You Can't Save The World, Might As Well Save Your Heart
It had been forever, I know. But is it even possible to have a chapter this fucking long? I think I broke some sort of record. I discovered recently the wonders of Spring Awakening. It is now my second favorite musical. But my rents wont bring me to see it for its ' not appropriate' when really, its just the fact they don't want to sit next to me through it. Its on tour at our local theater, with Lea Michele, one of my favorite actresses too. Bastards. Of course, they do think I'm a sweet angel. Really just a good actress. Started learning to Ballroom dance for drama with the beast. My feet are throbbing due to his size 12 shoes stomping on my toes. Hhaha fun. Chapter title is from the workshop Rent song ' on the road'
After writing this I comprehend how difficult it is to even begin to describe human emotion and how it manifests itself. I mean sure, you can describe physical effect to an extent, but you can never truly capture the depths of emotion with mere words. For example, During the beating scene,( corresponding to the bridge of blue wind ; beginning line is - Sure when its autumn) if you simply read it, you wont feel it as much as if you see it. Picture it thoroughly, with large amounts of rage and anger turmoil, pain. It will, hopefully, give you the effect I was striving for. This is one of the millions reasons why I prefer/love the theater.
IMPORTANT:
This chapter jumps a lot, for I mentioned them having sex over 30 times, and so far I have given solely the 5 major occurrences ( there will be a more vital examples to come however) and so will provide you with 10 in this chapter, jumping from all different time periods. Songs used are : Blue Wind & I Don't Do Sadness ( Spring Awakening) and an excerpt of the workshop version of Another day
What are you looking for?
I wish I knew
Then what's the use in looking?
(Random time, some point before April, when things are good and there semi-new to the city)
Pure lust; that was the only possible genre it could fall under. Lust and a free spirit, and result of untroubled rebellious times. The desire to try everything new, and to simply give in to his bodies beckoning, because really it was just for the hell of it. And so as he sat at the filthy table, smoke swirling and drifting about his head just as his thoughts, he wasn't really thinking twice, much less allowing questions to force themselves upon his mind. It had a very light load of troubles as it was, and he felt anything but desire to dampen his bliss. For somewhere, his subconscious nagged with the feeling that if he were to consider for the smallest moment, doubt, question, simply come to terms with himself and his whirling thoughts , he would surely be weighted with a tremendous burden he just couldn't bear. And so he simply chose not to think at all, allowing his restless eyes and twining crotch to provide him with the only explanation he found necessary. His eyes traced the familiar out line of the man, his best friend, on stage once more, hunger and dazzling stage lights refracting across his brilliant blue. The man on stage fumbled for a moment, his attention having been stolen by the two dazzling specks of blue in question. He eyed his best friend with equal desire and intension sparking his rough features, playing at the soft ends of his lips and tainting the words of each melody he sang. They required no explanation, an unbelievable lack of words that most didn't comprehend, and were amazingly capable of dismissing their countless acts of lust upon waking up the next morning. Maybe it should mean more, and maybe one or both should have taken a moment to stop. To consider. Maybe the generous amounts of kinky games and senseless fucks should have been permitted to cross either mans mind. Meant something at all.
They didn't
And so Mark wasn't the least bit shocked when he found himself up against the brick wall of a sleazy bar. Roger found his hand in Mark's pants to be a completely plausible and common occurrence. And they made their way back inside the smoky atmosphere hastily, quickly shutting themselves in the back room. The screams were drowned by the blaring music, the fact that these experiences always surpassed all other sexual encounters was immediately dismissed, and when they walked out they began pleasantly talking about Roger's performance as If nothing had happened. Same old, same old.
There was nothing to be found, what was the use of looking?
(Age fifteen for Mark, sixteen for Roger, the only time they had sex before the rape scene in chapter one)
Spring and Summer ev'ry other day.
"We need to get laid"
"Roger I'm fif -fucking -teen, I'm not really in a huge rush"
"Well I am"
"Fine, but the only chick in our grade that's going to allow you to fuck her will be one of the ugly sluts, and I highly doubt an older girl is gunna screw you"
"Uggg" A silence consisting of pencil scratching over paper. "What if I'm bad?"
"What?" Mark looks up curiously
"Well I mean the first time, I don't wanna suck at it"
"Doesn't everyone?"
"Well I don't know, not when you're supposed to be a rising rock star or whatever"
"I'm sure the chick'll be just as unsure and bad as you"
"Mark you gotta promise not to laugh at me" This earned him a baffled look
" Uh, I wont"
"I uh.. I'm kind scared"
"Roger losing ones virginity is pretty fucking scary for everyone, whether they admit it or not.."
" Well no, well I mean yes, I am afraid of that but I wasn't talking about.."
Nervous, tense silence clung to the air for a few moments
"Well? What were you talking about" He's sitting upright now, seated immediately facing Roger who's back was resting upon the bed. He is being gentle, as this was such a rare occurrence he didn't want to scare Roger into retreating
"I just… I" His eyes are searching the room, the walls the floors, his hands and feet fidgeting with discomfort. And Mark couldn't even bring himself to push for the answer, for Roger acting vulnerable, unsure , and sincere was an almost non existent circumstance. " I can't say it uh…well you know I love girls but uh… I uh…" he continues to stuttering and second guessing for quit and extent of time, while Mark endures his self questioning patiently. Finally the guitarist cast his eyes to the floor, his entire head following suit, and he begins mumbling inaudibly
"IthiIlikegutoo"
"What was that Rog? Come on, you don't have to be afraid to tell me anything"
"I think I…ligtoo"
"Hmm?"
