A/N: I didn't think I'd get around to writing this yet, but my trig and
chem finals are over, so I had a little free time and I felt inspired. I
should probably mention that my stories always end up being longer than I
intend, so there will probably be a lot more angst for Mark and Roger in
future chapters. But I promise I will make it all worth it for them in the
end. :)
Thanks to BroadwayDreamz, Liss, and Lola for pestering me via IM to get this chapter out, as well as everyone else who has been so great about reviewing (Sigh-cology, Gemma, Sandy, Kanoi, firedancer, and MimiDavis). It means a lot, guys. --Larissa
Turning your back on me
Won't leave me weak or unprepared
--Matt Caplan
Roger POV
I was assigned the task of going to the loft and packing a suitcase for Mark. He was leaving for Scarsdale the next day, and I got the honor on the basis of being his best friend. Some best friend, I thought bitterly. Running home to Mommy and Daddy and leaving me alone trying to figure out what the hell I would do without him.
I knew I wasn't being fair. It was my own stupid fault he was leaving. I had driven him away, just as I did with everyone else I cared about. April was gone, Mark was going…how long would it be before I was left to die on my own?
The spare key was still in its hiding place under the mat. The loft smelled musty when I stepped inside, but the place looked as if it expected Mark to come back in any moment. There were reminants of him everywhere-- an empty cereal bowl on the table, a sweatshirt draped across the back of the couch, and a stack of video tapes on the counter. Even though I'd lived here for over five years, it still felt funny now, like I was intruding on something that was best left alone.
Don't be stupid, Roger, I instructed myself, grabbing the suitcase and opening the door to Mark's room. I had been in his room a total of three or four times in the time I'd lived here. The rest of the time the door had been shut against the world. Mark loved his privacy.
I tried not to feel guilty as I flung the suitcase onto the unmade bed and opened a dresser drawer, pulling out underwear and jeans and shirts and whatever else was in there. That was the easy part. What else was I supposed to pack? Mark would want his camera, obviously, but what about the photos on his desk? Would he want the little ceramic pig Maureen had given him, or the toy disco ball we had bought years ago on a whim?
Okay, let's stick with the basics, I told myself. Mark's going to want tapes for his camera. I located them in the bottom desk drawer and tossed the entire pile into the suitcase. And he'll probably need something to read, since he can't move around much. I selected a couple of paperbacks at random off of his bookshelf and threw them in. I realized I'd forgotten all about personal items like shampoo and deodorant. Those went into the suitcase as well.
This didn't seem real, I thought, allowing myself a moment to fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. It was oddly comforting, and it took awhile before I realized that the sheets still smelled like Mark, that sweet, comforting smell I'd memorized the night he kissed me and we spent the night curled up together in my bed.
The night before I broke his heart.
I stood up quickly, brushing at my clothes in the hopes that I could wipe away the guilt that was washing over me yet again. I had to hurry. Mark was getting out of the hospital at noon, and it was almost eleven right now. It would take me half an hour to get there on the subway, and I hadn't even finished packing yet.
I decided to play it safe, throwing in a few items that were on his desktop and not snooping around for other things in his drawers. The ceramic pig went in, carefully cushioned in the middle of his sweaters. The disco ball stayed on the desk. I scanned the room and put in a birthday card from Collins, a couple of CDs, and an old screenplay of Mark's.
The suitcase didn't want to close. I had to resort to sitting on it, and it had just closed underneath me with a disgruntled click when my eye fell on a framed photo on the nightstand. It was several years old, but I recognized it as being from after my band's first concert. My friends had waited around afterwards for me, and someone had snapped this shot of Mark and me, my arm draped around his shoulder, both of us beaming at the camera.
Clothes came flying out of the suitcase when I opened it back up. I shoved them back in, slipped the picture in where the glass wouldn't break, and forced the damn suitcase shut again.
Everyone was gathered at the hospital by the time I got there. They were sitting in the lobby; Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, and Benny, all clustered around Mark, who was sitting in a wheelchair. His face lit up when he saw me come in.
"There he is!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't show up!"
