Blink Tears

by SkyPad

[postRent] The filmmaker cannot see.

5. Dealing

Chapter Five: Dealing

Eyes traveling around the room, taking in the darkness with rapid blinks, Mark tried to imagine the small room that had been described to him. He could deftly picture the mahogany wood decorating the tiny area: the floor, walls, chairs, desk, and even the plaques hanging around, describing degrees from different universities. Books scattered the shelves, so neatly stacked that it was a wonder if anybody ever really touched them since they'd been placed on the shelf. Mark ran a hand along the various spines, fingering the texture of the tall books and small books, thin books and fat books, each with a different type of curved title and etching. He continued to guide himself away from the book shelves until his hand flinched against the cold leather chair, which, Collins had said, was black and comfortable.

Mark mumbled to himself, feeling his foot snag behind the tiny leg of the chair. He reached down to unhook his pant leg from the offending obstacle, but only succeeded in cutting himself in the process. "Damn-"

"Here," The voice of Doctor Shelly Crow, all too gentle and soft to be true. Her voice was etched with fake cheeriness and false hope. Roger had described her as a 'blond woman, medium-sized body, and small hazel eyes'. Mark felt a petite hand push his own hand away from his leg as his ankle was wiped with a cool cloth. "A nail," she explained, "it's a new chair and we had a hard time getting it out of the box. It must've caught onto the leather."

Mark wrinkled his nose in disgust as the woman led him to the couch, almost as if he was a little kid who had just got sentence to time-out. "Thanks," he whispered pathetically, palm coming up to push the sunglasses further up his face. The same sunglasses that hid the bandages that were wrapped around his eyes.

He heard the scribbling of paper upon pen. "Mark, correct? Or would you prefer that I call you Mister Cohen?"

"No." I'm not my father. "It's Mark."

"Would it be all right if I start with some preliminary questions?" Dr. Crow questioned. "It's all standard." Mark shrugged, almost like he really believed he had a choice whether or not she was going to ask them. "All right." She shuffled in her seat, and Mark heard every little movement as she rifled through his file. "Have you had any abnormal reactions to the prescribed medications the doctors gave you? Physical or emotional?"

A shrug. "I don't think so. You'd have to talk to my friends about it, though; they're the ones keeping track of that. Mostly I'm sleeping, so I guess drowsiness is there-" he frowned and hastily added, "If that counts…"

Dr. Crow sniffled, and Mark heard the sound of a Kleenex brush against her nose before more scribbling could ensue. "Okay. What about your friends?"

"What about them?"

"Anything."

Fidgeting slightly, Mark let a shaky hand run through his hair and down his face before settling down to scratch his cheek idly. "I live with Roger Davis- he's the brown-haired one, probably wearing a leather jacket- and Mimi, his girlfriend. Below our loft is Thomas Collins, just Collins -the other man who was here with me- and living with him is Benjamin Coffin III, just Benny. Maureen and Joanne, they're lovers, live deeper in the city, but we see them all the time."

"Anybody else?" More scribbling.

"No."

"How about your family?" Mark stiffened, and it hardly went unnoticed under the trained eye. "Is there something wrong?" He could hear the smirk in her voice, and he hated it. He hated that Dr. Crow thought she found her target discussion.

She didn't.

"My friends are my family," Mark replied shortly. He pushed himself off the leather chair and let his hands guide him back over to the bookshelves that had occupied his time earlier. He ran a wary hand over the titles again. A sigh from her caught his attention and Mark tilted his head back with a slight smile plastering his face. "I'd rather no talk about it."

"Well, we don't have to talk about that yet." A rustling sound, the doctor straightened in her chair. "Do you like books?"

"What?" Mark questioned intelligently, hand freezing so suddenly that he almost stumbled as his feet kept moving, running into a solid object that was most likely a stepladder. "Books?" For a moment Mark wanted to slap her in the face for catching him off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You keep going back to them," she explained, cool and crisp. "Is there something interesting you see?" Mark nearly scoffed. "Or, perhaps, feel?"

Mark let out a disgruntled sigh. "I'm just trying to figure my way around this place. Once a week for one month, right?"

"We'll see what goes from there." She shuffled in her chair again. Mark could hear it. "Why don't you take a seat?" Mark frowned, but complied without an argument. "All right. Mark, you were diagnosed as being visually impaired and the hospital sent you into my care, as an acting therapist. I will be here to talk to you and listen to you whenever you need me. Once this is over, that is, the one month has passed, and if I feel you are not in the "right condition" then I will recommend you to a psychiatrist."

"One hour?" Mark frowned, hands digging deep into his jacket's pockets.

"It flies by before you even realize it," Dr. Crow reassured him. "Now, this can either go in a complete silence, whereas the only we have would be you losing you money for the wasted time, or you can talk to me and we can work some ground. Let's start with what happened that night-"

"What's there to say?"

"Have you checked the footage of that day to see what came up?" Mark shook his head. "Why not?"

"What good would it do? I can't see anything. Besides… it's not the right time."

"Why not?" She prompted again. "Are you afraid?"

"No," Mark bit his tongue from cursing. "I want my memory to come back on my own time. Okay?"

