morethansummer4 Hey all. Once again, sorry 'bout the time this has taken... My short little romp of a story has taken way too long to get out. Almost over now. And this is my favorite chapter of it all. Too much fun to write. Hope you like it. And BTW, guess who's seeing RENT tomorrow? ;) I haven't seen it since the Angel Cast was in San Francisco. So hopefully it'll inspire me to a RENT-plane for writing.

More Than Summer

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September 21st
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I don't believe in love
I never have, I never will
I don't believe in love
It's never worth the pain that you feel
~Queensrÿche, "I Don't Believe In Love"

When will we meet again?
It's been such a long time
When will I see you, my friend?
And will I still know you?
Will you still know me?
Look around

Last time you saw me
There was an argument
I said some things on that day
I can't forget

Are you seeing someone new?
I look around
So often I think of you
I look around
Look around
~Anthony Rapp, "Look Around"





Silence has a sound. It can be subtle and easily overlooked, but it definitely has a sound. It's in the dull roar of your thoughts when there's simply nothing around you, the way a person's breath can sound like a scream when there is nothing else. The quiet thrum that seems to edge up on your ears, and the low buzzing that takes over as your brain craves something, anything, to bring back sound and motion and life.

That sound had become my companion after being left alone in the loft. Some nights I thought that I had completely lost it, that it had begun to talk to me. God, I didn't even have an inanimate object as my friend like any normal hermit, I had *silence*.

The silence of the loft had scared me at first. The morning after I walked out was the first time I noticed it. My eyes snapped open, the sleepiness not letting me remember what had happened. All I knew was that I was cold and in a distinctly empty bed. As the memories of the night before returned, clutching at my throat, I could hear it. My breath. The sounds of the street. The creak of the floor as my feet touched its surface. All of it, wound up in a painful silence. I wanted to take off running for a crazy moment, take off and never return to the tomblike loft.

It got easier, after that. Once I filled my mind with thoughts, thinking about breakfast, about the day, I could bear it. After I had some cereal in my stomach and an agenda for my day, the loneliess seemed a little brighter, even. And once I walked out of the apartment, dressed and with my camera in hand, I knew I could take being alone.

Besides, I could have done something about the loneliness if I wanted to. Hell, people had been trying to drag me out of the loft for weeks. Collins called nearly every day. He was on the road, heading to New Hampshire to do a few guest lectures at some smaller colleges. Maureen and Joanne, normally in their own little world of arguing and make-up sex, seemed to be almost stalking me. Every time I left for groceries or the laundromat, I'd return to find the answering machine blinking. I practically felt psychic, I could always tell it would be them. But I didn't care. I didn't want to do anything about my solitude.

Fuck, I was almost reveling it. I remember in high school, I rarely paid attention during english class. Even so, there was one semester that began with studying stories by Kafka. The teacher was a nut about it, and there was a quote of his I always remembered: "I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy." That seemed to fit me perfectly. I was lonely, I was wallowing in a faint sense of misery, but I knew myself again. I wasn't clouded by worry over Roger, or petty things. My work and myself were my world, and that was what mattered, right?

Whenever those stray thoughts would come to my mind, of warm arms around me and a sad smile, I would just repeat that quote in my head, over and over. It became a mantra, a life vessel for me. Alone and proud, I proclaimed myself. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone.

When you're me, you've got a lot of practice in self-denial.

"Yeouch!" I stuck my finger in my mouth, mentally bemoaning the weather. It'd been pretty chilly for September, and without the heat working, my fingers were stiff and clumsy. Not the best thing for what I was doing. A small spring had popped out on my camera, and armed with tweezers, I'd spent the last ten minutes trying to get it back into place. Just when I almost had it, my finger had shifted and pricked itself. Fuckin' machine... I thought you were my friend.

My mourning of the camera's betrayal couldn't last that long. Just as I was ready to throw it against the wall with pure frustration, a loud knock on the door stopped me. Damn. I knew it had to be someone ready to meddle.

