morethansummer2 Hey, welcome to chapter 2! Well, aside from suffering from excessive verbosity, I'm somewhat happy with how this chapter's turned out, 'cept its ending. Might fix that if I ever find how. I had fun when I wrote it, at least, and that's what counts, right? Shorter than last time, but that's how it rolls. Big snugs and smooches to all of you who have reviewed this so far, I'm totally blasted by the reaction... I'm a bit more nervous now, since Mark's gonna get whinier by the end. Sorry. :) Erm... Hope you like it. All feedback, positive and constructive, is edible and welcomed.

More Than Summer

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April 26th
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I'm looking for a way to feel you hold me
To feel your heart beat just one more time
I'm reaching back, trying to touch the moment
Each precious minute that you were mine
How do you prepare, when you love someone this way,
To let them go a little more each day?

The stars we put in place
The dreams we didn't waste
The sorrows we embraced
The world belonged to you and me
The oceans that we crossed
The innocence we've lost
The hurting at the end
I go there again,
´Cause it was beautiful.
It was beautiful.
~Jennifer Paige, "Beautiful"






It was after midnight. What time did he say he was going to be home? Ten? Eleven? I don't know why I bothered to remember things like that. Roger's perception of time never quite reached reality. I had accepted that awhile ago, but it still grated at my nerves on nights like this. My camera remained steady, its focus squarely set on the small, beat-up digital clock. It had been set that way for the past half-hour, and would stay that way as a record of the time until he got home.

I always wondered if I could pass off a movie of just a clock ticking away as an artsy film, maybe with a little narrative going on in the background. If Maureen's protests count as art, I bet I could make money with something like that.

It was 1:16 when I heard the handle jiggle and the familiar click of a key. I swung the camera towards the door, expectantly waiting. In the dim light, I could see him. His blonde curls were mused, sticking up slightly, while his countenance seemed to be consumed by a tired frown. His guitar case dipped down, practically scraping the floor.

"Hey Mark," he said, weariness in his voice.

"Roger," I acknowledged, zooming back slightly. He seemed so small through my camera. His tired smile seemed so... distant. Abstract. "Out late again?"

He nodded slightly, dropping his guitar case gently on to the ground next to the door, giving it an absent caress. "Yeah, late rehearsal. You waited up?"

"Sorta." I peeked over my camera for a moment, taking in his ruffled appearance. "You should slow down a little Rog, sheesh. This is two weeks straight of 'late rehearsals'. You need more rest." There were dark circles under his eyes, and a constant exhaustion in his eyes that scared me. He pushed too much, for his music, for his own goals, whatever those elusive things were.

"Nah, I can always sleep in late," he waved off my comment, heading over to the semi-barren cupboards and extracting a mildly dented box of Captain Crunch, reaching in and popping a handful in his mouth.

I shook my head, leaning back against the table. "But you *don't*." What the fuck was he thinking, running around at all times of night, every night? Hell, I practically had to force him to take his AZT nowadays. Maybe I should just strap him to the bed. Not to mention the other possibilities with that... The thought slipped into my head, earning a bitter smile. Almost amusement. Possibilities.

"Well, I'm busy. Things to do... Y'know, we're on the verge of a record deal soon, I swear." He grinned that lazy grin at me and my fingers immediately tightened around my camera. The record deal. He always thought they were close, always went for it and drove himself to it. Watching him made me so damn tired, tired of it all.

And of course he was busy. He always was busy. "Yeah," I muttered under my breath. "Things to do. Not things like *talking* to me nowadays..." I'd spent days trying to talk to him, trying to get him to *respond* to me at all, but it was like talking to a wall. A stupid, guitar-playing wall. He'd smile, he'd laugh, then he'd walk out the door to rehearsal. Or to go hang out with Collins. Or to go do some session work. Anything but stay here. Anything but talk to Mark. Sometimes I wondered if it were something I did, or if it was just the way we were.

Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that he's got sharp ears. "What do you mean by *that*?" He stared at me, his eyes meeting mine with their same old fire. It was the fire I'd fallen for, and for a moment I was tempted to forget it all. But I was tired of always forgetting things, of always being good ol' Mark and letting things be.

"It's just that you're always running around. Always out with someone... I mean," I took a breath, counting iny my head. Shit. I didn't mean to actually *say* anything. Great. But I had started the damn rant, I had to finish it, didn't I? "I never see you any more. You're not even here half the time. We used to just go to the Life Cafe, or just go driving. Or sit here." Those were nice times, the lazy days and nights where it would be me and him, no filming or music on our minds. I miss those days.

I shook my head with a strange sense of regret, my mind not quite done spilling itself. "But I haven't seen you in so long, and you don't even seem here when you *are* around." My voice quavered slightly as I closed my eyes and took another breath. Time for focusing. "Fuck, Rog. I miss you. I tried to tell you two days ago about the last scenes I was doing for my film and how I was so *close* to being done. But you just walked out the door, told me we'd talk later."

"And I asked you about it when I got home. You just kept mumbling and scrawling something down in that scene notebook of yours. Hell, I even remember what it was about. You wanted to film in Central Park. Something about a statue." He raised an eyebrow slightly, his grin long gone from his face as his even gaze met mine.

Okay, so he could remember a few facts. But I was too frustrated to think about that. All the moments from the past months were surfacing, each one echoing with a new clarity, twisting around to caricatures of love in my head, trembling until the question burst from me before I could stop it. I could feel the anger in my voice, the defiance. It didn't even seem to be my voice anymore. "Do you even care about me anymore?"

