How did I get here?

How the hell…

The room was dark and smelled of sex.

Pan down on Mark Cohen, naked on the floor.

Naked Mark in a room that smells like sex never went together before…

Zoom in…on darkness.

But now…

Zoom out…

Now…

Zoom out on nothing

Now naked Mark and rooms that smelled like sex went hand in hand down some dark road every night. And every night they picked up another passenger and he got paid handsomely for it.

Not as good as a segment at Buzzline, but good enough.

Pan left to a nightstand where green bills are barely visible in the hazy light of the rising sun.

Apparently some men enjoyed dominating small, pale boys in bed.

The more Mark pretended to struggle, the more they enjoyed it, and the more they paid.

It was their sexual fantasy.

And at least they weren't out raping someone instead.

Pan right on the dirty mattress… too dirty.

He was only doing it so he could afford Roger's AZT, food, the basic shit they needed to survive every day.

Or at least that's what he told himself.

That's what he repeated in his head afterwards.

Times like these when he was lying naked on the floor, sore, occasionally bleeding, and feeling like a dirty fucking whore (which he was) it would become a mantra in his head.

I'm only doing this so I can buy Roger's AZT,

So I can buy food,

So I can keep him alive.

That's all… that's all.

But it wasn't just that….

There were plenty of places he could find a job.

Even Buzzline would be a better hell than this.

It's better to sell your soul than to sell yourself.

Of course he made more money with this job than with any other he could get… money that they needed for hospital bills, for medicine, for food, for the rent.

But they could probably manage with less money.

And even though selling himself would be worth saving Roger…

I'm doing this so I can buy Roger's AZT.

Even though selling himself would be worth saving his best friend…

So I can buy food.

He wasn't really saving Roger at all with this.

So I can keep him alive.

He was saving himself.

That's all, that's all.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark slid the loft door open and walked in as quietly as he could, started towards his bedroom, until with a start, he noticed Roger sitting by the window, staring at him.

Normally…

Normally as in months ago, this would've been an 'oh shit' moment, because he'd been discovered after a night of being out and that was so out of character for him, Roger would have killed him from all the worrying.

But this Roger was different.

This Roger barely existed after Mimi's death.

This Roger gave nods, shakes of his head, and shrugs of his shoulder so he didn't have to talk.

This Roger seemed practically emotionless or fallen so far into depression that he'd just stopped feeling.

This Roger was dying and Mark could see it every single day.

Every day it practically hit him in the face, how weak Roger looked, how much Roger looked like he'd finally just given up.

It was like death walking and it was a sight Mark couldn't detach from except for-

"You didn't bring your camera."

Strange.

"…what?"

So fuckin strange to hear your voice.

"You said you were going to film and your camera is over there."

…

"You listen to what I say?"

Mark couldn't help but say it. Roger had been so unresponsive to everything and everyone lately…

And as though to prove Mark's point, the rocker didn't respond, but instead turned to look out the window. Mark let out a careful sigh and stepped towards his bedroom.

Another night gone by to help me get through the day.

And then a hand grabbed hold of his arm.

When the hell did he get that fast?

"Mark, what were you doing all night?"

Why do you suddenly care?

"Walking."

"…All night?"

Mark nodded.

A moment passed and maybe he could get away with it.

Maybe the filmmaker could escape and everything would go back to being the way it was.

"I don't believe you."

And for the first time emotion. Mark could hear the low, dark tone to Roger's voice, almost warning him. It was almost a relief to hear it, but he wasn't going to give in.

He couldn't.

It was too late.

All of this was too late.

Mark shrugged, "I'm going to sleep."

"No." Roger turned him around roughly, Mark winced, "You're going to tell me what the fuck's going on."

"Roger, you don't care for months and now you want to start asking questions?"

The rocker shook his head, hand still gripping Mark's arms, "This has been going on for longer than this week?"

Maybe it was true that time eventually healed all wounds.

"Two months"

Maybe Roger had been too wrapped up in grief till now to notice.

"Mark… "

"I don't know what to tell you, Roger. I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth." Roger gripped Mark's arm tighter, green eyes taking in Mark's wince, "About where the hell you've been and why you're in pain."

Mark pulled away from Roger and walked to the window, leaning against the wall. This was going to be a long morning. He could practically feel Roger's eyes on him, staring him down.

Why…

"Mark, take off your shirt."

"…What?"

Roger approached him from behind.

"Take off your shirt."

"No. Roger…no. What the fuck? I mean why would you even ask that? That doesn't make any sense! Shit, Roger, I-"

Mark was rambling.

And that's how he gave himself away.

"Take off your shirt or I'll force it off."

The rocker wasn't going to back down.

"Roger-"

"I'm not as strong as I used to be, but I can still take you down. Shirt… off… now."

Mark shook his head.

This was not going to happen.

He was in control of the situation, not Roger.

Never Roger.

He walked towards his room, but the rocker's arm was around his waist in moments, pulling up the loose fabric and throwing it to the ground.

Mark stopped struggling.

Roger's arm fell loosely to his side.

