Never Knew

Summary: Mark never realized just how much Roger cared…until now. 1st person, Mark’s POV. Author’s Note: This is a oneshot—Just Us Two is going to be a multichaptered fic. I don’t know where the idea came from. :D It’s a little graphic: nothing too horrible, but blood is mentioned… Also highly introspective. “We’re out of milk—can you get some?” That was what Roger said on his way out. No fucking ‘goodbye,’ just…asking me to get milk. Fucker. But still, he was my best friend…and that was why I was out in the freezing cold, heading down to the corner store. “Fuck, Roger…what a great friend,” I grumbled to myself. But I wouldn’t complain when he got back: I’d ask how his gig went, he’d reply ‘fine,’ and then drag himself into bed. At least it meant he wouldn’t be shooting up. When we first moved to New York, Roger tried to explain how to walk around so you don’t get mugged. ‘It’s easy. Just…make it look like you’d beat the shit out of anyone who touched you.’ Apparently I ended up looking like some pompous rich asshole, so I decided to just look at the ground. I’d gotten pretty used to seeing my shoes…worn as they were. It was a good reminder to save up for them…if we could ever generate any income, what with Roger using most of it for drugs. But I’ve learned not to mess with him and his drugs—he can be pretty violent. All this was running through my head as I went on my way, counting the lines in the sidewalk—there were two-hundred-and-thirty-six between the loft and the corner store, and I regretted not taking my bike. Well, too late to go back now. I was at line one-hundred-fifty-six when I heard someone following me. I dared to look up and behind me…and sure enough, there was a man following me. I winced and looked back down—I was even more of a target now. Fuck. “Hey, man,” said a voice from behind me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I stopped, swallowing. Maybe he wasn’t talking to me…yeah right. I turned, and sure enough, he was there, only a foot from my face, his breath stinking of alcohol and weed. I backed up, just to get as far away as possible. Across the street, two men started coming this way. It was an ambush. Roger could have talked his way out of this. But me? I couldn’t do a fucking thing. I just…stood there, frozen in place—like a fucking statue. I’m a pretty good runner—maybe I should have tried to get to the store. But my mind wouldn’t work… so I just stood there. “Got a light?” asked the first man, now flanked by his buddies. I nodded. Willing my hand not to tremble, I slid it inside my pocket and closed my fingers around the small matchbook. I kept it with me, after Roger set the couch on fire trying to light a candle. He was drunk and high at the time, but that didn’t make any difference. He set fire to his bed when he was completely sober. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the matchbook and held it out. Maybe I would be lucky— maybe he really just wanted a light. And that was when the first blow came. One man swung his fist into my stomach. I was thrown backwards, but not to the ground. My eyes stung and watered, but I didn’t want them to see. Coughing, choking in a ragged breath, I staggered against the nearest wall. The men advanced again, and one of them punched me across the face. My glasses clattered away, and I heard the lenses crack behind the sounds of their

