RENT: Look Around
Apr. 30th, 2006 12:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: Look Around
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 6294
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mark meets Roger again six and a half years after leaving the loft.
Notes: Set in "Lesson #1" universe - Lesson #1, I'll Still Say Goodbye and The Maybes and What Ifs.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny?
Chapter One: On 16th Street
On days like this, Mark missed his old scarf. It shielded him from the cold, true, which he certainly could have used on this late January day, but more, it had always used to shield him from the world, a last-ditch defense against hurt. Pain. Reality. But he didn't have it anymore; it had started to come unraveled in the wash ages ago, and had just sort of fallen apart. But then again, with the scarf went the last scraps of who he used to be, before.
Mark ducked his head, with one hand holding the front of his coat closed tight, and walked directly into the icy wind, careful not to slip in the sludge that had been made of this morning's sleet. Who he used to be before. Before held a whole new meaning for Mark these past six and a half years. It had always meant something specific, but exactly what it meant… At first, it had meant before he met Roger. Then it was before April killed herself. Now, it meant before that night he'd walked out of the loft and Roger's life for the last time, six years ago. These days, before was a word that always stung.
But he'd left all that behind, hadn't he? His scarf was gone, after all, and that was the last thing he'd held on to. His camera, in a closet in his apartment along with a few reels of film, untouched since he'd gotten a real job (which he hated) to pay the rent and feed himself. Benny would be proud. But then, the phone calls from the others were few and far between. It seemed he'd left them behind with the rest of the past—Collins, Benny, Maureen, Joanne, all faint memories captured on reels of film he hadn't watched in years. And Roger, the painful centerpiece of those memories, but even farther gone than any of the rest, dead or gone, and it didn't matter which because it was all the same. Because Mark knew, he knew he would never see him again.
When he'd first left, he used to look around for him. Not consciously, no, but surreptitiously… That was before he'd put his camera away. It was easier then. He used to scan the faces of people on the street, peering through the camera lens for that spark of recognition, searching although it had been he who left in the first place. He used to think he might find him somewhere, just stumble across him on the street and… and then what? It hardly mattered. Mark knew better now. He kept his head down, not even bothering to glance up, through with observing. The best he could hope for now was numbness.
Not a lot to observe now anyway, the whole world frigid white and gray. Very few people out on the street now, if they could help it, between the cold and the wind and the fact that it was almost dark out. No one but Mark, walking home from a job that would have long since crushed his soul had he thought he had any soul left to crush. And Roger always used to be the pessimistic one…
The thought stopped Mark in his tracks, and he stood there for a moment, frozen. He thought he'd forgotten him, but there were always those little thoughts of Roger that kept rising to tear at his heart, and no matter what he did to stop them… no good. It never did any good at all. Mark sighed, his breath frosting in the air in front of him, and kept walking, willing the memory away. No need to remember, to want to remember. What was the point?
Rounding the corner of 16th Street, he kept his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, intent on banishing the thought that had come, unbidden, into his mind. He ran right into someone just around the corner, and stumbled backwards. "Sorry," he said automatically, looking up with a start. "I didn't mean to—"
He stopped as he met a pair of blue eyes he knew all too well, his breath stopped in his throat. For a second, he could look at nothing but those eyes, pale blue, unchanged from the picture he held in his memory. Slowly, long suppressed habits of observation kicked in, and his eyes flickered over the other man, taking in the whole picture. The eyes hadn't changed, no, but the rest of him had. He looked gaunt, his face thinner, dark circles underneath his eyes. His hair, cut shorter than the last time Mark had seen him, and darker…
"R—Roger," he stammered, unable to find anything intelligent to say. This was like speaking to a ghost—how does one speak to someone he'd counted dead years ago? "Um… hi." The greeting came out soft, uncertain. There was nothing he could say to make this any less awkward.
The taller man stood there in silence for a second, two, his hands in his pockets, studying Mark's face, and at last said just as softly, "Hi."
