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I'm coming ‘round to open the blinds / You can't hide here any longer / My God, you need to rinse those puffy eyes / You can't lie still any longer
The first time:
Needles full of blissful poison and a fiery, red-headed girl, ending with a bathtub stained with blood and a life-changing note on the mirror. Endless days and nights of agony as the poison drained from his body, wanting more, fighting against anyone and anything in his way, until it was gone and things were still, at last. Grey, unchanging bleakness, week after week after week inside the four confining walls of an Alphabet City loft.
The whole time, one constant, unwavering presence – the small blond boy who stayed by his side through all of it, dragging him through withdrawal, dragging him through anger and grief, dragging him to doctors’ offices to get him the medication he needed to stave off his disease, trying, relentlessly, to drag him out, back into the world of the living.
Mark.
Roger needed him, badly, and somewhere deep underneath the greyness that had settled over him, he knew that he was grateful for his presence. His heart said my best friend, and even his dull mind knew it, though he never said the words out loud.
He knew that even if he never said anything, Mark would always be there.
*****
And yes, they'll ask where you've been / And you'll have to tell them, again and again / And you probably don't want to hear “Tomorrow's another day” / But I promise you you'll see the sun again
The first time, the greyness faded slowly. Christmas Eve found Mark behind his camera, as usual, but there was noise in the loft that hadn’t been heard for months.
“First shot: Roger, tuning the Fender guitar he hasn’t played in a year.”
“This won’t tune!” the musician complained.
“So we hear,” the filmmaker deadpanned before continuing his narration. “He’s just coming back from half a year of withdrawal…”
The fact that Mark could say it out loud was a sign of progress – months, even weeks ago, his friend would have done more than bristle at the words. Now they were almost back to their old banter, almost able to trade sarcastic quips, to joke around and grumble together about all the things that were wrong with their sorry lives. Now, when Mark reminded Roger daily to take his AZT, he actually took it.
Now, as the greyness finally bloomed into colour - muted colour, but colour nonetheless - the songwriter’s eyes looked at Mark and his heart said thank you. Now, as the filmmaker watched Roger slowly come back to life, his heart was whispering something else, faintly, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was…
…or maybe he heard that tiny whisper, after all, but pretended that he didn’t.
*****
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness / And I promise you you'll see the sun again
The second time:
A candle and a tiny dancer, a love song and a seemingly miraculous resurrection. Days of sickness and worry, nights of wishes and prayers that would not be answered. Hospitals and beeping machines, ending with tears, promises, and finally, goodbyes. Black, somber clothing in another church, followed by a walk through another graveyard. Two lovers, gone, and he was only 24. They were too young for this to happen again so soon.
Again, by his side through it all, one filmmaker, the youngest of all who were left, but perhaps the wisest, nonetheless. And this time, when Roger said my best friend, he said the words out loud, cried on the smaller boy’s shoulder, and let him hold him as he wept.
In a way, Mark was getting used to losing people he loved, but he knew that Roger was not, because he expected to soon be one of the lost ones.
Mark didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it, because even though he had done this three times now, there was one person he was not willing to let go of, ever, and that was the songwriter who cried over his lost love in his best friend’s arms.
*****
Come on, take my hand / We're going for a walk; I know you can / You can wear anything, as long as it's not black / Please don't mourn forever; she's not coming back
“C’mon,” Mark coaxed, three weeks after the funeral. “Come to lunch at the Life. The others all want to see you; they’ve been calling every day.”
Huddled on the corner of the windowsill, where he had spent most of his time for the past several weeks, staring outside, Roger shook his head.
“I… can’t,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “Not yet.”
“You have to get out of the house.” The filmmaker’s words and concerned tone were all too familiar, giving both boys a flash of deja vu. “I know it’s hard, but it’ll be good for you. You know she wouldn’t want you to get like… like last time.”
His roommate winced. “Don’t.”
“Okay.” Mark’s voice softened, and he moved closer to the windowsill to sit beside his friend. “If you can’t face everyone yet, will you come for a walk with me, at least? We don’t have to go far.”
The songwriter was about to decline, but he looked at his friend and saw the hope on his face, and couldn’t bear to turn it to defeat yet again.
