Author's Note: You know how I said there would only be nine chapters? I lied. Ten it is. So, when you get to the ending of this on and think, "God, taht ending was crappy" it's because it is not the finale. Just so you know.

Touch and Tell Lullaby
Chapter IX: The Cradle Will Rock

Roger decides that what he needs to do is to stop touching Mark.

All Roger has to do is act like everything is normal, like when they first became friends. Thinking back, all he remembers is wrestling Mark to the floor to grab the camera out of his hands, sitting on Mark's lap on an over crowded subway, passing out on the bed together after a night of drinking, showing Mark how shotgunning worked. All this before Roger had even been attracted to Mark.

He has to get over this before he does something stupid. All it will take is to stop touching Mark, stop spending so much time with him, stop wanting him so bad. Roger's infamous for all different types of addictions. Getting over this obsession with Mark should be just like getting over heroin. Cut yourself off from all temptation until you stop shaking for withdraw.

The thing is heroin can't smile at you. Heroin doesn't stretch out over the bed, brushing against you all night. Heroin never kisses you goodbye or tickles the back of your neck or lies out across your lap.

The thing is part of Roger doesn't want to get over Mark. Roger, he never feels whole unless he's with someone and Mark, well, he certainly someone. Every time he lets his thoughts go there he has to remind himself about what Collins said, about them getting hurt. Roger doesn't want to break Mark like he broke Mimi and April. He doesn't want Mark to freak out and abandon him if he found out about Roger's obsession.

So now that he knows he has a problem he just has to work towards sobriety. This means no kissing, no hugging, no snuggling, no touching of any kind. It's just a week, he tells himself. If he can do this for a week everything will be fine. He'll forget all about this "crush" he has on his best friend. He can go a week without doing anything too drastic.

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

The brick is cold and scratches at Roger's palms. His shoes are buried in snow, or what use to be snow and is now brown and gray mush that sinks into clothes and numbs the skin. The night wind is biting, pushing the temperature bellow zero and scaring saner individuals inside. Roger is burning up.

It's outside of The Pyramid, and Roger has this boy slammed against the wall of the alley with their lips smashed together. He's pouring out all the frustration from a week of biting down on his cheek to stop himself from touching Mark and a dozen cold showers when Mark doesn't stop touching him. This kiss is all tongue and heat and teeth and possession. Roger isn't looking for sex. He's looking for an outlet.

This boy who made the mistake of smiling at Roger when he got off stage, he's being pushed against the bricks hard enough to bruise. "It's cold." Roger bites down on the boy's earlobe hard enough to make him jump. Once he's done whimpering he says, "Maybe we should go inside."

Roger is using more teeth than lips as he works his way down the kid's jaw. "Shut up," he growls before yanking down this other boy's pants. With Roger's hands between his legs, the guy stops complaining.

This bleached blond Roger has dragged into the back alley, his hair is just a little too long. His eyes are too dark. His face is too pinched. His body is too lean. As far as Roger's concerned, he's not even that good looking. Yet here he is with his fist around this boy's bits. "Faster, babe, faster," the boy moan, and Roger wants to tell him to shut up. With his eyes closed, this heat in his hands could be anyone. If only this stupid, blond kid would stop talking and just enjoy the ride.

This isn't what Roger intended. This is suppose to be a test, just to see if Roger can get past the whole liking boys' thing without laying one hand on his best friend. He isn't meant to wind up leaning against the guy, eyes shut and Mark's name on his lips.

It doesn't take long for this boy to starts moving faster, bucking uncomfortably. Minutes later he's screaming and spilling all over Roger's hand.

Roger rubs the mess off onto the other boy's shirt. Through half hooded eyes the blond stares down at Roger's crotch. He licks his lips and asks, "Want some help there."

Roger doesn't want to take the chance of what his imagination will do with this guy's hand down his pants. "I'm not gay," he explains. Despite the fact that he's just given a hand job to some random fan, despite the fact that Roger can't go more than a few hours without thinking of a certain boy, he can't be gay. It's fine for Collins and Angel and Joanne, but Roger has had girlfriends. He can't be gay, because that would mean that he really wants Mark as much as it feels like he does.

