Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been one year since Mark and Roger started dating.

It’s been two years since Angel died.

It’s been three years since things went south.

And it’s been four minutes since Mark woke up, but Roger is already all over him.

“Not now,” he mumbles, turning so his shoulder is between his face and Roger’s. “I’m tired.”

“Did you not sleep well?”

“I slept fine.” He, in fact, did not sleep well at all. But he doesn’t want to think too much about that. Dreams kept waking him up and filling him with thoughts that were not at all conducive to a peaceful sleeping environment. He feels a headache coming on already, and he hasn’t even turned on the lights.

“You sure?” Roger props himself up on his elbow and cups Mark’s face with his other hand.

Mark pushes away from him. “Not now, Roger.”

Roger doesn’t press, and Mark feels guilt kick in. As he pulls on a clean shirt, his thoughts drift and slide back through the past few years again, just like they have been every day for the last week.

It’s something about the weather, he thinks. Dreary days always make him feel more introspective. His therapist would probably say something about the lack of sunlight fucking with his mood and making him more depressed, but he tries to think about it in a more positive light. The more introspective he is, the more poetic he can be, and the more art he can create.

Except for the fact that he hasn’t picked up his camera in over a month.

It’s barely October, but the loft is already freezing. Mark puts on an extra shirt; he can already feel himself clenching his teeth against the cold. Maybe that’s where the headache is coming from. He rubs his eyes and stretches his neck, but the tension remains.

The mess of the living room greets him with a snarky wave as a sheet of paper floats across the floor. Mark stomps on it, then pins it under a book, not even bothering to see what it was. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

Making coffee takes too long; his drowsy brain can’t do that right now. He sits down on the sofa and lets his mind unfocus again.

Last night, Roger had said something. Something about how he couldn’t believe they were really together. And Mark had responded with something about… something…

Huh. He doesn’t remember anymore.

Out of nowhere, Roger is sitting next to him. “Have you been taking your meds?”

Mark smirks. “Look how the tables have turned.”

“I’m serious.”

“I have been. Don’t worry.” He leans his head against Roger’s chest and closes his eyes, hoping he can just fall asleep and avoid any more conversation. Or any more thinking.

Roger takes Mark’s hand in his own. “That’s easier said than done, baby. You of all people should know that.”

He’s not really in the mood for this. Any passing reference to his typical neurotic state has been making him feel weird recently. Maybe it’s all because of the medicine—it was supposed to help get rid of his constant panic and rumination, but it’s just made his mind feel fuzzy all the time. It makes him think of those days back when he first dropped out of college, when he first tried to pick up the pieces of his life. When he first realized he could be himself, but he realized he didn’t know who he was.

“...might help.”

Oh. Right. They were in the middle of talking. What was Roger saying? He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t care.

“Mark…?”

A direct acknowledgement. Maybe he should answer.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m tired.” It’s not a lie; he’s not sure he can manage any more words than that. But it’s not the whole truth. He just doesn’t want to ruin Roger’s good mood with his own shitty one.

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Really, I’m fine.” His thoughts are hazy and cloudy, much like his vision is right now. The sunlight ebbs and flows. Even stationary objects have taken on movement. He sits up, feeling nauseated by the rise and fall of Roger’s chest as he breathes.

Even though Mark is standing now, Roger keeps hold of his hand. If anything, he holds it tighter. “Honey, you’re shaking.”

Mark shakes his head—even that slight movement sends pulsing pain through his skull. He tries to say, “I’m just gonna go back to bed,” but he’s not sure he even gets the words all the way out.

Whatever. Roger doesn’t try to stop him, which is good enough. Mark shuts the door and stuffs a shirt against the bottom of it, to keep the light out. He collapses onto the bed and presses a pillow over his head, forcing himself down into the gentle embrace of darkness.

Three hours. That’s how long he manages to sleep before Roger comes into the room.

Roger tries to apologize for disturbing him. Mark doesn’t really care, though. His sleep had been dreamless, and his headache is gone. Well, mostly gone. He still feels a little bit of that tension, but as he relaxes his jaw, it fades away.

“You good?”

Mark carefully puts on his glasses. His eyesight remains slightly askew. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“And you’re telling the truth this time?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Roger sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on? You had me worried earlier.”

Mark shrugs noncommittally. “I was just thinking too much. You know me.” Yeah. Thinking about the past. Such a dangerous thing. His stomach feels weird just at the thought of overthinking.

“I do,” Roger whispers, and he plants a kiss on Mark’s forehead. “What were you thinking about?”

“Not sure I want to talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Sorry.” Mark leans against him. That disappointment in Roger’s voice makes him feel immensely lousy—and now the headache is back, rising up behind his eyes. “I was feeling weird and didn't want to deal with it.”

“Deal with what?”

“You worrying about me.”

“I don’t want you to hide things from me just to keep me from worrying.” Roger runs his fingers through Mark’s hair.

Mark shudders at the touch. It’s too close to his head, too close to the pain. But he doesn’t want to push Roger away.

“…later, okay?”

Oh. He missed something. Again.

The thought of asking Roger to repeat it is too overwhelming, so he just closes his eyes.

“Are you falling asleep again?”

“Maybe.” He’s not. His heart is beating a little too fast for that.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

As much as he loves Roger, he wants nothing more than to disappear under the blankets and become one with the mattress forever.

He must have said something in response, because Roger gets up and leaves. And now he’s alone again, with only his mind to keep him company.

Fuck. Maybe he should have asked Roger to stay.

He waits for his mind to clear before he stands up. It’s cold. He hugs himself and leaves the bedroom.

Roger is gone. Mark feels a pang of sadness. Right, of course he was leaving. He came into the room to get his jacket.

