A/N: I took a few liberties with this chapter. Mark's parents are
together in this one, and I hope I did a good job in portraying them.
Also, this chapter has a tiny bit more slashiness in it than previous ones.
I'm hoping that will start to make up for the rather nasty cliffhangers I
inflicted on everyone. Thank you BroadwayDreamz, Sigh-cology, Janet,
Kanoi, MimiDavis, Aella, Gemma, firedancer, Soli, Liss, and Lola for your
reviews. It really means a lot to me that people are reading and enjoying
this story.
I'll try to write the next one as soon as I can, but I have finals coming up this week, tomorrow, Wednesday, and Thursday, so chances are most of my time will be spent studying for those. Especially chemistry, yuck. But the good news is that I'll be done after that, and I'll have some time before I start my job in which to write, etc. Roger's confession from the last chapter will come up later in the story, I promise, although at this point I'm thinking it will be toward the end. Wish me luck, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa
It's not that I regret the things I've done
Or anything I've planned to
--Matt Caplan
Mark POV
The last thing I remembered was Roger's shouts ringing in my ears.
Truth be told, I had seen that the light was about to change before I set foot off the curb. I knew the traffic would be racing toward me in a matter of seconds. And I didn't give a fuck what happened to me.
I could still feel the eerie calm that settled down on me as I turned to stare down the Mustang, daring it to go further, playing a one-sided game of chicken that I had no choice but to lose. So this is how it ends, I recall thinking to myself. There could be worse ways to go.
Then the car hit me, and I fell to the ground. After that was nothing but darkness.
I didn't know what I was expecting to come next. When I was a boy, I believed that my beloved grandfather, who had died when I was eight, would be there to meet me when I died, and would take me fishing in the afterlife just like we had done every Sunday until he got too sick to go. As I grew older, my faith subsided. I didn't particularly believe anything anymore.
And it turned out that I was right all along, because there were no bright lights or long-dead relatives there to greet me. Neither, for that matter, were there fires to burn the wickedness out of me. There was simply nothing. For what felt like forever, I was hanging over an infinite sea of blackness, until I slowly became aware of the sensations under my body. A pillow beneath my head. A blanket draped over my shoulders. Someone was holding my hand, and talking to me. As I slowly returned to myself, I realized that the person with me was Roger.
He sounded terrible. He rarely cried--that wasn't his thing. The last time I'd seen him this upset was after April's suicide. But here he was, clutching tightly onto my hand and fighting back the tears in his voice. And even though I hated seeing him like this, I was touched, on some tiny, selfish level, that I meant this much to him.
My voice was dry and scratchy, and it took several attempts before I could actually use it. "Roger?"
He had been turned to the side, one hand covering his face, barely keeping from crying. At the sound of my voice, he turned back to me, a tiny spark of hope fighting the despair in his eyes. "Oh my God. Mark?"
"I'm sorry," I whispered, closing my eyes again, too tired to say anything else. "So sorry."
"Mark, it wasn't your fault," he insisted. "It was an accident, and you're going to be fine."
If he'd known that I'd deliberately stood there and let that car run me down, he would have given me hell for it. I felt guilty for his sympathy, and the hell I had put him through. For what, really? I was alive, although badly banged up. If this hadn't done me any good, or Roger any good, then why the hell had I done it in the first place?
"Tired," I mumbled, feeling the darkness tug on me again.
Roger put his hand to my face and stroked my cheek gently. "You get some rest and get well, okay?" he whispered. "I'll be here to see you really soon."
"Okay." My words were becoming slurred again. "See you soon."
I heard his footsteps start for the door, a pause, and then they came back over to my bed. "I love you, Mark," I heard him say. "Don't forget that."
By that point, I was so sleepy that there was no way to tell if I was awake or dreaming. I felt Roger's cool hand on my forehead, smoothing back my hair, and the light brush of his lips against mine, tasting just as they had on that night so long ago. It was a dream, I told myself. It couldn't be anything else.
I settled my head against my pillow and fell into a deep sleep.
The next few days drifted by in a sleepy haze. When I opened my eyes, I would see Maureen, sobbing into a hankerchief, or Collins, scribbling away in his notebook. Then fatigue would wash over me and I would drift off again.