"Are you kidding?" I asked, returning his smile. "I'm just late because I had to pack all your shit. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
Mark smiled again, but this time, I caught a trace of sadness in it. "I'm glad you're here, Roger."
I eased myself onto a bench and set the suitcase down beside me. "So where are your folks? You didn't change your mind about coming home to the loft, did you?"
Mark shook his head. "No, I didn't. My parents went to get their van." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Roger."
"Don't be stupid," I told him. "It's your life. Why the hell should I care whether you stay or not?" I hadn't meant it the way it sounded, and I regretted it instantly the moment I saw the hurt expression on his face.
"So, Mark," Collins interjected. "You promise to stay in touch?"
"Of course I will," I heard my best friend say. "I'll write all the time, and you guys could come visit me, you know. Scarsdale isn't that far away."
"We'll visit all the time," Mimi promised. "Roger and I will be up there so much you'll be sick of us."
No one else seemed to notice the pain that flashed through Mark's eyes when Mimi said that, or when she sat down beside me and rested her head against my shoulder.
"Mark?" Mark's mother joined our little group. "Mark, honey, your father's waiting outside. It's time to get going."
Collins took the suitcase out to the van. I hung back as my friends said goodbye to Mark, hugging him gently as not to hurt his fragile body any more. This was it. He was really leaving, and despite all his assurances that he would be back before we knew it, I had a terrible feeling that I'd never see him again.
"Well, Roger." Mark held out his hand. "I guess this is goodbye for now."
My friends had backed away, and I knelt down beside him, trying to memorize how warm his hand felt in mine. "You come back to us soon, okay, Mark?"
He nodded and said of course he would. I still could have kept him from leaving. Just a few words--it would have been so easy. Mark, I love you. Don't go. His eyes watched my face expectantly. I felt the words rising to the tip of my tongue. I opened my mouth.
"Have a safe trip," I heard myself saying. I watched his face fall, and hated myself for hurting him yet again.
His voice was little more than a whisper. "Goodbye, Roger."
He wheeled himself out to the van, and his father helped him inside. I joined my friends on the sidewalk and waved until the van drove out into the street and was immediately swallowed up in the traffic.
I didn't know why I felt so empty in the weeks following. After all, it wasn't like Mark had been a large part of my life before the accident. We had barely seen each other since I moved down to Mimi's, with the exception of my birthday party, when he had run out right after the cake cutting. I had known he was alone, and I'd known he was miserable. And like the bastard I was, I'd chosen not to care, and focused on my new relationship with Mimi instead.
Outside, the weather began to warm, and the snow slowly melted away. At night I would lie awake for hours, trying to talk myself out of my wretchedness. This was what you wanted, wasn't it, Roger? You made that choice months ago when you lied and pretended not to know anything about kissing Mark the night before. You made that decision, and now you have to live with it.
Mimi stirred beside me as I began to climb out of bed. "Roger, what is it?" she mumbled.
"I'm just going to get a bit of fresh air," I told her. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Roger, what's wrong?" she insisted. "You've been acting so strange lately."
I leaned over and gave her a careless peck on the cheek. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
"You miss Mark, don't you?" I looked at her in the darkness, but couldn't find an appropriate reply. "I know you miss him. I miss him too."
"You don't understand!" I exclaimed. "You don't know the whole story!"
"Don't understand what?" she repeated. "Roger, why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?"
There was a trace of tears in her voice, and I felt guilty for that. Mimi was all I had left, and now I was driving her away too. Why was I so good at hurting everyone close to me?
"I'll be back soon," I promised, brushing my hand against her cheek. "Get some sleep now. No reason both of us should be tired tomorrow."
I was halfway out the window when I heard her whisper "I love you."
I paused for a moment, but couldn't find it in me to say it back.
I crept along the fire escape up to the top floor, where I had to tug at the window for several minutes before it gave way, and I could climb into what had been my room for so long. There was just enough moonlight to light up the room in a dim glow, luckily for me. I didn't want to attract any attention. Benny and I had made an informal truce since Mark's accident, but I had a feeling he wouldn't be too thrilled to know that I was prowling around in the loft when I didn't live here anymore.
