One more to go after this! No clue when it will go up, hopefully sometime this month but no promises. I so appreciate all of the reviews, you guys are wonderful. I hope you like it!
They're not mine...
****
"Mark, I know."
Mark walked quickly, not sure where he was going or where he even could go, but sure that he wanted to get there as quickly as possible. He wanted to put as much space between himself and her as he could. But every time his feet hit the frozen sidewalk, the feeling of relief he expected to creep up on him still didn't come. The words repeated themselves over and over in his head, warding away any numbness that the cold or his own mind might produce, creating a mocking rhythm with the sound of his shoes against the cement. He heard the words so many times that he wasn't even sure whose voice they were said in anymore.
"Mark, I know."
Mark froze where he was, his back to her, walking toward his room to escape her deep and knowing eyes. He could feel those eyes on him now, not hard but evaluating, and he tried to relax into the terror that shook him, hoping she wouldn't notice and knowing that she would.
"What?" he whispered.
"I know," she said. "Mark... Mark, look at me."
He did, and somehow she was more beautiful than ever.
"I've known for a long time," she said with a slight, forced smile, as though that made it easier. "I just…" she hesitated. She was sitting on the couch looking up at him, the book she had been reading when Roger left just minutes before laying open in her lap. "I need you to talk to me Mark. I can't take any more of this secretiveness, this feeling that I can't talk to you because I might say something wrong."
He looked away from her.
"I've seen the way you look at him," she continued, not as gently as before, pushed toward darker emotions by his silence and expressionless face. "I know what you're feeling Mark. He's your best friend, but it's so much more than that, right? And it always has been, hasn't it?" There was almost a note of revelation in her voice, as though that thought hadn't occurred to her before. Mark looked up at her, but she was staring out of the window.
"God," she said softly. "Even I saw it, in the very beginning, didn't I?"
She turned and met his eyes, sad and desperate for some explanation on his part. "I know... I mean I know you and I have always been close. I love you as much as I love him, but the way you look at him.. sometimes you've got to wish that I would just get the hell out of your lives, don't you? I don't want to be the reason that you're unhappy Mark, I just... I need him too."
Mark could only stare at her for a moment, feeling numbed and crushed and saved all at the same time, but eventually he crumbled into a sitting position at her feet. There was the hint of tears in her eyes, and he took her hands in his apologetically, distractedly, feeling his throat constrict.
"God, April, don't cry," he said painfully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear. And I've never resented you, ever. He couldn't love me that way, I know it's ridiculous, and I don't even want him too anymore. I thought I wanted him, but... the look in his eyes... he loves you so much. So do I. We'd be lost without you. I'm so sorry, I really didn't... I never wanted..."
"So it is true?" she asked softly when he found himself unable to articulate the dull, constant ache in his chest anymore. "You do love him?"
Mark sighed difficultly. He had never said the words aloud before. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"Oh Mark," she said, crying. "I'm sorry."
"No," he said, reaching up to wipe her tears away, his own falling at the sight of hers. "No, I'm sorry."
She slipped from the couch into his arms, and they held each other tightly, talking and crying until all they could do was laugh.
Mark continued to walk, not truly aware of anything that was going on around him, the memories of the dead days with her on a constant loop in his head. Those worn tracks in his mind, though painful, were more comfortable than the fresh images of Maureen screaming, crying that he should just admit that he was in love with Roger and always had been.
But she didn't understand. She didn't know that it wasn't love in the normal sense of the word. It was just Roger. It was knowing that it had to be Roger, because it was. Only April understood that, because it was the same way for her.
From that moment when they had cried together on the living room floor everything was different. April shouldn't have been his support through everything, shouldn't have been his savoir, but strangely she was. She would always find a time to talk to him when the rejection and sadness pulsing off of him was nearly palpable. Sometimes after Roger left for rehearsal they would giggle together about how good he looked in his tight shirt and ripped jeans. She slipped into his bed at night to touch him and talk to him, knowing that there were days when he felt like no one had ever touched him at all. She tried to ease the pains of Roger's cluelessness and unintended insensitivity with small looks and smiles and words. She was the only one he could talk to.
