A few monthes after Mimi's drug-related death, Mark reflects on his feelings for Roger. Reviews are life.

I can hear him breathing in the next room. He doesn't snore, but I hear him, the uneven gasps at whatever is going on in his dreams. His nightmares.

I know him, I know his habits. He sleeps with the door open when he can't bear to be alone. It's open, like after April, and now, after Mimi. He has nothing to hide anymore. He has nothing to close himself off from. He's been stripped raw, and needs someone to heal with.

I'm happy to be there for him. I stayed up with him the night we lost Mimi, stood there while he tried to drink away the pain. I didn't try to stop him. I was with him that night, when he cried through his drunken haze, when he smashed everything that would break, minus his guitar. I carefully put that away, keeping him from doing the one thing he'd regret. He never thanked me for that, but I understood that he meant it as he gently stroked its strings the next day. As much as he wanted to forget, he couldn't dispose of her like that, and he played 'Your Eyes' over and over.

He loved her. I can understand that. I know what it's like to love. He needed her, someone who could make him feel again after he broke the first time. But he chose the wrong person. Mimi killed herself just as April did; only slower, dragging out his heart, letting him crumble, making me watch. She loved him too, I think, but never as much as she loved her smack. He loved her, will always love her memory, but he can't forgive her.

She shredded him, and now he sleeps with his door open and I sit on a cold table and just listen. His breath flickers through dreams, scattered and harsh sounding, reflecting his life.

The heavy, tumbled sounds stop and I hear him move. Squeaks from the bedsprings, slow shuffling of feet, and he's standing at the doorway, dressed only in faded pajama pants. His hair is messy, his eyes unfocused with sleep, but he sees me sitting there, watching him.

He comes over to me, pulls himself up on the table top and we sit in silence. Finally he turns to me and I see such pain in his eyes that the breath catches in my throat.

"I miss her."

"I know."

And then he tells me what I've only ever imagined he would say.

"You keep me alive. I couldn't…I couldn't cope without you. I can trust you, only you. Even when I can't trust myself."

He says those words and my heart breaks open, because I'm the only one to keep him alive.

I reach up to his face level and press my lips to his. I'm numb and I almost don't feel it, but it's him and emotion forces its way through the numbness.

He doesn't kiss back, but when I pull away, his eyes hold mine.

"I'm sorry," I say, because it wasn't for him, but for me, all for me, when I should be giving to him.

He just shakes his head and I understand. He'll never feel anything for me, something I'd known for years, but for that moment, some of the pain lifted from his eyes, something dark past on. He smiled at me and slips off the table, walks back to his bedroom, shuts the door and all I can think is Your Eyes, Your Eyes.

Not the best thing I've ever written, but I'm trying to concentrate more on the story than the style. Advice and comments very welcome :)