The carpet brushed my feet as I made my way out to the living room. I flopped down onto the couch, the same one April and I had watched TV together on so long ago. April was dead, I was dying, Mark was gone, and this damn sofa was still here.
"Ow!" I whimpered, feeling something sharp dig into my back. I arched my back enough to pull it out and see it was a video tape. Mark had always stored his tapes in a drawer in his room, but apparently he had given that up once he had the loft to himself. I turned it over in my hands, then got up and slipped it into the VCR.
My face flashed up onto the TV screen. In this shot, I was fast asleep, and to my horror, snoring with my mouth open. "Roger fell asleep about half an hour ago," Mark's voice informed me. "He'd kill me if he knew I was filming him."
"You're right about that," I muttered. Good God, was I actually drooling on the pillow? Why the fuck did Mark want to preserve *that*?
"I think he looks like a little boy when he sleeps," my best friend's voice went on. "This is the most relaxed I've seen him in weeks. He's a complete wreck when he's awake. He won't talk to me, he won't take his AZT…I'm really worried about him."
The camera panned around the room and came to rest on Mark's face. His face was thin, and his eyes were bloodshot. I never knew how much of an effect my withdrawal had on him, I thought with a pang of guilt.
"I'd do anything for him," Mark continued, his voice shaking. "But there's nothing I can do, and I feel guilty as hell that I'm going to live when he's not. It doesn't matter, anyhow. He doesn't want what I have to give him."
I shut the TV off, feeling suddenly guilty, as if I'd been caught reading his diary. That tape was obviously something Mark never intended for me to see, and here I was, snooping around his things and watching his private tape.
"God, I'm sorry, Mark," I muttered to myself. "How do I say I'm sorry for what might have been?"
The words rang in my head. I felt my fingers twitching for my guitar. The music in my mind, which had been silent for so long, was singing in my ears again.
Mimi was asleep when I entered her apartment. I tiptoed into the bedroom, grabbed my guitar, and ran back up to the loft with it. I was still playing when the first light of day filtered in through the windows.
Thanks to BroadwayDreamz, Liss, and Lola for pestering me via IM to get this chapter out, as well as everyone else who has been so great about reviewing (Sigh-cology, Gemma, Sandy, Kanoi, firedancer, and MimiDavis). It means a lot, guys. --Larissa
Turning your back on me
Won't leave me weak or unprepared
--Matt Caplan
Roger POV
I was assigned the task of going to the loft and packing a suitcase for Mark. He was leaving for Scarsdale the next day, and I got the honor on the basis of being his best friend. Some best friend, I thought bitterly. Running home to Mommy and Daddy and leaving me alone trying to figure out what the hell I would do without him.
I knew I wasn't being fair. It was my own stupid fault he was leaving. I had driven him away, just as I did with everyone else I cared about. April was gone, Mark was going…how long would it be before I was left to die on my own?
The spare key was still in its hiding place under the mat. The loft smelled musty when I stepped inside, but the place looked as if it expected Mark to come back in any moment. There were reminants of him everywhere-- an empty cereal bowl on the table, a sweatshirt draped across the back of the couch, and a stack of video tapes on the counter. Even though I'd lived here for over five years, it still felt funny now, like I was intruding on something that was best left alone.
Don't be stupid, Roger, I instructed myself, grabbing the suitcase and opening the door to Mark's room. I had been in his room a total of three or four times in the time I'd lived here. The rest of the time the door had been shut against the world. Mark loved his privacy.
I tried not to feel guilty as I flung the suitcase onto the unmade bed and opened a dresser drawer, pulling out underwear and jeans and shirts and whatever else was in there. That was the easy part. What else was I supposed to pack? Mark would want his camera, obviously, but what about the photos on his desk? Would he want the little ceramic pig Maureen had given him, or the toy disco ball we had bought years ago on a whim?
