Okay. So I'm not dead. I just got to the smut and was like, "WAAAAH! DONE!" even though I knew I wasn't. There's gonna be at least three more chapters after this, and then I'm planning on doing a series of one-shots and songfics set in the same universe. Maybe a couple little backstories on Blake and Christian, just cuz I love them so much. Any other suggestions? Let me know what you want, people!
And, on to CHAPTER 11! WOOT!
The next morning:
In the bleary fog between waking and sleeping, Roger realized that he was warm. He shifted subtly, and his arm tightened around the source of heat next to him. He let out a sigh, and hazily wondered what the wonderful warmth next to him was. He leaned closer to it, his head resting on a yielding plane. He picked up the faint thumping of a heart beat. The last time he'd woken up like this…
Mimi.
Roger's eyes snapped open, the obscure thought jolting him awake. He was snuggled up to a naked body, his head on a chest, moving up and down with slow breaths. He looked up and took in Mark's gentle face, relaxed in sleep. His hand snaked out from around the filmmaker's waist, moving up to tentatively touch a smooth cheek. Mark's eyelashes fluttered, but he didn't wake. Oh God, Mark.
The previous night came crashing in on him with startling clarity. He nearly gasped at the abruptness of the memories all bustling to the front of his mind. Mark and he, they'd… shit… Past the images of last night, Roger could see his hand on Mark's face, and the golden band that still clung snugly to his ring finger. Some wholly different memories closed in on Roger then, and he felt a phantom weight on his chest.
Carefully, so as not to wake his friend, he untangled himself. He stood, his head spinning, panic burning like acid in his stomach. The simple gold band felt like an icy weight on his left hand. He found his clothes, wincing at the evidence of last night's activities that still clung to them, putting them on anyway. He padded to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind him, resolutely not looking at the sleeping filmmaker still in bed.
Shrugging on his leather jacket, he scratched at the semen on his jeans with a thumbnail. When he was sure nothing looked too obvious, he walked over to the apartment door, opening it silently. The emotions swirling in his mind and gut were overwhelming. He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat.
Then Roger did the one thing he did better than writing songs or playing his guitar.
He ran.
One hour later:
Mark groaned then yawned as he stretched, his eyes squinting open slowly. They shut again as light assaulted them. It must be close to noon. He still felt exhausted.
There's a damn good reason for that, his mind supplied, and he smiled sleepily, still not quite awake.
Then he realized that he was laying spread-eagle on the bed, and the blankets were tossed off. The bed was cold. His arms were empty. Roger was gone.
He woke up completely at that realization. He cut off the fear starting to surge up with a stern mental reprimand, keeping his eyes clenched shut until he'd calmed down.
Okay. That doesn't mean anything. Stop being so paranoid. He probably just went to the bathroom or something.
He forced himself to wait. It was hard not to jump to conclusions after a lifetime of indoctrinated worrying, after years spent closing himself off because of the very real fear that the minute he opened up he'd just be hurt. He managed as well as he could, even falling into a light doze. The dread began to creep up on him as the minutes ticked by.
After half an hour, Mark was fairly certain Roger wasn't coming back.
He got up then, in a daze, noting almost immediately that the rocker's clothes were missing from the pile of his own garments tossed haphazardly on the floor. After pulling on his pair of boxers left from last night, he performed a half-hearted search of his apartment, looking for Roger who he knew wasn't there, a note he knew hadn't been left. Any sort of sign that the guitarist had been there at all, when he knew that the place was completely and utterly empty.
He shuffled into the bathroom. The minute he saw his blank face in the mirror, the numbness of shock that had mercifully enveloped him wore off. Roger was really gone. He slid down the wall, grabbing his bare knees, a sob catching in his throat. The cold linoleum bit into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the iciness that was running through his veins. He started gasping. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He wished with all his being that he couldn't feel.
He'd been stripped, laid completely bare, and now all that was left were the raw nerves. He didn't know where the pain stopped and he began. Maybe pain was all that was left of him now. Silent tears were running down his face, his bad vision blurred even more. He didn't even have the strength to yell, to sob. All he knew was the ache in his chest, the weight in his gut. The disgusting feeling of panic, his worst fears being realized, and the helplessness coming with the knowledge that he could do absolutely nothing about it.
