morethansummer3 Hey everyone, welcome to chapter 3. Sorry it's taken me a bit, but the other day I decided I wanted to try and make a homepage, so I've been a bit... distracted. Did I mention websites are evil? I'm never gonna get that sucker done... Anyway, this chapter's a bit short, starts a bit jerky, but I had a fun time with the ending. Hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all the feedback so far, y'all deserve some major snugs. :) Two more parts to go in this short romp. ~KJS


More Than Summer

********************
July 28th
********************

And he thought he heard the echo of a penny whistle band
And the laughter from a distant caravan
And the brightly painted line of circus wagons in the sand
Fading through the door into summer
~The Monkees, "The Door Into Summer"

The city is crowded, my friends are away and I'm on my own
It's too hot to handle so I gotta get up and go
It's a cruel, cruel summer (leaving me)
Leaving me here on my own
It's a cruel, (it's a cruel) cruel summer
Now you're gone
You're not the only one
Now don't you leave me
Now don't you leave me
Well, don't you leave me
~Ace of Base, "Cruel Summer"





The past three hours had been excruciating. The sound hadn't let up for a single second, and I was too damned lazy to do anything about it. I though that I could put up with it, that I could ignore it, but as the minutes ticked by, it was getting harder and harder. The lazy afternoon had taken its toll on me, making me lethargic enough that rolling over seemed difficult. I had wondered if a position change were possible, even if I tried. I was probably stuck to the sheets with sweat at this point.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. I hate flies. This one, especially. Three hours of the stupid thing. I don't think there's anything quite so annoying. With a feeble effort, I managed to grab the glass of water on the nightstand. Dipping my fingers into its cool contents, I ran my fingertips down the bridge of my nose, enjoying the feeling of the coldness sliding down my face. Bzzz. Dammit, the flies were still there. Maybe if I concentrate, they'll spontaneously combust... A few minutes of trying, my eyes squinched shut, proved *that* wouldn't work.

"Hey." The door creaked open, and I heard the flies' buzzing grow more distant as the exited the room. I cracked open an eye to see Roger staring at me, his hair plastered to his head with sweat. While I at least vaguely liked the summer, Roger detested everything about it. Especially the heat. "Have you seen my guitar pick?" His voice held a faint edge of irritation that seemed to last as long as the season.

"No." I closed my eyes again, and listened for the click as the door shut once more.

That went well. For the past few months, any sort of civilized conversations had been scarce. I saw Roger less and less, and every time we talked, an argument seemed to erupt. It was always over the stupidest things: going out to film Maureen's protests, who ate the last of the cereal, when Roger had last taken his AZT. It was all so stupid. So pointless.

There were a few times that we managed to recapture everything, though. A few weeks ago we went and sat up on the roof of the building, sneaking up and laughing like stupid kids as we curled up under the night sky. It's far too bright in the city to see any stars, but Roger kept pretending he could. We just sat for hours, laughing and talking.

The next day, the first thing we did was glare at each other and get into a fight over who was supposed to go grab some groceries. It had been a nice night while it lasted. My major regret is that we had silently agreed to put our respective obsessions behind us on that night... It would have been nice to have had a recording of him like that, of us like that.

My hand strayed to my camera, which was resting right next to my water. It was always loyal, always my friend. It would never turn on me or push me down. Even though its casing was practically melting in the heat...

A yell once more interrupted the quiet. "Are you *sure* you haven't seen it?"

"I'm *positive*!" I shouted back, my lip curling slightly. Didn't I just say I hadn't? Sheesh.

"I had it with my guitar yesterday... It was here..." I could hear him grumbling.

After a few loud clangs and a pained yelp filtered in from the other room, I let out a groan. "You probably left it at rehearsal!"

I was greeted with a grunt, and the door swung open to once more reveal my grumpy boyfriend. Even more cross than before, he wiped away the sweat that was trickling down his forehead. "I *remember* bringing it back with me," he insisted, his eyes meeting mine.

The sad, tired look held within was begging for some compassion or sympathetic touch, and I really wasn't up to giving it. "You don't need to tear apart the loft."

