"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go."

- Anonymous.

..

Forewarning: BDSM, explicit smut content, domestic abuse, an unhealthy relationship, hints of dark pasts and self-harm, feels, self-harming philosophy, clues pointing at Jack being a sociopath, and suggested depression in Roger.

..

Guilt

Listlessly, Jack stared down at the one curling up beside him. For once, he was the person who stayed up later, and for once, he had the chance to take in every detail of that sleeping face. The way the tired, gray eyes were shutting was oddly intriguing, and they made Jack question why, even if he was in a state when his body was supposed to relax, Roger's eyebrows were still furrowed, like he was worried of something, or scared, or hurt. Letting a small puff of air escape his nostrils, Jack continued trailing his eyes down to the pale neck, where a new, red hickey was prominent. The icy blue eyes continued their journey pass the green and purple bruises on Roger's shoulders, before finally stopping at his wrists.

They were still cuffed, as the result of their most recent erotic acts together. Normally, Jack would prefer it if Roger's wrists were tied together, but they, or he, wanted to try something new, so they switched to handcuffs. The final decision was always made by Jack. Actually, all the decisions were made by Jack. Roger never tried to object, not even once, even if he was the type of person to usually disagree with the absurd terms people laid on him. As far as Jack remembered, Roger had only warded off his rebellious nature when he was with the redhead. He constantly asked for Jack's opinions, as if he was scared of displeasing him. He did what he wouldn't often do, obey. He didn't mind being used as a toy to get off on, as long as he was good enough. He didn't mind getting hurt, physically and emotionally, as long as he could keep Jack satisfied. One could say he was obedient, but Jack would say that Roger, the creepy, intimidating rebel and sadist, was madly in love with him.

Granted, it wasn't love coming from both sides. To Jack, Roger was still just a toy, or a doll, to satisfy his desires, though lately, the redhead could swear he felt strange things around the other one. Maybe it was just sexual attraction, because Jack Merridew didn't love anybody. As Jack could see, none of that seemed to bother Roger. Contradictory to popular belief, Jack was the one who couldn't entirely feel human emotions. Roger felt, but suppressed them to the extent where he seemed emotionless. As a result, if the single-sided love ordeal had taken its toll on Roger, he would most likely not show it.

Gently, as if trying not to wake the other up, Jack undid the handcuffs. He slowly slid them out of Roger's wrists, but the small interaction had disturbed Roger. The gray eyes opened, and Jack had no intention of hushing him back to sleep or anything of the kind. It just wasn't what he did, and what he would ever do. They stared at each other, and it wasn't long before something sparked up in Jack again. His urges were back once he saw those gray eyes. The worn-out look inside of those eyes was something like a trigger, or maybe Jack had been taking in too much alcohol. Whatever it was, he wanted to fulfill his urges.

Jack cuffed Roger's hands together again, and the other understood immediately. He obediently moved his cuffed hands to above his head as Jack reconnected the chain that looped around the bedpost. Once Roger was in place, he removed the blanket that covered the both of them to reveal two naked bodies. Jack put both of his hands firmly on either sides of Roger's waist, his thumbs pressing down hard enough to let out moans from the other's mouth. The redhead inched upward so that his dick was rubbing against the other's organ. He dipped his head down to nibble on the hickey he left on Roger's neck in the previous rampage. He bit down at the red mark so hard it almost drew blood, and gnawed it again so that the liquid would pour out. Jack lightly licked the wound, all of that resulted in Roger sighing and panting, unknown if from the pain or the pleasure.

Jack glanced around the room, trying to find something before his eyes stopped at a glass with some melting ice inside. His right hand reached for the glass and dumped its content straight into his mouth, save for the ice. The redhead picked out the biggest piece of ice and fished it out with his tongue. He placed the ice on Roger's chest and watched him hissing a little from the cold before moving it down, once again using his tongue. The ice slid down from Roger's chest to his abdomen, leaving trails of water on its way, before being lifted up and placed on the tip of his cock. It continued its way down his length, stopping a little at his testicles. Water dripped down from the piece of ice as it was placed in front of Roger's entrance. Jack proceeded to push the piece of ice inside Roger, earning a flinch and a surprised gasp.

"Cold, hm?" The redhead lifted his head up to ask. Roger nodded. "You like it?" Again, another nod. "Want another one?"

"Yes, sir."

