Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own, don't sue!

Notes: Won first prize on speedrent!

Warnings: Bad words (naughty, naughty words!), character death, a bit of foreplay. I know you'll all haaaate that.

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Maureen had always thought Mark's little crush on his roommate was funny. She had never failed to exploit it, even when they were still dating, much to her erstwhile boyfriend's embarrassment. If he didn't want to do something for her, she would jibe, "Oh, but if it were i Roger i asking you..." Mark would blush up to the tops of his ears, spluttering that she didn't know what she was talking about, that they were friends. Brothers, from the first moment they had met.

It was freezing in the bus stop. Should have been, since it was December, but Mark hadn't brought a winter coat. A completely innocent. He huddled farther into the measly windbreaker he had with him, feeling the wind chap the sensitive skin of his face. Suddenly an easy, deep voice from behind made him jump.

"Did someone order one artist over ice?" The voice was sarcastic, but full of good humor. There was a slight smoker's rasp to the sound, but it wasn't pronounced.

Mark turned around quickly, startled, to see a young man lounging against the wall of the bus stop. "I'm, uh, waiting for someone," Mark stammered, wondering if he was about to be mugged or hit on. At nineteen years old, a brand-new college drop-out on his first day in the city, he wasn't sure which scared him more. Especially not when the probably aggressor was as large-framed and strong-looking as the young man who was talking to him.

But the man didn't make a move towards him, either way. "I know," he said with a laugh, "Benny sent me to get you." He smirked, picking up Mark's suitcase. "He doesn't know the city half as well as he thinks he does. Got lost three times, then sent me out." He had hefted Mark's incredibly heavy suitcase onto his back, making the feat look so easy as to seem cocky, and shrugged at the small, immobile young man. "Well?" he asked quizzically. "Are you coming?"

And Mark had followed.

Perhaps his amazement and bewilderment had turned to a slight infatuation, but there wasn't anything romantic or even sexual about it, he had always argued. After all, it was his first time in the city. Roger was strong, confident, smarter than he ever let on, and in a badass kind of way. Of course Mark admired him, he insisted. It wasn't anything more than that, and to think so demeaned what they had.

For no explicable reason, the two had formed a fast friendship, far outstripping the nature of Mark's relationship with Benny. His former mentor had been a bit stung by the summary rejection in favor of the up-and-coming musician, and had never been quite as close to either of them afterwards.

"What do you mean, you're moving out?" Mark was stunned by the announcement, seemingly out of the blue. "Where are you going?"

Benny shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to cause a scene. He had tried to slip out unnoticed, but had unfortunately bumped Mark's tripod on the way out. It wasn't that he was embarrassed about leaving; he just didn't want to say anything he would regret the next day, especially to Mark. "You remember Alison, that I've been dating?" At Mark's nod, he continued, "I'm moving in with her. We're getting our own place, actually."

"But why? Why now?" Benny almost wanted to stay just for that plea. Mark's eyes were wide, uncertain. Still a kid at heart, he wasn't ready to accept that most friends came and went, wasn't ready to accept that lack of permanence. He would have been after going through college, but never gave himself that chance.

Benny sighed. "Well, if you have to know, we're...I asked her to marry me, and she said yes."

A huge smile burst onto Mark's face, and he threw himself in a tackle hug at his old friend. "You motherfucker, why didn't you tell us?" the smaller man laughed.

Benny returned the hug and shrugged, unsure himself why he hadn't told his friends.. "I don't know, I guess I was waiting for the invitations to go out." What he still wasn't telling Mark was that the question had been popped a week ago, and they'd been hunting for a place for a month.

Mark pulled back, looking still happy but resigned. "Well, I guess that's a good enough reason." He gave a little grin and a little punch in the shoulder. "Just don't forget about us now that you're a big boy, okay?"

Benny laughed, a tinge of something a little unkind in his eyes. "Yeah, like I could. Just..." His face darkened for a moment with concern. "Just don't trust Roger too much, okay?"

Mark frowned, confused. "What do you mean? Roger's our friend."

Benny didn't say a dozen things he could have, didn't say anything about the shit Roger had put other friends through, didn't say anything about the stealing he'd expected had been going on for a while, didn't say anything about the drugs he knew Mark knew nothing about, didn't say anything about the real reason he was leaving. All he said was, "Yeah, he's our friend. I just don't want you to get hurt by him."

