A/N: Hey, guys, sorry this one is a little short… There actually seem to be a handful of people reading this story, which is more than I thought I'd have, so uh – thanks! Every single review and favorite/follow is golden to me 3 For those of you anxious to see Mark getting help, that process will begin soon, don't worry. Regarding next week's update, I will be in Canada visiting my wife with our partner, and can't promise that it will be on time! But I will get it out as soon as possible. If I can get my shit together, it may actually be early.

Chapter 6: A Friend's Concern

The door slams, and Mark realizes with dread that he's alone. Again.

The turmoil that Roger had thrown him into only a handful of days ago threatens to boil straight through his defenses and leave him retching with anxiety on the floor again, scratching at his arms – but he holds his breath.

One, two, three, four, five, six, se-ven….

It's been a long, long time since he's used these breathing exercises. Some part of him is dimly surprised that he even remembers them, but they're buried in him like drumbeats and panic attacks, so deep he doesn't think he'll ever get them out. The instructions that his old school counselor had given him were far from comprehensive, but she'd also given him a pamphlet. He'd pored over it day and night for years, searching and desperate, trying to memorize every word and praying this would make him normal.

He can't remember the last time he'd prayed, either.

Mark has no idea where Roger has gone, only that he has. Which is strange. Because Roger has barely left the loft since their little chat.

Maybe that's what's making his skin prickle uncomfortably. This is almost – not quite, never exactly – like he'd felt every time Roger had left the loft just before, and just after, the worst of his withdrawal. That stinging, jerking undercurrent of paranoia that leaves him paralyzed and staring dry-mouthed and unseeing into the sliver of the hall that he can see from his bed for over five minutes after Roger's good and gone.

These days, though, he worries less about Roger and more about himself; rather, less about what Roger does and more about what Roger thinks, specifically of him.

He tries to swallow and his anxiety spikes again when he finds an enormous lump obstructing it, gagging him.

The floor may not escape the contents of his stomach, after all…

He curls tighter into a pitiful ball and squeezes his eyes shut. All he can think of is the calculated distance in Roger's smile as he'd poked his head in and said "I'm heading out. See you later."

There are about a thousand ways to interpret that. Mark is aware that most people probably don't think so.

Mark is also aware that he's settled in some mad, infrequently visited borderland between his dark imagination and the bleaker tones of reality. He's very comfortable here, teetering as he is; at some point, he'll have to decide which way he wants to fall.

Either way, the impact is going to be painful. He doesn't want to think about it.

He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to scratch, doesn't want to breathe –

But he can't stop.

The thoughts, the voice, the blade, all blur together and he locks his jaw to keep from screaming. If he starts, he's afraid he'll never stop.

Roger struggles to come up with an actual plan even as he's walking through the café doors.

Collins waves him over from their regular booth in the far corner, where presumably they appeared less like troublemakers and more like weary, comfortable customers. At least, that was what Collins and Joanne had theorized, and none of the rest of them cared enough about where they put their asses to object to the new location.

There must be some merit to it, too, because the waiter's face – George, not that he probably knows any of their first names – doesn't pinch anymore when they walk in.

But that's beside the point.

The point is that Roger had suggested that they all get together today and now he's here, and they're here, and Joanne is fondly wiping whipped cream from Maureen's hot chocolate from her nose, and Maureen is giggling, and Collins is staring at him with one eyebrow cocked (how does he do that and where can Roger learn?) as he slides uneasily into the booth, fiddling with the broken zipper on his jacket.

"So," he begins, with absolutely no idea of what might come out of his mouth next.

"So, about Mark," Collins says conversationally, and Maureen looks suddenly serious, straightening up and propping her elbows on the table, hands clasped.

"Yeah, about Mark. What's up with him? Roger?" She turns to him expectantly, and he bristles in return despite himself. He and Maureen hadn't always gotten along; it's been years now, since the explosive fights and the withdrawal and the bruises and the tears, but some of the instinct to tense whenever she glances his way still hasn't faded.

"I – something." He mutters, folding his arms against his chest sullenly. Trust the rest of them to know what to say better than he did. "He's fuckin' out of it, lately."

"Well I know that." She imitates his scowl perfectly and looks around the table. "None of us are blind, Roger. Where is he now?"

That's another thing that Roger really can't stand about Maureen. (Alternatively, something that he really, really loves about Maureen, if you catch him on a good day or if you got him drunk enough.) She gets straight to the point.