For a split second, the affirmative sentence just sounded like a lie to Jack. A lie to please him. Maybe it was an actual lie. Who could enjoy having ice shoved into their assholes, let alone a wannabe-masochist sadist? But Jack pushed those thoughts aside as his tongue picked out another ice cube. This time, instead of teasing Roger, he just shoved the ice straight into him. Jack could practically feel the other's teeth digging into his lips that had never been kissed, trying to hold in the painful moan, for he knew it would displease Jack.

As he pushed the last ice cube inside Roger, Jack reached for the vibrator lying on the ground, abandoned from the last time they had sex. He swirled its tip around the tight muscle ring at the entrance, prodding a little before thrusting it in. A gasp of surprise was heard, and Jack turned the machine on, letting it mess with Roger's inside. Jack moved to the other's head, his dick laying on the chewed lips. He grabbed a fistful of black hair and pulled Roger's head up, making the warm mouth wrapping around his throbbing dick. Roger's tongue moved along the length, tracing the veins and defined lines of the erecting muscle. He kept himself from moaning, knowing that he could only do it when Jack's cock was inside him, not anything else, and that Jack would hate it if he made sounds during a blow job.

The redhead let Roger's tongue do the job and sat on his face, practically strangling him with weight. As far as he could recall, Roger never particularly enjoyed getting hurt, yet he proposed to be a punch bag every time Jack's anger fit got out of control. And every time, Jack ended up beating the life out of his so-called best friend. The house that they lived in together was always a mess. Even if Roger got his hands on cleaning it everyday, there were very few days when Jack came home not pissed off about something. In fact, Roger never even minded the beating he received everyday, and being tied up and fucked almost every night. That willingness made some sort of guilt spark up inside of Jack, but it was only for a moment, about a few seconds, and then disappeared, like it never existed, even though the spark happened every time his violent tendencies act up.

Unaware of what was happening, Jack was a little surprised when he came. All of the white semen was contained in Roger's mouth.

"Swallow." He commanded. The other followed wholeheartedly, the thick liquid went down his throat in a short period of time. Now that Jack had realized it, Roger's pale face was turning pinker. He was sitting on the noirette's neck the whole time, and was probably blocking the air entering his lungs. Jack moved away from his throat, a little satisfied, even if he hadn't gone into the real business yet. He turned the vibrator off before pulling it out of Roger, making an uncharacteristic gasp escape his lips. Tossing the toy aside, he, then, started undoing the handcuffs.

When Jack was done, he found out that Roger was already asleep. His sleeping face, of course, wasn't one of those adorable expressions like the people in movies. He just looked exhausted and scared, to some degrees, with ruffled black hair, eyes that made raccoons jealous, and a constant furrowing of his brows. The expression bothered Jack a little, but he enjoyed staring at it in a weird, almost creepy way. Maybe he just liked seeing people in their worn out states. Maybe he just enjoyed staring. Maybe..

Maybe he was just fond of watching Roger sleep, even if it was the first time in about forever.

Jack's eyes were then distracted by some lines on Roger's arm. Normally, the younger one of them would try to hide his arms as much as possible, and Jack didn't really mind it. But now, seeing those scar-like lines got him intrigued. The redhead leaned closer to examine, and realized they were, indeed, scars. But they weren't normal scars made during Roger's angsty teenage years with a razor blade. They were letters. Letters carved into the pale arm, leaving scars so that they would forever remind the noirette who he belonged to.

Jack.

A pang of guilt hit Jack's heart like a truck loaded with explosives. The guilt didn't disappear this time.

Jack Merridew wasn't known for feeling guilt.

But if that was true, then what was it that he had just felt?

..

Sink

Roger had been secretly seeing a therapist lately.

Half of the reason was because Jack forbade him from leaving the house without permission. The redhead didn't want people to find out about the bruises, now that they were publicly together. He said the fact that he would be considered abusive would just complicate matters, and Roger could totally understand that.

The other half was because he didn't want Jack to get worried. However, it wasn't that the redhead could feel anything other than anger and some occasional disgust. Maybe Roger was just overthinking this. Maybe there was only the first reason. He had let his delusions take over him and was even dumb enough to think Jack cared.

They were just friends and he was a mere sex toy and the love was single-sided and the both of them knew it and it hurt.

And it hurt.

Roger had always thought therapy was useless because they couldn't cure him and his brokenness, and he still believed that was true. He wasn't going to blame Jack for his mangled mentality, but he knew he could blame the way his stupid brain go haywire whenever he saw those blue eyes, or the way he became so inattentive when he caught the red hair like flame dancing on the freckled skin, or the nervousness that bubbled in his stomach when he tried confessing for the umpteenth time, or the knowledge that he loved someone who couldn't love anybody. He couldn't blame anyone for his problem but himself. He knew that, more than anybody.