laughter. I was pressed against the wall, clutching my cheek and thinking: I should run…why am I not running? Why am I not fighting back? I knew why. I was a fucking chicken. I was too fucking scared to try and protect myself. I just let them hit me again and again, until I was laying on the ground, curled up in the fetal position. Over and over I repeated the same thought. Fuck you, Roger. I blamed him. It was wrong—he didn’t know this was going to happen, but somewhere in my pain-addled brain, it made sense. They hadn’t let up. Hit after hit into my stomach, back, face, legs… everywhere. The three of them had shoved me against the wall, the ground…into each other’s fists, even. And then they’d left, tossing the matchbook beside me, where I could see it in the dim light. I saw blood everywhere…on the street, the wall, my glasses…which shone tauntingly from where they lay, just out of my reach. I struggled to take in a deep breath, and my mouth tasted of blood. Move, I willed myself. Just one arm…a finger…fuck, MOVE! But no matter how hard I wished it, I couldn’t make myself move. I just lay there, my eyes closing slowly, wondering if Roger would be coherent enough to notice I was gone. Maybe I would just lay there, bleeding out… “Oh, fuck…Mark, man, you better not fucking die! I’ll kill you if you die!” I wondered absently who was yelling at me. I tried to crack an eye open, but to no avail. Someone was shaking me, lifting me off the pavement, wiping at my face… I winced. Ow. That fucking hurt. “Mark…Mark Cohen, you fucking wake up!” I managed to peel an eye open, and—fuck, I had to be dreaming. Roger was there, his face both angry and concerned. “Oh, God…Mark, what the fuck happened?” I stared at him for a moment. “Roger?” I finally managed. My voice was raspy, and I winced. Roger nodded. I wondered why his head was upside down… And then I realized it. My head and shoulders were in his lap. I coughed, and tasted blood. “Shit, man…what happened to you?” Roger helped me into a sitting position, but kept one arm around my shoulders, supporting me. “Don’t you have a gig?” I rasped, still bitter about the milk think. Oh, sure it was stupid—but I was fucking hurting all over, and I was pissed. Roger looked angry again. “Fuck, man…you’re more important than some gig.” Oh, I was dreaming. I’d wake up and Roger wouldn’t be there—he’d be off at CBGB’s, happily playing away. “C’mon…can you stand? We gotta get you off the street.” Dream-Roger helped me stand, still supporting me firmly but carefully, trying not to hurt me. But the second I put weight on my right leg, it gave out. Luckily, Dream-Roger held me tight—and I didn’t fall. “Dammit, Mark…how the fuck am I gonna get you back?” said Dream-Roger, basically to himself. I shrugged. “Dunno. I mean…this is all a dream, so it really doesn’t matter.” Dream-Roger stared at me. “A dream? Mark…did you get hit on the head?” I shook my head, even though I wasn’t sure. “Then…why do you think it’s a dream?”

Anger flared up painfully in my chest. “Because Roger doesn’t care enough about me to miss a gig! He doesn’t even say a fucking goodbye tonight—he just told me to fucking get milk!” I tore free, using the wall for support. Dream-Roger was staring at me, but not interrupting. “Roger just cares about drugs and his band. I’m just there for kicks, just to be a punching bag when he gets too high or drunk! I’m fucking sick of it!” Dream-Roger shook his head. “Fuck. Mark…why didn’t you tell me?” He looked me over once, and then turned away, angry. “Mark, you listen to me. This isn’t a fucking dream.” I blinked. My head was a little clearer…and the pain made me sure it wasn’t a dream. “Ok.” Roger moved a little closer, and then grabbed me into a hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…” “Ow.” He was hugging me too tightly, but he just laughed as he released me. Fucker. But I smiled a little. “Alright, Marky. Let’s get your glasses and get you home.” Marky. He hadn’t called me Marky since school. Roger bent and retrieved my glasses, handing them to me as he examined the matchbook. “This is ours, isn’t it?” I nodded, examining my glasses. They were ruined. Completely fucked. I winced as I thought of the cost of another pair. Roger groaned when he saw them. “Oh, fuck. There’s another hundred dollars down the toilet.” But he grinned at me. I smiled, but then a cough tore itself from my chest. Roger grabbed my arm, frowning. “Come on,” he said, putting an arm around me and guiding me towards the loft. I was more than a little surprised—he hadn’t been the touchy-feely guy before the drugs, and he really hadn’t once he started using. But here he was… maybe I was seeing the real Roger for once. The guy who became my best friend in school. I stole a glance at him, looking at his face. Sure, his face had matured, and he was taller—but…he still looked the same. He still looked like a little kid. And sometimes…sometimes he was. Sometimes he just needed a push in the right direction to bring him back around. So he wasn’t going to stop doing drugs or getting drunk…but something told me he wasn’t going to treat me the same—that he wasn’t going to use me as a punching bag anymore. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. “You know something?” said Roger conversationally as he helped me up the stairs. I gritted my teeth—I had a headache coming on, and the pain all over hadn’t faded at all. “What do I know?” I asked, taking the bait. Roger grinned. “You never got the milk.” “…Fuck.” Yeah, he’s still the same Roger beneath the drugs and alcohol. He’s just as much of an asshole. He’s Roger Davis. He’s a guitarist and singer. He’s a drug addict and borderline alcoholic. He’s all of these things…but he’s also my best friend.