A/N: So… it's been a while, huh? I know a lot of people still want to read this story even though it had barely gotten started when I basically abandoned it. I still get messages begging me to finish it.

Well, fear not – I never intended to leave this fic unfinished. Let's be honest, I'm probably not going to be able to update REGULARLY, but I promise I'm going to try. Mental illness and adulthood are making this harder than it should be, but I still have a passion for this story, and it's all planned out. So here you go, and here's to starting fresh, huh?

Chapter Four: Under the Mattress

Mark hates himself more than he hates the guy who just made off with his wallet.

He's absolutely useless. They don't need him. Nobody needs him. He doesn't need him. He's so whiny and clingy and overemotional even when he tries so fucking hard not to be. It's not fair- and there he goes, whining again. Why can't it all just be over? It hurts enough. His arms throb. His head throbs. Everything is hot and then it's cold.

Vaguely, he hopes that they'll bury him in this sweater. He likes this sweater. It's warm…

His fingers twitch and his eyes, despite his best efforts, won't open.

Oh well, then.

He was bound to do the job himself soon enough anyways…

"Mark? Mark!"

Roger? That's… that's definitely Roger's voice, but that doesn't make sense. Mark furrows his eyebrows and gives a choked gasp at the pounding he discovers between his eyes, hands coming heavily, clumsily up as if to bat it away.

He's dimly aware that he's curled himself right back into the fetal position, and that that's probably pathetic. He does not care.

This is really not the time for Roger to be having one of his panic attacks. Mark is barely managing this consciousness thing.

There's one question nagging at him before he can complain about that, though:

How the hell did he get here? And why does it feel like he's been run over by some asshole's minivan full of squealing, screeching children?

Well. The screeching actually might be coming from inside his head.

That's okay. That's normal. His new normal.

Yeah.

He takes a breath and tries, despite the throbbing pressure on the walls of his skull, to concentrate.

Concentrate, Cohen, you worthless piece of shit.

It comes back with painful slowness, and he almost wishes that it hadn't. Great, now he's wishing for amnesia – wonderful, fantastic, another dip in his sanity! Can he sink any lower into his own deranged brain? He's starting to wonder if maybe he were destined to be a grinning, empty shell of a person, and God it sounds so nice not to think or remember –

"Collins? Tom, what happened, what's wrong with him, is he okay -?" Roger's voice cracks and jumps and octave and Mark snorts and then groans when the sound reverberates back to his brain like a vengeful ice pick, clutching his head uselessly, trying to roll over and plant his face into the – couch?

Is this – oh. Oh. They must be in the loft. He smells duct tape. This is the couch, then, and Collins is somewhere to his left, and Roger is apparently hovering over him because he can smell his cheap cologne and there's a calloused hand pressing insistently to his forehead.

His voice gets closer. More importantly, it gets louder. Mark wonders if it would be appropriate to shove his only remaining roommate out an open window.

Lord. It's the first time in, what, years that he's been more inclined to harm someone else than himself? Stop the fucking presses.

Honestly, though, he's hurting too much right now to even consider bringing a blade to his skin.

What d'you know! All he really needed was a good hard afternoon mugging to kick that nasty habit of his!

(Discreetly, he shifts to be sure he can still feel the cheap pocketknife he'd picked up today in his wanderings. It's there, to his vast relief – the pounding in his head stops for all of three seconds with the force of it, and he's uncomfortably reminded of the insatiable pull, the growing agitation of the whispers encroaching on him even in the daylight, the more and the hate, useless, worthless, talentless, waste of breath.

It's there, a hard line in his pocket, a steel line of resolve.

Fuck, he's getting all poetic about his pain again. What a tortured soul, that Mark Cohen is. Such a martyr.

His autobiography is incomplete on bloodstained pages stuffed hurriedly, inelegantly beneath his mattress. He winces. Hopefully no one will ever have to read that angsty piece of garbage – not if he has any say, anyways.

He makes a mental note to hide it before he commits the final deed.

But he could have died today.

The thought snaps him back into reality very quickly. (Very painfully, too.) Collins is speaking. His voice is lower, deeper, richer, easier to focus on than Roger's gravelly chain-smoker siren wail. Mark struggles to open his eyes. He regrets it.

"- in an alley, just passed out on the ground -" he's saying, imploring, and if he could just focus his eyes he'd be able to tell whether or not he's actually shaking Roger by the shoulders right now. Does he have a death wish? Roger has a tendency to strike out when he's liked this, shouldn't be touched, everyone knows that –

His glasses must be cracked or missing. He can't feel them perched on his nose, so he's pretty sure it's the latter, but he can't actually feel much on or around his face right now… Someone did a really good job of smacking his head into the pavement.