The blond just smiles and leans in. One of his hands runs down Roger's sides, cupping him through his jeans. Roger moans and arches into the touch. "Fine with me," the boy replies. He's licking Roger's jaw. The hot spit freezes to his face the moment the guy moves away. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

This blond kid with his eyebrow pierced and his nose too long and his forehead not high enough, he'll never mean anything to Roger. "No offense. You're just not what I'm looking for," Roger says. A sort of ill feelings washes over him as he releases what it is he's doing in this back alley. He shakes his head and pulls the boy's hand away from his body.

Roger is already moving down the street, away from yet another mistake. "No offense, but you're just not my type."

Roger can't say it, but he's just not Mark.

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

The first thing Roger notices when he gets to the loft is that the whole place smells like autumn.

There are a number of dishes set out on the table. Roger sets his equipment down and wanders over to take a look. Three small plastic tubs filled with yams, green beans, and some brownish gunk Roger isn't sure is safe to eat. In the middle of the table is a pot filled with some sort of stew. It reminds him of things his mother use to cook around Halloween and Thanksgiving

He dips his finger into the sweet potatoes. It's cold, but still taste fine. Roger tears open a pack of plastic spoons and digs out a chunk of the orange sweet. "Mark?" He stuffs the spoon full of yams in his mouth and walks over to his bedroom. There's no one there. "Hey, Mark, you here?" He yells, spitting out chunks of food. He swallows down the rest of the potatoes, eyes watering as the huge lump works down his throat. Around the coughing he manages to crock, "Mark?"

Roger hits himself in the chest a few times to clear his airway. Out of the corner of his eye he catches movement.

Mark is curled up on their sofa, arms wrapped around a pillow tight enough to strangle it. Roger grabs another spoon full of sweet potatoes before carefully making his way across the loft to kneel down at Mark's side.

It's weird to see Mark asleep without Roger and not beat himself up over nightmares. All his energy, it seems, is devoted to protecting this pillow. His whole body is curled around it, arms shaking from the strength of the grip he has it in. If it weren't for the small whimpers and moans being stifled by the pillow, it would have almost been peaceful.

"Hey, Mark, wake up." Roger gives his friend a shake, and Mark just snores and kicks away. Rolling his eyes, Roger tries again, a little harder this time. "Mark! Mark! You awake?"

Mark groans, but opens his eyes. He squints, trying to focus on Roger's face. The pillow drops to the floor when Mark reaches up to brush the sleep from his face. "Roger? You back?"

"No," Roger rolls his eyes. He brushes some of the hair off of Mark's forehead. "This is the ghost of Christmas past."

When Mark yawns he looks adorable. Roger wonders if maybe he should start that program that some junkies do, the snapping a rubber band around your wrist every time you think about alcohol or drugs. Only he'd do it every time he had the urge to kiss Mark. Of course, that meant Roger's hand would be a mangled, red stomp in less than two weeks. "Fuck off," Mark mutters, nuzzling against the couch. Roger picks the forgotten pillow of the floor and holds it out to Mark.

"You want your teddy bear?" He teases, shaking the small throw pillow in front of his friend's face.

Without opening his eyes, Mark shoves the pillow out of Roger's hand. Roger laughs and throws it back at him. Mark moans, rolling onto his side so that he can look up at Roger. "You didn't tell me you had a show tonight."

The playful mood is killed pretty quickly. Roger goes red and looks down at the worn fabric of the couch, picking at a few of the loose threads. "It wasn't a big deal. There was hardly any one there." Honestly, Roger can't stand to have Mark around too much. It's like sticking a heroin addict in the room with a mountain of needles. Besides, Mark really didn't need to know about Roger's after party.

Without any hesitation, Mark says, "I would have been there." He sounds so damn sincere that it hurts.