“I… okay. Yeah,” he said hesitantly. “I guess I could use some air.”
Roger got up gingerly, brushing the dust from the windowsill off himself, and when Mark jumped off the sill to join him, the sudden light in his blue eyes was reward enough.
“Let’s go,” the smaller boy said eagerly, and he clattered down the stairs, looking back continuously to make sure his roommate was still with him.
The walks became a daily routine – Mark wanted Roger to get out of the loft, and though Roger yearned to stick to his windowsill, the greater part of him wanted Mark to lose the constant wrinkle of worry on his forehead and the anxiety in his eyes.
When, on the sixth day, Roger reached for Mark’s hand almost inadvertently, and Mark reached out and took it, neither boy let go, and from that day on, they took their walks holding hands.
Roger didn’t know why he did it. All he knew is that when he took Mark’s hand, the ground under his feet felt steadier, the air around him seemed lighter, and something as simple as walking began to feel natural again.
Mark knew better than to let himself hope. He told himself that the first time had been an accident, the continued linked hands just a habit, something for comfort… but his traitorous heart leapt anyway, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.
Neither of them mentioned it, or tried to ask questions, but every evening, when they reached the sidewalk outside the loft, one of the boys would reach for the other’s hand; the other would take it wordlessly, and they would begin aimlessly walking in whatever direction struck their fancy that day.
Two boys, walking hand in hand, sometimes talking, sometimes in comfortable silence.
Together.
*****
Do you remember telling me you'd found the sweetest thing of all? / You said that one day of this was worth dying for / So be thankful you knew her at all / But it's no more
“I miss her,” Roger said suddenly, one day when they were both sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the sunset. He had never said the words out loud before.
“I know.” Mark’s voice was gentle when he replied. “I know it’s not the same, but… I do, too.”
“But I…” The songwriter trailed off, and for a second, he closed his eyes, as if trying to ward off the emotions that went with the unsaid words.
His friend nudged forward enough to put a reassuring hand on the taller boy’s knee. “You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.”
“I feel guilty,” Roger muttered, unable to meet Mark’s eyes. “Because… she isn’t all I think about anymore. Sometimes she isn’t even the first thing I think about.”
What he didn’t say was that lately, the first and most frequent thought in his mind was the daily anticipation of a slim, pale, decidedly not female hand in his, and the painful, confusing questions that arose every time he had the thought.
“It’s okay, Rog.” Mark moved even closer and knocked his shoulder against his roommate’s, and again, both boys had the same unspoken feeling of being grounded while connected to each other. “Moving forward doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten her. She told me, the day before she… She told me she wanted you to be happy.”
But what if the only times I feel truly happy are when I’m with you? Roger blushed, glad that sitting sideways, leaning against each other, meant that Mark couldn’t see his cheeks turning red at the thought. What does it mean if I want…
Even in his own mind, the songwriter couldn’t finish the question.
“Stay with me,” he whispered to his friend instead. “Please.”
“Of course,” Mark replied, and for a few seconds, the blond boy let himself rest his head against Roger’s shoulder. “Always.”
*****
And you probably don't want to hear “Tomorrow's another day” / But I promise you you'll see the sun again / And you're asking me why pain’s the only way to happiness / And I promise you you'll see the sun again
Weeks went by, then months. The daily walks continued, and the songwriter began to move forward, reminding himself (the voice in his head that gave the reminder sounding exactly like Mark’s) that moving forward didn’t have to mean forgetting and moving on. He picked up his guitar and began writing songs again, but the words that popped into his mind and found themselves scrawled on pages in an old notebook were different, somehow. The subject of the songs always seemed to have blue eyes, and the lyrics lacked definitive pronouns. Every time he tried to tell himself that these clues meant nothing, the sense memory of his roommate’s hand in his, the warmth and the pressure and the rightness of it, caused heat to flood to his face… and to other parts of his body that were harder to ignore.
I can’t, he kept telling himself. Not Mark. Not… not this. I can’t let myself ruin the one constant good thing that has ever happened to me. But every day, the questions in his mind multiplied, the strange ache in his heart increased, and it became harder and harder to ignore the barrage of warning signs he kept pushing back.
