Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!
They walked almost to the subway without speaking. It was all Mark could do to bite down the words, "You know, he won't take it." He could not understand his jealousy. What was he so frightened off? Every person to enter the loft was not a threat. Roger feared too much to involve himself with any woman, let alone a child--a junkie he was, but not a pervert. Roger was a lot of things, a lot of sins--irresponsible, arrogant, self-indulgent--but not immoral.
He's alone, Mark thought. No, he isn't. He's got me. He isn't alone. But Mark knew that he was not what Roger wanted. He could barely manage to be what Roger needed.
But that was the trouble! Frustrated, Mark let out a slow sigh. He had known Roger less than a year. He had known this shadow, this despondent creature who had once, he was told, been glorious. Since Mark had known Roger, Roger had been a wreck. Mark didn't have history, like Collins did. He didn't know where the lines were. He didn't know how far was too far, and feared the results of learning.
"So… you're here. You know how to get home?" Mark forced himself to ask.
Katie nodded. "Look," she said, "I know you made up that story, the one on the telephone? About Roger working? I know that's not true. So I guess he isn't taking his AZT, either, is he?"
No. "He does sometimes," Mark managed, his voice raw.
"I wanted to show him that I care," she explained. "He has you, and now… I just wanted him to know." Shaking her head, she clutched her flashlight tightly and disappeared below the surface of the streets.
Mark bit his lip as he headed for home. All this time, he made himself rise to a new day because Roger needed him, because he needed to show the world that Roger was safe. He isn't a freak. When Mark and Collins dragged Roger to rehab the first time, everyone they passed on the street had known. They had seen the trembling, emaciated body and heard sobs and protests--"I don't need this, I don't, this is good, what I have now, it's how I need to live my life…"--after tragedy kept him addicted. Mothers crossed the street, holding tightly to their children, and Mark's heart wrenched. He's not dangerous. He's not a freak. He's just sad is all. Just had to deal with so much, it's been such a burden… Please stop looking at my friend like that.
And so Mark made them appear normal, healthy. He made certain the judges knew that Mark Cohen and Roger Davis lived normal lives. It enabled him, that vague semblance of power, the power to maintain an illusion. It enabled him up to the moment it destroyed him, with the knowledge that a child had seen right through it.
"Hey, you got a light?"
Barely aware of his surroundings, Mark apologized, "No, I'm sorry, I--" but he got no further.
For ten minutes, Roger let his mind wander, leaving his body stretched out on the bed. He freed his mind and thought of nothing. As usual, the trick freed him from boredom by freeing him from emotion. It was almost as good as the drugs. Roger's mind scoffed at the thought. Almost. What is that? You can't be almost anything. That's like getting a girl almost pregnant.
He pushed himself off the bed and wandered into the kitchen. Mark would want to know about Katie. Mark would want to talk. But Roger didn't want to talk about Katie, about the rehab. Why try explaining the humiliation of having a fifteen-year-old kid clean the vomit off your face? Mark could never understand that, and more importantly Mark didn't deserve understanding.
Roger stumbled to the stove. Cooking was not his forte, but he managed. As he set the kettle with the burning handle over the flame, Roger remembered the first time he had tried to cook anything, when he was fifteen, left home alone with his little sister because, once again, things were tight and his parents needed to put in the extra hours. Roger shook his head, laughing at himself. He had been such a fool.
"What're you doing?"
"I'm making dinner. Stay away from the stove," Roger warned, brandishing a ladle.
"Why?"
"Because it's hot, stupid!"
"No… why are you making dinner? And don't call me stupid, I'm not stupid."
"You're in kindergarten, Sarah. We don't know yet if you're stupid or not. Anyway, I'm sick of having peanut butter sandwiches every night. Aren't you? I hate peanut butter! Fuck peanut butter!"
"You said a swear."
"And if you tell anyone, I'll beat the crap outta you!"
"Then I get to swear, too!"
"Go for it, kid."
Roger's attempt to make pasta "all denty", which involved his leaving the pasta in the pot and going to read comics, was a disaster. The water evaporated and the pasta baked onto the bottom of the pot. Perhaps worse was that Sunday, when his mother accidentally stepped on Sarah's fingers and instead of shouting, "Ow!" as most five-year-olds would have, she erupted with, "Fuck!"
Roger found himself laughing at the memory. Home was not exactly where his heart was, but he did miss his siblings. As usual, Roger promised himself he would look them up when he had something to add to their lives. He would find them when he had something incredible to counter leaving home at seventeen to become a rock star and contracting HIV.
The door slid open with a groan of protest. Roger looked up, grinning, ready to tell Mark all about the pasta incident. One look at Mark swept the grin from Roger's face. In a heartbeat he was next to Mark, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. "Come on."
Mark tried to push Roger away. "It's nothing," he insisted.
"Yeah," Roger replied sarcastically. "Come on, I've been cleaning wounds since I was seven. Come sit down."
Acquiescing to Roger's direction, Mark asked with equal sarcasm, "What are you going to do, talk me through the pain?"
"No, I'm going to take care of you." The causticity of Mark's tone passed without a flinch from Roger, but it worried him. Since when did Mark snap? Since he's just been robbed and beaten, Roger reminded himself. He pushed around the mess on the table to make a clear space. "Sit," he told Mark. When Mark just leaned against the table, Roger lifted him and let him fall, gently, onto the tabletop.
"Did you just pick me up?" Mark asked.
The screaming kettle ripped through their conversation. Roger poured the water into the biggest bowl they owned, the wooden salad bowl Mark's mother had sent him one year for Christmas.Roger laughed at the thing as he held it under the tap, letting cool water temper the heat. That done, he took another bowl and filled it with cold water.Satisfied, he tossed a handful of salt intoeach bowl and, realizing he would have no hands free, tucked a dishcloth through one of the beltloops on his jeans.
"What are you planning, exactly?" Mark asked.
"I told you, I'm going to take care of you," Roger repeated.
I know. I just wanted to hear you say it again. "Hey, what are you doing?" Mark asked. Why am I protesting? G-d, am I this horny? I've just been beaten up for the first time since… forever… and I'm horny?
Roger continued unbuttoning Mark's shirt. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Trust me, I've done this before."
Mark laughed wryly, then coughed. "Shit. Okay."
"You look like hell. Hang on." When Roger bounded towards the bathroom, Mark nearly cursed him out. I've just come in beat up, and you're thinking about that. Do you ever stop thinking about your penis? It's all you ever think about, Roger, coming and going… Mark couldn't believe his mind. Since when did he think about Roger's… about that? Why, sitting top-naked on a cold metal table, was the memory of Roger's hands so close to his skin turning Mark on?
This was definitely not normal.
Roger returned with an armful of towels, one of which he tossed into Mark's lap. "You're about to get wet," he warned.
You have no idea.
TO BE CONTINUED
About Mark and Roger's history: in the continuum I'm using for this story, Mark moved in after April's suicide. So many stories have him and Roger with a lengthy history; I wanted to explore the other interpretation.
Also, why is Mark horny? Because he's in pain. Sometimes, in the face of unendurable pain, the brain protects the body or gets confused, I don't know exactly what, but it sends pain for pleasure.
Concerning the sin reference--yes, Jews have sins. Yes, we have commandments, over 600 of them. I get asked that a lot. We can sin, but as I understand the Catholic church, we're more lenient about it.
