Reflections: Mitigating Mark's Mind

by TLRAMP

RENT-fic numero tres! ;-) Can ya believe it? It's longer (in word count) than my first epic fic! I just upped the rating (again) to R, since I use too many curse words to count and it gets steamy. I am --this-- close to being done.

5. I Don't Expect You To Be Mine

CHAPTER V: I Don't Expect You To Be Mine

         As I return home from Collins' grave, I see the same two suitcases laid out in front of Roger's doorway. They are basically empty, with a few pieces of clothing thrown inside. Either he's leaving or he's planning to leave.

         "Roger?" I call out quietly, stepping over his suitcases to enter his room. I smile, seeing him lying on his bed, languidly swinging his legs off the edge. "Hey you."

         "Hey Mark." He looks up with a smile, putting all his weight on his elbows as he sits up halfway. "Glad you're back."

         "What's with the suitcases?"

         He shrugs, yawning as he slips off the bed. "You hungry?"

         I nod, getting a bad feeling about all this. "I guess." With Roger, words aren't so much as important as actions. If he's acting funny, something's up. If he says nothing's wrong, it's usually an indicator of a lie. There's always something wrong with Roger, no matter how he tries to act.

         "Do we have anything to eat around here?"

         I smile slightly. "For once, we actually do – leftovers from dinner with Toby and Miss Jacqueline last night." As we head out the room towards the fridge, we're both silent. Damn it, I know something's going on now. We haven't been this quiet since he moved back in.

         I look up, not knowing what to say. Roger must have something to tell me… But why isn't he just coming right out and saying it? It's not like there's anyone else around. What with Toby looking into film schools, the place is deserted save the two of us. Actually, I'm sure of what Roger's going to say. He'll start by saying, "Mark…we need to talk." And I'll say, "Yes?" And he'll say, "I'm moving out." And I'll cry. And he'll cry. And then he'll leave and return again in a few months and we'll argue, forcing him to leave again, only to return in another couple of months and –

         "Hey Mark," Roger's voice breaks through my thoughts, "You wanna split leftover Vegan Nachos with me?"

         I smile and nod, thinking a change from my normal dish of veggie-burgers and fries might do me well. "Sure. Sounds good."

         Quietly, I make myself a tea, glancing over my shoulder as he grabs a coke. I simply watch him as I sit, taking a sip of my tea, gauging his every movement. Why did I even let him move back in with me in the first place? I knew this was coming. He kept telling me he was moving out, but I chose not to believe. How could I believe? I mean, I know he likes to get away from life, but he always comes back to the loft and to me… Could it be that I'm losing him for good now? Jesus, I don't want to lose him again – it's like losing a piece of myself in the process, and another relapse is not what I'm in the market for.

         "Mark…?"

         "Huh?" I shake my head, realizing I've been zoning again.

         He laughs lightly, taking a seat across from me, setting a greasy bowl of nachos before us. "You were sort of staring off into space, but your eyes were glued on me… Kind of freaky…"

         "Sorry," I reply with a forced smile. "So, can I ask again about the suitcases?"

         He sighs, collecting himself a bit before he nods, taking a bite of a tortilla filled with cheese and…other stuff… After swallowing, he shrugs, his eyes downcast. "I'm leaving for Santa Fe."

         I grimace at the nachos, wondering how Toby ever convinced me to try these things. I mean, what the hell does Vegan mean, anyway? Collecting my thoughts a bit, I look up. "When?"

         "Tomorrow."
         "What?!"
         "I know," he adds, defensively, "that it's so soon…but I told you I was leaving. I gave you every opportunity to say you wanted to come along, too. You know I did."

         "What are you saying?" I ask, becoming defensive myself. "That I can't come along now, even if I wanted to?"
         "That's not at all what I'm saying, Mark. Don't do this…"

         "Do what?"

         "Pick a fight with me over something so small and –"

         "If you say insignificant, I'll punch you."

         "Okay, sorry…" He sighed, gesturing to the plate. "Aren't you going to eat?"
         "Suddenly, I'm not hungry."

         "What, because of me? Jesus…"

         "What's with the tone, Roger?" I leer over the table at him, letting my renewed temper flair.

         "Nothing!" he cries, pushing the plate away. "Now, I'm not hungry."

         "What, because of me?" I mimic sarcastically, crossing my legs and folding my arms. "Jesus."

         "Shut up… Do you want me to leave during another one of our fights, Mark? Because you're making it pretty damn clear that you do."

         "You know I don't," I whisper, lowering my eyes.

         "Then, just tell me you want to come along and stop acting like a baby."

         "Me?!" I stand up, making a few throaty noises that make it clear that…well that I'm anything but a baby. "You're the one."

         "You're doing it still. Just sit down and talk to me."

         "What for? What has talking ever done for us?"

         He sighs, folding his arms, eyes still fixated on the tabletop. "We used to be able to talk, Mark. I mean, back when I really felt like I lived here, we could talk. We'd spend hours talking…."

         "Yeah," I breathe, slipping back into my chair. A silent moment passes before my temper flairs again. "But, that was then and this is now. We can't ever go back to those days. Besides, times have changed… We've changed." I fold my arms again. "So you say, anyway."

         He frowns, clenching his jaw to contain anger. "I said it because I meant it, damn it."
         In despair, I look over at him and plea, "Why don't you stay, Roger? We can work this out… We always fight, but we make up. That's just how we are, isn't it? I mean, we've always been angry with each other, but there's never a time when we meant anything we said."

