Disclaimers and Notes in Prologue.


control
part 3: but I try not to get caught

He was sitting there, sitting there with his arms wrapped tightly around his poor angel, stroking his hair and crying, crying silently and stoically to himself. He had pulled Mark's sleeve down again, afraid that the marks on the filmmaker's arms would cause him to vomit if he had to stare at them any longer. Roger's fingers weaved in and out of his hair, his steady breathing never wavering, his eyes never opening. He was nearly unconscious, sleeping so deeply that not even the tremors that wracked Roger's body roused him. It frightened the musician, but there was nothing he could do. He was afraid of what would happen if Mark woke up and even more afraid of what would happen if he didn't. He just sat and held his angel and squeezed his eyes shut, praying for guidance, begging for forgiveness.

He had no real concept of time. It was an all extended blur of colors and shapes and thoughts running through his head...nothing concrete. The light would change...that was really the only way he could tell it was getting later and later. Despite that, he was still surprised when he heard the footsteps on the stairs and Collins' deep voice singing a popular song to himself. He didn't react, exactly, just stared at the door as Collins entered. The other man looked startled to see his friends wrapped and tangled together on the couch, but didn't allow most of the surprise to reach his face.

"Roger...is something wrong?" he asked instead, looking rather concerned and walking quickly towards the others, kneeling in front of the couch. Roger didn't look up, his eyes glued to Mark's still-sleeping form. "Roger..."

"It's because of me, Collins," he rasped dully, not moving his eyes. "It's because of me. Collins, he hurts himself because of what I do to him."

"Um....Roger, what are you..." Without another word, Roger's fingers moved numbly to Mark's wrist. He pulled up the sleeve, his eyes welling with tears as the scratches and slashes came back into his view. Collins was silent.

"It's because of me, Collins. All because of me." Collins eased Roger's fingers away from Mark's arm and took a closer look. Despite Roger's resistance, he then took Mark's other arm and pulled that sleeve up as well. It was the same as the other, angry red exclamations up and down in all directions. The contrast to his skin was startling; Collins had never realized just how pale their small friend was. He was also amazed that Mark was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the fact that his two closest friends were inspecting his body, discovering his secrets and vices. Mark could barely sleep nights on his own without the help of small doses of valium, and now he was nearly unconscious with exhaust.

"Has he been sleeping, Roger?" the scholar asked calmly, turning Mark's arm over his in hands, relieved to find the cuts limited to the inside skin. Roger blinked as his friend blankly, his eyes still hazy, still clinging to Mark, bloodshot and reddening. "Roger..."

"Y-yeah," the musician stuttered. "A lot. More than he ever has before, all night and during the day even. I...I pretended not to pay attention...that I didn't care...but I noticed." He looked down, as if embarrassed of his intentional neglect. Collins ignored the shame and concentrated again on Mark. "Is...Collins, do you know what's..." he trailed off. Collins finally made eye contact.

"Roger, put him down," he said gently. "Put Mark down for now...he'll be alright. Put that blanket over him and then come and see me in the kitchen. We need to talk." Roger nodded numbly, not even looking at Collins as he left the room, his footsteps thudding away and into the kitchen. He pushed Mark's hair away from his face, letting his fingers linger on his friend's cheek. How could it be true? Howhowhow, WHY was it true? How could his little angel do this to himself, how could he...how could he...

He shook his head clear, squeezing his eyes shut. Gently...very gently...he placed Mark's unconscious form onto the couch. The filmmaker stirred in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering briefly, but not opening. Roger's breath caught tightly in his throat, his fists clenching around the blanket. *nononoono don't let him wake up please god don't let him wake up oh please what do I say what do I do don't let him wake up yet...* Mark didn't stir further, and Roger let himself relax. He knew, somehow, somewhere in his head, that Collins was waiting for him, but he just couldn't pull away, not yet. He had told Collins, by accident actually. He hadn't meant to, but he was so shocked, so dismayed...he had been in shock when Collins had asked him, not even realizing that in telling Collins that Mark was sleeping through the night with only nightmares to interrupt his rest, he was revealing his dangerous habit of watching the other man as he slept. Dangerous...dangerous like those feelings, the ones that he tried to hide, the ones that caused this whole mess, the ones taking his Mark away from him when all he wanted those feelings to do was bring them together.

No. No, he had done it again, he had thought "his Mark" again, and that was wrong. Mark wasn't his. Mark was never his, he never had Mark and he never would. Dangerous. Just like sneaking into his room, just like sitting there, touching his face and hair, just like watching him breathe deeply and toss and turn and whimper and groan and sniffle in his sleep, just like getting very little sleep of his own, too caught up in Mark's fitful rest to remember he needed his own sleep to get through the day. Dangerous. It seemed his whole life was dangerous these past few months, ever since Mimi's death, tiptoeing around the right and wrong and trying to blend them together...

