Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Midnight.

Cindy couldn't help but pause, her heart fluttering wildly. She glanced around her: the clock on the mantel ticked loudly and wind blew through the trees, rustling leaves. Straining her ears, she heard her brother muttering in his sleep, as he always had, and the coughing snores that always alarmed her, though she knew her father slept through them. Her children were quiet sleepers.

She dialed.

"Cindy."

"Izzy." His voice relaxed her. "How are you? How's… everything, how are you and Montana doing?"

"We're great. You?"

"Fine." She squeezed her eyes shut and swiped at her nose before it had the chance to run. "We're all fine."

"The kids?"

"Fine," she repeated.

"Are they… asking about… asking for…?"

"Oh, of course they are. You know they are." Cindy tried not to snap. She had agreed to this. They both agreed it was for the best. When that decision was reached, she had not thought of the future, and now here she was, sneaking a phone call in her parents' house. "Maybe… maybe soon," she told him.

"Please soon? I don't want them to forget."

"Forget?" Cindy laughed, remembering how Lea had known Mark even after three years. "No, they won't forget. Give it time."

"All right. You taking care of yourself?"

"Of course. You?"

"Yes."

"Good night, Izzy."

"Good night, Cindy."

---

The first thing Mark noticed when he awoke was a pair of green eyes watching him intently. He smiled. "Hey, Roger."

"Morning, Sunshine."

Mark sighed. He had not expected Roger to be a sentimental sort of boyfriend, but he was all hugging and cuddling and pet names. Not that Mark was complaining, he was also horny as a schoolgirl, though that had decreased over the past year. "Ready for Passover?" Roger asked.

"I am. You're not," Mark replied.

Roger kissed his face. "I can do it," he assured Mark.

"You've never had an old Jewish woman say 'Feh' at you. You won't survive without me," Mark retorted, lacing his arms around Roger's neck.

"But then, I wouldn't want to," Roger replied. He was already holding Mark, flexing the tingling fingers on his right hand, but he took this opportunity to pull Mark closer and kiss his lips. "Mm. I can do this," Roger promised, kissing Mark again, repeatedly. "I can do this," he promised, smothering Mark with kisses that would, but for their multitude, have been chaste.

Mark stroked Roger's hair. "Poor Catholic boy," he said, moving into the kisses, using his tongue. "You don't know what you're headed for."

Roger giggled. "I'll manage," he assured Mark. They were tangling, pushing against each other, their kissing rapidly becoming something more than kissing. Alarm bells pounded in their ears, their perversity urging them forward.

"No bread for a week."

"But the light in your eyes will sustain me." Roger loved talking sweet to Mark. Equally he loved the dirty chatter of foreplay, but the emotional nature Roger tried to keep guarded surfaced occasionally, and he found the light-hearted, half-joking sweetness eased the pain of pure love.

"No waffles."

"Only your sweet kisses!"

"No pasta, no pizza, no rice…"

"I die only without you."

Mark giggled. "You're being perfect," he scolded, then leaned in for another kiss.

At that moment the door opened and a cheerful greeting entered: "Mark, I hope you're up and-- woah!" Samuel Cohen froze. The boys inched apart and out of one another's arms. "I hope you weren't just…"

Mark shook his head fervently. "We weren't," he said. "Just kisses, Dad." Roger nodded so hard his brain hurt, agreeing that they had done nothing but kiss.

A memory swam to Mark's mind, that of the first time Samuel walked in on a kiss. Mark had been thirteen, on the living room sofa with frizzy-haired Nanette Himmelfarb, licking her purple braces, when Samuel walked in. "Woah, Mark," he said. "Do that in your room, son!" Mark had blushed crimson, Nanette had giggled, and Samuel had ruffled his son's hair before heading upstairs, laughing.

Now Samuel nodded. "I want a word with you, Mark. I'm goin' out to work soon, so get dressed and I'll see you in my room, okay?" Mark nodded. "Okay." And Samuel left, shutting the door behind him.

Mark groaned and buried his face in Roger's shoulder. "It's okay," Roger promised. He stroked Mark's hair and cuddled him. "It's okay."

"No-- it's just--" Mark shook his head. "I need to go."

He stood, tossing off the blankets, and opened the bureau drawer. Surely his size hadn't changed much since he was eighteen. He should be able to find something. "Mark?" Roger asked. He sat up in bed, the covers pooled around him. "What is it?"