Mark laughed, amused by the idea of his best friend hurting him. "He'd never do that. He's a good guy."

Benny had drawn away then, unwilling to shatter Mark's illusions by telling him what Roger was really like, equally unwilling to leave his young friend here defenseless. "Yeah, well..." He grabbed his coat. "Believe what you want. Just be careful around him." As he gave Mark a last hug and walked out of the loft, he muttered, "And don't let him near your girlfriend."

Mark had learned in his own time about the drugs, the stealing, the womanizing. In his own little world, Roger had always been an almost-hero, everything Mark had wanted to 'grow up' to be. That had all ended the first time he had seen Roger high, which neither of them ever wanted to remember.

Mark had always been good at cleaning up Roger's messes. Roger used to watch over him, he rationalized to himself, so now he would do the same for his incapacitated friend. It was the way things were done.

"Roger?" Mark called uncertainly, stepping around overturned bottles, careful not to break any of them. No reason to make any more of a mess in the already-trashed loft. Coat still on after a long day of filming, he set his camera carefully on the table (still upright, thank goodness) and pushed open the slightly ajar door to his and Roger's bedroom.

As he had been a dozen times before, Roger was lying draped over both beds, completely naked, an equally nude girl sprawled across his chest. There were more bottles on the floor, along with an obviously used needle. There was still some club-sounding music coming from the little boom box on the floor, which Mark shut off. Roger stayed soundly asleep, even as Mark carefully stepped around the various drug paraphernalia on the floor to pick up the empty bottles. Rolling his eyes, he untied the tourniquet from his friend's arm, accidentally waking the girl. "Sorry," he whispered, turning to go.

The girl sat up a little, fixing him with a groggy gaze. "Hey, you're the roommate, right?" At Mark's nod, she went on, "Why do you do this? He didn't ask you to."

"He didn't have to," Mark said softly, picking up a shot glass by the door.

Her next words took him completely off-guard as she asked amusedly, "Are you in love with him?"

As he stammered, "N-no! Of course not!" she cut him off again.

"I don't care, you know." She stretched out again, nuzzling her nose against Roger's chest hair. "Just wanted to know," she murmured, sounding sleepy.

Pride stung, Mark walked back over to her. "Listen, I'm not in love with him! I just...he's my friend, I take care of him." He was sick and tired of everyone always assuming that friendship and lust were one and the same thing. Bitterly, he muttered as he walked out, "Not like he would know what real love was anyway."

She was already asleep, but Roger wasn't.

Maureen had always teased him about being 'after' Roger, but he didn't think she ever actually believed it. It wasn't as if she was the first to tease him about being gay, after all. That honor had gone to a particularly nasty fourth-grade classmate of his.

Maureen's insults only offended him because as his girlfriend, the recipient of whatever sexual pleasure he could offer a woman, she was supposed to reassure him of his masculinity. At least, that's how he had always understood it. Unfortunately, everything Maureen had done only emasculated him more.

"Maureen," Mark pleaded for the umpteenth time, "please, can we just go home?"

Maureen pouted. "Come on, Pookie, it's fun! Don't you want to have fun with me?" She slid her hand down to lightly cup between his legs, making her boyfriend blush.

"Maureen," he muttered embarrassedly, "not in public."

"It's pubic, not public," she had replied cheekily. "Hey, if we stay, I'll let you go down on me in the bathroom. I know you want to."

Mark blushed much deeper. That had been a private, drunken confession that he'd hoped she wouldn't remember. "Come on, not now! It's late, I'm tired, and you have an audition early tomorrow." As she started to open her mouth again, he cut her off. "And when you have an early audition, you know I have to be up at least an hour before you to set up your stuff."

She glared at him, still managing to look pretty. "I'd stay and dance with someone else, but you get all jealous." Her hand was still between his legs, distracting him.

"B-but you always let them grab your ass," Mark protested. "I think I have a reason to get jealous when they do that!"

She grabbed his hand and placed it on her own ass, grinning. "Then grab it yourself, Pookie. You know I'll let you."

A vision of the bathroom scene she had promised him flashed before his eyes, making him swallow hard. As her hand became more daring, he nearly acquiesced. "No," he finally managed to choke out, "I want to go home."

She withdrew her hand, pulling back with an uncaring flip of her hair. "Fine. You go home to your loverboy. I'm going to dance with whoever I want to, since you don't seem to care."

Mark caught her hand as she tried to walk away, pulling her back. "Come on, just come home with me," he started, but she pulled her hand free.