But now Mark is alone, and it’s making his mind spiral into those thoughts of the past again. Those days when he had no idea where Roger was. Those days when, even if he was just behind a closed door, it felt like such an insurmountable distance. Those days when he was terrified of pushing him away forever.

The world flickers, much like he’s watching film projected on an uneven screen. He rubs his temples. Why is this headache coming back? And why is he so tired? It’s only been a couple hours.

The next thing he knows, he’s on his knees, slumped against the wall. His hands are numb. He’s leaden, sinking into the floor.

Everything flickers again. He’s laying all the way on the floor now. His heartbeat flutters, echoing in his ears.

Okay. He’s had a panic attack before. He knows what to do. First thing: focus on breathing. It makes him dizzy at first, but that’s normal. In. Out. In. Out. Over and over until he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

Second thing: ground himself. The easiest way is by focusing on things he can feel. The cold floor beneath him. The texture of his shirt. The strange, pinprick feeling in his hands.

Third thing: he’s not actually sure. Usually he’d feel better by now. His heart is still beating; he feels it in his head. He’s still breathing. But he can’t move.

Huh. That’s new.

He keeps his gaze on his hand. It twitches slightly. He doesn’t feel it.

Okay. It’s okay. Maybe he’s just… falling asleep. And his body got there before his brain. Yeah.

Or he wasn’t really having a panic attack, but instead he passed out or something, and his body isn’t awake yet. That’s something that can happen to people, right?

He tries to move a tiny bit at a time. First, just his fingers. Then his hand. Then his entire arm. It makes him feel fuzzy, but at least he’s moving now.

His arms shake as he tries to push himself up. He’s out of breath. This shouldn’t be so exhausting.

He gets to his feet, but he’s so tired that he just wants to lay on the floor again. But he forces himself to go to the bed instead.

Every bone in his body is telling him something is wrong. But he won’t tell Roger. Not just yet.

That’s okay, right? He’ll be okay. He always is.

Chapter Text

There’s something going on. Roger isn’t sure what it is, but he’s determined to find out.

There’s a couple things he knows:

1. Mark has been a lot more tired lately.

2. Mark just started on new medication a couple weeks ago.

3. Sometimes medication can have side effects, but that’s not always the case.

Well. That’s three things. But he doesn’t really know what to do with it.

He tries to keep a closer eye on Mark, to keep track of anything out of the ordinary. It’s hard to be stealthy about it, but he doesn’t want Mark to realize that he’s being scrutinized. Because when Mark knows he’s being watched, he acts differently, and that would completely ruin the point of trying to closely observe him.

A couple weeks go by, and nothing particularly noteworthy happens. Which is usually a good thing. Although, there’s one thing Roger notices: it’s as if they’re going backwards a little bit.

Before they started dating, it was common for Mark to hide in his room for days at a time. Once they started sharing a bed, that happened less, and as a bonus, Mark would be more open when things weren’t going so well. So the fact that Roger is sitting on the sofa right now, while Mark is in his room with the door shut, is a pretty strong indicator that something’s going on.

It’s as if Mark can read Roger’s mind or something, because it’s only a few minutes before he emerges to join him on the couch. He doesn’t say anything, but as he cuddles as close as possible, Roger can feel that the poor guy is shaking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mark mumbles into the fabric of Roger’s sweater.

“You need anything?”

Mark shakes his head. “You’re warm.”

“Aw, baby, are you cold?”

“Mhm.”

Roger moves to give Mark a kiss, but he hesitates. Mark’s forehead shines with a sheen of sweat. With a frown, Roger presses the back of his hand to Mark’s cheek. “Honey, you’re really warm. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Mark shrugs. “I dunno. I was taking a nap, and I got hot, but then I was cold again.”

Oh. “I don’t think that’s normal, love.”

“It’s fine. It happens sometimes.”

“I’ll get you some water, okay?” Roger slowly moves away from Mark and stands up, but Mark grabs his hand and makes an unintelligible sound.

“What?”

Mark shakes his head. “Stay.”

“Okay.”

They stay there for a while, until Mark falls asleep and leaves Roger with a twisted string of worry in his head.

The whole next week, Mark starts getting clingy again. This happens every so often, and Roger isn’t one to complain, but it feels off. Combined with the fact that Mark is always exhausted—and the fact that Roger keeps waking up in the morning to find Mark soaked in a puddle of sweat—it makes him wonder if Mark knows something’s wrong and doesn’t want to be alone.

There’s no more closed doors. That’s a relief, at least. But Mark keeps trying to find ways to get out of having to go to work. So Roger walks with him to work most days, to make sure he gets there and to give him a little more security. He knows he’s not supposed to follow every one of Mark’s anxious requests—that’s what the therapist said—but it hurts his heart to see Mark upset at the thought of walking alone.

It’s harder to walk back with him at the end of the day, though, since the hours are erratic. Well, no— Mark is erratic with his hours. And given the plummeting temperatures, Roger doesn’t really want to stand outside waiting for him for too long, so he’s settled for making the loft a cozy environment for whenever Mark does get home.

He decides to make tea one night, to welcome Mark back with a little extra warmth, but as he puts the kettle on, he realizes the sun is already going down. That’s… odd. Usually Mark gets back before dark.

He’s considering whether to go out and try to find him when the door lurches open and Mark walks in. Roger comes up to him and gives him a quick kiss. “Hi, love.”

“Hi.”

“Where were you? You’re back later than usual.”

“I… I was at work.”

There’s a hesitation that Roger doesn’t like. “You don’t sound very certain about that.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “I… I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember. My… my memory, it’s…” Mark wanders away and collapses onto the couch. “I don’t know. It’s all foggy. I just don’t remember.”

“Do you know… if you were at work at all today?” Roger sits down next to him. He really doesn’t like this.

“I think so. But I don’t know for how long.”

