More Emotion Sickness is slowly trucking along, writing and re-writing itself. So here's a little scrap of something to tide anyone who's waiting over. I'm sorry it's taking so long- I really am.

Thanks to fadeinonme, EvilEatingSanta, L.M. Ward, Jess, and LoverFaery for their sweet reviews.

When Roger loses his temper, he gets truly angry. Not even his conscience can keep him from throwing things, breaking glass, and even getting violent. Withdrawal was his lowest point. Bruises began to appear on Mark and Roger couldn't remember. He shuddered thinking of all the times he'd question about the cuts and bruises and Mark would beat around answering or change the subject completely. And there was that one time when April came home with a black eye and a bleeding lip, her emaciated form shaking. He had never wanted to hurt someone more than that dealer. But Roger was too busy worrying about getting his next hit- he let it slide.

Seeing Mark like that, sprawled out and panting on his bed, both aroused and scared him. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel like that about Mark.

Instead of dwelling on their encounter, Roger thought back to the time when he and Mark first met.

"I'm not trying to film anything- I swear!" Roger heard an exasperated voice above the classical music that was resonating softly through the gallery.

"I'm sorry sir, but you're going to have to put that away," The other voice was stern and authoritative. "It's against the rules to bring in any recording device."

"But I'm not filming the pictures, just the people who are here."

Roger craned his neck to see above the line in front of the bar. He could see a blonde in glasses arguing with a man wearing a black shirt with the words "Security" emblazed across the back. Both of their hands were on the same antique black camera that looked about the same age of the two of them combined, probably more.

"If you want to film, go somewhere else." The man spat, shoving the camera back into the blonde's hands. "There are enough fucking artists in this place anyway."

The film maker scowled and tucked the camera into his bag. He approached the bar and tossed a few dollars onto the table. "Just give me something hard."

Roger cocked an eyebrow and began mixing ingredients. "So you're a director?"

"More of a film maker, I guess. I just dropped out of Brown. Today, actually."

"Cool, man. College isn't for anyone with a creative mind. They just stifle it with all the term papers and standardized tests. The real artists don't need a degree to say that they're talented. They fuckin' know it." Roger poured the mixture into a glass and handed it to the other man.

"It's just a piece of paper." He shook his head and gulped down half of the drink. "I'm Mark. Mark Cohen."

"Roger Davis." He took a swig from his own beer bottle. "So you dropped out of Brown? Where are you staying?"

Mark shrugged. "I haven't figured that out yet. My parents would kill me if I tried to go back to Scarsdale."

"Scarsdale? Did you go to high school there?" Roger squinted and tried to place a younger face with the name.

"Yep," Mark rolled his eyes. "Worst years of my life."

Roger nodded. "Yeah, I think I remember you. Didn't you spend a lot of time in the library?"

Mark blushed and finished the second half of his drink. "Either that or get my ass kicked by some punks in the cafeteria. I think you stole my bag once, flushed all my books down one of the toilets."

The other man cringed, running a hand through bleached hair. "Man, I'm sorry. I was such a fucking asshole back then. I thought I was so cool pulling stunts like that. That was so immature and high school."

Mark shrugged. "No need to apologize. Nobody knows who they are at that age. We were all just trying to get by. No harm, no foul."

"Let me tell you what, how about you crash at my place until you can get your feet back on the ground?"

"That's not necessary," Mark had insisted. "I'll figure something out."

"Come on man, it's the least I can do. Karma's telling us both something right now," He scribbled an address and phone number down on a cocktail napkin. "So the offer stands whether you want it or not."

Roger got into the shower early that morning, needing a release of some kind, any kind. Waking up next to your best friend is bad enough, let along having to try to explain an out-of-place erection. Roger used to lock himself in there for hours on end until his mind was clear. There was something about the steam and hot water (while it lasted) that gave him the bone-melting relaxation that nothing else could.

He had done some of his best songwriting in the loft's tiny bathroom. With its porcelain tub and tiled walls, the acoustics had always been so rich and full. Just right for composing his next ballad. Roger hadn't finished a song in a while. Too long, if you asked him.