A sigh of defeat
"I think.. I think I like guys too"
Blue wind gets so sad
He's shaking a little, his nerves having gotten the better of him
The room is graced with an almost surreal silence for a few moments, in which Roger's stomach began to churn.
"Well that's alright" Mark finally says gently , his voice obviously attempting to mask a sort of shock and relief.
"It is?" and Mark almost chocked on his next words, because he simply couldn't believe this was Roger. Allowing himself to stray from his tough guy persona for a few moments. Seeking reassurance from someone else.
"Of course it is. You might not actually even be into them. It could just be a phase, and if not so what? Last I checked, you love someone for them, not their crotch" Ahh, His strictly Jewish homophobic parents would be just so pleased to hear him say that.
Roger was genuinely puzzled "You're completely alright with that? You're not shocked or freaked or-"
"Rog, it doesn't make a difference. Honestly, and at least you're brave enough to admit you might feel that."
"I guess.. I just.. I dunno wish I could find a way to figure out if I was or not and just get it over with. I don't wanna go on like shitting myself and not knowing .."
"Maybe I could help you" The statement was made with such an air of abnormal confidence Roger had to double take to be sure this was Mark
"Wha- I mean how I mean what?"
"Dude I'm your best friend, you done countless good things for me, might as well help you out when you need it. Besides, who else would you have? Our entire town is homophobic, there's no such thing as a gay and or Bi guy around here" Roger was stunned " What? Don't give me that look. Hey If you don't want to that's fine -"
"NO. I mean I want to I guess its just.. "
"Yes?"
"Aren't you straight?"
"As of now, I am"
"Then why - ?"
"You need my help and it would never hurt to try" silence "Well?"
"Yeah, yeah alright"
Blowing through the thick corn,
through the bails of hay.
They each move in slowly pausing a few inches from each others face. Mark, who was greatly enjoying being the dominate one for once, smiled reassuringly before closing the space between them.
That's all it took.
Through the open books on the grass
And before either knew what the hell was going on clothes were scattered all over and they were cautiously entering one another.
And once they finished, everything would go back to normal. This would never be mentioned nor would either admit that their first time was with a guy. Roger would return to acting straight as line as if this had never occurred and Mark would return to being semi- timid and straight as a line himself. They'd act as if it hadn't mattered
Spring and summer
(Amidst Roger and April's relationship, two or three months pre suicide and withdrawal)
"Damn it" the loft door bangs shut stirring Roger from his writing " fuck fuck fuck fuck"
"Woah Mark, what's with the aneurism ?" The guitarist questions, throwing down his pen and shifting on the couch. Mark starts at the sound of the other mans voice and exhales loudly.
"Oh you're here" Mark comments blandly, rubbing at a scratched and reddening fist.
"Yes, I live here. What's up?"
"Nothing" His voice is monotone and he attempts to shut himself in his room, stopped only by Rogers strong hand gripping his arm firmly
"Hey, c'mon man I'm your best friend, tell me what' s up"
"I said nothing" he trys to push past Roger, but to no avail. The larger man pulls at his wrist harshly ,whirling him around. He then grabs a tight hold of both of the others arms, forcing direct eye contact.
" Mark. What's wrong"
"I said-"
"Mark" he sighs dejectedly
"She fucking broke up with me for a women alright? Can I go now?"
Your pain I see
Your Heart's been burned
Silence
And now Roger was caught somewhere between laughter, Anger, resentment and sincerity. He manages to choke back the slight amount of humor in the situation and focuses solely on the fact Mark had really loved her. A lot. The bitch
"the bitch"
"Yeah, yeah I know the speech. The 'she's a bitch and you're to good for her anyway you're a great guy blah blah blah' shit. Can I go now?" And Roger's chest twists painfully at Mark's aloof gaze, for he knew Maureen was one of the only people he allowed in. In his walls and himself. He had taken the chance to care about her. She had hurt him. That, when referring to Mark, was quit a feat. Roger was fucking furious, to say that least.
You're just like me
"Mark wait just .. Just wait
"Roger no, you cant make it all better just.. just go"
"Mark I wait please Mark" Mark tries to pull away but Roger pulls back sharply
"Roger get the fuck off -"
"Mark wait please I-" And then he leans forward rapidly, pulling Mark into him and colliding lips with lips. He holds firmly to Mark's wrists, who responds for a moments before taking a shaky inhale through his nose.
Before I learned
He shoves Roger away almost aggressively as dark lines form on his face. Roger looks at him quizzically for a moment, evidently attempting to mask hurt, before a fist flies into his jaw. He stumbles slightly but, being the larger man, doesn't collapse. Instead he harvers a look of bewilderment and raises a hand to caress his stinging face. Mark is advancing now, blind furry radiating from his eyes as he takes another violent jab, yet misses
There is no future
"Don't fuck me up Roger! Don't fucking do it! Kissing me and touching me and fucking me every time something wrong isn't going to keep fucking working! You bastard do you just like fucking with me huh? Fucking with my mind? Taking the easy way out cause that's all you ever fucking do huh?" He's throwing blind punches slaps and kicks now, which Roger simply stands and takes for a few moments " You cant fucking do that to me Roger ! You can't fucking keep fucking making me feel like you care for one night and keep taking it away. You cant solve everything with fucking me damn it! I hate you!" And Rogers finally moves from his idle position, ceasing both of Marks arms tightly and pulling the other man in close. He wraps his arms around Mark's torso, in a manner that leaves Mark's arms bent and trapped between his and Roger's chest while he struggles to get loose.