“If you want, we could call your boss and ask when you clocked in and out—”

“But what if I forgot to clock in?” Mark sits up quickly—much too quickly. He almost immediately drops back onto the cushions with a groan. “Ouch. Ugh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I sat up too fast.” He presses his hands over his face. “Got really dizzy.”

Hm. That doesn’t sound good. Roger knows Mark well enough to know he’s been prone to lightheadedness when he doesn’t get enough food—maybe that’s all that’s going on here—so he asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

Mark furrows his brow and says, “I don’t know… yeah. I don’t know.”

“Okay…” This really isn’t good. But he doesn’t want Mark to know just how concerned he’s getting.

“How do I not know?” Mark sits up again. “I just can’t remember, Roger. Why can’t I remember?”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Roger gently takes Mark’s hands. The distress creeping into Mark’s voice is really worrying.

“Roger, I don’t know when I last ate.”

“It’s okay.” He presses Mark’s hands to his chest. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath with me.”

Mark sucks in a big breath, but it rushes out just as fast. “What the fuck? Why can’t I remember anything?”

“Okay.” Maybe talking through it with logic would help. Mark always does better with logic. “I know we made soup yesterday, I sat and ate with you. So at the very least, you ate yesterday evening.”

“Okay…”

“I think we still have some soup left over. Would you like to eat some?”

Mark shakes his head. “But what if I ate already today? Then that’s a bad idea, I shouldn’t—” 

“Whoa, hey, Mark, it’s okay to eat more than once a day.”

“But then I’m gonna get sick, I don’t want to get sick…”

He’s crying now, tears spilling down his pale face. Roger reaches up and gently brushes them away. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re not gonna get sick. Okay?” It’s getting harder and harder to stay calm, but he forces himself to keep it slow. Anything too fast will just add stress. “I’ll be right here, and if you start feeling bad, you can tell me, and you don’t have to eat any more.”

“I don’t want to risk it, I’m so scared—”

“It’s okay.” Roger pulls him into a hug, being as gentle as possible. “Does it help for me to be here with you?”

“A little. It’s better than nothing.”

“Do you want me to heat up some soup?”

Mark pulls back from the hug and wraps his arms around himself. “No thanks.”

“What about some water? Have you had water today?”

“I don’t know… I think I’ll just make some tea.”

Roger grins. “I was gonna make you tea anyway before you got back.”

“Oh. Well, that’s convenient.” For the first time since getting home, Mark allows himself a tiny smile.

“I’ll go take care of that for you, love, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Mark seems content to be left alone on the sofa, which brings Roger a little bit of relief. He does his best to keep one eye on him as he prepares tea for the both of them.

As the water boils, Roger feels his heartbeat roiling alongside it. He tries to focus on something else, but it’s becoming difficult to think about anything other than what just happened.

Something’s going on. He needs to find out what.

Chapter Text

As the weather gets colder, Mark burrows further into endless layers of clothes and blankets. He’s always preferred the winter to the summer—escaping the heat is so much harder—but it’s really bad this time. The cold is inside him. It’s overwhelming him.

No matter what he tries, he can’t sleep comfortably. Without blankets, he’s freezing. But with blankets, he falls down into a weird cycle of temperature irregularities. He overloads with blankets, then he can’t escape his own body’s warmth. So he sweats a lot. And the sweat makes him too cold. Even if he can manage to fall asleep for more than a few hours, he wakes up miserable.

“Dress in layers,” Roger suggests when Mark complains about it one morning. “If you get warm, take off a layer. Or get rid of the blankets, for god’s sake.”

Mark knows Roger has his best interests at heart, but he can’t get himself to actually take the advice. It’s too much effort.

He catches what he thinks is a cold, but it takes him out completely. After three days of barely being able to get out of bed without feeling utterly exhausted, he considers calling a doctor. But then he hears Roger on the phone with Collins, saying something about money and healthcare and how is medicine so goddamn expensive , and it makes Mark feel so guilty that he resigns himself to suffering.

It’s just a cold. It goes away on its own. But the exhaustion remains. He feels like he’s doing everything he can—eating healthy, drinking water, trying to sleep as much as possible—but it’s not enough.

He catches himself thinking about how nice it would be for the world to just stop for a few days so he could catch up on rest. It makes him feel a brief flash of panic, which he quickly brushes away. That’s the sort of stuff that comes into his brain a little too frequently when he’s drowning in the throes of depression, and it startles him that it’s coming up out of nowhere.

Well, maybe it’s not out of nowhere. Between how tired he’s been and the fact that the days are getting shorter and shorter, he’s not surprised by a dip in his mood. But it’s still annoying. He’s tried writing down his thoughts and feelings instead of letting them fester; maybe that would help.

His hand is a little too unsteady for legible handwriting—he only writes one sentence before pulling out his old typewriter instead. But it doesn’t take long for him to want to quit again. The noise is aggravating. His mind spins and goes blank, as if someone’s filled the television screen of his thoughts with static.

Mark fights the urge to throw the typewriter out the window. How is it that he can’t do anything? This isn’t supposed to be happening anymore. He’s in therapy; he’s on medication. It’s supposed to help him feel better, but right now all he wants is to disappear.

He lays down on the floor; the cold material is comforting. If only it could swallow him whole.

And then he’s in bed, sweating under the heap of blankets. The sun has gone down. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is. Did he take a nap? He’s not sure.

Maybe he should eat. That would be good. He hasn’t eaten dinner yet.

He shuts off all the lights. They hurt his head. He feels a little better in the dark, but he’s still so tired.

Huh. Now he’s nauseous. It’s probably not a migraine—although the lights had hurt him… well. Maybe he just needs to go back to sleep. Maybe he just—

Ouch.

He blinks. “What the hell?” Did he say that? No one else is home.

Oh. He’s on the ground again. Great.

