Among the many trivial details of his life that Mark consciously chooses not to divulge, the cactus thing is probably the most pathetic.
He doesn't mean to collect them. His mother, ironically, is the first one to send him one, he can't even remember why now it's been so long – and he nearly throws it out, except, well, he's a pussy and he can't bear the thought of killing anything, not even this prickly little plant that he can't imagine anyone ever loving. So he sets it in the window with a sigh and there it stays, right near the sink, soaking in the sunlight and quietly subsisting.
There's something about owning plants that Mark has always found calming. He thinks to himself that it's the quiet solidarity – the reassurance that no matter what, it's always there observing and breathing silently, something to come home to even though he doesn't have a cat or even a roommate, lately, since Roger had practically moved himself in with Mimi downstairs.
He can hear them sometimes. It's fucking lonely now, with no one but his stupid little window cactus to talk to, although he secretly thinks that it loves to be talked to and he confides in it far more often than he's proud to admit.
Roger had promised not to leave him alone again, but right now he's too busy wrapped up in his girlfriend to pay Mark any special attention, and… that's kind of fair. Mimi could have died and now somehow, against the odds, she's still here. Months later, healthy and happy and practically glowing.
He's happier for her, for them, than he is jealous. He's sure of that.
Still, the cactus is good company, but not enough good company, and somehow he finds himself coming home with another tiny pot cupped in his hands, another tiny cactus to place beside the first, with a pretty yellow bloom on the top, looking almost fuzzy. He resists the urge to pet it like a cat, just barely.
He waters both of them and stands back to observe the way the sun falls on their needles, irrationally proud of his miniature garden.
It spirals out of control from there. In the year that Mimi's been back, Mark somehow acquires a narrow windowsill full of tiny pots and needles and bright little flowers, sixteen at his last count, and it's beginning to spill over onto the counter as well, and God, if Roger were ever here long enough to do anything but riffle through his old tatty notebooks grumbling about some long-forgotten, unfinished lyric, he would probably be taking the piss out of him daily.
But things aren't so lonely with his cactus family for company. He can't bring himself to resent them much at all.
That doesn't stop the Christmas Eve from being absolutely depressing, though.
Collins isn't coming back this year – he'd phoned to tell him so a week ago, apologetically, all the way from his new gig at a school in Maine. (the long-distance bill remains untouched and studiously ignored on the kitchen table, where it would probably stay until Mark's conscience finally caved to the pressure) Maureen and Joanne have gone away on a Mediterranean cruise on borrowed Jefferson money, and Mark somehow doubted they would remember to call and check in on him.
That left Roger and Mimi, who for the past three days have sounded like cats in heat in their bedroom directly beneath Mark's mattress, and he'd stared at the ceiling for hours each night, in the dark, so flushed and embarrassed he was sure he was going to give himself a nosebleed trying to pretend it didn't turn him on, just a little.
So, yeah, the afternoon of Christmas Eve kind of drags. It's slow and thick and Mark is strangely exhausted at just the thought of going about his day as normal, as if this isn't a holiday really and as if he has something to do with himself tonight, or tomorrow, since there's no work to do and no friends to visit.
He gives up on organizing the mess inside the top drawer of his desk and wanders into the kitchen, leaning on the counter beside his garden and breathing a sigh over his cactus friends. In his mind they're leaning toward him like cats, purring and delighted, soaking in every molecule of carbon dioxide he can possibly give them.
He shakes his head suddenly, frowning at himself. He can't go depending on these ridiculous baby plants, that's just… that would just be…
Pathetic.
But isn't he already, kind of?
And doesn't everyone already know it?
He sighs again, louder, and looks around the silent loft as if in challenge. There is no answering sigh from the empty room. His frown deepens.
God, he really is alone on Christmas. That hadn't happened in years.
At least the heat is on. Benny has been tolerable lately, in small doses – and he does seem earnest, trying to get back on their good sides, but thus far only Mark has really given him anything in return besides outright skepticism and an awkward goodbye. They've gone out to lunch twice, and Benny had paid both times.
It's beginning to feel uncomfortably like a date, but that's probably because Mark hasn't been on a date in going on three years.
He climbs carefully up onto the counter and sits there, cross-legged, clutching a mug of tea and watching the snow fall sluggishly through the chilly windowpane. The baby cacti purr in his head once more, when he glances down at them, and this time he doesn't bother telling himself to be realistic.
What fun would that be? He lives in reality all the time. It's boring. Corporate.
He still felt like a sellout, biking to his nine-to-five every day, paying the rent like a normal person, if maybe a little late at times. Him, with no roommate to bother him, no girlfriend to distract him, no friends, really, to speak of, except for these godforsaken pots full of needles.
"I should have gotten you guys a present," he tells them sadly, reaching to gently stroke the spines as though they're precious. To him, they really are. It's a moment of intense wallowing and he closes his eyes and sighs, savoring it. "Merry Christmas, anyways…"
"Merry Christmas to you, too," Roger says casually in his ear, and Mark jerks so hard he falls off the counter and stumbles back against his chest, heart hammering, swearing at the top of his lungs as he shoves the cackling asshole away.
"You jackass," he gasps when he can breathe again, glaring daggers. Roger looks strangely smug. He's had a haircut recently, looks like, and he's actually freshly shaven, probably because Mimi had insisted on it if he were going anywhere near her good parts. "What the fuck are you doing here, I didn't even hear you come in!"
"That's not my fault," Roger points out, and brings something out from behind his back with a flourish, as though he expects Mark to be impressed. It's a potted cactus, bigger than any of the others in his windowsill garden. Mark stares.
A long moment passes before he breaks and thrusts it into his hands, impatient. "It's your present. Merry Christmas."
"It's not Christmas yet." Mark can't help it; he's always most sarcastic when he's taken off guard, and he can safely say this had been a surprise. He hadn't expected to see Roger at all in the next two days. He hadn't seen him on Easter, or on Halloween…
"Fuck off!" Roger snorts and shoves him, glancing pointedly at the collection of plants innocently observing them from the windowsill. "Aren't you going to come downstairs? We put the tree up, we were waiting for you."
Mark blinks slowly between Roger's face and the heavy pot in his hands, uncomprehending. "… You- want me to come down? I thought –"
"Of course we fucking want you there, Mark, Jesus," he laughs. The words stick to Mark's skin and absorb very slowly, warmth spreading over his skin like a flush. "I'll help you carry your stupid plants down if you want."
He steps around him and starts collecting them, putting them into his pockets, balancing them in the crooks of his arms, and Mark starts to grin.
Maybe he's not quite as alone as he thought.