Chapter Two: So Often I Think of You
"Hi."
Just one word, a single syllable, but just hearing Roger's voice again made Mark shiver a little, and not from the cold. God, he'd almost forgotten the sound of it, that slightly rough edge to it… "You're… what are you… why…" Okay, questions weren't working well. Mark decided to try another approach. "I thought you were dead." Blunt, yes, but true. His cheeks flushed a little as he admitted it, hot in the cold winter air. How could he have lost faith?
Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted a reason to hold on to hope.
A sardonic smirk lit upon Roger's face, and his eyes darkened a little. Mark's heart contracted. That bitter smile held no trace of humor. "I can't blame you. But it seems neither of us are that lucky." Mark started to protest that he hadn't wanted Roger to be dead, just sort of expected it, but couldn't get the words out. Not under those accusing blue eyes.
"It's just… Collins said you… you just disappeared. He hadn't heard from you in—"
"Six years and four months. I know." Again, that bitter edge. Then again, Mark conceded, he had a right to be bitter, and there was no way to make it up to him. Roger wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look, it's cold, and I was just going home. I'd like to get indoors before I freeze."
"You—you live around here?" Mark choked on the words, unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. "How long…?" How long had he lived a few blocks away from his best friend—former best friend—and not known it? How could he not have noticed? The answer struck him in a second, and he flinched. He never noticed because he never bothered to look.
Roger hesitated, then nodded. "A couple buildings down. Right over there." He pointed, and Mark looked despite himself. "Almost three years now. Not quite." His gaze flickered down the street, and Mark could tell Roger didn't want to look at him. The same as always, avoiding what he didn't want to face… "I'm going home," he said abruptly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "If… if you want to come…" A shrug then, and Mark found it impossible to read whether Roger didn't care or just didn't want to show if he did. Damn him. Even in his own mind, the curse sounded feeble.
"If you don't mind," Mark said at last, softly. "I missed you."
The other man looked at him, but still didn't meet his eyes, a sidling, cautious glance that slid away before Mark could pin it down and make him look him in the eye. "Yeah." No, I've missed you too, just that simple acknowledgement. Mark grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. What was he doing? He could tell already that this wasn't going well, but he had no doubt it could still get worse somehow. Maybe better to leave now, before he got hurt too much… That was why he had left, wasn't it?
But Roger had already started down the street, and Mark had no choice but to trot along behind him. The wind rose and toyed with the front of Roger's jacket, blowing it open. He seemed to ignore it, apparently inured to the cold, and Mark bit his lip to suppress the urge to tell him to button up the jacket or he'd catch a cold. He'd given up the right to look after Roger a long time ago.
Instead, Mark just watched him, savoring the sight of that familiar face, though he'd never admit it. Even if the face had changed somewhat in six years, leaner and harder than it ever was before, Mark could still see his Roger in there. Roger clenched his jaw, his expression set and unreadable, and kept his eyes fixed on anything but Mark as he reached the door of the apartment building, opened it. Mark stepped inside to the welcome heat, though something inside him remained cold, frozen. If Roger would only look at him, really look, or give him one real smile, one meaningful word…
"Do you hate me?" he asked abruptly, disregarding tact. He stumbled on quickly, "I mean, I don't blame you if you do, I just—"
"No." Roger's voice, more rough-edged than usual, cut off whatever Mark had been about to say. He shook his head slowly, sighed. "No, I don't hate you." But he gave Mark no assurances otherwise either.
Roger started up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Mark to follow. They stopped at one of the nearer doors down that hallway, and Roger unlocked the door and shoved it open. "And this is home," he said as Mark stepped past him into the apartment. His blue eyes lingered on the smaller man, but only for a second, and Mark was too distracted to notice.
This place… didn't feel like Roger, unless he had changed to someone almost unrecognizable since Mark had last seen him. For one thing, it was neat. Tidy. Orderly. Not the way the loft had always looked, like a tornado hit it. There was real furniture, not the makeshift crap Mark would have expected of Roger, that they had always made due with in the loft. There was a coffee table, and pictures on it.
