He gripped so hard at the railings that his normally pale skin glowed.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, Mark almost turned and ran, but decided against it.
Slowly, he crept towards the door, sliding it open and walking in.
The minute his eyes fell on Roger's guitar, he could no longer stand.
He fell to his knees, breathing deeply, refusing to cry.
He shoulders shook as he silently wept.
"Mark?" a voice questioned, coming up beside him.
He looked up and found Joanne Jefferson looking down at him.
"Oh, Mark." she said softly, kneeling to sit beside him.
"I don't know what happened." Mark admitted, the world blurry through his tear-soaked eyes.
Joanne reached into her back pocket and pulled out a tissue, handing it to Mark, who wiped it hastily across his face.
"I need help. I can't move Roger's stuff on my own." Mark admitted.
Joanne smiled slightly.
"Maureen and I can help." she offered.
Mark swallowed, looking around the loft.
"It's not just Roger's stuff I'm packing up." he said slowly.
Joanne nodded in encouragement.
"Benny offered the use of his apartment. I can't stay here, Joanne. I can't." Mark explained.
Joanne soothingly ran her hands along Mark's left arm.
"I understand, sweetie. I couldn't stay if Maureen had died." she said soothingly.
Mark smiled bashfully, going to stand, finding he needed Joanne's help.
Once standing, he looked cautiously around the lot.
"Holy shit." he exclaimed in a whisper.
Joanne smirked.
"That's a lot of stuff." she commented.
Mark walked over to Roger's guitar, which lie on the couch, and picked it up, running his fingers gently along the strings, playing the only chord he knew how.
"Joanne, check Roger's room for his guitar case." he instructed.
Joanne nodded, passing him by and heading towards Roger's room, pushing open the door and walking in.
Mark set the guitar back down on the couch, looking back around the loft and sighing.
"Where the hell do I start?" he asked himself, deciding that the best place to begin was in Roger's room.
Joanne came out with the guitar case in her hands, holding it out to Mark, who took it graciously, and went about carefully putting the guitar into it.
"There's some boxes in the closet. Just...box up what you can. Fragiles, I guess." Mark said with a shrug, watching as Joanne went about just that.
He himself had a duty to fullfill in Roger's room.
He slowly made his way to Roger's room, and when he walked in, he had to grab onto the doorframe to keep himself steady.
Roger's bed had been made.
Mark narrowed his eyes.
He must have known of his impending death.
Mark rolled his eyes.
"Of course he knew, ya twit. He had HIV." he said hastily.
He walked further into the room, kneeling beside Roger's bed and ducking under it, running his hands around to see what came into his grasp.
When that something turned out fuzzy, he recoiled.
"Joanne! Joanne!" he exclaimed, pushing himself back against the wall.
Joanne came rushing in, her eyes darting throughout the room.
"What? Honey, what?" she questioned.
Mark pointed under the bed.
"There's something fuzzy under there." he replied, eyes raised in a childish manner.
Joanne rolled her eyes in a friendly way before ducking and reaching under.
She grasped the fuzzy object in her hands and pulled it out, chuckling.
She turned to Mark, holding it out to him.
Mark had his eyes tightly closed.
"I don't want to see it." he whispered.
Joanne set the object in Mark's lap.
Mark slowly opened his eyes.
"I guess Roger had a weakness." Joanne said, in good sport, of the teddy bear that lie on Mark's knees.
Mark laughed, taking the bear into his hands.
"Roosevelt." he said.
Joanne narrowed her eyes in question.
Mark blushed, running his thumb along the bear's head.
"I thought I'd lost him." he said quietly.
Joanne's eyes sparkled.
"He's yours?" she questioned.
Mark nodded.
"He was all I had when I moved to New York. Until I met Roger." he replied.
Joanne reached out, taking Roosevelt into her hands again.
"I'll pack him with the fragiles." she said with a wink.
She stood, holding out her hand for Mark to take.
Mark took it and felt himself pulled to his feet.
"You need anything else, just scream. Like you did. You're good at that." Joanne teased, disappearing out the door.
Mark crossed over to the other side of the room, going to Roger's dresser and opening every drawer.
It was barren and empty.
"What the fuck?" Mark cursed, slamming the drawers shut.
He crossed over to the closet and swung it open only to find that it, too, had been wiped clean.
He shook his head, confused.
Joanne came, then, knocking on the doorframe.
"Mark, there's not enough...what's wrong?" she asked.
Mark crossed his arms over his chest, turning to face Joanne.
