Connection – Chapter Six

Mark made an attempt at a smile when a clean Roger emerged from the bathroom, damp hair leaving little trails of water running down the sides of his face. He dropped down on the bed beside Mark again. Without either of them speaking, Mark knew that Roger was sorry he didn't come to him sooner and Roger knew Mark wasn't angry. The boys sat in mutual silence, staring at their feet, at the yellowed walls, anything to avoid looking at each other.

"What am I supposed to do?" Roger moaned under his breath, looking over at Mark, begging him to have the answer. Mark usually did, after all.

Mark didn't have any words of reassurance, but he cautiously reached for his friend and when Roger noticed the offer he accepted, melding himself against Mark once more and gripping tightly to the material of his shirt. He buried his face in Mark's shoulder, their chests pressed together and Roger could feel the other heart beating against his own.

Mark smelled different than other people Roger let close to him. Girls smelled like smoke and cheap perfume, always. Mark smelled clean and safe. Roger didn't know what scents combined to make Mark smell like that, but he knew he liked them. Roger remembered the last time he'd let Mark see him this much in need. He'd tasted like the teas he always drank. Vanilla, usually. Vanilla always reminded him of Mark. Roger pulled away from Mark slightly and Mark loosened his grip to let him move.

"You still care about me?" Roger had failed to maintain any other relationships or friendship from high school. It didn't seem likely at this point that Mark was here for any other reason besides perhaps obligation. But Roger should have known that among his lost friends, there wasn't a single one who would have followed him this far.

"You know I love you, Rog." It was meant to be lighthearted, nothing more than jest between a pair of close friends. Mark punched him casually in the arm as he said it, grinning cautiously. Roger tried for a smile that faded as soon at it formed. He pushed back his wet hair.

"It was all a fucking joke."

Mark wasn't fully aware of the exact order or purpose of their next actions. He knew he put an around Roger's shoulders and he knew Roger leaned in but in the next moment, Roger's lips were pressed onto his, the faint stubble rasping against his face as Mark pushed on his shoulders and Roger fell backwards, pulling Mark down with him, his head and shoulders hanging precariously over the edge of the bed. Their lips met in rapid succession, pressed hard enough to bruise, leaving both breathless.

Frustrated with Mark's dominance, Roger pushed him off, gripping his wrists and pressing himself against the other boy beneath him. They fought against each other, each trying to maintain or capture the control, which in the end neither won. The wall of friendship they had already tested too far had evaporated, and when Mark pulled off Roger's shirt, they had to question if it had ever been there at all.

A minute later they had stopped making excuses for their actions and gave in.


Roger was sitting up on the bed, his back against the wall with his guitar when Mark opened his eyes again.

"We have to leave. My credit here is up." Roger muttered, not daring to look at him. He hadn't been able leave to avoid seeing Mark's reaction this time. The promise of rejection filled him full of regret.

Mark sat up and reached for his shirt he suddenly didn't remember taking off. Roger was still staring adamantly down at his fingers on the neck of the guitar. Mark pulled the shirt over his head and when Roger chanced a look up at his friend, Mark made sure to smile carefully.

"Are you mad?"

Mark didn't respond to the hesitant and small voice that sounded out of place coming from Roger. They watched each other for a moment, Roger holding tightly to his guitar to calm his shaking nerves, until Mark leaned in and gently brushed his lips against Roger's.

"I need you…" Roger managed to say weakly against Mark's lips, and Mark knew the rest of the sentence was to love me.

"I'm not…"

"Me neither…"

And Roger set his guitar down and lunged at Mark, attacking him with the fervor Mark had always hoped to find in a girl. Mark could scarcely move with Roger's hips pressed so firmly down against his own, and his lips already sore and swollen from earlier being taken again. Mark's hands traveled down Roger's arms, his fingers tightening over the firm skin. The fiction from the rough texture of their clothed lower halves doing something strange to increase the eroticism coursing through each of their bodies. Mark found quickly that raw sexual energy was the only thing really registering in his brain at that point.

It was, after all, fairly normal for young men to experiment. Mark knew half of the reason this was happening was simple teenage hormones. Roger just liked someone to react to him. After living in a constant search for love that had ended with his life open and empty, Roger didn't mind too much that it had lead him to rubbing against his best friend in a dirty motel room.

A devastatingly awkward silence lasts too long when they finally lay opposite sides of the bed, half clothed and emotionally and physically exhausted. Roger could hear Mark's subtle breathing, a large change from the choked rasp in his ear not long before. He tried to match his breaths with Mark's, his last attempt at finding a general source of connection before initiating the inevitable conversation.