There is no past
He thrashes for a few more moments before giving in. He buries his forehead in Rogers chest briefly, takes a long inhale, and then turns his eyes up. He catches the others gaze with his own for a few moments before lunging forward. His mouths collides with Roger's with a bruising force, causing Roger to falter briefly.
I live this moment is
And now its Roger, trying to push Mark off because he knows Mark doesn't really want him or this, Mark doesn't really know what's he's doing he just.. he just hurts. And yet, he simply couldn't bring himself to push Mark away. He tried to will himself, he really did. He simply couldn't. And so he relented, indulging himself in the kiss, attempting to force himself to enjoy this, despite Mark not meaning any of it.
The sex was angry and hard and verging on violent. Barely 2 minutes after they finished, Mark wordlessly rose and made his way to his own room.
My last
They were well aware of the familiar silence that would riddle their bones when the sun rose.
The silence that always seemed to plague the morning air
(A random point before April, during Maureen)
Or maybe cool to be a little summer wind
"MARKKKK! THIS-IS-YOUR MOTHHHERRR! MARKKKKKYYYY ARE YOU THERRRREEEE?"
" Claiirrrreee I fucking hateee youuuuu" Mark mimics sing-song like, shifting from his perch on the kitchen counter. He is eager to reach the phone in hopes of silencing the obnoxious voice, Yet, strangely, pats across the loft with caution, abnormal behavior even providing Roger was still sleeping , for a fucking earth quake couldn't wake him up. He all but creeps to the side of the machine, halting almost violently at the sound of his fathers voice.
"Mark we-"
"Shhhh Dan, let me finish." He relaxes slightly, making the rest of his way to the phone "Now Marky, I know we haven't talked in over 4 years and all, but honey it is time to let by gones be by gones. Today is Easter, it is a holiday of god! Might as well resolve past conflict while celebrating. We all miss you, and hope to see you home for your birthday in a few weeks. I mean you do live in that wretched place , wont you please come home for a little? Please Mark we miss you so very much"
Like once through everything and then away again
"Hey, Mark" Mark goes rigid at the sound of his fathers voice, so very rigid one might fear physical injury. And Roger, who had been watching from the sanctity of his room since the message began , peering through a cracked door, felt his own heart begin to pound.
"Mark come home. Your mother misses you very much, as well as I, we want you home and we care about you greatly. We wouldn't want anything happening to you now Mark. Everyone is worried about your condition, and feel remorse in your absence. And I, personally, really do miss our little talking" Mark inhales sharply and closes his eyes "session. I'm sure you'll be coming home soon. Wont you Mark? Call us back first chance you get. We'll be waiting"
Click
With the taste of dust in your mouth all day but no need to know
Mark exhales atrociously, taking the few steps required to lean his head against the wall. He seems to be shaking to a near violent extent, his cold eyes opening and squeezing tightly shut in intervals of their own accord. Roger chooses this moment to emerge, plastering looks of 'I'm pissy and just woke up' on his face and making a show of B lining directly for the coffee. He halts mid way to his destination, immediately 'noticing' Mark against the wall and asks;
"Mark?" The filmmaker jolts sharply, whirling about as whatever expression had graced his features retreats franticly. Roger catches a glimpse of something reseating in Mark's eyes, yet is unable to identity precisely what before the familiar detached and indifferent cold swallows it. "Mark what was that all about?"
"You scared me!"
"Sorry I-"
"Why'd you have to scare me? Damnit"
" Hey I'm sorry just. What was that all about?"
"What? Oh nothing just feeling a little dizzy for a moment"
" You never could lie to me"
"Hey it was nothing" Mark shrugs and smiles, making his way toward the 'kitchen' in pursuit of the shitty old coffee machine they owned " Just need some coffee is all"
Like sadness, you just sail away
"I heard the message Mark" He nearly drops the package of mix in his hands, and takes a few collective moments before responding.
"Yeah well, you know my parents. Annoying and suborn as shit. Still wont fucking give up after 4 years"
"What did he do to you Mark?"
'Cause you know
Mark's entire being tenses harshly as he fights to keep calm
"Who, my father? Nothing. what makes you ask?"
"Mark what did he do to you" Roger says this firmly, levelly
"I said nothing" A little sharper now, dry and resembling a match striking a card box.
I don't do sadness
"Mark." He takes a tentive step forward " what did he do to you"
Mark slams his hands against the table and exhales for a few moments. Roger stands tensely. Mark turns to Roger, determination gleaming in his eyes, and makes his way to the other man with long strides. Roger is prepared for a punch, yet is surprised when Mark grabs the back of his head brutally and rapidly pulls them together for an impromptu kiss. He shoves Roger and pins him against the counter, not allowing him air or room to protest.