He’s awake; he knows that much. But he can’t move his body. Why is this happening again?

Despite the situation—he knows he should be worried—he’s feeling weirdly calm. His breathing is normal, almost too slow. And his thoughts aren’t going irrationally fast, the way they do when he’s panicking. The only thing he can think of is trying to get himself to fucking move.

He can’t tell if his hand is moving or not; he can’t sit up to see it, and he definitely can’t feel it. But he tries anyway.

His hand is first. He feels it when his pointer finger touches his palm. Then his arm, bent at the elbow. Then his shoulders, enough for him to sit up, where he can properly evaluate the situation.

He can see his legs extended straight out in front of him, but he can’t move them. They’re tense, so tense that they’re shaking. He can feel it. His knee hurts.

Well. He’s not going to be able to stand up on his own anytime soon. Maybe he should just wait for Roger to show up and hope he finds him here.

But that would mean explaining what happened, and he’s not even sure. He can’t think clearly. Hell, if Roger showed up right now, Mark wouldn’t even be able to form coherent words. He’s just… so fucking tired. Even more than he was earlier. It weighs him down, settles into all his muscles, all the way into his bones. It takes every ounce of strength—which he really doesn’t have a lot of to begin with—to keep from just laying down again.

He’s on his feet again, somehow. It was a gargantuan effort. (Gargantuan… how did he even think of that word when his brain is like this?)

But it doesn’t last long. He’s shaking, so he braces his hands on the edge of the sink.

“Hey.”

Oh. It’s… is that Roger?

“Are you okay?”

Roger can’t know.

But Mark can’t exactly control it. He tries his best to get out some reassuring words, but the endeavor becomes impossible as he feels all his energy leave him.

He’s falling. Tumbling down into the horrible, dizzying blackness.

A crash. A voice. Where they’re coming from, he’s not sure. He wishes he could just go to sleep, but he hears the voice say his name. It seems important.

When he finally forces his eyes open, he still feels like he’s falling, despite the fact that he’s very clearly on the floor. His mind slowly refocuses, and he finally hears Roger say, “Oh, goodness, Mark…”

Well shit.

Chapter Text

Things are different. With Mark. Things are different, and Roger hates it.

It’s not even “different” in the way that it’s been before. Back then, Mark would shut himself behind a locked door and keep himself as far away as possible. Now, he seems just as distant, despite the fact that he’s barely spent more than an hour apart from Roger in the last week.

There’s a cloudiness in his expression. It takes multiple attempts for Roger to ever get his attention. When he succeeds, Mark always seems to lose focus again, and it’s all Roger can do to not snark at him “What, am I boring you?”

As much as he wants to do anything to keep Mark’s focus, he knows he’d feel bad if he said anything even a little bit sassy. Because Mark’s clearly not in the mood. Well, he can’t tell what mood Mark is in at all. His face gives nothing away; it’s simply a blank canvas.

Mark doesn’t stir in the morning when Roger gets up to go to work. It’s completely understandable; he’d caught a cold just a few days before and was probably still recovering. Roger leaves him alone, hoping against hope that Mark will be able to properly rest.

He finds himself worrying throughout the day. Working behind the counter at the grocery isn’t a very demanding job, and he has a lot of downtime to sit and think. And, as always, he thinks about Mark.

But his thoughts are just as different as the air between them has been. While he’d normally fantasize about seeing Mark at the end of a long day, hoping that they could spend some time close together, his mind takes him elsewhere.

What if Mark’s cold is worse than a cold? He’s been so tired, what if something more serious is happening in his body that neither of them know about? Or worse, what if his mental state is worsening again? It’s always such a struggle for Mark when the darkness of fear and sadness comes in. Roger always wants to help, but… what if Mark isn’t letting him?

 No, there’s no reason for him to think that. They’ve both gotten better about being open with each other, especially as they made the choice for their relationship to be something beyond friendship.

Mark would tell him. Surely.

He comes home with a vague fog of stress lingering over him. Maybe Mark is feeling better, and they can have a nice, quiet evening together. That would be more than enough.

But there’s such an overbearing stillness in the loft that Roger thinks the universe must be against him. He switches on the light.

Mark is standing in the kitchen, his hands braced on the edge of the sink. Roger says his name, but there’s no response.

Roger shakes his head, ignoring his growing fear, and takes a few steps closer. He says Mark’s name again. Still no answer.

Is this the point where he should be worried? Roger gives Mark’s shoulder a gentle shake.

Mark’s head snaps up, and he turns around. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Uh… yeah…”

It’s as if his body shuts down completely. He stumbles backwards and crashes into the wall before falling to the ground.

Roger finds himself kneeling before his brain even catches up with what's going on. “Oh, jeez, Mark, are you okay?”

Silence. A little too much silence. Mark doesn’t move.

Oh god.

Roger tries to do something—anything—but fear keeps him stuck in place. He barely manages to say, “Mark?”

No response.

Then, after a painfully tense moment, Mark’s shoulders shake, just a little, and he lifts his head.

Relief floods Roger's system. “Oh, goodness, Mark…”

Mark pushes himself upright into a seated position. He rubs his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. “What the fuck…”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just…” He curls in on himself. “Fuck. Ow.”

“What happened?” He’s not really asking—it’s bad , that’s all he needs to know—but if Mark knows, that would be great.

With a groan, Mark looks up at him again, blinking against the bright lights. “Not sure,” he mumbles. “I got dizzy, and then everything… just… went dark.”

“Oh,” Roger says automatically. He doesn’t really know what else to say.

Mark slowly slides back down to the floor, and he’s quiet and still for long enough that Roger reaches over and nudges his shoulder. Mark’s head jerks up again, his eyes wide. “I’m awake.”