She moved on quickly, "Where'd you go?"

"The park. I walked around for a few minutes and…"

"Yes?" she prompted patiently, more scribbling eliciting from her pen as he felt her eyes trail on him once again. Mark searched his brain uselessly but in the end only shook his head pathetically and sunk into the leather. "You don't remember?" He felt an eyebrow rise and remained silent. "What's the last thing you remember after walking around?"

"Walking around in the middle of the rain." He pushed his sunglasses up pointedly. "I couldn't see, remember? I didn't know where the hell I was. I walked around for a while and got stopped by three muggers and that's when Roger showed up and saved me. Brought me to a clinic."

"Yes, Mister Davis-"

"Just Roger."

"Roger has told me of the events leading up to the clinic." The sound of ruffling papers had Mark guessing she was looking through his medical folder. "You suffered an acute case of hypothermia, a bruise on your ankle, neck, jaw, and eyes, a case of amnesia, and the visual impairment." The ruffling sound stopped and Mark felt her eyes trail on him. "How are you feeling now?"

He bit his lips to say anything inappropriate but still managed to snap, "How do you think?"

If she was offended with the peeved response, her voice didn't show it. "What about your eyes? Roger says that you can only see shadowed images?" Mark nodded wordlessly. "Is there anything else?"

"Took the bandages off when I got back from the clinic, still can't see anything but shadowed figures. I might as well be blind." He reached up swiftly and snatched his sunglasses off his face to reveal the white bandages that were wrapped around his head. "I'm stuck with this on for a month. They'll take it off and check my eyes to see if anything will happen-"

More scribbling. Mark wanted to throw the damned pen out the window. "You don't seem too hopeful."

"Should I?"

"Should you?" she countered stealthily. "That's the question, isn't it?"

A silence.

Did he really care whether or not he would ever be able to see again? Did he care if his vision would leave him? Did he care that in just one month a doctor would tell him if he had a very good chance of going blind for some sort of reason that his brain blocked out? Did he give a shit?

The filmmaker cannot see…

Hell yes.

Ding!

Mark's head whipped to the left where the estranged noise was produced. The clicking of heels on the wooden floor and the soft feel of a petite hand around his wrist told Mark one thing. "An hour?" he questioned intelligently as he hurriedly placed the sunglasses back on his face.

"It flies by before you realize it," she repeated. "Let me help you find your friends." and without waiting for a nod of confirmation, she was pulling him cautiously around the obstacles of the tiny building. "It might help to get a walking cane-"

"No," Mark said, voice growing suddenly rough. "No canes."

"It would help," she persisted. "You would get it for free and you wouldn't be running into things half the time-"

"No," he said, the simple repetitive reply.

Becoming visually impaired was enough for a New Yorker, but, sticking a cane in his hand and having the sunglasses cover his bandaged eyes, it all just screamed out to all the muggers that Mark was helpless. He might as well have gotten a large red target taped somewhere on his body.

Mark felt the doctor tense slightly as she gently pushed him through a pair of doors that led him to one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room. A strong hand gripped his shoulders.

"You all right, Mark?" Roger's gruff voice swam through Mark's ears.

"Sure," he responded shortly. "Did you take your AZT?"

"All three of us did." Roger chuckled dryly. "You know, Mark, I'm not some little kid with a toy. I know what the sound coming from my beeper means."

Mark smirked. "Where's Collins?"

"Talking to the doctor. We'll be out of here in a few."

"Do you have my camera?" Mark tapped his foot impatiently.

"It's at home. I'll help you with it when we get back to the loft."

"Thanks," Mark stated monotonously, his cheeks feeling the heat rise up to him as he thought of his pitiable situation: A filmmaker who couldn't even film because he need a songwriter help him do it.

"Here comes Collins- What's that?"

"What?" Mark squinted his eyes uselessly, the bandages ruffling slightly at the movement. He reached his arm out for Roger's arm to lead him out of the small building but instead found his hand wrapped around a skinny, cold object. "Collins… No."

Collins heaved out a large sigh as he pushed the cane towards Mark. "Come on, you need to use it if you can't see." Hesitant voice. "Its doctor recommended, you need it-"

Mark frowned. "I don't need it. I can manage my way around the loft just fine and you two won't let me out of the loft alone. What's the point in having it if I have somebody to help me around?" I don't want that cane to define me. "I'm fine without it."

"Mark-"

"No." Mark was so close to yelling that it scared him, his voice was strong. "No. Collins, just let it go." he dropped the object and felt a satisfied smile as it fell with a clunk. "Come on."

"But-"

Roger placed a hand on the man's shoulder and whispered so softly that Mark couldn't hear, "Come on, I know you mean well, but, let's not get into this right now. He doesn't need the cane right now, just give him time." He waited for the professor to nod before running a hand through his hair and grasping Mark's arm carefully. "Let's head home, Maureen is there."

"Maureen?" Mark gulped. "What's she doing?"

Collins chuckled as he scooped up the cane and twirled it in his hand. "She and Mimi are doing something for you- not sure what."

"A surprise?" Mark questioned, frowning. "She knows I don't like surprises."