"Well, sorry, but I *need* to find it," he growled, every inflection showing that he was anything but sorry.

"Look," I snapped, as he began to dig through our small dresser, "it's got to be somewhere, but I sure as hell don't remember you bringing it in here. Can't you get another one?"

His neck stiffened, and I could see the pure irritation in his eyes as they gouged into me. "I've had that pick for years," he said quietly. "It's good luck. I want it. Now."

Roger can be such a brat. 'I want my pick now', 'I don't care, Mark', 'Neeh neeh neeh'. He could drive someone entirely insane. Heck, he'd probably already driven me over the edge, and I just didn't know it. "Can't you take a break from looking? You'll probably find it when you stop looking. Otherwise, you're going to rip this place apart."

He ignored me. "Not to mention that you sure as hell won't clean it up," I added, just under my breath, but I knew he could hear it. I intended for it to be heard.

"I'm *so* sorry that I don't go haywire about a few things being left out. Probably because I actually get out of here every now and then." His eyes were smoldering, and there was an almost palpable force in the air between us. It was burning, the searing rage that was waiting to escape.

My eyebrow raised, and I mustered every bit of contempt that I had in my soul. It was too easy. Everything was just sitting at the surface, where it had been waiting for months upon months. It was like I'd been waiting to snap, given the excuse. "Excuse me? Aren't you the one that spent over seven months locked up in this hole, moping?"

He responded with a harsh laugh. "And you know something about moping, don't you? At least I had a reason to be miserable, rather than moaning about always being alone. At least I realized there were people around me, instead of pretending they weren't there."

"Then why the fuck haven't you realized that I'm here, Rog? That I gave a fuck and wanted to help you? Why do you always brush me off, if you've got such great sight?" A part of me almost wanted to cry. What the hell happened to us?

"I see that you're here, Mark! More than anything, I *always* know that you're here!" Even with all the rage in his eyes, I could still see a flicker of caring for me. A flicker of love. But was it enough? "You're so mad about being supposedly left out that you're always there!"

"Maybe I like being alone," I growled harshly, the words falling from my lips faster than I could process them. "Maybe it's easier than being with someone. Especially someone like *you*. God," I chuckled slightly, "I don't even know why I'm here still. Taking care of you sure hasn't been paying off lately." Maybe it's easier than being with someone... That's the thought that had been going through my mind for months. Maybe this shitty concept of 'love' wasn't worth the pain. Maybe it would be better just to get out, rather than stay with a guy like Roger. After all, he was inconsiderate, brooding, and prone to taking off. Better to leave him than ever let him leave me.

His fists were clenched, the knuckles whitening. I wasn't afraid, I knew he wouldn't hit me, no matter how mad he was. He'd tear apart the bed, punch the walls, but he wouldn't hit me. He stomped forward, every step seeming deadly. Roger stopped before me, and I looked up to meet his stare with my own defiance, ready to take whatever he said.

"You've never wanted to be alone, Mark," he said slowly. Too careful. "You hate it, remember? You're so fucking dependent, you'd never try to be truly alone. You'd always be looking for someone to cling to."

I can be truly alone. I *was* truly alone. I could, I could... "And you're always looking to run away."

He winced, and I could tell that I hit some sort of nerve there. Still, only a little joy could be found in that small victory. "That was a long time ago. You're so blind that you don't even see me now, do you?" He was measuring me with his eyes, I could tell. I could feel his warm breath on my face as he leaned in close, so near that our noses were almost touching. "You're still the scared and clinging Mark that you were since I met you."

What's wrong with a little healthy fear? It's not like anyone I love ever stays... I squashed down the distracting thoughts, drawing back from him and taking in a shaky breath.

