Disclaimers and Notes in Prologue.


control
part 2: i don't cry everytime i bleed

He was concerned about the marks. At least, when he wasn't too busy ignoring his secret to acknowledge them. He did try and ignore, with the shirts and sweaters. He had purchased a hooded sweatshirt that zipped in the front, wearing it almost every day with t-shirts to keep his arms hidden from sight. They all accepted this, laughing it off as another one of Mark's idiosyncrasies. He laughed along with them, his laugh more bitter as he realized just how unconventional his behavior really had become. But...lately, the marks had stopped disappearing so easily. Instead of two days, three, the cuts had started to take longer and longer to fade away. Four days would pass...five, six, a week...and the shadows still danced on his skin, usually surrounded by small blotches of salty tears that smacked his skin in anguish at the lingering marks, the ones that haunted the back of his mind, bringing that wrong thought front and center. Yes, he had been going deeper, of course he had, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle. The blood flow always stopped within fifteen minutes at least, and it wasn't really hurting him, per se, he was healthy and his body could produce new blood cells as fast as he destroyed them.

No. No, that was wrong, he wasn't destroying anything. He knew that, destroying was what happened when people fell out of control, and he was in control. He was fully in control. He knew he was in control, if he was out of control, he would have already been dead or hurting, or at least found out. But he wasn't any of those things. He surely wasn't dead, and the only hurting, the only real hurting was at the hands of his sadistic musician. And he wasn't caught, he knew that for a fact. They thought he was doing well, all of them. They thought he was being a part of society, shedding his detachment, working and trying his hardest to be one with the city again. They were all amazed at how he had bounced back so easily. Well...almost all of them.

Those eyes...those eyes still dug into him as they ate with the others. They followed him everywhere, accusing him, berating him. He was afraid the others would start to see it too. Those eyes...'We see what you're up to. We know what you do all alone in that bathroom. We can see into you, we have always seen into you. Before long, they will see into you too. Just wait...someday you will get caught...and I will be the one to catch you.' They noticed his distance from his best friend, of course. They pondered it, but assumed it was another tiff, the boys always had tiffs and arguments, and within a few weeks, they were sure it wouldn't take longer than that, their boys would be happy with each other again, singing and laughing and joking like nothing had happened.

He and Roger would never be like that again. He could feel it. He would never have Roger the way he wanted to, never have him at all, it seemed. He would have his fear and he would have his pain. He would have his films and his self-hatred. He would have his longing and lust, and his razor and his blood, but not his musician, never his musician. He didn't even have a best friend anymore, he had an accuser and an adversary, someone who tried to thwart him, tried to figure him out and expose him, when Roger really had the key to stopping the hurt in his own hands. Apparently, Roger's solitude and anger were more important to him than the hurting was. They could never go back to how it was now. Roger would allow it, his heart was dead and he didn't care who he hurt anymore. Mark just sat on the sidelines and watched, having finally come to terms with the fact that his love put him directly in the path of Roger's squall, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was out of his control.

At least, it was until he realized that he could be in control. The need...the want...the rage...everything. He could stand up to his musician and look him in the eye and receive the screams and insults and pain without flinching, and control how those emotions came out later. He was master of his own mind and body now. He was sure of it. He listened to himself, of course, never going over the number of cuts he set out, always listening to his initial decision, despite how much he wanted to go on further. And the marks...they only lingered because he was so angry, they would go away, they'd go away with time, he was sure of it.

It wasn't anger, though. A back part of his mind cried it out over and over again. It was pain and fear and betrayal and neglect. He was neglected. He had been neglected his whole life, his father, his girlfriends, his constituents...but this neglect...it hurt more than all of that combined. This betrayal ran deep. 'Right through my blood to my bone,' he thought bitterly, unable to resist the cruel joke. That was as much as he thought about it, however. He refused to admit he was in pain. No, it wasn't his fault, it was because of Roger that he felt this, and...and...

He was lying on the couch, when it happened. He had been lying on the couch more often lately, sleeping more often. He was dead tired, he had been for the past two weeks, ever since he started...well, ever since he had started. Exhaustion pulled at him every hour of the day. He still managed to get out every day, he was afraid if he didn't they would start to wonder, start to accuse. The accusations in his musician's eyes were more than enough. He needed them to think he was alright. If he could do that...if he could do that, this would all turn out okay. But even just going out to see them was draining him. He couldn't think or function right, blacking out in conversations as he succumbed to complete exhaustion. It had only happened face to face once, thank god. 'I'm sick...haven't been feeling well...don't worry, you're not that boring...' Laughs and orders to see a doctor and he was in the clear. But it had happened again and again, watching TV, talking on the phone. He would just start to drift off, waking up suddenly and immediately seconds later. He had been trying to sleep more often at night, during the afternoon, even. He thought it would help, but he slept so heavily that once he woke up it felt as if he hadn't closed his eyes two seconds before hand. Nothing seemed to work. It frightened him.

