Touch and Tell Lullaby
Chapter VI: Sweet Moans, Dovelike Sighs

"Collins, I think you've killed me."

Mark groans, hands wrapped around his stomach, and making a face that had both his friends laughing at him. Collins pats Mark on the back, telling him that if he's going to be sick he'd better do it before they get in the loft.

Roger says, "Didn't you mom every tell you to chew?"

Mark moans. He pushes into Roger, forcing his friend off the edge of the sidewalk. When Roger flips him off, Mark sticks out his tongue.

A passing drag queen winks and says, "Don't do that unless you intend to use it, honey," and makes Mark snap his mouth shut.

Roger growls over his shoulder as the offending queen, stepping back on the sidewalk next to Mark. Collins keeps laughing, as if he finds Mark being hit on by some streetwalker to be amusing. Roger doesn't think so, but then Mark is chuckling as well even as his face is turning a botchy pink.

Collins says, "How long has it been since you've had a proper meal Mark? You practically breathed in your food."

Mark shrugs, still covering his belly, which is starting to make weird noises. Collins gives Roger a troubled look over Mark's head. He knows what that shrug means. "It was so good though," Mark whines. "I had to eat it all."

"But you had to eat it all in under a minute?" Roger asks. A girl in tight leather pants and something that can't be considered a shirt gives him the eye. He steps a little closer to Mark when they pass.

Mark moans again, a sound that quickly turns into a yawn. He leans his head against Roger's shoulder. "How could you not?" He asks.

Roger shrugs. He really hadn't been all that hungry. Besides, even if he doesn't exactly get a regular meal certain people in the loft made sure he is always feed, regardless of currant income. Certain people make sure Roger never goes too long without food.

"After that meal, I wouldn't be surprised if you put on a few pounds," Collins comments. In a more serious tone he adds, "It will do you good."

Mark gives Collins a quick smile to show him he doesn't have to worry. Roger wants to tell him the same thing. He can take care of Mark, just like Mark takes care of him. He's just been a little down lately, that's all. "Where did you ever find that place, Collins?" Mark asks. It's not the smoothest change of conversation, but it works. "Why haven't you ever mentioned it before?"

Something in the way Collins's smile becomes melancholy, and his eyes loose their laughing shine for a more wistful look tells Roger all he needs to know about how Collins found the restaurant. "It was Angel's favorite place," Collins says. He's not looking at Roger and Mark. He's looking up.

Mark says, "I'll bet she loves where she is now even more."

Collins smiles and says, "I'll bet by the time we get up there she'll have replaced all the harps with drum sets and the wings with backpack purses."

As they reach the complex, Mark takes a step closer to Roger, bumping their bodies together. Once they're through the doorway, Mark doesn't pull away. Of course, neither does Roger.

"You spending the night, Collins?" Mark asks, finally pulling away from Roger once their back in the loft. Collins looks indecisive, so Mark quickly says, "Come on! You just got back in town. They're probably squatters in your place by now."

Collins laughs and says, "Why not? And in the morning I can go and meet my impromptu roommates." Before he can throw himself on the couch Mark has grabbed one of the pillows and blanket's from Roger's bed and is showing their friend to his room.

"It's okay," Mark insists when Collins asks where he intends to sleep. "I remember sleeping on that couch. No one else needs to go through it. Besides, I hardly ever sleep in there anymore, anyway." Collins's eyes go between Roger and Mark, and Roger has the urge to stick his tongue out.

Collins is slightly more adult then Roger. He still looks distrustful, but he ruffles Mark's hair and tells him, "Sweet dreams."

When they get to Roger's room, Mark falls onto the bed, arms tossed over his stomach. Roger says, "You're not still going on about that, are you?"

Mark groans. "It feels like I ate an entire cow."

Roger pulls off his t-shirt and jeans before crawling in bed. "Two chickens, at least."

The second Roger pulls up the blankets, Mark curls into him. It's not exactly comfortable, what with Mark's head pressing against him and breath that smells like ketchup and Napoleon pastries right in his face, but Roger doesn't complain. It's not as if he could do much about it. Before Mark is even settled into place he's already asleep.

Roger chuckles under his breath, careful not to wake Mark up while he makes sure the smaller boy is safe in his arms. Collins doesn't understand, Roger thinks. He keeps acting like Mark is in trouble, like Roger isn't a good enough friend. Roger is trying as hard as he could. He might not be Tina or Collins or Joanne, but he could take care of Mark.

