Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's. I'm just playing, all respect intended.

When Mark stepped into the kitchen later that morning, Roger was on the telephone. He glanced at Mark and muttered, "Okay, I have to go. 'Bye." Then he hung up. Mark fought a glower, sure that Roger had been speaking to that girl again. He gritted his teeth and wondered what had possessed him to wear Roger's clothes instead of his own, especially as Roger asked, "A-are you… wearing my shirt? And my pants?"

"Um…"

Roger's face twisted momentarily, then he forced a smile and said, "Those jeans are too long for you, but I still think you look sexy in the jersey." He leaned in to kiss Mark. "Sexier when your nipples are showing," he whispered before pulling away. Mark shivered. "Oatmeal? Dry toast? Breakfast of champions!"

"How are you so cheerful?" Mark demanded.

"Because," Roger said, grinning evilly, "my mom and Reggie are at church. We have the entire house to ourselves." Catching on to Roger's thought process, Mark smiled. "And you know," Roger continued, sucking oatmeal off a wooden spoon, "their shower…" He snickered. "So do you want to?"

"You have to ask?"

Roger smiled. "Good. Oh, but first, we have a guest coming for breakfast. Hey, Carlie!"

Their guest had appeared in the kitchen, stepping in through the back door as though she belonged there. "'Morning, Roger." They hugged. "Good morning, Mark."

"Hey," Mark said weakly. Roger had been spot-on with that shower idea, but suddenly Mark was too angry to be interested. "Roger, I don't think you should be eating too much," Mark admonished. "You just finished throwing up--"

Roger nodded. "I know," he said. "Safe foods." They were bland of color, bland of taste, but filling and unlikely to make him sick again. He poured the oatmeal into a bowl as Carlie began setting the table. Mark felt his face flush furiously. Dammit, Roger, I'm your boyfriend. And a guest. You should be making me feel comfortable, not emphasizing the fact that I don't belong here!

"Are you all right?" Carlie asked Roger. "If you're sick--"

He's always sick, Mark thought bitterly. He has HIV, but you don't know that because you're from a different life. This Roger doesn't belong to you, he belongs to me. "Rog, did you take your pills?" Mark asked.

"You know I did." Roger knelt to pull toast out of the oven. "Why don't you sit down?" he asked Mark. "Both of you. I just need a few minutes--"

"I'll help," Mark and Carlie volunteered together. Mark glared at Carlie; she ignored him and took dishes over to the table. Mark bit his lip. What am I supposed to do? She knew the run of the house; he didn't. This was as much Carlie's turf as it was Roger's, and completely foreign to Mark. He felt an illogical rush of tears.

"Hey." Roger rubbed himself against Mark, giving him a one-armed hug. "You okay, babe?"

Mark nodded. "I'm fine," he lied. Roger kissed him and finished setting out breakfast. He sat; Mark quickly sat beside Roger, ensuring that Carlie would be as distant from him as possible. Unfortunately, this meant that Mark was sitting beside Carlie.

She managed five minutes' polite conversation, asking Mark and Roger questions, ignoring gibes and glares. "So," she asked after a moment, "um, if this isn't too personal a question, how did you know you were gay? I mean you obviously didn't know back in high school…"

Mark glared. "I wouldn't say that I'm gay," Roger answered, laughing as he spread jam across his toast. "It's more that I'm in love with Mark."

"Love is blind," Carlie retorted, equally amused, her tone light. She, too, had a piece of toast, spread with butter and jam. Only Mark had a deep, churning illness in his stomach, making it impossible for him to swallow food. He wondered how the oatmeal felt. No one was eating any oatmeal. Uncertain why, he spooned a mass of the stuff onto his plate.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark demanded. He knew his looks weren't exactly stellar, but he was far from hideous. Or did she find something funny in homosexuality? Was being queer some big joke to her? He had almost been disowned for it.