The water level rose a little as Roger climbed into the tub. Hot water covered him everywhere except for his head and hair, messy from the late night sex. He reached his hand out to turn off the faucet, and just sat there. Of course he didn't mean to do it, he didn't mean to burst out in tears when Jack whipped him, but it just reminded him of too much. But he wasn't supposed to cry like a bitch and displease Jack. He was supposed to moan in pleasure and enjoy the whipping like the slave that he was. After that, Jack was no longer in that endeavor and untied Roger, telling him to go take a bath. He didn't hit him more and was oddly silent this time.

If Roger had to bet, he would say he had enraged Jack so much the redhead didn't want to talk to him anymore. And soon, he would be discarded like an old, broken toy, and he would be replaced in a short time, and he wouldn't even be missed because who would miss a failure like him? He always considered himself to be overthinking everything, but what if one day, those things came true? What if one day, Jack actually threw him away to be with someone better, someone who could actually take pleasure in being hit, who didn't have to fake it just to please him, who didn't cry when they were whipped; someone who was generally more compatible? What if one day, Roger woke up, and Jack was gone? Gone, away from him, as far as possible because he was simply not enough?

What if one day, Roger killed himself and Jack couldn't find a replacement in time? What would happen to him? Who would make him breakfast? Who would iron his clothes? Who would clean up his house? Who would help him let his anger out? Who would please him at night? Who would make him lunch? Who would make him dinner? Who would be by his side? Who would turn the lights off for him if he dozed off while working? Who would carry him back to his bed if he was too drunk to get up? Would he mourn? Would he pretend Roger never existed? Would he lay a kiss on top of Roger's forehead before staring at his casket for the last time? Would he say goodbye? Would he miss Roger? Would he even care?

All the thoughts came to Roger at once. He didn't know the answer to all of them, but he did know the absolute respond to the last two. No, and no. His lips trembled as he touched them with his hand, remembering how he had so foolishly kept them virgin so that one day, when Jack kissed them, it would be his first kiss. That day never came. They didn't kiss. A master wouldn't do that to his toy. How could he stand lowering himself to such a level? Roger lowered his head and buried it between his kneecaps so that his face would be opposite to the water. His arms wrapped around his knees as his whole body shook. The tears escaped his eyes and fell into the water below, and the tiny whimpers amplified to become small screams, enough to not disturb the person outside. Even if his hair was dry, he felt like he had been under deep water. Everything sounded distant and the pressure was too great for him to breath, and he kept sinking down below even if he tried to swim upwards. And it seemed like life was gravity, and it just wanted him to go down like a sinking ship.

"Help me.." He whispered, not entirely sure if anyone but himself could hear it.

..

Selfish

Leaning against the door, Jack couldn't help but feel a little terrible. A part of him just wanted to walk inside and somehow help the other to calm down, and another part just wanted to listen. He followed the latter.

Scattering on the bed were ropes and a flogger. After witnessing the tears on Roger's face for the first time, Jack decided that the other needed a bath. He was mad at first, but the image of the scars kept appearing in his head, reminding him of the guilt that had suddenly gotten stronger. And for some reason, he just wanted Roger to be away from him as far as possible. That way, he wouldn't have to pretend that he loved getting hurt anymore. But why was Jack, of all people, thinking of this right now? Why was Jack, the person without the ability to care, caring?

Was that what it felt like to cherish someone?

Even if it was, Jack wouldn't know. He had never experienced it before, so he couldn't tell for sure. What he knew was that the feeling was strange, and the thought of Roger leaving his side somehow made his insides ache a little. The guilt was eating him up alive.

The bathroom's door opened and Roger walked out, fully clothed, curious eyes staring at Jack and his position in front of the door. The scars that said his name was prominent against the pink skin from the heat of the bath, and Jack couldn't even stop staring at it. He pretended to have seen it for the first time and gave Roger a questioning look. The other returned his look with a small smile. It was rare seeing him smile like that, and it wasn't something Jack particularly enjoyed sighting, but it was relieving, somehow.

"Why?"

The one-worded question didn't seem to bother Roger. Outside, Jack did most of the communicating, but, in the house, Roger was surprisingly the one who spoke more. The record of the most words said to Roger in the house was something around three or four. None of that seemed to dismay the younger of the two. And even if it did, he didn't show it.

"Because I love you."