"Where'd this food come from?" Roger asks, starting to stand up so that he doesn't have to be so close to Mark. Before he can get too far, Mark is reaching up and grabbing hold of his wrist, tugging Roger back towards him.

"Maureen," Mark answers, grunting as he moves so that he's not taking up the entire couch. Mark pats the cushion right above his head. Roger looks between the uncomfortable, stolen café chairs back to the Mark. The real trick, he reminds himself, is to avoid temptation. "I stopped by after work and pick some up. You know she's enrolled in this cooking course? I think Joanne is making a house wife out of her."

Roger snorts. "Good luck." He picks himself up off the floor and takes the offered seat. When he sits down he closes his eyes, lowering himself as slowly and carefully as possible to make sure he doesn't touch Mark. "More likely Maureen's got her eyes on the cute instructor or something like that."

Mark gives Roger a nasty look, slightly dampened by the fact that half of his face is red and dented from sleep. "Come on, Roger. I think Maureen is really trying for Joanne."

"I was just kidding around. Calm down. No need to go into 'protect Maureen' mode. Don't you think you did enough of that when you two were dating?" It's hard to bite down the hint of jealousy in his voice. It's been over a year since Mark and Maureen broke up, and he still is such a sucker when it comes to her. What he ever saw in Maureen is a mystery to Roger. Then again, Maureen isn't exactly the only person Mark has ever befriended despite popular opinion.

Roger squirms away when Mark snuggles closer to him. Unfortunately, it's hard to go to far when he's between his best friend and the armrest. "It's probably cold by now," Mark says. "And... Well, we don't exactly have a hot plate."

Roger sniggers and Mark gives him another dirty look. "I told you they thought I was starving you. They'll be calling social services on me any day now." Roger is joking, but if one of his friends even talks about removing Mark from the apartment he will attack. Even if he's not allowed to touch Mark, he can't imagine trying to live without him again.

"What?" Mark asks. "Oh, you mean the food?" He shrugs. One of his hands is playing with the loose zipper on Roger's jacket. This shouldn't make Roger's heart pick up, but it does. "You've been having a bad week." Roger winces. Mark doesn't know what Roger's going through, of course, but he's not suppose to pick up on the fact that Roger is very nearly going through withdraw. "You've been acting weird lately," Mark points out, eyes staying on Roger.

Roger looks down at his lap, which is so much easier than meeting Mark's eyes. He pushes his friend's hand away from him. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Roger, you -" Mark sounds ready for a lecture, and Roger starts steeling himself for another one of their yelling matches. But then Mark is closing his eyes and muttering something under his breath. Roger leans in as close as he can without being obvious. He's pretty certain Mark is counting to ten. "You... You don't have to, okay," Mark says after he's calmed down. "Just..." Mark takes another deep breath. Roger realizes it must be really hard, to not be frustrated with him. "Remember that I'm here for you. Whenever you need me."

Roger's stomach knots up, and the sudden ill feeling that strikes him is probably due more to the guilt than the potatoes. He tries to smell his clothing without letting Mark onto what he's doing. Suddenly, Roger worries that Mark will be able to smell the sex on him and just know what he had done after the show. Roger is pressed so close to the armrest he can feel the wood beneath the layers of fluff. Actually, with their couch this isn't too hard to do. Still, it's the further he can get from Mark without getting off the sofa. "Very self sacrificing of you."

Mark tries to smile, but it looks too sad for Roger to believe. "It's kind of in my job description," he says. Roger raising an eyebrow. He plops the rest of the spoon of yams into his mouth. He needs something in his mouth to take his distraction off of everything else. "You know, the one where I'm your best friend," Mark explains. His grin is little more realistic this time. Mark reaches out to flick the end of the spoon dangling from Roger's lips. "Roger, I've seen you on the floor vomiting up blood and alcohol and stomach acid while you shot yourself up. Nothing you can do at this point can freak me out."