Roger’s thoughts finally catch up. He should call someone. Probably an ambulance. Or even just a taxi. There’s no way he can get Mark to a doctor on his own. “Okay. Um. I think I’m gonna call an ambulance, okay? We gotta get you to a doctor.”

“No, don’t,” Mark mumbles. “Don’t… need a doctor. I just… this just…” He takes a long, slow breath. “This just happens sometimes.”

“What?”

“It’s not… the first time.” Every word seems to exhaust him, drawing every ounce of breath from him. “Thought it was… panic… last time… but I’m okay.”

“Mark—”

“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is much more clear and forceful on those four words.

“What the hell do you mean, don’t worry about it?” Roger’s voice breaks, out of sheer panic and desperation. “This isn’t good! You just fucking collapsed, Mark!”

“I’m fine, really.” Mark rubs his eyes and forces a smile on his face. “Really, I promise. I think I can even, like, get up now. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah.” With shaking hands, Mark presses himself up onto his knees and takes a deep breath. Then he sits on one knee, and he takes another deep breath. As he gets all the way to his feet, he leans against the sink to keep his balance.

Roger isn’t sure what to do. He holds his hands out slightly, just in case Mark falls again.

Mark frowns. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You idiot.”

“Don’t…” He trails off, and any life in his expression fades away with his voice. His balance falters.

Roger grabs him before he can fall. “Mark—”

“Stop! I just need to sit down,” Mark snaps. “Or, hell, I should just go to bed. Probably.” He sounds out of breath, more tired now than annoyed.

“Okay.” Hesitant to let go completely, Roger keeps a hand on Mark’s shoulder, and they walk to the bedroom together.

Immediately, Mark collapses onto the bed and burrows under the blankets. Roger wants to say maybe don’t use so many, you’ll get warm , but he holds his tongue. Being too overbearing is probably the last thing Mark wants right now. So instead he says, “I’ll make you some food, okay? That might help you feel better.”

Mark’s voice is muffled by the pillow. “M’kay.”

It only takes a few minutes for Roger to heat up some leftovers, but when he comes back into the bedroom, Mark is already sound asleep. He doesn’t stir in the slightest when Roger nudges him. A good thing—the poor guy hasn’t been sleeping well for quite a while—but also a little bit scary.

There’s not much Roger can do but wait. As long as Mark wakes up eventually, it’ll be fine. They’ll figure this out. Somehow.

Chapter Text

Mark flops down on his bed. It’s been a long day. All he did was get up to close the curtains, but even that was exhausting.

Roger’s been keeping an extra close eye on him ever since his most recent fainting episode. Or whatever it was. Mark still isn’t sure what happened, but he doesn’t care. It’s been a couple days, and it hasn’t happened again. But now the fear is constantly there. It sits in the back of his mind, lurking just out of sight, filling space with its presence. He tries to ignore it, but any physical sensation sends panic through his mind—is it happening again?

So he decides it may be best to stay in his room, where he can close the windows and limit the sensory input to as few things as possible. Fewer things means less sources of anxiety.

His therapist is going to be disappointed in him. He can feel it.

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Mark mumbles.

Roger nudges the door open. “Hey. How you feeling?”

Mark shrugs. “Fine.” He’s tried not to think about it too much. How is he feeling?

“Have you eaten yet today?”

“No.” He hasn’t left his room, and he sure doesn’t want to now. Sometimes, the only way to deal with Roger being overbearing is, frankly, to be a bit of a stubborn asshole.

“I think you should.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

He’s expecting a snarky response, something like do what you want, but Roger just sighs and says, “I just think it would be a good idea. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Mark feels a flash of anger—because why the fuck is Roger being so nice—but it almost instantly fades to guilt and shame. Why does he want Roger to be angry? Is that really all he’s used to? Even now, after they’ve been dating for a while—that’s so fucked.

“Will you consider it, at least?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

He’s not sure why he’s still being so difficult, but it works enough to get Roger to leave him alone. There’s a twinge of guilt in his chest. He lets it spread. He curls up under the blanket, closing his eyes and letting the bad feelings take over. If I’m going to feel like shit, I might as well let it be all I feel.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows, Roger is shaking him awake. He blinks against the bright light of the outside world, and when he can see clearly, he notices the worry in Roger’s eyes. Which makes him feel worse. He pulls away from Roger and tugs the blanket over his head again, hoping his point is clear: just let me wallow in misery.

“Hey,” Roger says, “I’m gonna make dinner. I think you should get up; you’ve been in bed for a few hours.”

“I don’t want to,” he tries to say, but all that comes out is an incoherent mumble.

“Are you okay?” Roger asks. “I don't know what’s been going on with you, or if I should be worried or not.”

“I’m fine.” He knows those words never assuage anyone’s worry, but it’s worth a try. He pulls the blanket away from his face. “I’m just feeling weird. It’s okay.”

Somehow, Roger seems to actually understand what he’s saying, even though all the words sound so strange to Mark’s ears. “Are you sure? If there’s anything I can do—”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Once again, that never helps. But he doesn’t want to say anything else. He doesn’t think he can say anything else.

He doesn’t even hear the door close before he’s sinking back into the depths of sleep.

Damn. That was too much sleep.

It’s dark outside now, but Mark feels strangely energized. Is this how nocturnal animals feel? Only able to wake at night, in order to avoid coming across predators or those that pose a danger? Sure, in his case, Roger isn’t exactly dangerous, but he doesn’t want to end up in a situation where he might say something he’ll regret.

He needs something to do, so he grabs his camera. He fiddles with it and replaces the film inside. And only then does he realize it’s too dark to actually film anything. Shit.

His mind floating in haze, he wanders into the living room. He grabs a book and stands in a beam of moonlight, but the words on the page all look the same. So he puts it back on the shelf and sits down on the couch.

A door creaks, and a voice says, “Mark?”

