through.
"You're welcome," he says, and lets his hand rest on Roger's shoulder an instant. Roger smiles – another rarity – and Mark relaxes slightly, but only for a second. He knows what tomorrow will bring now, and he hates having the knowledge.
When he goes back out into the loft and sees Maureen settling herself onto the couch, his usual sleeping place, he doesn't hesitate to go into Benny and Collins's room and filch all their blankets, dropping them on the floor next to the couch and Maureen.
"I don't know when my other roommates will be back," he says, and he knows how he must look. Sad. Defeated. Pathetic.
She smiles, and tells him it doesn't matter, and he doesn't protest at all when she slides her body off the couch to settle in beside him on the blankets on the floor.