Notes: Well I can officially say that school is over and after a weekend of
rest I'm going to try to get writing again. I'm really sorry I didn't write
for, what was it? Like, two weeks? Wow. I was desperately trying to pass
junior year. My other story, No Need To Endure Anymore is on hiatus at the
moment. I will finish it, I totally promise, but there's only like, two
people reading it so it doesn't matter much. I just started a new original
story all my own (characters and all) and I'm spending a buttload of time
on that. But I promise it won't be a slow summer, I've got a couple other
ideas too and plan to provide much RENTFIC to help pass these icky sweaty
months. Thanks anyone who's been waiting for chappies! Sorry again, and I
love you all!
And oh shite, this is ending fast. I really didn't mean for it to, and I promise I'm not rushing it, but there's not much else I can do to make it longer, I kind of decided that in the last couple Mark chapters. Sorry for that, too!
Chapter 58 -I Knew This Was Coming, But You Didn't-
Mark's POV
I wake up next to Roger late in the afternoon, for once not held tightly against him, but just lying on his bed, fully clothed, over the covers. I turn my head to look at him, but he's just sleeping. His eyes are closed, his breath coming in long, deep intervals. Inadvertently I reach out to touch him and my fingers graze his cheek and I allow my hand to rest on the side of his face. He moves slightly, but doesn't wake up. I pull my hand away and attempt to move closer to him. I rest my head against his chest and wrap my arms around his body. I feel him stir and push me away from him.
"Mark, no. It's too hot for that." He mumbles, before turning over. I sigh and sit up. I look down at him for a few more minutes before getting up and making my way as silently as possible through his house and out the door. I shove my hands in my pockets once I'm outside. It's hardly fucking hot, summer hasn't even attempted to arrive yet. I try to ignore Roger's blatant rejection of me but I can't.
He's been the center of my life for over a year. My best friend, my lover, the only person I've been able to really connect and bond with. He's moody and angry occasionally, but who isn't? He's also gentle and beautiful and funny and amazing with his hands. I love him more than anything or anyone.
But apparently that isn't enough.
I slam the door to my house when I reach it much later. I flop down on my own bed and pull off my shoes and jacket, then reach for the jacket again. Do I need it because it's really cold? Or is being without Roger making me shiver? We may be sorry for the things we said last week, but apparently that wasn't enough either. Maureen isn't sorry. I haven't spoken to her since.
I try to sleep, eventually I feel my eyes closing and gratefully I succumb to my fatigue.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Someone knocks on my door. I try to ignore it, but eventually my mother opens it and sticks her head inside.
"He's outside." She tells me, and closes the door again.
I get up and go to my window. Sure enough, Roger's car is parked out front and he is standing a few feet away from the door staring at his feet, his hands in his pockets wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday.
I shove my glasses on my face and make my way downstairs. I open the door just as Roger is turning to leave.
"Hey." I say quietly. He turns around when he hears me.
"Hey."
He makes no other move so I continue. "Rog, yesterday. . ."
"I'm an asshole, I know." He says softly, his eyes still downcast, but when he speaks again they meet mine and I know he's been crying. "I'm a total jerk. I just,"
"Rog, what happened to your eye?" It's bruised and swollen and his lip is as well.
"It doesn't matter." He says quickly. He stops and runs his hands through his hair, and tries to hide the fact that he's wiping his eyes as well. "I love you."
I walk over to him and take his hands in mine. "I love you too. It's all right, really. I don't care. . ."
He pushes me away. "You should care! How can you let me treat you like this? None of this is your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. I'm such an asshole. I'm just such. . ."
"Roger, calm down!" I yell at him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him as still as I can. "Are you on something? You're not acting like yourself."
He shakes his head and I believe him.
"Then what is it? What's wrong with you?"
He gives me his best attempt at a sad, watery smile. "I love you, Marky. I really do. I'll always love you."
He leans toward me slowly and lays a gentle kiss on my lips, letting his hands touch lightly against my sides. Roger smiles again and starts to walk back to his car.
"Roger! Roger, wait!" I call after him, but he just wipes at his eyes again and waves. He gets in his car and I watch him drive away, for the first time noticing the guitar and backpack in the backseat.