He didn't know how long he sat there, mostly naked and freezing on his bathroom floor. The passage of time seemed so irrelevant. Each second felt like an eternity. He finally stood, staggering to his bedroom, stumbling into a t-shirt and jeans. The shadows cast by the light from the window had lengthened. He didn't even care how many hours it had been.
He sat at his kitchen table for lack of anything better to do, and stared at the grain of the wood. He studied the lines, trying his best to detach, to distance himself. He'd been so good at it before. He wondered why the hell it was so hard now, even though, deep down, he knew why.
Mark may have been naïve, but he knew with a certainty that made his stomach clench what this meant.
It means that it's the end, and I'm alone.
Thirty minutes
earlier:
Roger's shoulders slumped in on him as he trudged past a few shop-fronts. He made his way to the nearest park, knowing he needed to get somewhere outside of the bustle of the city so he could just think. He'd planned on going to his apartment, but then remembered that Blake and Christian were probably still there, and he couldn't bring himself to face either of them right now.
He breathed in the rare scent of living greenery as he stepped into the park. He'd hoped it would have a calming effect on him. It didn't. What the hell was wrong with him anyway?
He slumped onto a bench, the metal jabbing into his shoulders. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. Slowly, he picked apart his feelings, trying to see past the panic that was clouding everything.
Breathe, Roger. Breathe.
It had all happened so fast. It was like the most natural thing in the world, the most logical step to make. At the time. But Roger had been drunk. Just enough to lower the caution he'd built around himself. He had known what he was doing, though, so he couldn't blame it on the alcohol. That would only be a cop-out, a way to avoid dealing with all the emotions roiling through him now.
Okay, so he was panicking, but why was he panicking? Fear was a big part of it. Fear that he'd hurt Mark, that Mark would hurt him. That was normal. But this fear went deeper than that. Obviously, he had no problems with being physical with Mark. Hell, he'd loved every God damn second of it. He knew if they got together there'd be a lot of sex involved. Last night was just a taste of the electricity that sparked between them. And sure they could be careful. But was that good enough?
Since he'd found out he was positive, Roger had never been with someone who wasn't. He didn't know if he'd be willing to take that chance. He knew he'd never be able to deal with it if he got Mark sick, too. Just the thought of it made him shiver. It would cause him to lose any grasp on sanity that he had left. Mark was too important. He couldn't risk it.
Mark wasn't just important, either. Sometimes Roger thought he was the only thing that really mattered anymore. His chest ached with what Mark was to him. He'd admitted that he was in love with his best friend, at least to himself. It still made his stomach clench at the thought of all the pain Mark had gone through when he hadn't been there.
That brought him to the guilt. The guilt of abandoning Mark when he'd needed Roger most, of not noticing that Mark had needed help. Fuck, he was abandoning Mark now. But he knew if he'd stayed he would've freaked out anyway, and Mark didn't need to see this. It was the truth, even if it didn't make him feel any better about it. He didn't deserve Mark anyway.
Mark was… he just was. Roger knew he wasn't perfect, but sometimes he couldn't help but have an idolized version of the filmmaker in his mind. Mark was the most genuine, most kind and caring person he'd ever met. He'd stood by Roger through the worst days of his life, barely ever lost his patience even though Roger knew he tested it often enough. And while Mark tended to hide in his work sometimes, become obsessed with his art, who could really blame him after what he'd gone through?
I could, Roger thought ruefully, remembering their fight after Angel's funeral.
Then there was another guilt Roger didn't want to admit. He felt like he'd betrayed Mimi somehow. Of course she'd been gone for years, but that didn't change how much he'd loved her. Was it cheapening Mimi's memory by loving Mark as much as he did? How could he love two different people as much as he'd loved Mimi, and now loved Mark? And the worst of it all, was Mark some sort of unconscious way for Roger to replace her? He couldn't do that to his friend if that was the case. It wouldn't be fair to either of them.
