A/n: Yupp. Ha funny, in the second part when Roger's playing the piano, I am like the exact opposite as I made him. I have an over powering desire to learn everything, even aspects useless under my circumstances, about music. Everything. And supposedly I am the best student my music teacher has ever had when it comes to music. Music theory and performance. I think she gets carried away, I'm not like a prodigy or anything. I just have a passion for it. Anyway here we are. I seriously appreciate those of you who comment, specifically you few who comment on every chapter.

I am not getting a lot of reviews besides those however and wonder why. Is my story not worthy? I certainly do like writing it.

Of fallen angels on the ceilings

(One month post withdrawal, five months post last chapter)

And there he was again, the dim moon light shadowing his handsome features. Another late night ( early morning? What was the time?) spent outside the secured bathroom door, undetected by it's inhabitants. Of leaning his back against the cool wood that sparked a variation of hatred at the very sight, a result of past and present circumstances. And he wished with everything he had that he had the balls to go in there and stop him. Even more than that, wished the other could have just stayed quite, so he didn't have to know. He didn't want to know.

Didn't want to know Mark was doing that.

Mark was, in one aspect or another, turning into him

The last thing he'd ever want

Mark was locked away with a razor and his thoughts or lack there of

And Roger was locked out with old scars and cowardice

Because he still clung to that silly naïve illusion that Mark was invincible.

Still liked to believe it

And despite knowing better, the childish fear and simple desire for ignorance, for bliss as he knew in the past was overpowering. For the sight on the other side was one that would confirm mortality. Confirm such a chilling array of secrets.

He didn't want to fucking know.

And so he sat on the cold floor in the middle of the night, as he had been doing more and more frequently

Because the floorboards just had to fucking squeak every time Mark crept his way to the bathroom.

Because Roger just had to care so fucking much about him

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

Yet as he began to doze, for most nights were wasted in this exact way, and he lacked great amounts of sleep due to it, the terrifying abnormal occurred.

A faint sound muted by the door

Yet its utter displacement made sharpness. Panic.

It was merely a hiss of pain, followed by a soft yelp of the same sort.

And usually, this would be expected when ones arms were being mutilated by sharp edges

But never with Mark. Never did a disturbance occur. It was almost as if he were numb while he did this. Never even shedding a tear. Not any Roger had hear anyway.

And so Roger attempted to calm his racing heart, because really not the slightest amount of danger or evidence has presented itself, and he had no reason to worry.

And yet something felt just so blatantly wrong

Something was just so eerie and haunting and just plain wrong

As if someone had suddenly hit a minor chord amidst a major song

A sob

It evolved into a chilling diminished chord

One of turmoil and plagiarized tragedy. Of restriction and undesired ability to remember.

And then Roger let out a breath, for he knew Mark had not hit a vein, was not about to keel over or end anything.

He just knew. He always did.

The sound of plastic clattering against the tile followed by harsher violent sobbing startled him, and he peaked under the door to quench his curiosity .

Through the slim line of vision he saw it

A razor glinting in the cheap light

Blood stained

He began sobbing as well

Because he knew they could both be breathing

Hearts could beat all they wanted

But that hardly meant they were alive

They were anything but alive.

Roger cringed at the strike of a foul chord and pulled his hands away. Damn thing was fifths out of tune anyway. The old black polished bench squealed in protest under his shifting weight. Most were unaware of the fact he played the piano, when in reality He had learned to play piano before he did the guitar. He had always been pretty fucking great at it too. But when your intent is one of being a rocker, living and performing the way he did, perusing the art of piano playing as he had in the past simply wasn't suiting. Besides, extensive piano playing resulted in eventual requirement in extending ones knowledge of music theory beyond the intermediate level. And he simply had never been great at musical theory. Too much to know, too much to be learned. He simply played what he played. He had no desire to extend his knowledge unnecessarily. And yet the moment he discovered an older (29 year old) teniate of the building had recently passed away, leaving an aged grand piano in her wake, he simply couldn't resist. No one wanted it, and so the marvelous item, keys dingy and paint scratched, was simply dismissed, condemned to deteriorate along with the old building.

It was bitter sounding, even when playing major chord progressions, and radiated an essence of haunting cold. Resentment and turmoil. And yet he couldn't stay away from it.

And so he sat and tried to forget the prior night

Tried to dismiss at least some of its heavy presence with the pointless musing chords, blue minors, out of place sharps, and black diminished.

And yet he couldn't rid himself of that nagging desperate feeling

That knot in his chest

The piano bench shifted ever so slightly, and he turned to meet his eyes with Marks

"Hey"

"Hey"

Mark scratched at his sleeved arm, and Roger was sure he was about to lose it right there.

Instead he waited for Mark to speak again, for he didn't trust himself at the moment

"This is a C, right?" Mark questioned prodding at a key. Roger merely nodded his head. A few moments of contemplative silence ensued before Roger exhaled sharply

"Mark.."

"Yeah?" And god he just wanted to make it better. He wanted more than anything to make it so Mark didn't have to hurt like that. Anything so Mark could just let it go.

And then he was kissing him and sobbing into Mark's lips, and he didn't remember doing it, but he must have. Because there he fucking was. And Mark simply sat unresponsively until Roger pulled away and began to sob into the younger mans chest. "Please Mark.." And he didn't know what he was pleading for or what he wanted really, but its all he could say, and then his lips were forcefully against Mark's again and this time the filmmaker responded. Yet it was in a way lacking emotion. More of a response or reaction that it was a desire.

Didn't matter.

Didn't matter as Roger pushed him down, and Mark groped at his pants. Mark simply cared about others, very specifically Roger, far more than most. Far more than himself. And god he would do anything to make Roger happy.

And at the moment, this wasn't what he wanted

Roger wasn't who he wanted

And yet when one pushed hard enough

Mark simply let them.