In his sleep, Mark moans, his stomach making those disturbing digestion sounds. For a second Roger is afraid the young man might vomit. But Mark is as peaceful as ever, so long as Roger has got a hold of them. Collins doesn't get them, Roger thinks. Mark and him, they could be self sufficient as long as they had each other. When Collins and Benny left, they were still there to watch over the loft. When April and Maureen jump into Roger and Mark's respective beds both of them refused to move out and leave the other. Even Mimi...

Roger didn't really want to think about Mimi.

Roger turns in bed until their foreheads are pressed together. He doesn't even mind when Mark yawns in his sleep, making Roger's next breathe of air taste like barbeque chicken and cheese. "We don't really need them, do we, Mark." His fingers find Mark's hair, twisting and pulling gently at the golden spikes until Mark moans and tries wiggling away. Roger doesn't stop until he notices the other boy's eyelashes fluttering.

"It's okay," Roger promises. His hand leaves Mark's hair to stroke his cheek. Mark looks so much younger without his glasses. Like he's had years of living and worrying about Roger stripped away from him along with his eyesight. In Roger's opinion, being blind hurt a lot more than being young and alone.

"They don't get us, do they?" Roger's fingers brush against Mark's jaw. In his sleep, Mark's stomach rumbles. He moves into Roger's warmth. Without thinking, Roger presses back. He needs Mark, as much as he would hate to admit it to the already over concerned cameraman. He's sure that Mark needs him back. Why would he stick around and care for Roger if he didn't?

His fingers trace across a slightly stubble jaw. It's an unusual feeling compared to Mimi's smooth skin. It makes Mark feel worn and uneven at all the edges. Roger thinks he could make that go away. He's just been a little distracted lately, but there was a time before Mimi, before April and drugs and AZT, that Roger took care of Mark. It was Roger who showed Mark around New York City and made sure he knew which streets were worth his time. It was Roger who kept Mark away from the seedy places off the main avenues and warned him about certain girls with certain reputations. Roger was Mark's guide for the bohemian life style. Roger knows how to take care of his friend. He's just been too busy dying to save Mark lately.

His fingers trace Mark's lips. They're chapped and dry. Roger can't help but wonder how long it's been since Mark's been properly kissed. His hand doesn't linger as long as it does on the rest of his face. He's already moving away, brushing against his closed eyes and back into his hair. "I'm going to make it up to you." Roger is glad Mark isn't awake to hear the promise. "Don't worry about us, Mark."

He seals the deal with a kiss. Quick and gentle, right on Mark's forehead. It's very brotherly, he tells himself, which makes sense. Mark and him are family. The kind that yells and punches and is too fucked up for TV, but a sort of family nonetheless. Roger wants to play the older brother again, after being pushed aside to the sick friend role for so long.

He's always meant to protect Mark. He's just been so out of it lately.

"We're going to be okay." Mark moans in his sleep. He sounds sick. It really has been way too long since his stomach has been full of food. Roger hopes he doesn't throw up in bed, but he's still holding Mark against him. "From now on, we're going to take care of each other."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Roger stretches out and bed and never wants to get up.

He feels well rested, like some weights have been lifted off his shoulders or his veins have been cleaned out. A guiltless sleep for the first time in years. Roger wants to stay exactly like this. High without being high.

He turns over in bed and that feeling starts to evaporate rather quickly.

"Mark?" Roger sits up, looking around the small room. It's just as empty as the bed. "Mark?"

Roger throws his feet over the side of the bed and worry starts to sink in. Maybe Mark had been awake for some of last night and he thought... Roger didn't want to imagine what Mark might be thinking. He would have been wrong, anyway. Roger had been slightly tipsy and feeling a bit possessive, and it isn't like he'd meant anything weird by it. It was just some harmless touching.

Still, Mark had a tendency to over think these sorts of things. He might have left. Might have gone back to Collins's and left Roger all alone.

Roger chokes back on the rising vomit.

"...Roger..."

Roger stops gagging long enough to listen. "I'm okay," he calls back without thinking. Of course, Mark is probably just in the kitchen. He probably heard Roger choking and freaked out. Any second now the young man would run in, making sure Roger is still alive and well, and then Roger would roll his eyes and chastise Mark for being such a girl.

Only Mark doesn't come running in.

"...he acts ...and I..."