"Well, Joanne isn't going to be there and Maureen did say she wanted to be with her Marky-" Collins let out a large laugh as the color rose to Mark's cheek for what seemed like the twentieth time that day. "I'm just messing with you." He ruffled Mark's hair.

"What about Benny?"

"He's working."

Little had been said about Benny's actual job but Mark knew that it had something to do with Benny's passion of music production. The man's eye was still favoring a Cyber Arts studio but, instead of knocking down the building, Benny was now looking at an empty space in the city. An old, rundown building that was for lease- no word on it yet.

"Watch it!" Roger's voice shouted as Mark felt the back of his jacket pull up so high that his heels were lifted off the ground.

A patient, controlled sigh was heard from Mark's left and he shuddered. "Sorry. What'd I do?"

"It's nothing. You're all right." Roger gave an apologetic look to the construction worker that had just glared and returned to his job of pouring cement into the hole in the sidewalk. "So… how'd it go in there?"

Mark averted his covered eyes, saying nothing.

"She said it went all right," Collins answered for the man. "It was all standard today so next week should be more like a regular session." The professor nudged Roger's shoulders when he noticed Mark wasn't listening and whispered, "She said he's quiet and withdrawn."

"Isn't he always?" Roger whispered back. He looked back towards Mark and suddenly tightened his grip on his best friend's shoulder before he could walk over the sidewalk and into oncoming traffic. The taxi that had just passed honked annoyingly and Roger just held up a finger. "Come on, we're close."

"Yeah…"

Roger whipped his hair away from his face before carefully maneuvering Mark across the street. He held up another finger as a minivan came to a skidding stop in front of them and the driver yelled out angrily. Mark's head fell to the ground, his sunglasses falling before he brought a shaky hand to force them further up his nose and over his suddenly-exposed bandaged eyes.

"Home sweet home," Collins said, hand moving to ruffle Mark's hair again. "Hope you're ready for Maureen." He leaned forward and jokingly made a silent whipping sound in Mark's ear.

Mark blushed.

"Cut it out man." Roger nudged Collins' arm.

"No. It's fine." It's like normal. Like I'm not handicapped.

Roger shot Mark a look but said nothing as he squeezed the man's shoulder and silently gestured for Collins to grab hold of Mark's shoulder so he could go ahead to open the large apartment door. He slid it open and faithfully placed a hand back on Mark's shoulder, wordlessly leading his friend up the large flight of stairs towards the desired loft on the top floor-

"Shit!"

Mark stumbled forward and fell onto the steps, his hand flying out to catch himself before his head could hit the ground. He felt the rough-texture of Roger's hand around the back of his neck as he sat there on his hands and knees panting for breathe. The pain was felt in his hands and as Mark clenched them angrily he felt the familiar liquid drip down his right palm.

"It's okay… you're okay…" Roger whispered, rubbing tiny circled into Mark's back.

"Damn," Collins whispered, kneeling doing next to Mark as his fingers carefully prodded Mark's wrist, "you all right?"

Mark simply tilted his head to where the voices came from and gave a sad smile, saying nothing.

"Roger?" a soft voice whispered from about them, making Roger look up. Above them, leaning over the staircase railing, Mimi Marquez looked down worriedly as she chewed her lip gingerly. "Are you all right?"

"MARKY!"

The color came back to Mark's face at the sound of Maureen's ecstatic yell. Roger squeezed Mark's shoulder once more and said, "Hang on, man, I'll be right back." He shot Collins a pointed look before rushing up the steps two at a time.

"What happened?" Mimi questioned, watching her boyfriend. "Is Mark all right? Are you all right?"

Roger grunted. "We're fine. Mark cut his palm; I just need the first aid kit-"

"Meems! Are they here yet?"

Mimi nodded, understanding. "Maureen." She looked back down to Mark and Collins thoughtfully before nodding her head contently. "I'll get the first aid kit, you stay out here," Mimi said, sneaking back through the door.

Raising a brow, Roger questioned, "What are you doing in there?"

"That's for us to know and you to find out." Mimi stuck her tongue out playfully before sliding back into the loft, shutting the door.

Roger leaned forward and placed his ear to the door.

"Hey Mimi." Maureen's bubbly voice said, "Did you see them yet?"

"Yeah, they need a first aid kit-"

Maureen screeched, "Is it Marky! Let me see him! Is he all right?"

"He's fine. It's Collins; he just cut himself on a nail."

"Are you sure? Is he all right?"

"It's no big deal. We want them all to come up at once, though. They just want to clean off the blood, just in case."

"Oh…okay. Make sure Marky doesn't get blood on him."

"Here you go, love." Mimi winked, leaning forward on her toes to peck Roger's cheek. She raised her voice for Maureen to hear, "You make sure you get all that blood off the ground and clean Collins' cut. Can't be too careful!"

"Thanks." Roger smiled, pecking her cheek back before taking off down the stair. Collins and Mark, who was resting against the wall with his head buried in his knees, had moved to the nearest landing.

Collins pulled Roger to the side. "Where's Maureen-" Roger sloppily stuck a band aid to Collins' arm. "What the hell is this?"

"You clipped your arm on a nail and we're cleaning it up." Roger said, waiting for Collins to nod in understanding. "How's he doing?"