He touched Mark again. One last time, this was it, after this he would go inside. He was so warm...so warm, almost feverish. Still, Roger forced himself to pull his hand away from Mark's cheek and smooth the blanket over his prone form. Without even realizing it, he leaned over to kiss Mark's forehead. He froze, his eyes widened, and he blushed madly, despite the fact that he was alone with his sleeping companion. With one last lingering look he pulled his gaze away and started towards the kitchen.


Collins placed the mugs of coffee on the table and took a seat as he heard Roger approach. The musician glanced over his shoulder constantly, as if worried that Mark would wake up or disappear in his absence. He sat shakily and accepted the coffee.

"Roger...how long has Mark been cutting himself?" he started gently. Roger closed his eyes, his hands clutching the coffee mug. Collins could see the corners of his eyes glistening with unwanted tears.

"A month...I think." Roger looked up. "I...I walked in on him one day while he was working on his camera...I think that may have been an accident, but...that's when I suspected. And then I knew. I didn't...I didn't look and I didn't pry and I didn't ask, but I...knew." His eyes dug into Collins, pleading, begging. "I know I'm horrible but...but I didn't want to...I couldn't...Collins, I couldn't ask him because...I didn't want to be right! I didn't want him to be hurting and I thought if I just ignored it..."

"...It would go away," the scholar finished for him. Roger nodded numbly. "You said before that you were the reason Mark was doing this...why do you say that?" Roger was quiet once again, staring into his coffee, his eyes glazed over.

"I...hurt him." His voice broke in the middle of the single sentence, allowing a sob-like cry to squeak out. "I...I love him, Collins. He's my world. And I...I hurt him." Collins bit his lip. He expected as much. He had mentioned it to Maureen, even, one afternoon while the four of them were at the park. The boys ran about like children, jumping upon each other and laughing and chasing and smiling. He had asked Maureen if she thought they were in love. 'Roger? Gay? Oh please....You're joking, right?' But he didn't believe that Roger was gay. He wasn't in love with Mark because he was another boy...he was in love with Mark because he was Mark. It was that simple.

"Does he know that, Roger?" Collins asked softly. "Do you tell him? Does he know that you're in love with him?" Roger's eyes shot up, panic crisscrossing his face.

"I d-didn't say..."

"But you are, aren't you?"

Silence. "I...I am." His eyes sunk back to his lap, tears welling in his eyes as he flushed darkly. "I am. But...but it's dangerous!" Again, his eyes pleaded with Collins for help. "Don't you see how it's dangerous, Collins? It could tear us apart...he can't know..." Collins realized that Roger seemed to actually believe that this was true. He had to handle this a little more tactfully than he had originally intended.

"Roger, don't you think that this is hurting Mark?" he said sternly. "Don't you think that this negligence is hurting him and tearing him apart? Doesn't it look like he's in pain, like he needs help?" Roger didn't reply, but Collins could tell his words were beginning to ring through to him. He reached across the table and lifted the musician's chin so they were eye-level. "Tell him, Roger. Tell him, or this will keep happening. Would you rather have a frightened Mark or a dead Mark?" Shock resonated across the guitarist's face. Good. Shock was what Collins had been hoping for. He had to get some sense through to Roger before he and Mark ended up too far-gone to mend. "The only danger in this situation is losing Mark. The only danger in telling him is confronting your own feelings. Think about it."

"I...I...he has to know already..." Roger floundered, helplessly. Collins sighed.

"You don't know that for sure. You have to tell him if you ever want this to stop. He needs to hear it from your lips." There was a brief silence and then a single nod from Roger.

"I will," he whispered. "I will. I want him to...to get better. I want him to stop." Collins nodded approvingly, and pulled a small notepad out of his back pocket. He scribbled a phone number on a blank page and tore it out, handing it to Roger.

"I want you to call me after you talk to Mark," he said. "And I want Mark to call his woman. Her name is Maria Santania, and she's a psychiatrist. She's a very nice, understanding woman. She's very good at what she does, and I think Mark should start seeing her on a regular basis. I'm not on expert on these things, but it looks like some of Mark's problems may run a little deeper than some rejection from you." Roger placed the slip of paper in his pocket and nodded again.

"I'll call you...later..." he murmured. "Okay." He seemed to be in a daze, Collins noted, while pulling his coat back on.

"Good." He got up from his seat, drained his coffee mug, and replaced it on the table. He gave Roger a quick hug and started towards the door. "Talk to him, Roger. He needs to hear it, and I think you do too." And then...he was gone.

Roger sat in the kitchen for several minutes, just holding his cooling coffee mug. No...no, it wasn't that easy. It couldn't be that easy, life wasn't like the movies. He couldn't go running back to Mark and apologize and suddenly have all the loose ends tied up. No...it didn't...life didn't work like that. But...he couldn't ignore it any longer. He couldn't watch his poor Mark going through all of that, all of the pain and heartbreak and...

