Title: Chaptered By Silence
Author: Kait
Summary: You sometimes think that your life is neatly chaptered between periods of silence.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jonathan Larson's estate can assume full ownership.
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I wrote this between three and four am. It may be expounded upon. Comments are more than welcome.

Chaptered By Silence


He's standing there when you wake up and you know it's going to be bad. You wince without even realizing it, sure that it's more the thought of what he's going to say than the splitting headache banging through your head, although you hope he thinks it's the other way around.

You manage to throw him a weak smile. He can barely return it.

"Hi," he says, and your heart breaks all over again.

"Hi," you reply. The headache is dissipating as your head gets used to the light and your attention is diverted to the ache in your chest.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You passed out last night and... yeah. You didn't look too good. I think you had bad dreams." He won't look at you anymore and you know exactly why. He watches you when you sleep. He told you, he told you about a million years ago. One of the things you've conveniently "forgotten" since things changed, even though you're both well aware that you still know him better than he knows himself.

"I'm good," you say a little stiffly. He frowns. You bite your lip. He still won't look at you.

"Okay. All right. I'll be insi--"

"Mark." He stops. He is halfway between sitting on the nightstand by the door and getting to his feet. His head is bowed. You can see his chest rise and fall a little more rapidly than normal, see his hands shake. You want to hold him.

You know you can't.

"Yes?" So prim and proper... you wish there was still feeling there. You wish he would let it show. But it's better, you know, that he doesn't. You don't know if you would be able to stand your decision if he did.

"Mark... last night... uh..."

Silence. Total silence. Because he's holding his breath and so are you and nothing in your room is making a sound besides the beating of your hearts.

You can hear the clock ticking from the kitchen.

"I just..." He starts to explain, even though you know you're the one who needs to be explaining. "I thought... you said it was over. And. That wasn't over. And I don't... I can't..." He sets his jaw. The movement is subtle but you pick it up easily. "YOU can't say that. And then do...that. It's just... I don't know what to think and I get carried away... You kissed me, Roger, and I just... you can't tell me that it's over and then do that. We can't do that if it's going to be over. I can't... handle it." You're shocked that he's said as much as he did, even though your heart is begging him, silently, to say more.

"I was drunk," you say feebly. You weren't and you know it, and you wonder if he knows it too. Tipsy, yes, but the drunk didn't come until after you kissed him, when you realized what you had done, when you caught his eyes and saw the conflict in them.

"I know. But it's not..." He sighs. You know he wants to argue. Not about whether or not you were drunk. Not about what you did. But about why it has to be this way. And you know he won't say it. He hasn't before and he won't ever, because he respects your opinion. You think he thinks you don't love him.

You hate yourself for never taking even a moment to correct that thought.

"Okay." You want that to be the end. You want him to leave. You think he will. You hope he will. When he doesn't move, you feel your chest start to seize up.

"No," he says softly, finally, after another one of those frightening silences that have become too common in the past two months.

The way he says it scares you. Because you think it must be exactly what you sounded like when you said it to him. Told him not to touch you. Told him not to kiss you. You still remember the look on his face, still see it every time you close your eyes. When you were younger, weaker, you would have turned to drugs to erase that look. Now you need it. It reminds you why you love him. It reminds you why you're doing this.

You explained to him that it wasn't working out. That it wasn't what you thought it would be. Without the discussion you know he wanted it just... reverted to the way it had been before. Except he was sadder and even more distant, and you were of no comfort to him. No one was. And it broke you, day after day, but it was something you would have to live with if you wanted to live with him.

Which was the point, really.

"What?" You want to stay casual, but the concern is etched into the syllable. It makes him flinch. He turns, slightly. You see his eyes and you're not surprised at the redness. You've never heard him cry since you pushed him away, but you know that he probably hasn't slept more than an hour or two a night. He sits on the nightstand and looks at his sneakers.

"No." He looks up again. His eyes meet yours for a moment before focusing on the wall instead. "I can't... I need to know." You want to draw this out as long as possible. You want to have the time, the time to look at him and figure out what to say. You know he won't stand for it, however.

You try anyway. "Know what?"