Roger listens for the sound of footsteps of Mark's voice. Anything to prove that his friend isn't just going to leave him there, but all Roger can hear is hushed voices. Definitely not the sound of panicked friends.

"...wish I could...But I know..."

Roger sits on the edge of the bed, trying not to move or breath too loudly so that he can make out some of what his friends are talking about. Every now and then a few of Mark's words will float back to him, and he can tell that Collins is talking back in a voice too low to be heard.

"...Because of Mimi..."

Roger growls. So that's what it is. They're talking about how he's taking the breakup. Probably afraid that if he heard them he'd blow up and storm off. Roger feels like storming off. His hands are clenched against the mattress and his teeth are grinding together to bloke out any more of their words. If they don't want to talk about it with him, fine. He doesn't want to have to deal with their sympathy, anyway.

He wipes the spit of his chin with the back of his hand and heads for the shower. He reeks of smoke, beer, sweat, and four or five days of living. Besides, a nice shower might do him some good.

"What would they - Fuck!" Roger turns on the shower and jumps in without thinking. The water is freezing cold, barely dribbling out of the showerhead it still managing to feel like little pinpricks against his sleep-warmed skin. Roger closes his eyes and stands beneath the pathetic spray even when he starts to shake and can't catch his breath. He can't think of anything but running his hands up and down his arms to try and create some sort of heat. Everything else is just background noise to the pain and the cold.

It takes a few minutes, but the water finally starts to warm up. Slowly, at first, so that Roger stop shaking, and then hotter and hotter until it's likely to burn. Roger is to numb to care. He leaves it like that. Hot enough to boil.

The stream brings along that sort of clarity you can't get anywhere else. Roger use to shower a lot more, back when he still wrote music, when he cared so much more. Half the time it had nothing to do with getting clean. It was all about the acoustics of the bathroom - even a shitty one like this had the sort of walls sound loved - and that sort of clearness you get when the water runs over you. And some of Roger's best fantasies play out in the shower. That gets a smile, and already Roger can think of a few ways to start relaxing.

The thought doesn't get to far. Roger wishes he could think of notes and lyrics and old magazines, but all he can summon to mind is images of Mark and Collins whispering behind his back. Of Mark sneaking out of their bed, trying not to wake Roger. Of promises made to Mark when he couldn't hear.

He shakes his head, throwing water and soap bubbles everywhere. He scrubs the shampoo out and tries to think of anything but Mark, because right then is a very unsettling time to be imagining his best friend in bed. His fingers tracing over Mark's lips and playing with Mark's hair. Mark pressed against him, those little moaning sounds he makes in the night.

"Hell," Roger doesn't care what he's thinking about. He uses one hand to brace himself against the front of the shower as his body takes control. It's weird, yeah, but it doesn't mean anything that he's thinking about Mark in the shower. He's thought about guys before when he's done this and that's never meant anything, either. Hell, Roger's though plenty of weirder things while he jerked off. Band gigs and TV shows and Chinese food. This isn't any different, he tells himself. Nothing perverted about it.

He's thrusting into his hand, spiting out too-hot water as his breathing and rhythm picks up.

Roger tells himself he's too worried about Mark for his own good. If Mark weren't out there talking with Collins right now he'd be imagining some girl on her knees in front of him. Some leather clad beauty with tight thighs wrapped around his waist. That's what Roger is thinking about.

Not Mark. Not Mark curled up to him in bed. Not Mark, stretched across the top of the covers, smiling and beckoning Roger to join him. Not Mark with his slightly parted lips and pink tinted cheeks.

"Ah... Shit." There's a creaking sound when Roger slips forward, catching himself with his forearm against the hard titled walls. He winces, letting up for a second so that he can twist himself around. Even in his confused mind with a pain shooting up his left arm he can't leave himself half finished, though. It's been way too long, what with Mark in his bed all the time. Not that he minds. Not that he is even thinking about that.

A blonde with a wicked smile, stroking up her inner leg. Two girls sitting in the bed, waiting for Roger to join them. Mark twisted beneath the covers, wearing nothing but that shy, what-do-you-think smile. Breast rubbing against Roger's chest. Soft, cheery flavored lips licking at his ear. Gentle touches stroking downwards. Mark with his hands tied behind his back. Mark begging for Roger. Girls with their legs spread open and waiting. Mark stepping into the shower, leaning against Roger, taking him in his hand, making Roger come.

