He stands there as the paramedics rush in and take her body, he answers their questions and tells them yes, they can call someone to pick him up, he gives them the number to the loft and when they're gone he continues to stand there, shaking a little but mostly numb, and part of the reason he continues to stand is that he's leaning against the kitchen counter now, and the nearest seat is the couch, five feet away, and he doesn't trust his feet to carry him that far, he doesn't trust that they won't buckle underneath him and then he'll just be curled on the floor, shaking like a scared and lost child.
After a time, he notices something on the fridge, something that wasn't here the last time he visited, a blue sticky note with April's handwriting on it. He stares at it for several minutes, afraid to take the few steps between the counter and the fridge to grab it, and finally musters the energy to walk that far, grab the note, and return to the counter. It's several more minutes before he actually looks at it.
He's not sure what he expected to find. Something more than the note on the mirror, some letter that fit on a sticky note, something to apologize, to tell him she loves him. Instead, he finds a few poet's names at the top, crossed out several times (the only one he can read is Elizabeth Barrett Browning), and a few lines of a poem.
– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) disaster.
He's still holding the note when Mark comes into the apartment. "What happened?" he asks, and Roger doesn't think before he answers in a soft, hushed voice he's not even sure Mark can hear from the doorway.
"I lost."
Breathing is something Roger remembers how to do. Occasionally he'll eat, sleep, but for the most part his days are spent in bed, lying on his side, staring at the wall. Mark still sleeps in his bed, and Roger doesn't make him leave, but whenever Mark touches him he pulls away, curls into himself. After a while, Mark gives up.
Or Roger thinks he has, until after a couple weeks Mark sits down on the edge of the bed, and doesn't speak at first, doesn't move, just sits and watches him, until Roger uncurls a little to look up at him, silently questioning.
"How long are you gonna do this?" Mark asks, and Roger frowns, pushing himself up on one arm to look at him.
"What?"
"I understand you're upset and all with... April, but..."
Roger tenses, takes a breath and lets it out slowly, trying not to go off on him. He still has to say through gritted teeth, "But what?"
"Life goes on," Mark says, and for a moment looks like he's going to say more. He seems to change his mind when he sees Roger's expression. His mouth snaps shut, but there's still this look in his eyes, that he has something more on his mind...
"Get out," Roger snaps.
Mark frowns, standing up but not moving away beyond that. "Roger–"
"Get out, Mark!"
Startled, Mark stumbles for the door, then stops in the doorway, glancing back at Roger. "Do you want... food or something?"
Roger falls back onto the bed, shaking his head as he curls into a ball once more. Mark hangs briefly in the doorway, then backs out slowly, closing the door gently behind him.
It's snowing when Roger finally gets out of bed. He can't see it, all the curtains in his room are drawn, but he can hear it, the gentle tinkling, hissing sound it makes against the windows. From the sound of it, the city will be covered in white by nightfall.
He opens the bedroom door and just stands there between bedroom and living room. Mark's curled on the couch in a pile of blankets where he's been sleeping for the past few days, cup of coffee in hand; Benny is at the kitchen table, also with a cup of coffee. Ignoring Benny's presence there, leaning on the door frame a bit too heavily, Roger focuses on Mark and says just loudly enough to be heard, "You wanted her to die."
Mark looks up, blinking in surprise. "What?"
"April," Roger clarifies, not that any clarification is needed, because there's only ever one she he talks about, certainly lately. "You wanted her to die. I left her for you, and you–"
"Roger," Mark says flatly, interrupting him. "You're not seriously implying that I did something to–"
"No, but it doesn't bother you, what happened to her! Does it?" He's shouting now, and his throat hurts, screaming after he hasn't spoken for so long, but he doesn't care. Benny quietly stands and retreats to his bedroom, coffee still in hand, and neither Mark or Roger spare him a momentary glance or the briefest attention.
Mark is silent for a long time, jaw clenched, eyes cold and fiercely defiant, and at last he says quietly, "No."
"Son of a–"
Mark lurches to his feet , walking to meet Roger in the doorway of his bedroom – their bedroom. "You expect me to not care? That you loved her more than me? I care. And you left me for her, so it fucking serves you right that she left you, shows how much she loved you–"
Roger doesn't think before reacting. His hand curls itself into a fist of its own accord. His arm whips up to punch him, and none of it has a thing to do with conscious thought, and Roger barely realizes what he's done until Mark reels back, holding his face where Roger hit him and staring at him with wide eyes. Roger's voice is strangely calm as he says, "And you didn't love me at all."
There is a silence for a moment, filled only by Mark's ragged breaths, and finally he says, very quietly, "I love you."
Another silence, too long, as Roger tries to remember to breathe. "Well then," he says, for a moment finding nothing else to say, and finally adds, "What are we going to do about that?"
Mark drops his hand from his face, still wincing a little, and there's a red mark that soon will undoubtedly become a large purple bruise. "I don't know."
Roger takes several long breaths and then shakes his head, taking a step back from the doorway. "You should get tested," he says, and fuck, why hadn't this come a few weeks earlier, why had three words been so difficult to say until now... He wants to throw himself at Mark, wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his shoulder, fall apart and have Mark's arms around him as a reassurance that even after falling apart, he'll be put back together. But he can't do that now. That is a world and a half away, behind him now, and as Mark nods and mumbles a promise that he'll get tested, he can only turn away and close the door.