"Fuck you," he says softly, completely nonmaliciously. You know he doesn't mean it. "You know what."

"I'm sorry." The apology won't do, but you really are sorry.

"That doesn't explain it."

"I don't..."

"Love me?" And now he's looking at you and you want to cry. Or die. Or both. You want to leap from bed and hold him. You don't. You just shake your head.

"I do."

"You can't."

"I do."

"How?" He's pleading now. You shudder.

"You're beautiful."

"You won't touch me." You want to scream because it makes such perfect sense. If he would just look at it he would know that. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with you.

"I can't."

"Fuck that. You just have to reach out across the table, Roger."

"You don't understand."

"You're right."

Silence. You sometimes think that your life is neatly chaptered between periods of silence. You went seventy-two hours without speaking one word to him last week. You wanted to kill yourself. You know he did too. But that doesn't change the fact that every important conversation you've ever had with him has been broken up by long periods of nothing.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I know that."

"This shouldn't be hard, then."

"No. But it is."

"Why?"

You can always count on him to ask the hard questions.

"Because I'm sick."

"So?"

"You're not."

"I've noticed." He's getting stronger now, his voice has depth and his eyes meet yours for longer and longer periods of time. He stands.

You don't know if you want to kiss him or strangle him. Maybe both. But you can't do either. You know what you have to do, what has to be done to make this right. You have to roll over and ignore him and go back to sleep. But he's looking at you again. And it's hard. Because he has beautiful eyes.

"I love you."

"You said that already."

"That should be enough."

"It isn't." He's taken a few steps forward. You want to shrink back into the headboard but you don't move. "You're scared."

"I am. You should be too."

"I am. I don't want to be alone." You close your eyes. You can't hear that. Not now. Because you know it - you always have - but it doesn't sting any less.

"You're... you're not. I'm still here."

"I can't touch you. I can't even be in the same room as you without you--" You look away. "--doing that. You don't... if you..." He trails off in frustration. You want to explain it to him.

He won't understand.

"It can't be that way anymore." He nods sharply.

"So you say." He's even closer now. You could reach out and touch him if you wanted to.

You don't.

You can't.

"It's true." He doesn't move. "Fuck you, Mark. You don't get it. You won't. Just trust me that this is the way it has to be. I love you. I do. But it can't be the way it was. It can't! Because I love you so much. Not because I don't but because I do. I can't hurt you. I can't even chance it." He snorts and you want to smack him. "Do you have any idea what it's like to live with this? To wake up every morning and pray that you don't accidentally hand the person you love more than anything else a death sentence? I could never live knowing you were sick or hurt or... I can't even risk the chance of you... I can't do it. I can't even fucking say it! And I don't care what you say, you can never know what that feels like!"

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at you. He just sits down, silently, on the edge of your bed. You're so intent on watching him that you don't even notice that he's holding your hand until his fingers start to draw patterns on the back of it.

"Don't do that," you nearly growl. He drops your hand in surprise. You're immediately ashamed of your tone. You know just how long it takes for old habits to die and you know it was an accident on your part. He pulls away and begins to stand.

You don't realize you've grabbed his arm until it's too late. You both stare at your hand for a long moment. You let go just as he grabs your forearm back.

"Let go," you say. It's desperate. You know how it sounds and you really don't care. He doesn't let go. He sits down again, still holding you, sits and bites his thumb in concentration. You want to pull away and run but you can't. You can only pray that he doesn't do anything else, that he doesn't move. Maybe...maybe he'll let go and leave the room.

His free hand drifts down from his face and lands hesitantly on yours.

You don't know what happens next. You don't know anything except that you're kissing him and he's holding you so tightly that it hurts.

"Do you get it?" he's screaming and he still has one hand gripping your hair, the other on your arm. "Do you get it?! I love you! I FUCKING LOVE YOU! I can't DO THIS, Roger, I can't, I can't not be with you if you want me to! I can't be here and not be yours if you still want me! You do! I know you do! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"

You think he's going to hit you.

He doesn't.

He lets go. And gets up. And leaves the room. You hear his door slam. You hear his sobs. They echo your own.

.end.


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