"Mark... Yes... Fuck..." The words come out as a breathy hiss. Roger collapses against the wall, his mind and heart racing. He doesn't give the water enough time to clean him off. He is climbing out of the shower before he can do any more damage.

Roger grabs hold of the sides of the sink, looking up at his reflection. His hair is wild when wet. His skin is burned pink. His entire body is moving as he pants, trying to fill his lungs and keep himself up at the same time. In the living room he can hear Mark saying goodbye as the front door closes.

Fuck.

Here Roger is, jerking off to images of his best friend who is just trying to make sure he's all right. Here Roger is, dirtying the spot where April fucking killed herself all those years ago.

"It doesn't mean anything." Roger says it out loud to make it true. He's pictured worse in the shower. It's just his sick, perverted mind acting up. It has nothing to do with Mark. Nothing to do with Roger's sexuality. He is trying too hard to avoid thinking about Mimi and April. He's too preoccupied, but his body doesn't care about those sorts of things. Still, it didn't mean anything. It is just this one time.

These couple of times that mean nothing.

Roger waits until he doesn't feel like he's going to be sick to let go of the sink. He stumbled back into his room, pulling on a dirty pair of clothes and thinking of ways he can avoid Mark for a while. Just until his mind stops getting these stupid, wrong ideas. Just until he can control himself instead of acting like some drunk, hormonal teenager who will take any fantasy he can get.

"Roger Rog? You out of the shower?" Roger winces, pulling off his shirt so that he can busy himself with pulling on another when Mark peaks into the room.

"Yeah?" Roger asks, voice muffled through the fabric of the old T. He's half turned away from Mark, trying to look like nothing's wrong. Trying not to look at Mark.

Roger isn't the only one avoiding eye contact. "Collins left," Mark says. He sounds nervous, and Roger's heart almost stops at the thought that maybe Mark heard him in the shower. How is he going to explain that? There's nothing creepy about jerking off to things that aren't even sexy, but how is that going to sound when he's trying to explain it to Mark? "I'm going out for a bit."

Before he can stop himself Roger asks, "Are you okay?"

Mark smiles, but Roger isn't looking close enough to see the nervous twitch in his lips. "Fine? Why?"

Part of Roger relaxes. Either he's mistake is a secret, or else Mark is willing to pretend he heard nothing. "You were moaning all last night." Roger winces at his own words, quickly adding. "Like you were ready to puke all over the covers. I thought I was going to have to kick your ass onto the floor." It's a very masculine thing to say.

Mark pats his stomach. "All better. Just needed to sleep on it." He smiles, showing Roger that everything really is fine. Neither boy believes that. "I'll be out late. You going to be okay?"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Yes, mom."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Mark is out late.

Roger's thankful for that much. Last minute teasing before Mark is out the door is easy enough, but Roger's not sure how long he could be around his friend before that sick feeling returns.

He decides not to think about it. He strums away at his guitar, even managing to come up with what sounds like a few good chord combinations. He calls up his drummer. It feels like he hasn't talked to his band mates in ages. Not since last February, at least, when Mimi started sneaking out in the middle of the night. Not that it matters, too much. Roger hasn't been able to write a single song since then.

The day passes with only fleeting thoughts of Mark. Roger spends most of the day with his Fender guitar and on the phone with Mathias, being told to go to hell and where the fuck has he been? The band can't survive off of Roger's angst, Goddamnit. They need their lead-fucking-guitarist back

The panic doesn't return until Roger hears the clicks of the front door opening.

"Roger?" Mark can hardly be one step over the foyer before he's calling for him. Roger winces, the notes he was attempting turning sour and short. "Roger?"

Mark pokes his head in. He's pink, not from embracement but from the spring sun. He asks, "You take your AZT yet?"

Roger answers with, "I've been busy." Mark gives a disappointed look.

"I'll get it," he says before disappearing into the bathroom.

Roger's mind raced. He didn't think he could sleep in the same bed as Mark. Not tonight. How the hell is he going to explain that one as they'd been sharing for so long? It isn't like they really shared a bed, just like Roger's fantasies didn't really mean anything. Still, it isn't going to be fun to explain.

Mark throws the pill bottle onto the mattress. "Drink up, big boy," he laughs before closing the door behind him.