Collins looks positively grim. "You left him alone?"

"What choice did I have? He can't be here, he wouldn't let us – look, you know Mark." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, realizing that he's having trouble meeting anyone's eyes. Some deep, Mark-loyal center of his conscience is screaming at him that he's a traitor and that he has no fucking right to be talking about Mark behind his back like this, even if Mark is probably at home right now writing morbid stories that sound like suicide notes. "He doesn't want help. He doesn't want us to worry."

"That kid's got a death wish," Collins mutters mutinously, and Joanne nods reluctantly.

"We used to go out to lunch every week or so," she offers, and from the look on her face Roger isn't alone in his guilt. He shoots her an intensely grateful look, which she doesn't seem to understand. Ah, well. "I haven't seen him in – God, over a month."

"That's not like him." Maureen actually sounds upset, something Roger would normally make a sarcastic comment about. At least she's taking something seriously for once, he thinks, and bites his tongue fiercely. From the warning look Collins shoots him to the less-than-gentle nudge he gets under the table, it was the right choice. "What are we going to do?"

"I vote we get his mom on the phone," Roger huffs, turning restlessly to stare out at the gray drizzle. He thinks he hears Joanne cough to cover a laugh. He kind of hopes so.

"He won't listen to his mom, either. He hasn't even called her yet this year, has he?" Maureen looks uneasy when he turns back to face her, reluctantly, and that makes him uneasy. She'd known Mark so much longer than Roger, really, and so much more intimately – but only if they were technical.

Roger deliberately does not think about Mark's shoulders bumping gently into his, or the way he bit his lip and grinned, caught in a lie.

He doesn't think about that, because in the end, Mark is always going to be more important than a flush of heat across the back of his neck.

"How should I know?" he snaps, and then winces at the absurdity of the statement. Everyone looks at him.

"Tom, maybe you should…" Joanne begins, wringing her hands and looking up at him, but Collins is already shaking his head in exasperation. Roger doesn't miss the fact that it's directed almost entirely at him, specifically. He scowls harder and sinks into his seat, and tries not to feel ashamed.

How long has Mark been declining like this, and he hadn't even noticed?

How could he have been so fucking self-absorbed?

Of course, Mark has always been an expert at hiding. For all that he'd spouted off at Roger for years about openness and honesty and good old-fashioned communication between roommates and lovers and friends and in-betweens, Roger still doesn't know why he really broke up with Maureen, or what the hell happened to Benny, or why Mark makes a special point not to call his father even when his mother used to remind him almost daily.

Still. It stings to think that all of this has been one-sided.

It stings even more to know that a lot of that is probably his own fault.

He's stirred from his brooding by Maureen all but stomping on his foot. "Earth to Roger! What do you think about an intervention?"

Her eyes are gleaming, and he eyes them warily, kicking her back rather half-heartedly. "That's the worst idea I've ever heard in my life. Next."

"Why?" she demands, and Roger nearly groans at the way her chest heaves. Great, she's already got her heart set on it.

Sometimes he really wonders what Mark saw in her.

"Because," he says slowly, holding her gaze for a painfully long time. "Mark doesn't think he needs an intervention. Goddamn, maybe he doesn't! Maybe we're all just overreacting." God, he hopes so. "Besides," he plows on, steadfastly ignoring the pout brewing on her face. It might have distracted a lesser man, but Roger was immune, so ha. "He isn't going to stick around while we lecture him on, on – we don't even know what his problem is. If you ask me he's just fuckin' depressed. Let him ride it out."

That, Roger can identify with. Depression had chewed viciously at several years of his life, and he preferred not to think about it.

But if he didn't think about those years at all then he'd have significantly fewer memories of Mark Cohen.

Sometimes, he thought as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, you just have to endure it.

Maureen, obviously, isn't convinced – God, she's stubborn. She's always been stubborn. Roger wants to pound his head forward onto the desk and keep at it until he can't hear her anymore, but alas, Collins is oh-so-casually digging the heel of his boots into Roger's toes.

"He isn't going to ride it out, Roger! He's not you. He needs our help." She frowns deeply at him, so much like she used to do when she caught him red-eyed and stumbling that he has a serious moment of déjà vu. "Do you think it could be drugs?"

Roger throws back his head and laughs, Collins be damned. "You think I wouldn't know if he was high? Look who you're talking to!"

