"Mark?" Roger asked, eyebrow raised, as the filmmaker appeared from his room holding a duffel bag, and his camera in the other hand. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving," Mark muttered, walking past his friend without so much as a second glance. He was almost there. Almost reached the safety of the front door. But a hand on his shoulder stopped him abruptly in his tracks. He had to will himself not to cower in fear as he slowly turned to face the musician. He expected to see an angry, harsh, face glaring back at him, and so was shocked when he instead saw an expression of hopeless depression and guilt, eyes brimming over with tears on the face that had been devoid of emotion for so long now.

"Mark," Roger whispered, barely audible. "Why? I mean… You can't go…"

Mark sighed heavily and inched backwards toward the doorway in fear as he started his explanation.

"I can't take it anymore. I can't spend my whole life making sure that you don't kill yourself, don't get arrested, don't fucking die of alcohol poisoning! I can't let my life revolve around you any longer," Mark stated, hoping the tear trickling down his cheek had gone unnoticed.

Instead of the angry reaction Mark had expected, the musician stepped forward and bit his quivering lower lip, obviously at a loss for words.

"I… I… Please don't go," Roger whispered, afraid to speak any louder in fear that he would break out in sobs.

"Why not, Roger?" Mark exclaimed, dropping the duffel bag with a heavy thud. "Why should I stay? So you can punch me around? Steal my money? Use me again? Tell me, why the fuck should I stick around here anymore?"

"I-I'm sorry… I never meant to… Mark, I'm sorry. Please, please don't leave…"

"Why not? It's obvious that you don't care about me anymore, maybe you never did-"

At this last statement Roger lost the battle with his tears and let them cascade down his cheeks, not even trying to stop them anymore.

"How the fuck could you say that?" he shouted, his voice coming out in loud, desperate choking sobs. "How could you think I don't care about you?"

Mark eyed the musician for a second before placing his camera down on the table littered with empty beer cans, and lifted up his shirt, revealing dozens of black and blue marks, scratches, and lacerations. It was like a rash, his body was adorned with the marks left by Roger in his drunken rage.

"Do you do this to someone you care about?"

Roger was silent for what seemed like lifetimes. The seconds ticked by, each growing heavier and heavier than the previous. He could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest, the screaming in his ears, the sound of his heavy breathing as he took in the state of his best friend. The state he left him in.

Finally he managed to pull himself together just enough to form the words he so desperately hoped would convince Mark to stay.

"I-I'm sorry, I never…I never meant to hurt you. I do care, I do, more than anything… Please stay, please… I'll get help, I don't want to hurt you anymore…" Roger was sobbing by this point, was on the floor, unable to hold his own weight anymore.

Mark hated himself for standing in that doorway. This was the perfect opportunity. Get out while he's weak, he won't be able to stop you. But he couldn't move himself from that one spot, and he couldn't help feeling sorry for the broken man who lay at his feet. Was this how Roger felt in high school, when he refused to admit to anyone what was really happening in his home? Mark knew he should leave now, that he shouldn't listen to Roger's lies anymore, but he couldn't just throw away fifteen years of friendship that easily. As much as he would have liked to.

"You say that now, Roger, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after that, what about the next time you need a drink and I won't let you have one? How do I know you're not going to do it again? How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know that things won't go right back to the way they were?"

The question hung heavily in the air as both men let it sink in. Roger knew what he had to say, what he had to do. But… He had been denying it for so long, not only to Mark, but to himself as well. It was the reason he had started drinking in the first place.

After waiting an eternity in that endless silence, Mark gave him one last final look and picked up his duffel bag.

"Because I love you."

He dropped the bag, turned around. Stood frozen again in the doorway as he took in the words and tried to interpret their meaning.

"What?" he whispered.

"I love you," Roger stated, more firmly than before as he absorbed everything the words meant to him. "I love you and I'd kill myself if you left. I never meant to hurt you, I swear Mark, and I'll never forgive myself for this. I screwed up, I know I did. But please, please don't leave…"

Mark didn't know what to do, what to say. If he should say anything. Half of him told him to run, but the other half screamed to stay, to hold Roger, to help him, and to promise he would stay by his side until it was over.

Finally, Mark gave into his heart and got down beside Roger on the floor, holding him as the musician cried onto his shoulder.

"You'll go to rehab?"

Roger hesitated for only a second before agreeing. Inside, he wondered why the filmmaker was so quiet. He had just confessed his love for the other man, and he wasn't saying one word about it. Had he misinterpreted the meaning of the words? Did he think he meant it as a best friend or in a brotherly way? Did he return his feelings? Was he freaked out? There were so many questions spinning through Roger's head, he couldn't even make sense of them. So he did the only thing he could think of at this point: he leaned down and kissed Mark firmly on the lips.