Notes and Disclaimers in Prologue.


control
part 1: and does it show in the things i've bought?


He couldn't tell anyone, of course. Who knew what they would do if they knew? What they would do...who they would tell... No, it was best to keep it to himself, to hide his love. It would be better for all parties involved. If his friends knew they might shun him, and if Roger knew...

He wanted to tell Roger. He wanted to tell him so badly...He wanted to be able to confide in Roger, just as he had in years past. He wanted to be able to collapse in front of him and just let everything out. More than anything he wanted Roger to scoop him up and laugh and tell him that he didn't have to worry so much. He wanted...needed...Roger's love. It was so complicated, this want and need. All he knew was that it was important to him. It was more important to him than anything else in the world. It drove him crazy.

That night he had been sitting in the loft, trying to concentrate on the notes for his film, but failing constantly as he jumped at every whisper outside, every creak and every thump. He was really waiting for Roger, as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise. He was waiting for Roger because he wanted to tell him. He wanted to finally admit that he was in love with his best friend...that he had been for as long as he could remember. He couldn't go on in his silence anymore, it was killing him. No sleep...never eating...never doing anything but work. He thought that maybe he could make the love go away if he buried himself in the work that had taken over the majority of his life. It didn't work, though, nothing worked. He continued to yearn and hurt and Roger continued to abuse him and ignore him. He continued to treat Mark like he was nothing...like he never needed the filmmaker and like he didn't need him now. It was painful and hurtful and driving him utterly insane.

The waiting ended when he heard the van pull up to the curb. He heard the friendly chatter from Ira and the gruff thanks passed from his musician to Adam, the driver. He was a little surprised he could hear as well as he could, at least until he realized that he was holding his breath. He took another shallow gasp of air and pressed his hand to his chest in a vain attempt to stop his heart as it beat wildly out of control. He could do this. He could talk to Roger. He would start out by telling him how alone he had been feeling lately. After that he would ask why Roger never talked to him anymore. If he were lucky, Roger would laugh it off and apologize. And then...then he could say...

Roger was at the door before he knew it. The door was open and he was inside and stalking directly for his room, not even a hello or a goodnight.

No! No, this wasn't how it was supposed to work!

"R-Roger!" he stuttered helplessly, praying it came out with enough force to get his dear friend's attention. "Wait!" The musician stopped where he was, his hand lingering over the doorknob to his sanctuary. He turned very slowly.

"What?" he spat, obviously vexed at the hindrance on his passage. Mark took a deep breath.

"Um...I just...we never really...we just don't talk anymore and I just wanted to know how everything went tonight," he said as evenly and off-handedly as he could manage. There. He was in control. He had this all under control...

Roger glared at him. No...no, that wasn't what was supposed to happen.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked gruffly, looking more annoyed by the minute. Mark stuttered again. No...he was supposed to be able to control this...it wasn't fair. Roger wasn't being fair at all...

"I...you're...You haven't..." Deep breath. Deep, cleansing breath. Breathing could help him control himself. He could say this. "You haven't had a normal conversation with me in...in...since Mimi died..." Another glare. And an eye roll. And...no. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Roger was supposed to play by Mark's rules. Mark couldn't keep his hand on this much longer. It was all so wrong. He was supposed to be in control...

"Oh, I'm so sorry Mark," he mocked icily. "I didn't realize you still needed someone to change your diapers. Just...grow up. You need to be independent some time. God forbid I get my own life and can't watch over you every fricking minute of the day." He was paralyzed with a mix between anger and fear and hurt and shock, emotions and thoughts flying through his head so fast he couldn't even dream of concentrating on just one...he felt the tears and he felt the tremors and he stood.

"I...I...Roger...I don't need a mother!" he insisted, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "I need a best friend!" It was a plea, a plea that Roger chose to ignore as he turned the full way around.

"Well, from my experience they seem to be interchangeable in your mind. God, Mark, I've been your fucking 'best friend' for more than seven years! I've coddled you and taken care of you and put up with you, and now I'm not going to do it anymore! I can't take care of you, Mark, you have to learn how to do it yourself!" The tears didn't stop as Mark took a step backward, hugging himself tightly around the waist.

"But...Roger...I just...I want to talk..." he whispered. Roger laughed, a laugh dripping with mockery and bitterness.

"What do you think we're doing?" he snapped. Mark's mouth opened and closed, his brow furrowed, his tears hot and hurting.

"But...but this isn't..." Roger sneered at him.