         "Until now…"

         My cheeks rise with fire as I push the table over, standing to my feet. "Goddamn it, Roger!" I cry, flushed with rage as the table falls, crashing on the hard floor. All the pain, all the suffering and fury I've been feeling since Collins died – all the anguish and depression I've tried to hide – comes out in full force now, and for once in my life, I'm actually scared I might hurt Roger if I don't calm down, but that thought is strangled by the anxiety within. "I'm so tired of this!"

         "Mark!" he stands up, jumping out of the way of the metal. "Jesus Christ! What the hell…!"

         Running my hands through my hair, I pull at it frantically, trying to make sense of everything, but I can't. I feel the need to hit someone rising inside my chest, paining me until my vision is blurred. "You can't leave me, Goddamn it! You just can't!"

         "Why don't you –"

         "And you know I can't go with you, so don't even fuckin' ask, Roger!" My head spins dizzily again and I race towards the fridge, pushing things aside and finding what it is I want.

         "Mark!" I hear Roger's voice before his hand takes away the bottle of vodka in my hand. He's stunned into silence as I grab it back, pushing him out of the way. "What… I don't…. Jesus…"
         I look down at the bottle after taking a drink and realize what I'm doing. Stumbling, my whole body begins to shiver and I instantly take another – long: Christ, it feels good – drink, downing half the bottle with it. When I come up for air, the room is spinning a bit and I don't feel well, but that only provokes another drink and before I know it, I've downed the entire bottle in moments. In realization, my body is wracked with tremors and I drop the bottle, sinking onto the floor, feeling broken glass nudge into my skin, slicing me open like a razor. All through this, Roger is trying to take the bottle away, but after it slips and breaks against the floor, he tries grabbing my arms, pulling me away from the remnants of liquor swirling on the floor, mumbling "Jesus" the entire time. All I can think of is how bad I feel, but how good it felt to drink it…. It felt so damn good… I'm aware that I've been drinking like this for the past week, but haven't even comprehended until now.

         "Mark? Mark!" Roger's voice is so close to me now, beside my ear almost.

         I'm standing up now and I fight to control balance, groping for the handle to the fridge. "What?" I ask harshly. He tries to take my arm and I flinch, shaking it off. "Don't touch me! Look, I just need another –"

         "The hell you do, Mark!" He pushes me away from it easily. "What the fuck's the matter with you?"
         My eyes narrow. "What?" I look him straight in the eyes. "Tell me, are you upset because I'm drinking," I pause, my face in his, "or because you didn't even notice before now?"

         His eyes widen and his jaw drops, but before long, anger replaces shock. "Just fuckin' tell me why, Mark… I mean, Jesus, you're going to ruin your life."

         "Ruin my life? You're the one to talk," I retort.

         "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

         I run off to his room and start scrounging through the drawers, aimlessly searching for my proof of just how screwed up he is. He tries to stop me, but I am too strong. "This!" I cry, triumphantly holding up a needle. "This is what I fucking meant, Roger. Care to explain?" I toss it on his bed, staring smugly at him."

         "How did you…?"
         "Toby found it, actually. He told me. I've known for a few days now, but I kept hoping and praying it wasn't true. Tell me it's not true, Roger." He lowers his eyes, sighing helplessly. "Tell me…"

         "I-I can't…."

         "Roger, you –"

         "You don't know what it's fuckin' like, Mark!" he cries, tears rising in his eyes. "You can't ever know the pain I feel to know that I'm going to die soon and that there's nothing I can do." His voice rises, "You'll never know!" He pushes me back against the wall and I hit it with a loud thud. "I mean, Goddamn it, Mark, if you don't have to go through all this fuckin' shit, then why the hell are you drinking?" He pauses, shaking his head as I look up at him through blurred vision. "You're the one of us who'll survive, damn it… And you're wasting that?"

         "Roger…I didn't realize –"

         "You never do, Mark." He sighs, sitting on the edge of his bed, letting his head drop into open palms. "You never do."

         It takes me a full minute to shake the stars out of my head before I can stand without falling over. I walk over to him and take a seat on the bed, lowering my gaze, blinking away the sleep and haze that rises. "I can't stop," I whisper softly.

         He looks up, startled. "Why did you start? I mean…I thought you would never do that, because your dad was –"

         "Look, I know what my dad was, okay? I just…I can't help it, Roger. It makes me feel good."

         He frowns, placing his hand on my shoulder. "Please don't do it anymore." The sound of his voice, so soft and sweet beside me makes me clench my jaw to hold back tears. "Don't do that, either, Mark," he continued, shaking his head.

         "Do…do what?"

         "You always try not to cry."

         I shrug, lowering my gaze. "I always cry, Roger. I'm tired of fucking crying."

         He nods, knowingly. "I've always berated you for it, haven't I?"

         I look up, surprised by that statement. Jesus, has he been studying my movies or something? "N-no, you haven't –"

         "Mark, stop lying, please; for once, I want the full truth from you." I gulp as he continues, "What will you do when I go away again?"

         I shrug, shaking my head, forcing a smile. "Try to kill myself?" His eyes go wide. "I was kidding, Roger… You know, joking?"

         "Well, don't, okay?" He stands up. "I can't stand this."

         "What?"

         "This!" he cries angrily. "This…joking and beating around the bush and lying and just… Christ, I hate living here!" He spins around, running his fingers through his hair, trying to brush it away from his eyes with no such luck.

