Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Sorry the update took so long. Here's one of the last fluffy chapters you'll see. I couldn't bring myself to make them suffer just yet. And this is where the slash will become apparent, though I've decided it will be pretty much one-sided. R/R please.
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Collins stayed with them in the loft for a few days, teaching Mark and a not very cooperative Roger sign language. "When my father went deaf, our entire family had to learn sign language," he explained, spelling Roger's name out with his hands for the third time, reiterating the positioning of his fingers so Roger would remember.
Roger was very distracted today and as fidgety as a one-year-old getting weaned off his bottle. Mark sighed, knowing this was Roger's way of trying to avoid the subject at hand. When Roger failed to acknowledge Collins's signing, finding the stream of morning light pouring through his window to be of more interest, Mark suddenly snatched Roger's hands in a bout of frustration.
Jolting in surprise, Roger tensed and looked down as Mark manipulated his rough hands, forcing the fingers into position to sign an 'R' in a manner that was anything but gentle. Roger didn't cooperate but he didn't try to pull away either; he just watched as Mark continued, making the coarse fingers sign for 'O'. Collins observed as Mark finished out spelling Roger's name, then released the listless hands, allowing them to fall back to their resting spot in Roger's lap.
Roger glanced sideways at Mark, blinking in mild astonishment. Mark, suddenly struck with a feeling of awkwardness, held his gaze for a few seconds before feeling the blood rush to his face, forcing him to look away. He was slightly ashamed for losing his patience with Roger, but he also felt humiliation for touching his hands like that without permission. "You try now," he sputtered, trying to act as though what just happened was normal. "By yourself."
Clearly angry that Mark had forgotten that for Roger to read his lips he'd actually have to see them moving, he leaned over Mark. Looking him directly in the eyes, Roger let the intensity of his glare sink in before pointing to his ear with a matter-of-factly expression. Mark, already flustered enough from holding Roger's hands in his like that, became a deeper shade of red and mouthed "Sorry."
Collins placed his hand on Roger's shoulder, startling the young man and pulling away from the trembling Mark. Trying to divert his attention from Mark's embarrassment to the more important matters, Collins spelled out Roger's name again, then stared at Roger until he made a move to copy the sign. With a little, inaudible sigh of defeat, Roger spelled out his name almost mechanically before punctuating the word with the flip of his middle finger.
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By the end of the week, Roger had learned enough sign language to communicate to Mark and Mimi what he wanted. That goes without saying he never actually made an effort to use it. He still relied on primordial grunts and whining to express his needs, and on occasion he still spoke, though his ability to do this was deteriorating rapidly.
Most of his time was spent in his room, though this didn't surprise Mark or Mimi at all; it was just the Roger thing to do. Often the vague sound of guitar chords could be heard beyond the threshold to Roger's room, always accompanied by sounds of frustration. It was expected, of course; though he was still capable of playing, it wasn't at all the same as when he could hear. Roger nearly put his fist through the wall in vexation before Mark entered and persuaded him that there were better ways to make the loft look more like a shithole.
Mark found himself on the phone with Maureen, telling her about Roger's ailment and its irreversible result. Maureen's reaction was quite contrary to what Mark had expected from the drama queen. Despite popular belief, she wasn't one to fret when it came to serious matters, and Maureen had remained optimistic after receiving the news. "Well, he's still alive, and that's what really matters," Maureen had said, though Mark knew Roger would rather have died and gotten it over with. "But he's probably feeling bummed. We should do something to cheer him up. How about a party at the Life? We could get everyone together and just hang out like we used to."
Though this was suggested for Roger's benefit, Mark found himself liking this idea for himself as well. "Good idea," Mark said. "Let's get everyone together at the end of the week. I'll need some time to clean Roger up."
Little did Mark know that cleaning up Roger would be a bigger chore than he made it out to be.
Roger's hair had grown long and was unbearably tangled, so Mark, though he lacked severely in knowledge of how to cut hair properly, set to trimming it. Roger sat on the floor without complaining as his severed locks fell in clumps around him, and when Mark had finished the two-hour task Roger's hair was as short as it had been before he had gone to rehab. Mark smiled, proud at his accomplishment; as inept as he was with scissors, he had done a good job, and Roger looked much better.
Though Roger was compliant when Mark took the scissors to his knotty, bleached-blonde mane, he was anything but cooperative when Mark revealed a nail file, making his intentions very clear. The sight of the object coerced Roger to break into a run, though there weren't many places to hide in the loft. At once Mark cornered Roger and managed to wrestle him to the floor, filing his nails down to a civilized length despite Roger's tears and whimpers of protest.
