I know, I know. I should be updating Emotion Sickness. I'm working on it right now, so that should come in a while. If inspiration keeps within my good graces. Can some cute semi-sexy slash make up for my lackluster muse over the past few months?

-Ella

When Roger went through withdrawal, Mark used to sit beside him on the debilitated mattress, rubbing his back. One of the few memories of it that Roger has is Mark's nails gently scraping against his sweat dampened t-shirt, soothing words being whispered in his ear. Mark's hands were always warm and soft, the pads of his fingers rough from his many hours spent tinkering with his camera and film. Although Roger would never admit it, he knew the goose bumps on his skin weren't from his chills.

There had always been something ambiguous about their relationship. Mark and Roger alike would be in casual contact with one another, contact that couldn't be chalked up to a close friendship. Punches, casual pats on the back, even the occasional hug- it was all a little more than just friendly.

A few nights after the breakup with Maureen, Roger woke up to heaving sobs in the next room over. The walls were paper-thin and he could hear each word Mark was muttering. Gathering up his blankets, Roger sat down and wrapped his arm around Mark's shoulder. "Come on," He said "You deserve better. You know you deserve better, Mark." Absentmindedly, his thumb began stroking the back of Mark's neck and his fingers against Mark's shoulder. Roger noticed how fine Mark's hair was, soft like a newborn's. He gently rubbed the base of Mark's neck, feeling the tension leave his room mate. Under normal circumstances, this would be uncomfortable, a tactic to get the other to sleep. But for Mark and Roger, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Roger wasn't necessarily vulnerable after Mimi broke up with him, more confused. He was stripped of the air of spontaneity that he had begun to embody when he dated Mimi. Who was he going to turn to for support and inspiration? "Everything happens for a reason, Rog," Mark had said the previous night as he helped Roger to bed. "Even if it seems like the odds are stacked against you, it will work out in the end." As he left the room, probably to sit in the cold loft in silence, Roger noticed the rueful glance Mark cast his way.

"Mark? Come back." He couldn't believe how soft his voice was, the usual gravel it possessed lost. Mark turns around, obviously uncomfortable in Roger's gaze and with his request.

"I'm not gonna yell or get angry. I'm not like that anymore, you know." Roger sighs, his mind drifting back to the time of April's death. He was still using and would get violent when his drug-induced hazes would start fading. Mark, poor meek Mark, who just wanted to help Roger would suddenly sport bruises for weeks on end. One on a shoulder, a few in each side, and eventually one spreading across his jaw. If he thought hard enough, Roger could still see the phantom bruises spotting Mark's skinny body.

Mark sits gingerly on the foot of the bed, but it still groans in protest. "Do you want to talk or something?"

"Just not about Mimi, alright?" He pushed the covers off himself and gestured for Mark to join him beneath them, making Mark's eyes widen to the size of saucers. Roger shook his head. "It's cold, you fool. Come here."

Mark crawled over and tucked the comforter around his legs. "Alright. What do you want to talk about then?"

Roger shrugged and played with loose threads on his stained pillowcase.

"What's with the sudden shyness?" Mark said as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "You're never one to mince words."

Roger stayed silent, fidgeting aimlessly. "I think.. I just don't want to be alone." He said in a voice just below a whisper. Mark reached out and smoothed some of Roger's hair out of his face.

"It's okay, you know. To not want to be lonely. I know what it's like." Mark replied wistfully, his forehead furrowing.

Roger squinted to make out Mark's features in the dark. He hadn't shaved in a few days, as the strawberry blonde stubble was beginning to show on his chin. The bags under his eyes gave away his late nights of pacing and thinking, checking in on Roger to make sure he was alright and not beating himself up over Mimi. There was a chicken pox scar below his right eye and a pearly scar shaped like a crescent moon beneath his chin. When Roger was clean Mark told him that it was from an accident on the playground when he was a kid, but Roger knew that even in his drugged-out haze, he hadn't seen it. That scar hadn't always been there. Although he didn't look a day over twenty-two physically, his mannerisms and certain aspects of his personality emotionally aged him.

"I'm sorry, Mark." Roger reached out and pulled Mark into a very awkward hug. "I'm sorry."

Mark pushed against his shoulders, struggling to get away from Roger's tight grasp. "Why? What the fuck are you apologizing for?"

"For everything I've ever done wrong and not apologized for." Roger shut his eyes tightly and clung to Mark. "I've been such an asshole and I don't deserve a friend like you."

Mark broke free and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Again, what's with this sudden stream of consciousness?"