They have hard bruising screaming sex right there, restrained by hips, false steel, marble, and the past. When all is finished and Mark pulls away from a sweating, panting Roger,-amidst and attempt by the rocker to kiss Mark lightly on the lips- his eyes seem to be carrying a certain heftiness they hadn't before. He stands to exit the room, and halts at the doorframe, yet doesn't bother to turn around. He doesn't want to see that face of pity.
"That's what he did to me"
Not even a little bit
Just don't need it in my life
( A few weeks after April's suicide, a few weeks into withdrawal)
"Let me the fuck out!" Something porcelain smashes beyond a closed door, once more swaying Mark's debate on whether he should retrieve Roger's guitar, rescuing it from his delusional destructive grip, or just let him be. "ALL I NEED IS ONE HIT! LET ME OUT OF HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW MARK!"
Sure when it's autumn
Mark no longer even flinches, having grown calloused to Rogers' raging fits of anger. He considered leaving Roger as he was, he himself wouldn't be of much assistance with a broken limb, nor would Roger ever be able to forgive himself for harming Mark. Yet, If Roger were to break his guitar in his excruciated rage, he would deprive himself of his sole purpose of life. Music. And so Mark, despite sensing the danger, was well aware of what he simply had to do. The room is bathed in darkness as he enters slowly, fully expecting the hard contact of anthers body. He is, instead, greeted by a silhouette hunched over the bed sobbing or being sick or simply shaking, he cant make any distinctions in the low light. His first instinct, and over whelming desire, is to run to him. Hold him and attempt to ease his pain. Yet he knows he must save the guitar immediately to prevent further future turmoil. So he grits his teeth, for walking away from that tortured figure is torture in itself, and makes his way to the corner of the room, grabbing at the neck of the guitar.
Wind always wants to
"April?" the figure rises searching about for his deceased lover "April?" he obviously isn't lucid, and Mark quickly recognizes the danger of the situation; the metaphoric equivalent to one pulling the pin of a grenade.
"No Rog, it's just Mark. I was just coming in to check on -"
"What the fuck are you doing?" It was a well known fact that April had, as of late, been the only one allowed to touch his fender, the explanation being something vaguely of ' she actually knows how to play it' . Mark was a rare, and occasionally invited, exception to that rule. Yet now, he sensed he was anything but. "Why are you touching that?"
" I just don't want it to get rui-"
"Don't touch that! Who are you? You're not April"
"No Roger, its me, it's Mark""
You're not Mark… he… why are you touching that!? Get the fuck away!"
"Roger-"
"Only April is allowed to touch that! You're not her! You cant fucking replace her" In the dim shadows Mark could just barely make out Rogers features, which were contorted in an odd manner. " you're not her!" he is beginning to yell now, his voice seething with rage.
"No I'm not. I'm -" something shatters against the wall beside him
"YOU'RE NOT APRIL! HOW DARE YOU TRY AND REPLACE HER! YOU ALWAYS HATED HER ALWAYS, YOU LET THEM TAKE HER AWAY!"
Creep up and haunt you
He continues to inch slowly toward the door, guitar still grasped firmly in his hand. He knows he should just let it go, drop the damn piece of wood and run. Yet, he can't bring himself to do so.
"Don't say that Roger, don't you say that -" Roger pounces from the side, grabs at his wrists and pulls him forward. His nails dig into Mark's skin and his breath is stale hissing through his clenched teeth and stinging Mark's cheeks.
"It's the fucking truth you queer bag"
Whistling its got you
and the real Roger.. God that was the last thing he would ever say. Mark was sure a prejudice against gays had never sincerely passed the others lips before.
"Roger get off of me" His says this firm and collected. He can't afford to lose his temper now, specifically after remaining level headed for the past few weeks.
"Why? I thought you'd like it faggot" He flinches. Roger has always hated the word. He did as well.
"Get. Away."
"Why do you do it ? Why do you act like you care? You don't. You don't want me here. You don't care about me. You hate me. You hated her. I thought you cared damn it. you bastard!" He begins shaking Mark violently, so very violently
"Roger!" The tone of his voice was something one wouldn't be able to explain, even if desired.
"Well I hate you too you son of bitch! You queer. I hate you just as much as you fucking hate me!" Mark pulls away, which in itself takes much of his strength, his jaw is set and his motions almost spastic. Evidence of rage.
" Don't you dare" He advances, despite his right mind telling him to escape at the opportunity, " Call me whatever the fuck you want. Accuse me of being responsible for one of my close friends death. Queer, fag, I don't give a shit. Insult me and hit me and fucking hurt me anyway you can. I don't fucking care." His voice begins to shake and crack, the force of suppressed furry taking its toll " But don't you ever, EVER, fucking dare say I don't care about you"
With it's heart ache
Roger leans in close, so close the tips of there noses touch. Yet his infuriated and irrational disposition has not faltered or softened in the least.