"He's embarrassed, but, other than that, he's fine." Collins said, fingering the new bandage on his arm. "Do you know what they're doing up there?"

"Not a clue." Roger smiled before moving to kneel in front of Mark. "Hey, you all right?"

"Terrific," Mark mumbled sarcastically, his head coming up so that his chin rested on his knees.

"Here, let me see your hand." Collins kneeled down next to Roger and grabbed the kit from the musician's grasp. Mark frowned as he held out his hand, feeling the blood drip down his palm and land onto the gritty floor below. Carefully, Collins took out some gauze and gently dabbed the tender area. Once the blood was cleaned off Collins grabbed a bottle of peroxide. "This may sting a bit…"

"No problem," Mark said. "Go ahead."

Prrrttt…Roger cringed as Collins applied the medicine to Mark's palm, wincing again as Mark's face scrunched up in pain. He kept his hand on his friend making sure Mark didn't move too much as Collins wrapped the white bandages around his palm.

"Too tight?"

Cut off my circulation and I'll feel better. "It's fine. Thanks."

Collins quickly taped the wrap down and carefully wiped the blood off of the ground before grasping Mark's right shoulder, while Roger took the left, and hauling the man to his feet, steadying him quickly. "All better." Sort of. "Matches your leg."

Mark flinched. "My leg?"

"Dr. Crow said you cut it on a nail." Collins replied. "It's okay. Your palm had a deeper cut."

"Reassuring." Roger snorted, his hand involuntarily tightening on Mark's shoulder. "Come on, before Maureen has a heart attack up there and destroys the loft."

On the contrary, as Roger and Collins opened the door to their loft it wasn't like Hurricane Maureen blew through, it was like Spick and Span Maureen washed over. There the diva stood, arm swung around Mimi's shoulders, triumphant grin plastering her face, and eyes glowing like a psycho. Mouth agape, Roger swallowed the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and scanned the loft as if it was the first time he ever set foot in it.

It was clean. Not only that, but, as Roger scanned the area, he noticed that the couch was new -no duct tape in site. In the tiny kitchen, where the metal table was supposed to be, now stood a medium-sized wooden dining room set with six chairs stuffed around it. There was no clutter on the floor, either, instead a black rug sat on top of the clean wooden floor. A small stereo stood to the side next to Roger's new guitar stand and Mark's camera sat content on a new tripod.

"What do you think?" Mimi questioned, eyes shining brightly. "We worked on it since you left for lunch. It didn't take took long."

"What is it?" Mark's meek voice echoed through the silence of the loft. "Rog? Collins?"

"Clean-" Roger announced, a small smile gracing his features as he guided Mark deeper into the loft. "Can you smell that? Do you feel it?"

Mark shivered subconsciously, hand moving to push his sunglasses further up his face. "What in the…" He moved away from Roger and walked around numbly, an odd sense of déjà vu crawled through his whole body. "Heat! We have heat?"

Maureen smiled. "Don't cha' think it's nice?"

A small frown. "It feels nice."

"Maureen!" Mimi hissed, her voice so low that Mark couldn't hear as he continued to wander around the loft. "He can't see what's going on."

"Oh!" Maureen frowned. "Marky, I'm-"

Mimi had to jump out of the way as Collins barreled forward and quickly placed his hand down, covering her mouth. "He doesn't need apologies right now."

"Mmrryy-" Maureen mumbled, eyes lowering.

Mark turned.

Mimi placed on a false grin, but quickly she let it drop as she realized Mark couldn't see. "We cleaned up the apartment while you were gone, Mark. We got all the shit off the floor, put down a new carpet, there's a new couch and table, and we got you a new camera bag!"

Damn, Mark thought to himself, his feet kicking around looking for the usual clutter that blocked his path… Blocked my path? Maybe that's why they did this, so he could navigate around the loft without running into things.

Pity? Possibly.

"Wow," Mark finally breathed, "I mean heat is one thing, but you got all this done in a matter of hours?"

"Benny helped." Mimi smiled, her arm moving around Roger's waist. "He made this place feel like a real home," she turned to Collins, "and your loft is spoofed up too!"

"That guy…" Collins chuckled.

Roger hugged Mimi closer to his body. "He's really trying to get back in the game."

"Why can't you just forgive him?" Mimi questioned, frowning.

"I have." He arched a brow at the look Maureen, Collins, and Mimi were giving him. "Well, I've let off a little…"

Maureen jumped suddenly as she watched Mark flop down on the new dark brown couch. "So, what do you think Marky?"

"It's… nice. Real nice." Mark chose his words carefully, hand funning up and down the arm of the new couch. "At least it doesn't smell like Roger-sweat anymore."

Mimi giggled. "I'll agree on that one."

"Its vanilla," Maureen piped up helpfully. "Benny left Mimi and me some money so we could buy the candles! Yesterday was when we actually picked out the furniture though, so all we had to do was let the guys from the store bring it up here. It was all about timing."

Mark hissed, bringing his bandaged arm up protectively against his chest. He felt Maureen's petite hand on his arm and flinched slightly, "It's okay Maureen; I'm fine."