Roger ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't fuckin' know. I'm confused as hell right now."

"Well, uh, you're... because of Mimi," Mark struggled to find the right words "It's only... normal for you to be like this."

Roger let out a small laugh. "Mark, we've been far from normal for a long time." Before he had time to answer, Roger had his lips pressed against Mark's, arms lazily draped around his neck.

Please, please don't push me away.

When Mark finally responded, opening his mouth to make room for Roger's roaming tongue, Roger tightened his hold on Mark and deepened the kiss. Roger leans back into the headboard, Mark pressing up against him. He grabbed fistfuls of threadbare wool and pulled the sweater over Mark's head, breaking the kiss only when he felt the scratchy fabric on his face.

The light from the city illuminate's Mark's skin, giving it a blue tint. It's something that Roger would see when he hallucinated after coming down from a heavy high. His hipbones jutted out angrily, darker blue shadowing his ribs. "Stop looking at me like that, Roger." Mark wrapped his arms around his bare torso and interrupted Roger from his reverie. "It's creeping me out."

Roger entwined his fingers in Mark's hair and pressed his lips to Mark's. A warm pair of hands crept up Roger's damp t-shirt and short nails grazed his lower back. Trailing up and down his sides, Mark's hands come to rest on the waistband of Roger's jeans. He curls two fingers in the belt loops and brings Roger's hips dangerously close to his own.

Roger doesn't bother choking back a growl. He brings his lips down to the other boy's neck, sucking and biting the sensitive skin, knowing how little effort it takes to leave a mark. Mark arched into Roger at his touch. "Shhh," Roger murmured into the hollow of Mark's neck. He pressed himself gently against Mark's slender hips, eliciting a groan from the smaller man.

All Roger could focus on was Mark. Mark, Mark, Mark. How Mark's movements against him were delicate and not rushed, how his throaty groans in response to even the lightest touches were almost inaudible against the pounding of Roger's heart. How, even after all this time of Mark being under his skin, it felt like he was pulsing through Roger's bloodstream.

For a minute, they let their thoughts go. It's all hands and hips, teeth clashing with bruised and wet mouths, a symphony of pants and moans.

"Open your eyes, Mark," Roger whispered fiercely, "Please." He was unsure if Mark even understood what he said, let alone would comply, but Mark's eyes opened. He didn't say anything, just kept their gaze locked. If Roger ever doubted Mark's emotions (or lack thereof), that look would have annihilated those doubts. Blue eyes clouded with desire met with fierce emerald.

Mark's gaze hit Roger like a ton of bricks. More than that. There was an undeniable ardor in them, a raw and fiery passion Roger had never seen reflected through anyone else's eyes. Regardless of how Mark tried to keep his emotions at bay, his eyes would always defy him.

Mark was simple, he knew what he liked and what he wanted out of life. Loving him wasn't messy or complicated. He responded to Was it their friendship that made this newfound relationship seem so easy? Or just the fact that Mark was easy to please? All he ever looked for was acknowledgement. A smile in the morning, a note explaining where he was, bringing him home a drink from the Life Cafe. Mark with his perpetually sad eyes who used to perk up when Roger would send a comment in his general direction. Little things that Roger knew anyone else would take for granted. He gave Roger the attention he craved and Roger basked in it.

Roger pulled away from the fervent embrace. Mark's lips were moist and swollen, his cheeks pink from exertion. Roger couldn't help but picture how foggy Mark's glasses would've been, had he been wearing them. His chest glistened and his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat.

"Say something. Anything, Roger." Mark whispered.

"What the fuck am I supposed to say? I just kissed and almost fooled around with my best friend, my room mate of at least six years!" Roger exclaimed, running his hands through sweat-dampened hair, wiping beads off it from his temples.

Mark met his eyes and gave a sheepish, shy smile. He returned with a knowing half-grin.

"At this point, I don't even know what to think." He reached for his glasses.

"About what?"

"You. Me. This. About us." He shrugged. "If you want there to be an us, that is. Because if you don't I completely under-"

Roger held my hand up. "Let's not try to define this just yet. It is what it is. Can't we just be?"

He laughed and curled up beneath the covers. "You sound like Collins."

"Come to think of it, he's said that before." Roger mused, propping himself up with a pillow. "Go to sleep. I just need to think for a little while."

Mark wedged his hand between Roger's pillow and his shoulder, stroking gently. "Alright," he managed, voice thick with sleep. He muttered something unintelligible into the pillow.

Roger stared at the cracking plaster on the wall.

Now what?