Belatedly, he noticed that he'd been sitting on the bench thinking for over an hour. And he wasn't any closer to the answers he needed. Obviously, mulling this over himself wasn't going to work. He needed to figure it out fast. He couldn't leave Mark hanging like that, and he couldn't keep running away.
Run away, hit the road, don't commit, you're full of shit!
He'd learned his lesson the hard way before. Even if he was panicking, he couldn't afford to lose Mark. Fuck, the filmmaker had probably already woken up, found Roger gone, and jumped to all the wrong conclusions. Roger knew he should go back, call, do something, but the fear was still gripping him. He needed to talk, but he couldn't talk to Mark. He just wasn't ready yet.
Disgusted with himself, Roger got up and walked out of the park. He turned in the direction of his apartment on auto-pilot. Luckily, it was only a couple of blocks away from here.
He hoped Blake was still there.
Eight minutes later:
Roger walked up to his door, fishing around in his pockets. He rolled his eyes at himself when he remembered that he'd given his keys to Chris last night. With a sigh, he knocked, feeling strange that he had to ask permission to get into his own place.
He waited for a few minutes, but no one answered. His brow furrowed, and he knocked again, louder this time. Jesus, wouldn't it just be perfect if he had to hunt down Christian before he could get in? Maybe Blake had gone home already. But it was still early, and the bassist was probably still sleeping off his hangover…. Oh.
Not the brightest crayon in the box today, are we? he thought, pounding on the door again without stopping.
His fist was starting to get sore when the door finally opened. Blake's dreds were more tangled than they usually were, a few of them covering his face. Bloodshot eyes peered out from behind them with bruised rings underneath. They stared at each other for a few moments.
"I hate you," Blake stated, his voice hoarse.
"It's your own fault. Let me in."
"And why the hell should I do that?"
"'Cuz it's my Goddamn apartment!" Roger almost shouted. Blake winced at the noise, then looked around.
"Well, damn. I guess it is. How in the fuck did I end up here?" he muttered, stepping aside.
Roger groaned as he walked in.
"You don't remember anything, do you?"
"Not a Goddamn thing. Wanna fill me in?" Blake asked. "No wait. Hold on. I'm gonna go blow chunks. Make me some coffee." With that statement, Blake attempted to run to the bathroom, but ended up stumbling more than running.
Roger went to the kitchen and poured out two mugs of coffee. Chris must have programmed the pot last night. He winced when he heard Blake heaving, and prayed he'd made it to the bathroom in time. He did not need to have puke stains on his carpet, on top of all his other problems.
He went back to the living room and sat on the couch, sipping at his mug. He set it on the coffee table, and his eyes were drawn to a piece of paper that he hadn't noticed before. His keys were resting on top of it. They fell to the table with a jingle when he lifted the note up.
Roger-
It's six in the morning as I'm writing this, and I'm heading back to my place to get some well-deserved sleep. Drunk-ass passed out in your bed about two minutes after I got him in the door. Hopefully your sheets won't forever smell of vodka.
I was going to swing by Mark's and drop off your keys, but I thought better of it. If it went like I suspect it did last night, you probably wouldn't have wanted me intruding anyway. Good luck, and take care of him for me, okay?
See you later-
Chris
Roger finished reading the note, crumpling it slightly as his hands clenched. Fuck. Chris had practically given his blessing. As if Roger didn't feel like enough of an asshole already. Maybe it would have been better if Chris had stopped by. Then Roger wouldn't have had the option of running.
Or maybe he would have anyway, and it would have just hurt Mark more.
With a moan, Roger buried his face in his hands. His right fist still had the note wrapped in it, and the paper scraped against his cheek. He couldn't believe himself. What the hell was wrong with him?
Blake staggered in then, flopping down on the couch next to Roger and grabbing the first mug he saw. It was the one Roger had been drinking out of, but Blake didn't seem to care. Roger stood.
"I'm gonna go shower and change. I'll be right back," he explained.
Blake grunted. Roger got the impression that he wasn't planning on moving anytime soon.