"What happened?" Maureen's eyes widened visibly. "Did you fall?"

"No," Mark protested. "Really, it's nothing-"

"Calm down Mo," Roger frowned. "That was there when he came out of the clinic, it's just a small cut, really; they just wanted to make sure it wouldn't get infected." Maureen chewed her lips thoughtfully. "Really, he's fine."

Mark held his hand up. "It's okay, there's nothing wrong."

"If you're sure…"

"It's fine."

"Well, dinner is at the Life Café, on Benny." Maureen smiled, blowing off the sudden outburst. "He and Joanne should there in about thirty minutes but Mimi and I were planning on heading there now. Are you coming now too or are ya gonna meet us there after you take a look around the loft?"

"I'll meet you guys there," Mark sighed. "I'm just going to wash up a bit."

Maureen pursed her lips. "Ya don't need to wash up Marky, we're just going to the Life Café."

Mark shuddered and stated simply. "Street smell."

"I'll stay here too," Roger quickly volunteered and, after receiving an odd look from Maureen, said "I promised Mark to help him with his camera. We'll be there in a few, you three go on." He kissed Mimi and gave her an encouraging smile.

"If you're sure…" Mimi smiled as she latched onto Collin's offered arm. "Well, don't take too long."

Collins nodded a short farewell.

After a couple of minutes of prying the worried Maureen away from "her Marky" the three young bohemians waved their final goodbyes and walked out the door towards the loft.

"So…" Roger started as he watched Mark move from the couch to the windowsill where he plopped down casually to peer his bandaged eyes out the now-clean window. "Do you want to head into the shower first or should I?"

"Well, ya see…" Mark blushed, his head tilting towards Roger's voice. "I mean, Mimi was always here in the morning to… erm, help me…"

"What? Ah- Oh!" Roger looked down, suddenly finding the new carpet very interesting. "Well, ya know, I could help you… I mean, if you don't think it's weird…"

Mark shook his head. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"It's no problem. Really. I used to do this for my baby cousin before he moved away." Roger shrugged casually. "Is there a certain way or…"

"No… just… Yah know? Bathtub…"

If you're uncomfortable than he'll be uncomfortable. Don't let him feel uncomfortable. Roger sucked in a breath. "Well, wait here and I'll get the bathtub ready!" He jogged the short distance into the bathroom. This'll be easy. It's my turn to take care of you…

XXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXX

Roger stumbled over the clutter lining the staircase as he climbed the many steps leading up to the loft. A vicious grin lined his carefree face as he stumbled over a pile of empty beer cans and fell into the paper-thin walls around him, a hole emerging where his hand had involuntarily punched. He slid down, still grinning like a madman and giggling like a schoolgirl. It was 2 AM and he probably shouldn't have been making so much noise, but, right now, Roger didn't give a damn. Already coming off his latest high, Roger was thinking of the stash he had hidden in his bedroom, and, at such thought, he pushed himself away from the wall and continued his stumble up the stairs.

The need. The want.

The hit.

Pulling the sliding door to the side, Roger barely noticed the curious eyes of his roommate, Mark Cohen, as he flew through the living room and dashed off into his bedroom. He tossed aside the odds and ends, tearing his room apart, pushing furniture all around, as Roger's desired eyes turned to that of frantic. The hole in his wall had been boarded up and, as he tore the wood away, he found nothing to fulfill his need. He fell to his knees and clawed his now-grown out brown hair away from his face as green eyes searched desperately for another hiding placed he could've been using-

"Roger?"

Ears perked, eyes gleamed. Roger turned towards the voice. "Mark…? Mark, I need it."

"You don't need anything," Mark replied, his voice cool and calm.

"I need it," Roger repeated. He whipped back towards the hole in the wall and began to tear through the thin walls of his room. "I need it."

"Roger! Roger, stop!" Mark rushed forward and placed his hands over Roger's so they couldn't continue to tear through the cheap plaster. "Roger, come on, man, you don't need anything. Remember? You quit. Right? Roger-"

The musician shook his head, arms trembling in Mark's weak grasp. "I can't quit. I need it."

"You don't need anything. Roger?" Mark finally noticed his friend's shaky sweat-soaked body. "Roger? What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing!" Roger protested, his weak tone hardening suddenly as green eyes flashed angrily. "What the hell do you think? You don't understand! I need this!"

"Roger!" Mark gasped suddenly, feeling two hard hand close around his throat, his eyes blinking rapidly as Roger threw him against the wrecked wall and pinned him there. A small piece of plaster protruded against his back, a wet spot -Mark guessed it was blood- falling down his arched back as he wriggled against Roger's death clutch. "Roger! Let me go!"

"Where'd you put it?" Roger shouted, one hand coming down punch Mark in the gut. "YOU TOOK IT! YOU WANT IT! WHERE IS IT?"

Mark's breath hitched in his throat as he gasped for air as Roger slammed him into the wall again and Mark felt a dizzy spell wash over him as his head made a hard impact on the wall behind him. "Look! Roger… Look what you're doing! Drugs are doing this! Remember April?"