When I finally woke up, the first thing I saw was Roger, asleep in the chair beside my bed. His face was dotted with stubble, and I doubted he'd shaved since everything happened. It gave him a rough and rugged look, and the stress of the ordeal was reflected in the lines cut on his face. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was entirely my fault that my friends had gone through this hell. If only I'd stopped at the curb and waited for the light to change. If only I'd stepped out of the way when I saw that car coming toward me.
I let out a little sigh, and Roger's eyes flew open. In spite of the pain that was throbbing in my back, I felt my heart leap as a broad smile spread across his face.
"Hey, stranger," he grinned. "Have a nice nap?"
I yawned. "How long have I been out of it?"
"According to my count, three days so far," he answered. "How're you feeling?"
"My back hurts and I've lost feeling in my left foot," I complained, and immediately felt guilty when I saw his smile falter. "But I think I'll live," I continued, managing a weak smile at him.
"Well, good, because I don't intend on letting you go anywhere," he grinned. He reached out and took my hand in his. "I know I don't say this as much as I should, Mark, but you're the best friend I could ever have. I don't know what I'd do without you."
A timid knock came on the door. I lifted my head, then dropped it back on the pillow, wincing from the effort.
"Mark, you're awake!" Collins exclaimed, smiling broadly. "Feeling any better?"
"I'll live," I assured him. "Roger tells me I've been sleeping for three days."
Collins checked his watch. "More like three and a half. Feel up to more company?"
It hurt to smile, but I couldn't help it. "Aw, don't tell me everyone's been waiting here all this time."
"Well, Maureen and Joanne went home to shower and get some sleep," he told me. "They'll be by later today. But Angel and I have been around off and on, and Roger hasn't left the hospital since they brought you in."
I was feeling better than I had in ages, even with everything that had happened to me. Roger did care about me. I was still important to him, even if he had a new girlfriend. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this happy.
"Mark?" I turned back to Collins. "Your parents are here. Do you feel like seeing them?"
I didn't know why I was so surprised. My parents didn't live that far from New York, and it made perfect sense that they would come if they heard that their only son was involved in a serious accident. But I hadn't seen them in several years, and I'd come to think of my friends in New York as my family.
It wasn't that I didn't get along with my relatives. It wasn't that my parents were ever mean or abusive. We had simply drifted apart, after I'd departed from the path they set for me in infancy, and struck out on my own. My mother called regularly, and my father was always after me to let him send me money, but I was determined to live my own life. It had taken me years to become independent, and although my life was far from glamorous, I had reached where I was based on my accomplishments, not just on who my father was.
Now they were here, and sooner or later, I would have to see them. And although I was dreading it, it would get harder and harder the longer I put it off. "All right," I told Collins. "Bring them in."
He nodded and ducked back into the hall, and before long, I spotted my mother's blonde bun and white cardigan that I always remembered her wearing. "Oh, Mark, honey," she exclaimed mournfully, planting a kiss on my forehead and straightening the bedsheets around my waist. "How's my baby feeling?"
"Mom," I complained, embarrassed at being called her baby in front of Roger. "I'm going to be fine."
"Your father's talking with the doctors now," she continued, plucking my glasses off of the nightstand and cleaning them on her sweater. "We haven't been able to get any answers out of them so far."
"Mom, I'm going to be all right," I insisted. "I'm a little banged up, but nothing I won't get over."
"Mark?" My father poked his head into the room. "How are you feeling, son?"
"Fine, Dad," I told him, thoroughly sick of the question. "I'm fine."
He pulled another chair up to the bed and sat down, casting an uneasy glance at Roger. "Mark, can we have a few moments alone here?"
Roger pushed himself up from his chair. "I'll be back this afternoon, okay, Mark?"
"No." I shook my head. "Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Roger."
Dad sighed. "All right, if you insist." I watched Roger retreat to a corner, folding his arms against his chest. "Mark, you sustained serious injuries in the collision, and the doctors feel it would be best if you were to stay in an environment where you could receive round the clock care."
I sighed. "Dad, could you say that again in English?"
My parents exchanged glances. "Mark, your mother and I think it would be best if you came home to Scarsdale after you got out of the hospital."
