Author's Note: I bet you guys are surprised I updated so soon! I finally got enough time since I have a bit of a break. I'm kind of pleased with this chapter and it is by far the last one. This story will be pretty long, so don't worry. Enjoy!

Chapter Nine:

Mark sat on the worn sofa in the livingroom, holding tightly onto a cup of tea that Roger had made for him. His heart was racing in his chest, not sure if he was ready to tell the story of what happened that night so long ago. But something told him that Roger wouldn't be backing down tonight, not after what he had said.

The musician had been so shocked that he actually lapsed into silence. Which lead to him pulling the filmmaker into the livingroom and insisting to know what happened. Mark didn't know if he wanted Roger to deal with the story, the guilt, and the possible disgust he might feel.

Mark knew that explaining the scars meant telling more than just one story. One told of what happened, but the other told of something he wanted to keep out of Roger's life, especially since things were going so well lately. He couldn't tell his best friend that he was in love with him.

"Please tell me what happened," Roger said softly, as he leaned forward in his seat, "I have to know what I did."

"It wasn't all your fault," Mark tried to argue, "You were going through withdrawal and the thing with April…"

"You can't always blame my actions on withdrawal or the fact that I was grieving," the musician said, "Please, Mark. I need to know. I… I just want to know how I can help you."

"Roger…"

"For my peace of mind."

"You're not going to like this story."

"Mark. Please."

The filmmaker sighed as he set down his cup. He bit his lip and took a shaky breath, "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Positive."

"…okay."

It was late May, getting close to early June. A month after, April had committed suicide. Two weeks after, Roger had almost overdosed on heroin and it prompted him to try and quit. However, he didn't know that the stages of withdrawal would be pure torture.

Two and a half weeks into withdrawal, Roger was having a good spell. In fact, all he had been doing was sitting on the windowsill, staring at the outside world. He couldn't touch his guitar because he couldn't think of anything to play. He couldn't even push down on the strings sometimes because his fingers would feel numb or the pain of withdrawal would hold him back.

The fact was, Roger was afraid to play his guitar because of two reasons. He didn't want to ruin his most prized possession and he didn't want to be reminded of April. Every song he had ever wrote reminded him of her and every string he touched reminded him that she went out and got him extras when they broke. Every string had broken at least once in their relationship and every time, she replaced them.

It was raining the night it happened. A major thunderstorm had rolled into the city, big enough that radio and television stations were broadcasting warnings.

Mark had decided that it was his turn to watch Roger, even though he was constantly in the loft looking after his best friend. However, the day before, he had gone out and left Collins to watch after the musician while he got something. He hoped it would cheer Roger up, maybe even get him to play a song or two on his acoustic guitar. Maybe talk like they used to when they were alone.

Mark watched as Roger sat at the windowsill, watching lightning stretch across the sky. It was getting late, but lately they have hardly slept anyway. Mark held the paper bag that held his purchase from the day before. Slowly, he stepped closer to his roommate.

"Roger?" he asked, cautiously.

"What?" the musician snapped, not looking away from the storm that continued to rage on outside.

"Why don't you play a song tonight?" Mark tried, sounding as suggestive as possible.

"I can't!" Roger said, "The high E string is broken. You know that!"

"Well, I thought maybe you could fix it."

"With what money? And it's not like you're going to let me out of here anyway!"

Mark bit his lip as he carefully placed the paper bag on the windowsill for Roger to see. He watched as the musician looked at the package questioningly before picking it up. The look on Roger's face as he pulled out the new replacement strings was one of surprise. His eyes lit up.

The filmmaker smiled, but then quickly noticed the way that Roger's eyes narrowed. Then that hard, intense, angry gaze was focused on him.

"What's the meaning of this?" Roger asked, his voice dangerous and low.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked, confused by his friend's reaction.

"You can't do this."

"Roger, what are you talking about?"

"This!" the musician yelled, holding up the guitar strings, "You didn't have a right to do this!"

"What are you talking about?"

"April! This was what she did! You have no right taking it away from her!" And before Mark could react, Roger was on his feet, getting in the filmmaker's face, "Are you trying to prove something?"

Mark felt himself physically shaking, he had never seen his friend so angry at him before, "I-I'm sorry. I-I wasn't thinking…"

"Yeah, you never fucking think!" Roger shoved Mark, so hard the filmmaker fell to the floor.

Mark hissed in pain as he held the back of his head with his hand. He couldn't open his eyes, the pain causing him to curl up. But he felt himself being pushed onto his back and Roger's weight descended on him. He heard plastic being pulled open and realized that Roger was pulling the strings from the package.

"Roger?"

A fist collided with his face and he cried out in pain. He tried to struggle free, but the musician's weight kept him in place. He felt his left arm being grabbed and something cool wrapping around his wrist. What is he doing? He wondered. The answer came when the guitar string was pulled tight. It hurt and he tried pull away, using his free hand to try and shove Roger away.

A hand wrapped around his throat and pushed his head back onto the floor so hard that he saw stars. Tears formed in his eyes as the pain radiated across the back of his head.

"Don't do this…" Mark tried, his free hand trying to get Roger off of him.

"You can't do this to me!"

"Please, I'm sor--" the words were cut off as the hand around his neck tightened and the string wrapped around his left wrist was pulled so tight it dug into his arm, breaking the skin and making him scream.

He felt blood flowing, dripping onto the floor and he could see it spreading, slowly pooling. The sight of it made his body feel weak, knowing that he was physically bleeding onto the floor. He looked up and found eyes glaring down at him, filled with so much fury that he had to look away.