And it's these moments of silence…

That look in Roger's eyes…

Mark could feel the emotion starting to bubble up inside, the shame and embarrassment and fear…

It could break him if he let it.

The stranger pushed him down as he struggled-

But he wouldn't let it.

pushed him down and pushed inside-

He would never let it.

Fingernails pulling into his back.

So there Mark stood, shirtless, in the middle of the loft. The palest body littered in bruises and fingernail scratches.

So fucking wrong.

"Mark, what…? I…" Roger's voice in a harsh whisper broke through the haze, "What the hell… Were you… attacked? But no…not every day…not every night. It- It… wouldn't…"

Mark wanted to leave.

One look at Roger and he had to leave, but the rocker's hand was gently tracing over bruises, over scratches. And Mark was starting to feel… regret, guilt, disgust, fear, pain…

If he could just…

If he could just- the man entered him again. Mark made noises, grunt,s and moans and yelps though he desperately tried to hold them back.

And Mark struggled with all the pain he'd felt from that day, all the anger, the regret, everything went into the struggle, went into the feeling of this man being inside him.

There was no thinking involved, for once his brain shut down, and he could just feel without it meaning anything. He could let down the walls and let someone in and it didn't matter.

He could be weak and it didn't matter.

It really didn't matter.

The hands pulled harder against him, pushed into his chest as the man's mouth-

"Mark!" Roger's voice again, "Mark, I i need /i to know what the fuck is going on. Sit."

They were next to each other on the couch. Green eyes hard, every once in a while gazing back at the bruises and scratches.

"Mark. What happened?"

The filmmaker shook his head.

"You're not getting out of this." Roger said firmly. "What happened?"

"Why do you want to know? It doesn't matter."

"Why? Fuck, Mark, I'm your best friend. You stay out all fuckin night every night for a week… month… two months… and come home with bruises and lookin like.. like this, I'm going to want to know what the hell is going on."

He sighed, staring at his pale hands, "It just didn't seem like you cared…"

"About you? Mark, I-"

"About anything."

Roger sighed, shook his head, "We're not talking about me. We're talking about this, about you. Mark… what the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know if I could say it out loud."

The rocker took in a harsh breath, "You… I don't- Mark… I can think of reasons for someone to stay out all night and come home in the fuckin morning looking like this. I just can't think of reasons for you to…"

Mark reached into his pocket, pulled out the green bills, and set them on the space between him and Roger on the couch.

Roger stared at it.

"Mark… no. What does this? I don't- It doesn't mean that… that you… that… no, no… it's not… you're not…I'm not going to-" Roger stood and ran a shaky hand through his thin hair, "No."

Yes, Roger, I'm a fucking whore.

And it wasn't until Mark looked up to see Roger staring at him, green eyes wide… that Mark realized he'd said it out loud.

"What the fuck? Mark, why would you even… What the fucking hell? God damnit! I don't- You're a…You can't be. Why? I don't… God, you're a fucking idiot! What the hell, Mark, why would you- You're… a… You…" Roger paced in a fury, before he stormed to the door and Mark knew Roger wanted to leave… but he hadn't left the loft in three months, since Mimi died.

For a moment, Roger stood by the door, conflicted. There was an odd look on his face that Mark couldn't place as he turned to stare at the ground again.

And then… slam.

Roger's fist made harsh contact with the wall.

"Be careful, Rodge… you'll hurt yourself."

"I will hurt myself?"

Bad choice of words.

The rocker stormed over to Mark, fist shaking at his side from all the energy he was using, "What about you. You're whoring yourself out every night… look at yourself, Mark! Just fuckin take a look at yourself! Why the hell would you ever do that? Why would you even think about fucking doing that? Are you insane? God damnit, Mark!"

Mark didn't say anything, kept his eyes to the floor, until another hand was on his arm, pulling him up from the couch and bringing him too close to Roger. It was hard to hide when they were this close.

Roger probably knew that.

"Mark, why? Tell me, why?"

"We… we needed the money… for everything… I couldn't- couldn't let… We need food and everything to survive…"

Even as the words came out of his mouth they sounded fake to his own ears.

"Bull shit! What are you trying to play at, Mark? There are other jobs out there, hell even Buzzline would be better-"

"I tried other jobs!"

"Did you?"

"But they didn't work."

"Didn't work with what?"

Mark shook his head, tried to walk away, "Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

But Roger still had his hand on Mark's arm and pulled him back easily, "I don't give a fuck if I won't understand. I need to know why my best friend is out there getting fucked by strangers every night!"

It was so cold and empty and raw, out there in the open, said by his best friend for the first time.

"Roger, stop. Just… stop."

"Why you'd risk fuckin disease and God knows what the hell else-"

Disease, like Mark hadn't thought of the risks. He knew the risks.

"Roger, I swear, if you don't-"

"That are on those freaks who seem to-"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

"Enjoy beating the fucking shit out of you as they fuck your God damn brains out!"

"God damnit, Rog-"

The rocker grabbed both of Mark's arms, green eyes on fire with anger that couldn't be stopped, "Why, Mark? Why the fuck would you even go there? Why?"