Trudging towards the door, the last thing I wanted was an interruption. I turned the doorknob and peeked out through the smallest possible opening I could make between the door and the frame, immediately cursing under my breath. Maureen and Joanne.

"Maaark!" Maureen's shrill call made me consider shutting the door on them for a brief second, but my fingers twisted the knob and let them in before my mind could come up with a better idea.

It was like having a whirlwind enter. Maureen's energy seemed to surround her as she proudly strolled into the loft, Joanne at her heels. "We just wanted to see how you were. Since, y'know, you haven't been returning *any* of our calls..." I could feel Maureen's gaze burning into me, branding me as a coward, a hermit. I turned away, finding interesting patterns in the cracks in the ceiling.

"I just didn't get around to it. Busy doing stuff. Y'know."

"Sure," Joanne said, her voice seeming to contain a hint of compassion that was lacking with her lover. "But you've got to get out of this hellhole every now and then, Mark."

Hellhole? "I'm quite happy here, thanks," I muttered.

"Come *on*. Let's go out, have some fun... Maybe find you some company. You can't remain dreary all the time." Maureen's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as she stalked towards me like a lion after a hapless gazelle.

My shields went up immediately, a slight grimace involuntarily appearing on my face. "I don't want to be set up. Got it? Don't even try that one." I knew she would attempt it, would try to trick me into it. I wouldn't fall for it. I couldn't.

Her expression screwed into a small pout, lower lip protruding as she folded her arms neatly over her chest. "Fine. Be miserable. See if I give a fuck about you."

"You don't have to date, Mark. Just get out of this place for a little while." Joanne's voice was one of well-balanced reason, trying to tempt me out of my fortress of safety. She reached out, placing a light hand on my arm. I flinched. "Let's go out to get something to eat, or go to a movie. Maybe go to a club...?" She trailed off, nearly tangible promises hanging in the air.

"A club might be nice..." I couldn't help myself, the words escaped before I could stop them.

Maureen decided it would be fun to violate my personal space, grabbing my arms and swinging me around like a rag doll, knowing I wouldn't throw her off. "C'mon! We can go dancing, just the three of us. Catch some music, have some drinks. It'll be fun."

Music...? My mind drifted, sharpened with experience to sensing when these two were planning treachery. Roger's band played clubs on Fridays and Saturdays, almost every week. Trap. I could practically smell it. They'd already tried hinting, bribing, and trickery to try and get me to talk to him, or at least admit to them about the cause of our separation. It had to be a trap if they came all the way over here. "And what club were you thinking of?" I struggled to keep the suspicion and irritation from mingling in my voice.

Maureen and Joanne exchanged a quick look, and the latter shrugged. "I don't know, around somewhere."

"Nice try," I said dryly, shifting my camera from hand to hand. "You were planning something, weren't you?"

Maureen's expression lost all hint of its bright smile, replaced by a rather insulted scowl. "Come on, Mark. You need to go talk to him and sort out your little catfight. You're miserable, I'll bet he's miserable, and you're both stupid. Get over it."

"Look. I'll go out to dinner, to a movie, to miniature golf if you want, just drop it. Okay?" I glowered at Maureen, trying to convey that I was serious. It was a futile manuver, but I could still hope.

Joanne cleared her throat, reaching out and pulling Maureen back by the arm. The thankfulness in my mind was cut off as she fixed me with a sharp look. "Mark," she said calmly, trying to pull me onto her side. Still dangerous. Razor blades danced on her words. "You won't even tell us what made you and Roger split. We're going to keep trying until you tell us *why* you don't want us to help you."

Help? I couldn't understand how they saw it as help. Pestering me, trying to invade my privacy... I met her gaze straight on, and a bit of frustration welled up inside me. I wanted nothing more than to snap at them. Man, I longed for the days when I would be looking at their backs as they walked away from me... "You two seem to be experienced in breaking up. You figure it out."

"Marky, c'mon. I know Roger has a bit of a temper, but you're... you. He couldn't have made you *that* mad, that you'd stay away from him for so long," Maureen pressed.

"Maybe I heard him say that we should just go to bed one too many times," I muttered under my breath, my fingers twisting and interlacing.