Roger took longer in the shower than he'd meant to. He kept getting distracted by the thoughts running rampant through his head. Mark's grin. Mark's laugh. Mark's moans and whimpers. Mark's lips against his… He snapped out of it when some shampoo ran into his eyes. He swore at the sting, then finished up quickly, rinsing, turning the water off and stepping out, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist.
No sooner had he secured the towel than Blake barged into the bathroom, a bundle of clothes in his arms. Roger stared at him, wide-eyed and dripping.
"Pants," Blake explained after they'd stared at each other for a while.
"Okay…?"
"I'm borrowing them. And a shirt. And your shower. Now get the hell out."
Roger couldn't think of anything to do but listen. He stepped out of the bathroom. He closed the door a little louder than was necessary, and Blake let out a string of curses as the noise aggravated his headache. Roger sighed and went to his room to get dressed.
Blake was weird when he was hung-over.
Half an hour later Blake emerged to find Roger sitting on the couch again, staring off into space. He sat down next to his friend. Roger jumped slightly, then turned to him.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Yo," Blake answered, raising an eyebrow.
"Feel any better?"
"I guess. Least I don't feel like I was raped by an elephant anymore." Roger let out a slight smile.
"I'll pass the compliment along to Chris." Blake blinked.
"Mind lettin' me know what the fuck happened last night? My memory is kinda… fuck, I just don't remember."
Roger smirked and filled Blake in on what had happened at the club, focusing mostly on what Blake had done after getting shit-faced. Blake seemed to be a lot more alert than he had been before the shower. Blake's eyes widened slightly when Roger got to where he'd told Chris to take Blake back to his place, and then gone home with Mark.
"Okay, man. So… now you mind tellin' me why the hell you look like someone shot your puppy?" Roger's brow furrowed. Damn, he must really be out of it if Blake noticed it even with a hang-over.
"Well… uh, that's something I wanted to talk to you about, actually," he muttered. Why was it so hard to start?
"So talk, man."
"It's kinda hard to… shit. Well, you know I went back to Mark's apartment last night."
"Yeah," Blake raised his eyebrows, prompting him to continue. Roger took a deep breath. The only way to say this was to just say it.
"I guess… one thing led to another and… I slept with him." Blake just blinked again. Roger had expected somewhat of a bigger reaction.
"Wait, okay," Blake's mouth seemed to have caught up with his brain. "So you had sex with Mark?"
"…Yeah."
"I mean, first time?"
"To what, have sex?" Roger grimaced. "Blake, what kind of fucking idiot are you?"
"No, no, man. First time with Mark?"
"Oh. Yeah, first time with Mark." What the hell was Blake trying to say?
"Well, shit." Blake looked more surprised now than he had at the news that Roger had slept with Mark.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Roger asked.
"Shit… I mean, fuck, Roger. I thought you guys were screwing like rabbits ever since we found out he was here." Roger's eyes bugged out of his head.
"What!"
"Just what I said, man. I mean, hell, with the way you were freaking out when he left, and then how Goddamn happy you've been since he showed up again… shit, the way you look at him is a dead giveaway, man. I haven't seen you look at anyone like that since Mimi." Roger groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"I'm such a Goddamn idiot," he mumbled. Why had it been so easy for everyone to see but him? Blake patted him consolingly on the shoulder.
"Okay, so you had sex with Mark. What's the prob, bro?" Roger snapped upright again.
"I don't know… I just…. I panicked. I woke up and the first thing I thought about was Mimi. I mean… I think I love him, Blake, but I just don't know if—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, bro. You're goin' too fast. What do you mean you panicked?"
"I left. Before he could wake up, I left." Blake winced.
"That might not have been the smartest thing to do, Rog." Roger's defenses came up.
"What, like you're one to talk! How many chicks have you fucked and left?" Blake frowned.
"That's different, man. They were in it for the same reasons I was. Just sex. It's not using them if they're using me at the same time. And we aren't talking about me anyway. We're talking about you." Roger's face fell again.
