So Dark We Forget Who We Are
A/N- Fuck excuses as to why I have not written- I'm here now.
(In the two later sections when no names are specified and it's just He and he: He= Mark he=Roger)
Hurt- to be in pain
Pain- to be hurt
Circles and circles and circles
we like to go in circles
Circles to provide us with answers that aren't really answers
At least it's an 'answer.'
Intoxicated- to be drunk
Drunk- to be intoxicated
And he lied silently, watching the morning light bleed through the dark. Shake the uneasiness of the knowing from his lips.
And he could love it for that, even if only for a moment.
And underlying the gold falling upon his throbbing chest, his memory.
The dark,
Resides with the other.
Playing about his stride as the fresh bills provide at least a small solstice.
A sound.
's too damn quiet
His own footsteps are silent
Silent.
Drowned out by the bills. by the fresh bruises. By the thought. By the knowing
he's proof. Some men enjoy fucking 'helpless' little Jewish boys with a chin too chiseled to be pretty and eyes too soft to be handsome.
Some men ( is 23 really a man?)
Would enjoy beating the fucking shit out of said men -pervs-
If.
would do anything, If He could just make the Other let go.
The knowing
the letting go
…
And as he slid in through the door, the metal reflecting light he hadn't noticed until now ( had the rays been shining his entire way home?)
The darkness covered him. Hid him.
Clawed at everyone's eyes, at their desire to ASK
And he could love it for that.
Even if only for a moment.
….
-
..
...
The scars.
The tragically beautifully ugly scars, on the tragically pale, beautiful skin
And Roger wants to ask. Even though he knows, he always wants to ask.
But if he asks about Mark's, Mark can ask about his.
And he doesn't want to say.
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The world's early afternoon- his early morning-
After the fifth hour of 'sleep', he rises to meet the glass, and the blue that has turned gold and far-too-honest.
And,
And…
and.
He wishes it could be different, just a little bit… because…..
….fuck.
There were no becauses
There are no becauses.
And he steps his feet on the bright cold, because it can't be pretty and look and BE right at the same time, and wishes he didn't have to.
"Mornin' "
"Hey"
"Sleep okay?"
Sleep? what the fuck is he talking about?
"Any coffee"
"In the pot"
"Mm"
…..
"….."
"…"
"Mark?"
"Mmmhmm?"
"…why"?
It's not all that random as it may seem. In fact, it's been hanging in the air so long, Mark was pretty sure he was about to go mad. He doesn't even try to play fucking dumb.
The knowing.
"because"
'indifference' taints his words too much these days.
No one asks.
Well, they do.
But He doesn't ask.
So it doesn't matter.
"Mark, please"
He isn't getting pissed. He isn't getting pissed? Why? Since fucking when did Roger not get pissed?
Look at the refracted light. Broken in spots on the wall and metal table. When things break, don't they have jagged edges? Ha, he should fucking know.
Apparently, the light doesn't know that. Or doesn't care. Because edges are ugly…
And it dances and it looks okay.
He likes that.
He always wanted to be okay. Never got there, but.
He always wanted it
"Mark" He had always loved natural light. Refusing to turn on any artificial lighting until the sun had fallen completely dark, and he lacked a choice. Even then, sometimes he didn't.
Not that there was an option anymore.
Ha, how fucking symbolic.
"Mark?"
He has always been a bit of a night owl. -Just full of contradictions aren't we?- twilights child.
Then, who the fuck in New York City isn't? His eye catches a few stray bangle bracelets of Mimi's, haphazardly lying on the liked it when she wore those.
They rain-fall sounded as she moved, and they made her feel happy when she wore them.
And that made him, if for a moment, feel okay.
And he always wanted to be okay.
"Mark!"
"Because" snap. Sudden. " Because I have to"
"What? No you don't. what the fuck are you talking about? Mark... You don't…. you don't have to do-"
So dark we forget who we are…
Oops had he just said ( sung) that out loud?
"Mark-"
And all the scars of the never and maybes die...
"MARK"
"yeah I do"
"Why"
"There isn't always a because Roger"
"JESUS CHRIST MARK, JUST FUCKING ANSWER ME "he smiles a little
"Can't."
"And why the fuck not?"
"Because"
"BECAUSE….?"
"let it be, let it beee.."
"FUCKING CHRIST WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"he grabs Mark's arms and spins him around, faces inches apart
"WHY"
"Because." he snaps "because it doesn't matter…and maybe, just maybe, for a moment…it will"
Roger releases him. Confused. Weary. Bewildered.
"What?"
Mark. Cool. Aloof. Turns away, walking to his door and placing his hand on the knob
"You know," he turns to look at Roger over his shoulder. Almost makes him smile.