Now Jack just felt like that beast in Beauty and the Beast, keeping someone selfishly just because he needed a cure, or, at least, a relief for his hideousness. But the other stayed willingly, despite knowing that the relationship would only cause them harm.

Roger was still standing there, the heartbreaking smile plastering on his lips. That irritated Jack to no ends. He wasn't supposed to smile like that. His face was supposed to be bruised and his lips were supposed to tremble and he was supposed to bleed. Jack held himself from throwing punches repeatedly in that face, knowing that he would feel guilty later on, but it was just so tempting.

"What's my punishment, sir?"

Roger asked him like how a slave would, and Jack knew the noirette was just doing his best to imitate one, but that was where he lost it. His fist made contact with the pale cheek, sending Roger back a few steps. He continued his series of punches, hitting various spots and focusing on the stomach. The younger one just stepped back every time he was hit, moving the bed out of its place, until a kick pushed him to the floor, and another one hit his ribcage. Then, the foot stomped on his chest, and the redhead stopped, heavy breaths filling the room.

"Thank you, sir." The voice was so weak Jack thought Roger was going to pass out. He stormed out of the room, going back to his laptop downstairs.

He opened the laptop and continued his work, even though he thought nothing of it. Why was Roger suddenly so important? Why was he feeling guilt? Did the scars do that? Did those scars make him feel like a selfish beast? Jack mistyped almost every word, but his mind wasn't there after all. He deleted every single letter he had just written and yelled frustratingly at the screen. His hands slammed on the keyboard, making random letters appear in the Word document. He closed the computer, not bothering to save the document, and stood up. As he turned sideway, he saw Roger making his way down the stairs, weak and bruised. The noirette turned to look at him, puzzlement on his face. Maybe it was because of his intense stare.

Before he knew it, Jack was already pinning Roger to the kitchen wall, one hand holding the other's arms above his head and the other roamed across the surface of the pants. His hot mouth trailed down to the sensitive neck, nibbling on the red hickey that was just starting to fade. Gasps and moans bursted out from the other's lips as Jack ground the hardening bulge on his pants against him. He manhandled Roger to the kitchen counter and roughly pushed his upper half so that he lied flat on the marble surface. His right hand held Roger's neck firmly on the table while his left hand pulled the other's pants and underwear down, exposing the bottom area, still pinkish red from the recent whipping. A slap landed on the skin, making Roger flinch a little. Jack slightly furrowed his eyebrows. Of course Roger wasn't anything like a masochist.

Jack discarded his pants, then underwear. His dick sprang free, the tip prodded at Roger's entrance, and he went in dry. He knew it hurt just by the slight curling of the other's fingers. His pace was so much faster in his disgruntlement that Roger was barely able to catch up. His left hand grabbed one of Roger's wrists, while his right hand was still busy choking the noirette. Moans, gasps for air, and the sounds of skin slapping against each other bounced off the kitchen wall and echoed around the house. The constant motion seemed like it was trying to move the immobilized counter, and the grunts coming from Jack's throat were barely audible. He didn't think about it, however. He was just trying to convey to himself that Roger was just a fuck hole, a place for him to vent his sexual frustrations in, and he had always been like that.

The conveyance didn't work, however.

Trying to deny it was useless. He knew Roger was more than that, but he didn't know what to call him, and their relationship in general. Admittedly, it was a sadist-masochist kind of bond, but it wasn't anymore after the guilt attack.

Regarding the guilt, if the scars were what made him feel it, wouldn't the problem be solved if he didn't see them anymore?

It didn't take Jack too long to come into Roger. The thick, white liquid was shot in his insides, going as deep as it could before flowing out again. Jack's bony body collapsed onto Roger's, not bothering to pull out. Hot, ragged pants tickled the noirette's earlobes, teeth dug into the sensitive spot and Roger let out a throaty moan. He rarely got to come during their sexual endeavors, so, of course, he was still horny. Jack's tongue briefly brushed through his earlobe, then it was gone, making him squirm underneath the weight.

"Don't let me see those scars again." The redhead whispered.

It was a selfish request, but Roger would comply, right? Love was an asshole, it made people sacrifice themselves even when they know it wasn't going to come to fruition.

..

Riptide

There was an addition to Roger's daily routines, covering the scars that said Jack's name. It took the redhead a little too long to find out about those scars, but he was furious when he saw them, so Roger thought it was because they weren't written nicely enough. Maybe one day he would get a tattoo, so that the words would be presented better. That way, Jack wouldn't be mad at him. At that moment, the redhead wasn't home. Or maybe the place had never been home to him. It was just a house where he stayed and got laid. It felt like Roger was the only one considering the place home. Everywhere with Jack was home.