The hand around his neck was released, but he could hear Roger reaching for something in his back pocket.

"Roger, stop!" he tried again, hoping to talk some sense into his friend, "Roger, you're hurting me!"

"You had no right! You had no fucking right."

The string tightened again, "Roger!"

"Shut up, Mark! I'm so sick of hearing your voice!"

Roger's fist collided with his face again. His vision blurred and he heard the unmistakable sound of his glasses breaking.

"You can't replace her, Mark!"

"I wasn--" his words were cut off as the musician hit him again.

"Shut up!" Roger yelled, letting go of the guitar string and pinning down both of the filmmaker's arms, "That's what you been trying to do since the beginning, wasn't it? You can't, you fucking faggot!"

Mark pulled in a shaky breath, feeling himself trembling under the musician as thunder roared outside, lightning flashing so bright it lit up the entire room. The look he saw in Roger's eyes told him that this wouldn't end well and he cursed himself for having been so inconsiderate of how his friend would have felt. But those eyes. They weren't Roger's.

He won't remember this, he knew.

Roger's venomous voice cut through his thoughts, "If you want to replace her so badly, I might as well use you for the only thing you're good for."

Mark was shaking, close to crying as he cut himself off. He couldn't finish the story. He tried to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes, but steadily they fell as he pulled his knees to his chest, hugging himself. He looked to Roger, who sat, silent.

"Mark… I," Roger looked as if he was searching for the right words, "Did I--"

Please, don't use that word, Mark thought as he closed his eyes, please.

Roger swallowed thickly, "Did I rape you?"

And Mark nodded.

"I-I'm sorry…" Roger whispered, not knowing what to saying.

"It wasn't your fault," the filmmaker said, "You were…"

"Of course I'm to blame for my own actions!" Roger exclaimed, "You can't excuse them just cause I was going through something! You can't possibly forgive me. How can you?"

Mark lowered his eyes and shook his head, "Because you were partially right."

"What do you mean?"

The filmmaker sighed.

Collins had tried to get Mark to go to the hospital three days ago, but the filmmaker wasn't budging. He insisted that he was alright and Collins insisted that their home first aid kit was not going to help fight off infections of the cuts on his arm got infected. What the professor was most worried about was Mark's health. He wanted the filmmaker to get an HIV test.

All Mark could do was think over what had happened. He dreamed about it and when he closed his eyes he could see it happening so clearly it was startling. Collins had taken to taking care of Roger, being strong enough to handle a junkie going through withdrawal. That created enough of a distraction for Mark to lock himself in the bathroom.

As he sat there on the tiled floor, his hand gripping the straight razor his dad had given him when he went off to college, he thought about all that Roger had said to him, about how he wanted to replace April. And in a way, the musician was right. Mark didn't want to replace April per say, but he wanted Roger to see him as he saw the woman with the fiery red hair. He longed for Roger to love him.

He admitted it.

He was in love with his best friend and had been from the moment he first stepped foot into the loft. At first, it was pure lust, all attraction. But then, he began to see the Roger Davis some people didn't. He saw the sensitive man that wrote beautiful music. He saw the man that was caring, though distant. He devoted his time to closing that distance and in a way he had succeeded.

Then April came into the picture and he felt that gap growing wider and wider as heroin threatened to take over their lives.

He wasn't trying to take advantage of Roger or even try and put the thought of them having anything more than a friendship in the musician's head, but somehow he still came off that way. He still came off as the bad guy and he paid the price for wanting something he couldn't have.

And he sat there, reflecting upon how like April he was. He was trying to take the easy way out. He wanted the nightmares and Roger's voice to go away. He wanted the actions from the past to stop haunting him and let him sleep, perhaps even forget about his stupid fascination with his best friend.

Mark pulled open the straight razor and stared at the sharpened metal, wondering how painful it would be. He pressed the blade against his left wrist, right where Roger left marks of his own, and pushed it as deep as he dared, hissing in pain. As he dragged the blade upward, toward the crock of his elbow, he wondered how April could have slit both wrists. One was painful enough as it was.

As blood dripped onto the floor, he pushed himself up and walked toward the medicine cabinet. He opened it and looked inside, searching for the sleeping aid that they kept. He told himself that it was stupid to try and kill himself twice over, but he didn't want any mistakes. He needed to make sure he didn't fail at what April was able to achieve.

He studied the bottle of pills in his hands, the label smeared with his blood as he contemplated taking them. He situated himself back on the floor and popped the cap open. The pills slipped out and onto the floor, but he didn't reach for them. He could already feel himself getting lightheaded from the blood loss.

All he could think of for his last words were the words: I'm sorry. I love you… scrawled out in blood on the bathroom floor. He knew it was melodramatic, but it would get the point across.

"You love me?" Roger whispered.

"I'm sorry," Mark answered quietly, trying to wipe away the tears that were streaming down his face.

"I-I have to go," the musician said as he got up and grabbed his jacket.

And Mark watched as Roger opened the loft door and walked out.

Author's Note: I hope I didn't disappoint anyone with the direction I took with this. I've been planning this whole scene from the beginning and it was wonderful to finally get it out. I also hope I didn't shock or offend anyone.

Thank you guys so much for reading. Please leave a review and I will try and get the next update out as soon as possible.

PS: You guys are totally awesome for giving me more than 50 reviews. It makes me feel very accomplished. Thank you.