Mark shook his head. "It's nothing." He pulled a T-shirt off, tossed it into the laundry basket in the corner and began buttoning a blue dress shirt. He wanted to appear more than presentable to his father. Though he called the Cohen house 'home', Mark felt uncomfortable walking the place in sweats.

"It's not nothing," Roger said. "It's something enough to upset you."

"It's just…" Mark sighed. Roger would continue at this like a dog with a bone; when he was in this mood, the easiest response was simple indulgence. "My entire childhood, I felt like if I crossed the line he would snap." He stripped off his sweatpants and shoved his left leg into he wrong hole of his corduroys. "Like he would hit me," Mark elaborated, trying once more and putting his trousers on correctly. "He never did, but whenever he got mad I just froze like… all the love drained out of me. He could hurt me because there was no love stopping him."

Roger stood, crossed the room and hugged Mark. "No one can hurt you," he promised.

---

Mark sat on his parents' bed, feeling small and childish. He licked the corners of his mouth; they were dry and sticky in a heartbeat. His hands clasped the air. Roger had been putting Mark through what he liked to call 'rehab', making him leave the house without his camera. He had learned to go days without filming, and they were not bad days. They were Roger's days.

Mark itched. It was early yet in his 'rehab' program, and leaving the house without the camera was difficult. Roger tried to engage Mark. He pointed to an intersection ('Seamen' and 'Cummings') and giggled, danced a stupid dance, and even bought the pretzel Mark had admitted to loving despite their tourist connotation. Nothing worked.

At last Roger leaned in and pecked Mark's cheek. "Do you love me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

Roger took off his scarf and tied it around Mark's head. "What are you doing?" Mark demanded. "Roger--" He raised his hands to untied the scarf.

Roger took Mark's hands in his. "Trust me," he said. "I'll take care of you."

Mark followed Roger nervously, led by an arm around his waist and Roger's gentle voice in his ear, murmuring, "You're safe. It's okay. Just a few more yards. That's it. We're nearly there. Okay, it's okay, almost--here! Close your eyes."

Roger positioned Mark, tilted his head, then untied his scarf. "Okay, open your eyes!"

Mark was staring out at the Statue of Liberty. He lived in New York, and so avoided tourist attractions, but it was not a matter of tourism today. It was a matter of beauty. It was a matter of the way the sun danced from swell to swell, sparkling, there one moment and the next gone, taunting and unfathomable. It was the little tourist children seeing for the first time this marvel, the precocious child telling her sister about the French and rust. It was about Roger's arms around him and his voice warm in his ear: "Isn't it beautiful, Mark?"

Then Roger kissed Mark's neck, and they stood until the cold drove them home.

Mark's hands itched again for his camera, anything to detach him from the nausea and nervousness twisting his gut.

"Marcus…" He noticed that his name had changed again. "I don't get it," Samuel admitted. "I don't. I don't get how what you feel for him is the same as what you feel for a woman."

"It's not, Dad," Mark tried to explain. "I'm--"

But Samuel didn't want to hear him. "Look, I'm not gonna get it, okay? But you're my kid. And I love you. So if you could just keep that… stuff… to a minimum, all that… touching and stuff, then that's just… then we'll just ignore it, okay?"

It was not okay. It was not at all acceptable. Mark asked, "Then you'll at least try to get to know him?"

Samuel shook his head. He paced. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and said, not addressing his son, "You try… all your life, you try to do what's right, raise them right, do what the Torah says, you try to keep all the Commandments even when you can't remember 'em… and they turn around with this. They turn out like this. Suddenly everyone turns into that." He turned to Mark. "It's not something I can understand," he said. "It's not something a guy like me gets. But tell you what-- you tell the family he's just a friend, you don't do any of that… that gay stuff at the table, and I'll try to get to know this friend."

But he's more than a friend. But Mark agreed to keep his hands to himself. He knew Roger would do the same. As he left the room, he added, "Dad, it would mean a lot to me if maybe, in time, you could come to see that Roger and I are more than just friends."

Samuel shook his head. "It's not something I believe in, Mark," he said. "I spent my whole life not believing in it."

Mark nodded. He could not very well ask his father to change his belief on the moment. After all, Mark couldn't see from Samuel's perspective, either.

TO BE CONTINUED

Though I disagree with Samuel's perspective, I have tried to portray him fairly.

Also 'perversity' as it's used is intended to mean a natural inclination to act against authority.