Afterwards Roger was far too exhausted for anything else, and Mark allowed him to wander back into his room and collapse onto his bed after recovering from the traumatizing experienc. Baby steps, Mark told himself. It's not a lot, but it's still progress.
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The next morning Mark came to the conclusion that Roger was long due for a shower. As he flitted about the loft dusting, he wondered if Roger would need help bathing. Part of him had wished that Roger was capable and independent enough to shower on his own, yet a tiny, unfamiliar part of him hoped that Roger would ask for assistance. That's a weird thing to think, Mark thought, and as his dissenting thoughts ricocheted off the walls of his mind and collided he found himself entering Roger's room.
It was all too obvious that Roger's room needed more than just a good dusting, but Mark knew he had to start somewhere. He whisked the duster over the surface of the bedside table, but before long he felt his eyes drawn to Roger's sleeping figure. His face was just visible beneath the covers, his features pure and serene, free of the tension that was always present there during his conscious hours. Roger looked so relaxed when he slept, almost childlike, especially now that his hair wasn't as barbaric as it had looked before. Mark felt a yearning to reach out and let his fingers make contact with the flawless cheek, but he held back the urge, mostly because he didn't quite understand it.
After a while of observing Roger, Mark went back to dusting, but soon enough he found himself staring again. Suddenly seized by a sense of playfulness, Mark swept the duster lightly over Roger's neck. This sent Roger into a flurry of giggles, and he batted at the jumble of feathers, muttering in his sleep. "Mimi, not now…"
Mark proceeded to brush the duster over Roger's face, relishing the way Roger's grin widened as he scrunched his slightly freckled nose like a rabbit. Mark continued tickling him, biting his bottom lip to keep back the laughter that threatened to explode from his mouth as Roger continued swatting unconsciously at the duster. It was like playing with a kitten.
The dust became too much for Roger and he sneezed himself awake. Mark whirled around, pretending to busy himself with dusting the lampshade, grinning goofily with the effort of holding back laughter. Out of the corner of his eye he could feel Roger's own viridian eyes piercing his side, and he caught sight of the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin. As he edged over to the corner of the room and began dusting the doorknob of Roger's closet, Mark felt something smack forcefully into his back, the impact sending him flailing to the floor.
Immediately the awkward silence of the atmosphere was broken as Roger's laughter rang out. Disoriented, with his glasses knocked askew, Mark clawed at the wall, bringing himself to his feet. Turning around, he found a pillow lying at his feet, and raising his eyes he found that Roger was propped up in his bed on his elbows, smirking slyly like a wildcat. Another pillow dangled from his grip, ready to fly at Mark at the slightest provocation.
Returning the smirk, Mark snatched the pillow off the floor and hurled it back with just as much force in Roger's direction. Roger dodged it nimbly, then countered by throwing the second pillow, and after that the original pillow. By the time Mark had recovered Roger had leapt at him like a panther, pinning him to the ground and laughing triumphantly.
Mark squirmed but Roger used his superior weight to keep Mark immobilized. Remembering the feather duster, Mark's hand groped around until he closed his fingers around the handle, then lifted it up and swiped at Roger's abdomen. At once Roger curled up and fell to Mark's side, giggling in a childlike manner and clutching at his stomach.
Taking advantage of this moment of weakness, Mark scrambled to all fours and bounded over to Roger, clambering onto his back and making him laugh even harder. Roger regained his control and forced Mark back to the floor but by now Mark knew where Roger was most ticklish, and he assaulted those places mercilessly.
By the time it was over the two of them were far too fatigued to even move. They lay beside each other, alternating between gasping for air and laughing breathlessly, the air ardent with their rising body heat. Mark, who had amazingly managed to keep his glasses on throughout the whole fiasco, was laying flat on his back. He tilted his head so he could see Roger, who was sprawled on the floor at his side, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled for more breath to expel in the form of laughter.
At that moment Mark was overcome with a desire to kiss him.
Driven on by the impetus of lust, Mark found himself rolling onto his side and leaning his head in so it was resting just beside Roger's. Closing his eyes, he allowed his lips to brush lightly past Roger's cheek, but at that moment the door was flung open and Collins entered. Both Mark and Roger glanced up, Mark because of the shrieking door and Roger because he could feel the gust of air that the swinging slab of wood on its rusty hinges created.
"Bathtime!" Collins bellowed jovially, holding up a rubber duck and squeaking it.
Roger gave a gleeful, childish smile, and though Mark grinned too it was forced. He was upset that Collins had interrupted but also grateful; he had prevented Mark from doing something he might have ended up regretting.
But as Roger staggered to his feet and left Mark's side, taking all the heat and comfort with him, Mark knew that not doing anything was far more regretful.