"Prove it" he whispers
"Already have"
With its sorrow
And before he knows it a fist has landed it self at least fourteen times on varying parts of his face. His jaw has cracked over and over and his eyes are already swelling. His nose is bleeding uncontrollably and feels crooked and.. Just off. His cheeks bones are bruised and puffing and his glasses had long been shed. Small cuts bled from all over his cheeks lips and forehead. And that was merely from feeling the damage, he couldn't imagine what observation of his face would bring. And yet it wasn't over. Now a dresser drawer had been pulled and was being swung at his lower body. Punches thrown to his gut had already sent him to the ground, as well as his head being banged repetitively against he wall. The dresser landed on his leg, his shoulder , his arm, his side. When the other no longer finds satisfaction in this, he begins kicking. Kicking at his ribs, his stomach, his face even. He a found a long piece of something bat shaped, -yet not quite as damaging or hard,- he cant even fathom what it could be, being driven against any part of his body it could find. An unmistakable crack sounds from Mark' arm, and he is well aware they wont be able to pay a doctor bill. The other continues obliviously, hitting him repetitively with all his mustered strength. And all the while he's yelling and screaming and the other is sobbing and - still not nearly lucid- rambling.
Finally the merciless beating ceases, and he finds himself sitting in silence for a few moments before a rope is tied far too tightly around his wrists.
Winter wind sings
Knees straddle his hips and he doesn't even posses the physical capability to fight back any longer. He is entered bluntly and painfully, fucked with the intension of hurting both of them.
The guitar, fully intact, resides beside the door frame.
And it cries
( Middle/ late part of Roger and April 2 months pre suicide)
" I think April's jealous of you"
"What?" Mark's attentive eyes peer up from his work of cutting film, he appears truly stunned and at a loss.
" April is jealous of you" he keeps his eyes glued to the fender, his voice monotone. Either he truly was indifferent , or desperately attempting to appear so. Collins, who had wandered off to bed hours ago, but had been lying in the dark since, guessed the later
"What do you mean.. jealous? Why? Of what?" Roger sighs. He regrets bringing this up. He really doesn't want to say it
" Me and you and our … relationship" Mark looks at him quizzically " Mark we're a lot more touchy feely, display subtle and not to subtle affection, go to each other first over anyone, etcetera then most guys that are best friends. " Mark appears as if he has no idea how to respond " In fact, we're a lot closer than most people, male or female, ever are" Mark remains unresponsive, which sends Roger into a momentary panic " at least, that's what she said" he saves himself, although it wasn't entirely untrue.
There's only us
"How'd you get her to - "
"She got piss ass drunk. Totally plastered , hammered, whatever you wanna call it. She's a chatty drunk, not unlike yourself Marky." A pathetic, yet not entirely unsuccessful, attempt at lightening the mood "I was on stage while this process was occurring, so I myself didn't have the opportunity to do the same. She had an audition the next day, so I insisted on bringing her home early. I asked her what inspired her to get so fucking baked when she had an audition in the morning. She spilled about feeling inferior to you and shit" He chocked on the last part. Her 'spilling' was more along the lines of ' Sometimes I think you love him more than me, and I know you really care about him Rog more than you ever for me. Sometimes I think you really are in love with HIM. And its not because you always choose him over me or anything, actually you've ditched him for me on numerous occasions. it's the little things and the big things. The other things. Like when you got the call your brother died. You refused to speak to anyone, leave or allow anyone in your room including me, after hours of begging, and then Mark simply knocks on your door and you let him in. And you two are in there for hours.. And there's so many other things I can't even count Roger. You just-' etc etc., yet not as tactfully or properly worded, for she was, infact, plastered.
"Oh.. Well did you tell her she has nothing to worry about?"
"I haven't gotten a chance to talk to her yet. She went to bed right when we got home, and she left early for the audition. She wont be back till later." Roger's right eye twitches slightly. That what happens when he lies. Mark reasons it was probably a coincidence.
"Oh" Collins cant decided between being amused or sincere. Either way, this certainly was intriguing. Specifically the fact Roger would be blatantly lying when telling April there's nothing to worry about.
There's only this
"Mark?"
"Mhmm?"
"Uhh.." he begins fidgeting with is fingers. Now or never he decides. Mark tenses " uhh well uhm.. Earlier today I was looking in your room for a new notebook cause mine was full and I know you have a few for screenplays and.. So I went in your bedside table" Mark cringes "and uh when I looked in it…." He in hails shakily " I found a shit load of alcohol bottles. Scotch and vodka mostly and I mean shit load like.. I don't think bars use that many in two weeks. And there was only a few full ones and some were half full and… I mean.. what…?" He allows the gaze they share to finish the question.
And Mark, well he began to panic. Freak out. No one could know. Specifically Roger. Roger couldn't know. No one could know. They just couldn't. It would break everything. The façade he so skillfully held up. The front they were all used to. Preferred. For a man of actual reality he sure did depend on fakeness and fantasy. He would be made to talk. He couldn't do that. They would force him to talk, to fess up, they would find out of his entire past. They would force him to feel. And so began panicking, unable to formulate pretty lies on the spot as he once could, likely a toll of the massive amounts of alcohol in question. He is verging on desperate because if they find out he would surely hate himself more. And he didn't dare face the result of that. He didn't want the pity or the shame, he didn't want to admit he had a problem. That there was something he needed to drink away. He fucking couldn't. So When a few more moments went by and he still couldn't respond, still couldn't fucking lie - Possibly his subconscious was tired of hiding- he felt a desperation he hadn't been forced to endure since his adolescence in Scarsdale. And so he looked back up, met the eyes of what he constantly tried to drink away,
and fell.
Forget regret
Fell into his arms, onto his lap, into his own bitterness and weakness.
And grabbed at his lips will all his desperation.
And when his tongue was firmly down Rogers throat, Rogers hands tangled surely in his hair
He almost felt guilty, not a familiarity to him, for he had been forced to extinguish that emotion long ago.