Roger waits for Mark to come back, or at least to tell Roger where he went and what he's doing. After a few minutes and none of these things happening, Roger gets up and moves across the floor. He listens at the door, making sure Mark isn't sitting in the living room adjusting the projector, before pushing it open just a creak and taking a peak.

The loft was completely dark, save the lights shining in from the street bellow, and one dim flicker bellow Mark's bedroom door. Roger sighs, making sure to close the door without a sound and going back to bed.

For once, Roger's thankful to have the bed all to himself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It goes on for too long.

Roger starts to get anxious right before he goes to sleep. He puts it off for as long as possible, playing his guitar into the late night and not turning off the lights until he can't keep his eyes open anymore. Even when he does get to sleep, it hardly helps. He's woken up every few hours by the sounds of kicking and clawing and screaming for two rooms over.

Mark's nightmares have started up again.

Every time Roger is woken up by the nightmares he thinks of storming into the other room and demanding to know what the hell is wrong with Mark. Why is he putting himself and Roger through this? Why can't they just go back to how things were?

Then Roger thinks back to his hands clenching the basin of the sink as those feelings of guilt and sickness and self-hatred washed over him. He can't work up the courage to go to Mark.

Tonight Roger wakes up at the end of a particularly bad session. He knows by this time that he's not going to do anything about it, so instead he cover his ears with the pillow and starts chanting song lyrics under his breath. He tries not to think about Mark hurting himself. He tries not to picture the bruises that have been appearing on Mark's arms and legs from all the nightly fighting. He just lies there and waits until the sounds fade enough that he can take the pillow away from his face and breath.

Ten minutes later and Roger still can't sleep. He sighs when he swings himself out of bed, annoyed with Mark and himself and his damn self-control and wondering mind. He stubs his toe on the way out his door and nearly walks into a few walls before he can find the kitchen lights and blind himself.

This doesn't feel heroic, he thinks. It feels lame.

Still, when Roger's hand rests of the doorknob of Mark's room he's not entirely sure he can open the door. He waits for Mark to burst out of the room, crying and begging Roger to forgive him for being suck an idiot. Or maybe he's waiting to chicken out so that he can crawl back to his own room and go a few more weeks without a good night's sleep.

When Mark doesn't come to his rescue and Roger finds his feet unwilling to move backwards, he's force to crack open the door.

The first thing that hits him is the smell of sex. It's strong enough that Roger can almost taste it, and something tells him that last bout of noises he has been blocking out weren't nightmares.

"Who's there?"

Before Roger's eyes can adjust to the low glow of light leaking into the room from the kitchen, some one is sitting up in bed.

Someone with blonde hair cut short and in curls. Someone with the blankets held up over their chest. Someone with a feminine voice, calling out to the silhouette of Roger in the doorway. Someone who is not Mark.

Roger's first instinct is to growl. He doesn't try and repress it. "You must be Tina."

The girl in the bed lifts one hand away from her chest to brush away some hair that has fallen into her face. Roger can see the pinks of her make-up through the pale light. She really could have been a stripper, he figures. She has the body for it. She is probably swimming with diseases.

He swears to kill her if Mark has caught a single one.

"You're Roger." She has the gall to say it like she knows him. Roger's fist convolute, and he has to hold himself back.

"You two done in here?" He asks.

This girl, this Tina that Mark has lowered himself to, actually blushes. "You could hear us?" She asks.

Roger snorts. "You can hear everything through these walls," he says, tapping against the hard plaster. Mark starts to stir. "Look, if you're done, I think you should leave."

In the darkness, he can still make out Tina's frown. "Excuse me?"

Roger shrugs. "It's not like it's that hard to understand. You sleep with a guy, and then you leave. I'm sure you've done it before."

Tina says, "It's not like that."

Roger cringes at her words. It is exactly like that, he wants to tell her. It has to be. She just doesn't get it. Mark and him, they don't need anyone else looking out for them. They definitely don't need someone like her.

All Roger can manage to say is, "Whatever," before he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

While he stalks back to his room he can hear Mark waking up.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Tina told me what happened."

Roger is sitting on his bed, staring at the wall. Moment's before he had heard the front door close, and it had taken a lot out of him not to get up and follow Tina out to gloat.

Mark doesn't seem as ecstatic about the whole mess, though. "How could you say that to her?"

Roger doesn't bother to hold back all his distaste when he says, "Please. Have you even looked at her? She was just using you, Mark. You knew she would have left before morning, anyway."