Maureen's puzzled gaze burned into me, and I could tell she was about to ask about my comment, so I tossed something else out. "I just wasn't happy anymore. Okay? That's it, goodbye."

"That's silly. You always smiled around Roger, and you even made him smile every now and then. You two were practically *sappy* sometimes," Maureen countered, eyeing me with those gleaming eyes. "You were the only person that could get through to him after Mimi... y'know. And don't tell me you didn't practically slobber over him."

A harsh laugh grated my throat, echoing out and through the years. Happy? God, how I was happy at first... After a few rocky months, our early relationship settled into a continuous bliss. A shadowed bliss, but something wonderful all the same. Where has she been for the past few months? Everything had changed. Even I knew it. Everything but us. "Look," I said, turning away to stare down at the table, looking at the chinks and scratches accumulated over the years. "I wasn't happy. Things changed. Some things can't be fixed. We were fighting too much, and he didn't seem to want me around anymore. So we ended it. Relationships change."

"Yes, but you two seemed to be changing with it. Roger's a lot different than he was a few years ago. A little more relaxed," Maureen mused aloud, barely seeming to notice I was there anymore. "Though still with that depressed edge."

"He's still an asshole."

"What did he do to you, Mark?" Joanne pressed the question once more, her tones soft and low.

"He's still the same closed-off guy." I ignored the question, closing my eyes as I ran a hand through my hair, ready to rip it out. Don't think, Mark. Don't think. She'll get you. God, loneliness had taken its toll. All the emotions that I'd been used to hiding around the guys were near to the surface with my lack of recent practice at masking. I'd let myself grow too lazy. She could trap me.

"He was more outgoing than ever before you two broke up," Joanne insisted. "Finally seemed to be ready to experience fun every once in awhile."

It was true. His eyes had lightened more, the eternal shroud hanging less closely. But I couldn't let the image get out of my mind, of Roger keeping me down... The one who never cared... "He's still the same." It was my mantra, something to cling to. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself. He'll ignore everything and run off without a care for who he leaves behind. Roger doesn't change that much."

"He's not the only one who likes to ignore things," Maureen said in a distant tone, seeming to have drifted for a moment into her own little Maureen-world, with those thoughts that seemed to draw her away every now and then. A plan, a protest, whatever she was thinking, I didn't want to have it ever known to me. I ignored her comment.

Joanne didn't want to be ignored. At times like this, I wondered if our mutual distrust really existed, or if it was just created by my mind. Lord, you'd think that she truly was worried about me. "He cares, Mark. He's always cared. He cared about Mimi, he cares about Collins and the rest of us, he cares about his music."

"Only his music."

"And," she continued, as if never interrupted, "Roger cares about you. All of us could clearly see it."

Maureen's low mutter cast itself on to our ears, almost going unheard. "He showed more love than certain people..."

"*Maureen*, honey," Joanne's dagger stare turned towards her lover, her voice too quiet for comfort. "*Later*. It's Mark's problems we need to deal with."

Honestly, I'd much rather watch them fight. At least then the mental commentary could block out all else. At least it would distract them. "Look, I don't know what problems you think I have, but I'm fine. Okay? I'm fine. I just decided to get out of a relationship that was on its last legs before he could bail out on me. It was going to end, so it ended. Full stop, end of story, goodbye. Now I'm taking some time to myself. There's *nothing* wrong with me."

"There's always been something wrong with you, and if there weren't anything *wrong* with you, then you wouldn't be hiding out and moping around the loft. You wouldn't be refusing our calls and you wouldn't have broken up with Roger in the first place. There's something wrong in your head, Mark," Maureen growled, irritation glinting in her eyes. "As I recall, it was *you* that started most of the fights with him. Like that time at the movies, over popcorn? And when we went to the Life Cafe and he was hanging out with his band buddies? Mark, you're screwed up. Completely."