He was lying on the couch that afternoon, hoping against hope that a few stolen hours of sleep would keep him awake for Collins' visit later that evening. He rested his head against the arm of the couch when he heard the heavy, solemn footsteps of his musician. He started to sit up, curious as to what Roger was even doing home. The musician opened the door to his room and clomped out, carrying a tattered laundry basket.

"I need some more clothes for a full load," he muttered indifferently. "Gimme your sweatshirt. It could use a wash." He reached out towards the jacket and Mark immediately stiffened, backing away so quickly it was almost comical.

"N-no!" he shouted. "No, don't touch me!" Angry. Roger looked angry. He looked disgusted, in fact. Mark bit his lip to prevent a gasp or whimper from escaping. He curled up against the side of the couch, staring dully at the ground. Roger ignored his obvious avoidance and stomped over back in front of him.

"Jesus, Mark!" he growled. "You don't have to flip out! I'm trying to do you a fucking favor! All I'm doing is trying to help you out and you can't even appreciate that!" Mark's head shot up and he found himself glaring at his Roger without even realizing it. No...no, he couldn't shout. He couldn't shout, he couldn't argue, he had to...to control his emotions! Something could slip and his musician would know and...

Mark realized, with sudden clarity that he did know. He knew already. "I don't need your help! You're not even helping, you're too busy taking care of yourself to help! You're just trying to make it easier for yourself, that's the only reason you care about it, the only reason you're doing this! You want to help yourself, and if it helps me along the way, fine! If it doesn't, well too bad! It looks like Marky is losing out, again!" Roger slammed the hamper into the ground; Mark jumped again, tears brimming behind his glasses, his porcelain skin flushing madly in his fury.

"Jesus CHRIST! You push me away for years and years, you get me out of your mind, your life, you push EVERYONE away and you get yourself into a fricking hole that you can't get yourself out of and you think we'll all come running! You think we'll all drop everything to get you out of whatever the hell you've gotten into, and when we don't do it immediately you decide you don't need it after all and when we do get a chance to help you don't need it anymore. You're too fucking 'independent' to even admit that you need help, even when it's offered to you!"

"Maybe it's because I've had to be for so long!" he didn't even know what he was saying, only that he was standing and shouting and pointing, his hands shaking, his mind straining so very hard just to keep him functioning. "I'm just so used to it I don't know how to ask for help, I don't know how to accept help! I've never had an experience with handling assistance of any kind, how am I supposed to even comprehend what to do?!" Roger was inches away from him now, his breath hot and angry, his face red with anger, his eyes bulging. "You just come in here, after weeks of anger and neglect and you come in and you...you just start to force me into your submission as always! You expect me to do whatever you say and accept everything graciously! 'Oh, oh that Roger, he's just so great to me, what will I ever do without him, what will I ever do without his companionship. Oh, it's a good thing he looks out for me. I'd never get by without him!' Well I have to know how to survive without you, Roger, because you're never, EVER there for me!"

"Well gee, sorry if I have my own life! Sorry if I have my own things to deal with! You think I could just bounce back from Mimi's death?" Mark froze. Roger hadn't even spoken of Mimi since she died. "No Mark, I needed time! I fucking needed to get my act together, and I'm sorry if I wasn't ready to jump into the role of Mark's mommy while you were grieving! And now...now I just try and help you out and you can't even admit you need it! You cry over this fucking 'neglect' and then won't even let me help you out for one stupid minute! I try to do you a favor and you treat it like the end of the fucking world!" He looked as though he would slap Mark or kick him or wring his neck. The filmmaker couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but blink and hold back the tears slamming against his eyelids. Roger gave him a final icy look. "Well you know what," he whispered harshly. "You know what? If you don't want me to help, then do yourown damn laundry!" He snatched the basket from the ground and stomped out of the apartment and down the stairs. Mark watched, still frozen. Laundry and...not laundry. Screaming and accusations and...did his musician know? Did he guess or did he see or was he oblivious.

Oblivious. He doubted that. Even in his exhaustion, he knew that was about much, much more than a load of light colored laundry. He rubbed his temples, which throbbed and slid back on to the couch. He could think about it later. He could think about it all later, what he needed right now was a little sleep.


He wasn't really angry. Well...he was angry, but not at Mark, he could never really stay mad at Mark for very long. No...today he was angry with himself. He had known, deep down, that he was the cause for some time now, but he had never thought...he never thought Mark would actually say it, actually admit it. He wanted to be close to Mark, as close as they used to be. He wanted Mark to confide in him, to come to him, to let him help. He wanted to be there for Mark. He wanted to be that for Mark more than anything else in the world.

Then...why couldn't he?