He was standing in front of the couch. He had gotten up and moved into the other room without even being conscious of it, and he was now standing over Mark as he slept. His eyes had once again settled on the filmmaker's arms, his sleeves still rolled up around his elbows from Collins' inspection earlier. His hands shook as they closed around the cuffs of Mark's sweater, pulling them back down, covering up the wrong, at least, for the time being. He took a seat next to his friend, Roger's hands resting on Mark's chest. They would talk. They had to talk, before...before...

He was suddenly frozen with the single thought of 'No more Mark'. It was terrifyingly plain. It was just plain terrifying. 'No more...'

Roger curled up tightly, staring at Mark and singing softly to himself. "Everything old is new again / everything under the sun. / Now that I'm back with you again / we hug and we kiss / we sit and make lists..."

It was like stepping out of a cave. That's what this sleep had seemed like, a cave, a deep cave with so many rooms and drops and passages it was impossible to know where one was going. He blinked hazily, his eyes unable to focus. Squeezing them shut again, Mark took a deep breath and touched his forehead lightly. It hurt, but the hurt was vague...distant. He wasn't really a part of it at all, he just acknowledged it, acknowledged it and moved on. Acknowledged it like he acknowledged the weight on his chest...the warmth next to him. Acknowledged it like he acknowledged the singing and the...

He opened his eyes again, this time looking up and nearly cartwheeling into a sitting position and then across to the other side of the couch. Roger...Roger was...

"Leave me alone," he whispered, disgusted with the pathetic rasp that escaped his lips. "Just...leave me alone, Roger." Roger didn't move. He couldn't decide whether or not this was good. On one hand, if Roger was still angry with him, it was probably better that he stay silent and motionless, as opposed to violent. *I can hurt myself without your help, thankyouverymuch,* he thought bitterly. Still...the way that he was sitting there, his gaze unwavering, his face so pale...for a moment, Mark was reminded of the reason he fell in love. It was unnerving, though, frightening even. And his head hurt...his head hurt and he couldn't concentrate at all...

"I said to go away Roger, and I meant it!" he snapped, lowering his head to his hands. The musician was unmoving still. They sat in silence for a moment, a silence that generated questions and fears and concerns and thoughts in Mark's mind, things he did not want to think about, things that his spinning head couldn't grasp fully. It was frustrating him, all he really wanted to do was sleep...why couldn't Roger just leave him alone, accept that he'd already destroyed him and...

"Come here." It was a whisper, a very gentle--almost loving--whisper. Roger's hand extended, reaching for Mark's arm.

Panic. That's all he felt, panic. Even though some part of his mind realized that Roger was full well aware of his problems...that he didn't have to look, that he knew what was happening and that was why he was looking...he still panicked, felt the need to run and hide and keep his arms covered...keep his secret from his musician. He backtracked so quickly he nearly collapsed, his weak knees threatening to give out. Roger looked panicked himself at Mark's rejection, his eyes widening.

"No...it's okay," he pleaded. "I won't hurt you...I promise." Mark froze. Those eyes...those eyes were imploring him to surrender, and doing it so tenderly. He was Roger's toy now, and he loathed himself more deeply than ever before as he sat down on the couch and let Roger reach for his wrist. A sudden wave of self-preservation hit him, and he started to resist again.

"No!" he murmured, pulling his arm back towards his person. Roger's fingers traced lightly along his cheek and temple. He was paralyzed again, left staring at Roger as though he had sprouted another head. But...he let his musician take his wrist and take his sleeve and pull it up and...

He winced as the cuts suddenly appeared before his eyes, dancing and taunting him, laughing at him as he shook with remorse and hate and fear and shame. His eyelids squeezed together in an attempt to keep the room still, stop the doubling and tripling of his vision, the dizzying swoon that was taking him over. He couldn't stay awake, he couldn't do it, he had to give in, the black was so comforting and oh god Roger knew his Roger knew all about him and he couldn't face him couldn't look up the black looked so nice so warm so safe and...Roger's arms were around him, comforting him.

He opened his eyes.

"Stay with me Mark, please," his musician murmured. "I need you to stay with me, baby, please don't faint. Look at me...please, just open your eyes and..." Roger sighed with relief as Mark's swimming vision tried to focus on him. "There you go. That's good, that's a good boy, Mark," he stuttered awkwardly.

Mark's fingers dug into his musician as he steadied himself. His eyes were bleary, quickly filling with tears. One look at the concern washing over Roger and those tears spilled down his translucent cheeks. He felt almost sullied, clinging to Roger so desperately so soon after another raging argument, so soon after they had torn each other apart again.