         My heart seems to fall out of my chest and I swallow, my bottom lip shivering. "Why don't you leave tonight, then?" I stand to my feet, surprisingly meek and calm about this. "I'll help you pack."

         He turns slowly, eyeing me strangely. "Do you want me to leave?"

         "Well, you're not happy here, so, why not?"

         "But, do you want me to go?" I don't answer, walking away, but before I make it two steps, he grabs my shoulders, forcing my eyes to meet with his. "Goddamn it, Mark! What do you want? For once in your life just tell me what you want!" I don't reply, my eyes narrowing in confusion. Make a decision? Mark Cohen? Ha… He shakes me out of my thoughts. "No, no…Stop thinking, Mark. Jesus, either do something in the moment or tell me what you want to do. Stop living your life on the sidelines or you'll lose all your friends and you'll be alone forever…" The words are echoing through my mind. Carpe diem, I think to myself now, recalling my old philosophy that Angel taught and that Collins instilled and me. I tremble, knowing exactly what I want to do, but also knowing I can't bring myself to do it. "…If you don't tell me what the hell you want from me Mark, we're through – friendship, brotherhood: whatever. It's all over with and done."

         "You can't do this to me, Roger. You can't put me on the spot and expect me to –"

         "The hell I can't!" He pulls away, shaking his head. "What are you so afraid of Mark?" I stutter a few indiscernible words but he continues. "I've known you for so fuckin' long, and I've always tried to figure that out, but I never have. Y'know why?"

         "Why?" I ask, wanting desperately to know myself.

         "Because you don't even know." My eyes cloud with tears that I try to blink away. "No! Damn it, Mark, before you lose this feeling, just do something!" I look up at him, helplessly drowning in my pool of need.

         "I c-can't –"

         His eyes are filled with a concerned glare. "If you don't, I'm gone. So, do it. I know what you're thinking, okay?" Shit… I'm shivering again. "No, no, stay with me Mark!" The alcohol is taking effect now and the tears flow. "I know what you want to do, so just get it out of the way and we can start again… Damn it, Mark, just –"

         And I do it: the one thing I feel I've longed to do for years and years now; the one thing that's been bottled up inside me for God knows how long; the thing I've never been able to admit to even myself; and the thing that's been eating away at me since Mimi died…maybe even before that. But, somehow I muster up the courage to kiss him. It's so awkward, I realize faintly, wrapping my arms around him. Though my eyes are closed, I can sense his tensing muscles, and immediately I understand that he didn't want this like I did. I pull away, lowering my head and turning away, cursing under my breath gently.

         "Mark…?"

         "Huh?" I shiver, the tears flowing as I drop down into a heap on the floor. "I'm so fucked up, Roger… I took a drink for the first time since high school the day Collins died. I took another the day of his funeral. I just couldn't stop it." I look up at him and he's not chiding me or saying I'm stupid. He's just looking back with that same concern, as if I hadn't been so brainless as to jeopardize what little string of friendship we're hanging onto by kissing him. "It made me feel good, made me feel wanted somehow…or loved…or…I don't even know what I'm trying to say…" I bow my head, shaking it.

         I flinch as he kneels beside me, nodding me on, "Keep going, Mark. I'm listening…"

         "I've been trying to hide it from you – the drinking. Hell, I've been trying to hide it from myself and Toby and my conscience and God… Shit…" I break down again, sobbing into my palms. Feeling slight pressure on my shoulder, I jerk my head up to see Roger's arms wide open, welcoming me and I shake my head. "Why are you still here…?"

         "Why are you still afraid?"

         I swallow, still shaking my head, desperately searching for a way out. "I-I'm not afraid…"

         "Then why the hell are you shivering like that? Jesus, Mark, sometimes you're so naïve."

         I sniffle, mustering up enough courage to scoot forward into his arms, suddenly clutching him with a despondency that appalls me. How did I ever let myself get so damn close to someone? "Why the hell do I love you?" I find myself sobbing quietly. "Why…out of all the other people in this fucking screwed up world…why you? And why me?" He tries to hush me, but I continue. "No… Don't stop me, Roger. You're the one who said I needed to do something, right? I know you didn't mean what I did, but I've wanted to do that for so long… I thought it would go away. I thought if I kept thinking about how beautiful you and Mimi were or you and April even, that I wouldn't yearn and desire, but life doesn't happen that way. Life has always hated me…"

         "Stop it, Mark."

         "I can't stop drinking just like I can't stop loving you." I look up at him, sitting in his arms and clench my jaw to try and get the words out right. "Don't leave. You asked what I'd do if you left, and I didn't answer, because I seriously don't know, but what I do know is that it won't be a good thing. Every other time you left, I sobbed and despaired and couldn't eat or sleep or think of anything else but how much I missed you teasing me and you fighting with me and always being right. There were moments when I was at the end of my rope and thought suicide was the greatest idea and the only way out –"

         "Mark, don't…"

         "—but I don't feel that way anymore, Roger," my voice trembles as I grip his sleeve. "I still have this hope and it drains the very life out of me, and you know what that hope is. I showed it to you tonight in…in that kiss."

         "Mark, please!"

         "What?" my eyes shimmer with tears as he helps me to my feet. As he sees I can stand on my own, he backs away a bit.