Mark walked over slowly and picked up a picture frame. It showed Roger in the park with a woman—brunette, fairly pretty. She was smiling, a bright smile that reminded Mark of… Roger was smiling too, in the picture. A crooked, perhaps broken smile, yes, but it was a smile, and an honest one. Mark knew Roger more than well enough to tell that.
He lowered the picture frame, feeling cold. A quick glance at some of the other photos in the room confirmed his initial thought—most showed Roger with the same woman, whoever she was. He looked up to find Roger still standing in the doorway, watching him, though he averted his eyes the instant he saw Mark look up. Mark didn't know what made him ask, because he already knew and did not want the answer. "Who's she?"
It took Roger a moment to realize who Mark meant by she. "Oh… that's… her name is Lisa. She's my… my—"
"I know," Mark interrupted, almost gently, and quickly set the picture frame back on the table to hide the trembling of his hands.
Chapter Three: Are You Seeing Someone New?
"I know."
Mark's voice had been a little shaky when he said that, though not nearly as shaky as his hands. The picture frame rattled on the coffee table as he set it down. So much for not letting Roger notice.
Lisa. So that was how Roger had survived this long without him. God knew he would have died years ago if someone hadn't reminded him to take his AZT, kept him from getting a cold, whatever, all of the idiotic carelessness Roger was prone to. And it also explained the decidedly un-Roger-ish apartment. But the few times Mark had dared to entertain the notion of finding Roger again, there never were complications. Certainly not complications named Lisa.
And anyway, Roger hated him. Or should, at least, and gave every appearance that he did, even if he said otherwise.
He should leave.
Roger finally stepped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He sat on the couch, an odd mixture of the languid carelessness Mark remembered and a new awkwardness he'd never seen in Roger before. It jarred him, seeing Roger ill at ease, and when the other man motioned silently for him to sit on the couch beside him, Mark opted for an armchair across from Roger. Safer there, with a definite distance between them.
The two of them sat there, silent and watching each other, or trying not to watch each other, until Mark asked stiffly, "So… you and Lisa… you—"
"Mark. I don't want to talk about Lisa."
Mark let out a sigh of relief. He didn't particularly want to talk about the woman either, but then, Roger didn't much sound like he wanted to talk about anything. More like he would just prefer Mark gone so that… what? So that he could forget about him, leave him to whatever comfortable life he had now without irritating parts of his past to bother him? Maybe.
He stared at his hands, folded in his lap, and didn't really dare to look up again. Mark had a feeling that if he tried to speak Roger would shut him down again, whatever he said, so he stayed silent, watching Roger out of the corner of his eye. Roger didn't look away from Mark even once, something in his blue eyes hard and accusing.
"You never gave the chance to say goodbye," Roger said roughly. "You never…"
Mark closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I know. I'm sorry. I made a mistake, but you just disappeared and—"
"No," Roger snapped and got to his feet. He stalked halfway across the room before he turned back to glare at Mark. "I didn't disappear. You did. You bastard, you never even told me you were leaving! You just walk away without even bothering to wake me up and all you leave me is a fucking reel of film and all you can say is you're sorry?"
Tears sprang up in Mark's eyes at the fury, the pain in Roger's voice, and at last he looked up, their eyes locking. This time Roger didn't avert his eyes from Mark's. "what else do you want me to say, Roger? What can I say?"
"Tell me why you really left. Tell me why you wouldn't trust me enough to believe I'd stay clean." He stood there, absolutely still, but something in his posture, his expression, hinted at barely controlled violence. His eyes seemed to spark with heat lightning only contained by an effort of will.
Mark couldn't break his gaze, couldn't breathe for several seconds until he realized that his lungs had started to ache with the need for air. He drew in a shaky gasp and whispered, "You promised the first time, and you broke it. Why should the second time be any different? I… I thought it was either lose you right then, or watch you kill yourself, and… Roger, I couldn't do that!"