It's not the sweetest thing Mark could have said, but it's completely true. Roger winces, taking the spoon out of his mouth and grinding his teeth together to make the ticklish feeling left over from the vibrations go away. "Sorry about not telling you about the gig," he says, leaning back against the table. This hardly makes him feel any less guilty.

Mark starts to answer but ends up yawning instead. Roger smiles, patting his friend on the head. "Looks like it's past your bed time." Before Roger can move his hand away from Mark's head, the other boy has hold of his wrist. Roger freezes when Mark links their fingers together and starts moving Roger's hand through his hair. He leans back into the touch.

"I've got a headache," he explains, and Roger can only nod. When Mark drops his hand away, Roger keeps massaging his friend's temple. It can't hurt to help Mark feel better, he thinks. Probably, this doesn't even count as real touching. "Tough day at filming," Mark says. "We ended up hiking half way across the city." He reaches down to rub one of his knees. "I think I might be out of shape."

"You look fine to me." The words are out before Roger has time to think of them. He closes his eyes, hitting his head against the wall as quietly as possible, and mentally berating himself for being such an idiot.

Mark doesn't notice because he's too busy nuzzling up into Roger's hand. "You should see me when I'm not half starved living in a loft with limited power and water supplies."

There both quiet for a while, Mark with his eyes closed and Roger enjoying the feel of his fingers slipping through Mark's hair. One week without touching and all it's done is made Roger ache. Collins had said that him and Mark had been getting closer. If this is part of that closeness, these touches that are shared casually but sure as hell feel like something more, Roger isn't sure he can give them up no matter how many weeks he goes. "Mark?"

Roger presses harder into Mark's scalp and the other boy's moans, arching into the pressure. Roger's throat goes dry. He shifts around in the couch so that he can cover his less than uninterested areas. "Mmm?"

"Do you..." Roger pauses, trying to think of how to word this. It might have been easy for Collins, but Roger has no idea what to say to Mark that won't give him away. "Do you think they're anything weird about us?"

Mark tips his head back, opening one eye. "You mean like the fact that our priorities go art, beer, food, electricity, running water? Or that we hang out with people who think dancing and screaming in the middle of a crowded café is a good form of self-expression? Or that the last time that either of us held a steady job was when I was in high school?"

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes. He wraps his arms around his chest and scoots closer to Roger. Roger, he really wishes it were his arms wrapped around Mark. That is the sort of thing you can't do, he reminds himself. But he's already on this couch with Mark draped over him and his hand tangled in Mark's hair. If this were any one else, April or Mimi, Roger would already be dragging them off to bed. "Not really."

Roger chuckles, hand still running through Mark's hair. He's tempted to press harder, just to see if he can make Mark moan again. "Not like that stuff," Roger says. "I mean... Do you think we're weird..." Roger trails off, trying to figure out how to ask Mark if he thinks it's odd that they sleep together, that they lean on each other when they walk, that they kiss each other goodbye. Doesn't Mark worry about why they do these things? "As friends?"

Mark grunts when he pushes himself up, tearing himself away from Roger so that he's on his knees and has a good grip on the couch to keep from falling forward. Roger tries to swallow down his anxiety, but he's pretty sure he has managed to give himself away. Mark is going to hate him. Mark is going to call him a pervert. Mark is going to leave.

Roger flinches when he's best friend brushes some of Roger's hair from his face. "I don't care how weird we are together," he says. Roger, his mouth goes dry when Mark says this, keeping eye contact the entire time, trying not to shake. "I... I wouldn't stop being friends with you because it can get a little crazy around here." Mark grins and Roger manages a smile back, but only because he always smiles when Mark does nowadays. "You're my best friend Roger. Nothing is going to change that."

Roger, he's almost desperate enough to make Mark swear it. If he could just make him promise that no matter what Roger did, no matter how screwed up he got, Mark wouldn't leave him. Because as far as Roger is concerned he is screwed up past the point of help. One week of no touching and he's giving hand jobs to some random guy in an alleyway. One week without touching and he gets hard just running his fingers through Mark's hair.