He looks over at Roger, the source of the noise. “Hi.” In the very dim light, all he can see is a shadow with disheveled hair. “It’s late.” It takes a moment for him to realize, but… Roger just came out of his old room. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb Mark while he was sleeping, but there’s still that strange fear of… he doesn’t even know what.

“What are you still doing awake?”

Mark shrugs. “Why are you up?”

“I’m just going to the bathroom.” He frowns. “Aren’t you tired?”

Mark just shrugs again. “I don’t know.”

Roger shuts the bathroom door behind him, and Mark is ready for some peace and quiet again, but it’s not long before Roger emerges again. And Mark wouldn’t feel right just ignoring him. “Good night.”

With a frown, Roger comes up and gently presses his hand to Mark’s forehead. Probably testing for a fever, Mark thinks. He doesn’t think he has a fever. Or maybe he does. He wouldn’t know. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Roger plants a kiss on his forehead. “Come to bed, love.”

Mark just shrugs. For whatever reason, anything seems more appealing than going to bed.

Roger gives him another kiss, this time on his cheek. Then another on the lips, where he whispers, “Come on, Marky.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Are you trying to seduce me into going to bed?”

“I mean, is it working?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He gets up and follows Roger, ignoring the weird dizziness that slowly rolls through him after he stands. He’s not actually in the mood for… well, anything, frankly, but he doesn’t want to start an argument with Roger.

As soon as he’s in bed, he wants to get right back out. The blankets are too warm, too soft. He rolls over to try to get comfortable and finds himself face-to-face with Roger.

Roger reaches over and fluffs Mark’s hair. “I’m gonna turn off the light, okay?”

Mark shrinks away from Roger, not towards him the way he normally would with such a gentle touch.

Of course, Roger takes notice. “You okay?”

“Sorry.” His head tingles where Roger touched his hair. “I’m just… ugh. I don’t know. I just think I’m tired.”

“Okay.” Roger smiles and blows a kiss. “Try to get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.”

Once the light is off, Roger is asleep pretty quickly. Mark is much less lucky. He just lays there, listening to the distant sounds of the city. But eventually, it’s enough to lull him into a light sleep.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. Not out of fear, though. His legs are shaking under the many blankets. He sits up and drags his hands down his face. “Aw, fuck.”

The words escape him before he even thinks about it.

Roger stirs next to him. “Mark…”

“Sorry.” He takes a breath—why does he feel so shitty? “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just… burning up.” Even such a short sentence takes all of the breath out of his lungs.

“We can get rid of the blankets—”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He’s not sure it is, though. He doesn’t feel great.

“Okay.” Roger reaches over and gives his shoulder a gentle touch.

A strange, tingling feeling goes through Mark’s body, making him shudder. “Ugh…”

“Sorry.” Roger pulls his hand away. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” Mark takes off his shirt and throws it to the floor before curling up under the blankets. He closes his eyes, hoping this is enough, but then he feels a strange sensation where the bedsheet meets his bare chest.

He sits up and tugs the sheets away from him. “Fuck.”

“Whoa, are you alright?”

“It feels weird. Can’t explain.” He grabs the shirt from the floor and tugs it back over his head. But where he had been sweaty before has soaked the shirt, making it cold against his skin. And the dry fabric tickles him, but in an annoying way. He immediately tears it off again, swearing under his breath.

“Mark?”

He doesn’t even answer Roger this time. He just gets up and storms out, heading into the bathroom.

It’s the only thing he can think of to do. He turns the shower on, but he can’t choose between hot and cold. He eventually settles on freezing cold, and he stands with the water pouring down on him.

As the water soaks him, he realizes he’s still wearing his pants. He doesn’t bother to take them off as he sits down.

He’s still wearing his glasses; he sets them on the floor outside the tub and rubs at his eyes. Fuck. Is he crying, or is that just the water?

He feels like he might throw up. What the hell is happening?

There’s a knock on the door. He didn’t close the door. And then he hears Roger’s voice, loud and clear. “Hey, are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine.” Mark knows his voice sounds choked up—his throat hurts, maybe he was crying—but he can’t disguise it. He can’t even try. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Are you sure? You don’t sound like you’re doing so good.”

“Just go away. Leave me alone.” Roger’s voice pierces his eardrums, a hammer against the sides of his skull.

“Do you—”

“Fuck off!”

He hears the silence on the other side of the shower curtain, then the sound of the door closing. It echoes in his chest. He feels very, very sick.

The water is too overstimulating. He shuts it off and lies down in the tub. Why the fuck does he feel like this? Why does he feel so sick? And why did he yell at Roger? That was probably the worst thing he could have done. Because now he’s alone, with all these terrible feelings, and he has no idea what to do now.

He’s freezing. Maybe cold water was a bad idea. He curls up into a ball, closing his eyes against the terrible, overwhelming nausea.

Maybe he should just stay here forever. Roger probably won’t want to speak to him again, not after he told him to fuck off. So maybe he’d be better off here, shut away from the world, all alone until he dies. Maybe Roger was right all those years ago: Mark really is detached. From life, from his friends. From everything.

He’s always been scared of giving up. Scared of letting people down because he didn’t try hard enough. But it seems that everything he does lets people down anyway. It would probably be better for him to just stop trying. He should give up.

Just… give up.

When he comes to his senses, he can barely see, but he can hear a frantic voice. He feels a pair of hands on his shoulders, sending a shudder through him. He manages to choke out, “Stop, please…”

He hears, “…need help… doctor…”, then a pair of arms helping him up, picking him up and carrying him until he finds himself laying somewhere. The hands return, draping what feels like a blanket around his shoulders. The sensation sends a shiver through him, and he wants to take the blanket away. But he can’t move.

It must be Roger. Why is Roger helping him? After what he did? He doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to die, to be alone and in pain until everything is over. He can’t move; maybe he’s already dead.