"I'm taking him to the clinic," Collins finishes, and that makes his stomach lurch. God, not the clinic, not again, he was just there…

Roger doesn't seem to recognize the panic that's probably dancing in his eyes, though, nodding and shaking and are those tears? Fuck, Mark wishes that he could see. Or at least focus.

When was the last time someone cried over him, and not the other way around?

"Yeah. Yeah." Roger mutters, wiping his sleeve over his face, eyes fixed on the ground. He glances sideways at Mark with what might be an uneasy expression. He can't really tell. Damn it! The one time he wants to look Roger in the eye, he has to be too fucking out of it to lift his head all the way.

Speaking of which – he lifts his head. The pain explodes behind his eyes, excruciating, and he swears. Loudly. Two other voices join in, like some twisted, uncoordinated chorus of profanity.

Mark tries not to wonder why his brain is wording things this way right now. He's always had an unfortunate affinity for flowery language. Right now, he's afraid to open his mouth, unsure of what might come out. Probably more fucks than anything, but there's the off chance that he might also come out with something straight out of a Shakespearean tragedy, and he'd rather Roger didn't find out about his stitches and his medication and his 'I hope I die's in the form of a slurred impromptu piece of slam poetry that he won't even remember in the morning.

And oh, fuck, the world is spinning again. Collins pulls him upright with one arm solid and warm around his shoulders, supporting him, keeping him close to his body. Mark's head lolls onto his shoulder, head and heart pounding.

He thinks he hears himself groan again. Roger is rummaging anxiously for something – he comes back bearing a cup of water, shoving it into Mark's trembling hands, and Mark doesn't even bother to ask if it's clean, just grasps it weakly and sips.

It tastes like pennies. It's oddly comforting.

"You feelin' okay, there, buddy?" Collins asks not unkindly, and Mark spares a moment for a flash of intense gratitude for his presence. He doubts he'd even want to be conscious if it were just him and Roger in this situation.

Fuck, he doesn't even want to imagine what it might have been like, Roger finding him. Howling. Angry stomping, panicked phone calls, a full body check-up right there in the goddamn dirty alley –

Nope, nope, he's not going to think about it right now. He's not going to think of it at all.

His arms are throbbing dully beneath his shirtsleeves, cheerful, as if reminding him of their existence. Shit. His stitches…

Well, he can't check them now. He'll have to wait until those two pairs of eyes aren't so keen on his face. Can he really blame them, though? He's probably a fucking sight.

Gingerly, and slightly afraid of what he might find, he lifts his hand and touches his temple where the most pain seems to have accumulated. There's blood matted into his hair on that side of his head, but he can't find the source of it before his fingers start shaking so hard that he has to set the cup down, swaying where he stands.

Reluctantly, he lowers his hand, struggling to wrap his tongue around the words he wants to say. Despite everything, the world is starting to look almost normal again – not too bright, almost in focus. Almost.

"M'fine," he manages, plastering on a weak smile. Neither of them look impressed.

Damn it, I'm off my game.

Unsurprising, but inconvenient nonetheless. He tries again. "Seriously. Just – look, just give me some Advil or something, I'll lie down and be fine in no time. You know me…"

No. No they don't.

But they don't know that.

He doesn't even ask about his glasses. He'll just have to get the spare pair from his nightstand. He's lived here long enough that he knows it's a lost cause, trying to retrieve them.

Just like they all know that it's a lost cause, filing a report. The guy who did it is probably long gone.

Mark wrinkles his nose and wracks his brain belatedly for an image of his assailant, but he's got nothing. Ah, well. Better not to remember than to have Roger, skinny washed-up wannabe rock star Roger, go trying to hunt the guy down and end up getting his ass handed to him, which is exactly what he did the last time something like this happened.

"I don't think so." Collins sure sounds sure of himself. Good for him. Mark tries to shake the antagonistic thought out of his brain, but it just jostles around in the clutter there, dark and ugly like the rest of it. "C'mon, pumpkinhead, we've gotta get you to the clinic. Can't let you go to sleep until we're sure you don't have a concussion."

In that moment, he hates Collins. He hates him so much he can't breathe.

And just beneath that, there's a thrill of icy terror.

They're going to find out.

The panic gives him clarity, if nothing else, and even if only for a moment. He lifts his head and looks directly into Collins' eyes, avoiding acknowledging Roger's existence altogether. He'll deal with that headache later. "I can go by myself. Look, I'm fine."

He pulls away from Collins' reluctantly loosening grip, taking a tiny step away. Sweat beads cold on his forehead. Mark hopes that he doesn't look entirely like he's about to pitch forward and perish right there on the living room floor, because that's what he feels like doing.