"Fuck. I… I know it was stupid, Blake. But I couldn't help it."
"So why couldn't you help it? What are you scared of?" That was the question Roger had been trying to answer himself for the past couple hours.
"I… I don't want him to get sick. I'd kill myself before I'd let anything like that happen to him." It wasn't the main reason, but it was a big one. Blake sighed.
"Mark's an adult, Roger. He's not stupid, and he knows what he'd be gettin' into. You can't decide for him whether he wants to take the risk or not. And from what you told me, looks like he already decided. Nothin' you can do about that now." Roger sighed.
"What else is there?" Blake asked.
"…Nothing…" Roger wasn't sure he wanted to admit the main reason out loud.
"C'mon, Rog. I know there's more." Roger glared at him.
"How the fuck do you know there's more?"
"Cuz I know you, Rog. Now fuckin' tell me."
"…I…is…" Roger stumbled over the words. "How can I love him so much, Blake? Or am I just using him as a replacement for Mimi?" he finally whispered. It stung to hear himself say it. Roger wasn't expecting Blake's reaction, though. He leaned back and laughed.
"The fuck is so funny!" Roger asked after a second.
"Shit, sorry, Rog," Blake reigned himself in, "It's just, Jesus, you gettin' all freaked out and worried over nothin'!"
"It's not fucking nothing," Roger growled. He was about two seconds away from kicking Blake out of his apartment. Literally. Blake sobered and looked at him.
"Well, it isn't nothin' cuz you're making it that way," Roger looked murderous, but Blake continued. "I know the answers to your questions, and so does anyone else who opens their fuckin' eyes and looks at you guys when you're together. How can you love him so much? 'Cuz he's Mark, man. He's your best friend and the best thing for you." He paused for a second. Roger let his words sink in and was surprised when they hit him as being… just true. Blake continued.
"Is he a replacement for Mimi? Hell, no. You love him for him, Rog. And it is possible to love more than one person. They're different people, and you love them in different ways. With Mimi, you two were passionate… there were fuckin' explosions everywhere with her. And you needed that, then. With Mark, at least from what I've seen, it's more about support… you seem calmer around him. I'm sure you've got passion with him too, but it's not the type where you guys are bitchin' at each other all the time. And that's what you need now." Blake put a hand on Roger's shoulders, and the next words came out gentler.
" And Mimi's gone, Roger. It's time you moved on. She wouldn't want you doin' this to yourself, or to Mark. She was his friend, too. She'd want you both to be happy. And you'll be happy if you let yourself be with Mark." Roger glanced at his friend.
"How the fuck did you get so smart?" he deadpanned, his thoughts racing over what Blake had said too much to really make it a joke. Blake's smile was sad.
"You're not the only one who's lost someone they love, man. And believe me, love is rare. If you're lucky enough to have found it twice…. Don't let that slip away, Rog. And for Christ's sake, don't fuck this up." Blake stood then, stretching.
"I should get back to my place. I found my keys in my Goddamn underwear. Even slept like that. Left the weirdest marks on my balls." Roger winced.
"That was something I did not need to know," he muttered. Blake grinned and moved to the door. He looked back when he opened it.
"Think about it, man. And call Mark. Knowin' him, he's probably flippin' out. Later."
Then Roger was left alone in his apartment.
He sighed, and raised a hand to rub at his neck. He knew Blake was right, but it still scared him. He could deal with that, though. He had to. For Mark. For himself.
For us, he thought.
He stared at the phone for a minute, trying to gather up the courage to pick it up and dial. Finally, he grabbed it, punching in the memorized number to Mark's apartment. His heart jumped into his throat as it rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, just as he was about to hang up, the ringing stopped.
"Hello?" Mark's weary voice reached his ear. He sounded half-dead. Shit.
"Mark?" he got out, cursing himself at the shakiness of his voice. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"It's Roger."
AGGGH! So sorry about the cliff-hanger! I shall get the next chapter done ASAP! If you want it done sooner rather than later... well, I've always been a whore for reviews. The more reviews I get, the quicker it'll get out. Just a suggestion, though. XD