Roger started the shower and stripped quickly, wanting to spend as much time possible under the hot spray. He shifted, trying to get the water to hit the kink in his neck just right. He hadn't slept well that night and the little moments of rest he did get were plagued with guilt and restlessness. He rubbed the shampoo into his hair, creating a thick lather. Usually his showers were quick and cold; the luxury of hot water being one of the only things Mark would take advantage of. As the water slowly began to taper to room temperature and then to freezing, he wrapped a towel around his waist and looked into the foggy mirror.

Roger had always wondered why his looks were so special to people. When he looked in the mirror he saw dull green eyes, rimmed with gray bags, skin that was sallow from his lack of sleep, and scars from various childhood accidents and bar brawls. Roger didn't think he was anything extraordinary.

A knock on the door interrupted him.

"Are you done yet?" Mark asked through the wood. "I have to use the bathroom."

Roger gathered up his clothes and slipped past Mark, leaving the door ajar.

"Any hot water left?" Mark called after him.

"Probably not," Roger turned and gave him a wicked smile.

Once he was fully dressed (in clothes that probably needed a good washing), Roger meandered over to the couch with his guitar to pick out a few long overdue melodies. It gave him an excuse to warm up with Musetta's Waltz anyway, which he was sure Mark was sick of hearing about five years ago.

"You're going out?" He asked, feigning disinterest.

"Yeah, I might go to temple."

"Mark, you never go to temple. What gives?"

"I... just need to think about some things. It's always been a good place to sort out my thoughts." Mark replied. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't frequent the local synagogue more often, for the relief it gave him.

"We don't need to stand here shooting the breeze to figure out why." Roger muttered, hitting a sour note that resonated through the loft.

"It's not like that." Mark sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I just need quiet time to think about what happened. Maybe this isn't as easy for me to sort out as it is for you."

"And I'm not saying that you can't go to temple," Roger spat. "So if you want to go, do it for yourself, not for my sake."

"You exasperate me sometimes, Roger." Mark sat down next to him and reached for his hand. Roger pulled it away from him, not angrily, but still away. "But when you pull shit like this, I don't know how to react. You never seem to notice that or care."

Roger glanced up at Mark, who was beginning to get that hurt puppy dog look. Roger made Mark jump through hoops to prove himself worthy of his attention and Mark came back every time with his proverbial tail between his legs. And as time progressed, the hoops got higher and more difficult to get through. But Mark would always try, just to make Roger happy.

"Come on," Roger said, squeezing Mark's shoulder. "You know I don't mean it like that."

"No, no I don't know!" Mark crossed his arms.

Roger tilted a smooth chin up to his own and softly pressed his lips to Mark's.

Mark muttered something intelligible into Roger's mouth.

"What?"

"There's no word for conscience in Hebrew."

"Come here you loser." Roger grinned and curled his hands around Mark's belt loops, tugging the other man into his lap.

"It's alright," Roger whispered into Mark's neck, turning his head to give him a long, reassuring kiss before pulling another one of Mark's threadbare sweaters over his head. He couldn't help but notice how fragile Mark looked, all pale skin and bones. Mark was breathing hard, his eyes darting around wildly.

Mark writhed on Roger's lap as long fingers trailed up his sides.

"Shh," Roger steadied Mark's hips, making sure not to touch him too closely. "We're not doing anything."

"Fuck! Roger, you have to stop doing this," Mark groaned. "Stop teasing me."

"We're not going to fuck, Mark," Roger sighed, wiping at his eyes. "Not now, not next week, not ever."

Mark scowled and angrily pushed his room mate off his lap before storming into his own bedroom.

"Mark, come on!" Roger called.

Mark doesn't slam his door like Roger wants him to. He doesn't scream or throw punches or hit the walls. All Roger got was the thud of Mark's feet on the hardwood floor and the soft click of his door closing. Roger doesn't like Mark's silent anger. It's a sharp contrast to his own, which burns hard and fast. He's learned from experience that when Mark gets angry, he retreats. He gets a little more introverted, a little more sullen and ultimately, a little more numb. Roger knows that there's no use trying to lure Mark out of his bedroom with false apologies and fresh tea. He tried that a few too many times in the past to be that foolish to think it would work now. Instead, Roger curls up with his comforter and tries to catch up on the sleep he missed the previous night.

Maybe that's what they both needed. A day away from one another, one to think and one to sleep. And in the morning, maybe they could rectify the situation. Maybe being the key word.