They're Jonathan's, not mine.
***
I think everyone always assumed that Mark was the first to fall. They quietly believed that it was he who stared at me when my attention was elsewhere, that he was the one who lay alone in bed shaking with fear and desire, that he agonized over every word and gesture lest it give him away. But it wasn't.
In retrospect, I can't imagine a time when I didn't love Mark, but I suppose it all began to happen about nine months after April died and I found out I was positive. I was so overwhlemed by everything that had taken place that I began to immerse myself in all of the wrong kinds of things. I needed to try to drown out the voices in my ears that were whispering that she was dead and that I was dying, and drugs seemed to work the fastest. I began to party harder than I ever imagined I would. I didn't even think about it at the time, didn't consciously make the decision to throw my life away. I just began to accept each invitation and everything that was passed to me. That's how I got into heroine. The sting of that needle numbed everything else; it pulled a clean white sheet over all of the chaos and pain in my mind.
For a little while at least. Most of those days are a just a jumble in my head now. I've only retained a few horrifying glimpses of memory from the months that I spent wrapped tightly in a drug and alcohol induced haze. The feel of cold tile against my cheek as I woke up on the floor of a strange bathroom surrounded by people I couldn't recognize, the stale smell of a party that's gone bad, sirens and flashing lights and blood. I rarely came home, and when I did I completely bypassed the quiet, concerned filmmaker who watched me with worried and tortured eyes as I stumbled toward my bedroom. He tried to help me in every way that he knew how, but I was blind to all assistance that didn't come chemically. I think I was trying to kill myself.
I nearly did. Nine months of abusing mysel to the very brink of death ended with me spiraling down into sudden collapse. April's death and my own mortality came crashing down on my head, and I was forced to face all the voices that I had been running from. But Mark was there, and he saved me.
I woke up in a hospital room, and he was sitting there clutching my hand. He was staring out of the window, still and silent. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. At my slight movement, he turned to look at me. When he saw that I was awake, a sob of relief seemed to tear through him almost against his will. I don't know why, but I started to cry. Maybe I was finally crying for April or maybe I was scared out of my mind, but I covered my face with my other hand and cried uncontrollably while he sat silently beside me, ocassionally swiping at a tear and always holding my hand so tightly that it almost hurt.
I went into the hospital's rehab program for a week. It was all that I could get for free, and I couldn't afford to go anywhere else. It was enough to get me over my initial withdrawal at least, and I don't know that I could have done that anywhere else. I was by no means fixed, however, when they sent me home.
But Mark was there. That rehab was hell, and I never felt as much relief as I did when I saw my young friend's face, with a brave small wavering across it, as they released me to go home with him. My complete physical withdrawal from heroine lasted almost two months, longer than most, and Mark hardly ever left my side throughout the entire thing. When I began to shake uncontrollably, he was there to hold and steady me. When I screamed and threw things at him, he just sat quietly and let the abuse rain down on his head. He gave up his entire life so that he could stay beside me, talking to me when I couldn't sleep or making ridiculous films to amuse me and keep my mind off of the pain that screamed through my body. I'd never seen anyone so truly selfless in my entire life. Some nights when he had fallen asleep in a chair from pure exhaustion in the middle of a sentence, I would just stare at him and wonder how I had ever gotten such a friend. Those were the nights that I reluctantly admitted to myself that I did believe in some of God.
But I still wasn't in love with Mark. I don't even know how exactly it happened, or why. I didn't understand why I was feeling the way that I was, because I didn't yet see that there were more options other that just 'gay' or 'straight', that gender wasn't the larger issue. Mark had become the only real person in my life, and everything I felt focused on him. He was the constant, stable center in the middle of all the chaos that kept me knowing which way was up. He was the only person who really cared for me - who understood me - and all of my friendship, gratitude, and longing got mixed up and confused until I didn't even know when I had crossed the line between friendship and love.
I remember the night that the realization truly hit me. Withdrawal had weakened me physically, and I caught the flu. My HIV wasn't yet advanced enough for it to be a serious threat to my health, but my fever was high enough to keep me in bed, delirious and barely aware of what was going on around me, for several days. I swear Mark sat beside me the entire time. Sometimes he held a cold washcloth to my head and sometimes he just sat there quietly. I think he was scared to leave me alone. When I slept he read or wrote in that blue notebook of his, and I remember that every time I opened my eyes to find him sitting there beside me he looked more beautiful and more perfect. Every time I opened my eyes, I felt my heart open a little more until it finally engulfed him completely.
I woke up one of those nights with a start. I lay in bed for a long time, trying to figure out what had woken me. Light from the orange street lamps outside filtered into my bedroom from the window, and one beam landed on my closed guitar case, gathering dust on a chair. I hadn't touched my guitar in months, and I stared at the peeling stickers on the case sadly as I listened for something out of the ordinary. I heard only familiar sounds for a long time until I noticed the sound of movement in the other room.
I stood, wobbling slightly on legs that were still weak from a days spent in bed. I had almost completely recovered from the flu and my withdrawal symptoms were fading, but my body still protested the movement. I walked through the still loft towards Mark's tiny bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open farther to look in. Mark was lying on his bed, his back to me. He was crying, sobbing silently, his arms wrapped around himself in an effort to gain some kind of physical comfort. I stood stunned until I noticed the picture on his bedside table, the one of him and April with their arms around each other, the picture that I hadn't seen since the night she had died.