He wants to say something, but he can’t get any words out, which just leaves him drowning in a swirling storm of guilt and shame and sadness. Why the fuck is he here? He doesn’t deserve to be here. He doesn’t deserve to still be alive.

The darkness crashes in on him. The sounds around him, muffled. Everything feels fuzzy. Numb.

He doesn’t know what to do.

What can he do?

Nothing…

...

..

.

He wakes up in a hospital bed. There’s a gentle beeping, pecking at the back of his mind. He blinks against the bright fluorescent lights above him.

“Ah, Mr. Cohen. How are you feeling?”

He blinks again—where are his glasses? He can’t quite see. But the blur of a person above him seems to be a doctor. Or maybe a nurse. He can’t tell. Maybe he’s totally wrong, but given that this seems to be a hospital…

“Mr. Cohen?”

“What’s happening?” Did he actually say that? He’s not sure.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.” He hears it this time, knows it came from his throat.

“That’s very understandable. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since you arrived.”

“When…?”

“About an hour ago.”

An hour… that means nothing to him right now. Time is meaningless—did he die?

“Your friends have been waiting, if you’d like to see them.”

His head spins. Friends, plural? Okay…

“Mark?”

He nods as much as he can—which isn’t a lot. “Yes, please.”

The lights are dim now. He feels like he could fall asleep forever.

The door has barely closed when it swings open again. “Oh my god, you’re finally awake.”

It’s a woman’s voice. He can’t sit up on his own, but then a figure comes into view. “Who…”

“Oh, I forgot,” the voice says. Then there’s the sound of rummaging. “I have your glasses.” She slides the cold metal over his ears, and the world comes into focus.

“Oh. Hi, Jo,” he mumbles. The words smudge together, like wiping fog from a window.

Joanne leans down and gives him a gentle hug. “We’ve been so worried.”

“When did you…”

“Roger called me when he couldn’t wake you up.”

“Oh.” He didn’t even think how he might have gotten to the hospital.

Joanne smiles at him and steps back, looking over at Roger.

“Hi, Rog,” Mark says, trying to smile; he feels it waver. “Y’okay?”

Roger looks at him, his expression blank. After a moment, he whispers, “I got so scared, Mark.”

Something about that statement makes Mark feel much worse than before. “I’m sorry,” he says, wishing he could evoke exactly how sorry he is through his voice. But he doesn’t have the strength. All he wants is to go back to sleep.

There must be something in either his expression or Roger’s that he can’t quite identify yet, because Joanne says “I’ll give you two some space,” before walking back out the way she came.

The silence lingers. Mark wants to break it, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly say. But he doesn’t have to say anything: Roger grabs one of the chairs against the wall and pulls it next to the bed, where he sits down. He sighs and braces his elbows on his knees, and then he speaks, his voice weak. “You scared the shit out of me, Mark.”

Mark’s heart pounds. Scaring Roger is something he never wants to happen.

“It was awful. I knocked on the bathroom door—it had been a little too long—and you didn’t answer, and I got so worried that something had happened.” He pauses and presses his hands over his face. “You didn’t move. And I didn’t know what was wrong, whether you were just asleep, or if you were sick, or—”

Mark can’t look away. His eyes stay locked on Roger, seeing all the emotion spilling out of him.

“But then you woke up, a tiny bit. And I was ready to ask you what was going on, but you didn’t want me to touch you. And then you weren’t responding again, and I was so freaked out… I called Joanne, I didn’t know what else to do, and I still couldn’t wake you up.”

“I’m so sorry, Roger…”

“Joanne called an ambulance,” Roger continues, not looking at Mark. “Collins is on his way. And Joanne left a note for Maureen, so she might come in the morning.”

“What… what time is it?”

“Almost four.”

He wishes he could hide and never come out again. Four in the morning? What a goddamn inconvenience he is.

“You stirred a couple times, and we thought you were going to wake up… and then you just went back under again.”

Mark blinks through his tears. Even in this barely-conscious state, he can tell that Roger is exhausted, just from the slump of his shoulders and the angle of his head. “Did you… were you here the whole time?”

“Of course. We weren’t gonna leave you here.”

“Roger…”

“Don’t tell me I should be taking care of myself,” Roger whispers. “Don’t you dare say that when you’ve been dealing with this for god knows how long.”

“I’m sorry.” He really is. He knows he shouldn’t have lied, shouldn’t have kept it all a secret, shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Whatever this is.

Roger scoots his chair closer and leans his head against Mark’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Really tired.” His muscles feel tired and weak. He still can barely keep his eyes open or his head up.

“Well, now that you’re awake, hopefully the doctor can come back soon and check you out.”

“That’s good.” Mark lies back against the pillows. “This really sucks.” He realizes now just how true that is. He’d been so exhausted for what felt like so long, and he hadn’t quite realized the scope of it until now. Waking up and getting out of bed had been such a chore for so long. He can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner.

Carefully, Roger takes Mark’s hand and holds it between his own. “We’ll get through this, okay?”

“Okay.”

Maybe it will be okay. And even if it isn’t, at least he’s not alone.

Chapter Text

As much as hospitals are the last place he wants to spend his time, Roger isn’t going to leave until Mark is discharged.

Hopefully it won’t take too long. Mark is fully awake and moving now. The first doctor did some neurological tests, first moving Mark’s arms for him, then getting Mark to touch his fingers together to see if he could move on his own. Then Mark had to press his arm against the doctor’s hand, then flex and bend his toes, then stand up and walk across the room. Roger can’t help but feel terrified of the implications: in certain circumstances, Mark may not have been able to do those things.

Roger tries them out himself. They’re simple movements that he almost takes for granted. The idea of losing them sends a shiver down his spine.