Roger accidentally dropped the sponge on the floor and reached down to pick it up. The bruise on his arm made it a little harder to move without wincing at least once, but he deserved it. He deserved the bruise. If he hadn't been so clumsy as to trip and fall and spill water on Jack, he wouldn't have had himself beaten up and a house to clean and rearrange after Jack left that morning. Roger knew it was hard to be careful when he couldn't even keep his arms and legs from shaking relentlessly after all the new cuts he had acquainted himself with everyday. And he would have learnt his lesson if he hadn't seen Jack turning his head back right before he opened the door to head out, on his face was a look that Roger had never seen before, and his mouth moved to let out inaudible words that looked like "I'm sorry." But then, maybe it was only because his brain was such a mess that it deluded him into thinking the redhead could care enough to apologize.

However, even if Jack did care, it wasn't like the relationship was going to work out. Caring couldn't suddenly turn into loving, and as it may be, that was just a split second when guilt took him by surprise, and perhaps the apology wouldn't have been so significant to Roger if he hadn't fallen for Jack, and maybe the reason why Roger even bothered to pretend to be a masochist was because of his affections to the redhead that so strong they were like a riptide, crashing in and sweeping away everything in their wake.

Difficultly, Roger willed himself to walk downstairs. It was about six thirty in the evening, and Jack usually came back hungry at seven thirty. Dinner must be made before that time. Roger had learnt it the hard way. (He was a little too tired on that day and had slept until Jack woke him up, at seven forty, frustration glinting in the light blue eyes. It, admittedly, wasn't the best day ever.)

As he held the knife ready to chop the shoots of asparagus, Roger attempted to not intentionally cut his fingers. He tried to resist that temptation everyday when holding his knife, and failed almost every time. The pain from the cuts were like a more twisted version of drugs. They took him away from the emotional pain, only to later leave him in an even worse state, making him want more, so that they would relieve him more. But the more he cut, the less effective they became, and at that point, he had already been addicted to them, so much so that he would keep cutting himself, drawing more blood to achieve the effects they gave him the first several times he did it. And suddenly, the cuts didn't hurt anymore, or maybe they still did, but not as much as they used to when he had to resort to them. It had been a long time since he started this harmful habit, long before even moving in with Jack. He would usually guilt himself into not doing it when Jack was around. However, if he was just by himself, he would just be unable to control his hands. But then, Jack wanted to see people in pain, so maybe he would try suggest something related to cutting when the redhead was trying to think of something new during their sexual activities.

Setting the plates on the dining table, Roger wondered when Jack would open the door and walk in. He glanced at the clock to see it pointing at seven fifty. It was a little late, but maybe it was just a traffic jam. Roger decided to sit down and wait. Their table was a rectangular one that was made from oak wood. It had been there since forever, and it had witnessed almost every of Jack's rage. There was that time when the redhead threw a knife and missed. The knife stuck into the table two inches deep and Roger almost fell on his back trying to pull it out. There was also that time when Jack pushed him into that table so hard his back had a purple bruise for days. And, of course, there were those various times when Jack was so frustrated he just drove Roger to the table and fucked him on it.

A few hours ticked by, and there were still no signs of Jack coming back. Roger had called his phone more than twenty times, and had left a little more than fifteen voicemails. He walked around the house, theories as to why the redhead wasn't home popping up continuously in his head. He had no idea what to do, either. Calling the police or someone like that would make him sound crazy, but he had already been crazy. The food was getting cold and he still hadn't touched them, despite his stomach's relentless rampages. In the end, he decided to sit down again, in front of the cold dinner. He put his arms on the table and buried his head in them, not knowing what he should do, or if he should even do anything at all. It all came down to one conclusion. Jack was leaving him. He found another person, a better one, someone more compatible, someone who could withstand his whips and bites and chains, and Roger would be discarded, gotten rid of, like an old toy.

It took him a while, but Roger drifted off to sleep on the table, with emotions like a riptide still going berserk inside him. He didn't go into deep sleep, however. He had never been in deep sleep. And through his ears, his fuzzy mind could briefly make out the sounds of the door clicking open, and of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. Roger could feel the steps stopping beside him, but he was too tired to do anything. Bony fingers touched his hair so gently it hurt, and he could feel someone carrying him, and that someone was trying to walk upright, even if they would sway from side to side a couple of times, and the warmth that was enveloping him was incredible, and Roger could swear it was the best dream he had ever had. And because it was a dream, Roger knew he could finally say what he had wanted more than anything in the world.