"What you wanted? What you planned?" Mark froze and bit his lip. No...no, this was all wrong... "Well, I hate to be the one who points this out to you, Mark, but you can't control me. You can't control me, you can't even control yourself! I don't think you could control anything if you tried!" Two heavy stomps and the slamming of a door. And tears. More hateful tears, hateful towards himself, not towards his musician, never towards his musician. He found himself curling onto the couch, his tears soon covering the pillow with dozens of salty tracks of rapidly drying pain. He squeezed his hands into fists and choked back any oral response to the tears. No crying...no screaming...no whimpering...no sobbing. It wasn't true. It wasn't, it couldn't be. He could control himself...his actions... *Then why can't you stop crying?* a voice from the back of his mind sneered. But...but...he had to. He had to...

The door opened again and he heard Roger's footsteps in the kitchen. The refrigerator door opening...everything just as it normally would be...

"If you're going to feel sorry for yourself you could at least do it in your room," he called over from the kitchen, his tone normal and even...as if it was every day he watched his roommate...his best friend...crumble before his very eyes, at his very hand. Mark pulled himself off of the couch and struggled to hold back a sob. It didn't work, and the ugly noise slipped through his lips as he hung on the doorframe of his room. He heard a snicker from behind him and his heart shattered. He let go completely and thrust himself through the nearest open door, sobbing and crying openly as he slammed the door behind him.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. He knew that. He knew he had control. He may not have been able to control Roger, but he could certainly control himself! He could do anything he wanted with his life, he could pack his things and leave the loft that very night. He had that power. He had that control. He could do whatever he wanted without caring whether or not Roger gave a damn. He tried to get a handle on his sobs as he lowered himself to the floor, huddled in a protective ball. He tried to calm himself down, stop the tears and catch his breath and stop that wretched racing of his heart. It took a lifetime...no, it took two lifetimes...for him to even be able to sit up and wipe at his eyes. It took two more before he could stand. He could control himself. Look at that. He had been controlling his tears right there. He had commanded his body to stop and it had.

He glanced at the mirror, appalled at the streaky, red stranger's face that stared back at him. He frowned and grabbed a handful of tissues. Now he was going to take control of his appearance. He wiped his eyes, his face. He started the faucet and picked up a washcloth, wiping the dried tears from his cheeks and eyelids. He ran a hand through his hair, fixing the portions that had been pressed back down into his scalp. There. He looked presentable again. Something else he could take control of. He ran his hands over his face, wiping the last of the hurt and fear from his eyes. He realized his face was growing rough, he needed to shave. He could do that. He already knew he could take control of his appearance. He could do it right then. He reached resolutely for the medicine cabinet. He started to pull it open, when he saw the bandage again.

It was small and only vaguely red now. He pulled his arm from the cabinet and ran his fingers lightly over the covered abrasion. That was the last time Roger had cared, Mark realized. The last time he had shown even the slightest care, albeit angry concern.

No. Mark shook his head clear. No, he didn't need Roger's care anymore. He didn't need any of it. He didn't care if Roger thought he was hurting or if he just wanted to hurt Mark. He didn't care and he didn't need Roger's care. Or...he didn't want Roger's care. The need and want...they never seemed to leave him alone!

He reached back for the cabinet, determined to finish taking control of his problems. He was going to shave and maybe shower and get changed and march out of the loft and go to dinner. Without Roger. Never with Roger again. He pulled out his razor and closed the mirrored door, filling the sink with water. And then he looked up again. He saw it. The picture, the picture in the mirror made it clear to him. In taking control...could he take control of when his life....ended?

No! He shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. No, that was the wrong kind of control. That would just prove to Roger how out of control he was. Ludicrous. Stupid, stupid idea... He reached for the shaving cream and glanced at the mirror again. And froze. Another idea was coming to him.

Maybe he couldn't hurt himself that badly...but maybe...maybe he could control how much he hurt himself...

His skin had always been so sickly pale. He ran his fingertips nimbly over it and finally let them rest on the bandage. He slowly pulled it off, revealing a shadow of a slash on his inner arm. The skin under the bandage was burning, burning with something he couldn't grasp as the rest of his arm remained cold and clammy. The line was so faint...no one would ever notice it...no one would care. He reached into the cabinet again, this time pulling out the replacement razor blades sitting neatly in a box. He remembered urging Roger to get rid of them after April, but to no avail. He was suddenly glad his musician's morbid mourning mindset had prevented them from recycle...they were of use to him now.