Hysterical laughter bubbles in his throat. The living room floor is at least marginally better than the tub, right? Right?

He suppresses it, barely, because Collins is already looking at him like he's a cornered animal. The older man reaches out for him slowly, hands up as if in surrender. There's a terrible understanding in the crows' feet Mark can somehow see gathered around the corners of his eyes, one that he can hardly bear to contemplate, because even if it's not real it still hurts to think anyone might know how he feels – how weak he is, how much he wishes that this could have just been it, a good excuse to die early and not have to push himself through another day of counting and shaking and bleeding and hiding…

"Mark," he says carefully, grasping his shoulder with that huge palm, warm and comforting. "You're probably kind of shaken right now, but you don't look so good man…" Mark can't help leaning into the touch, and he hates himself for that, too.

Pathetic. You're pathetic.

Drily, he thanks his subconscious for the reminder. It gives him the two fingered salute, grim as ever. Doesn't even spare him a Cheshire cat smile like it does those rare nights that he tries to resist the gruesome siren song of metal tearing flesh.

That makes him feel even worse, somehow. Abandoned.

"I'm really fine," he laughs, or tries to. His voice wobbles dangerously in the middle, warping, as if confused about what it's supposed to be doing. He winces as Collins' concerned expression hardens into one of determination. A hand clamps around his bicep, and he knows already that he's not getting out of this one.

"Roger doesn't need to come," he blurts before he can stop himself, and doesn't dare look back at Roger's expression. Collins' looks taken aback enough for the both of them, but he nods after a moment, smiling tightly.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Of course I'm coming –!"

"Right," Collins agrees easily, and ignores Roger altogether. Dimly, Mark does recognize that tone of voice – it's the same low, soothing quality he'd always adopted and layered over his words when Roger was going through his hellish withdrawal. He's briefly overcome with shame that they think he's sunk that low. I'm not comparable to a drug addict. Am I? No.

The blade in his pocket stays tight against his leg, coaxing and whispering wordlessly at him, an urge without a name. Addict. Junkie.

Adrenaline junkie. Pain junkie.

He blinks and feels abruptly sick.

It might be the concussion he's belatedly, guiltily realizing that he probably does have.

"Yeah," he hears himself say, but this time no one looks at him like he's grown a third head. Collins ushers him out the door and down each step, talking him through it, and Mark doesn't register a word. He can still feel the strength of Roger's wounded, angry gaze on his back, which is scraped and bleeding as it is.

Fuck. He grimaces as he wobbles down the last two steps, clinging to his friend's shoulder tightly to avoid faceplanting onto the sidewalk. Collins doesn't say anything, just winces sympathetically.

He's going to have to figure out how to get out of taking off his shirt.

In the distance, he hears sirens, and feels a bitter wash of jealousy overcome him for a moment.

If Collins had waited just a little longer to find him… That could be him. He could be dead. It could all be over, and he wouldn't have to be around when they saw his fucked up mural of scars, his last and greatest pet project. Better than his screenplays. Better than Roger's shitty song. Better than the film.

But no. It looks like he's still going to have to do it himself.

In hindsight, the whole morning feels like a sloppy, hungover smear of paint. A warped film reel. Useless, but endlessly replaying, jumping and jerking in an attempt at recreation. A really lackluster attempt.

It's probably not worth remembering.

Of course, that's probably exactly why he'll never forget it.

Objectively, it should have been a relatively decent morning, even for Mark. Even someone who's only consolation comes in the sight of his own blood could stop and appreciate the sunrise, especially on such an unseasonably warm day. For once, Mark didn't immediately want to go back inside when he saw the first streak of dazzling orange light the sky.

Today, he was going to be fucking useful. He was going to do something adult. Something good. He was going to make himself be human, for once. He could feel the determination pressing with weak determination against his veins; infrequently exercised as it was, he couldn't really blame it for being so pathetic.

Nevertheless, he had already forced himself out of the apartment. It was seven in the morning, and he had an honest-to-God interview, for an honest-to-God job.

Mark can hardly even remember the last time he'd had a job that lasted him more than three weeks, but hell, any number of paychecks is better than none, right?

So he had dredged up the last of his false smile and let it ring through the phone lines – hating himself for basking in Roger's curious glances as he paced about the loft with the phone cord tangling around his ankles – until finally, finally, he'd wrangled an interview. A promising one, even, according to Roger, who had later admitted (without remorse) to listening through the line from the other room.

That spark of determination had died almost immediately and left him practically catatonic with nothing but a couple of stray tacks and one particularly twisty notebook wire for company. His journal is looking more ragged by the day, and this isn't helping, but when it comes down to it he cares more about wrecking himself for the sake of his sanity than he does about his own cynical, feverish ramblings.