"No, Mark. You want to be a bitch about this, you deal with it. I'm not a housecat!" She made claws at him, then winked. "You go after your man, okay?"

Mark fumed as she slipped into the crowd, eluding him in every way. As a final revenge before she disappeared, she let him see her rub against some punk in the crowd.

That Maureen would have left him was inevitable, of course. Roger had barely looked up when he heard the news, merely saying that he was surprised it had taken so long. Then again, Roger hadn't cared about much of anyone since April had died, since his dream had died. No one even wanted to get close to him. No one, that is, except Mark. And it wasn't always throwing up, awful shakes, tears and sweat and blood that couldn't get anywhere near him. It was the everyday that kept most of their friends at a safe distance, the biting causticness of Roger's changed persona that kept everyone as far as they could run. People came by to see Mark, to make a quick visit to let Roger know he had friends, or they kept away.

Secretly, Mark had always felt a little guilty that he enjoyed a lot of his time alone with Roger.

"Mark,"Roger said as softly as his friend had ever heard, "Can you sit with me?" It wasn't that unusual a request lately. Since they had virtually no income and even less human interaction (after Maureen's 'conjugal visits,' as Roger referred to them, had stopped after Joanne had shown up), most of their days were spent a lot like this one. The first few months, Roger hadn't been able to stand anyone touching him while he was conscious, but that had changed lately. Every day, he got closer and closer to Mark.

He leaned his head on Mark's shoulder in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, and Mark smiled to himself. It was times like this that it was worth it, he thought absently. Maybe Roger had gotten a little rough the other day when he had tried to suggest that he go get a job, but it wasn't too bad, especially not compared with a day like this. Besides, he hadn't actually hit Mark for months, not since the attacks had pretty much stopped.

Without thinking about it, Mark rested his head on Roger's. It was easy, friendly. Automatically, he turned his head and kissed his friend on the forehead.

And everything changed.

It was all back to that day, Mark thought, when he and Roger had stopped being as close as they had been becoming. As comfortable as Roger had been with being comforted, even with being physically close to his best friend, he had taken that tiny kiss as justifying everything their friends had been insinuating for years. From then on, whatever Mark said to the contrary, Roger never quite shook the notion that Mark was really in love with him, had been for years. The notion of their platonic friendship had become strained, Mark thought, and all because of one little unconscious movement.

He had damned his mother a million times for kissing him on the forehead as a child, but nothing had helped. Mark frequently thought that if he hadn't made that tiny movement, Roger would never have asked Mimi to The Life the next day.

He had been against Mimi's influence on Roger from the start; she'd been everything he wanted to protect his friend against. She symbolized the drugs, the parties, the sex, and the anger all over again. Of course, because once he had accidentally brushed his lips against his friend's skin, he was never allowed to say any of this.

The first time Mark slept with a man, he didn't even know his partner's name.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Mark muttered to himself, gritting his teeth as he struggled with the lock on the door to the loft.

A pair of strong hands came up to rest on his waist, and a voice whispered in his ear, "Don't worry, I'll show you." The breath that carried the sound to his ear carried the smell of cheap vodka to his nose, and Mark wondered again why he was bothering. He would only find that everyone was wrong, that he'd hate it, that the impulses he'd felt over the years were perfectly normal for a straight man after all. He ignored the little nagging voice in the back of his head that asked him why he was doing this at all. "I'm proving a point," he muttered, more than a little drunk himself.

Eventually the mystery man took the key away from Mark's fumbling hands, unlocking the door quickly. "Can't hurt to have an extra hand, can it?" the stranger asked, breathing on Mark's neck and sliding his hand over Mark's chest.

Mark ignored the quickness of breath the gesture caused, ignored how much he loved the feel of those strong fingers skating down his chest. It had just been too long since he'd gotten some, he reasoned mentally, forcing the door open. "Come on in," he said quietly. "I don't know if my, uh, roommate is home or not."

The man didn't really look around much at the loft, preferring to keep at least one arm around his lover for the night. "And where's your room?" he asked in a low voice, a little husky with desire.

Mark steadfastly ignored the sensations the man's rougher voice caused his spinal cord, which seemed to be shivering. He was going to do this, he told himself, but not enjoy it. He'd needed to prove this point since fourth grade, and it was going to be tonight. As he pushed open the door to his room and the man's hand went around his waist, pushing his shirt up, turning him around and claiming him for a hard kiss, Mark realized the impossibility of his goal.