One day, the walks suddenly ceased. When Roger grabbed his jacket and started putting his shoes on at the usual time, Mark mumbled something about needing to do some editing that he’d gotten behind on and disappeared into his room, shutting the door. The next day, there was another excuse; the day after that, he disappeared without saying anything, and his roommate noticed he hadn’t even taken his camera. After that, the songwriter waited for Mark to say something, figuring the walks would resume when he was less busy with… whatever he was supposedly busy with?... but they never did. Instead, there was more Mark shut in his room, more Mark studiously avoiding Roger’s eyes, more Mark disappearing out of the loft for hours on end. There was still Mark making coffee for both of them every morning, still Mark reminding Roger daily to take his AZT, but the comfort, the constant presence that kept Roger grounded had disappeared, replaced by a feeling of buzzing confusion that pervaded the air between them.
After days of Mark’s uncharacteristic behaviour turned into weeks, the songwriter grew so impatient and desperate for answers that he went out to the empty lot to seek advice from someone he usually tried to avoid being alone with at all costs. Walking directly towards the makeshift stage, he cornered the woman sitting on the edge of the set, engrossed in mouthing the lines from what looked like a hastily-scribbled script.
“Maureen, I need your help,” he announced, cutting right to the chase.
“Hey, Rog– Wait. Roger??” She glanced up suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you, too,” he replied sarcastically. “Listen, have you noticed that something seems to be going on with Mark?”
The petite brunette turned her attention from the script at last. “You’re asking me what’s wrong with Mark? Really?”
“He… he’s been acting like me,” the songwriter said in frustration.
Maureen just snorted in response. “Like a moody teenager having a never-ending tantrum?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Roger growled. “I mean, like… he hides in his room with the door closed all day, supposedly writing, but I’m pretty sure he’s just staring at the walls most of the time. When I ask him to get out of the loft, he makes up ridiculous excuses to stay in, or just flat-out says no. I don’t think he’s been eating, either. He’s already too skinny, and I think he’s lost weight. It’s like he’s avoiding something, but I can’t figure out what.”
She looked at him incredulously. “Are you deaf, dumb, and blind??”
“If you know what’s wrong, just tell me,” he snapped. “I don’t have time or patience for all your drama right now.”
“Is it not obvious? Marky is pining away, quite literally.”
The songwriter looked befuddled. “Huh? Pining away for what?”
“For whom,” the actress corrected, looking at Roger as if he had grown a second head. “That boy is so in love that he can’t see straight.”
After a frozen, wordless moment, Roger actually felt his face drop and his heart plummet, and struggled mightily to hide his expression from Maureen.
“In love?” he sputtered. “That… that can’t be true. I would know if there was someone… if he… he can’t be! I would know.”
Maureen rolled her eyes. “Roger. Honey. I knew you were slow, but… keep up. Open your eyes!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted, and she looked almost sympathetic when she realized the confusion on his face was real.
“Sweetie, you need to do some serious thinking,” she informed him, patting him on the shoulder as if he were a small child. “Think about what I said, and then think about why you looked like I’d stolen your puppy when I told you that Mark was in love. I can’t help you any more than that, okay? I think you can figure it out for yourself… eventually.”
“But I don’t…”
“Think about it,” Maureen repeated. “Go home and use the few brain cells you have left.”
Roger’s thoughts were so focused on trying to decode her words that he didn’t even try to formulate a sharp comeback.
“Right,” he mumbled, beginning to walk away without bothering with a goodbye.
“When you figure it out, take care of Marky, okay?” she called after him. “He needs someone to take care of him almost as much as you do.”
*****
And I promise you you'll see the sun again.
After leaving the lot, Roger walked, trying to think and trying not to think at the same time. He walked for hours, tracing and re-tracing the same streets and paths he and Mark had taken every day for months before the walks had stopped. He walked for miles and he walked in circles, and when he finally returned to the loft, it was dark outside, and if anyone had asked him where he had been, he wouldn’t have had an answer.
He knew his roommate was home when he saw the blue and white striped scarf hanging on the hook by the door, but a quick glance told him that the filmmaker’s bedroom door was shut, as it had been more often than not for the past several lonely weeks. Roger sighed, knowing that trying to press his friend to talk when he was in one of his stubborn avoidant phases would just make him isolate himself further.