"What?" I blinked once. Twice. "Go back to Scarsdale?"
"Mark, I'm saying this as a doctor, in addition to being your father," Dad continued. "You're going to need extensive physical therapy, and to be honest, I don't think you can make a full recovery living in your current environment."
"Dr. Cohen, with all due respect," Roger began. I could see him straining to be polite. "My friends and I are perfectly capable of taking care of Mark."
Dad put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Roger. I'm glad Mark has such supportive friends. But he needs more than that. Can you honestly say that you can take him every day to physical therapy?"
Roger shrugged. "We'll make sure he gets there."
"How do you plan on getting there?" Dad continued. "Do any of you own a car?" Roger looked down. "Can you afford to hire a nurse to provide the proper medical care Mark needs?"
"We'll come up with something," Roger insisted. "We'll work it out."
"Roger, I know you mean well," Dad told him. "But what's important here is what's best for Mark."
"Then how come no one's asked me?" I demanded. "My brain wasn't damaged in the accident! I can still have an opinion!"
"All right." My father turned to me. "Mark, what do you want to do?"
I knew what I was going to say. I wanted to stay in New York with my friends. "I don't know," I heard myself say. "Can I think about it?" What? Where had that come from?
"Of course you can." My mother patted my hand. "Take all the time you need, Mark."
"That's right," Dad agreed. "You've still got another week in the hospital, so why don't you take a couple days to think about it, and let me know what you decide?"
I watched the expression on Roger's face, and fought to keep it from breaking my heart. "Okay," I agreed. "I will."
"Maybe I should go," Roger mumbled. "I'll see you later, Mark."
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stalked out of the room. I made small talk with my parents for a few minutes, then pleaded exhaustion. They left, and I fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next day, I told my parents I wanted to go back to Scarsdale with them when I got out of the hospital. My father congratulated me on making a wise choice.
Roger stayed away from me for the most part after that. He still showed up occasionally, but always with Maureen or Collins or Mimi. Never by himself. He was hurt that I wasn't coming back to the loft. So were my other friends, but they understood that my father was a doctor, and I'd recover faster at home than freezing in an unheated loft. At least, they assumed that was why I was leaving.
And it was the reason I was going home. To recover faster. It had nothing to do with Roger.
Nothing at all.
I'll try to write the next one as soon as I can, but I have finals coming up this week, tomorrow, Wednesday, and Thursday, so chances are most of my time will be spent studying for those. Especially chemistry, yuck. But the good news is that I'll be done after that, and I'll have some time before I start my job in which to write, etc. Roger's confession from the last chapter will come up later in the story, I promise, although at this point I'm thinking it will be toward the end. Wish me luck, and keep the reviews coming! --Larissa
It's not that I regret the things I've done
Or anything I've planned to
--Matt Caplan
Mark POV
The last thing I remembered was Roger's shouts ringing in my ears.
Truth be told, I had seen that the light was about to change before I set foot off the curb. I knew the traffic would be racing toward me in a matter of seconds. And I didn't give a fuck what happened to me.
I could still feel the eerie calm that settled down on me as I turned to stare down the Mustang, daring it to go further, playing a one-sided game of chicken that I had no choice but to lose. So this is how it ends, I recall thinking to myself. There could be worse ways to go.
Then the car hit me, and I fell to the ground. After that was nothing but darkness.
I didn't know what I was expecting to come next. When I was a boy, I believed that my beloved grandfather, who had died when I was eight, would be there to meet me when I died, and would take me fishing in the afterlife just like we had done every Sunday until he got too sick to go. As I grew older, my faith subsided. I didn't particularly believe anything anymore.
And it turned out that I was right all along, because there were no bright lights or long-dead relatives there to greet me. Neither, for that matter, were there fires to burn the wickedness out of me. There was simply nothing. For what felt like forever, I was hanging over an infinite sea of blackness, until I slowly became aware of the sensations under my body. A pillow beneath my head. A blanket draped over my shoulders. Someone was holding my hand, and talking to me. As I slowly returned to myself, I realized that the person with me was Roger.