He had just the forethought to kick the door shut before the man brought him down to the bed, covering Mark's body with his own.

The man was only the first of, if not many, then several. Nameless, faceless for the most part, always gone before either of them fell asleep. Mark's dirty little secret. Each time it happened, he convinced himself that he had hated every minute of it, had hated the entire experience, and wasn't pretending that they were anything else. He was always on the bottom, only let men take him from behind.

It wasn't that he thought his friends wouldn't have understood; it was that he feared they would understand all too well. He hadn't wanted to vindicate fifteen years of insults and taunts, hadn't wanted sympathy for his coming out, hadn't wanted to worry his HIV conscious friends. Mostly, he didn't want to hear how everyone had known all along.

It almost worked well. At least, for about a year.

Mark sat at the bar of his favorite club, as always somewhat ashamed to be there. He usually managed to put all thoughts of guilt out of his mind until the morning after, but he had recently fought with Roger about Mimi again. The other man was so blinded by love, he had said, that he couldn't see that Mimi hadn't quit using, would never quit using. And as all conversations that ended in a conversation like, "You deserve someone better. Like..." "Like who?", Mark had bolted.

His denial was becoming harder and harder to hold onto. Every time he took a man home, he couldn't deny that it was only certain qualities he looked for in a partner. Every time he felt them move inside of him, he couldn't deny that he was picturing someone else breathing heavily in his ear. At least, he couldn't deny it very well.

"Hey," a low voice growled in his ear. Mark smiled and turned around, murmuring, "Hey, yourself."

The words died on his tongue as he stared up at his best friend. Roger looked slightly uncomfortable, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. Still wearing his plaid pants and sweater, he looked very out-of-place at the club, but didn't seem to notice. His looks would have gotten him into any club, any time in his life, and he still knew it.

"H-h-how did you f-find me?" Mark stammered, face redder than a fire engine. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I followed you," Roger answered plainly. "I didn't think we were done talking, so..." He broke off, gazing around. "I'll admit, I didn't think I'd find you in here."

Mark grabbed Roger's arm, hauling him outside. "Look, I didn't...I didn't know what kind, uh, what kind of, ah, club it was. I just wanted a drink, and--"

Roger cut him off by placing a finger over his friend's lips. "Mark, you don't have to justify yourself to me. I've known for a long ti--"

He was caught off-guard by Mark's shove. "No, you fucking have NOT known for a long time!" the smaller man shouted, eyes blazing suddenly. "I don't fucking want to hear that, because it isn't fucking true! There is NO fucking way you can know what it's like to be so, so fucking AFRAID of a part of yourself that you go to places like THIS," he gestured angrily, "to find some stupid, insignificant part of yourself so that no one, no one you value, no one ever fucking says they've always fucking KNOWN! Maybe I don't want to be known! Maybe I wanted to have one, one stupid little thing that was mine, and didn't mean I was weak, or harmless, or get me beat up in school!" He was screaming now, at a dumbstruck Roger. "Maybe I didn't want to think about how every time someone who didn't like me called me a fag, it was their right, because I am! Maybe I don't want your fucking pity like you gave Collins, and maybe I don't want to fucking hear how everyone feels sorry for poor, stupid gay little Mark who's always, always, always been in love with his best friend!" He turned away, shaking with anger and fear, stunned that it was all out, shocked to hear the things that had come out of his own mouth.

Evidentally Roger was as shocked as he was, because the other man was silent for long minutes, where the only sound was Mark's heavy breathing. Finally, he attempted speech. "Mark," he said softly, but he was cut off again.

"No. I don't want to be let down gently, okay?" Roger saw his friend swipe the back of his hand across his eyes as he started to walk away. "Just...go take your AZT," he muttered as he left the alleyway.

It was a tense month afterwards, full of awkward silences and abrupt walking out of rooms. Neither man was quite sure what to say, after all. Mimi was confused, trying to get Roger to explain, but he would only respond that it was between the two of them.

Mark stopped picking up men. It wasn't satisfying when he couldn't pretend his motives had nothing to do with Roger. Knowing who he really wanted consciously, he couldn't shut it off anymore. Giving voice to the reality had killed the dream, forcing him to make a change.

The boxes weren't piled high. There were only five or six, and at least four of them were labeled 'film.' An artist didn't need much clothing, after all.