         "Stop talking…. I know I said I wanted you to just do whatever you wanted or felt, but… Jesus, I wasn't expecting that, okay? I'm not… I mean…" He sighs helplessly, shaking his head. "I can't return that love. That hope you said you showed me… I can't give it to you, no matter what you do or say. You have to know I love you too much for that."

         I nod, just standing there, looking at him. Maybe I misread my feelings of romantic love for friendly love. Is that why it felt so wrong to kiss him? So awkward and tight? All our friends had brought it up at one time or another. You and Roger should go out! Normally, this brought a load of laughs to both of us and an uncomfortable moment of silence to follow where we'd both tense. I automatically assumed this meant he felt the same. I guess I was wrong. But, as I look at him now, I think maybe there's something more to this love than I thought previously. We normally associate love with lust and desire, but what if that doesn't exist? Sometimes I think my love for Roger is just that of friends who are so close you can't tell the difference, and, with a laugh, I suddenly realize that's the truth of the matter. I don't hunger for him like I do Maureen, but I don't want to hug him like I hug my sister. I just… "I want our friendship back," I say monotonously. And yet, that doesn't seem like enough anymore…

         He smiles, nodding, seeming to have read all my thoughts. Or did I speak them aloud just now? "Me too."

         "Look Roger… I don't want to apologize for what I just did."

         He nods. "I don't want you to, either."

         I laugh lightly, wiping away the remainder of tears. "Pretty dumb, huh?"
         His smile is soft as he nudges me with his elbow. "It was hot."

         "Shut up." My face flushes dark crimson and again we're both silent. I take a seat on the bed and suddenly remember the needle. "Roger…?"

         "Huh?" I reach behind me, picking it up and twirling it between my fingers, offering that as my only reply. "Oh…" he lowers his eyes, taking a seat beside me and taking the needle from me, looks it over. "It looks so harmless, doesn't it?"

         "But it's not. That thing'll kill you."

         He nods, shrugging. "I-I know. Sometimes, I think it's better if I end it in my own way, though."

         "I know what you mean, but I don't condone it."

         "I don't either."

         "Then give it up for good, Roger." I place my hand on his shoulder, my eyes shimmering. "I worry about you."

         He sighs quietly, looking over at me. "I worry about you, too, y'know."

         "What about me?"

         "Just…you in general, Mark. You're always so vulnerable and weak."

         "Hey…thanks."

         "I didn't mean it like that; I just meant that you let things get to you too easily. You invite hurt into your life sometimes, and whenever I'm not right beside you, I feel like you'll do something…"

         "Stupid?" I offer with a frown.

         "Well, frankly, yeah, Mark. You're not known for making the wisest decisions in the world: you dated Maureen – that's all the proof I need." He smirked softly.

         "Don't joke, Roger… If you worried about me at all, you wouldn't leave all the time."

         He stands to his feet with a sigh. "You just don't get it, do you Mark?"

         "What's there to get?" I retort, standing to join him. "That you're dying and you want to split town because of that? Yeah, I get it, all right…"

         "Fuck you, Mark. You know that's not how it is."

         "Well then explain it."

         "You don't know what it's like to be this sick, okay?" His eyes implore me to understand, and I listen wholeheartedly. "You don't know what it's like to know that you're going to die in five years or five minutes. You don't know what it's like to wake up every morning – alone – realizing that it's never going to get any better than this. You have no fuckin' idea how much I wish I hadn't done what I did to get AIDS, and you don't know how much I yearn for the past, more so than even you… You don't know what I'd give to just be you for one day, Mark – to have your sense of creative abandonment, to get lost in the right brain for hours a day, and to give everything for my art like you do. Do you even fuckin' understand how much of a role model you'd be to anyone who gives a damn about life? I mean, Jesus Mark; do you understand me yet, or are you still clueless?"

         I swallow, my eyes narrowed in confusion. What the hell…? A role model? He wants to be like me? Nothing's sinking in, because I don't want to hear that. He wants to be me? The thought is ridiculous! "Roger, you're just –" Interrupting my reply is the phone. Startled, both our heads jerk towards the answering machine that sits on the floor now, amazingly not broken from when I threw the table down.

         The old message has returned: "Speak!"

         "Mark are you there?" Oh God…perfect timing, mom… "Honey, pick up the phone and stop screening your calls, 'cause I don't want to drone on and on and on until you'll never call back like you used to when you were there," without as much as a pause, she managed to talk to someone off the phone too, "I don't think he's there, Andrew," I know she's speaking to my father now, "And…yes, I'm telling him now to –" she gasps, "—Mark! I sent you a train ticket back to home, so come and visit if you're feeling alone, 'cause we all saw the movie and we're worried. Yes, we're worried, because – Yes, I'm telling him now, Andrew; please don't remind me while I'm talking to – Mark! Are you there? Just call. Your mother."

         The beep sounds, ending the call all too late. I've lost my train of thought from earlier and so we stand opposite each other for a few very intense moments before he moves, shoving past me towards his suitcases.

         "I'm still leaving tomorrow."

         I clench my jaw, frowning. "Still afraid." It's not a question, and yet I expect a response, but I get none. He almost turns back towards me but decides against it at the last minute, merely pausing in his tracks before grabbing clothes out of the drawers, hurling them into the suitcase. I watch absently, sighing as I kneel beside him out of habit almost, removing all the clothing before picking up a shirt and folding it properly. "You never were one for suitable packing."