He sounded terrible. He rarely cried--that wasn't his thing. The last time I'd seen him this upset was after April's suicide. But here he was, clutching tightly onto my hand and fighting back the tears in his voice. And even though I hated seeing him like this, I was touched, on some tiny, selfish level, that I meant this much to him.
My voice was dry and scratchy, and it took several attempts before I could actually use it. "Roger?"
He had been turned to the side, one hand covering his face, barely keeping from crying. At the sound of my voice, he turned back to me, a tiny spark of hope fighting the despair in his eyes. "Oh my God. Mark?"
"I'm sorry," I whispered, closing my eyes again, too tired to say anything else. "So sorry."
"Mark, it wasn't your fault," he insisted. "It was an accident, and you're going to be fine."
If he'd known that I'd deliberately stood there and let that car run me down, he would have given me hell for it. I felt guilty for his sympathy, and the hell I had put him through. For what, really? I was alive, although badly banged up. If this hadn't done me any good, or Roger any good, then why the hell had I done it in the first place?
"Tired," I mumbled, feeling the darkness tug on me again.
Roger put his hand to my face and stroked my cheek gently. "You get some rest and get well, okay?" he whispered. "I'll be here to see you really soon."
"Okay." My words were becoming slurred again. "See you soon."
I heard his footsteps start for the door, a pause, and then they came back over to my bed. "I love you, Mark," I heard him say. "Don't forget that."
By that point, I was so sleepy that there was no way to tell if I was awake or dreaming. I felt Roger's cool hand on my forehead, smoothing back my hair, and the light brush of his lips against mine, tasting just as they had on that night so long ago. It was a dream, I told myself. It couldn't be anything else.
I settled my head against my pillow and fell into a deep sleep.
The next few days drifted by in a sleepy haze. When I opened my eyes, I would see Maureen, sobbing into a hankerchief, or Collins, scribbling away in his notebook. Then fatigue would wash over me and I would drift off again.
When I finally woke up, the first thing I saw was Roger, asleep in the chair beside my bed. His face was dotted with stubble, and I doubted he'd shaved since everything happened. It gave him a rough and rugged look, and the stress of the ordeal was reflected in the lines cut on his face. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing that it was entirely my fault that my friends had gone through this hell. If only I'd stopped at the curb and waited for the light to change. If only I'd stepped out of the way when I saw that car coming toward me.
I let out a little sigh, and Roger's eyes flew open. In spite of the pain that was throbbing in my back, I felt my heart leap as a broad smile spread across his face.
"Hey, stranger," he grinned. "Have a nice nap?"
I yawned. "How long have I been out of it?"
"According to my count, three days so far," he answered. "How're you feeling?"
"My back hurts and I've lost feeling in my left foot," I complained, and immediately felt guilty when I saw his smile falter. "But I think I'll live," I continued, managing a weak smile at him.
"Well, good, because I don't intend on letting you go anywhere," he grinned. He reached out and took my hand in his. "I know I don't say this as much as I should, Mark, but you're the best friend I could ever have. I don't know what I'd do without you."
A timid knock came on the door. I lifted my head, then dropped it back on the pillow, wincing from the effort.
"Mark, you're awake!" Collins exclaimed, smiling broadly. "Feeling any better?"
"I'll live," I assured him. "Roger tells me I've been sleeping for three days."
Collins checked his watch. "More like three and a half. Feel up to more company?"
It hurt to smile, but I couldn't help it. "Aw, don't tell me everyone's been waiting here all this time."
"Well, Maureen and Joanne went home to shower and get some sleep," he told me. "They'll be by later today. But Angel and I have been around off and on, and Roger hasn't left the hospital since they brought you in."
I was feeling better than I had in ages, even with everything that had happened to me. Roger did care about me. I was still important to him, even if he had a new girlfriend. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this happy.
"Mark?" I turned back to Collins. "Your parents are here. Do you feel like seeing them?"
I didn't know why I was so surprised. My parents didn't live that far from New York, and it made perfect sense that they would come if they heard that their only son was involved in a serious accident. But I hadn't seen them in several years, and I'd come to think of my friends in New York as my family.
