Disclaimer: Don't own them.
Author's Note: Wow, I'm sorry this took so incredibly long. School's been hectic and I grounded myself from the computer for doing poorly on a test. But now that I'm back I've decided to write another chapter and here it is! Sorry, but things are gonna get crummy for the guys from here, so if you want a happy ending I suggest you don't read this. Re-read Chapter Five and pretend that that's the last chapter because that's the happiest it's going to get. This chapter is exactly what Mark suggests at the end: a bad omen, a warning of the sadness that is to come. Ray, in case you'll be wondering, is Collins's sort of boyfriend. I don't really like the idea of him dating someone other than Angel, even though she's dead, but I feel that he needs some companionship. I obviously made Ray up and you'll see a little of him in the next chapter, but I'm thinking maybe I'll do a separate story with him and Collins once I clear my plate of all these partially-finished stories, haha. Well, enjoy. And don't forget to review and give suggestions, otherwise this might not end up to your liking.
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Collins exited the bathroom and sat beside Mark, who was on the couch leafing through a severely outdated issue of The Village Voice. "Well, he's still pretty weak and he needed some help getting situated in the shower, but he should be fine," Collins informed Mark, who sat stone-faced, with his eyes glued to words that didn't mean anything to him. "I'm gonna go meet up with Ray. We'll catch ya'll at the Life later."
Mark twisted the newspaper in his hands, scowling disdainfully and muttering a half-hearted farewell as Collins left. He felt that if it was anyone's duty to help Roger through this, it was his and his only. Sure, Collins and he had known Roger roughly for the same amount of time, but it was Mark who had stayed with him this long. Mark had stayed with Roger through the April dilemma, through the withdrawal, through the various medications he was administered after discovering he was HIV positive. Collins, on the other hand, had left. Left for better things. He probably regretted leaving them alone, but regret didn't help anyone. It was Mark who had stayed. Stayed for Roger.
I'd choose Roger over the chance to go to Hollywood anyway.
His thoughts were interrupted when a stifled cry exploded from the bathroom. At once Mark was on his feet as he was accustomed to doing these days, running towards the room, and he stopped just outside the door, knocking. "Roger, it's Mark. Do you need me to co-"
Mark paused. Stupid, he's deaf! Is it that hard a thing to remember? Twisting the doorknob, Mark shoved the door open and was assaulted with another shout and a massive cloud of steam that fogged up his glasses. Taking them off and swiping at the lenses curtly with his sleeves, he slid them back on and gasped at the image that came into focus.
Roger was hunched over and crouched down in the tub, his eyes squeezed shut. There was a razor on the tiled floor, and Mark was helpless to stop the memories of April's demise as they began to cloud his already-hazy mind. For the briefest moment the blade seemed to gleam a lethal red. Coming to his senses, Mark realized this to be only a trick played by his runaway mind and let out a sigh when the true problem made itself apparent.
Roger was in distress but not in serious pain. His hair was still partially lathered, and runny foam was cascading down his bare skin, deliquescing and disappearing down the drain. Mark forced himself to ignore the pleasant gleam that shone on Roger's wet skin and focused on his face. His eyes were closed so tightly that Mark knew immediately that some shampoo had gotten into his eyes. Mark couldn't help but smile despite his friend's irritation. It wasn't a life-threatening issue as he had expected, just a few stray soapsuds.
"Open your eyes, Rog," Mark crooned soothingly before wishing that his leg could bend back far enough so he could kick himself in the ass. Deaf, Mark. Do you know what that means? He can't hear you. And at the moment, he can't see you either.
Exhaling slowly, Mark allowed his thumbs to gently push some of the shampoo bubbles away from Roger's eyes. At this meek, delicate touch Roger recoiled and omitted a whine like a caged animal. Mark watched him cringe and pull away, withdrawing to the corner of the tub and rubbing his eyes. "We need to wash them out with water," Mark said, exasperated, harboring the slightest hope that perhaps God would allow Roger to hear just this one sentence, as it would make the situation so much easier. "Rubbing will only make it worse."
Reaching out his arm out only to have it smacked away, Mark plopped to the ground in a puddle of bath water that had accumulated on the floor. This was a most vexing task, and Mark was half-hoping that Collins had forgotten something and would be back any minute now to help. He hated to admit it but he felt powerless without Collins's assistance.