"Roger, I'm sorry!" It was a sob and a moan and a plea melded into one sharp, hoarse cry. He resisted the urge to throw his arms around Roger...to tell him everything. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll never do it again, Roger, I promise, I'll stop. I didn't mean to, it was...it was..." His stomach was knotted and wound, crying out in pain at every false word that slipped from his lips. He tried not to let that hurt show through, but somehow Roger sensed it, cradling him as he sobbed, but not saying anything...not agreeing to anything. This change frightened him, it frightened him immensely. This was not Roger, Roger was cruel and short and cold. Roger did not hold him while he cried, no, Roger made catty comments and ignored him. This was out of place, but...then again, he wasn't protesting it. He needed it, he needed it, and he couldn't understand why he was so scared. It was what he had been longing for since Mimi's death, closure from Roger, love of any kind from his musician. If he had been waiting so long, why was he fighting it?

"Sssh, it's all right Mark..." Roger cooed. He murmured whispers of hope and promise and regret and stroked Mark's hair and tried to wipe his tears. "I know. You don't have to...to hide it or to make up excuses. I know." Mark slipped his arms securely around Roger, his mutilated arms crying out and igniting as they pushed up against the thin fabric of his musician's shirt and into the warmth of his flesh. It was...it was right. It was safe, and it was where he always wanted to be. In Roger's arms. It made sense, it broke through the haze in his mind and the fear and panic and made everything feel so right and resolved. He felt Roger's fingers dance across his back, easing out the coughing spasms and choking, painful breaths, subduing his tears and reinforcing his love.

"Roger," he choked, "Roger, I..." I'm sorry. I love you. I need you. I need help. His voice couldn't do it, couldn't form any of the words he needed to say...needed Roger to hear. His musician had been right, he had been right all along, he wasn't in control, couldn't be, couldn't even ask for the help he knew, knew that he needed.

"It's okay, Mark," Roger murmured softly. Five frozen minutes passed and finally the onslaught of tears eroded down to a whimper. Roger pulled back slightly, drawing Mark's face up from his shoulder so their eyes met. He placed the back of his hand up to Mark's tearstained cheek. "God, you're freezing, Mark..." The filmmaker shuddered in his arms, but was without reply. Taking a cautious breath, Roger pressed further. "Mark...god, why? That's all I really need to know, I swear, I just need to know, I need to..." he trailed off. "Why?" Mark shivered again, tears pooling, his eyes focusing on the design of Roger's shirt, rather than his face.

"Because...because I wanted to show you...everyone..." he whispered almost inaudibly. Roger slipped his calloused fingers beneath Mark's chin, lifting his face, chasing his eyes until they locked.

"Show me what?" Mark was unable to move, frozen by Roger's bewildered gaze. No one had ever looked at him like that before, looked so concerned and fearful, so guilty and repentant. No one had ever shown so much care for him...why did he have to hurt Roger like that?! That was what he had done, he had hurt his musician, scarred him like he had scarred his own arms, made him worry and...

No...no, he hadn't...he hadn't really, for Roger had known and yet...

He took a deep breath, the motivations for his deviancies coming forward once again. He leveled his gaze with Roger, breaking the ice that held him so still, captivated him so.

"That I could do it," he said simply. "That I could be in control of my life...of what I did or didn't do, of how much I did or didn't do it. It was to show you that I was in control." Roger's horrified look started to shake Mark's resolve once again. He couldn't take much more of this emotional roller coaster. Submitting to Roger, then asserting his spine. Then submitting again, then rebelling, and now all he wanted to do was collapse again his musician again and feel those hands play across his back and that whisper of a voice, deep and throaty and strong, assure him that they'd both be okay. He was going crazy, and he was going to snap if he didn't watch himself.

"God...you never had to prove anything to me," Roger whispered. "Mark, you never had to...Christ! Listen to me! I hit you and I screamed at you and I ignored you and treated you like shit and now I'm telling you that you didn't have to prove anything to me! Christ what's wrong with me?!" And up again, as he quickly placed his hands on Roger's shoulders, steadying him, trying to catch those deep, cobalt eyes, those cesspools of unrefined, unaltered emotion.

"No, no, Roger, that's not what I meant," he whispered. "I mean...it is what I meant, but I didn't need to prove it to you to show I was stronger than you or that I was better than you. I needed to do it to show that I..." The world was silent as he stopped. Even their breathing seemed soundless as two words echoed through his head.

say it.

"...I love you, Roger." As suddenly as the silence had settled, it dissipated. Now all he could hear was their ragged breathing, heavy and short and frantic, their eyes locked. He couldn't focus on a single emotion as they flew through Roger's eyes, there were too many, too much confusion, they moved so quickly, darted through his vision. He would later reflect that right before it broke, the only thing that resonated, for a split second, was fear.


Continue on to Part 4.
Comments to kait@frowl.org.