Or life is yours to miss
But they couldn't know
No other road
Roger just couldn't know
No other way
They ventured into the bathroom, and were as silent as possible, so not to wake Collins.
They couldn't know
No day but today
Rogers didn't ask again
Not when he didn't even know.
( Age 18 for Roger, who got held back, age 17 for Mark)
Mark departs from the window and descends down the stairs smiling. He pauses in the living room to be sure his parents have truly left for the weekend, performs his familiar check of screaming ' FUCK!' and when no response comes, bounds the rest of the way to the front door. He fumbles with the lock for a few moments before swinging the door open
"Hey baby" His smile falters immediately.
Just don't need in my life
Before him stands Roger, his hair soaked with sweat and his lips covered in blood. His left eyes is swollen nearly shut and cuts on his cheeks and busted lip are bleeding profusely. His sleeve is soaked in it as well, and the stain seems to be growing, just as the swelling occurring about his face. Ugly colors of purple are blooming as well, and Mark's breath is taken for a few moment. "The bastard" barely a whisper, for he can't bring himself to say much more. He desires to touch the wounds on the guitarists cheeks, but refrains from doing so, in fear of causing further pain. He instead opens the front door further, allowing Roger in and closing it behind him. "Why?" The asshole broke my brand new fucking amp too. I paid for that shit, the old one barely fucking works" Mark hurries about, seating Roger onto his families clean beige furniture, (his mother would have a conniption at the knowledge) and gathering what he assumed could be of assistance.; Cloths, towels, a first aid kit etc. He returns to Roger hastily, sitting beside him with the supplies, and begins examining the damage. And he can tell how much Roger hates this, because he has so much fucking pride he can't even swallow it. Its all he has at times, and if Mark hadn't been expectant of his arrival, the guitarist most likely would not have gone seeking assistance anywhere at all, in fear of being pitied. They both hated pity. Mark now wishes he had paid more attention in Health class, for he not only is at a complete loss as to how Roger's injuries should be treated, yet was completely unaware how this should be approached. He examines Roger's face once more, and feels a certain constriction in his throat. He reaches forward and gently brushes his fingers over a purple cheek bone, dragging them slightly down his jaw, and allow it to fall again.
"Why?"
Don't want any part of it
A sigh
"He just felt like it tonight. Ran outta vodka, didn't have enough money to get more until Wal-Mart paid him on Friday. It was, of course, my fault in some fucking way" Mark feared it wasn't healthy to despise someone to the extent he hated Roger's father. Roger isn't shaken, isn't upset. He is indifferent and cold. Resentful. Spiteful. But not wavering in the least. Mark cringes at the feasibility he could be calloused to such beatings.
"I hate him"
I don't do sadness
Mark says it mildly, before picking a wash clothe soaked in warm water . He wrings it out carefully, as he's seen his mother do, and moves forward ( awkwardly, for he himself is a man handler. Rough and not gentle in the least) and dabs at the bleeding cuts on Roger's cheeks and forehead. The other flinches but doesn't move. Mark senses the others tension.
"I know you hate this Roger but this isn't an insult to your pride or masculinity. It's merely being reasonable" the guitarist doesn't respond, so Mark continues with his work. He cleans all open wounds on the face, and disinfects them. He applies bandages to larger ones, and gauze to a more sever one. He then reaches for Roger's arm, noticing the greater amounts of blood. Yet Roger pulls away. Mark gives him a look and reaches forward once more, yet more gently. Roger relents and allows him to look. Two long jagged markings run the length of the under and top sides of his arm, they are bleeding profusely and seem to have been made amidst a struggle.
"Roger what-"
" His pocket knife" Mark searches his eyes as he says this, and finding Roger's right eyes doesn't twitch unusually, he begins cleaning the wound as gingerly as his rough clumsy ways can manage. He feels as if he may throw up.
Hey, well I've done my time, looking back on it all
When the entire arm is wrapped in gauze, and all excess blood is cleaned from the rest of the others body, Mark sighs morbidly, still attempting to calm his nauseated stomach. His eye catching - self inflicted he was sure- round cigarette burns dotting Roger's pale skin, seems to defeat the purpose, for his stomach lurches once more. They sit in silence for a few moments ( quit unusual in the specific relationship)
"The only thing I could think… I thought he was going to kill me. We were nearing the stairs, and he was grabbing for the lamp near by. I honestly believed I was about to die, and all I could think…" He inhales " All I could think was.. Mark's going to be heart broken." he laughs dejectedly, bitterly " I'm going to miss Mark so fucking much"
Yeah it blows my mind
Mark's face remains blank for a few moments
" I really do love you Rog"
"Love you too babe"
Don't do sadness
Later, when they have decided to turn in early, and are lying in bed together, Roger begins to shake a little, his body being accustom to releasing all pent up emotion nightly, while securely in his own bed.. He tries with all his might to suppress it, but Mark pulls him closer and strokes his hair, his back. Anything to calm him.
So been there, don't do sadness
"Mark, why don't we do what we were planning for tonight?"
"Roger, you've just showed at my door like this, and you want to do it?"
"C'mon baby. I just.. I wanna show you how much…" His fingers trail down to the front of Mark's pajama pants, grabbing him just as he knew Mark couldn't resist.
