Work Text:
MARK:
I miss him.
Yeah, I miss him, even though he’s less than twenty feet away from me, even though I could knock on the wall that separates my room from his and find him there, lying on his bed with his lyric book opened, like he always does when he’s about to go to bed and we’re not up writing together, even if he’s not actually writing in it, even if he’s reading something else. He told me once that he does it because things come to him when he’s alone at night, strange ideas and strings of words and notes and images that might, in that moment or in some moment in a far-off someday, turn into songs.
When he told me, my first thought was to wonder if it was a new habit, because in our years together, he hasn’t often been alone at night. It’s a thought I don’t like to dwell on, but the thing is, he’s alone now, and while that book of his has been getting fuller – I know, because he’s been marking pages in it, and there are torn scraps of paper used as bookmarks poking out of the top and sides of the book until it seems like it has been growing in girth daily – it hasn’t seemed to make him more productive. We haven’t written anything lately, and instead of handing me the book and giving me free reign to look at his scribbles, the book has stayed closed. It’s like the book is a symbol, almost – usually, he and I have no secrets; usually, we are open books to each other. Lately, though, the air has changed between us. There’s distance that I can’t explain.
It’s always been the only thing I’ve kept secret from him – how could I not? – but it’s starting to creep into other things, into everything. How can I ask to read his most private thoughts when I can’t tell him anything about mine, because recently, it’s all him, all the time? How can I ask him if he’d still keep the lyric book opened in bed if he wasn’t alone, if I were there beside him with my blue journal opened next to his black one, if our feet were intertwined under the covers and I absently picked up his pen instead of mine when a phrase popped into my head?
When I used to knock on the wall of his bedroom, he would knock back to tell me to come in, and I would sit on one end of his bed and he on the other, and if it was cold, he would slip his cold feet under my outstretched legs. I would pretend to complain, and then we would laugh, and I would always give in. When I left, and we said good night, I would walk back to my room and dream that he was mine, that I was coming to him instead of going.
But I can’t do that anymore, because having him so close to me would be dangerous – way too dangerous to risk – and so I avoid him, more and more with each day, even though I need him more than ever as we write these songs together. I know he needs me, too, because I know him well enough to see these things in his eyes, but I can’t give him that right now. I can’t be just his co-songwriter and best friend right now, because I want so much more, so badly that it’s starting to overtake everything else.
Believe me, I know the irony in this. I know I’m being ridiculous; I know that if I keep this up for much longer, I’m risking destroying something incalculably precious. I can’t tell him because I’m too afraid to lose him… but by holding on to these hopes, these fears, by being silent, am I slowly losing him anyhow?
Last week, when I was sick, I couldn't get out of bed for almost three days. He took care of me the whole time, even though I kept telling him to stay away because the fever might've been something contagious. He knew that what was a simple illness to me could be dangerous to him, and yet he stayed with me through all those nights and days, making me drink water, making me take Tylenol, taking my temperature every time I was awake. He brought me extra blankets that probably meant that he was sleeping in the cold without them, but from the few times I remember waking up in the darkness, he was always there, sitting on the edge of my bed, so maybe he wasn't sleeping at all. Part of me didn't want to let him do it, but the part of me that was too sick to protest but still able to think somewhat clearly wanted him to stay. And I don't know if it was real or if it was just part of my fever dreams, but I remember being half asleep and feeling his lips against my hot forehead, and I wanted it to be real. I remember it now, and my heart feels this twinge of blossoming hope, and I want it to mean something.
Please wait just a little while longer, Rog. I’m almost ready. I’m so close to being able to say it. Don’t pull yourself away before I can, because... it sounds corny, and I know it’s not true, but... Roger, without you, I feel like only half of a whole.
*****
ROGER:
I miss him.
Is it possible to miss someone who isn’t really gone? He’s two seconds away from me; I could walk to the other side of the loft and he’s there, but even if I did, I’d still miss him, because he can’t give me what I want from him, and I can’t tell him why.
I thought I wouldn’t have to lose anything. I thought that while I tried to work through this, to figure out what the hell I was thinking or feeling, we could go on as we always were, that we could still be friends. Best friends. I’m so used to being able to lean on him, to being able to tell him everything, that whatever this is, this new strangeness, this new feeling of having to think before I say things, before I do things, makes me feel awkward and stilted.
The thought of feeling awkward around him, of all people, makes me wish that drugs were still an option to numb all this, make it all go away, even for a little while.
It’s like nothing and everything has changed, all at the same time. We’ve done nothing differently; we’ve said nothing that would mean anything of any significance, and yet... we’re trapped in this whirlwind of maybes that seems to keep spinning incessantly, not stopping long enough for me to figure out in which direction the storm is heading. I wish I had answers – I wish something, anything was certain – but it’s all so confusing, so fucking complicated, that I barely know where to start.
It should be simple. It should just be I love you or I don’t love you, and things should work themselves out from there, right? That’s how it was with April. That’s how it was with Mimi. It’s different with Mark, because he’s already been in my life longer than any of the others combined. He’s not someone who came into my life and made me fall instantly, and even if I knew that answer to that million-dollar question, this isn’t just about how I feel anymore. It goes so much farther than that now. The answer to this, whether it’s yes or no, means everything changes. Everything.
I want things to change... and yet, I don’t want things to change. I don’t want them to change in the way they’re already changing, because I haven’t given my permission! I didn’t ask for any of this, and changes are forging ahead without me anyhow. The distance between us keeps widening, and I want to rush through the gap and pull us back together again, and I can’t. I want him so badly, and at the same time, I’m afraid to let him near.
Last week, when he was sick, it suddenly seemed simple. I took care of him, the way he had always taken care of me, and there were no questions. Mark kept trying to get me to go away, because he didn't want me to catch whatever it was that he had, but to me, there was only one answer - he needed me, so I was there. As I sat at his bedside watching him sleep, I saw this picture in my head of something that seemed not so far into our future, a life where we were together as more than roommates and best friends, and we took care of each other, and were happy. It seemed impossible and yet so easy, because wasn't that what we were already doing, just with a different name (and a few other benefits I have to banish from my thoughts if I don't want to get caught staring at Mark while turning redder than he does)?
Mark, I wish I were brave. I wish I could walk over to you right now, sit down in front of you and say, “I don’t know what this is, but something has changed between us, and I think together, we might be able to figure it out.” I wish I could tell you exactly what I’m feeling, to use the word love and let there be a question mark attached until we could sort things out as a pair, the way we always do. I wish I had the guts to hold you and let myself feel everything I’m afraid I might feel, to let myself do whatever my heart and mind and body tell me to do in response, and to trust that we could make it work.
I can’t, though. I’m so used to being impulsive, to jumping into things without thinking, but now I’m too afraid to leap ahead without answers, too scared to take the risk of losing everything by not being sure. I’ve done it before and I can’t do it again. Not with you. I would risk breaking my heart, but never breaking yours.
Never, Mark. I would never, ever do that to you.
I know you’ll always be there for me, so even while we’re stuck in this Great Divide, I’m never truly afraid you won’t be there when I finally decide to speak. But time is such a tricky thing, so please... wait for me. Be patient with me, as you always have been. And if there has ever been a place in your heart in which you’ve thought of me as something more, please look there now, because, Mark…
I think... maybe I’ve known the answer since we wrote that first song.