I suddenly realized just what an asshole I had been since that night. I had been so wrapped up in my own despair and destruction that I had completely disregarded Mark. He had lost her too; how could I have forgotten that? Mark had even more right to grieve for her than I did. I had been in love with her, but he and April had grown up together. I never would have known her if it weren't for the fact that they were best friends, practically brother and sister. She had died because of me, and because of me he hadn't even had time to mourn for her properly. Nothing - no physical pain - had ever hurt me as much as watching him lie there crying. He looked so lost and lonely, and I knew it was all my fault.
He didn't hear me come in, and he started when I sat down on the other side of the bed.
"Jesus, Roger," he said, turning to look at me after wiping his eyes quickly. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling entirely inadequate. I had no idea what to do for him, and he had done everything for me. "Wanna talk?"
He sighed heavily. "Not really. You should be in bed."
His blue-gray eyes met mine then, and I could clearly see the plea in them.
Don't leave me...
"You miss her," I said, at a loss.
Fucking moron, of course he misses her.
It was my fault, it was my fault he was alone! And I couldn't even promise that I would never leave him.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, I miss her."
"So do I."
I reached toward him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Mark..." I murmured, unsure of what to say, how to stutter out my feelings. I wanted him to talk, to look at me, anything to get that terrifyingly vacant, hopeless look out of his eyes.
That small amount of contact seemed to break the dam, and he just lost it. He sobbed, doubling over against the pain. I finally did all that I knew how to do, slowly and carefully gathering him into my arms. He was so scared. He was shaking, and he shrank back from me at first. Mark had never really learned how to be touched. I had come from a loving, affection home, but Mark hadn't. No one had ever touched him, not when he was crying or excited or frightened. My arms came around this crying, shaking mess that didn't know what to do or how to respond. After a long time, he figured out where to put his hands and his head and I held him while he cried for her. Maybe I cried too; I don't really remember.
It was then that I started to feel it, started to really realize what was going on inside of me. There was some strange feeling in my chest, some knot in my throat that seemed to grow and it terrified me. It wasn't my guilt or my fierce protectiveness or even my friendship. It was something else, and it was stronger than anything I had ever felt before. Mark clung to me, his head resting against my chest, but suddenly all I could do was recoil back from him, shattering his fragile and precious trust.
"I have to go," I muttered, backing toward the door blindly.
"What?" I heard Mark say as I walked into the living room and grabbed for my jacket. I had fallen asleep in my clothes earlier; all I needed to do was get to the door before I could turn around and look at him.
"Roger, what do you mean? Where are you going?"
Damn. I turned around, and his eyes met mine. They were bloodshot and heartbroken and scared, but they were still beautiful, even then. The voices in my head screamed louder with each second that I looked at him.
"I need to get out of here," I said. I turned to wrench at the doorknob, but his hand around my arm stopped me. He spun me with surprising strength to face him. There was anger in his eyes now, and it was unmistakable.
"What the fuck do you mean by that Roger?" he demanded. "What are you running from this time?"
I tried to be angry back, tried to spit some nasty retort in his face, but I found that I couldn't.
"Let me go Mark," I said steely, trying to keep control.
"No, damnit, why should I? So you can start everything all over again?"
"Let me go Mark," I repeated.
He only stared at me for a long time, the anger in his eyes wavering and crumpling into sorrow and confusion. He released my arm and backed away, turning his back on me. I winced but turned and opened the door, closing it behind me.
*
I collapsed into a chair at the Life Café, breathless. I hadn't realized just how weak I was until I was down the six flights of stairs and the cold hit me full force. I had rushed toward the Life, knowing that I needed a destination to keep me from wandering. I knew that if I did I would end up on a familiar street corner, and I didn't yet know if I had the strength or presence of mind to refuse my dealer's insidious promises. Even now the temptation was strong. It would be so easy, and it would fix so much. I ordered a cup of coffee instead and clenched my hands onto the side of the table, as if that physical link to this place would keep me from standing and walking out.
What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I wishing that Mark had followed me from the loft and would open that door at any moment? What had I felt when I touched him that sent me running, terrified? Christ, I wasn't in love with Mark. I was straight. Straight. I had never even though about other men, and I was thinking of it now. I looked around the café, feeling nothing, no spark of interest for any man there. There was a pretty redhead with her friend, however, who caught my eye and I held up that attraction triumphantly. See? Straight! I wasn't in love with Mark; I couldn't be. I was straight.
But then I thought about him, and all of my petty little arguments deflated. I thought of Mark, and I thought of how every thought revolved around him. He was more than a friend to me; he was my brother and my doctor and my anchor and my soulmate. I realized that I would never have another relationship, male or femae, that would even approach what I had with him. No one else would ever understand me the way that he did, and I would never be able to trust anyone else so completely. But did that mean I was in love with him? Really in love him?
I continued to stare at the table top, going quickly through three cups of coffee, contemplating that. Of course I loved Mark - I almost always had - but was I in love with him? All those nights when I had stayed up so that I could watch him sleep in a chair beside my bed, had I really been wishing that he was lying beside me? Was that desire that I had felt when I held him just now? I was so confused, and I cast about for something to hold onto, something to keep me centered and sane.
And it was Mark. It always had been.
I said in my head. I couldn't yet say the words aloud, but in my mind I tested the declaration.
I'm in love with Mark.
It felt true. There was no jangle of falseness inside my head, and I knew that's because it was right. I had found what I needed to hold onto.