"Please love me."

..

To Let Go

It was as if something was brutally squeezing his heart until it was dry of blood.

The three simple words messed around with Jack's drunken mind. It made his legs and arms weak altogether, and they shook for the first time in his life. And for some reason, they hurt him much more than they should. What was that feeling that brought him to his knees and made his insides curl up? Why was this beg for affection making him yield? Was he even feeling guilt anymore?

Jack placed Roger on his side of their bed. Why was separating himself from the noirette to escape the feelings so difficult? He sat down on the floor, facing the other. The scars were covered, but, even without them, Jack still couldn't run away from these strange, new emotions. His alcohol-induced brain suddenly wasn't telling him to hurt Roger anymore, despite his urges to see that pale, clear skin tainted by bruises. It made his hand reach up and softly touched the other's cheek. His thumb lightly stroked the skin, and slowly, his head was moving towards Roger. Questions started to bubble in the pit of his stomach, but he gave them a pass as he laid his lips on top of the smooth forehead. The action surprised him as he pulled away quickly, eyes still opening wide.

What was that?

For a few weeks, Jack tried to intentionally come home late, drunk, and every night, he would come home to a sleeping or passed-out Roger, either on the couch or the table, or even on the floor. They didn't engage in any of their sexual intercourse anymore, and every time they came close to doing so, the redhead would just shove Roger away. If it concerned the noirette, he didn't show it, and wouldn't ever show it. And if it hurt, he didn't let it out either.

That bothered Jack a great deal. Everyday, he became more frustrated, but, for some odd reason, he didn't want to let his anger out on Roger anymore. He kept them in, for fear he might hurt the noirette, and until then, he still hadn't figured out what his feelings for the other was. Jack knew he would need to hurt something soon, or else he would literally explode with all the fire in him. He knew he couldn't just inflict pain on Roger, and that it was too late to start over because he had gotten so addicted to hurting he couldn't just be in a normal relationship. It just wasn't the way he functioned. He was afraid that he would never be able to control himself, and, that, even if they started over, everything would just collapse again, and they would be retaking this path that hurt the both of them, and even if they ran away, they would still be going in that merry-go-round, and the only way that Roger could be safe from him was if they never met.

And it was like needles poking in Jack's guts thinking of Roger leaving his side, but love demanded sacrifice, and he was willing.

Love. Maybe that was what he had been feeling.

Maybe it was also what made Jack decide to pin Roger to the wall and kiss the life out of him, knowing all along that the noirette had been waiting for that moment. His tongue delved deep into the other's mouth, tongues entwining. His hands fiercely held the other's face, thumbs stroking and caressing the cheeks and jawline. And maybe the lack of reciprocation wouldn't have bothered him if he hadn't seen the two eyes brimming with tears as he pulled away.

"You're leaving me, right?" Roger bit his lower lip, trying not to let his tears roll out of his eyes. "People are nicer when they're about to leave you. And you've been coming home late these days, and then you suddenly kissed me, and even though it's all I ever wanted from the start, I just know that it's you saying goodbye because–" As he lowered his head, the disobedient drops of tears started falling down.

And Jack was frozen at his place.

"–because you don't love me, and have never loved me, and I'm just a toy that will get replaced someday, and that day is today."

Love. It made things hurt in the way they weren't supposed to.

And Jack was still silent.

"And.. I have a dream the other day. It was you carrying me upstairs because I fell asleep on the table, even when you were drunk. And when you'd put me in bed, you sat and stared at me with those eyes that were so caring and gentle I thought they were real." Roger smiled as he remembered the gaze, but the tears were still rolling out of his eyes rapidly. Small whimpers slowly escaped his throat. "And then you kissed my forehead like you loved me, and– and I was so happy I just wanted for that moment to go on forever."

Jack was standing so still that, for a brief moment, he seemed lifeless.

"I know this day is going to come, it just came way earlier than I imagined, and I'm never going to be ready for it, but I'll go anyway, because that's what you want, right?" Roger lifted his head up to look at Jack. The redhead's face was devoid of any color or emotion. He just stood there like a statue as the noirette gave him that heartbreaking smile again before walking away from him. And he stood there like a robot out of oil with a blank wall in front of his eyes.

He stayed like that until the door leading to their house clicked shut. Their house.

"No." The reply came a little too late, like that of a faulty computer.

And his body was left there, staring at the empty wall.

"I do love you."