Okay, let's stick with the basics, I told myself. Mark's going to want tapes for his camera. I located them in the bottom desk drawer and tossed the entire pile into the suitcase. And he'll probably need something to read, since he can't move around much. I selected a couple of paperbacks at random off of his bookshelf and threw them in. I realized I'd forgotten all about personal items like shampoo and deodorant. Those went into the suitcase as well.
This didn't seem real, I thought, allowing myself a moment to fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. It was oddly comforting, and it took awhile before I realized that the sheets still smelled like Mark, that sweet, comforting smell I'd memorized the night he kissed me and we spent the night curled up together in my bed.
The night before I broke his heart.
I stood up quickly, brushing at my clothes in the hopes that I could wipe away the guilt that was washing over me yet again. I had to hurry. Mark was getting out of the hospital at noon, and it was almost eleven right now. It would take me half an hour to get there on the subway, and I hadn't even finished packing yet.
I decided to play it safe, throwing in a few items that were on his desktop and not snooping around for other things in his drawers. The ceramic pig went in, carefully cushioned in the middle of his sweaters. The disco ball stayed on the desk. I scanned the room and put in a birthday card from Collins, a couple of CDs, and an old screenplay of Mark's.
The suitcase didn't want to close. I had to resort to sitting on it, and it had just closed underneath me with a disgruntled click when my eye fell on a framed photo on the nightstand. It was several years old, but I recognized it as being from after my band's first concert. My friends had waited around afterwards for me, and someone had snapped this shot of Mark and me, my arm draped around his shoulder, both of us beaming at the camera.
Clothes came flying out of the suitcase when I opened it back up. I shoved them back in, slipped the picture in where the glass wouldn't break, and forced the damn suitcase shut again.
Everyone was gathered at the hospital by the time I got there. They were sitting in the lobby; Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, and Benny, all clustered around Mark, who was sitting in a wheelchair. His face lit up when he saw me come in.
"There he is!" he exclaimed, smiling broadly. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't show up!"
"Are you kidding?" I asked, returning his smile. "I'm just late because I had to pack all your shit. I wouldn't miss this for the world."
Mark smiled again, but this time, I caught a trace of sadness in it. "I'm glad you're here, Roger."
I eased myself onto a bench and set the suitcase down beside me. "So where are your folks? You didn't change your mind about coming home to the loft, did you?"
Mark shook his head. "No, I didn't. My parents went to get their van." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Roger."
"Don't be stupid," I told him. "It's your life. Why the hell should I care whether you stay or not?" I hadn't meant it the way it sounded, and I regretted it instantly the moment I saw the hurt expression on his face.
"So, Mark," Collins interjected. "You promise to stay in touch?"
"Of course I will," I heard my best friend say. "I'll write all the time, and you guys could come visit me, you know. Scarsdale isn't that far away."
"We'll visit all the time," Mimi promised. "Roger and I will be up there so much you'll be sick of us."
No one else seemed to notice the pain that flashed through Mark's eyes when Mimi said that, or when she sat down beside me and rested her head against my shoulder.
"Mark?" Mark's mother joined our little group. "Mark, honey, your father's waiting outside. It's time to get going."
Collins took the suitcase out to the van. I hung back as my friends said goodbye to Mark, hugging him gently as not to hurt his fragile body any more. This was it. He was really leaving, and despite all his assurances that he would be back before we knew it, I had a terrible feeling that I'd never see him again.
"Well, Roger." Mark held out his hand. "I guess this is goodbye for now."
My friends had backed away, and I knelt down beside him, trying to memorize how warm his hand felt in mine. "You come back to us soon, okay, Mark?"
He nodded and said of course he would. I still could have kept him from leaving. Just a few words--it would have been so easy. Mark, I love you. Don't go. His eyes watched my face expectantly. I felt the words rising to the tip of my tongue. I opened my mouth.
"Have a safe trip," I heard myself saying. I watched his face fall, and hated myself for hurting him yet again.
His voice was little more than a whisper. "Goodbye, Roger."
He wheeled himself out to the van, and his father helped him inside. I joined my friends on the sidewalk and waved until the van drove out into the street and was immediately swallowed up in the traffic.