"DON'T!" Roger shouted, dropping Mark like a ton of bricks and taking pleasure in watching his skinny form crumple to the ground. "Don't you even talk about April to me! Especially you! You never liked her! You HATED her!"

Mark looked up, eyes wide as Roger stalked from the room. "Roger! Roger, come back!" Mark stumbled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain that shot through his body as he used the wall as a guidance to follow Roger into the living room. "Roger, calm down!"

"STOP! DAMN YOU! Don't tell me what to do!" Roger shouted, pacing. "I'm going out."

"No!" Mark shouted, finding the adrenaline rush through his body as he threw himself at his friend and clutched desperately to Roger's arm. "Roger, you can't! Stop doing this Roger! Remember what you said? No more drugs! You go out there and you'll be tempted. Don't go back to him-"

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Roger shouted. "I NEED A HIT!"

"Roger, you're sick!" Mark tried to reason, his grip tightening on Roger's leather jacket. "Those drugs… Those drugs, they'll kill you."

Roger's eyes flared. "I'm already dead."

"NO! No, you have too many years left in you -more than me! What about Collins? He's got it." Mark cried. "Take your AZT! Just take it and you'll be fine. Better than fine, you'll be back to before…" he trailed off suddenly, biting his lips.

"Back to what?" Roger questioned. "Go ahead! Say it! Back to before I met April!"

"BACK TO WHEN YOU WERE MY BEST FRIEND!"

"She did it too. It helped her." Roger reasoned. "She was fine with the drugs. She'd be happy with me taking a hit for her. She loved me. She's dead Mark! There's nothing else to live for."

"WHAT ABOUT ME!"

Roger paused. "I'm going out."

"Look what April and those damned drugs did to you!"

"Don't talk about her." Roger glared, one last time, before flinging Mark off his arm and against the wooden coffee table. The filmmaker crumpled to the floor, the back of his head hitting the table. "She didn't do anything to you!"

Mark looked up, vision blurry, to see the fleeing form of Roger. "She took you away from me…"

One Hour Later…

Roger smiled contently. He fingered the little white baggie he now held protectively in his pocket. A sloppy grin plastered his pale face. There was a slight skip in his step as he jumped from stair to stair before finally stopping in front of the loft door. Fingering the angelic bag once more, Roger slid the door open-

"Damn you."

Roger paused. "Collins."

The musician stared into deep, dark brown eyes and shuddered involuntarily at the site before him. The large man stood over a skinny, blond heap that was sprawled out on the floor -broken pieced of wood, which used to be the coffee table, scattered all around.

Mark.

Mark lay on his stomach, a pillow under his head and a sheet carefully tucked under his body. Collins seemed to be in the process of picking up the wooden pieces and throwing them directly into Roger's vacant, messy room. The trash piling up along with the broken plaster, broken furniture, pieces of wood, and other dirty objects that had been carelessly thrown across the loft. However, Roger didn't seem to care that Collins was throwing everything into his room; he didn't seem to notice, for all Roger could stare at was that blond heap on the ground.

It was something different. Something scary even. The tattered green sweater Mark had worn that day was now in pieces piling up in Roger's room, as though Collins had ripped it from his frail body, and now, instead of pasty white skin, Roger stared at red

Red wounds. Battle wounds.

One particular incision piercing through his skin in the very middle of his back sticking out of Mark's body. The scar would surely be there for months. North of that wound, however, was another -a head wound. Dripping red, not too bad to think it was harmful, but horrible enough that Roger flinched.

"Damn it Davis." Collins shook his head from his position on his knees above Mark, applying some sort of medicine to Mark's wounds. "Damn it! Look what you did to him! LOOK!"

Roger flinched again.

"Collins-"

"No! No, Roger, you listen to me," Collins flared. "You did this to him! Not the drugs, no, those were just the rush you felt, but, this… this was all you. And for what? For that SMACK in your pocket- don't try to hide it from me, I know you have it." Roger fingered his baggie, eyes falling to the floor. "Look at him! Look what you did! He could've died!"

"No-"

"DIED!" Collins shouted. "Is that what you wanted? Did you want to kill your best friend? Did you think before you threw him against the wall?" Roger couldn't even answer though. Collins ruthlessly continued, "Don't you dare say that you didn't mean it. Man, you had to have meant it. That day when April died you asked Mark to help you, to quit drugs- He is! Is this how you repay him?"

Roger tried again. "No. I-"

"Repaying Mark for going through hell with you, you go out and buy smack?"

Mark was still sobbing, Collins still yelling, and Roger was starting to get a headache. The affects of his high were wearing off and all Roger wanted was to lock himself in his room and use his needle, just to forget everything.

"Damn it, Davis! Listen to me!" Collins hand whipped out and grabbed Roger's arm, roughly pulling Roger to his knees beside him so that he was hovering over Mark's scarred body. "Look at him! JUST LOOK! I can see it in your eyes; you still can't seem to get away from the drugs!"

"No!" Roger screamed, finding his voice, eyes moving up to face Collins instead of Mark's scarred form before him. "No. Collins, this… These drugs, they're… they… I need them… Especially now."

