Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

He had never before kissed a man, or particularly wanted to, but overall Mark found the experience a simple one. It was exactly what he had imagined, though that he had at all imagined it surprised him: Roger's chapped lips; rough, broken skin, tasting of old beer and toothpaste. A kiss with Maureen never lasted this long or comforted Mark this much. He never toyed with her hair as his fingers unconsciously did with Roger's, teasing damp curls.

But then, Maureen never planted her hands firmly on Mark's chest and pushed him away.

"Mark!" Roger exploded. At his roommate's wide-eyed, hurt expression, he said, "Look… I'm sorry. I don't… I like… I'm sick. I'm sorry. If I'd known, I never would have…" He let his voice trail off and shook his head. "Congratulations on coming out," he said finally, "and I do hope you find the right guy, but that guy is not me. That can't happen."

"It can," Mark insisted, grabbing Roger's wrist as he turned to go. "I don't care, Roger! If I get sick… I don't care."

Roger returned, giving the sad smile that was almost a frown. As Mark watched and waited, wide-eyed, Roger touched the bruise over Mark's left eye. You're so hurt… I can't hurt you anymore. Roger reached into his pocket. "You left this in the bathroom," he said, holding out something that glittered gold in the loft's poor light.

Numb, Mark swept his fingers across Roger's palm. He hooked a necklace, his necklace, the thin chain and Star of David he had thought lost to the muggers. "Thank you," he whispered, locking the chain around his neck. "I thought I'd lost it."

"Are you hungry?" Roger asked. "I cooked. It's not great. I mean, well, it's just soup, but not lentils. You probably don't want to eat…"

"Soup sounds good," Mark said. As Roger returned to the kitchen in search of bowls, Mark tugged on and buttoned his shirt. He dried the table off and cleared enough space for the two of them to eat.

The meal commenced in silence. Neither Mark nor Roger dared mention the kiss, that fragile, passionate moment, both wished they could forget. "Hey," Roger said suddenly, "look."

"At what?" Mark asked. Roger held up the newspaper still sitting on the table. "Hey, crossword! How old is that thing?"

"Ages. You want to finish it?"

"Sure."

Roger grabbed his bowl off the table and drained it. "Oh," he said, "wait. Are you still eating?"

"No… are you worried about soup stains on the paper?" Mark asked.

Roger shook his head. "Dessert," he explained, mysteriously cheerful.

Mark laughed. "Dessert? We're poor. We don't have dessert. We have beer. What, did you make cereal souffle?" He had never been so sarcastic with Roger, but in his current state, Mark couldn't bring himself to care. His chest and face throbbed from bruises, he had humiliated himself and been rejected. Nothing could bring his evening lower.

Somehow, Roger had scrounged up aluminum foil. He set a plate on the table and began unwrapping the foil, withdrawing every second or so as though burned. "This one time," he muttered, "when I was, I don't know, eleven years old? Maybe. My mom was pregnant, and I was pissed with her for taking away the one thing I had--being the youngest--

"Youngest?" Mark asked. " I didn't have you pegged as a 'youngest'."

"Really?" Roger asked. "You had me… pegged?"

Mark shook his head. "No, I couldn't get a read. But when you were… taking care of me… it was like you had done it before."

"I have," Roger answered simply. "Told you my mom was pregnant, right? So this one day, my dad just shows up during homeroom, pulls me out of school and takes me camping. Just me. And that's how I learned about banana boats."

"Banana… the inflatable rubber things in Mexico?" Mark asked, thinking of the floating boats.

Roger giggled. "Inflatable rubber things?" he repeated, snickering. "No. Eat."

Mark obeyed, pushing a fork into the sloppy mess Roger had concocted. Oh, G-d. I can't eat this. Mark shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and bit. Heat and sugar spilled into his mouth. "Hey!" Mark cried, his mouth full, "This is actually good!"

Roger laughed. "Yeah, it's good," he said. "It's like the opposite of a monkey's tail. Banana baked with chocolate inside."

Not completely certain he wanted to know, Mark asked, "What is a monkey's tail?"

"You've never had one?" Roger asked in disbelief. "Ooh, that's sad." He spooned a bite of banana-chocolate goop into his mouth and said, "A monkey's tail is a banana that's been dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with chopped nuts and frozen, and it's delicious."

"Uh…" It was another question Mark didn't want to ask, "When you say banana, Roger--"

"The fruit, you fuckin' perv!" Roger interrupted, and Mark had the distinct impression that, had he not been bruised, Roger would have given him a playful shove. Although the words were clearly a reaction to Mark's suggestion that Roger's sweet tooth might have been for more than candy, Mark could not help but think that Roger would not have made the joke, or made it so loudly, if not for the kiss, that pathetic attempt at closeness. Reading this, Roger's face fell. "Aw, Mark… look, I don't care that you're gay. Okay? I don't, really. I just… I'm not."

"Neither am I," Mark muttered.

Roger laughed. "What? You're not okay?"

"I'm not gay," Mark explained. He wasn't. He didn't fall for boys. He liked girls. He loved, had loved Maureen. That kiss, the attraction, both were abnormalities.

Roger scoffed. "Okay," he said, "you know what? I can't do this right now. I can't play this game."

"You don't want to play games?" Mark asked, incredulous. "You don't want to?" His voice rose in pitch and volume, scraping the inside of his throat. "Why is it always about what you want, Roger? For the last month I've been taking care of you because you didn't want to do it yourself! Because you didn't want the responsibility! After what I did for you, you can't do just one thing for me?"

Roger had been shouted at by the best. He had been guilted into a gibbering wreck by Collins and in more than his share of fights in school. He had been lectured by teachers, counselors, principals, even psychiatrists, every one following careful guidelines. Roger had learned to silence the world around him.

He had also learned to shout back. "What one thing, Mark?" he demanded. "What thing? Fuck you?"

"Yes!" The word shocked Mark. "Yes, Roger, that's what I want, I want you to make me forget everything."

Roger scoffed. "I'm not that good," he said.

"This isn't a joke!" Mark began to cry then, though he did not know it. "I know you. I know you womanize, and you drink and get high and you fuck while you're drunk and high! You've done it to hundreds of girls, why can't you do it to me?"

"Do you not understand that I am dying? You brought me here, kept me alive. Well, I wanted to die!" he bellowed. Few people have the lung capacity and fury to bellow; Roger Davis was one of those people. "You kept me alive because you can't stand being alone, you can't do things for yourself because you hate yourself that much. You know what, Mark? That's really sad," Roger said.

Mark gaped. He had never before been shouted at, and Roger's sudden descent from furious to soft tones surprised him. Was this sarcasm? Did Roger mean 'pathetic' or 'sorrowful'?

"It's sad," Roger continued, "because you're a good person. And you're smart and you aren't jaded beyond use!" The final three words burst with a new stream of anger, this time not against Mark but in his favor. "My G-d, Mark! Are you that blind? You aren't just a little boy with his camera, a little boy too scared to realize that friends don't last. You're a man! You've accepted that we die, that I will die and Collins will die and you are going to make everyone see the truth. That's what your camera is for. You're doing something worthwhile."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Mark conjured only a squeak.

"So, no, Mark, I won't give you pity sex, because I don't pity you. I envy you. I wish I had your drive and dedication and vision! I won't help you forget your suffering, because you take it and make things. So why don't you learn to love yourself the way everyone else loves you, without the low-five? Christ, Mark!"

Roger shook his head, threw his hands in the air, and left Mark alone, crying.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are nice... and thank you to prettyboyfrontmanlove for pointing out a homographic error. I totally knew that!