Carlie gave him a sideways look. "Well, first it's funny because you're a cameraman," she said. Mark's blood boiled. Was there anything Roger hadn't told this girl? "Then it's a cliché, and it's funny because it's both a cliché and applicable, thoroughly defiant of the confines of the definition." Roger was grinning. "Finally it's funny because when Roger and I fooled around, part of the game was a blindfold."

Roger could not stop smiling. Good girl, Carl! She was everything he remembered, everything he had hoped. And he could not stop feeling triumphant for both of them for succeeded in her success.

Mark blanched. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it. "You're laughing about how you fucked your ex?" he asked

"Mark!"

Carlie said, "Actually, we never 'fucked', we just fooled around a little. It's not like he's your first, either."

Mark's face turned bright red. He spluttered a moment; his face contorted before he managed, "My sexual history is none of your fucking business!"

"Mark," Roger appealed, but Mark was well beyond listening.

With a proud calm, Carlie told him, "If it wasn't true, you wouldn't be so angry. And I don't see why you're angry at all. There is no reason to expect virginity when life is an accepted buffet of try-it-again romance is a search for the right fit which may be love."

Mark knew he was going to scream. He knew, because his glasses had fogged. Before he could open his mouth, Roger grabbed his hand. "Hey," he said, in an ironic shift of roles. "Calm down, guys."

Carlie pushed her chair back. "I think I should go," she said. She stood. "Um, before I do, you should know-- Mark, Roger asked me to come here today to talk to you. He was trying to make things better, okay?" Suddenly the room was impossibly quiet without their shouting voices. Carlie barely whispered.

If Mark had been thinking, he would not have retorted as he did. If he had been thinking, he would have seen how his answer hurt Roger far more than it stung Carlie. "Yeah," he said. "Well, you didn't. You made things worse."

Carlie shrugged. "Sure looks that way," she admitted. "I'm really sorry, Roger."

She left the room. Mark and Roger sat still as the door banged shut. Through the window they saw Carlie jog across the street. Mark ignored her. Roger could not bring himself to watch, but he saw her paused to look over her shoulder and shoot him the briefest, bitterest ILY. Then she sprinted up the walk and back into her mother's house.

Roger stood and began clearing the plates. For a while, Mark remained still. He said nothing as Roger took away his uneaten, unwanted breakfast. In the kitchen, the sink faucet hissed to life. Dishes clacked together as Roger scrubbed them. Time wore on, and the events of the morning did not change.

Mark forced himself to stand. Roger only knew that Mark had moved when he noticed his reflection in the kitchen window. They stood in silence until Mark asked, "Is there something you want to say to me, Roger?"

Roger turned off the faucet. He turned to face Mark and slowly wiped his soapy hands on his jeans. "Why?" he asked. "Why would you do that?"

"Why would I?" Mark asked, incredulous. "You… why would you?" he echoed. "What were you thinking?"

"That maybe for once you had been fucking honest with me!"

Mark took a step back, astounded. He had heard cruelty from Roger, barbs aimed to hurt, but this shouting was new. Roger's previous shouts had been pain, or anger at the pain, but never anger at Mark. Roger, too, was surprised. He sighed, disgusted with himself as much as with Mark. "Forget it," he said, "just forget it. We're… we're driving home tonight, until then we'll just… just wait it out." He sniffled and swiped at his eyes. "I need to finish the dishes. Do whatever you want."

Mark left the room, and Roger could not say where he went.

ROGER

And the worst, the absolute worst, was that if I wanted to keep Mark as my boyfriend-- and I did, else why would I have braved Jersey again?--I would have to blame Carlie or myself, and I couldn't. I could not fault myself for trying to bring Mark the best part of my past. I could not fault Carlie, the one of us who turned out well and whole and admirable. I could not fault her for holding her own.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. I took another, and another, and put my fist through the kitchen window.

TO BE CONTINUED

ILY-- 'I love you' in American sign language (form a fist, then lift your thumb, pinkie and pointer. This is the letters I, L, and Y, and it means 'I love you'. You're probably familiar with it.)

Reviews would be very much appreciated! ... please?