I didn't know why I felt so empty in the weeks following. After all, it wasn't like Mark had been a large part of my life before the accident. We had barely seen each other since I moved down to Mimi's, with the exception of my birthday party, when he had run out right after the cake cutting. I had known he was alone, and I'd known he was miserable. And like the bastard I was, I'd chosen not to care, and focused on my new relationship with Mimi instead.
Outside, the weather began to warm, and the snow slowly melted away. At night I would lie awake for hours, trying to talk myself out of my wretchedness. This was what you wanted, wasn't it, Roger? You made that choice months ago when you lied and pretended not to know anything about kissing Mark the night before. You made that decision, and now you have to live with it.
Mimi stirred beside me as I began to climb out of bed. "Roger, what is it?" she mumbled.
"I'm just going to get a bit of fresh air," I told her. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Roger, what's wrong?" she insisted. "You've been acting so strange lately."
I leaned over and gave her a careless peck on the cheek. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
"You miss Mark, don't you?" I looked at her in the darkness, but couldn't find an appropriate reply. "I know you miss him. I miss him too."
"You don't understand!" I exclaimed. "You don't know the whole story!"
"Don't understand what?" she repeated. "Roger, why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?"
There was a trace of tears in her voice, and I felt guilty for that. Mimi was all I had left, and now I was driving her away too. Why was I so good at hurting everyone close to me?
"I'll be back soon," I promised, brushing my hand against her cheek. "Get some sleep now. No reason both of us should be tired tomorrow."
I was halfway out the window when I heard her whisper "I love you."
I paused for a moment, but couldn't find it in me to say it back.
I crept along the fire escape up to the top floor, where I had to tug at the window for several minutes before it gave way, and I could climb into what had been my room for so long. There was just enough moonlight to light up the room in a dim glow, luckily for me. I didn't want to attract any attention. Benny and I had made an informal truce since Mark's accident, but I had a feeling he wouldn't be too thrilled to know that I was prowling around in the loft when I didn't live here anymore.
The carpet brushed my feet as I made my way out to the living room. I flopped down onto the couch, the same one April and I had watched TV together on so long ago. April was dead, I was dying, Mark was gone, and this damn sofa was still here.
"Ow!" I whimpered, feeling something sharp dig into my back. I arched my back enough to pull it out and see it was a video tape. Mark had always stored his tapes in a drawer in his room, but apparently he had given that up once he had the loft to himself. I turned it over in my hands, then got up and slipped it into the VCR.
My face flashed up onto the TV screen. In this shot, I was fast asleep, and to my horror, snoring with my mouth open. "Roger fell asleep about half an hour ago," Mark's voice informed me. "He'd kill me if he knew I was filming him."
"You're right about that," I muttered. Good God, was I actually drooling on the pillow? Why the fuck did Mark want to preserve *that*?
"I think he looks like a little boy when he sleeps," my best friend's voice went on. "This is the most relaxed I've seen him in weeks. He's a complete wreck when he's awake. He won't talk to me, he won't take his AZT…I'm really worried about him."
The camera panned around the room and came to rest on Mark's face. His face was thin, and his eyes were bloodshot. I never knew how much of an effect my withdrawal had on him, I thought with a pang of guilt.
"I'd do anything for him," Mark continued, his voice shaking. "But there's nothing I can do, and I feel guilty as hell that I'm going to live when he's not. It doesn't matter, anyhow. He doesn't want what I have to give him."
I shut the TV off, feeling suddenly guilty, as if I'd been caught reading his diary. That tape was obviously something Mark never intended for me to see, and here I was, snooping around his things and watching his private tape.
"God, I'm sorry, Mark," I muttered to myself. "How do I say I'm sorry for what might have been?"
The words rang in my head. I felt my fingers twitching for my guitar. The music in my mind, which had been silent for so long, was singing in my ears again.
Mimi was asleep when I entered her apartment. I tiptoed into the bedroom, grabbed my guitar, and ran back up to the loft with it. I was still playing when the first light of day filtered in through the windows.