         He looks up, his eyes studying me. Those eyes… My stomach does a few flip-flops as I stare into them and I realize that my heart is pounding. Again, the line between friendship and romance seems blurry now as I gaze into those pools of hopelessness. In them, I see his pain, his dreams – his very soul… But before I can get too caught up in these yearnings – if I can ever dare to call them that – his eyes lower and he hands me more clothes to fold. "Thanks," he mumbles under his breath.

         I sink down, crossing my legs Indian style, folding slowly as my eyes dart from the suitcase to Roger and back again. Absentmindedly, I notice the scars on the insides of his arms… Jesus, how did I miss them before? It's bruised and a mixture of purples, blues, and reds. It's amazing to me how I can see every vein in those powerful arms and yet the translucence of it all makes me dizzy with worry. I know I'm staring at him now, but something draws me to his face. I notice, at this very moment, that the fire in him has all but died out, and I observe the pale façade of death has replaced it. The terror of the situation at hand becomes all too clear now as I recall that Collins looked quite the same a few months before he took a turn for the worst and was admitted to the hospital for the first time…

         Feeling tears prick at the back of my eyes, I bow my head, attempting to concentrate on the fabrics in my trembling hands through my now distorted vision…without much success. As much as I try to hold it back, I have to sniffle to try and get my head cleared, but that only draws attention to my quivering form, and out of the corner of my eyes, I see that Roger is staring at me.

         "Mark…?"

         "Huh?" I sniff again, lowering my gaze further as I place a shirt in the suitcase, picking up another. "What?" I try to laugh it off. "I must be getting a cold or something…"

         His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. "You do know it's okay to cry, right?" I look up and despite all I've believed lately, I know he's right, so I nod. "Then why don't you? You started to earlier, before you…we…" he trails off. "Just tell me what you're feeling right now, Mark."

         I shrug, lowering my gaze again and turning back to the clothes. "I did that earlier too, and it got us nowhere."

         "C'mon, Mark," he pleads softly, "Just tell me –"

         "No, y'know what, Roger? I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to fuckin' talk anymore. You're leaving, and nothing I say is going to change that, right?" He sighs helplessly. "You don't even have to answer. You're leaving and that's that. I'll just have to deal with it, and you'll have to deal with my not talking about what I feel. How's that?" There's an edgy undertone to my voice that I barely notice, but I know it comes out in full volume as I pick up his underwear by accident, folding it before noticing what it is I'm folding and I try to toss it in a non-fanatical fashion into the suitcase.

         "Fine, Mark. Be that way," he stumbles to his feet, walking out of the room.

         As I hear him heading for the door, I stand up as well, crying out, "Y'know this is your fuckin' suitcase, damn it!"

         "Then don't pack it." I hear the door open.

         "I won't!"

         "Fine, I'll do it later."

         The door slams shut as I sink down into Roger's bed, laying on my back and staring up at the ceiling. "Goddamn it!" I scream, covering my eyes with my fists, feeling the effects of vodka settling in my stomach finally. The familiar haze overwhelms my senses and I feel like I'm floating away.

         ~~ His fingers trace my jaw as I look up at him from my position; still sprawled out on his bed as he straddles me. His lips hover over mine, brushing against the swollen flesh until I'm dizzy with lust. Breath tickling my skin sends a series of chills to play upon my spine, spreading evenly to each and every part of my body until I'm wracked with gentle shivers. I stand, unmovable, as his free hand slides up my arm, over my neck and shoulder, finally stopping to caress my cheek and then to intertwine in my hair, tugging ever so lightly. My breath becomes erratic as he removes my shirt, letting it tousle my already disheveled tresses before he tosses it aside, still keeping those beautiful lips of his just out of my reach, even as I waver forwards, yearning for completion of this play we're acting out – this dance of seduction that he's spinning in front of my eyes, even as I realize they are closed tightly, my features altering into a look of feared anticipation as my brow furrows.

         "Roger…Please…" I whisper urgently, leaning my head into his hand that now cups my reddened cheek.

         He leans in, shifting the weight of his body so that it's up against the length of mine. "Yes, Mark?" he breaths quietly into my ear.

         My lips part slowly as a soft moan escapes my lips. I can feel every muscle in that strong body of his as he rocks us back and forth, his hands roaming over my sweaty body. "Jesus, Roger…" I half-groan, trying to push him away even though it feels so damn right. It just can't happen like this. "Stop," I say defiantly.

         He silences any further pleas with a deep kiss, pushing his way into my mouth, despite my protests. "Don't tell me you don't want this, Mark," he coos as his lips trace a path downwards to my neck.

         "I-I can't…." I sigh, giving up the fight with ease, lifting my hands to run through his hair as he travels lower still. God, I do want this. He's right…. ~~

         Nearly shoving the covers off my body, I jump up in a sweat, falling off the ledge of the bed in one swift, clumsy motion, panting heavily as I realize I'm laying on top of someone. Eyes stare back at me through the darkness and I shiver, my own eyes widening in fear. "R-Roger?!" I cry as my eyes adjust to his form beneath mine on the floor.

         He groans and gives a short laugh. "Yeah, Mark…It's me." I barely hear him. I can feel those muscles…just like in my dream, and I find myself more than a little aroused by it. Looking down at him, I feel a lump driving it's way into my throat. "Mark?" his voice is so soft, almost in my ear.

         "Yeah?" I manage to breath, shivering slightly.

         "Can you get off me now?" He smiles up at me.