Roger regularly barges in to ask him how his day has been, and Mark regularly lifts his head to mumble some bullshit about going out with his camera and filming the damn pigeons again.

But somehow he's dragged himself out of bed for this. Somehow, he's found it in him to care about something – even if it was only the idea of possibly being able to afford an air conditioner for the impending New York summer.

The interview isn't until eleven. He knows this. He can't stand to sit around and wait for it, though, every moment another stroke of doubt.

If he lets himself be alone, he'll never go to this interview.

If he lets himself be alone he'll end up in the bathroom again, anxiously counting his scars, hating himself in waves.

If he lets himself be alone then he's just going to end up writing more shitty poetry and honestly, he's doing himself – and everyone else, probably – a favor by getting out of the fucking apartment for a couple of hours and contributing to the wheezing economy.

He stows the notebook under his mattress, along with his bedraggled collection of tarnished thumbtacks, and plucks his underfed wallet from the dresser – and he takes to the street.

One stop at a sketchy gas station later, he's passing an alley, stuffing his new pocketknife down his jeans with that morbid, childish exhilaration that had accompanied his original theft of Roger's knife, and suddenly his knees are hitting the pavement.

His head follows shortly afterward. He's pretty sure skulls aren't supposed to bounce.

The man doesn't speak, all business, and when he's finished sniffing out every cent Mark's got on him, all that's left is the cheap gas-station knife that he hadn't even thought to use. He groans and lies there, staring at the orange streak in the sky, hardly aware of anything but his mother's voice inexplicably ringing in his ears.

"Self-defense classes, Marky! Your father and I agree, we've already paid!"

He almost laughs, he really does. His stomach is rolling.

His first instinct, when presented with a sharp weapon, is to drag it delicately over his own wrist. He hadn't even considered trying to fight back with it – to soil it, clumsily stabbing, to color it with blood that wasn't his.

What would his mother say?

He wonders when he decided that he was going to kill himself all the way to the clinic. It's more blocks than he wants to think about, but Collins doesn't seem to mind the walk. He talks and talks, that same soothing tone, and it goes in one ear and out the other. But he can't really be offended, Mark thinks, because he knows what it's like to be in this situation, knows what it's like to feel like his brain is rattling around in his skull whenever he focuses his eyes on something.

By the time they make it through the front doors Collins is half-carrying him, and he registers in the back of his mind that there had been mention of a cab on the way back home. He nearly groans out loud in sheer relief. No more walking. Miracles do happen!

Maybe when his head doesn't feel disconnected from his body he'll be able to remember why he doesn't want to go home. Right now, though, his bed sounds perfectly warm and inviting – he'd washed his sheets less than a week ago, and the scent of those cheap dryer sheets is still lingering, and – well, on second thought, that's probably just going to give him a headache.

Well… It can't give me what I've already got, can it?

Sometimes – and this is a stray thought, but Mark can't stop himself from thinking it – sometimes, he remembers just how bad he feels all the time. How terrible it is to exist. How much baggage he actually has, invisible, weighing him down, dragging him under the constant relentless current of frowning faces and red lines.

He's so fucked if Collins sees his arms.

Mark is so preoccupied with his own dismaying re-realizations that he hardly even notices their ascension to the top of the queue until he hears his own name called and feels Collins' hand around his bicep again, steadying him as he stumbles back into the tiny, cramped room he remembers from the week before.

Same room. What a coincidence.

It passes in a blur. Later, Mark will recall very little of this experience, except for the end.

If only he could forget that little slip-up.

They'd been so close. He'd been bandaged, he'd been cleared, he'd even managed a dazed smile, and then, on the way out:

"Oh, Mr. Cohen, I almost forgot to ask – how are your stitches healing up?"

Logically, it doesn't make sense to freeze up at such an innocent question. The man is staring at him over the wire rims of his glasses, appearing genuinely concerned, but all Mark can feel is the prickle of Collin's gaze suddenly sharp and suspicious on his face.

"Er… they're fine. Thanks."

He smiles awkwardly and backs out of the room, licking his lips. Collins reaches out and catches him before he trips – and before he can make a break for it.

Can't keep your secrets under the mattress forever, can you?

"Stitches."

It's a statement, not a question. Collins' eyes are dark and narrowed, and he's reminded of their stinted lunch almost two weeks ago, the way he'd barely scraped past the professor's razor-sharp observation without questioning.

He's not going to be so lucky this time.

Why couldn't you have just let me curl up and die on the sidewalk?

"Alright, come on. Spill, Cohen."

That's not a question, either.

Shit.