"So what if I am?!" Words boiled over, scalding my throat as I let out a hoarse laugh, my head falling to rest in my hands. My shoulders shook in the strange laughter, weariness overcoming sense. God, I was tired. I was tired of them, I was tired of hiding, I was tired of this whole fucking topic. "He didn't trust me, didn't tell me things. I needed to leave, Maureen. Don't you get that?" The Queen Maureen, the breaker of hearts, and she didn't understand something so simple.

"I just don't get it." She shook her head, hair cascading across her face as she seemed more and more like a jungle cat ready to strike. The air in the room seemed ready to choke us all with the anger that had risen, saturating it. "It's you and Roger. You weren't supposed to leave, you were supposed to do the best friends and lovers thing until we were all sick of it. It just... *was* you two. I can't see any stupid shit that would make you need to leave!"

"You needed to leave me, didn't you? You've left Joanne before. Get it through your head. It happens. I have my reasons." I wasn't afraid to bring up her life, but she didn't seem to appreciate it. Eyes flashing, she bore down on me.

"Look, this isn't about us. It's about you." Joanne tried to inject a little sanity, but my blood was blazing, and so was Maureen's. I'd never tried to go against her before, and this was a hell of a first time.

Maureen ignored the rational voice, continuing on with her pricking words. "It's amazing how the roles have reversed." Her tone contained the grandeur normally only seen in her acting performances. She clucked her tongue lightly, giving a look of utter disdian. "I mean," she continued lightly, "Roger was the one who would have left a few years ago, but now it seems the role of Prime Asshole goes to *you*. All praise the king." Sarcasm was practically oozing from her pores.

"Hate to tell you, but he's still that type, Maureen. Roger doesn't change." My stubborn insistance was like a security blanket.

Joanne seemed a little intrigued, something flickering in her dark eyes. "He was going to leave you?"

"Well..." My answer certainly wasn't on my side with facts, but in the heart. I shrugged. "It's Roger. He would, eventually. I know it." That excuse seemed flimsy, even to me, but I put all my conviction into it. My inner voices still haunted me. Mark doesn't care, Mark's the one to put down, to let roam without a tether to sanity...

"He wouldn't," Maureen insisted, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched me. "Mark, he wouldn't. Get that stuff out of your head."

"He would!" I let out a near-shout, cringing back at the volume and harshness of my words. What was I doing? "He would," I said in a lower voice. "He'd leave, they always..." They always leave, I was about to say, when I realized how deeply they had cut. They're nearly gotten me. Deadly worrds. "Get out," I ordered quickly, trying to make it sound confident. I had to get them out. "Get out *now*."

"But Mark, c'mon, we're almost--" I clamped a hand over Maureen's mouth, fighting back the emotions rising to the surface.

"Get out."

Joanne's eyes met mine for one brief second, frustration with me residing as the clearest emotion. But I could see the resignation under it. She would leave.

"C'mon, let's go."

"But, Pookie..."

"Maureen, he doesn't want us here. Let's *go*." Sick of me, sick of all of it, I knew I had won the night with Joanne. Not quite the war, but perhaps soon. With a pout, Maureen flounced out after Joanne's retreating form, slamming the door behind her and leaving me alone in the desolation of the loft.

I glanced down at my camera, my finger still gleaming with a faint bloodstain from the scratch. Picking up my camera, I deposited it in its case before flopping back on the ancient couch, wrapping my arms around myself.

She seemed so damned sure that Roger wouldn't leave me. Her eyes were practically screaming that I was an idiot. Was I? He and I had experienced so many good times... After Mimi's funeral, I didn't think there'd ever be another good day. He had shut down completely, going through the motions with enough will to remain alive, but no more. Closed off from all of us, and ready to give in to the afterlife. I was so scared he'd try to kill himself that I barely left him alone for months.

I still don't know what happened, but one day, after a trip to the cemetery, he murmured that he was going to keep going. That she would have wanted it that way, and he would be damned if he was going to fail her again. He reformed the band, and kept going.

He smiled once, a few months later. My heart fluttered, and I finally found hope that things might be happy again.

As we grew closer and our relationship melded from friendship to more with a tentative kiss, I had found happiness. The early months, as unsure and moody as Rog could be, were good. The next months, once he came to some sort of peace with being in a relationship with me, were even better. They were good times.