I sit on the curb in front of my house and watch the street I last saw his car go down. It was pretty obvious to me he wasn't coming back. I waited for the tears but they didn't come. Obvious, but not fully realized yet.
Hours later I get up and start walking. I shove my hands in my pockets. One of them hits something. I pull it out and it's a piece of paper folded a couple times over and thick with writing. I stop where I'm standing and open it. I start to read Roger's weak attempt at a formal letter.
Dear 'Only Mark',
Fuck, I can't believe I'm going to try to explain this in a letter. I just, fuck it all, I knew this was coming. But you didn't. And now I'm writing you a fucking letter to try to make up for it.
I've never felt this way about anyone else before, which makes me sound so Hollywood teenage girl, but I don't care. I haven't. I love you. I really love you. It makes me feel better just saying it. The fact that there is someone like you in the world and that I love you and you love me makes me feel pretty fucking special.
But I can't do this anymore, Mark. It's not you. Never. You've been the only thing keeping me here this long. I can't go back to high school. I can't go on to college. I can't get some shit job out here and slave for minimum wage the rest of my life. I'd rather be broke with my guitar than stuck in some fucking suburb or anywhere for that matter in a job I hate. I'm going to the city, I'm gonna be famous, watch Mark, I'll be famous.
My band just fucking broke up. Two of them are going across the fucking country to California colleges and that fucker of a singer I've always hated is marrying his pregnant girlfriend. April's coming with me. She's gonna be my bassist, did I tell you she plays bass? And I'm going to find a drummer and we'll be a band and we're gonna be big.
I feel like such a fucking asshole, Mark. I want you to come with us, but I know you won't. I know you'll always be worried about shit that could happen and whatever, but remember what I've always told you, Marky. And remember to create, not sell. Play with your camera some more, I think that's what you should focus on. No pun intended. Fuck SOH-CAH-TOA and all that other shit you're good at. That's not going to get you anywhere in life. But your talents, your art, that's what it'll be in the end.
My dad came back, Mark. He came back and I'm hurting from it. You should see the fucker of a scar that I've going to have on my side. I know you saw my face. You should see my mom. She'll be in the hospital for another week or so. I feel like an asshole for leaving her too, but I can't handle this. He's in jail now. They'll probably put him away for a while, she's in pretty bad shape. And if she's lucky she'll get a restraining order or something else cool like that. Maybe, stop by the house and see her a couple times for me? She liked you, you know. She'd like it if someone came to see her once in awhile.
Reading this over I don't even know if I have half of a good reason to leave, but I'm not a strong person. I crack under pressure and I'm feeling more pressure than I've ever known in my life right now. I have to get away from it. I'm sorry that that means I have to get away from you.
I love you, Mark. I love you and I'm sorry. But I'm not gonna forget what you've given me. You don't even know what you've given me. So don't forget what I've told you too. And don't forget what you meant to me.
Love, Roger.
He had the fucking guts to sign it with love? Realization hits me and I fall to my knees on the pavement and start to cry. He's gone. He's left me for the city for his fucking dreams and with fucking April. He was fucking right when he said he didn't have half of a good reason to leave. I love him, his mom loves him. Any help he needed he could get. He's just too fucking afraid to ask for it.
Don't forget I love you, don't forget what you meant to me. Apparently he could, if I was so easy to leave, so why should I hang around and bear the loss for the two of us? Don't forget me, I'll just be playing my guitar in some shit club in NYC with some shit band and fucking April afterwards. Don't forget I left with fucking April instead of fucking you. Don't forget April can play bass so she's coming with me but all you've got is your piece of shit camera so you don't fucking matter.
On the back of the paper he scrunched the lyrics of that fucking song he sang for me once, that Elton John song. Suddenly the idea of that song doesn't seem romantic at all, it seems cold and cruel. Like an extra piece of my life he just stole away. I crumple the paper and shove it back in my pocket.