Mark is already lying back down, pressed so close to Roger they're nearly sharing the same space on the couch, and it feels so right. Roger knows he shouldn't. This addition, it's just like heroin and he can't let himself fall back into the habit of being so close to Mark. But the bedroom is so far away, and Mark is already curled around Roger, half asleep. It can't hurt to lay here with him, and the couch is too small for it to be Roger's fault if Mark ends up in his arms and if both boys are pressed together.

The thing is heroin isn't half as addictive as touching.

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

To prove to Mark that Roger is fine, he spends most of the next week hanging out with his best friend. Roger keeps reminding himself that Mark is his friend, his best friend, his brother. Mark is his all-important confidant and occasional caretaker. Mark is everything to Roger, and he can't risk that.

More importantly, he doesn't want to risk spilling his heart to Mark only to get himself hurt.

Still, there is no rule against best friends seeing movies together or going out to lunch occasionally. If Roger pays it's because he's band is bringing in money, not because it's a date thing. If Mark starts smiling more and leaning into Roger when they walk together, it's because they're closer than brothers.

The important thing, Roger reminds himself, is not to do anything stupid. The important thing is to not get his hopes up every time Mark kisses him, and he does do that a lot. Casual and friendly kisses, and maybe Roger should stop him because every time Mark kisses him, Roger pictures him naked and sweating and in positions that are definitely not brotherly. He just can't seem to gather the courage to push Mark away.

In fact, Roger starts doing things he knows will get him a kiss, like showing up at filming. That will get him one every time.

"Roger!" Mark jumps on him the second Roger is inside the small empty warehouse they're using as a sound stage. "I didn't know you were dropping by."

The old warehouse is set up to look like an apartment, and manages to look even better than the boy's own loft. This new film Mark's making, he managed to get a backer for it after the premier of 'Today 4 U' at the local indie film festival. It didn't win anything, but someone out there took an interest.

On his tiptoes, Mark's places a quick kiss against Roger's cheek. Roger wraps his and Mark's fingers together before returning the kiss. It's all just friendly, he tells himself, but that doesn't stop his stomach from twisting in knots every time it happens. "Thought I'd take you to lunch."

Mark pulls away, holding up a finger. "Give me one minute," he says before running off to talk to some tall, lean looking guy. Roger growls when the stranger leans in as Mark talks, smiling and laughing at something the filmmaker says.

It's not jealousy, Roger tell himself, glaring when Mark's coworker puts a hand on his friend's shoulder. It's just this clean-shaven, healthy looking guy who keeps smiling at Mark, he looks like the type who would sell out in an instant. Mark is better that that. He just doesn't want to see Mark hang out with the wrong sort of people. He doesn't want Mark to get hurt when that guy ends up leaving for more publicized, mainstream things.

The thing is, Roger doesn't even believe himself. It is about jealousy. It's all about Mark.

The second Mark is within distances, Roger puts an arm around his shoulder. "Who was that?" He manages to sound pretty casual, considering that all he can think about is punching the guy out.

Mark looks behind him, waving at the man he had been talking to. Roger, he's look is a lot less friendly. "That's Jesse," Mark explains. "He's a big help on set. Oh, and a great actor." Mark leans into Roger, and Roger might tighten his grip a little more than entirely necessary. "You should meet him. You two have a lot in common."

It takes a lot for Roger not to growl. The way Jesse keeps looking at Mark, he can think of at least one thing they have in common. "How long you have?" He's leading Mark towards the street, wondering how difficult would be to talking him into never coming back. That's insane, of course. Mark says he'd do anything for Roger, but film ranks above anything in Mark's book.

Mark swings his camera bag over his shoulder. "I think we can get half an hour," he says.

Outside, the entire city is dressed for Christmas. Roger's never been too fond of the cold, but it does give him an excuse to lean even closer to Mark. With the snow and the wind and the biting cold, body heat is just the sort of thing they need to share.