The songwriter went into his own room, tossed his coat on the floor, and lay down on his bed, thinking about Maureen’s words.
One step at a time, he told himself, taking a deep breath. “Think about why you looked like I’d stolen your puppy when I told you that Mark was in love,” she’d said, and Roger remembered the visceral feeling of his heart tumbling to the pit of his stomach, the way he had been able to sense the exact expression on his own face as it fell. He remembered the images that had suddenly flashed through his mind at Maureen’s words – Mark, sitting next to some pretty girl with glasses, laughing with her, leaning in to kiss her – and then the way his whole system had gone into shutdown when the images reached that point, and everything had momentarily gone black.
And then his thoughts were interrupted by the images that had been flooding his head repeatedly for the past… weeks, months, he didn’t even remember when they had started. Mark’s smile and the flash in his eyes every time Roger agreed to leave the loft with him. Mark’s hand in his, warm, protective, grounding, and… something else that didn’t have a name. Mark sitting beside him on the windowsill, leaning against him, feeling the worn wool of his sweater against his own side and being struck with the urge to turn and pull him closer, to do things you shouldn’t think of when you’re thinking about your best friend…
Shit.
Roger suddenly knew the answer to Maureen’s question. With her revelation, she had indeed stolen his puppy, if the puppy was a metaphor (he knew the performance artist loved that type of thing) for his secret, buried, undying hope that Mark would feel the same way about him as he felt about Mark.
And – he finally let the words he’d been denying for months crash into him full force – the way he felt about Mark was that he was desperately, completely, unrelentingly in love with him.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” he mumbled out loud, and then turned face downward onto his pillow to muffle his subsequent curses. This was Not Good. This was Very Bad. This was… hopeless, because according to Maureen, Mark was already in love with someone else. He punched his pillow repeatedly in an attempt to stop himself from screaming hysterically and punching harder things (like the walls, which already had evidence of his previous angry outbursts), but it gave him no relief. He flopped onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and tried to breathe.
Four hours of aimless walking, followed by several hours of exhaustive thinking capped by an upsetting emotional revelation took their toll on the songwriter, and eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep. When he woke up a few hours later, it was 5:24 AM, and his thoughts were no clearer than they had been before his brain had shut down.
“Open your eyes,” Maureen had said. “I think you can figure it out for yourself.” What was it that I haven’t been seeing? he puzzled, replaying their conversation over and over in his head. “When you figure it out, take care of Marky, okay?”
But if she’s right and he’s in love with someone, and I don’t even know who it is, what can I do to take care of him? Roger frowned to himself. Is that what I’ve missed? This person he’s supposedly “pining away” for? Is that why he’s been avoiding…
His own words came back to him in a rush: “It’s like he’s avoiding something, but I can’t figure out what.”
Mark mumbling excuses to avoid their daily walks. Mark leaving the loft to “film” for long hours, not even taking his camera. Mark locking himself in his room to “write”. Mark avoiding his best friend’s eyes…
Not avoiding something. Avoiding someone, Roger’s brain informed him. And then he knew, and he leapt out of bed, rushing out of his room to pound on Mark’s door, regardless of the time.
When Mark didn’t answer, the songwriter assumed he was still asleep, and opened the door a crack to peek in. The covers on the filmmaker’s bed were pulled back in a tangle, but there was no one underneath them. Roger quickly checked the living room and the kitchen, and found no sign of his roommate.
Where the fuck did he go at 5 AM? he asked himself, mind racing, and when an answer came to him, he hastily pulled on shoes, left the loft without bothering to lock the door, and went up the stairs to the rooftop, running the whole way.
When he reached the top, it was still grey outside, the not-quite-darkness that takes over the sky between the true blackness of night and the time the sun rises, and as he looked around wildly, he saw the back of the filmmaker’s familiar corduroy jacket. Roger didn’t bother with any preamble.
“Mark,” he panted, out of breath from his dash up five flights of stairs. “I need to talk to you. Maureen said something yesterday and I…”
The filmmaker didn’t turn around, but he didn’t seem at all surprised to hear his roommate’s voice. Roger saw his back move under his coat as he drew in a deep breath.