"She's not like that!" Mark snaps. "It's not like that. What do you mean, she would have left?"

"That kind of girl?" Roger turns around on the mattress so that he can look Mark in the eyes. He wants the words to sting, and he wants to see them hurt. "Even Maureen was better than that. You must be beyond desperate to sink so low."

There's not enough time for Mark to think it over before he says, "Sorry. Not all of us are as high on the dating chain as druggies and strippers."

It's a low blow. "That was different!" Roger yells. It's a small miracle nothing has been thrown yet. Roger is close, poised on the bed and ready to jump if Mark tries dangling the bait again.

"How?" Mark yells back. "How is this any difference?"

There are a million ways that this is different. First off, it's Mark. "You know how, Mark."

"Is it because it's me with the girlfriend?" Roger winces. Amazing how perceptive the cameraman can be. "Is that it, Roger?"

"You had Maureen, didn't you?" Roger explodes. "It's not like you've never had a girlfriend before. I just don't trust this one, that's all."

"Because you were always so nice to Maureen." Mark is so frustrated he's started to pace. Roger watches him, leaning back onto the bed and pouting as Mark's anger pours out. "This has to stop, Roger. You have to stop being so... so..." Mark is waving his hands but he can't summon the words. "Just stop! Stop acting like you have any control over me. Stop acting like this is just some big brother act. For God's sake, get the fuck over the fact that Mimi left you and isn't coming back!"

Mark makes the mistake of screaming the last part in Roger's face. Roger's fist catches Mark in the jaw and sends the smaller man stumbling backwards. Roger's still huffing, but he doesn't do anything more. A good punch can usually stop these fights until later.

Roger's caught off guard when Mark charges, fists pounding into Roger's stomach and knocking him back. Roger still has the advantage. He's bigger, he's stronger, and he's got more anger built up. Mark's the reason he can't sleep at night, Mark doesn't understand that Roger is just trying to protect him, Mark won't get out of his fucking head.

Roger pushes Mark against the hard wall of the apartment. "Fuck you, Mark!" Mark who everyone just wants to protect, who Tina wants to love, who Roger just wants to forget and hold onto every night. "What do you know about anything?"

Before Mark can answer, Roger is grabbing his jacket and his guitar and storming out the door.

It's not like he needs Mark, anyway.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Roger waits until well after midnight to sneak back into the loft.

He figures that two days is enough that his roommate won't be waiting up for him. Still, when he carefully opens Mark's door and tiptoes across the bedroom floor, he knows it was pointless. The body in the bed is still and silent.

Part of Roger wants to turn around and pretend he is proud enough never to try this again. A large part of him is tired enough to admit he can't go another day like this.

When he's safely under the covers he whispers, "Mark?"

There is no answer. Roger winces. "Mark, are you asleep?"

The other boy sighs in frustration when it becomes obvious Roger isn't about to leave. "Roger..." It's a last, desperate attempt at a warning. It doesn't sound like Mark practically means it.

Roger says, "I can't sleep." It's not a lie. Roger's been lucky to get so much as three hours sleep in the last two days. "Can I stay here tonight?"

The mattress gives small moans of protest as someone shifts around. Roger can't see much of anything, but he can feel Mark's warm breath against his neck. Roger starts to relax, scooting himself slightly closer to the other body. "I can't sleep, either," Mark admits. Then he chuckles. It isn't as contagious as when he laughs for Collins, but it's still laughter. "We have to stop talking like this."

"At four in the morning?" Roger asks. He wonders if Mark would mind if he closed his eyes and just drifted to sleep. They could save everything else for morning.

Mark says, "That and... You know, some friends can talk without screaming at each other."

Roger has to wait until he's stopped yawning to answer. "It's different with us," he tells Mark. With them it's something that no one else can understand. Roger likes it that way. Now, if Mark would just shut up and let Roger close his eyes.

Mark does let Roger start to doze off. He doesn't stop his friend when Roger leans in against him, snuggling up to Mark like a three year old with an over stuffed bear. Mark's hands weave into Roger's hair, kneading circles against his scalp. Roger nuzzles against Mark's chest and thinks this is exactly how it should be. This is how their friendship should feel. Roger thinks that he wouldn't mind waking up like this. Doesn't mind Mark being in his bed, or him being in Mark's.

Mark hands don't get slower even when Roger feels ready to pass out. Before he can, Mark says, "I don't mind different."