Would he leave me? He left her. He always ran away from things. But I never thought he'd leave me...

Of course he would. You're Mark, never forget that, my brain insisted. And he would leave me. Leave me alone in the world. Leave me for Mimi, leave me alone with these prying friends and blinking answering machine messages...

It was far too empty in the loft. "I need to get out of here." My heart sank even more with the dim echo of the words. The walls seemed to be drawing closer, locking me in. Grabbing my camera and my scarf, I threw the strap of my case over my shoulder, and the worn garment around my neck. The chilly evening would be more welcoming than my solitude.

Huddling underneath my patched jacket, I wandered down the New York streets, my eyes straining in the darkness that was slowly settling over the city. Leaning against a streetlight, I gazed up at the starless sky for a few moments, until the familiar clank of an approaching bus knocked me out of my miserable musings.

I didn't have a clear idea where I was going, just that I needed to go somewhere. A club... Maybe they were right. Nothing like the throbbing pulse of music and the hazy mix of alcohol and cigarettes to let a person forget.

Slipping into a seat in the back, I found myself staring out the scratched, dirt-flecked window. The streets all zoomed by, melding into each other as I watched the buildings fly by. I had a vague destination in mind, a place Maureen had dragged me to once or twice, back when we were dating. It wasn't too crowded, but it served a decent drink and had fairly good music and fairly good company.

The streetlights spilled their callous glare across the sidewalk, like rising tides creeping up a cement beach. With the exhaust from the retreating bus clogging my throat, I slung my camera case's strap over my shoulder and tromped down the concrete steps into the glowing entrance. The sounds of drinks and laughter made me feel like a moth, drawn to a flame, dragged down to what would probably be my firey death.

I'm not the most optimistic person about social situations.

The smell of booze and sweat seemed to hang lightly in the bar, drifting into my senses almost immediately. People moved in and out, weaving complicated patterns as they got through the crowds, heading to the bar, out, or dancing to the rhythms of the music. I passed through the seemingly organic display, hopping clumsily onto a stool at the bar.

The friendly eyes of the bartender, a little guy who looks more like the wispy shadow of a man than anything, met mine, quiet questions conveyed in their brown depths. I mouthed 'anything', and he gave me a faint smile, deftly reaching for a glass with one hand and a bottle with the other. Sliding a drink in front of me, I knew that it would put me out of my misery. His gaze turned from me, ready to serve other customers as I stared down into the murky amber depths of my drink.

A few sips seemed to last me half an hour as I nursed my drink, the sounds of a band warming up and the chatter of the masses barely registering. It was just me, myself, and I. My heartbeat felt almost audible as I gulped down the last of the bitter alcohol, pushing the glass forward to find the silent bartender refilling it without a word. Another sip. Another moment. Centuries passed.

"Haven't seen you around here before." A voice. Something new. At first, I didn't even think it was directed at me, but as curiosity made me glance over my shoulder, I saw a woman staring at me expectantly. She had a beautiful smile. Was it really directed at me? Almost uncomfortable, I fidgeted, my fingers tapping lightly on the counter.

Her stare made me remember after an awkward second. She had spoken. "I-I don't get around much," I stammered, pressing my hand against the counter in a desperate attempt to keep it from twitching.

"Really? A pity. This is a great place to unwind. Meet people. Make connections." Her words held the same undertones as Maureen, danger mixed with a smoothness that was difficult to resist.

"Well... I'm not into unwinding." Or connections. I bit my lower lip, mentally rebuking my stupid answer.

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Some people aren't," she conceded. After a pause, she held out her hand towards me. It seemed to hang there limply, like a dishrag hanging over a sink. "I'm Trish."

"Tom," I responded, not quite thinking. What the hell are you doing, Mark? Even my mind didn't appear to have a clue about the words coming out of my mouth. "Tom Collins." There's a good way to meet people. A pseudonym.

Maybe she would make things easy for me and just go away.