Roger was almost shaking him in his fury, in his search for an answer.

Don't tell him.

Shake.

Can't tell him.

Fire.

"Why? "

And then it came out, before he could stop it in a mess of words and shaking and-

"Because the fucking camera stopped working!"

The shaking ended, Roger's hands fell to his side as the fire swiftly left those green eyes.

"What…" Roger shook his head, "I saw you using it earlier."

"No, not like that." Mark sighed, collapsed on the couch again, "I-… It wasn't helping me detach anymore. I couldn't- Everything… I felt everything and I tried to hide, I tried to act like it was just a movie I was seeing, recording… just like I always do, but it didn't… work."

Seeing you dying is the one thing I can't detach from… not until-

Roger sat next to him, stared at him, and waited for more.

Mark shrugged lightly, "I couldn't detach in my filming so… I thought maybe work would help… and I could get some money too, y'know. So I got a job at the Life Café, washing dishes, but it didn't help. I couldn't detach and just focus on the work… and I… got fired…"

For dropping too many dishes because my hands couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop thinking of whether or not you were destroying yourself at home, couldn't stop thinking about Mimi, Angel, Collins, about the fucking end-

"And… how did that lead to…" Roger waved a hand in the air, his voice shaking with more emotion than Mark had heard in such a long time, "Y'know…all of... everything else."

"I would go walking to try to… detach… to try to stop thinking about… everything, stop i feeling /i , but it… it didn't help either. No matter how cold it was outside, no matter where I walked…and one night I walked by a bar and I thought what the hell, maybe I can drink it off. Maybe… I'll detach like that-"

"Mark, that isn't… that's not like you."

"I know," He stared at his pale hands folded together over his legs, "I didn't want… to be me."

Roger sighed, ran a shaky hand through his hair, and stared at the ground, "Mark, I-… just continue. Just fucking… so you want to a bar?"

"Yeah… I don't… We don't have to do this. I'd rather not… talk about it anyway."

Roger looked up again, shook his head, "No, we have to do this. We do. We're doing this… now. I waited too fucking long to begin with… now just… just go on…"

"Right, well… went to the bar, had some drinks. Had a lot of drinks and it just… it wasn't really working. It…it dulled me some, there was a buzz, but I don't know the pain was still there, despite it all I kept thinking about… everything. And feeling and I didn't want to… and I was drunk…" He swallowed and squeezed his hands tighter together, "And some guy at the bar offered to pay…to… to fuck me. At first I said no… but then I drank more and I was… more… drunk and he asked again and I said what the hell, sure, I'm drunk, why not... Well, not in those words…exactly."

" So yo- You… went with him and he fu-…. fucked you and you were finally able to y'know… detach or whatever…?"

Mark closed his eyes, shook his head, "No, not… not exactly. I felt… more than ever. There was so much fucking emotion that I released when he… and yeah, it hurt and there was pain and it was more than I ever remembered feeling… before-"

"Then why the fuck did you…"

"Because the next day, I couldn't feel anything. There was nothing and the moment I started to feel something I just went back to that night, the small flashes of memory I had of it and it was… it was okay. And I could get through the fuckin day and I had money in my pocket…and…a couple days went by and I was… back where I started… kept feeling… I told myself I'd just go back, do it again for whoever wanted to… because it'd give us money and I could buy your AZT and food, but… I didn't… I really just felt like I needed it… I guess."

Roger shook his head, let out a harsh sigh as he stared at the ground below him, "God… Mark, what the fuck are we going to do with you? That's not even… fuck…Don't just… God damnit."

Mark glanced at him, "And what about you?"

"What I sure as hell haven't become a fucking whore!"

Mark winced, turned away from him, "You know what I mean… you haven't been yourself… at all not since-"

"Yeah I know."

"I just hate…I can't stand to see you like this." Mark swallowed, cursed at how his voice started to shake. i Detach, detach, detach/i "It's destroying you and I don't want you to… waist the rest of your-"

"Mark, we're not fuckin talking about this now."

The filmmaker nodded, "Yeah, o-… okay."

Then Roger's arms were around him, squeezing him tightly, his body was shaking against Mark's.

"No more. This was the last time, Mark. You understand me? The last time. Or I swear Mark Cohen… I will… I will… I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be fucking good. I'll lock you in your room. I'll stop taking my AZT, just God… this was the last time. The last fuckintime."

Mark hugged him back.

Maybe now that he had his best friend back, it would make it okay.

Maybe now he could survive and detach with his camera again… like always.

Maybe now everything would go back to normal.

"Yeah, Rodge, it was the last time."

But as they pulled away and Mark noticed a lesion on Roger's arm for the first time, he knew that not all endings could be happy ones, not everything was so concrete.

It's better to sell yourself than to break.

Mark tried to look away from the lesion, but it was always i there /i in his line of vision…

I'm only doing this to save myself

Mark had let a man fuck him this morning for money

To save us both.

And he knew now, it wouldn't be the last time.

He's dying.

It couldn't be the last time.

That's all… that's all.