"Don't talk about now." Collins growled. "I'm positive too. The world does not revolve around Roger Davis; you aren't the only one with this problem. However, you are one of the lucky ones to have a friend who is willing to help." He gestured down to Mark. "But, damn, Davis, I'm not that patient. You make your choice now. Walk out that door, get more drugs, use em', but don't think you're ever coming back here again."

Roger shook his head. "Mark… Mark, he wouldn't let you."

"He'll get over it." Collins responded easily. "Make your choice Davis, but, before you do, just look at him. Look what this is doing to Mark. Look what this is doing to you."

Roger stood uneasily, his head hung, finally looking down at the pitiful form of his best friend. He knew Collins was watching his every action as he staggered away from Mark and let his hand fall back into his pocket to finger the little baggie reassuringly. Just one hit. Just one hit to numb the pain, to a sudden euphoria, and, most importantly, to forget…

But what about Mark? Could he just… leave?

Green eyes bounced unsurely from Mark to the door and back to Mark again. His shaky fingers clutching around the baggie in his pocket and bringing it out for Collin's angry eyes to glare at disappointedly. Roger looked down to Collins, looked down to the shivering, sobbing form of Mark before taking a deep breath and falling to his knees in front of them -the little baggie of smack falling in front of Collins. Sobs wracked Roger's body as he clutched his hands against the floor and ducked his head in pity in front of Mark.

Roger crumpled, tears flowing down his face pitifully. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

XXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXX

"This isn't that bad, is it?" Roger smiled, sleeves rolled up and hair slicked back from the water that had been splashed on him. "Is the water too cold?"

"No." Mark shivered. "Are you all right?"

"Sure." Roger smiled. "Isn't that supposed to be my question, though?"

Mark let his head drop, soaked blond hair washing over his visually impaired eyes and moving down his cheek. "Really, I'm sor-"

"Don't be." Roger cut him off, scrubbing the man's arms. "This isn't too bad. Besides, you did this for me when I was going through withdrawal, it's about time that I returned the favor and helped you instead- Here, raise your arms… How are your eyes?"

Keep him talking, don't embarrass him. He did this for me; I can do the same for him. Just keep him distracted.

"Just shadows." Mark stared dejectedly.

Okay… Better distraction.

"How 'bout your hand?" Roger questioned, holding up the wounded body part carefully. "I'll probably need to change it when we're done, it's getting wet."

"Stinging is down." Mark shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle… Considering… I've had worse injuries than this."

Roger chuckled as he squirted shampoo onto the blond head and cautiously scrubbed, like a parent would do for a child. "How could I forget? Collins was the one who found you laying out in front of the loft door- broken leg, couldn't get up… whatever. You were walking home from the bar, before I started walking with you, and you got mugged by Tony and Frank, my-"

"Your band mates." Mark finished lamely. "It's no problem, they were… out of it."

"Like I was." A sudden silence emerged as Roger whispered the words. He took an empty cup he had snagged from the kitchen and filled it with water. Placing a hand on Mark's forehead, Roger carefully poured it onto his hair to wash the shampoo out.

Mark cleared his throat, wincing suddenly as shampoo crawled down into his exposed eyes. "Roger, listen, about those days. I'm… Well, all that that happened-"

"Was my fault," Roger confessed, pouring a few more cups onto Mark's hair and watching the shampoo dance around the drain. "You didn't have to put up with all that shit that I dealt with, but you did. Collins was ready to throw me out," Roger laughed uneasily at those words. "He told me you wouldn't let him. You didn't give up on me when I already did."

Mark shrugged, shuddering suddenly. "It worked out all right."

"For me." Roger replied. "You got the brunt of everything, too small to handle a full fledged druggie-"

"Ex-druggie-"

"…ex-druggie that could too easily kill you, not to mention infect you. All those bruises and concussions and broken bones, all that damage I did to you. Mark, I couldn't even begin to tell you how much that meant to me." Roger stopped, suddenly finding it uncomfortable that Mark was done in the bathtub and Roger was just sitting on the toilet seat cover talking to his exposed roommate.

Mark frowned. "Rog-"

"Here, let me help you," Roger interjected, feeling embarrassed by his declaration. He lifted Mark up from under his armpits, once again noticing how skinny the young man truly was. Grabbing an oversized towel, Roger's, from the rack, Roger wrapped it around Mark and placed one on his head. "Can you handle drying yourself off while I find some clothes?"

"It's fine." Mark replied, shaking his hair through the towel on his head. "Listen-" Clunk. But, Roger was already gone. Mark carefully washed his body with the soft towel before wrapping it contently around his waist and using his hands to lead him back to his room. "Rog?" He saw the shadowed form of his roommate hovering over, what looked to be, Mark's bed. "Rog?" he repeated.

"Sorry." Roger replied. "Man, Benny went all out when he bought this new shit. Your room is clean. Your films are in boxes under your new bed, blue sheets and black covers, and there's a new cabinet. Mines the same, but I've got red sheets and black covers -even a new stand for my guitar. Maureen left us a note saying that she and Mimi went out to by us some fashionable clothes instead of our ratty ones- Benny gave em' money to spend on us."

Mark shrugged. "You're fine with it?"