Unexpectedly, the door slid open, causing Mark to freeze mid-stride. "What are you doing here?" he asked defensively.

"I live here," came the dry response. Roger blinked as he took stock of the boxes around, and the one in Mark's hands. Slowly, he asked, "You're leaving?"

Mark nodded shortly. "Can't stay here anymore," he answered shortly. "I got a place in Spanish Harlem."

Roger rolled his eyes, striding over to Mark and easily taking the box out of his hands. "The fuck you did. You're lying."

Mark's avoidance of his eyes were all he needed to know to confirm his suspicion. "I just...it's weird now, Roger. I know you feel it, too."

Roger's jaw was tight as he replied, "And why is that my fucking fault? I didn't do anything, Mark! You can't just...confess shit like that and go because you think I don't feel the same way!"

"Why not? I didn't think it would—did you say I don't 'think' you feel the same way?" Mark asked incredulously, hoping he wasn't mishearing.

It was Roger's turn to avoid his friend's eyes. "Well, you didn't fucking ask," he muttered.

Mark took a small step forwards. "You mean you..."

"Well, you wouldn't fucking know, would you?" Roger snapped. "Because it's all about what you feel. You didn't want anyone to know you're gay, because you were afraid what we'd think of you. You didn't want us to know you were in love with me, because you didn't want to feel lonely. Right?" When Mark continued to resolutely stare at the floor, Roger grabbed his chin and forced eye contact. "Am I right?" he demanded.

"Yes," Mark whispered. It was the last thing he said before Roger's lips were on his, harsh, bruising, everything he'd always thought they would be. They smelled like cigarettes and tasted like cheap wine, as if he needed another reminder that he loved a man with vices. Mark wasn't the only one who had to be a little drunk to come on to a man, it seemed. He broke away from the kiss after a moment, asking, "What about Mimi?"

Roger's jaw tightened. "You were right. She was still using, never stopped. When I confronted her yesterday..." he sighed. "She broke up with me, checked herself into rehab. She's getting better." He moved to capture Mark's lips again, but Mark ducked.

"And I'm what, a consolation prize?"

Roger laughed low in his throat, arms encircling the smaller man's waist. "Mark," he said in a low voice that reverberated through his chest, "you're every prize." His hands were strong and wide on Mark's back, and the filmmaker found himself lost in Roger's eyes as he asked, "So are you going to let me claim you?"

The nod was almost an afterthought, and the two men struggled as if to see who could get to the bedroom first, collapsing onto Mark's bed. Their hands wandered, kisses becoming increasingly rougher. Mark bit Roger's neck, Roger's nails dug into the sensitive skin at the base of his lover's neck. It was more erotic than any past experiences of his all thrown together, because it was real. This was what he'd been pretending at since he was twelve years old, in some way or another. He was unprepared for the whimper that made its way out his throat as Roger slid a strong hand into his pants, long fingers wrapping around Mark's cock.

The blond arched off the bed, groaning in surprise and pleasure, trying to wriggle out of his pants. Roger, taking pity on him after a moment, quickly stripped both of them, getting ready to straddle his new lover. "I," he began, and stopped. Mark had turned over to face the pillow. "Mark," he asked softly, "what are you doing?"

"Come on," came the muffled voice, "I'm ready."

Roger took hold of one pale shoulder, turning the younger man back to face him. "Oh, no, you're not," he said grinning wickedly, and slid down his body, making Mark groan with the intensity of unimagined bliss.

Bliss never lasted for long, Mark reflected. A few weeks, a few more months. They had no more than a year together, when all was said and done. Knowing Roger was sick, they were able to make the most of the time they had, but it was still the most excruciating almost-year of either of their lives. Roger had often joked, "If you hadn't been such a pussy and had come after me in the beginning, none of this shit would be happening." Mark always retorted with, "And if you'd paused long enough from fucking everything in sight, you might have seen me coming."

It wasn't a big funeral, as both of them had expected. They'd had months to plan, morbid as it had seemed at first. They had known they were facing it together, which somehow made it bearable.

Laying him into the ground, one rose from his hand adorning the casket, Mark took a deep breath, reflecting on all that had happened. Softly, he told Roger as he was lowered into the earth, "It's going to be a while before I come after you again." He knelt in the earth, almost whispering, "But I will. Make sure you wait for me."

He stood up, feeling the autumn air that Roger had hated so much, and smiled. "Believe me, I'll be there."