Mark wraps his own arms around himself. "You're shivering," Roger points out, noticing the way Mark trembles in his arm the second they're outside. Even without his arm around Mark's shoulder he can see his friend shaking.

"It's cold," Mark says. Roger pulls him a little closer. A lady on the street gives them a strange look and he just flicks her off. Mark laughs as the woman walks by them, nose in the air.

With Mark pressed so close to Roger he can hear his friend's teeth chattering. He rubs his hand up and down Mark's arm, hoping to create some heat. "You need a new jacket," He says, pulling at the plaid fabric. He can practically feel Mark's sweater through the worn down wool of the old coat.

Mark shrugs, his own hands doing their best to keep himself warm as well. "I like this one. It's comfortable."

Roger rolls his eyes. He unzips his own jacket, slipping one arm out. Before Mark can start to protest he wraps the free martial around his friend's shoulder. It's not much, but Roger figures it might help. It has nothing to do with the fact that there is now one less layer of clothing and Mark is pressed so close Roger can feel a tingle through his entire side.

"It's my jacket from the fucking tenth grade!" Roger says, scowling when Mark tries to get away and make Roger put his own coat back on. He tightens his grip and there isn't much Mark can do but send Roger a warning look, which goes completely ignored. "It's too big for you, anyway. Not too mention it's been through hell and back."

"I like it," Mark argues. With one hand he twists his and Roger's fingers together, grabbing a fistful of Roger's coat so that he can pull both of them further around him. Now it's more than the occasional old woman giving the pair an odd look. Roger ignores them. He could care less what they think, especially with Mark walking curled up in his arm like that.

"We should burn it," Roger says. "We're running out of paper, and that thing deserves to be burned." Mark shakes his head fiercely, nearly tripping and taking Roger with him. Some how both boys manage to keep their balance. Roger just sighs, picking at one of the loose threads of the coat. "Mark, you have a jacket problem," he says, trying to sound as deep serious as he can while smiling. "You need to let go of the jacket."

"Never," Mark growls, sticking his nose in the air for a look of defiance. It's hardly frightening. Roger chuckles and pokes Mark in the side. He yelps, nearly jumping out of Roger's arm, but Roger refuses to let him go. Even laughing, Roger makes sure to keep Mark close until Mark stops trying to wiggle away and instead settles on glaring.

"That hurt," Mark complains, rubbing his side.

Roger shakes his head. "You're such a wimp." Still laughing, he steers them into a small Chinese restaurant. "Sound good?" He asks, already holding the door open and ushering Mark inside. He really doesn't want to leave his friend in the cold any longer than he has to with Mark shivering like that.

Inside, Roger has to let go off Mark so that he can slip out of his jacket. Despite the cozy heat of the restaurant, Mark doesn't take his own coat off, instead giving Roger a defiant smirk. "You're gonna burn up," Roger warns.

Mark says, "You're not going to get it."

The hostess glares at them as she takes an order over the phone. Mark holds up two fingers and she waves to give her a second. Roger leans in close to his friend, whispering, "I'll get it from you eventually."

Mark leans back, lips right against Roger's ear. "You'll have to rip it off of me." Roger shivers when Mark's hot breath brushes over his chilled skin. If Mark only knew how tempting that sounds.

Mark takes a small step away from Roger. He sniffs the air, licking at his lips. Roger has to start shifting his weight around, wondering what possessed him to wear these jeans instead of a baggier pair. "It smells good in here." Mark says, smelling the air like it's some sort of religious experience. Roger curls in hands into fist, nails digging into his palms. He did not want to kiss Mark. He did not want to kiss Mark. He is not going to kiss Mark.

"Two," The older women asks when she finally gets time for Roger and Mark. Roger nods and Mark answers, "Yes, please." The woman smiles and leads them to their seats.

Mark, he's all over the menu the second it's in his hands. He groans, one hand patting his stomach. "It all sounds so good."