Roger paused, handing Mark different undergarments before turning his back and responding, "Not at first… I guess, I mean… If this is how Benny wants to prove himself than I'm fine with getting new crap in the process-"

"He told you about the affair Allison had?" Mark questioned bluntly, his fingers fumbling as he finally buttoned his jeans and tapped Roger on the shoulder. "I mean, you seem more willing to accept him now."

"How did you know?" Roger questioned, eyebrow arching.

Mark felt Roger toss a button down shirt across his shoulders and felt hands moving the buttons into place as the shirt fixated itself around his body. "Benny told me, probably before you."

Roger frowned. "I guess finding out that Allison cheated on him instead of the other way around…"

"Yeah." Mark smiled. "I get it. Listen, Roger?"

"Hmmm?" Roger questioned, frowning again as he watched Mark's face scrunch up in careful concentration. "What's wrong?"

"I mean, I know I appreciate it and everything but… What's with the confession? You know? In the bathroom…" Mark heard silence, saw the shadow-figure of Roger closing on him and involuntarily flinched back until he felt soft, comforting hands on both his shoulders.

"Mark, I meant to say that I'm truly and deeply sorry for everything I did to you. I put you through hell and I never ever thanked you, even when it was all over and I found Mimi. I just went to her and tossed you aside -I didn't mean it like that. Seriously, Mark, I appreciate everything you did for me."

"Roger…you're talking like one of us is going to die." Mark turned the conversation and comforted the musician. "I'm going to be fine, you know that, right? I mean, I'm visually impaired, that's it."

"Just…" Roger shook his head. "I'm going to take a quick shower, than we can meet everybody." He led the young man into the living room and sat him down on the couch, moving the camera and tripod so that it pointed directly at him. "There, now you're all set up with the camera."

"Thanks Rog."

Roger waved his hand uselessly. "Just be careful."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Nothings going to happen for fifteen minutes that you aren't here." A shadowed image came at him at full force and Mark yelped as a pillow hit him across the face. "Thanks."

Roger smirked.

Mark smiled as he watched Roger's shadow-form disappear into the bathroom before turning back to the camera and smiling contently as he heard the familiar whirring sound that could've easily lolled him to sleep. He grinned stupidly at the inanimate object before catching himself and tried acting normally, beginning as soon as he heard the water running as a signal of Roger's shower.

"April 2nd, about, I guess, 6:30 PM Eastern standard time. To Roger Davis: Hey Rog! Take your AZT…" Mark started lamely, fingering the fabric of the new pillow that lay at his side. "I'm not sure you'll ever see this, it'll probably be under my bed in a box for the rest of the year, but I just wanted to say a few things to you. Look, I know the confession you gave me a few minutes ago was hard for you to do, and, I know that I should be saying this to your face, buy, well, you know me; I'm the filmmaker. Hiding my feelings and crap."

Roger frowned, ear pressed against the bathroom door, fighting the urge to barge into the living room.

"I wanted to start out by saying that I'm sorry for everything I put you through with this visually impaired shit. There's this part of me that knows what happened out there that night, but I don't think my mind can bring itself to comprehend it. This is my problem, not yours. Maybe in time I'll remember everything that happened. If I know you, which, after all these years, I think I do, you'll be blaming yourself -for whatever reason you cooked up in your idiotic brain- and I guess I never understood why people blamed themselves for the inescapable when no matter what you do it's going to happen. Hell, I still don't understand.

"That's not really the point, though. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate and how much I care about you. Maybe I don't say it enough as I used to, but I do… Ya know? You were the one that stuck to me, the one that helped me out of that rut I was in when I first moved to New York. It's easy to say that at first I was intimidated about you, Roger Davis: babe magnet and rock star. I mean, how could you be friends with a scrawny guy from Scarsdale? You protected me though, in more ways than one can say.

"Maybe that's why I couldn't give up when you were going through with withdrawal no matter how many times I got hurt. That pain that you gave me, Roger, it reminded me of the pain I felt before I came to New York, when I was still living with my parents. No matter how many times I got punched I kept thinking about the life I could've had without you: my roommate, my best friend, and, most of all, my brother."

Shit… Roger wiped his eyes pitifully, a sloppy grin plastering his face.

"Maybe that's why I can forgive for everything that you did to me during withdrawal. In some ways I think you did more for me than I ever did for you."

That can't be true… You did so much for me, Mark, Roger thought, peeking through the crack in the door. He watched as Mark stumbled forward to shut off the camera with a sigh. Roger shook his head, waiting for Mark to settle back down onto the couch before finally hopping into the shower.

Roger was done a few minutes later. He hovered over the blond filmmaker that had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to finish up and smirked slightly.

He carried the filmmaker into his room and carefully pulled off his jeans and button down shirt; tossing them into the hamper despite how unworn they were, before cautiously dressing Mark into a pair of pajamas which included Roger's oversized band shirt and a pair of Mark's flannel pajama pants. Roger grinned down at the sleeping man, ruffling Mark's hair and feeling content that Mark would stay asleep. Walking back into the living room, Roger dialed the number to Joanne's cell and quickly explained the situation. He settled down on the couch, staring directly at Mark's closed doorway, and played Musetta's Waltz.