"The place has been wiped clean. It's like he didn't want me to touch his stuff." he replied, wrinkles appearing on his forehead.
Joanne shrugged.
"Collins did the same thing." she reminded Mark.
Mark scoffed.
"This is different." he objected.
"I know, honey. I know." Joanne said, walking forward and wrapping her arms around Mark.
Mark pulled back.
"No. I need to get this done. I can't...there's no time for grief." he said, hastily skirting out of the room.
Joanne followed after him, her heels clicking with every step.
"Mark, stop." she hissed.
Mark growled low in his throat before pausing in his steps, turning to face Joanne.
"You cannot just look over this. You have to let it go. You can't harbor the pain you're feeling, Mark. It's not healthy." Joanne spoke.
Mark rolled his eyes.
"There's too much to do for me to take the time to grieve. I have to pack up. Donate things to the homeless shelter. I don't have the time!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, turning and walking towards the loft door.
"You walk out that door, now, Mark, and you're letting Roger go without saying goodbye." Joanne yelled after him.
Mark stopped, looking at the door.
Then he threw his fist into it, sliding to his knees, the fist jammed into a hole.
Joanne rushed to his side, kneeling to inspect the damages, of both his fist and the door.
"Oh, baby." she said gently, reaching out and taking his fist from the door.
"Come with me." she said, wrapping her arms around Mark's waist, pulling him to a standing position and leading him to the kitchen table, sitting him down.
She quickly rustled over to the sink, running a washcloth beneath hot water and then coming back to Mark, placing the cloth on his wounds.
Mark winced, but found he was quite numb to the pain.
Joanne pulled the cloth back, taking in the amount of blood.
"Mark. Please. Talk to me. Talk to anyone." she pleaded, placing the cloth back down again.
Mark shrugged out of her grasp, taking the cloth into his own hands, holding it against his knuckles and letting the water drip.
"I don't know what to say." he admitted.
Joanne slid onto the stool next to him, placing her hand on his knee.
"Let it all out, sweetie. You'll feel better when you do." she insisted.
Mark bit at his upper lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Shit." he whispered at the taste of blood.
Joanne reached out, running her hand across his lips, wiping away the blood, bringing her hand to her pants and setting it there.
"When Collins died...I knew that Roger would be the next one. I just didn't know it would be so soon." Mark began, his eyes tearing up.
"I spent every waking moment trying to cheer him up. He was slowly letting himself go. He wanted to be with Mimi." he continued, choking on Mimi's name.
Joanne squeezed his knee encouragingly.
"The week before...the week before his death, he took me to Mimi's grave. He made me promise that I would continue to film, as he had been telling me for months, telling me that he would see it, wherever his soul departed to. And then he disappeared. For three days, I didn't know where he was. I worried sick. And then I got the call from Benny. Roger was in the hospital, dying of AIDS. AIDS!" Mark pushed forward, swallowing.
He looked into Joanne's eyes.
"He wasn't supposed to die of AIDS, Joanne." he said.
He looked down at his now swollen knuckled and continued.
"He was in a coma. Nothing, not even the doctors, could wake him. I spent two days of my life sitting by Roger's bedside, praying to whatever Diety exists, that he would open his eyes and be okay. That third day, he did open his eyes. He made me again promise to keep filming. He put filming before his death." Mark said with a sob.
"And then he died. He just closed his eyes and died. He didn't even say goodbye." he finished.
Joanne reached out and ruffled his hair.
"I think in telling you to film...that was Roger's way of saying goodbye." she suggested.
When Mark didn't retort, Joanne sighed.
"Mark, Roger was never the best at portraying emotion." she said softly.
Mark let out a long sigh.
"I know. Trust me, I know." he replied.
"Come back with me to our place. I have some more boxes I could loan you." Joanne suggested.
Mark smiled.
"Yeah. I shouldn't be here right now." he said tortily.
Joanne stood, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a cell phone.
"Let me give Maureen a head's up, okay?" she asked, turning and heading into a more private area of the living room.
Mark sighed and looked around the loft.
A box of cereal lie across from him, and beside it, an empty bowl, with Roger's favorite spoon resting at it's side.
Mark reached out and took the spoon tightly into his grasp.
Smiling, he tucked it into his pocket, not wanting to loose it amidst the packing.
"Maureen's gathering the boxes. You ready?" Joanne asked as she came back to Mark's side.
Mark raised his eyebrows and lifted himself from the stool.
"I'll never be ready." he admitted.
Joanne smiled and linked arms with him, leading him casually out of the loft.