There was a certain quality, a certain greyscale color the skin took on when the heart quickened pace. Sometimes, it was just a pale before a flush - a skin-tone calm before the storm. For Roger, the color tended to rush to his lips when his heartbeat doubled in cadence, and then he would blush to the roots of his damn hair. That's what happened, and he found himself swallowing around a heart-sized lump in his throat.

"I, uh--" Roger began, searching for words that didn't seem so desperate to not be alone, himself. Brian had disappeared almost a year ago, and Roger hadn't made any significant connections since. He'd tried (as far as Roger could, he tried, at least), but nothing was working for him. Hell, he'd even been withdrawn at home. Almost a fucking year later. And what the hell did it mean that the first step he wanted to take in moving on was some sort of misplaced comfort with a man he'd pined over pathetically and suicidally (Lex. Fucking. Luthor.) for... well. A while. He needed help. Or a drink.