He always wondered if she did it out of guilt. Of course she loved him, cared about him, but how much of her kindness was to help repair the fact that Roger loved her in the way he would never love Mark? She was the one he came to, the one he looked at, the one he held in his sleep. That damned note was always in his head now, and he analyzed the meaning of every word endlessly. He actually thought he felt his heart collapse in his chest with guilty and misery when he read those words and saw Roger's destroyed eyes and shaking fingers. It felt wrong to touch him, to look at him, because every moment with him had been bought with her blood. He could still see that blood, staining the floor of the second bathroom they never used anymore despite the fact that it had been cleaned away months ago. Roger blamed himself, but Mark knew that it was at least partially because of him. She was giving him a chance, because she didn't think she had one anymore. It was her last present, the last time she tried to make him happy, and that knowledge nearly killed him.
He was so alone without her. He had no one to talk to, no one to touch. All that was left was a shell of who Roger used to be, a new person who drank and partied and made all sorts of noise to try to drown out those words scribbled on the bathroom mirror. He had lost both of them, and his failure to bring Roger back from the brink of all of the disasters he was poised to tumble into made him feel even more helpless. He was failing them every day, every time Roger came home fucked up or refused to take his medication. It was April who Roger needed. Mark wasn't enough to stop him, which proved that Roger didn't feel for Mark what Mark felt for him. It wasn't exactly love, but it was something stronger than anything he had known before. April had felt it too, and it had bound the three of them together in some strange sort of triangle where they were happy and safe and protected from all angles. But she had been the apex, and now that she was gone the whole structure was crumbling. He wasn't enough to keep it together. And it wasn't enough to just miss her. He needed her, they both did, and she knew that. He was angry at her for leaving because of it. He was angry that she never gave them any of the answers they so desperately needed. She had taken them all to the grave with her, and nothing could ever make up for the fact that she was gone and they could never fully recover from the loss.
Mark was jerked from his thoughts by a car horn. It was late and, Mark suddenly realized, numbingly cold. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, and he was beginning to feel the effects of his complete exhaustion. Reluctantly accepting that he had nowhere else logical to go, Mark turned and began walking in the direction of the loft.
They're not mine...
****
"Mark, I know."
Mark walked quickly, not sure where he was going or where he even could go, but sure that he wanted to get there as quickly as possible. He wanted to put as much space between himself and her as he could. But every time his feet hit the frozen sidewalk, the feeling of relief he expected to creep up on him still didn't come. The words repeated themselves over and over in his head, warding away any numbness that the cold or his own mind might produce, creating a mocking rhythm with the sound of his shoes against the cement. He heard the words so many times that he wasn't even sure whose voice they were said in anymore.
"Mark, I know."
Mark froze where he was, his back to her, walking toward his room to escape her deep and knowing eyes. He could feel those eyes on him now, not hard but evaluating, and he tried to relax into the terror that shook him, hoping she wouldn't notice and knowing that she would.
"What?" he whispered.
"I know," she said. "Mark... Mark, look at me."
He did, and somehow she was more beautiful than ever.
"I've known for a long time," she said with a slight, forced smile, as though that made it easier. "I just…" she hesitated. She was sitting on the couch looking up at him, the book she had been reading when Roger left just minutes before laying open in her lap. "I need you to talk to me Mark. I can't take any more of this secretiveness, this feeling that I can't talk to you because I might say something wrong."
He looked away from her.
"I've seen the way you look at him," she continued, not as gently as before, pushed toward darker emotions by his silence and expressionless face. "I know what you're feeling Mark. He's your best friend, but it's so much more than that, right? And it always has been, hasn't it?" There was almost a note of revelation in her voice, as though that thought hadn't occurred to her before. Mark looked up at her, but she was staring out of the window.
"God," she said softly. "Even I saw it, in the very beginning, didn't I?"
She turned and met his eyes, sad and desperate for some explanation on his part. "I know... I mean I know you and I have always been close. I love you as much as I love him, but the way you look at him.. sometimes you've got to wish that I would just get the hell out of your lives, don't you? I don't want to be the reason that you're unhappy Mark, I just... I need him too."