         I nearly jump out of my skin, fumbling to gain leverage on two feet, grasping for the bed to steady myself. Running a hand around to the back of my neck, I rub it roughly, turning away from Roger. Goddamn it, Cohen! What the fuck is the matter with you? You're having wet dreams about your best friend now? Jesus…

         "Are you okay?" he asks, coming to my side.

         I place a hand over my heart, attempting to calm its rapid pace. "N-Not really… Just had a nightmare."

         "Oh…I wondered why you were tossing and turning like that."

         "Why were you sleeping on the floor?" I ask softly.

         "Oh… You were knocked out on the bed, so I didn't think waking you would bode well for a request for forgiveness." He turns me to face him. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I mean, I just got mad, okay? I don't want to leave here on a bad note."

         I nod, struggling to breathe. "Yeah…don't worry about it."

         "So, we're cool?"
         "Yeah." I break out of his tender grasp and walk a few paces in the opposite direction, trying to clear my head, but upon turning I note the two cleanly packed suitcases. "You packed, huh?"
         He nods, moving to stand beside me. "Yeah. And…I… I threw out the remaining bottles in the fridge –"

         "What?!"

         "—and threw out my needle and remaining stash, as well."

         Before I'm about to blow up, the words sink in and I smile. "Oh…"

         "Yeah." He nudges me playfully. "Oh," he mimics sarcastically.

         My smile is short-lived. With the nudge comes a heart full of pain. It's like torture – standing beside him, knowing what I know; that the kiss was supposed to be something more, that the dream wasn't the first, and that I may just love him that way.

         "You okay, Mark?" he asks, very concerned.

         "I…uh…" I stutter a bit before attempting to laugh it off, "Yeah, of course I'm okay. The dream just kind of shook me up; that's all."

         "What was it about?"

         My eyes widen a bit as I look up at him. "Oh…nothing."

         He smiles wryly. "Was it really a nightmare? Or…a good dream?"

         I shiver a bit, turning away. "Just a nightmare."

         "C'mon, don't give me that! What was it about?" He smirks, circling me until he stands in front. "It was about Maureen, huh?" I try to break away. "Someone else? Hmm…that girl who waitresses at the Life? No?" He feigns a pout. "So who?"

         "No one. Just a nightmare."

         "Oh, so it's private, hm?" He chuckles, letting me go. "Fine, be secretive."

         "It was about you, if you must know," I blurt out, gaining an ounce of courage before feeling myself quiver again. Don't tell him…

         "Me?" he asks, confusion in his tone. There's a bit of silence that hangs in the air before he swallows – I can hear it even from where I stand. "About me, huh?" His joking tone comes out cold: "A…uhh…nightmare, right?"

         I shake my head. "No…not exactly…"

         "Oh…"

         I turn back to face him. "Look, Roger…I don't think you should ask, okay? It would further confuse things, and you said you wanted to leave on a good note, right?" He nods. "Well, then, let's just drop it and get some sleep…" Suddenly, my stomach does a flip or two and I feel the sickness rising. Moaning, I race for the bathroom.

         "…And then Maureen and I did that little skit, where we played lovers? That was classic, Mark! A work of art."

         I laugh with a cock-eyed smile, lowering my eyes. "Naw…I think it was all pure smut, really. I mean, c'mon: you and Maureen dancing around like two drunkards with Collins providing the love song soundtrack in the background? Methinks I was on crack at the time."

         Roger smiles. "Trust me, when all was said and done, it was a beautiful film. I loved making it too." He nudges me. "I especially enjoyed working with Mark Cohen before he was famous and renowned."

         "Famous and renowned, my ass," I reply, blushing. "I'm barely infamous."

         "Can't you ever take a compliment straight off?"

         "No." I smile slightly.

         Roger and I have been up for hours now just talking. We both decided that sleep was out of the question on his last night in NYC. I mean, we both know he'll never be back, and I'm beginning to understand that's a good thing. He needs to get out of here. New York is no place for people like him. Come to think of it, New York is no place for me either. At any rate, since sleep was out of the question, talking seemed appropriate. So, we've chatted about everything from the weather to how I felt when Angel died to how he felt when he first left for Santa Fe to both our thoughts on leaving the city that has sort of become our home.

         He yawns, interrupting my thoughts. "What time is it?"

         I lean over, fumbling for the digital clock on the side of his bed. I grimace; fishing through whatever Roger hasn't cleaned up on the floor to find it. "It's 6:01AM," I reply with a light yawn myself. As if I've had a good night's sleep since Collins' death, anyway, and now not sleeping at all? My stomach tells me to get a drink to wake myself up, but my head reminds me that Roger threw them all out. I'm thankful, I guess… Even though I'm craving that burning liquid more than anything right now.

         "What time does your flight leave?" I ask, absently toying with the sleeve of my shirt.

         "I'm not flying."

         I look up, making a confused face. "You're taking the train all that way?"

         "Nope."

         I laugh, hitting his arm. "So, how are you getting there? You gonna walk?"

         He smirks. "I gotta leave before 10:00… I'm driving."

         "What?! How in the hell are you gonna do that…with no car and no driver's license?"

         "Mark, you worry too much," he teases. "I got a license a year or so ago. As for the car… Well, I found an old VW Bug with red trim that –"

         "April's car!" I almost cry out, my eyes wide as I shake my head in bewilderment. "Where did you find it?"

         "I asked around… Actually, Benny's the one that told me where it was. Allison told him she saw some kid driving it a while back and when I went looking, I saw it and bought it on the spot."