“What did she say?” he asked, and though he was clearly trying to keep his voice level, his friend could hear the slight tremor of nervousness underneath.
“She said that you were…” It was the songwriter’s turn to hesitate, pausing before he continued. “That you were… in love.”
Colour rushed rapidly and immediately to the smaller boy’s face. “Maureen needs to learn when to keep her fucking mouth shut,” he mumbled, avoiding his roommate’s eyes.
“Mark…” Roger took the smaller boy by the shoulders and turned him so they were face to face. “She was right, wasn’t she?”
With his friend’s hands holding him so he couldn’t turn away, Mark faltered under his intent gaze. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
The other boy’s words came out instantly, as if he had been holding back a flood.
“Is it me?”
The filmmaker dropped his eyes, bit his bottom lip, and with cheeks blazing crimson, he nodded again.
There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence before Mark found his voice and began to speak in a rapid, forced tangle of words.
“You weren’t supposed to find out,” he said, still staring at his shoes. “It wasn’t supposed to be… I didn’t mean for you to… and it’s okay, we can forget we ever said anything. You don’t have to say anything or… or explain why you don’t feel the same–”
Roger barely heard Mark’s words, because he was struck by the woebegone expression on the face of this boy he loved, at the sureness of rejection in his unfinished apologies, and all he wanted to do was to make him smile.
“But I do,” he interrupted, tilting the smaller boy’s chin up to look him in the eyes.
“We can go back to being—” Mark suddenly cut himself off and stared at the songwriter in shock. “You do? You do… what, exactly?”
“Feel the same way,” Roger answered softly. “Mark, I don’t deserve you, but… if you want me, I’m yours.”
The filmmaker continued to stare, his mouth hanging open, and when words failed him, he snapped it shut, but his blue eyes stayed fixed on the songwriter.
“Mark,” Roger breathed. “Can I kiss you? Please?”
Still struck speechless, his friend took a stunned, shuddery breath and then nodded his assent.
Roger pulled him in closer. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.
Obediently, the filmmaker’s eyes fluttered shut, and his new love could feel his heart hammering against his chest. And then the songwriter’s lips were on his, and with a choked exhalation of willing surrender, Mark wrapped his arms around Roger’s neck and sighed into the kiss.
When they were forced to pull away for breath, the filmmaker rested his head on his taller lover’s shoulder and closed his eyes.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered to himself, the words muffled against the fabric of Roger’s sweatshirt.
“It is.” The songwriter laughed gently and kissed the top of his head. “I think maybe… it always has been.”
Mark’s only response was a half-suppressed, incoherent sound caught between disbelief and joy, making Roger laugh again and wrap his arms around him more tightly.
“You always said that this would happen,” he said. “That I would be happy again, that I would love again, but I didn’t believe you. Even if I had, I never would’ve believed it would be like this.” He paused. “Did you? Is that why you… did you think it would happen like this?”
“No,” Mark murmured. “I… I never let myself believe it could ever be real. I just wanted you to be happy. But even though I was sure it would never happen, I…” His voice dropped to a bare whisper. “I still wished for it.”
The wistful note in the smaller boy’s voice and the deep blush that stained his cheeks made Roger unable to resist leaning down and kissing him yet again.
As they stood together on the rooftop, wrapped up in each other both literally and figuratively, the sky’s darkness was slowly giving way to light, the sun rising over the city in warm, glowing hues of orange, fiery reds, and yellow-gold. It seemed to stretch out indefinitely, making even the two preoccupied lovers glance upwards to take in its beauty before turning their attention back to each other.
“It’s beautiful,” Roger said, twining his fingers with Mark’s, “and so are you.”
The filmmaker’s cheeks flamed as he blushed under Roger’s adoring stare.
“I’m… I’m not–”
“You are,” his lover insisted. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s not the sun,” Mark replied softly. “That’s all because of you.”
He curled his fingers into the fabric of Roger’s shirt and yanked him downwards to meet his lips. The songwriter complied willingly, and on the rooftop, framed by the rising sun, the two young men made a portrait of newfound, indescribable happiness, sealed with true love’s kiss.
–END-