"The dark looks pretty at night"
..
..
..
It's pouring fucking rain.
The kind that you only have to stand in for 30 seconds to be completely soaked. The kind that knocks leaves out of trees and that you fear just may beat a hole through your window, and sounds angry and stuck in the spot between more than pretty almost beautiful at the same time.
What he'd give to go out and dance in it.
He thinks of that, of twirling around like a 'pussy ass girl' because who gives a fuck, as the man behind him takes what he paid for. And just as the man begins to get particularly rough, Mark realizes, and winces and curses himself cause fuck, now the rain is going to be this. Now its going to feel like this and be like this and he's going to remember it like this.
Shit.
Now he can't even have the rain
He can't even have the fucking rain.
All he wanted was to be okay.
All he wanted was be able to look at the light and see the light, and look at the rain and see the rain, and look at Roger's smile and believe it, and look at the dark and just see the dark.
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..
Roger had one of his episodes when he found out what Mark was doing. Mark didn't know, But he had.
It had lasted nearly an hour, and Mimi didn't know what the fuck to do cause she'd never seen it before. Only Mark and Collins new, and only Mark could cause it.
She should have known right there.
But he had smashed glass and punched walls and screamed with glazed eyes. He bruised Mimi- pushing her away, gripping at her wrists too-tight, and threw up and swore and shook and she SWEARS to god, she saw a tear.
And when he was finally finished, bleeding and shaking, he sunk to the ground and rested his back against a wall, and curled up and stared blankly into space just long enough to make Mimi reach for the phone to call Collins, before blinking pointedly a few times. Looking, bewildered, around him, his eyes land on Mimi, and question her just as intently as his words do.
"Meems…what happened? What's wrong? Why are you crying?…what's going on?"
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..
A sign of insanity is repeating the same action under the same circumstance and expecting different results.
He didn't expect a fucking thing.
He knew nothing was going to FUCKING CHANGE
The cliché would just repeat… repeat…
Yet, he was still crazy, wasn't he ?
ha, how great
Now he's even defying the fucking laws of insanity.
Woop-de-fucking-doo
Jesus, his life is one big metaphor.
One big cliché, ironic, symbolic, metaphoric you-couldn't-even-write-that-shit tragedy.
How fucking great.
We tend to see the world as it is and not how it has been, or might be, or could be, or should be.
And so we see only this and not anything. Living in the now and seeing in the now are two completely different things. Because if he lives in the now, he's living the best he can. if he sees only this moment and nothing else..
Well…,
Fuck..
And he's tired of tactful and poetic and anything but blunt, but he doesn't know how to fucking say it.
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his infuriatingly accurate ear picks out the gaudy A major to D minor transition in His averted or forced-to-be distance. he likes to think he knows more than he does. Acting as if he even knows what disregard means , he always turns back to the filtering light and plays the almost beautiful transition in his head, and disconnects it into a broken chord. his mind tightens as his chest does, and he wonders where the cold went and where it goes and what makes it, though he does know. he knows that He contemplates the way light filters and if it has reason. It filters because it isn't wanted, is being blocked out, so how, possibly, could it not leak through? Maybe it knows and maybe it doesn't and maybe it just means well, but that isn't the point. Why, a word he says too much, does this part get filtered in and this one blocked out? Is there a reason, is there a rhyme or a way or a why. Or is it just what it is, though just what is never seems to be as objective as it should be. Words are pretty and almost everyone hides in them. Words are always pretty and everyone thinks in them. Words are pretty and that the only thing we know.
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Nighttime is an art. And the glitter gold twinkling city and the scar on your chest. In the rain, the pavement shines like sliver and gold of worlds and sky onward. Reach at the sky and the nothing and uselessly forget. Hope to forget what the cold in your eyes drowned and what clawed at his hair. The spots on his arms look like the spots in the sky but maybe a little different, but, like everything else, not enough to matter. Such as the two years wasted and the six months spent and the knowing that that was wasted too if He's too spent then he knows it's wasted. Irrelevance makes him laugh, double meanings make him hurt.
Dysfunction has always been His thing,. Too fucking dysfunctional to function has always been his. Living through dysfunction is what He does, and he wonders how He does it. he's like a child, looks at Him as if He's invincible. Likes to believe it. Has not a reason, which is the biggest reason, to think otherwise. Sometimes he wants to say fuck it, just fuck it but all the time He can't let go. he never knows what he's trying to say or what He's trying to mean.
Fuck it.
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When Roger confronted him again, he was his usual self. Angry because he was desperate. Mark could almost say he was grateful. Desperate because he was angry. His tactful ass approach of being a hot headed bastard. Though, Mark must admit, walking in at 4 o'clock in the morning with his shirt strewn about and exposed bruises may not have been the best idea. For some reason he'd thought Roger hadn't heard him when he left.