He was just standing there, arms folded over his chest and a smirk on his face. God, look at him. He's happy that he's making me feel pain. He wants me to hurt, to suffer. He's always wanted that, hasn't he? Little Marky, let's torture him today... Let's rip out his heart and let the wolves have it. I don't have to do this. I don't have to. He thinks I can't be alone. He thinks I can't do anything on my own, that I'm so fucking dependent... I'm not afraid. A new energy blazed in me, and with all the coolness and calmness that I could collect, I grabbed my sneakers off the floor and jammed them on my feet. Grabbing my camera, I simply looked at him and said the two words I never dreamed I'd ever say.

"I'm leaving."

The disbelief on his face was easy to read. He didn't think I would. He thought I was bluffing, that I only meant for now. He thought I'd come back to him, that we'd fall into each other's arms and go on to our normal, chaotic lives. Not this time.

"Goodbye," I said, with a tone that I thought perfectly conveyed the finality. I was leaving. I didn't want to hear his response, so with a mumble about coming back for my things, I fled out the door and out of the loft, into the hallway. The last thing I saw, as I turned back to slam the door shut, was him. Roger was staring at me, the shock still in his eyes. Something else was there... Defeat? Pain? I didn't give a fuck at this point. I slammed the door, and his visage was gone.

After I had left the building, a problem immediately presented itself. I had nowhere to go. If Maureen was staying with Collins, there was no way he'd have any room there. Joanne and I have never quite gotten along, for obvious reasons. My choices at the moment were slim, and a sinking feeling began to creep into my stomach. You're not going back, Mark. You'll find something. Anything. Sleep in the Life Cafe, I don't care... The confrontation in the loft had taken control of my brain, and rational thought had no place with me. I wouldn't go back to him. Not this time, not ever.

At that point, I began to wander aimlessly. No real purpose to it, I was just trying to get out a little of the rage-filled energy that was still hot within me. Within a half an hour, I was basically doing laps around the block. Every now and then, my gaze would stray to my watch. Ten minutes of walking. Twenty. Two hours. With sweat practically blinding me, I fell to the cracked, dirty sidewalk, stretching out on my back in the middle of it. I didn't care. Why should I? An almost giddy laugh seemed ready to bubble out at any second. I think I've gone insane, I thought, dazed.

The minutes ticked away, with people stepping over me or offering strange looks. Once or twice I got a concerned 'Are you alright?', but I would wave the stranger off with a grin and a nod. I was fine. More than fine. Was there any reason in the world for me not to be perfectly wonderful?

As my back started to cramp, I noticed something that made me get to my feet. Roger's car was gone. Had he left during my walking fit? Perfect opportunity. Get in, get a bag of stuff, and go. Determination and denial were my best friends at this point, so with my mind set on escaping my friend and lover, I jogged up the steps back to the loft. I had at least remembered my key, so as the door creaked open, I peeked inside and was greeted with the sight I was hoping for. No Roger. Perfect.

I darted into our room, grabbing my old duffel bag and tossing it onto the bed. "Just a few night's worth of clothes, Marky," I muttered, reaching for the dresser. I paused. Hastily taped to the top drawer was a note, written out in Roger's distinct scrawl.

'Went to stay with one of the guys. Will be back for the rest of my stuff. Hate Benny, you take the fucking loft and deal with him.' No signature was needed, just a brusque note.

Flopping back on my bed, I knocked the duffel onto the floor with my toe, a tiny 'clink' getting my attention. Curiously, I peered over the edge of mattress, staring into the abyss that was our floor. A brief glint in the corner of the room got my attention, and as I drew closer, I recognized it: Roger's guitar pick. I picked it up, running my thumb across the cool metal, letting it sit in my hand. His fucking pick. With a momentary surge of rage, I turned and yanked open the window, ignoring its protesting creak, and threw the pick as hard as I could into the street.

I ignored the sadness screaming in my heart, the part of my brain that was quaking and sobbing. I let every bit of rage and independence that had been lying dormant within my heart rise up and create confidence in my decision, welcoming every dark emotion since the day I was born. As my eyes darted around the room, realizing the absence of many of Roger's things, the gnawing in my heart grew and I recognized a familiar feeling.

I was alone, and I didn't know whether I felt terrified, or like I was returning home again.

(End Chapter 3)