The other man's jaw tightened visibly. "You couldn't even wait around long enough to see? You couldn't give me one more chance?"
Mark's vision blurred, and he didn't bother to blink back the tears. "Was I wrong?"
For some time, Roger just stood there, and Mark couldn't see his expression through the tears. Then, Roger's rough voice said softly, "I think you should go."
"I think so too," Mark muttered, and got to his feet quickly. He started for the door. To his surprise, Roger followed him, and opened the door to let him out.
As Mark stepped into the hallway, Roger said, "You were wrong."
"Huh?"
"I did stay clean. After you left. I… I kept hoping you'd come back."
Mark stared at him openmouthed, unable to find a response to that. In the end, he didn't have to. Someone was walking down the hallway towards them, and as Mark looked up he saw that it was the woman from the pictures. Lisa. God…
Before she could even say hello or ask his name, Mark squeaked, "I… I was just leaving. Goodbye, Roger." Without another word, he turned and rushed down the hallway, desperate to get away from that place. That woman. That man, still the rock star god at the center of his life, after all these years.
It didn't stop him from hearing Lisa's question to Roger, as he reached the stairs. "Who was that?"
And Roger's response, "Just an old friend. Someone I used to know."
Chapter Four: It's Been Such a Long Time
Just someone I used to know.
That stung, more than Mark would have thought it would, and it rang in his mind long after he had reached home. Someone he used to know? How about his roommate for seven years, his best friend for nine? How about someone he used to care about… to love? Surely something more than just an old acquaintance.
"Oh, get over it, Mark," he said to himself under his breath. "Roger certainly has."
He stood at the window, hands on the windowsill and forehead pressed against the cold glass. With a start, he realized he had been staring down the street towards Roger's building. Mark jumped backwards, away from the window, and had backed halfway across the room before he even realized what he was doing. He couldn't handle this. Couldn't know that… that…
"That I was wrong," he whispered, sounding almost shell-shocked. He'd left for nothing, he'd spent seven years apart from his best friend for nothing… Mark ran a hand through his hair distractedly, let out a slow breath. He almost expected to see his breath misting in front of him, the way it always did in winters in the loft. But no, his apartment had central heating now. Right. He'd rather be back in the loft, freezing and starving, but warm in the knowledge that he wasn't alone. Now, though… he was about as alone as he could get.
Numbly, Mark walked into his bedroom, automatically focusing on the closet across the room from the bedroom door. He hadn't opened that closet in at least three years, probably more, but now he pulled the door open slowly, half-bracing himself as if he expected a monster to leap out. There lay his camera, untouched for so long, and several reels of film, all but one dated and labeled. He didn't want those, though. Hell, he didn't even have a projector to watch them on.
Mark dropped to his knees and gently set aside the film. Behind that was a small shoebox, nondescript and unlabeled. He pulled it out of the closet. As he did, his fingers brushed over the camera, and he hesitated. After a moment, he picked it up and carefully wiped the dust off the lens. Running his fingers over the still-familiar contours, he sighed. How had he lost this? No, not lost it… Given it up.
He was tempted to see if he had any blank film in the closet, something to record with, but to what purpose? What would he film? He smirked wryly and muttered to himself as he set the camera back down, "Close on Mark, who's lost everything that ever mattered to him." Getting to his feet, Mark grimaced, adding, "And only just realized it."
He walked to the bed, shoebox in hand, and opened the box as he sat down on the bed. Photographs filled the box almost completely, bright and vivid as the last time he'd dared to look at them. Too long ago. Mark shifted through the pictures slowly, each one rubbing raw the empty spot in his heart. In some, Roger was aware of the camera: Roger and April with their arms around each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera; Roger, Collins and Benny a little while after they had all moved into the loft, when it was just the four of them; Roger alone on the couch, smirking at the camera (or more likely at Mark, behind the camera). But most of the photographs had been taken with Roger completely unaware: Roger on the fire escape, leaning out and just staring down at the street; Roger and Mimi apparently shouting at each other, both furious; Roger on stage in some club, illuminated by the stage lights, beautiful and confident, all but immortal.