The young doctor leaves, assuring them his boss will come in any minute and do his own exam. Mark nods and smiles, but as soon as the door closes, he slumps back against the pillows with a sigh. “Jeez.”

“You okay?”

“I don’t know.” He keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling. “That was so strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know when your hands or feet fall asleep, and then you have that really painful pins-and-needles feeling?”

Roger nods. “Yeah. I hate that.”

“When the doctor moved my arms, that’s what I felt.” Mark sighs and shakes his head. “Just… pins and needles. Through my whole arm. And then in my legs. It hurt to walk.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I don’t know what I can do about it.”

With that, he rolls over in the bed, turning his back to Roger.

Roger keeps an eye on the heart monitor as Mark lays there, quiet and still. Every once in a while, he finds himself about to drift off to sleep, but then the beeping sound permeates his awareness, and he shifts in his chair, desperate to stay awake. Just in case anything happens.

It feels like it’s been hours—in reality, it’s not even thirty minutes—when there’s a knock on the door, and Joanne pokes her head in. At the sight of Mark facing away, she whispers, “Oh, is he asleep?”

Roger shrugs. “Not sure.”

“Well, Collins is here.” She pushes the door open the rest of the way and walks in.

Roger stands up and smiles weakly at Collins. “Hey, Tom.”

“Hey, Rog.” Collins wraps him in a tight hug, and for a moment, Roger feels like he might cry. He’s kept it together reasonably well, only nearly losing his composure when the paramedics said he wasn’t allowed in the ambulance and he and Joanne had to walk to the hospital. He leans into Collins’ embrace, feeling some of his worry fade simply from the presence of his loved ones.

“How you feeling?” Collins says, releasing Roger.

Roger shrugs. “Honestly? I’ve felt worse.” When Collins raises an eyebrow, he continues, “I’m trying not to think too much, otherwise I might lose my mind.”

Collins nods. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that.” Then he gestures towards the bed. “How’s he doing?”

“He woke up a little while ago.” Roger turns and gazes at his boyfriend. “Said he’s tired, though. So I’m letting him sleep.”

“I can hear you, y’know.”

Roger jumps slightly. “Jesus, Mark!”

Mark rolls onto his back and smiles. “Hey, Tom.”

Collins laughs. “Damn you, Mark Cohen. Scaring us like this.”

Someone knocks on the door and opens it slightly. It’s another doctor.

“Let’s get outta here, Jo,” Collins says, holding the door open for Joanne. He flashes a thumbs-up towards Mark, who weakly returns the gesture.

“So, Mr. Cohen.” The doctor looks at his clipboard. “How are you feeling?”

Mark blinks a few times, as if he’s trying to focus on the doctor’s face. “I’m… tired.”

“That’s very understandable. Now, do you know why you’re here today?”

“Because I passed out. Or something.”

“Do you think you can tell me what you remember from today?”

Mark hesitates and glances at Roger. “Um. I don’t really remember much of it.”

“That’s okay. Just tell me what you can.”

“I was just really tired all day. And I was trying to sleep, but I got overheated. And everything felt weird.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Roger gently squeezes Mark’s hand.

The doctor asks so many questions.

Has this ever happened before?

Mark stays silent for a moment, before saying he’s not sure. “Something similar… once or twice. Not exactly the same. Not this bad.”

Are you taking medications?

“Yes. Antidepressants.”

When was the last time you ate? And what did you eat?

“I don’t remember.”

The more questions he gets asked, the more distressed Mark seems. After a while, the doctor seems to notice too, because he says, “I’ll go get the nurse to see how your blood results look,” and leaves the room.

Roger reaches over and takes Mark’s hand. “It’ll be okay, baby. I got you. I’m right here.”

“Yeah.” Mark nods, but his eyes are distracted, focused on nothing.

Carefully, Roger presses a kiss to Mark’s temple. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

The blood results come back normal. It’s not as reassuring as it should be. Because it’s not an answer.

The second doctor comes back, asks a few more questions. Mark barely gives verbal answers, instead shaking his head or nodding more often than not. It’s still enough to satisfy the doctor, though.

There isn’t exactly a diagnosis. The doctor suspects it was all caused by a combination of poor nutrition, dehydration, and anxiety. Mark doesn’t seem surprised in the least. He doesn’t show any emotion at all, not even when the doctor adds on that he’s clear to leave the hospital.

When the doctor leaves the room, Roger comes and gives Mark a gentle hug. He can feel him shaking in his embrace, so he sits on the edge of the bed and hugs him a little tighter. Then he feels Mark gripping his arm and hears a quiet cry. “Oh, Mark…”

That’s too much for Mark; he slumps against Roger’s chest, his body wracked with silent sobs.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Roger whispers as Mark begins mumbling the same two words over and over. “This isn’t your fault, okay?”

“But what if it is?” Mark can hardly speak. “What if I could have avoided this?”

“Don’t say that. You heard what the doctor said, right? He thinks it has to do with anxiety. That’s not something you can control.”

“But…” Mark chokes on the word a little bit. “But I thought I was doing better. I’m trying to do better.”

“I know you’re trying, my love.”

“I just… I’m supposed to be the strong one. I’m supposed to be there for you when things happen.”

“Hey, if this happened a thousand times, I would always be here for you.”

A thousand times would be too many. But it’s the thought that counts.

When it happens again, a week later, they’re both a little more prepared. Once Mark is aware of his surroundings and able to move, Roger talks him through small motions and holds him as he cries.

When it happens again, this time at dinner with their friends, Mark manages to nudge Roger’s shoulder hard enough to get his attention before collapsing against him, and Roger knows how to react. He helps Mark stay upright in his seat, then carries him piggyback on the way home.

It didn’t happen a thousand times. But Roger kept his promise: he was there, right by Mark’s side. Every time. No matter what.