I'm just pathetic enough to keep it.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: Wow that broke my heart. Sometimes I really hate Roger. Was this realistic? Was it any good? I've been stressing over how to do this since I started the story, and I'm pretty happy with this. Well, happy is as happy does given the subject matter. Let me know guys, and I'm sorry I'm a bitch and didn't write. But at least Roger did! Heh, heh. . . nevermind.
There's going to be an epilogue for Marky and one for Roger. Stay tuned! I'm going to write at least Roger's tonight.
And oh shite, this is ending fast. I really didn't mean for it to, and I promise I'm not rushing it, but there's not much else I can do to make it longer, I kind of decided that in the last couple Mark chapters. Sorry for that, too!
Chapter 58 -I Knew This Was Coming, But You Didn't-
Mark's POV
I wake up next to Roger late in the afternoon, for once not held tightly against him, but just lying on his bed, fully clothed, over the covers. I turn my head to look at him, but he's just sleeping. His eyes are closed, his breath coming in long, deep intervals. Inadvertently I reach out to touch him and my fingers graze his cheek and I allow my hand to rest on the side of his face. He moves slightly, but doesn't wake up. I pull my hand away and attempt to move closer to him. I rest my head against his chest and wrap my arms around his body. I feel him stir and push me away from him.
"Mark, no. It's too hot for that." He mumbles, before turning over. I sigh and sit up. I look down at him for a few more minutes before getting up and making my way as silently as possible through his house and out the door. I shove my hands in my pockets once I'm outside. It's hardly fucking hot, summer hasn't even attempted to arrive yet. I try to ignore Roger's blatant rejection of me but I can't.
He's been the center of my life for over a year. My best friend, my lover, the only person I've been able to really connect and bond with. He's moody and angry occasionally, but who isn't? He's also gentle and beautiful and funny and amazing with his hands. I love him more than anything or anyone.
But apparently that isn't enough.
I slam the door to my house when I reach it much later. I flop down on my own bed and pull off my shoes and jacket, then reach for the jacket again. Do I need it because it's really cold? Or is being without Roger making me shiver? We may be sorry for the things we said last week, but apparently that wasn't enough either. Maureen isn't sorry. I haven't spoken to her since.
I try to sleep, eventually I feel my eyes closing and gratefully I succumb to my fatigue.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Someone knocks on my door. I try to ignore it, but eventually my mother opens it and sticks her head inside.
"He's outside." She tells me, and closes the door again.
I get up and go to my window. Sure enough, Roger's car is parked out front and he is standing a few feet away from the door staring at his feet, his hands in his pockets wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday.
I shove my glasses on my face and make my way downstairs. I open the door just as Roger is turning to leave.
"Hey." I say quietly. He turns around when he hears me.
"Hey."
He makes no other move so I continue. "Rog, yesterday. . ."
"I'm an asshole, I know." He says softly, his eyes still downcast, but when he speaks again they meet mine and I know he's been crying. "I'm a total jerk. I just,"
"Rog, what happened to your eye?" It's bruised and swollen and his lip is as well.
"It doesn't matter." He says quickly. He stops and runs his hands through his hair, and tries to hide the fact that he's wiping his eyes as well. "I love you."
I walk over to him and take his hands in mine. "I love you too. It's all right, really. I don't care. . ."
He pushes me away. "You should care! How can you let me treat you like this? None of this is your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. I'm such an asshole. I'm just such. . ."
"Roger, calm down!" I yell at him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him as still as I can. "Are you on something? You're not acting like yourself."
He shakes his head and I believe him.
"Then what is it? What's wrong with you?"
He gives me his best attempt at a sad, watery smile. "I love you, Marky. I really do. I'll always love you."
He leans toward me slowly and lays a gentle kiss on my lips, letting his hands touch lightly against my sides. Roger smiles again and starts to walk back to his car.
"Roger! Roger, wait!" I call after him, but he just wipes at his eyes again and waves. He gets in his car and I watch him drive away, for the first time noticing the guitar and backpack in the backseat.
I sit on the curb in front of my house and watch the street I last saw his car go down. It was pretty obvious to me he wasn't coming back. I waited for the tears but they didn't come. Obvious, but not fully realized yet.