"Nice to meet you, Tom," she answered demurely, her handshake as weak as the poise of her hand. Too weak. Even Maureen seemed to carry herself with more confidence. And Roger... Another thought I immediately squashed. None of that. I was getting out, having a drink. Meeting people. Being social, all that.

"Likewise." I turned back to my drink, watching her take the stool next to me out of the corner of my eye. She was here, attractive, and seemed to want me. Why was I resisting? I tried to work up the interest in her, only to find a hollowness inside. There was no desire, no wanting. All I craved was a drink and rest.

She tried to start a conversation once or twice, but I barely responded to her questions, my mouth fighting any attempts by my mind to engage in any sort of lengthy speaking. I tried, I really did. Whatever had control of my lips, it seemed to be buried within the emptiness within. After awhile, Trish left, and I was once more alone. The quiet bartender drifted like a shadow, keeping my glass filled as my senses became numb.

Unfortunately, they weren't numb enough. The sounds of a guitar being tuned behind me grew louder, the plucking of a bass and the testing of a drum edging into my mind. I tried to block them out, drown among the sea of people-sounds, only to be drawn back into the tedious tuning of the guitar strings.

A small squeak of feedback made me cringe, but the tides of people quieted as a haunting voice came over the microphone, one that made me almost spit upon the counter.

"Glad to see everyone here tonight. We've got a few new songs to test out tonight..." The words blurred into nothingness, the voice, with all its conflicting sorrow and stoicness, confidence and hesitancy, practically a scream into my ears. I was dying beneath it. Roger. Stupid, stupid me. Of course, I had to pick the club that they would have taken me to, anyway. I had to pick the one with him.

I wanted to kill whatever deity ruled over fate or chance. I really did. Clutching my camera to my chest, I threw a wad of bills on the counter, ignoring the blank stare of the bartender as I stumbled towards the door. People seemed to fall away, the sounds all giving out except for his voice, wordless verses with the sound of his guitar. It radiated into my mind, consumed me. In a moment of weakness, I glanced up from my flight.

He stood near the edge of the club's makeshift stage, cradling his guitar with a curious caring. His fingers were quick, sliding over the strings. I'd always loved watching his hands, especially when he put those fingers to work on my body. Stop it. Now. Go. Run. Fight or flight response had kicked in.

Such a stupid bit of chance. So stupid. I'd spent months trying to avoid him, every thought of him. I was damned sure I wasn't around when he came back to get the rest of his stuff. I'd locked away everything he gave me and everything that made me think of him, even resorting to getting a new pillowcase. I had done everything I could to forget him. To villify him in my mind. He was the cold former lover and ex-friend who was willing to abandon me. He wanted to rip me to shreds. He never cared. He wasn't worth it. I repeated things to myself, hoping I could make them true.

It would have been so easy if I could only forget his hands tracing across my arms, my chest. Or how gentle he always was with me. How much he cared. How much history we'd had together, as friends, as more than friends.

I told myself that I was doing what I needed to do in order to survive. Leave him, don't let him leave you. Hold on to what you can trust, when the only thing you can trust is yourself.

In my hiding away, I'd almost managed to forget him. I was enraptured in my work, my mind locked in a cycle of thought and creation, cause and effect. It was one stupid moment, one stupid decision to go to that club that destroyed it all. Every moment, of love and hate and arguments and friendship and longing and love and loss, came back to me. Every moment seemed to create a lifetime filled. And it was in that moment of him, holding his guitar on that stage, that I truly felt alone.

Tears welled up in my eyes, sorrow twisting in my soul. What have I done? Roger was gone. I'd driven him away, I must have. Never tried to stop the arguing, never tried to accept him, never tried to keep it going. Stupid, stubborn, caring, sexy Roger. God. Why me?

Practically falling out the door, I mumbled an apology to the people I rammed into, barely caring. Barely noticing. I couldn't feel the coldness of the evening air, couldn't hear anything anymore. Fumbling my way up the concrete stairs, I fell to the dirty, pissed-upon ground in the alley next to the club. With mud soaking into my jacket and tears burning in my eyes, I buried my head into my scarf and cried for the first time in months.

(End Chapter 4)