Title: Control
Author: Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson’s, not mine, as much as I like to wish. The lyrics belong to BNL (as usual) from their song "This is Where it Ends", and they’re not in order, so don’t go looking for a verse that’s written the same way as these lines. I’m not making any cash. I know this will shock you all, but this is M/R. And depressing. And deals with some pretty intense issues.
Summary: Mark tries to show Roger and the world that he can control his own life, with disasterous consequences.
Rating: R
Notes: This is a very intense story that deals with violence, suicide, and self-injury. If you can't deal, please do not continue to read. Also, this is so written in dedication of Mary Ellen (aka Mel aka alonewriter) because she let’s me call her up and read to her on the phone like.....every single day of my life...

control

prologue: where’s my pride, where’s my self esteem?

He wished he could tell the difference between need and want. That was the obvious answer, the answer that he needed to find to sort it all out, to fix everything and move on. If he could tell if he needed Roger...if he only wanted him. If he needed to hurt himself like this...if he wanted to. If the hurt would stop if he could decide whether he could live without him...

Maybe it was because he wanted Roger’s attention. Maybe it was his way of coping with not having it. Maybe it was his way of coping with the fact that he did have it, but no longer in the form of best friend hugs and soothing words. No longer in the form of jokes and music and movies and stargazing. No longer in the form of secrets and card games and special, private love, no longer was the attention loving at all. Since Mimi’s death...since Mimi’s death the attention was different. It was angry attention. It was screaming or grunts, accusations or sighs. It was not the attention he reveled in, it was the attention he hid from and cried about. It was the attention that started the hurting.

It started as an accident. It was an accident, and in fact, it was Roger, it was his musician who first put the hurting thought into his head. Mark was cleaning his camera, trying to fix a sticky shutter. He had it apart, neatly lying on the table as he picked at the faulty part with the slim blade of a packing knife, stripping a thin residue off of a small lever. Suddenly, the part he was cradling slipped the camera moving and the blade grazing his sickly white arm. He placed the camera onto the table quickly and went to grab his arm, but froze. He watched, transfixed, as the thing red ribbon dripped shaky beads of crimson down his cool arm. A singular line of bright red dots, rolling down his stark white skin. He gaped at the liquid as it crept over his skin, so entranced that he didn’t hear the door or the footsteps. He didn’t look up until he heard the shout.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He glanced up finally, still gaping, as Roger stared at him, a frightening mix of anger and fear and confusion and disgust burning in those cool, blue eyes. Mark tried to stutter, tried to tell him it was an accident, but to no avail. The tender, pallid skin of his inner arm told another story as the thin red line continued to drip his life force down his arm and into the palm of his hand. He tried to excuse himself, but he could barely even squeak his musician’s name. In a flash, Roger was at his side, pulling Mark up from the chair by his unblemished wrist. His frozen hands still clutched the razor that had done the deed. Roger’s grip tightened on his wrist, squeezing and squeezing until the knife slipped from his rigid fingers. He cried out, the pain waking him out of his stupor as it shot throughout his orso. Roger’s grip tightened and another hoarse cry rang out into the empty room.

"Roger!" Mark sobbed. "Roger, you’re hurting me!" The tears burned at his eyes until his good arm was finally released. He shrunk away from the musician towering over him, cradling his bruising arm. The fire in Roger’s eyes was still sparkling as he swung around, stomping towards the shaking filmmaker.

"I asked you a fucking question, Mark!" he shouted. "What the hell are you trying to pull?!" Mark curled even more tightly into himself, backing further away and up against the table. He was so lost...he could barely hear the words, only the tone they were said with. Angry. . . disgusted. . .disappointed. . .afraid. . .

"W-what? I-I don’t understand!" he whispered, pulling his bruised wrist even closer to his person, as if he could keep it from further harm as long as his companion didn’t see it. Roger lunged for him again, and he froze, a strangled gasp creeping from his lips. But Roger didn’t go for the bruised wrist, Roger’s fingers closed around the hand of his other arm, pulling it out and pointing at it angrily.

"That!" he bellowed, gesturing towards the blood still slowly trickling out. "That’s what I’m talking about! What the hell is wrong with you?!" A fuzzy realization started to dawn on Mark as he brushed the fingers of his free hand over the wound.

"It...It was an accident Roger," he whispered. "I didn’t...I slipped. I was cleaning my camera and...I slipped, I didn’t...I wasn’t trying to...Roger, it was an accident." He glared at Mark icily, suspicion still dancing accusingly in his eyes. Mark did his best not to whimper or sob or collapse under the frighteningly unfamiliar look that was focused on him. His hands shook, and minutes ticked by like lifetimes. Finally, Roger released his arm, Mark allowing a single sigh of relief to whisper gently from his lips. He firmly clamped the palm of his hand over the cut, attempting to stop the flow of blood, which still ran down his arm at a sickeningly slow pace. Roger gave him a final, hard look.

"Get cleaned up," he muttered gruffly, turning heel and marching into his room. Mark’s eye followed him, lingering on the closed door, staring into it, through it, until his eyes welled up with tears and he could see no more.

It wasn’t until later that week that he even thought of the mark on his skin. He went about his lonesome life, wishing for comfort but surviving in his solitude. He barely even saw Roger until the night it really started. It was a seething wound, a wound so prominent in his heart that he forgot about the one on his body. He longed to speak with him...to tell Roger of his love, to beg Roger to let him help. His soul needed it, it needed the closure and the warmth and the love. He wanted Roger to hold him and need him, just the way he needed Roger. Or wanted him...need, want...it made his head spin. He didn’t know what to believe. But then...he already believed.

He truly believed he was in love with Roger.


On to part 1...
Comments to kait@frowl.org