Hours later I get up and start walking. I shove my hands in my pockets. One of them hits something. I pull it out and it's a piece of paper folded a couple times over and thick with writing. I stop where I'm standing and open it. I start to read Roger's weak attempt at a formal letter.
Dear 'Only Mark',
Fuck, I can't believe I'm going to try to explain this in a letter. I just, fuck it all, I knew this was coming. But you didn't. And now I'm writing you a fucking letter to try to make up for it.
I've never felt this way about anyone else before, which makes me sound so Hollywood teenage girl, but I don't care. I haven't. I love you. I really love you. It makes me feel better just saying it. The fact that there is someone like you in the world and that I love you and you love me makes me feel pretty fucking special.
But I can't do this anymore, Mark. It's not you. Never. You've been the only thing keeping me here this long. I can't go back to high school. I can't go on to college. I can't get some shit job out here and slave for minimum wage the rest of my life. I'd rather be broke with my guitar than stuck in some fucking suburb or anywhere for that matter in a job I hate. I'm going to the city, I'm gonna be famous, watch Mark, I'll be famous.
My band just fucking broke up. Two of them are going across the fucking country to California colleges and that fucker of a singer I've always hated is marrying his pregnant girlfriend. April's coming with me. She's gonna be my bassist, did I tell you she plays bass? And I'm going to find a drummer and we'll be a band and we're gonna be big.
I feel like such a fucking asshole, Mark. I want you to come with us, but I know you won't. I know you'll always be worried about shit that could happen and whatever, but remember what I've always told you, Marky. And remember to create, not sell. Play with your camera some more, I think that's what you should focus on. No pun intended. Fuck SOH-CAH-TOA and all that other shit you're good at. That's not going to get you anywhere in life. But your talents, your art, that's what it'll be in the end.
My dad came back, Mark. He came back and I'm hurting from it. You should see the fucker of a scar that I've going to have on my side. I know you saw my face. You should see my mom. She'll be in the hospital for another week or so. I feel like an asshole for leaving her too, but I can't handle this. He's in jail now. They'll probably put him away for a while, she's in pretty bad shape. And if she's lucky she'll get a restraining order or something else cool like that. Maybe, stop by the house and see her a couple times for me? She liked you, you know. She'd like it if someone came to see her once in awhile.
Reading this over I don't even know if I have half of a good reason to leave, but I'm not a strong person. I crack under pressure and I'm feeling more pressure than I've ever known in my life right now. I have to get away from it. I'm sorry that that means I have to get away from you.
I love you, Mark. I love you and I'm sorry. But I'm not gonna forget what you've given me. You don't even know what you've given me. So don't forget what I've told you too. And don't forget what you meant to me.
Love, Roger.
He had the fucking guts to sign it with love? Realization hits me and I fall to my knees on the pavement and start to cry. He's gone. He's left me for the city for his fucking dreams and with fucking April. He was fucking right when he said he didn't have half of a good reason to leave. I love him, his mom loves him. Any help he needed he could get. He's just too fucking afraid to ask for it.
Don't forget I love you, don't forget what you meant to me. Apparently he could, if I was so easy to leave, so why should I hang around and bear the loss for the two of us? Don't forget me, I'll just be playing my guitar in some shit club in NYC with some shit band and fucking April afterwards. Don't forget I left with fucking April instead of fucking you. Don't forget April can play bass so she's coming with me but all you've got is your piece of shit camera so you don't fucking matter.
On the back of the paper he scrunched the lyrics of that fucking song he sang for me once, that Elton John song. Suddenly the idea of that song doesn't seem romantic at all, it seems cold and cruel. Like an extra piece of my life he just stole away. I crumple the paper and shove it back in my pocket.
I'm just pathetic enough to keep it.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Notes continued: Wow that broke my heart. Sometimes I really hate Roger. Was this realistic? Was it any good? I've been stressing over how to do this since I started the story, and I'm pretty happy with this. Well, happy is as happy does given the subject matter. Let me know guys, and I'm sorry I'm a bitch and didn't write. But at least Roger did! Heh, heh. . . nevermind.
There's going to be an epilogue for Marky and one for Roger. Stay tuned! I'm going to write at least Roger's tonight.