Mark lingered over that photograph, biting his lower lip. That wasn't his Roger anymore, not the Roger of the present, nor even the Roger he'd left behind six years ago, but he could still see it in him. Changed, maybe, but the same person who'd been his best friend for years, who he'd fallen in love with… The same person he'd kissed that one morning in the hospital, spent that single night with…
He closed his eyes and dropped the photograph back in the box. "And you let that go," he whispered to himself. "Idiot."
*
The next morning, he called in sick to work, though he didn't even try to sound like he was actually sick. His boss let it slide; after three years without once taking a sick day, Mark deserved one now. He had sort of intended to just lie in bed so he wouldn't have to face the world, but Mark found it more difficult than he would have thought to just languish in his misery. Especially knowing exactly where Roger lived, only a few blocks away… God damn it.
For several hours Mark debated with himself, swore he wouldn't go, but by noon he had thrown on a coat and started out for Roger's apartment. He remembered the route there perfectly—there was the use of hold habits of observation, even if he'd been almost consciously trying to shut out the rest of the world. Mark wasn't even certain what he planned to do, to say. Find Roger, talk to him, and everything would just click into place, right? Like two pieces of a puzzle, put them together and there were no problems, no complications… That had been the plan the first time around, and it hadn't exactly gone over well, had it?
He stopped outside of Roger's building and just stood there for a moment, debating. He could go back home, climb in bed, pull the blankets over his head and just close off the world for the rest of the day. He could go somewhere and get drunk enough to forget the world for the rest of the day. Or he could wait.
Mark picked a spot on the stoop that wasn't damp from melted sleet or covered with icy sludge and sat down carefully, pulling his coat tighter around him. Freezing or not, he was going to sit here and wait until Roger came out of the building or came home. And maybe while he was waiting he could consider what he might say when he did see Roger. He had the feeling another "I'm sorry" wouldn't cut it.
But Roger wasn't the first person to notice Mark sitting there. Mark didn't even see the woman walking towards him until she was almost directly in front of him, and his heart jumped as he looked up and recognized her. Oh… shit. Not her. Not again.
"I… uh…" he began awkwardly, scrambling to his feet. "I was just…"
Lisa smiled at him sympathetically. "You're Mark, right? God, you look like you're freezing. Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea or something?"
Mark could only stare at her.
Chapter Five: Will I Still Know You?
"Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea or something?"
This couldn't be real. Mark wanted to hate this woman just for being to Roger what he had been for so long, but it was difficult with her smiling at him and inviting him in for tea. And at the same time, he wanted to thank her for taking care of Roger, keeping him alive, for he had no doubt she had. All he could manage, after a moment of simply staring at her, was a stammered, "Um… I… I guess… Yes, thank you."
Lisa nodded and opened the door, leading the way up the stairs to her apartment. Her and Roger's apartment. The thought made Mark wince for some reason. "I expect you wanted to talk to Roger, right? I don't think he'll be home for a couple hours, at least, but you're more than welcome to stay." As they stepped inside the apartment, she gestured to the couch. "Sit down and I'll get the tea started."
Mark watched her in silence as she walked to the kitchen and put on a pot of tea. Finally, he asked tentatively, "How'd you know my name? Did Roger—"
Lisa gave him a faint, oddly sad smile across the kitchen counter. "Roger doesn't talk about you. There are things he doesn't talk about, and I don't ask."
"Then how…" Mark began, and trailed off. He wasn't sure this was a story he wanted to hear. He was fairly certain now that he didn't want to be here in the first place.
The woman nodded to a door behind Mark. "There's a projector in that closet. Old films. I watched some of it once or twice, when Roger wasn't around. You shot it?"
