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Mark whimpered. Roger looked up from his guitar, concerned, but Mark only scrunched his face in dissatisfied pain and slept on.

Roger sat by the head of Mark's bed, cross-legged on the floor with the guitar on his lap. Now he shifted the guitar, knelt and stroked Mark's hair. "Shh," he whispered. He licked his lips nervously and glanced at the doorway. Mark shouldn't have to sleep this way. It's not right. He had his arms pulled tight against his chest, quivering.

Embarrassment and singing were not two things Roger often associated with one another. He could easily sing before a crowd, or for his friends. Christmas with his family had meant the mass of parents, siblings, grandparents, and siblings-in-law at some moment ceased their conversations when someone said, "Why don't you sing something, Roger?" and after a chorus of agreement, Roger enjoyed a few glowing moments as the prized child, attended, loved. He would always sing.

Yet now his throat tightened. Mr. Cohen was in the next room, and Roger could practically feel his disapproval. So could Mark, apparently, because he gave another little whimper.

"Shh." Roger glanced once more at the door, sighed, then petted Mark and sang quietly, "Edelweiss, edelweiss…"

When he finished the song, Mark had relaxed. Roger sank back to the ground. Logically, he should have felt accomplished, but all he felt was useless. This was his fault. Somehow… even Roger's brain could think of no way in which he had caused this. Normally he could pin everything on himself, from the childish belief that he could, single-handedly, change the world. He could protect the people he cared about.

Roger found himself pinching his wrist hard and stopped. He looked at the door. Somewhere during the course of the song, Mark's sister had appeared "Uh… hey."

"Hey. You wanna come downstairs?" she asked. "Get something to eat? The kids are making kosher s'mores if you're interested."

What's a kosher s'more? "I… uh…"

Roger glanced at Mark. He said nothing, but Cindy noticed the gesture and understood. "He'll be okay," she said. "Probably sleep through the night. He's not in danger here, it's home."

"Home?" Roger couldn't help but hiss. He kept his voice low, trying not to wake Mark, but his words were clipped and sharp enough to draw blood. "You call his a home? Your father says either Mark is a straight boy or he's disowned."

Cindy shook her head. "He's angry," she said. "He didn't mean that. He said the same about me after I…" She glanced at her sleeping brother, then at Roger.

"Can I ask you something?" When Cindy nodded, Roger asked, "Your brother shows up with a guy. Why do you naturally assume he's gay?"

Cindy laughed. "Please, I've known about Mark since he hit the sixth grade." Roger didn't know what to say to that. It seemed unfair, since Mark hadn't known about Mark at that point. He had barely figured himself out at the start of their relationship. He would tremble in bed and leave the loft for hours, return without a single frame of new footage. "Well, look, if you get hungry later, there's stew, you can just heat that up. Don't touch anything else, we're half-way through cooking for tomorrow and it's taken fucking ages--I mean…"

Roger laughed. There weren't many obscenities he hadn't heard yet, as he told Cindy.

"Hey, my twins are five," she replied. "As far as they're concerned, 'poo' is an obscenity."

Again Roger laughed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

Cindy nodded. "I'd appreciate that," she told him, smiling. "Don't forget about the stew." She was gone before it occurred to Roger to ask what she wanted to tell her kids about him and Mark. Were they friends? Or was homosexuality acceptable to Cindy? Somehow, Roger doubted that.

He sighed. The hour felt later: driving and discrimination had that impact. He was hungry, but unwilling to leave the room alone. Mark was Samuel's son and in no direct danger. Roger was a stranger. To Samuel, he was probably vice personified, not the object of Mark's affection but the cause of an affliction. Roger didn't want to face that. He closed the door and pulled his pajamas out of the bag.

"Roger?"

Roger paused, half out of his jeans. "Uh-huh?" he asked the wall.

Since when are you modest, Mark wanted to ask. Instead he slurred, "Come to bed."

"I'm coming," Roger assured him, kicking his pants off his ankles and grabbing his sweats.

"No--come to bed like that," Mark said.

Roger bit his lip. It was an appealing prospect: bed, warmth, Mark, three things Roger desired as he stood, cold, wishing his boxers were somehow warm. "Here?" he asked. "In your parents' house?"

A groan answered. "I don't care. I don't care, I… I'm in pain." Mark's arm forfeited the comfort of his cocoon to entice Roger. "Make it go away?" Had Mark been proud, he might have been ashamed to beg so childishly. He was not ashamed. He wanted Roger, and he was getting Roger.

"Okay." Roger switched off the light and inched towards the bed. Poor light from the window kept him from stumbling. In a few moments he was under the covers beside Mark.

Without any attempt from either of the boys, they touched. They breathed hot breath onto one another's faces; Mark squirmed when Roger's cold toes rubbed his feet. Trying to find a comfortable, chaste position left Roger twitching like a boy with chicken pox. There was simply no way not to tangle for two grown men in a twin bed.

"Stop fighting it," Mark muttered, annoyed. Roger was supposed to be comforting him, making him feel better, not behaving as though he had the plague. "Roger!" he whispered sharply, when Roger centimetered away.

"Hm?"

Mark hated this. He hated voicing his emotions: that validated and realized them. Usually he had no need to do this: he barely needed to walk into a room but Roger would find some reason to hug him. A new, squeamish Roger had changed that. Damn him. Mark needed that reliability right now. He needed to know that this was what their relationship is, was and would be.

"I really need you right now."

Roger wriggled one arm beneath Mark, then looped both arms around his waist and drew him nearer. "Sorry," he muttered, his right arm shifting higher to hold Mark's shoulders. "Is this okay?" he asked.

Mark considered. He was cradled against Roger, warm and safe. "I wanted sex," he answered honestly, "but this is good, too." It was good. It was a nice place to fall asleep, in love.

TO BE CONTINUED!

The seder occurs the following evening. Hurrah! It'll get a little more dramatic with relatives, but mostly this story is going to be human interaction.

Thanks to everyone for your nice reviews! Much better than Cheez-Its...