Author's Note: Here's the first chapter. It's set Post Rent, just to clarify.
Chapter One:
A flash of lightning lit up the sky. The sound of thunder roared and shook the loft.
Roger looked up at the sound of glass breaking.
"Shit!" Mark exclaimed from the kitchen area.
"Mark?" Roger asked as he set down his guitar, "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, I'm fine," the filmmaker answered. The sound of glass falling to the floor was heard again and followed by, "Damn it!"
Roger became a little more concerned as he made his way over to the kitchen. Mark was on his knees, holding his hand close to his chest. There was a cut on the palm of his hand, radiant red dripping onto the floor and glass.
"Shit, Mark," Roger spoke as he stepped over the broken glass.
Grabbing a clean towel, he kneeled down beside Mark and took the other man's hand into his. He winced at the sight of blood flowing freely from the cut before pressing the towel to it. Mark inhaled sharply.
"We should clean that out," Roger said, his focus on the filmmaker's hand and the way it was shaking.
"Yeah," came Mark's reply, but he sounded distant and far away.
"Are you okay?"
Another flash of lightning followed by the deafening roar of thunder.
Mark visibly jumped shaking so badly Roger could hardly keep his hand still.
"You're not alright," Roger stated.
"I-I'm fine, really," Mark said as he pulled his hand away from the musician.
"No, you're not," Roger retorted, "Look at you, you're shaking! What's wrong, Mark?"
There was a look in Mark's eyes that Roger couldn't define. It was as if something was hiding, lingering away from sight, ready to rear its ugly head at any moment. Kneeling there, looking at his best friend, he wondered how he could have possibly missed so much.
"Since when have you been afraid of thunder and lightning?" the musician asked.
"Always," Mark answered without hesitation.
"That's not right," Roger replied, "You never got like this when you first moved in."
The filmmaker gave a small, uncomfortable laugh, "You actually remembered?"
"I paid attention."
"I should go get cleaned up."
"Mark."
"Roger, please."
And the musician nodded, knowing that he wasn't going to win this time.
As Mark got up and headed towards the bathroom, Roger busied himself picking up the scattered pieces of glass. Carefully, he grabbed a towel and used it to sweep the floor of any remaining shards. With a sigh, he tied off the trash bag, just incase someone unknowingly knocks it over. Satisfied with his surroundings, Roger made his way to the bathroom.
"Mark, you doing alright?" the musician asked, stepping into the doorway.
"I'm fine," the filmmaker smiled, just as he finished putting a bandage on his hand. He wiggled his fingers in Roger's direction, "Good as new."
Roger rolled his eyes, "Yep, you're a big boy now."
"Shut up, Roger."
Thunder sounded through the air again and Roger caught Mark's uninjured hand gripping the sink so hard his knuckles had turned white.
"I'm going to get some sleep," Mark said, trying to sound as casual as possible as he quickly brushed past Roger, "I'll see you in the morning."
Before the bedroom door closed he heard the ever familiar, "Take your AZT."
With his back against his bedroom door, Mark slid to the ground and pulled his knees to his chest, trying to keep himself from shaking. He was starting to lose control over his breathing, as it had slowly become more and more erratic. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands gripping the fabric of his sweater. He tried to get his mind back into the present, not allowing it to drift back to the past, where it didn't belong.
Calm down, he told himself, just calm the fuck down, you idiot! But it was so hard to when the past kept creeping up on him. He hated storms like these more than he could ever imagine. Every time they hit, they cause him to remember things he wished had never occurred.
That was then! This is now! Mark screamed in his head. Leave the past behind! But the past kept haunting him. And he hated himself for wallowing and dwelling.
His breathing slowly became normal again as the thunder began to die away. His hands were still shaking, but he knew that he was getting better and that another storm wouldn't come for a while. Pushing himself up onto his feet, he made his way to the bed and laid down. Unconsciously, he rubbed his left wrist as he drifted off to sleep.
The next morning was as normal as any morning could be in the loft. Roger sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee from a chipped cup and Mark was hunched over his film at the far side of the room, cutting and editing as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Mark was the first to speak, as always, stretching to work out the kinks in his back, "Hey, Rog, I'm going to go out and film in the park, want to come along?"
"Can't Mimi's coming over in a few hours," the musician answered, taking another sip from his cup.
"Oh," Mark replied as he picked up his jacket and pulled it on. There was a pause, "You going to be out late tonight?"
"Mark, I'm always out late when I go out with Mimi."
"I know."
"Stop worrying, I can take care of myself. I'm a big boy, Mark."
"I know that, Roger." Winding his scarf around his neck, Mark grabbed his messenger bag and camera. Before heading out the door, he said, "Take your AZT and be careful tonight."
"Yes, mom," Roger retorted as the door shut.
In the newfound silence, Roger wished he had agreed to go out and film with Mark for a little while. He knew that they didn't have forever with each other, but it seemed so habitual to just say that he didn't feel like it or that he was busy.
"Shit," he breathed as he put down his cup and rubbed his hand over his face.
A walk towards the park didn't lead Mark anywhere near his destination. Instead, he took a less familiar path and ended up at the one place he always went to when he felt that he needed someone to listen. The cemetery.
His sneakers sank into the damp grass as he stepped closer to the one person he knew would always be willing to listen to him.
Holding his camera close to his chest, he took in a shaky breath before he spoke, "Hey, Angel. It's been a while."
A strange calm washed over him once those words left his lips, "I… I'm not doing that great today. I know I should keep my chin up and focus on my next film, but I don't think I can handle doing that today. All I could do all morning was looking through all my raw footage and pretend to be cutting frames so Roger wouldn't ask me any strange questions."
He reached out and touched the cool headstone, still wet from the rain, "I slipped up last night and he saw me freaking out over a thunderstorm. I don't know what to do when he asks me questions I can't, don't want to answer. But a part of me wants to tell him so he can understand why this happens every time a storm rolls around. I don't know how long I can keep this up before it all just comes out."
Mark gave a half-hearted laugh as he wiped away the tears that had started to fall, "Look at me, I can't even keep my composure anymore. Of all the things I cry over, I cry over him."
"I'm sorry for never shedding tears for you," the filmmaker whispered, "I just couldn't breakdown when everything was falling apart so fast. But you know that already. You always knew just what was going on with us. Maybe you still do."
Pulling himself together, Mark ran his fingers over the headstone once more, "Thanks for listening, Angel."
Taking a deep breath, Mark turned away from the grave, but didn't head out. Instead, he began speaking again, "I know that we always say 'no day but today', but sometimes, Angel, I feel like today just isn't the right time or place. I know I should tell him, so, so much… but you know me. I've never been good at expressing myself."
Feeling as if he had said enough, the filmmaker walked away, eyes dry and hand winding up his camera.
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoyed that chapter and that so far it's keeping you entertained. The next chapter should be up soon. Please leave a review! Thanks!