I can go through the anger and the abuse and the drugs, the withdrawal and the screaming and the duplicity, the all-out refusal to cooperate and the apathy and the depression, but when it comes down to this little dilemma I need Collins to help me. Mark was utterly forlorn. The guilty feeling of the blood in his body beginning to rush to an inappropriate place wasn't of much help either. It killed him to hold back the urge to glance anywhere below Roger's collarbone. As if things weren't difficult enough, I'm now fluctuating between helpless and horny for reasons beyond my comprehension. God help me.
Suddenly he felt someone staring at him and glanced up to see Roger blinking, his eyes red and raw from being rubbed so furiously. All selfish feelings of lust had vanished with this one pleading stare as though it was a smack to the skull. Before Roger had a chance to close his eyes again once the stinging became apparent, Mark abruptly signed for Roger to wait and cupped his hands under the running water. Calmly he splashed some into Roger's eyes, and Roger winced but didn't shy away or bring his hands to his face. "Trust me," Mark said aloud, taking Roger's face in his hands to make sure he could see his lips forming the words. "Always trust me. I'm never going to do anything hurt you."
With pacifying fingers he brushed the remaining soapsuds out of Roger's eyes, then repeated the rinsing process again. By this time Roger could keep his eyes open without displaying too much discomfort, but they were still bloodshot and Mark couldn't tell how clearly he could see. Grabbing the dry towel off the top of the toilet, Mark dabbed gingerly at Roger's eyes before helping him stand up, all the while desperately trying to ignore the unsettling, heated feelings that overcame him.
Those green eyes watched him with such intensity that Mark feared they could see right through him. He felt ashamed as though these unexplained thoughts and feelings were exposed and out in the open, free for Roger to see and comprehend without Mark himself even having to utter a word. Perhaps Roger received the ability to read minds in exchange for his hearing? Mark, stop thinking up such stupid things. This is no joking matter.
Feeling awkward with those eyes locked unwaveringly on him, Mark knew now would be a good time to make an effort to communicate. Slowly he signed: "Are you alright now?"
Standing under the stream of water, no longer warm because it had been running without purpose for so long, Roger watched Mark as he pondered the question, then responded. "Finished," he signed. "Help out?"
Mark stood there, the intimidating thought of his hands against Roger's body overwhelming in his mind. Roger's gaze grew more befuddled with every passing second and finally Mark came to his senses, unfolding the towel he had been holding in a flurry of nervous energy. With one arm he latched on to Roger's arm, helping him step, dripping, out of the tub, then draped the towel around Roger's trembling shoulders. Roger continued to watch Mark for a moment, the towel loose like a cloak around his body, then took a step forward. Mark's heart thumped uneasily as Roger leaned against him, his damp forehead pressed to his shoulder, as if the task of getting out of the shower was so strenuous he was left drained.
Before Mark could respond he felt Roger's body go limp against him, then slide without warning to the slippery tile floor as Roger fainted. Allowing a squeak to escape his tightening throat Mark dropped to his knees and took Roger in his arms. Shaking him slightly he could see Roger's eyes flutter open, then return to Mark's face. At once he took on a look of embarrassment and averted his gaze to Mark's hands, which were pressed against his arm, holding the towel closed around him. "Sorry," he muttered out loud, his tone quiet and his voice weak.
Mark just smiled to let him know that it was okay. When Roger refused to return the smile Mark slid a corner of the towel over Roger's head and ruffled his hair in an attempt to dry it, making Roger squirm beneath his hands and give an unintentional laugh. Grin broadening, Mark helped Roger back up and led him out the door to his room so he could get dressed. Roger insisted he was feeling well enough now to dress himself, and Mark let him go without an argument.
As Roger walked over to his room, stumbling just before he could cross the threshold, forcing him to grab onto the doorframe for support, the itching nervous feeling that had been suppressed for only a few minutes began to start up again in Mark. Roger was feeling just fine, and he's been just fine for weeks. Everything will continue to be okay, Mark reassured himself as Roger glanced over his shoulder at him and laughed jokingly, poking fun at himself and his inability to walk properly.
Mark could tell he was scared to death.
Despite this, Mark forced himself to look past the fakeness of the laughter, telling himself that it was Roger's way of encouraging him, letting him know he was truly okay. Roger's going to be fine, he repeated in his head, trying to ignore the opposing voice that insisted this whole day was a bad omen, just a small taste of the terrors to come.