"Yes," Mark said quietly, turning to glance at the closet, then down at his hands. "I didn't think he'd still…" He looked over his shoulder again, at the closet door, unable to disguise the longing in his eyes. He wanted that film, that projector… He missed it, a part of him he'd left behind but never quite forgotten. Like Roger himself. "it's nice to know that he…" Mark wasn't even sure how to complete the sentence.
Lisa took the tea off the stove and quickly poured it into two mugs before she walked back into the living room and sat on the couch beside Mark, handing him one of the mugs. For a second she didn't say anything, staring into the tea she cradled in both hands for some time before she looked up at Mark and said suddenly, "I love him."
Mark blinked, startled, and opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, biting his lower lip before he managed to actually speak. "I—I knew that. I did. It'd be hard not to love him, and I swear I didn't think—"
"I love him," she went on, silencing Mark's awkward stammering, "but I'm not in love with him. And I won't even pretend to think he's in love with me." When Mark stared at her blankly, she smiled wryly. "It's a matter of convenience and mutual need. We're both… both living in the past, holding on to something we lost. Easier to hold on to each other." Lisa frowned at him for a second. "I always assumed you were dead, though. That something had happened, and that was why he didn't want to talk about you…"
Mark grimaced and looked down into his tea, taking a sip before he said anything, just to give him time to collect his thoughts. "I guess I might as well have been dead. Might be easier if I were."
"Well that's a silly thing to say," she said with a faint smile.
Mark hesitated. "Why's that?"
"You're sitting here now, aren't you? You know where Roger is. You can sit here until he comes home, and then you can talk…"
"Oh, I—I couldn't," Mark stammered. "I can't wait until he… I mean, I really shouldn't…"
Somehow what he meant to say wouldn't come out. If he'd actually known what he meant to say, it might have helped.
"If you don't want to wait, I can tell you where he is. You could go find him, talk to him now. You need to. He needs to see you again, talk to you."
Mark frowned at Lisa. "You know, you're a very odd woman."
Lisa shrugged noncommittally with that still faintly sad smile he had seen earlier. "Since I met Roger, I was the second most important thing to him. Maybe the third, if the second was his music. But the most important thing was a ghost. I never blamed him, because it's the same for me. But now… it's nice that you're something solid, something other than a ghost." She paused. "So, are you going to go see him or not?"
He sat there for a moment, actually considering the question. Did he really want to go, to face whatever anger and resentment Roger had to throw at him. But then again… "Yeah. I think so."
Chapter Six: Will You Still Know Me?
"Yeah, I think so." Mark had to wonder, now, what he had been thinking, giving that answer, what kind of a stupid answer that was. Saying that while talking to Lisa was one thing, and it had seemed sensible at the time. But now that he was actually walking down the street to where Roger worked, trying not to slip on the hardened ice that had a few days ago been new snow, he had to think… Stupid idea. Stupid, stupid idea. Roger didn't want to see him. He'd made that quite clear the last time he spoke to Mark, made sure he knew Mark didn't mean anything to him now, after abandoning him. But Lisa had said…
No way to know unless he talked to Roger, though that was currently high on Mark's list of things he would like to avoid doing even on pain of death. It had hurt too much the last time… And you hurt Roger by leaving, he told himself. Be a man and talk to him.
However much it may hurt.
He'd reached the bar where, Lisa had told him, Roger was working, and Mark shoved open the door. There weren't many people in the dingy little place, and at first he didn't see Roger—but no, he was there, behind the bar at the far end, staring distractedly into space and looking distinctly unhappy to be there. Somehow that was comforting—Roger had always hated to hold down a steady job when Mark knew him, been fired from several jobs like this for just that reason, and if the same held true now… Well, Mark liked the idea that some things, at least, stayed the same.
With slow, cautious steps, Mark walked over and sat at the far end of the bar. Roger didn't seem to notice him at first, and so Mark sat there, watching him—until Roger caught sight of him in his peripheral vision and turned with a start. "Hey, can I—" He stopped mid-sentence as recognition lit his eyes for a brief instant, before his face darkened. His voice was flat when at last he said quietly, "Mark."
