Anyway, after so long without it, it almost feels like he needs the touch and the sound of breathing to survive. He's not going to test it.
Days get shorter. Nights get longer, and colder. The bruises on Mark's wrists, and the bite marks on his neck and collarbones fade, and Roger doesn't leave any new ones – he's not so angry anymore. Life in the loft falls back into its normal pattern, the way it was before Roger left, and it's so close to perfect. Would be perfect if not for one thing. He can ignore that.
This could be convenience. This could be that the bed's warmer with two, and yes, he could be sleeping with April and still is, but April's about fifty blocks away, and Mark's right there. This could be habit, and it's easier to keep it up than it is to stop. This could be anything but love.
Roger's getting good at lying to himself like this.
"It would have been nice if you'd just told me you were moving. I had to find out from Hunter."
"I'm sure, baby." Roger's smile's a little hazy – he must have shot up before the show, before she got here, and that's odd in itself, because usually Roger doesn't need that until after, the high of the music's enough to carry him through. "It just came up, and I forgot..."
April sighs and glances down, absently brushing a few blond curls from her eyes, and nods slightly. "Right. I understand. Just... I like to know things. I'm your girlfriend, after all."
For a second, something flickers over Roger's face- it's just for a second, and then it's gone, though he's not very good at hiding emotion when he's high. "Right. I'm sorry." There's still a trace of something in his eyes, but April can't decide what it is, and decides she doesn't want to figure it out.
She stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly, and he returns the kiss with his usual gentleness. Right now, it almost makes her want to scream at him. When she drops back onto her heels, she smiles faintly, like she doesn't care – like there's nothing to care about. "I just don't understand why you moved so suddenly." Her mind keeps telling her to let it go. She doesn't want to know. She knows she doesn't want to know. Her lips keep talking. "What came up?"
"A friend called me. I mean, he calls all the time, it wasn't the phone call..." He's running off on tangents. He does that when he's high, his thinking gets all fuzzy and he runs off on odd tracks. April's silent, and waits it out. "Needed someone to help pay the rent, and Hunter doesn't really need my help with that, so..." There's a pause, and he looks at April, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around dilated pupils, and he's not her Roger (if he ever was that). "He's my best friend. Not Hunter, I mean. Mark. The one that called me."
He leaves it at that, but April can tell there's something more, something else. Roger thinks she doesn't see the secrets in his eyes, when they're written there for anyone to read.
"You're sleeping at this time of day?" Mark asks as he steps into the bedroom, pulling off his coat, sitting on the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes.
Roger wonders briefly why Mark's speaking to him when he was sleeping (or not quite), and with a sigh shifts around a little, then buries his face in the pillow. His voice comes out muffled, but still understandable when he responds, "It's cold."
The bed shifts as Mark moved, and Roger lifts his head at last to look up at him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg folded underneath him, his knee almost touching Roger but not quite, and he's watching him with his head tilted to one side with an oddly considering look, and a smile. "It's cold so you're sleeping?"
"Cold makes me sleepy," Roger says diffidently, and then pushes himself up on one arm to lean in and kiss Mark lightly. Mark returns the kiss, pressing in to him, and soon Roger falls back onto the bed, Mark following him down until he's leaning over him, braced on both arms, half-lying across Roger's chest.
Much as he likes sex, sometimes Roger prefers just kissing Mark. It's the soft, pleased noises he makes in the back of his throat, the way he nips at Roger's bottom lip so very softly, the way he clings to Roger's shoulders... It's heady, almost like a drug. It makes Roger feel wanted, needed, makes him believe that it's there and simply unspoken. He pulls Mark a little closer, eyes closed as he draws a slow breath that somehow remains steady.
Mark pulls back after a minute or two, and Roger opens his eyes. "Where'd you go last night?" Mark asks, and Roger blinks.
"What?"
"Last night. You were here when I went to sleep, and then when I woke up you were... gone."
"Oh. Um. I went out. To see someone." Roger feels his stomach drop and God, why now, why did he have to ask at a moment when everything was almost right?
"In the middle of the night? Who?" Mark raises an eyebrow skeptically, sitting back, and Roger sits up so that he can look at him straight on.
"April," Roger all but mumbles. There's still that raised eyebrow, and after some time, he admits at last, "My girlfriend."
"Your... oh." Mark has suddenly gotten cold, suddenly shut down, and Roger feels a shiver run down his spine. He reaches out, puts his hand on Mark's wrist, and to his relief, Mark doesn't pull away.
"It's not like... It doesn't make anything different." Mark doesn't say anything, so Roger leans toward him, kisses him. It's not as sweet as it was before.
It's quiet in the loft, for once – it snowed tonight, and that always brings a sort of hush over everything, like the snow muffles everything, or simply draws every part of the city into quiet withdrawal even for just a short time. It's easily fifteen degrees outside, maybe less, and even in the loft, everyone can see their breath. It's warm in the bed, curled up with Roger, though, and Mark has no intention of moving any time soon. With all the quiet, he can hear Roger's breathing perfectly, slow and even, and he absently presses a kiss to Roger's bare shoulder. He feels safe, doing things like that simply because he feels like it, when Roger's sleeping, when he'll never know about it.
He doesn't realize Roger's not asleep until he speaks, his voice soft, hushed as if he doesn't want to actually break the silence. "Mark?"
Mark freezes for a moment, and then says softly in answer, "Hmm?"
"You know I love you."
Mark's silent, thinking of an answer, and at last settles for a noncommittal noise that means nothing at all. It's enough for Roger to go on, or maybe he would have gone on without any response from Mark anyway.
"Please say it to me," Roger says, and his voice drops into a whisper that breaks Mark's heart wide open, almost scared. He's just a kid, grasping at love wherever he thinks he sees it, he's so young, and so unable to conceal the need in his voice... It hurts. "Just once. I don't care, lie to me if you have to..."
Mark doesn't say it. He doesn't answer at all, because he truly can't decide which would be the lie – to tell him that he doesn't love him, or to say that he does.