Yeah, I have no idea how they're paying for rehab. Don't ask me, I posted didn't I! I'm having major trouble with this story so input/reviews are not only welcomed but...I don't know. Needed, yes, they are needed. But first, check out I Am Jack's Roger (Someone review on that story (other than PissiMissi and Renthead) please!) and Of Always and Definites. Actually, review first and then check out the others. Or whatever.

Chapter 12: Incognito Lies

"You write such pretty words
But life's no storybook,"

-Lover I Don't Have To Love, Bright Eyes

For as long as he lived, Roger would never forget the look on Mark's face when he suggested rehab.

"What?"

"While you were sleeping, I thought. A lot. I can't help you." If Roger didn't know him better, he would've thought Mark was having a panic attack. His eyes widened and he looked like a trapped animal desperate to get out.

"You want to send me away? But you just told Collins…"

Shit. He'd been eavesdropping. "I knew if I told Collins I couldn't deal with you, he'd come down and try to help. Things are going good for him in Massachusetts. He's got a job, a boyfriend. He doesn't need us to fuck it up."

"Is that all I am to you? Someone who fucked up your life?" Mark asked, more hurt than angry. "Excuse me, but you did a pretty good job of doing that yourself."

"And Collins had to help pay for it. I don't want to do that to him again, he can't keep putting his life off to deal with us."

"Funny," Mark muttered under his breath. "That's what I thought I did for you."

"Mark," Roger said again quietly. "I'm not you. Not in a million years, not even close. I can't help you like you helped me."

"You can't even try?" Mark asked with tears in his voice.

"Mark," Roger splayed his hands on the tabletop. "This is what's best for you, you're all I'm thinking about," the lie burned his throat has he coughed it up.

Worst of all, Mark knew he was lying. "No, this is what's best for you. Everything is always what's best for you!" He slammed down his hand, weak as it was and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Roger to his own private pity party.

He ran his fingers over the glossy paper making up the pamphlet. It is what's best, he repeated to himself. It is.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Despite his many protests, the next day Roger packed up all of Mark's things into his suitcase and laid them next to the door. Mark shot daggers at him, but he ignored them. Finally, when he was done he dragged Mark down the stairs where the cab was waiting for them.

Mark refused to look at him the whole drive there, didn't even exchange a glance about the fact that they were in a cab, though he knew it probably meant Roger wouldn't be eating for a while.

They pulled up to the rehab center.

It was a drab building. The lighting used in the brochure had definitely lent a bit of…not cheer exactly, but a bit of luster. Without it, one could see the center as it really was; a prison.

"It looks nice and…" Roger searched for a word. "Safe," he finished proudly. Mark just ignored him and went into the building.

"My name is Mark," he said to the receptionist, shocking Roger. He hadn't said a word to him, but here he was chatting up this random woman?

Roger realized in a flash what Mark was doing. He wasn't lettingRoger check him in so he could check out at any time. Mark was throwing his independence in Roger's face and it hurt more than he'd perhaps expected it would've.

"I'm checking him in," Roger broke in quickly. "My name is Roger Davis." Roger could feel Mark's hate for him at that moment, but he didn't care.

"Is that true?" Mark gave a short nod and for a moment, he looked completely defeated but then he regained his composure.

The receptionist handed Mark a wristband and led him over to a nurse. "Take him to his room." She turned to Roger again. "Now, the subject of payment…"