Roger laughs. "Don't stuff yourself," he warns. "I don't want to be the one who has to explain that you had to go home early from filming because of a tummy ache." Actually, it doesn't sound like a horrible plan. It would keep Mark away from that Jesse creep, and Roger is use to the complaining after Mark has eaten too much. They could just curl up in bed, keeping each other warm and company for the rest of the night.

Roger shakes his head, hiding his face behind the menu in case he looks as discomfited as he feels. He needs to get these thoughts under control. He looks around the restaurant, forcing his eyes to go anywhere that isn't Mark's lips. In the booth across from them is an odd looking couple. The man is dressed in a fine suit, hair neatly trimmed and clean-shaven. The girl across from him, her hair is long enough that it disappears behind the tabletop, each chunk a different color with the occasional string or beads twisted in. She is wearing glasses that take up at least half of her face with a pink tint to them. Her clothes look like she might have made them herself while high on weed. Roger wouldn't have even guessed they were a couple if they didn't keep staring at each other and leaning in for kisses.

He snickers, which earns Mark's attention. The other boy lowers the menu, giving Roger a questioning look. "Odd couple," Roger says, nodding to the pair. "It's like watching Benny make out with that crazy old psychic on the second floor."

Mark says, "Be nice, Roger," but he's smiling. If part of Mark's job is to be there whenever Roger needs him, the other part is telling Roger to be nice.

Roger shrugs, still grinning. "Wonder what she sees in him. They don't exactly look like a match made... Well, anywhere."

"Maybe we can't see it," Mark suggestions. "Maybe it's something beyond the physical."

Roger raises an eyebrow. "Collins?"

Mark laughs and nods. "After Maureen left and I... You know." It's hard to tell if Mark is blushing since the cold wind is turning everyone's face red, but Roger is willing to bet part of Mark's color isn't due to the winter weather. After Maureen first dumped him Mark didn't exactly have the best reaction. "Collins, he said that I was more jealous than angry because Maureen, she wasn't letting herself be restricted. Gay and straight and all. They're just preferences, not iron clad ideals. Love shouldn't be limited to like... Physical forms and stuff." Mark shrugs. "I don't think I believed him at the time, but he's probably right."

Roger, he can see where Collins is coming from with that. "He tends to be, about that sort of thing. I mean, why let society tell you who to lust after and all? Life is too temporary to fence yourself into boxes for the rest of the world. It's all about emotion, feeling, that sort of thing."

"Yeah," Mark says. "Yeah. I think that, too." Mark is studying him across the booth. Roger doesn't know what he's looking for, but he hopes whatever it is Mark will like it.

He must, because when Mark looks away he is smiling, and the pink in his cheeks is definitely not winter related. "You think they'll take our order any time this century?" Mark's hands are trying to tear up the napkin while he says this, looking anywhere but Roger's face. When he does meet Roger's eyes, his grin is almost glowing.

Roger smiles back, but he can't help but feel that he's missed something.

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

Back stage at The Dive, Roger is trying to get his guitar in tune. On the other side of the thin walls he can hear the start up band playing up the crowd with the closing rifts. His own sound is a little less heavy and a lot more static. It doesn't take long for his drummer to point out, "You need a new amp, man."

Roger keeps going through his warm up waltz, occasionally having to stop and kick the side of his equipment. "Don't have the cash."

The other band starts piling in, letting the screams of the crowd in to the backstage. "We've played at least two gigs a week for the past month!" Tony says, grabbing a fresh beer and trying to drown it before it's their turn on stage. He scowls as some of the club's employees start hauling his drum set out. "Drop that and die."

A huge guy in black flexes his arm muscles, one of which is about twice the size of Tony's head. The message is pretty clear. "We've got it," he grunts before they disappear onto the stage.

Jarred snorts, unplugging his bass from his equipment as the club's hired hands start carrying it away. "He wastes it all on that hot blond of his." Jarred says this with a wicked sneer, which Tony seems to find hilarious.