He would only do it once, he decided. Once would be enough to show that he was still in control. Ever so lightly, ever so lightly he traced the swirls and figure eights over the skin of his forearm. Very thin white lines trailed dutifully behind the blade, skin flaking off as he added more pressure. More...and more...the lines became more profound, the skin stung more, the pressure continued. He closed his eyes.

It was while they were closed that it happened. It wasn't deep, but he could still feel the very moment that the blade broke through to the veins and capillaries just under his skin. A gasp escaped his lips, and his eyelids shot up, revealing the very fine red line to his wavering eyes. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Still, he had said only once and he was in control. He quickly cleaned off the razor and replaced it. Ignoring the cut, he shaved and showered, and by the time he was dressing, he had almost completely forgotten about the scratch.

Almost.

It never really left him. As he ate at the Life Café, his dinner courtesy of Ira's friend Paul; as he wandered down the street looking into shop windows and observing the world around him, something he had mastered long ago; but mostly as he filmed the happy friends and placid, yet, somehow passionate lovers in the park. It burned, he realized as his shaking hands ruined his shot. The cut burned, it felt as though it would ignite the sleeve of his sweater, which was pulled securely over his bandaged arm. It burned and itched, feelings that flared up as he zoomed in on the young boys playing tag in the rapidly draining sunlight. The fire was even more intense as he caught sight of the young lovers cuddling on a bench, the young woman lacing and unlacing her fingers with those of her laughing boyfriend. He turned his camera sharply, his breath catching as well. He tried not to think about it as he filmed a mother pushing a stroller filled with a shining, smiling child back towards the street. He tried not to think about it...but it was nearly impossible.

He got back to the loft even later than he had planned on, making it nearly to the top of the stairs before running back to the street an hour before hand. It was pitch black now, and the bleakness of the night seemed to match perfectly that of his soul. He tiptoed across the main room of the loft, his heart relaxing as soon as he heard the gentle snores from behind Roger's door. He hadn't even realized it had been beating so fast until it start to slow back to it's normal sickly pace. He quickly climbed into his own bed, barely wasting a moment to throw on pajama bottoms. He curled quickly, assuming the fetal position without even realizing it. His right hand clasped firmly around his injured forearm, his mind barely registering it, barely noticing the significance of the small bandage. Mark finally allowed his thoughts to return to Roger, his beautiful, unobtainable Roger. He closed his eyes, preparing to collide with an unending onslaught of tears, just like every other night of his pathetic existence. Much to his surprise the tears never came. It seemed, he mused forlornly as he drifted in and out of sleep, that he had run out of the one thing that bought him solace.

For the first, and certainly not the last, time Mark began to wonder if maybe those cuts had been too high after all.

It got worse. He wouldn't admit it. He pretended that it was better, that it was actually helping. He pretended he was in control and a new, changed man. He pretended to be happy and he pretended he didn't need his musician. They noticed the change, those around him. They watched him pretend to sneer at Roger and laugh and enjoy life. They watched him get caught up in the whirl of the city. They watched and nodded to each other behind his back. 'He's alright,' they silently agreed. 'Look, he's getting by. Good for him.' They also watched him switch to long sleeved shirts. They watched him pretend to have appointments with producers, phone calls to make. They watched him pretend to seem indifferent about Roger's neglect.

When he was with them, he almost believed it all. It wasn't until he got home that he realized he was getting too old to play pretend. He wondered, sometimes, how it was possible for two people to live in the same room and not realize what was happening to one another. Because the hurting didn't stop after that small mark. It intensified.

He still believed himself to be in control, of course. He was in control. He would say, 'Just three or four times tonight' and at three or four times he would stop. But the next night five or six, and next seven or eight, and after that...

He could feel the wrong. Somewhere in his pain-addled mind he could feel the wrong, but he ignored it. He tired to convince himself that the wrong wasn't what he was doing, it was what was causing him to do it. Theyelling. The clipped conversations. And the neglect. God, he still cried over the neglect. That offered at least some peace, however. He was relieved to find that he could still cry, that he wasn't that far gone. If he was, it was all his musician's fault. All the wrong, he insisted blindly, was his musician's fault. The hurting wasn't the wrong, the hurt was the wrong. It was after the yelling that he would find himself sitting in the bathroom with his sleeves rolled up. It was after the shortened talks that his pale fingers clutched at the razor. It was after the neglect, the hideous, daily neglect, that the blood flowed freely down his arms.


Continue on to Part 2...
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