Well, it took me long enough, but I've finally finished this chapter. I'm not really satisfied with the title, but I'm too lazy to search through all my recordings to find a Matt Caplan or Joshua Kobak song with a lyric that fits it better. I just want to get this darn thing posted. Please read/review as usual, let me know what you think. I'll try to have the next chapter done sooner, I promise. :-)

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Also not my title. It's from a very beautiful song called "How Loving Ought To Be" by Joshua Kobak. Oh yeah, and I forgot to mention this in the previous chapter's disclaimer, but its title (I Know My Own Heart Now) is from a Matt Caplan song entitled "Goodbye." Another great song. ::nods::

Through My Blood

By Alison

Chapter Eight: Not Always Strong As A Lion

Just get it over with, Roger. How hard can it really be? He's your best friend, it's not like he's going to murder you or something. It'll be relatively painless, and at least you'll have it off your chest and know how he feels.

After a short mental pep talk, I had convinced myself I could do this. I could tell Mark I was in love with him. As I stood up, though, determination morphed into unsteadiness: due, I figured, to the drugs, alcohol, and whatever medications the doctors had pumped inside me. A few shaky steps -- you're fine, Roger, it's nothing -- and I reached the door. Suddenly my stomach gave a violent lurch. One hand gripping the door frame for support, I waited for the nausea to subside. When it did, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and my energy. Just nervousness, I assured myself, nothing to be worried about. I kept walking.

Mark, thankfully, was in the living room, so I only had to manage a few more steps until I could collapse, exhausted, on the couch.

“You should be in bed,” Mark said in a clipped tone, barely glancing up from his book.

“I'm fine,” I insisted, although as the words left my mouth I realized how unconvincing I sounded. “Look, Mark, I think we... we need to...”

“Hmm?”

I tried to respond, but found my mouth too dry to speak. What was wrong with me today? It was like my body had decided to rebel or something. Like I was going through... “Oh, shit...”

At this, Mark's head jerked up with a start. “What is it? Are you--”

I just barely nodded. My entire body was being overtaken by chills, wracking across my goosebumped skin in all-too-familiar icy waves.

“Mark, I... I...” My fists clenched up involuntarily, black-painted nails digging painfully into flesh. Stop it stop it please don't do this... “Help me...”

He sprung forward, latching onto my shoulders firmly. “Calm down, Roger, you'll be okay. It'll be over soon...”

This time I couldn't even nod, too distracted by the churning nausea that had expanded to fill my entire stomach. Fortunately Mark knew what to do. He laid me down gently on the couch and ran to his bedroom for a blanket. When he returned, he knelt beside the sofa and took my hands in his own, deftly prying them open and slipping his own slender fingers between mine. “There you go,” he murmured, “you're doing great, just stay calm.”

I had the urge to laugh at his coaching, but instead cried out in pain. My grip tightened and a small whimper escaped Mark's throat. Oh God, I was hurting him.

“Mark,” I croaked hoarsely, “Don't, I'll hurt you--”

“Shut up, Roger!” His outburst threw me into shocked silence. “I'm a big boy. Let me help you, okay? You should know by now that you need me.”

That much, I couldn't argue with. I simply nodded and clutched his hands desperately, praying that I wasn't breaking them. After a few minutes, the pain seemed to be gone... until I tried to sit up. I was swiftly knocked back down by another rush of dreadful sickness.

I guess I had assumed that, since it had been so long since I was a junkie, I wouldn't experience any of the withdrawal symptoms I had always feared and hated. I had assumed that using just one more time wouldn't have any effect.

I never was good at assuming things.

There couldn't possibly be a worse feeling in the world than withdrawal: my limbs felt like they'd been possessed by some satanic force determined to wrench them from the rest of me; even underneath Mark's blanket, I was almost incapable of retaining any semblance of body heat. Cold sweat washed over my face until I had to close my eyes to keep them dry.

After a few minutes I began to feel marginally better; it took me a moment longer to comprehend why. Mark had lowered his head next to mine, allowing his lips to linger beside my ear. He was whispering words of encouragement, a joke or story, whatever popped into his head, pausing every once in a while -- was I just imagining it? no, this was definitely happening -- to kiss my tense jaw. With considerable effort, I forced myself to pay attention to his hushed voice.

“Just concentrate on me, okay?” he murmured, sending a warm breeze of air over my ear. “Don't think about anything else. You're gonna be fine, I promise. I love you.”

If my body was still experiencing withdrawal symptoms, my brain stopped noticing. Those three words echoed in my head as I tried to interpret their significance. Did he mean he loved me as a friend? Or... did he love me the way I loved him? Was I being foolish to even hope that he might?

As if that question even needed answering. Of course I was a fool. No halfway intelligent person would do the shit I'd done in the past day or two alone. Drugs, alcohol, a suicide attempt for Christ's sake. And now I had the gall to think Mark could ever love a fuck-up like me.

But those gentle touches, those sweetly whispered words and kisses that seemed to melt my skin.... well, he certainly wasn't helping me to think intelligently.