Roger gives his amp one more good kick before it's gone. "You guys don't know what you're talking about," he says. Jarred and Tony aren't listening. They're both swallowing down the last of their drinks, Tony threatening that big guy again. The man in black is starting to look very close to knocking out the drunken musician. "I never went out with that chick."

Mathias pats Roger on the shoulder. "I think they're talking about your friend, Mark."

Roger can feel his cheeks heating up. "Oh..."

The manager pops into the back, glaring and Tony as he throws his empty beer bottle at the trashcan and misses. In his suit and tie, banging his cell phone against his palm, he looked like a bad mafia impersonator. "You boys gonna get your ass on the stage anytime soon?" He asks. "People don't like waiting."

Tony hops down of the bar he'd planted himself on and picks up his drumsticks. He plays a few air beats and mutters something that only Jarred can hear. When the manager turns around to talk on his cell, Jarred flicks him off. Both boys start laughing again, nearly tripping two of the stage employees, who get an earful from Tony.

In all this commotion, Roger still finds time to be embarrassed. "It's not like that," he explains to Mathias. "I'm just his friend."

Mathias clearly doesn't believe him. "Look, man, I don't care who you're with, right? Me and the guys, we don't need to know about your private life. So long as your showing up for practice again 'stead of shutting yourself up and acting all-"

Roger raises a hand to cut Mathias off. "You guys really think I'm..."

"Hey fags, you coming?" Jarred yells, motioning Mathias and Roger onto the stage. When he walks out there is a round of cheers as the crowd works themselves up for the next act.

"Ignore them," Mathias tells him as Roger starts to growl and stalk after his fellow band mate. "They're assholes. And I think Jarred is sort of jealous."

"I swear it's not like that," Roger shakes his head, trying to get through to Mathias before they go on stage. For some reason, it's really important that his friend believe him. If Roger can't lie to himself, there should at least be someone fooled into think Roger doesn't want Mark. "Mark he... He isn't into me like that."

"I really don't care who the fuck is in who," Mathias says. "When have I ever cared who you're fucking, Roger? Doesn't matter if your just screwing around with him-"

"I wouldn't-" Roger starts to protest, because Mathias is hitting a little to close to what Roger is afraid of.

"-or if you're trying to get in his pants and haven't got the balls to do it yet. Hell, Roger, for all I care you can go out and fuck a goat. Just as long as you keep singing like you have been." Mathias shrugs. "That's really all that matters to me."

"It's not like that!" Roger yells, but Mathias is walking out on stage and Roger's words are overpowered by the fierce energy coming from the crowd. Roger isn't left with much choice but to shake his head and follow along.

On the stage the band is tuning up. A group of girls, most of them tweaked out of their minds, are standing at the foot of the stage reaching up, screaming Roger's name. It's more intoxicating than alcohol, though not quite up there with smack or touching.

It doesn't take long for Roger eyes to land on Mark. He's standing towards the back, hands stuffed into his pockets and trying to get out of the way of some of the dancing, drunk couples that keep bumping into him. When he sees Roger his face brightens and he jumps to his tiptoes, waving over the heads of the crowd. He looks like a seventeen year old boy fresh from Scarsdale among the backdrop of club wear, pumping fists, and grinding bodies.

Roger knows he looks goofy, but he waves back.

Covering his mic, Jarred leans over to tell something to Mathias. He has to scream to be heard over the crowd. "He's flirting with that damned boyfriend of him again."

Roger plays the first few bars of Musetta's Waltz and the audience goes crazy. More to the point he's telling Jarred to shut the fuck up and get ready to play.

Mathias says something back, and Roger only catches the last part. "-good tonight."

Roger's lips almost touch the spit covered head of the microphone when he leans in. "We've got a fucking hot audience," He growls, his voice husky and hoarse. By the end of the night it will be stuck like that. He does it anyway, because the crowd loves him for it. The girls in front, they practically jump on stage, waving their arms and screaming incoherent lines at him. "Gonna make you scream."

His eyes never leave Mark.