         "It still works?" I ask as my voice rises. "Shit, that thing's ancient, Roger. I'd be surprised if it still had wheels and an engine. Will that thing get you all the way to Santa Fe…in one piece?"

         "Of course. It's in perfect shape still. You remember how April kept that thing – spotless and always running."

         "I always wondered how she ever kept it so beautiful. I mean, she was living off a waitress's salary."

         "Her brother was a mechanic, remember? He gave her free tune-ups and everything."

         I nod. "Yeah, I remember that now. He was a nice guy… Whatever happened to him?"

         "He got married," Roger says with a slight laugh. "Moved to Connecticut."

         I lower my eyes at this, studying my hands as I clasp them together, fidgeting a bit. "You know something?"

         "What?"

         "We're nearing thirty years old, Roger."

         He groans. "Don't remind me…"

         "No…but doesn't that sound weird to you? Doesn't it seem like only yesterday you broke me out of school? Or just five minutes ago the whole gang was planning to move in together, but we couldn't afford it? Or a month ago Angel was playing his drum for us all, showing us how to live?" I sigh, dejected. "I'm almost thirty, and what do I have to show for it? A bunch of half-assed films and a fan base that'll be gone in a week if I don't do another movie."

         "C'mon, Mark, it's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

         "Isn't it? I'm five years away from turning thirty years old. Five years… That's 1,820 days. Doesn't seem like much when you put it like that, does it?"

         Roger thinks for a minute or so before he speaks. "2,628,000."

         "What?"

         "2,628,000 minutes. Give or take a thousand." He smiles. "Seem like a little more time now?"

         "How the hell did you figure that out in your head?" I ask amidst laughter.

         "The same way you knew it was 1,820 days. I've thought about it, too, Mark – every agonizing moment lately. I know there's not much time left before time runs out."

         I almost smile. "That's poetic, you know."

         "Is it? Not when it's all you think about."

         "No, not then." I shrug. "Maybe it's better not to think about it…not to think at all."

         He smiles genuinely. "I can't believe you just said that."

         "Me either… But, it's true isn't it? The more we think the more life seems complicated and the more it gets to us. If we'd just stop thinking about all that's wrong, maybe we'd notice all that's right."

         "Now that's poetic."

         I nod. "I should've been a poet."

         "Me too," he agrees with a smirk. "Maybe we should switch jobs for a while… You write songs and I'll try to film something."

         "No way; I've seen the way you hold a camera!"

         "Yeah, I've seen the way you hold a camera, too," he snickers.

         "What's wrong with the way I hold my camera?"

         "It's a sick masturbation thing you got goin' on when a camera gets in your hand. It's like you're in love with the thing."

         I roll my eyes, but suddenly grin. "You mean, like the same way you hold your guitar?"

         "That's different!"
         "How so?" I ask, leaning forward, plastering a look of interested sarcasm on my face.

         "It's… Well, it just is. A guitar is like a woman –"

         "Here we go again," I groan with a laugh. "You should write a book: 'My Guitar – My Love'. It'll be a bestseller."

         "But a camera, on the other hand," he continues over the top of my voice, "is more like a man." He purses his lips jokingly.

         "Oh fuck off, Roger…"

         "Aw, did I hit a sensitive area?" he chuckles, reaching to pinch my cheek. "So, it's true then?"

         "What's true?" I pull my face away, suddenly catch his meaning and I glare. "No."

         "No, what?" He feigns unknowing.

         "No, I'm not…" My face flushes red. "Jesus, Roger, I hate you."

         He laughs, nudging me as his head rolls back in hysterics. "I'm sorry, Mark," he manages between chuckles, "I couldn't resist… You're too easy to tease sometimes."

         I force a smile, although I feel more like slapping him upside the head. He's just joking, I remind myself inwardly. He's not accusing you of being gay… Fuck, there's that word again. I hate that word. I'm not gay. I've never been gay, and I'll never be gay. I'm not even bisexual, for Christ's sake! Why then do I feel so awkward when I know he was only joking? Maybe it's because of all those stupid dreams and the way I felt last night when I thought about kissing him. Maybe it's because I always notice the way his eyes gaze at me. Maybe it's because of the way his hair seems to always manage to get in his face at one time or another and I long to push it behind his ears. Maybe it's because I'm in love with him. But, damn it; that doesn't make me gay…

         "Mark?"
         I shake my head, realizing I've been zoning again. "Huh…?"

         "I said I was sorry… I didn't mean anything by it." His voice is so sincere.

         I smile, nodding. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, I zoned for a minute."

         His eyes look everywhere but my face. "Can I ask you something, in all seriousness?"

         Butterflies fill my stomach as I slowly nod. "Uh huh." Don't ask it, don't ask it, don't –

         "Are you gay?"

         I swallow, closing my eyes briefly. "No, I'm not."

         He looks up, all too suddenly. "Bisexual?"

         "No."

         He looks a bit confused. "So, you don't like guys?"

         I laugh, lowering my eyes from his. "Only one guy…"

         "Oh," he replies quietly.

         "Don't make it more awkward than it has to be, Roger."

         "What? I didn't mean to –"

         "I just don't wanna talk about it now, okay?"

         I feel his eyes on me, so I look up at him. His face is completely serious. "When else will we talk about it?"

         Goddamn it, he's right… "Fine… What do you want to know?"

