Here it is. Lovely Chapter Two. Actually my favorite chapter, at the moment. Which, of course, means that now there'll probably be a million and one things wrong with it. ::shrugs:: Oh well. Please read/review, as usual. You'll be one of my favorite people in the world if you do. Yes, I'm that easy to win over.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Although I'd be happy to take them if their owner's tired of them.

Through My Blood

By Alison

Chapter Two: My Own Reality

"Roger?"

The voice filtered dimly through my sleep-hazed mind, but I ignored it. Whoever was calling me could just wait until a more decent hour to wake me.

"Roger!" the voice repeated, more desperate this time.

I cracked one eyelid reluctantly open. "Hmm?" I mumbled.

Mark's image stood before me, chewing on a quivering lower lip: such a stark change from the innocent, playful Mark I'd seen only hours before. "Do you ever... d--do you ever..." he trailed off anxiously.

"Do I ever what?" I prodded, opening my eyes all the way as I struggled to pull myself upright in bed.

He sniffled. "Do you ever just need to be held?" Silver tears began to glisten and melt into the hazel circles of his eyes. He was obviously trying to hold them back but not succeeding very well.

"What's the matter?" At my words, he inched hesitantly toward my bed, causing me to tense up involuntarily. No, he couldn't come over to me, not after what had just happened a few hours before...

"I had a bad dream," he murmured quietly. His watery eyes met mine, silently begging to be protected. I was helpless under his pleading gaze. That look, that vulnerability and absolute trust in my actions, was impossible to resist. Mark needed me.

Willing my thoughts and body to behave, I shifted sideways. As he crawled under the covers, I wrapped my arms around his thin frame then guided his head to my chest. "It's over now, there's nothing to be afraid of," I whispered reassuringly. He didn't respond, so I ventured another sentence. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Mark trembled in my embrace. "My father," he began cautiously, "He was there, and... oh god, he was hitting me, and cursing and screaming, and -- and I..." His voice broke, replaced swiftly by harsh, choking sobs.

"Hey, hey... it's alright," I breathed, pressing my face against the top of his head -- he always smelled so good, like tea and shampoo and fresh air and snow -- no, stop it, stop thinking about him like that -- and entwining my fingers in his tangled blond hair. "You don't have to talk about it if it hurts too much."

I felt him nod slightly and snuggle closer to me. "Can I just, um, s-sleep here tonight?" he stuttered, still softly crying.

I swallowed. "Of course."

"Thanks."

His face tilted upward until our gazes locked again. I smiled; he coughed and stifled another sob.

Fuck. This couldn't happen. Mark wasn't supposed to cry, he had to be happy, innocent, beautiful -- dammit, why was I thinking that again?

I pushed a strand of hair back from my filmmaker's forehead. Well, he was beautiful. Everything about him: his floppy, sand-colored hair, his wide, azure eyes, his face... I would be lying if I said he wasn't gorgeous. There was no shame in admitting that, was there?

Mark whimpered almost inaudibly; his shoulders still shook with every tear that fell. My next action seemed the only plausible thing to do at this point.

I leaned down, brushing my lips lightly over his red-streaked face. The skin was pale and smooth and natural, not tainted or obscured by makeup like the cheeks I usually kissed. Different.

Perfect.

He stirred slightly, and I felt my heart catch in my throat. Shit, this was not good -- he was going to pull away, or ask what the hell I was doing, or yell at me, or --

Or fall asleep. He was sleeping, his exhausted, frightened body curled up with mine. One of his arms draped itself across my waist while the other weakly sought out and clutched onto my fingertips.

Relief flooded my chest. It was silly, silly to have feared Mark's reaction. Of course he wouldn't mind. He was my best friend. He loved me, and I loved him.

And suddenly nothing had ever made more sense. Closing my eyes, I pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. I loved him.

Mark was precious when he slept. His waking hours, like mine, were haunted by worries and pain and fear, although he wouldn't dare admit it. Instead he spent his time shaping and smoothing and shining all his troubles into what might easily resemble a happy, carefree existence. Might, at least, to someone who never saw him slave away, bleary-eyed, over film reels at three AM; never watched as he hurled his glasses, a pencil, or whatever happened to be handy, halfway across the room in frustration; never heard him slam the phone down after a shouting match with his parents or Maureen.

But asleep, all the problems that plagued him during the day seemed to dissipate from his now peacefully resting form. And it was my touch that had helped, my voice that had quelled his fears and brought a smile to his lovely lips. I wanted to hold him forever, to let our bodies meld into one and to just be, free from tragedy and nightmares. Together. Was that an unreasonable wish?

Who was I kidding? I knew full well that it was. It could never happen, not when so many factors prevented it. Like my disease. My anger and temper. My girlfriend, for Christ's sake. Mimi. I loved her.

Didn't I? No, no, I shouldn't have even been doubting that. Of course I loved her. She was everything I wanted. Beautiful, funny, sweet, sexy, vivacious... perfect.

Looking down at my filmmaker, though, made every thought of Mimi fade from my mind. This was perfection. Mark. My Mark. Nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing except protecting him from his demons and being with him forever. And the longer we lay there, the easier it was to convince myself that forever might just be possible.