No further protest was heard from the other
" Its been like 4 months now. It's still so fucking weird to think we're together at all, much less that long" Roger comments later, before they are both lolled off. Mark pulls him closer.
" I wouldn't only have been heartbroken" Mark whispers what seems irrelevantly to Roger "If I were to ever lose you.. I'd die"
Just don't care
( Pre meeting April)
Your angers real
"Oh Roger" He was at it again. Another random groupie, another high off his ass Roger, keeping Mark awake at night. It seems as if Roger constantly had sex and got high lately, and a plausible reason was not anywhere to be found. He specifically insisted on this after every single show, without fail. This left Mark, and others, wondering on their friends behave, for what could drive him to such behavior? Sure ,he had been known for plenty of one night stands before, and often tried new and different drugs, but this was extreme, even for him. Maybe he was trying to drive something away.
But just beware
Maybe he was scared, or trying to prove a point. And maybe it was the possibility he just felt too fucking much, because when Roger performed it was, obviously, music he was performing. And music just had a fucking way of making you feel beyond your capability. It easily opens scars you didn't even know you fucking had, and makes them hurt so bad. Because It can, and always does, go places that don't even exist. It makes the numb feel. The indifferent bleed. And when its cutting you open, exposing you, hurting you.. You don't want it to stop. It brings such an overbearing over whelming agony, that its.. Beautiful. Joyous. And yet, when its over the stinging just seems to…. linger. To grip you. Pull you under. And so one finds a way to escape. To exhaust some of the burning in their chest, that heaviness behind their eyes. Just until its bearable. The drugs were his escape, the sex his exhaust. Maybe that's why Mark didn't show up at shows anymore. Never turned on a radio, and ran out to film the second Roger popped in a CD or pulled out his guitar. He didn't think he could handle it.
It's a waste to feel
"Oh oh .. Oh god!" Mark cringes. Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut -
"OH.. OH" he throws his pillow against the wall and rises out of bed, He trots to the bathroom and closes the door tightly.
"Uhhhh" that one was defiantly Roger. Feeling nauseated, Mark leans heavily on the wall, allowing his glasses to clatter against the floor's tile. He attempts to compose himself, rubbing at his eyes and beginning to inch his way to a proper standing position.
He finds his front compressed against the front of the toilet bowl moments later, and prays to the god he doesn't believe in that no on hears him, although he doubts that's possible over Roger's attempt at an emotional release in the next room.
No one ever tries and listen anyway.
That fait's unfair
When the nearly non existent contents of his stomach had been expelled completely, he relents against the cold ground, sprawling out and heaving with the effort of suppression.
It's an art really, suppression. It must be mastered. Practiced. Made flawless.
"OH.. OH ROGER OH -" He kicks at the side of the bathtub.
"Ah" when Roger's raspy voice joins in, he feels as if he might go insane.
And suddenly he looks down, and his hand is at work on his own shaft, although he couldn't quit recollect when this had begun, and the tortures screaming is adding him in release.
Suppression is an art.
There's no such thing
He pumps faster when Roger lets out another low moan
As tragedy
One must not only learn to dismiss, to diminish to lie to themselves.
His breathing becomes heavy, and he is now thankful for the distraction of the others encounter
But must learn to release in ways that allow them to remain numb
I can't resent what's meant
And then he's climaxing, and isn't able to bite back the yelp of " ROGER!", panicking immediately at the realization he could have just given everything away. He listens closely, and it seems as if the couple had climaxed in unison with him, a tremendous occurrence of luck that seems surreal, for Mark never had luck.
What he missed, however, was Roger's climax, drowned out beneath his own.
Such luck he thought, that the others had been loud enough they hadn't heard
What he hadn't heard
Such luck that they had drowned one another out
Was Roger's screams at his own climax. Screams that could have saved a shit load of heart ache
Such luck
Roger's screams of "Mark"
To be
(one month pre RENT)
Spring and Summer
"What the fuck." Its more of a statement than a question really, sounding bland and course. Roger blinks a few times, the voice having startled him in his attempts to make it to bed without waking Mark that, evidently, hadn't worked. For there Mark stood, he had now risen from his position on the couch, looking as if he had been awake for days straight, his face cold and hard and blank. Roger sets his guitar by the door frame, feeling as if he shouldn't move, for reasons beyond his comprehension, and meets Mark's eyes expectantly. The other man appears to be caught somewhere between livid and uncaring, and Roger's heart immediately drops into his stomach.
"What the fuck is this" He is blunt for once, and pulls a packet of powder and a dirtied needle from the table beside him. Roger swallows hard
"Mark I -" he attempts to advance
"Sit down" Firm and strict. The way a teacher or infuriated authority figure would instruct you.
"Mark-"
"I said" He intervenes slowly and cooly, yet his teeth are grit " sit the fuck down"
Roger complies unsteadily. He doesn't know what this is, how to do this. He has no idea what could possibly describe or calm whatever the hell Mark felt right then. He doubted there was an answer for either.
Every other day
"What the fuck" He says it calmly, quietly, almost softly to himself." What . The . Fuck." A little stronger this time " WHAT THE FUCK" he screams now, throws the needle against the wood, allowing it to shatter. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhales and exhales slowly.