         He clears his throat and shifts positions a bit in the manner of how he's sitting. "I don't really know."

         I smile, elbowing him gently. "Then how are we supposed to talk about it?"

         "I don't really know that, either," he replies, lowering his gaze.

         "Okay. I'll just start voicing my thoughts; stop me when you want…" I pause, thinking of how I want to start this. He's leaving in a few hours anyway, so I may as well just say what's on my mind. Taking a deep breath, I spill it all. "I think I'm in love with you. That kiss, even though I said it was stupid, meant more to me than anything and it took more courage than anything I've ever tried to do to push forward and try it, and though it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I've wanted to do it for so long now that it just seemed like the right time to do it, and I know you didn't want me to, but I did it, and I'm proud I did, although it really makes me nauseous to think about your reaction to all this, because it probably makes you feel uncomfortable, but I'm supposed to be talking about me not you, so never mind all that, because –"

         "Take a breath, Mark," Roger reminds me with a small smile.

         "Yeah…" I laugh lightly, realizing that was all one freakishly long sentence. Taking another long intake of air, I continue. "So, earlier, when I told you I had a nightmare – it wasn't really a nightmare – it actually would have been a wonderful, beautiful dream, but it just freaked me out, because it was about us, and you were seducing me, and as crazy as that sounds, it was such an intimate moment and in the dream I finally felt complete; like I didn't care about catching AIDS, since we were about to have sex; and I didn't care that you were leaving the next day, probably never to return; and I didn't care that I was so fucking scared that I was trembling when you kissed me – I didn't care about anything but the amazing sensation of love that radiated from you and from inside my heart as it swelled with adoring devotion for you…. God, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

         He shrugs, nodding with a half-smile that almost reminds me of my own cock-eyed grins. "Yeah, you are. But, keep going… It's not complete dribble this time."

         "I…uhh… I don't really know what else to say. That's about it."

         "Can I ask something then?" I nod slowly. "Did it feel…right? I mean, was it as if we were in love?"

         I smile wistfully. "Yeah. It was the only time in my life that everything fell into place and nothing was missing. It was almost too perfect, y'know?"

         "Yeah," he replies quietly, turning his head distractedly.

         "Sorry, I know this is all too much, especially before you leave and all. I just thought, if I don't say it now, I'll never do it."

         "No, no… I know it's hard to say." He looks up with that same crazy smile that makes me suddenly want to melt in his arms. "I've said it before, and it wasn't easy either time."

"So, what do you have to say about it?"

         "Huh?"

         I quirk a brow as I lower my eyes to fidget with my sleeve again. "You haven't told me it'll never work out or that it makes you sick to think of or that you're not in the market for a relationship or that you're not even remotely attracted to me and never will be or that –"

         He laughs, shaking his head. "I'm going to miss this."

         "What?"

         "The way you take things and stretch them out of proportion and the way you obsess over every little detail and the way you're almost always wrong about whatever it is you're thinking; the way you ramble on about nothing for hours and it somehow flows, as if you think you're making sense."

         I chuckle as my face flushes crimson. "So, am I wrong about this?"

         "That depends on what you think I think."

         I smile, looking up at him. "I think that you think that I think you don't feel the same."

         Roger's face contorts a bit as he tries to figure out the sentence structure. When he does, he smirks. "Oh? So, if I told you that you don't know that I know that you don't know that I've thought about us before, you'd probably think that I think that you think I'm nuts, but I'm not."

         "Okay, I lost you after 'oh'… But I think you just admitted that you've thought about us before. Is that right?"

         He nods, lowering his eyes. "I'd be lying if I said that thought never crossed my mind. I mean, you know how our friends joke about that. We're so close, people have mistaken us for brothers, and some of my band mates used to think we were married." He chuckles. "So, yeah, I've thought about it."

         I frown suddenly, realizing where this is going. "But…?"

         He sighs, bowing his head a bit. "But… It wouldn't work out." He shrugs, looking up. "I'm not gay, Mark."
         "I'm not either, Roger," I whisper, suddenly feeling hurt. "I told you, I've never liked a guy, and I didn't think I ever would, but when I think about you and me together, it just feels right. I can't deny that. I deny myself everything else, but I can't let this go."

         His eyes seem almost sad as he speaks. "I'm sorry… I just don't feel the same way."

         I nod, choking on the lump that rises in my throat, as I absently fix my glasses. I knew he wouldn't feel the same way, so why the hell did I tell him every fucking thought in my head? I even told him about that stupid dream! How stupid can you get, Cohen? Maybe you should take the first train back to Scarsdale and go back to my family. Jesus, that's the dumbest idea you've ever thought up, Mark!

         "I'm sorry," he repeats gently. "I really am, Mark."

         I shrug halfway, raising my eyes to look him over. How could a person like him ever love a person like me? It's ridiculous, really. "I know," I reply with a smile that's only intermediately forced. "Thanks for being truthful."

         He nods. "You, too."

         I reach back, picking up the clock which now reads 7:30AM. "Maybe we should head over to Maureen and Joanne's, huh?"

         "For old time's sake?" he inquires with a smirk.

         "No," I whisper, leaning towards him. "To piss them off with a friendly wake-up call."

         He laughs, leaning his head back. I watch, almost mesmerized as his hair plays over his face, his eyes dancing with happiness. I find myself laughing too, despite the pain. What's that old song? 'Smile, though you're heart is breaking'? Yeah, that's it…