Mark could only stare at her for a moment, feeling numbed and crushed and saved all at the same time, but eventually he crumbled into a sitting position at her feet. There was the hint of tears in her eyes, and he took her hands in his apologetically, distractedly, feeling his throat constrict.
"God, April, don't cry," he said painfully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen, I swear. And I've never resented you, ever. He couldn't love me that way, I know it's ridiculous, and I don't even want him too anymore. I thought I wanted him, but... the look in his eyes... he loves you so much. So do I. We'd be lost without you. I'm so sorry, I really didn't... I never wanted..."
"So it is true?" she asked softly when he found himself unable to articulate the dull, constant ache in his chest anymore. "You do love him?"
Mark sighed difficultly. He had never said the words aloud before. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"Oh Mark," she said, crying. "I'm sorry."
"No," he said, reaching up to wipe her tears away, his own falling at the sight of hers. "No, I'm sorry."
She slipped from the couch into his arms, and they held each other tightly, talking and crying until all they could do was laugh.
Mark continued to walk, not truly aware of anything that was going on around him, the memories of the dead days with her on a constant loop in his head. Those worn tracks in his mind, though painful, were more comfortable than the fresh images of Maureen screaming, crying that he should just admit that he was in love with Roger and always had been.
But she didn't understand. She didn't know that it wasn't love in the normal sense of the word. It was just Roger. It was knowing that it had to be Roger, because it was. Only April understood that, because it was the same way for her.
From that moment when they had cried together on the living room floor everything was different. April shouldn't have been his support through everything, shouldn't have been his savoir, but strangely she was. She would always find a time to talk to him when the rejection and sadness pulsing off of him was nearly palpable. Sometimes after Roger left for rehearsal they would giggle together about how good he looked in his tight shirt and ripped jeans. She slipped into his bed at night to touch him and talk to him, knowing that there were days when he felt like no one had ever touched him at all. She tried to ease the pains of Roger's cluelessness and unintended insensitivity with small looks and smiles and words. She was the only one he could talk to.
He always wondered if she did it out of guilt. Of course she loved him, cared about him, but how much of her kindness was to help repair the fact that Roger loved her in the way he would never love Mark? She was the one he came to, the one he looked at, the one he held in his sleep. That damned note was always in his head now, and he analyzed the meaning of every word endlessly. He actually thought he felt his heart collapse in his chest with guilty and misery when he read those words and saw Roger's destroyed eyes and shaking fingers. It felt wrong to touch him, to look at him, because every moment with him had been bought with her blood. He could still see that blood, staining the floor of the second bathroom they never used anymore despite the fact that it had been cleaned away months ago. Roger blamed himself, but Mark knew that it was at least partially because of him. She was giving him a chance, because she didn't think she had one anymore. It was her last present, the last time she tried to make him happy, and that knowledge nearly killed him.
He was so alone without her. He had no one to talk to, no one to touch. All that was left was a shell of who Roger used to be, a new person who drank and partied and made all sorts of noise to try to drown out those words scribbled on the bathroom mirror. He had lost both of them, and his failure to bring Roger back from the brink of all of the disasters he was poised to tumble into made him feel even more helpless. He was failing them every day, every time Roger came home fucked up or refused to take his medication. It was April who Roger needed. Mark wasn't enough to stop him, which proved that Roger didn't feel for Mark what Mark felt for him. It wasn't exactly love, but it was something stronger than anything he had known before. April had felt it too, and it had bound the three of them together in some strange sort of triangle where they were happy and safe and protected from all angles. But she had been the apex, and now that she was gone the whole structure was crumbling. He wasn't enough to keep it together. And it wasn't enough to just miss her. He needed her, they both did, and she knew that. He was angry at her for leaving because of it. He was angry that she never gave them any of the answers they so desperately needed. She had taken them all to the grave with her, and nothing could ever make up for the fact that she was gone and they could never fully recover from the loss.
Mark was jerked from his thoughts by a car horn. It was late and, Mark suddenly realized, numbingly cold. It had been one of the longest nights of his life, and he was beginning to feel the effects of his complete exhaustion. Reluctantly accepting that he had nowhere else logical to go, Mark turned and began walking in the direction of the loft.