In retrospect, he was a fucking moron.
As he walked in he was met by a flash of pain in Roger's eyes, an occurrence which anyone else would spasm over, and rough hands grabbing a hold of his shit. Here we fucking go again.
"The fuck, Mark?'
Pissed, pissed, pissed. As usual. He isn't in the mood.
"What the fuck" Mark cannot help but laugh at that
"Well, you're an articulate one tonight"
He didn't really think to brace himself for any of the violence that was sure to ensue. His grasp still firm around the front of Mark's shirt, Roger shakes him with more-than- a-bit of violence and Mark's sure all Roger currently sees is red.
" You are such a mother fucking son of a btiching moron. You are so mother fucking stupid. I'm so tired of all this bullshit, Mark" He pulls away, but Roger grabs at his shirt once more and yanks him close. He grips both of Mark's arms too-fucking-tight ''why? Huh Mark? Fucking why? And don't give me any fucking poetic, tactful, drably bullshit. Just fucking tell me why" Mark just looks at his, seemingly crazed, roommate. Roger grits his teeth . "WHY?" he grabs desperately at Mark's face and cradles the sides hard, forcing eye contact "WHY, DAMNIT"
"Because"
"FUCK" this send Roger reeling in fury. He shoves Mark away, hard enough for him to stumble and nearly flip over the couch. He flails about and punches -yet another- hole in the wall, followed by the throwing of a chair the breaking of glass, strings of obscenities being strewn and Mark replaying how tired he is of this scene in his head. He brings his palms up to grip his hair. "Mark" through gritted teeth " Mark, please" when Mark doesn't answer. He can't help but turn around and look. Christ. The bruises under his disheveled shirt and the pale, too-thin exhaustion pulling down the bags under his eyes and completed with mused hair and long since faded track marks that Roger knows right where to find.
Ouch.
Fucking ouch.
To say the least
"Mark, please…"
"Shut the fuck up Roger'
The shock of that does make him shut the fuck up. '"since when do you care? I've only ever been the same thing to you as I am to them. A fuck toy. Fuck and then walk away. Fucking hypocrite. Please don't fucking PREACH to me, in fact, don't you fucking dare. You're such a fucking son of a bitch who hasn't given a shit till now, because now I'm not at your fucking beck and call. You don't give a fuck, so please don't act like you do"
Roger reels as if he's been physically struck as Mark turns away to storm off. This should probably hurt less, he's heard it enough times, but the fact still remains that Mark usually isn't haste. He tends not to get caught up in the passion of the moment as Roger himself does, and conventionally doesn't spew meaningless, angry drabble that he doesn't mean. Mark usually means it. That fact, in addition to the numerous times Roger's heard the same thing…He feels a huge, sharp burn in his chest. It swallows him, seemingly. He doesn't have the energy to yell anymore, nor the energy to be pissed or violent. In reality, all he wants to do is run forward and grab his best friend, the skinny blonde boy, and maybe hold him. Maybe hug him. Maybe just touch his arm. He really doesn't give a fuck, he just needs to touch him. To know he's still there or at least have something he can dream on, because knowing he's there might allow him to believe that his is still there , even if only for a moment. He feels desperate, his voice sounds strained.
" Mark, please -"
"WHY Roger, fucking WHY" The snap is sudden and loud hot and Roger can't help but jump.
"WHY in the FUCK do you keep doing this? You. Don't. give. A. shit.!` you. Do. Not. Give. A .fuck.! Just shut the fuck up, stop sounding all desperate as if you're a victim, actually hurting. You're a fucking asshole who never. Gives. A . fuck unless you have to. Why do you even DO it Roger, why in the FUCK do you keep-"
"I love you"
….
Silence
"What?"
" Mark, I fucking love you. That's it. that's why. I do. You've been here since… fuck, since the beginning and you're my best- fuck beyond my best friend and beyond my brother, and fuck man I- hell I don't even give a fuck that I sound like a hallmark card right now, you're Mark and…fuck man, I care. Of course I fucking care. I .. fuck…. Mark. Fuck, of course I love you"
…..
He doesn't know what to say
"You-" His answer comes as needy hands, a needy hardness soon to be grinding up against his leg after a few more touches and needing to give in, because he knows It doesn't mean as much as or what it should . He does give in.
He always fucking gives in.
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Sometimes Mark likes to look at Roger's elbow crooks and Roger likes to look at Mark's eyes as they sit in the neon chrome reflected black. And the dark makes it look like they belong.
And they can love it for that, even if only for a moment.