“Roger?”

I opened my eyes with a start. Only then did I realize that my legs had stopped cramping and my grip on Mark's hands had loosened considerably. The chills were less severe too, although not completely gone. My stomach still felt like it had been turned inside out and run through a washing machine's spin cycle a few times. But at least I was thinking clearly now, and I could actually move my head with minimal effort.

“How are you feeling?” Mark's face wore an expression of anxious concern, mixed with a dash of relief that the worst seemed to be over.

“Like shit,” I muttered, adjusting my neck on the arm of the sofa.

“At least you're honest,” he sighed. “I meant it when I said you should be in bed.”

I rolled my eyes. “You just can't pass up the opportunity to say 'I told you so,' can you?”

“You're back to your bitter, sarcastic self, you must be fine.” He poked my shoulder and smiled. “Come on. Let me take you to bed.”

I gulped, suddenly feeling slightly faint. “Umm... oh -- okay...” Hoping my face hadn't become too red, I allowed him to pull me upright. Mark led me to my room slowly, arms tight around my chest to help maintain my balance. After what felt like an eternity in his embrace, we reached my bed and he carefully lowered me onto the stiff mattress.

“There you go,” he murmured softly, pulling the frayed edges of a blanket up to my chest. “Try to get some more rest, okay? By the time you wake up you'll feel a lot better.”

I nodded. His face was lingering dangerously close to mine -- no, I wasn't going to kiss him again, not until this damn withdrawal was over and we'd had a change to talk and I knew whether he felt the same way and --

Oh, fuck it. Before I could let my rational side convince me that it was a bad idea, I surged forward and brought my lips to his. He responded immediately, almost as if he'd been expecting it, and pressed a hand to my cheek. Marginally reassured by his reaction, I let my mouth open and my tongue brush hesitantly against his. His free hand ventured up to tangle itself in my hair, and every warning in my head was destroyed.

As I pulled Mark's body closer to my own, he gave a small moan -- of what, pleasure? nervousness? -- and deepened the kiss. That, I decided, had to be an invitation to continue what I was doing. My hands wandered slowly down to the bottom of his sweater then slipped underneath it, finally making contact with the soft, warm flesh of his stomach.

Mark broke away with a start, a slight gasp escaping his lips. He swallowed hard; his eyes refused to meet mine.

“Hey, what's--”

“I meant it when I said you should get some rest.” He spoke tonelessly, as though the last five minutes had not happened at all.

“But I--”

Sliding off the bed, he interrupted me again. “Go to sleep, okay?” This time his voice seemed to be infused with pleading.

“Fine,” I sighed in deafeat.

“Fine.” Mark stood still, staring at the door as though it were a foreign object.

“You can go now.”

I caught a glimpse of scarlet flush on his cheeks before he gave a curt nod and escaped the room.

What the hell had just happened? I never claimed to be an expert at interpreting people's actions, but this was pushing me to new heights of confusion. Every time I thought I was getting somewhere with Mark, he turned around and shut me out. Damn it, that was supposed to be my job -- I was the infamous runner, the one who balked at the first sign of love or commitment or anything that could possibly lead to heartbreak.

Mark, though, he was better than that. He had to be. Right?

I was being foolish again. Mark had his own reasons to be afraid... just because he didn't get HIV and a drug addiction from his suicidal ex-girlfriend didn't mean he'd never been hurt. Christ, he dated Maureen for a year and a half, that in itself said plenty.

But I wasn't Maureen. I loved him, I mean really, truly loved him. I wasn't going to use him or abuse him as she had, treating him like a piece of gum to be chewed and then spit out when it lost its flavor.

Well, you're no Angel yourself, I thought sourly. How many times have you bruised the heart of someone you cared about? Maybe not intentionally, but you've done it all the same. Why should Mark expect things to have changed?

Because things had changed. I had changed. Or at least I was trying to, and that had to count for something. Mark made me want to become a better man. I was beginning to sound like a fucking boy band song, for God's sake, and if that wasn't proof enough then I didn't know what was.

With a sigh of frustration, I flung the threadbare blanket away from my body. He had to know how I felt right now, and there was no reason for a stupid stomachache to keep me from telling him.

I sat up quickly and jumped off the bed. See? I feel fine. Nothing wrong with me. Not until I reached the door did it hit me -- that awful, lightheaded, nauseous, “I think I may be about to die” feeling. I thrust a hand out blindly for the doorknob, my vision clouded by glittery waves of silver and gold, but my knees gave out before I could find it. I hit the hard, thinly carpeted floor with a dull thud.

After a few moments, I decided it would be safe to open my eyes. Well, the room was still there, so at least my eyesight was back. I glanced toward the door, shut securely about five miles away from me.

Then again, maybe I won't tell him tonight.

The bed, it seemed, was even farther away. Just the idea of walking over to it made my legs lash out in protest. Suddenly the floor wasn't looking like such a terrible place to sleep.

It's not like the mattress is much softer, anyway.