Why couldn't he turn around, why couldn't he run back into that room and apologize and beg for forgiveness, bandage his poor Mark's arms and tell him over and over again how sorry he was...that he never meant for something like that to happen. Why couldn't they be like they were? Why couldn't they love each other again?

It was dangerous, that was why. It could ruin them. There was a chance, a slim, slim chance, that it could help them, make them stronger. But the odds of that...no, it wasn't worth the risk, it wasn't worth it. It would hurt them, and ruin them, and that was why it was dangerous. Their friendship was sacred, something that was so, so important to him...he couldn't ruin it by taking stupid chances...foolish risks. He couldn't show any signs, anything that would start to reveal those feelings and thoughts. He had to hide them. He had to hide them, and that's why he screamed and ignored. That's why he neglected and that's why he was so cruel. He didn't mean to be cruel, he was just trying to help them, trying to get rid of those complications and help them be normal again, help them be okay.

It was wrong. There was a little voice in the back of his head that told him that he was being wrong, he was hurting his poor, poor Mark, he was ruining him. Grinding him into the ground, destroying everything that made him so unique, so naïve and innocent and...special. He was trying to help, but it was ending in ruin, he was ruining his poor Mark, making him do these horrible things...

No...no...he wasn't. Mark wasn't doing anything, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all. He was just angry, and they had fought over laundry and that was the end of it. Laundry...that was a laugh. It certainly wasn't laundry, nothing so trivial could incite that much anger and resentment and fear and betrayal from them. Nothing so insignificant could make them shout like that, infuriate them so. It was much, much more than that, and he knew it, and Mark certainly knew that he knew.

He was over-reacting. He was definitely over reacting, he was crazy if he thought that Mark would do anything that stupid. Mark had a head on his shoulders, he knew right from wrong, he knew how to take care of himself. He wouldn't do something that stupid. Roger was just reading too much into it, jumping to hasty conclusions. Nothing was wrong with Mark, he was crazy for thinking...

No...he was just in denial. Or...was he?

There was only one way to find out.

The stairwell was so silent...he was almost frightened of the hollow clop that sounded as his boots hit each stair, a feather light touch, that seemed brief, despite the obvious fear that each step brought him. One flight...two...he was nearing the door now, he could see it with its chipping paint and sharpie-marker graffiti. 'the loft' written in Mark's messy print, 'leave your morals at the door' in his own. He ran his fingers over the scribbled messages written back and forth between the two of them, a few interjections from Collins, and even some rantings from Maureen. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out those hazy memories from their youth, those tangled friendships and the family unit that thrived in the loft. He opened them again, staring at the door, able to trace the downfall of that ground. Blacked-out scribbles from Benny that he and Mark had drawn over the day after the wedding. 'One down...' Maureen's fading messages, stopping altogether after a certain date. '...two down...' Collins's philosophical quotes, the dates few and far between. '...three down...'

And then there were two. And if he waited too much longer behind the door...if he continued to hide, continued to slam doors and listen through them with his ear pressed to the crack...if he kept that up, there would only be one. What use was living if he was the only one left?

He opened the door.

Mark was sleeping on the couch. His eyes were closed, and he was curled around a pillow. His breathing was slow...so deep and slow Roger wasn't sure he was alive at first. He looked so beautiful while he slept, so young. That fear and worry and anger...it was all gone. The depression that danced in his eyes and the haunting detachment that followed him in a dreary smog was all gone, he looked like any other man, sleeping calmly and peacefully and deeply. Roger sat on the edge of the couch, his fingers hesitantly brushing through Mark's hair. The filmmaker didn't move. Feeling childish, Roger poked Mark in the shoulder. Again, there was no sign that the other man registered the feeling at all. Roger took a trembling breath and let his hands settle on Mark's arm.

The silence around them was driving him crazy, it was only punctuated by the short gasps of his breath and the small whisper of Mark's. His head was throbbing and his ears were ringing and he wanted to drop Mark's arm and run. 'Get out of here!' his mind cried out. 'Get out before you learn more than you want to, before you discover things you don't want to see, don't want to admit. Run! NOW!' His hands shook as he pulled Mark's arm away from his body. He groaned in his sleep, very lightly, but loud enough for Roger to freeze. He felt as though he could hear the ticking of the clock...or maybe that was the beating of his heart...

Mark's arm lay in Roger's hands, heavy with exhaustion and sleep. Roger stared at it, too frightened of the present to do the deed himself, too frightened of the future to ignore it any longer. He took the edge of Mark's sleeve in one hand and closed his eyes, rolling it up to the filmmaker's elbow. His whole body trembled as he opened his eyes and lowered them to the pale skin of Mark's forearm. His heart lunged at the sight of the lingering scars and scratches running down his arm in every directions. His heart lunged and then broke altogether.

He gathered the still-sleeping Mark in his arms, curled up on the couch, and wept.


Continue on to Part 3...
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