She narrows her eyes. Her makeup is really far more subdued than he's come to expect. Maybe she's just that worried about it. "You're not with him twenty four hours a day, Roger. You don't know what he could be doing right now! He could be swallowing a bottle of pills –"

"Maureen!" Joanne grips her arm with white knuckles, glaring.

"Well, he could!" She turns to her fiancée with a defiant, faintly venomous look. Oh, yeah, Roger remembers belatedly. Maureen's always been a little overprotective.

She turns back to Roger, next, and he doesn't have to work to scowl. There's enough of the old animosity between them for him to draw on, and she understands that well enough not to resent him for it. "For what it's worth, Roger, I think you're right."

"Oh, am I? Imagine that." He smirks, but it feels hollow. He feels sick.

Collins lets out a long-suffering sigh, and through the thin mask of humor Roger can sense the conversation starting to wear on him. Tom really was looking thin these days… "We need to find out what's going on before we can confront the man," he summarizes, stretching his arms over his head. "Right. Well, since we're here, we might as well eat. Waiter!"

Roger can't help but feel that there should have been more to this conversation, but Collins looks so tired and so sad and all he can see is Mark's blue eyes, tired and sad and a thousand things that Roger is afraid to start naming.

The menus are passed out, and he makes one final, desperate attempt.

"Can't we just," he starts, and helplessly rakes his eyes over the familiar drink choices. He isn't going to be able to stomach anything with it churning like that. "Wait for him to come to us?"

One of us, he doesn't say. Probably not me.

Roger doesn't know what about that makes him want to punch a hole in the wall and scream, except that Mark doesn't seem all that fond of his company lately, and that's been more of a blow to his self-esteem than he likes to admit.

It hurts elsewhere, too, like that too-deep part of his chest, but he doesn't think about it.

He didn't have any doubts that he'd probably done something to deserve it.

"You talk to him," Collins tells him, pointing with his fork, and Joanne nods, and Maureen gives him another expectant look, and Roger realizes that he doesn't have a choice.

What the hell, honestly! He'd called this meeting, he was supposed to be in control, he was supposed to be the one in the know, here!

He glares out at the drizzle again and, sullenly chewing on one of Collins' fries, tries not to see Mark's white face or a bathroom spattered in blood.

It's not a bad omen. It's not.

He tells himself all the way home, but he still doesn't know what to say.

Mark wipes the ink on his hands futilely on his pants and stares down at the page, frustration creeping up his spine and making him tense. As though he wasn't already frustrated. He throws his pen across the room and it hits the wall with a pathetic clatter that makes him feel even worse.

He's been writing for two hours and nothing.

Nothing.

Just like him.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. Where the hell has Roger gone, anyway? He's missing a real show.

Mark feels like his chest could fall in and crumble at any moment.

Part of him wants to reach for Roger, when he's spent so long restraining himself from doing just that; the other part is throwing down his notebook, flinging Michael and Rick and lives he doesn't have, won't ever have, and reaching with trembling, angry hands for the box of tacks on his desk.

He could go for the blade, make some real damage.

But what would Roger say?

He gives himself an ugly grimace and is momentarily obscenely glad that he doesn't keep a mirror in his room. Why would Roger even care?

Roger wouldn't be concerned, he would be pissed.

Worse, maybe he just wouldn't care at all.

He can almost see it, Roger's disgusted sneer, his crossed arms, his eyes flickering mockingly from Mark's face to his wrist and back again.

He fumbles with the box and presses the first tiny piece of metal to the inside of his wrist, feels the prick of the puncture – somehow, even after everything he's done to himself, it still makes his eyes water – and gives a helpless, silent exhalation.

He wants the numbness. He wants to feel nothing, be nothing.

Where is Roger? Where are any of them?

They don't care.

No one cares.

His gut clenches suddenly. The knife is right there, in his pocket, where he can feel it – he could – he needs to…

Pain junkie, his own voice taunts him. He can't bring himself to feel anything but humiliated resignation.

If he's quick, maybe he can bleed out by the time Roger gets back.

(Forget the promise, forget April, forget Roger, he doesn't care doesn't care doesn't care –)

Mark barely has his fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife when the front door bangs open. His eyes sting. He jerks his hand back out of his pocket and leans down, stiffly, to grab the notebook off the floor and stare bleakly at his own scribbled handwriting, his own convoluted plotlines.

When Roger ducks his head into the room and smiles that calculating smile again, he looks back up and plasters on his own. It hurts his teeth.

The image of his own ravaged wrists burns behind his eyelids.