When he opens them again, he directs his gaze immediately to Roger "Why?" He says this plainly and with a heavy lightness. He laughs a little as he says it, and this progresses into a fit of hysterical laughter. He chuckles into his lap for a few moments before brining his head up once more and eyeing Roger " Well?" He smiles saying this as well, but it melts away almost immediately, replaced with a look of pure loathing. Roger feared the other had gone insane, and averts his eyes to the floor
" I.. it was an accident. I just… I just… I wanted to get away from.." He raises his head slightly, meeting Mark's eyes, before returning his own to the ground " and I just couldn't handle.. And the next thing I knew there was a needle in my arm.. And" He inhales as if he were about to say more, but it falls flat and he releases an audible, desperate sigh.
"And accident" his voice is seething with rage, hot fire, and hatred, cold ice. He scoffs " a fucking accident. I'm not even going to begin to evaluate on that. We both know how fucking stupid that sounds. But on the other hand, you are pretty fucking stupid aren't you?" He is slowly approaching Roger's terrified being. Roger, terrified of Mark. That was a new occurrence. It was almost humorous.
"Mark I.. I just couldn't deal with it I just.." He trails off unsure of what to say. Mark begins to laugh again and throws his hands up in the air, spins around to face the opposite wall, and proceeds to pace towards it.
"you couldn't handle it huh Rog? You couldn't fucking handle it." He turns to face the other again " Handle what? The fact that things were actually going alright ? The fact that you just started getting gigs again and stopped having nightmares about April? The fact that I mother fucking got you fucking clean? Huh? You just couldn't fucking stand the idea of being fucking clean? You could stand the fucking idea of not dieing faster than you had to?" he slams his hands on the metal table, and Roger winces, preparing to be punched and hit "How the fuck could you do this? Nearly a half of a years withdrawal Roger! A fucking half! I thought you were going to fucking die half of that time. But we did it, endured five endless fucking months of fucking withdrawal. So you decide to go and get your ass fucking hooked back on fucking smack!" He kicks the legs of the table with each word of the last sentence. He's yelling now, screaming at the top of his lungs. " You mother fucking son of a bitch! You son of a bitching bastard! Who the fuck do you think you are anyway? You think you have an excuse to do this to yourself? To me? You think you're some poor tortured soul who needs and escape? That's fucking bullshit. You're just some little shit who has no idea what the fuck he wants. Who gets bored. And so he needs to make his own fucking tragedy, because he can't fucking find a reason for the way he feels. You're just a cowardly son of a bitch who wishes he was fucking worth something. You're already fucking dieing Roger! You're already fucking dieing and leaving, and you seem to want it to come faster. You want to fucking leave me faster. You cant do that Roger" His voice seems to erupt him the raw part far in the back of his throat. Its gut wrenching " YOU CANT FUCKING DO THAT"
Blue wind gets so pained
His arms thrash about in the air " and if you think for a second, for a mother fucking little fucking second that we are going to do this shit again, you are so fucking wrong. So wrong I almost feel bad for you. I almost feel bad for you Roger. You ignorant useless junkie son of a bitch" He throws the water glass that had formally rested upon the table at the wall. " So Roger" He fixes a cold stare on the other man "What exactly was so bad you couldn't handle? What were you running from?" Roger doesn't answer, and instead stares at Mark pleadingly " Huh what was it?" He demands, stepping forward slightly. No answer. He gets angry "WHAT ROGER?" He throws the white packet at Roger, hitting him squarely in the face " WHAT THE FUCK WAS IT?" No response. Mark crosses the room.
Blowing through the thick corn, through the bails of hay
He leans forward across the signature metal table, bracing himself with his arms. He leans right into Roger's face, breathing heavily and through clenched teeth "what the fuck were you hiding from?" No response still. He slaps Roger across the face " Huh what was it?" silence. He slaps Roger harder. Silence. "What" slap " The" slap " fuck" slap "was" slap " it?" smack. He grabs the front of Roger's shirt and shakes him " Answer me you bastard. You at least owe me that much" When Roger just looks at him blankly, almost with pity, Mark punches him. He then begins to punch and slap and assault Roger however he can, because maybe it would make him hurt as much as he was. Roger grabs at his wrists, and stops him. A moment passes and they remain as they are, Mark's wrists gripped in Rogers hands, their faces inches apart, and eyes searching. Then Mark pulls away and wraps one fist in the front of Roger's shirt, bringing the other to the back of his head and pulling him close.
"What the fuck where you hiding from?"
Roger inhales, and his voice quivers as if he is about to cry
" You"
And then Roger pulls him forward and there lips are in contact, hot and needy and angry.
Mark pulls away
"No, no get the fuck off of me" He pushes Roger away "I don't fucking.. I cant.. I don't feel that way about you Roger! I'm fucking straight! Stay away from me you sick bastard!" He turns to run and yet is stopped by a strong arm wrapping around his waist, and slamming him against the table.
"Yes you do"
"You're such a fucking bastard, get the fuck off of me. You fucking junkie scum"
"Well you're an alcoholic"
Through the sudden drift of the rain
Silence.
And then there at it, both changing their minds throughout, pushing the other away and then pulling them close again. Yelling words of hatred and of lust. And in the end, when both are bruised and panting and raging with anger, Mark pulls away suddenly and pushes Roger
"I hate you" Roger stands up and pushes the other harder, causing him to stumble and fall over the couch
"I hate you too bastard" The door slams.
Spring and summer