It wasn't that I didn't get along with my relatives. It wasn't that my parents were ever mean or abusive. We had simply drifted apart, after I'd departed from the path they set for me in infancy, and struck out on my own. My mother called regularly, and my father was always after me to let him send me money, but I was determined to live my own life. It had taken me years to become independent, and although my life was far from glamorous, I had reached where I was based on my accomplishments, not just on who my father was.
Now they were here, and sooner or later, I would have to see them. And although I was dreading it, it would get harder and harder the longer I put it off. "All right," I told Collins. "Bring them in."
He nodded and ducked back into the hall, and before long, I spotted my mother's blonde bun and white cardigan that I always remembered her wearing. "Oh, Mark, honey," she exclaimed mournfully, planting a kiss on my forehead and straightening the bedsheets around my waist. "How's my baby feeling?"
"Mom," I complained, embarrassed at being called her baby in front of Roger. "I'm going to be fine."
"Your father's talking with the doctors now," she continued, plucking my glasses off of the nightstand and cleaning them on her sweater. "We haven't been able to get any answers out of them so far."
"Mom, I'm going to be all right," I insisted. "I'm a little banged up, but nothing I won't get over."
"Mark?" My father poked his head into the room. "How are you feeling, son?"
"Fine, Dad," I told him, thoroughly sick of the question. "I'm fine."
He pulled another chair up to the bed and sat down, casting an uneasy glance at Roger. "Mark, can we have a few moments alone here?"
Roger pushed himself up from his chair. "I'll be back this afternoon, okay, Mark?"
"No." I shook my head. "Anything you have to say, you can say in front of Roger."
Dad sighed. "All right, if you insist." I watched Roger retreat to a corner, folding his arms against his chest. "Mark, you sustained serious injuries in the collision, and the doctors feel it would be best if you were to stay in an environment where you could receive round the clock care."
I sighed. "Dad, could you say that again in English?"
My parents exchanged glances. "Mark, your mother and I think it would be best if you came home to Scarsdale after you got out of the hospital."
"What?" I blinked once. Twice. "Go back to Scarsdale?"
"Mark, I'm saying this as a doctor, in addition to being your father," Dad continued. "You're going to need extensive physical therapy, and to be honest, I don't think you can make a full recovery living in your current environment."
"Dr. Cohen, with all due respect," Roger began. I could see him straining to be polite. "My friends and I are perfectly capable of taking care of Mark."
Dad put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Roger. I'm glad Mark has such supportive friends. But he needs more than that. Can you honestly say that you can take him every day to physical therapy?"
Roger shrugged. "We'll make sure he gets there."
"How do you plan on getting there?" Dad continued. "Do any of you own a car?" Roger looked down. "Can you afford to hire a nurse to provide the proper medical care Mark needs?"
"We'll come up with something," Roger insisted. "We'll work it out."
"Roger, I know you mean well," Dad told him. "But what's important here is what's best for Mark."
"Then how come no one's asked me?" I demanded. "My brain wasn't damaged in the accident! I can still have an opinion!"
"All right." My father turned to me. "Mark, what do you want to do?"
I knew what I was going to say. I wanted to stay in New York with my friends. "I don't know," I heard myself say. "Can I think about it?" What? Where had that come from?
"Of course you can." My mother patted my hand. "Take all the time you need, Mark."
"That's right," Dad agreed. "You've still got another week in the hospital, so why don't you take a couple days to think about it, and let me know what you decide?"
I watched the expression on Roger's face, and fought to keep it from breaking my heart. "Okay," I agreed. "I will."
"Maybe I should go," Roger mumbled. "I'll see you later, Mark."
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stalked out of the room. I made small talk with my parents for a few minutes, then pleaded exhaustion. They left, and I fell into an uneasy sleep.
The next day, I told my parents I wanted to go back to Scarsdale with them when I got out of the hospital. My father congratulated me on making a wise choice.
Roger stayed away from me for the most part after that. He still showed up occasionally, but always with Maureen or Collins or Mimi. Never by himself. He was hurt that I wasn't coming back to the loft. So were my other friends, but they understood that my father was a doctor, and I'd recover faster at home than freezing in an unheated loft. At least, they assumed that was why I was leaving.
And it was the reason I was going home. To recover faster. It had nothing to do with Roger.
Nothing at all.