The angry look in his eyes deflated slightly, dimming below a wave of concern. "Of course I do," he said softly. "You mean a lot to me, Mark. You're... just you." His lips took on that curious quirk they sometimes got, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "You're mine, and I love you for it, stupid. Don't doubt that."

There was still that tiredness in his eyes and a few bitter memories refused to let the argument go. He loves me enough to leave me alone... God, even Maureen was around more. People I love always leave me. I stared back at him. I wanted to forgive him, I wanted to just curl up against him in bed and cry into his chest and wake up feeling myself again. In the bottom of my chest I could feel that cold, creeping feeling that I knew better than myself. It had been a part of me for years, and like a thorn bush it encircled me, a wild-grown cage. It was painful to escape, but I thought it was gone. Yet here it was again. Loneliness. "Then why can't you just put the guitar down for a minute? Just... slow down?"

"Why can't you put the camera down and look at me now and then?" His response held the same sharp tone as mine, but after a moment he just reached forward, playfully mussing my hair. "Let's just go to bed."

If I ever hear 'let's just got to bed again'... The words echoed through my mind, yet I couldn't place them for the life of me. After a moment I nodded, setting my camera down on the table as I smiled a false grin up at him. God, I felt empty. "Yeah, just give me a minute."

"Sure. I'll be waiting." Planting a gentle kiss on my forehead, he vanished into our gloomy bedroom. Shadows seemed to match both our personalities, so we barely even turned on the light in there, let alone attempt to change the bare decor.

Just me and my camera. Slipping it back into its worn case, I was about to shuffle into the bedroom when I noticed the blinking of messages on the answering machine. I pressed the button, already having a good prediction of who one of them was.

And I was right. "Mark?" The voice that raised me since I was yanked from the womb probably annoys me more than any other. "It's your mother, I just wanted to check in and see that you got the socks I sent you... Yadda yadda... Hope you're well... Yadda yadda... How are you and Roger? Oh! He's so adorable, sweetie.... Yadda yadda... Your father's well and... yadda...." My mind has become so highly trained that at this point that all her words meld together into an incomprehensible blur. It's a great ability, I can barely hear her messages after awhile. I love my mom, I really do, but I've never met a woman so able to drag out a message on someone's answering machine. Of course, since I never call, I suppose she has to be used to talking to the answering machine. Maybe I *should* call one of these days.

Nah.

The second was from Maureen. "Hey guys," her voice filtered cheerfully into the room, nearly making me wince, "I just wanted to tell you guys that I'm staying with Collins for a few days. No hard guesses why, huh? You're going to help me move in when I get a new place, right? Thanks!" Click.

It's time for the monthly Joanne and Maureen break-up. Not surprising... It's kind of a pity, I normally like to capture them on film. It's kind of funny how it's the same every time.

Still, this one did deviate from the schedule. I didn't expect it for another week or two. Maybe it *was* worse this time around.

I almost regretted having to go back into that bedroom. I knew he was waiting for me, wondering why I was taking so long. Probably staring up at the window or brooding or something, at the same time. He's good at that, my Rog is. I didn't want to go in and look into those eyes, forcing me to accept how things are. I wanted to breathe again. I remembered that only last December, everything seemed perfect. It was just him and me and the rest of the gang, and everything was beautiful and new.

I wondered what he would do if I didn't go back into the bedroom. I could have slept in a chair or something... I doubted he'd come look for me. He might not even say anything in the morning about it. Could be a fascinating experiment. Still, my body seemed to ache to crawl into bed next to him, to curl up and just sleep with his arm tucked around me.

Resigned, I turned back to the bedroom, its door open just slightly. It was tempting me. Almost like a call, screaming my name out. 'Come in, Mark', it said to me. 'Don't be stupid and alone. You've got a man that loves you and a nice, warm bed.'

I definitely wanted that nice, warm bed with its fluffy, warm sheets. Did I want a man that loves me, though? Stupid question. Everyone wants that. No one wants to be alone. I had solitude for so long, why wouldn't I want someone to be there for me?

Slipping through the door, I stepped carefully across the floor, trying to avoid the squeakiest floorboards. I could hear him breathing, and the slight rustle as he shifted in the bed. I tugged my shirt over my head, letting it drop to the floor before doing the same to my pants. I took a little more care putting my glasses on the nightstand. I've had one too many mornings of waking up and accidentally stepping on them.

I slid into bed next to him. Roger was already hogged most of the sheets, but with a good-natured yank I managed to claim some for my own. His arm touched mine, testing almost, before draping itself over my chest. He'd definitely been to practice: he smelled like cigarettes and coffee, along with the familiar musk of sweat and pure Rogerness. I leaned back into his chest, facing away from him and just listening to the heaviness of his breath. I could feel the faint beating of his heart.

"Are you happy, Rog?" I lightly slid my fingers across his arm, before tracing small circles on his knuckles.

"Of course," he answered sleepily, his words slightly slurred. "You make me happy. You're special." Those words were practically sappy professions of love from my songwriter. When he had a melody for it, he would write me lyrics that swelled with more romance than he'd ever say directly. When it came to pure words, he kept it simple.

Something remained uncertain at the back of my mind, nagging at me quietly. Am I happy with you? His breathing slowed, and soon I could tell that he was fast asleep. I was left alone with my thoughts, and sleep was a long time in coming.

(End Chapter 2)