Mark glanced down for a moment and folded his hands on the bar in front of him awkwardly. "Yeah."
"What're you doing here?"
"Lisa told me you worked here and… uh…" He trailed off, realizing that perhaps bringing up Lisa wouldn't be the best way of starting this conversation. Sure enough, when he looked up Roger was all but glaring at him, no visible emotions in his expression other than anger.
"You talked to Lisa?"
"I was looking for you, and she…"
"What else did she tell you?"
Mark winced. "Not—not a lot," he stammered, the attempt at deception painfully obvious. "I just wanted to see you so that I could… um… I wanted to tell you…"
"You want a drink?" Roger asked abruptly, completely interrupting Mark's train of thought. Mark stared at him for several seconds before he composed his thoughts enough to respond.
"What? Roger, why would I—what?"
"We're in a bar," Roger pointed out. Suddenly, Mark felt like smacking him. He'd forgotten how frustrating this could be, Roger's stubborn refusal to even acknowledge something he didn't want to, simply ignoring a conversation he didn’t' want to have… Now, remembering all of that, Mark wanted to scream at him.
"That's not why I'm here, and you know it." He grimaced and looked down again. "Look, is there somewhere I can talk to you alone? Just for a couple minutes, I just… really need to talk to you."
"Mark, I—"
"Please, Roger."
"Wait until I get off work, in about half an hour. We can talk then." He didn't give Mark a chance to respond, just turned away, everything in his posture indicating that he was hell-bent on ignoring Mark at this point. Mark could have been hurt by that, and was a little, but he took the opportunity to watch Roger, taking in the way he moved, the lines of his face, every little detail, as if to make up for six long years of absence.
Roger seemed to take no notice of Mark for some time, refusing to even look at him, but at last he glanced up and met Mark's eyes, jerking his head toward the back door and starting to walk away without waiting to see if Mark would follow. Mark hesitated for a moment, and then all but vaulted out of his seat to follow him. Roger led him out to an alley in the back, turned to face Mark as he leaned back against a wall, and eyed his former friend with a visible edge of hostility. "Well?"
Mark couldn't think clearly with Roger looking at him like that, and for a moment forgot completely what he had come to say. God, he couldn't do this, there was no way that—
Suddenly he found himself speaking without any conscious thought, the words spilling out and tumbling over themselves in a confused rush. "I just wanted to tell you that… that I miss you and it was stupid to leave and I swear I never meant to hurt you, I just don't know what I was thinking anymore. I probably wasn't thinking, and it's been hell without you and I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I don't even know what else to day, I just don't want you to hate me anymore. Please, Roger, please, I'll do anything, I just… I…" He trailed off for a moment, the torrent of words coming to an abrupt halt, and at least finished weakly, "I'm sorry."
And Roger just stood there, arms folded over his chest, impassive and unreadable as if Mark's words had no effect or only served to close him off more, and God it hurt to see Roger, of all people, looking at him like that. The distance between them, just a few feet, seemed an impossibly huge gulf, the way barred by years and unhealed wounds, and how could a simple apology span that, however sincerely it was meant?
At last, Roger said flatly, without the slightest trace of a sneer or a glare or any other expression, "I bet you are. But Mark, you had the chance to come back and you didn't. You left me. And it took you six years to realize you're sorry? It's too late, Mark. I can't—"
"Please, Roger. Give me one more chance. Please."
For the first time Roger's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing fractionally, posture stiffening a little though somehow he managed to retain that air of cool, uncaring disdain. "One more chance? Like you gave me before you left?"
Mark flinched and let his gaze fall to the ground, shivering in the winter air—not from the physical cold, but from the icy disregard radiating from Roger. He'd thought that anger and hatred would be bad, but this was worse, and Mark now realized that he had no hope of being forgiven, and never really had if he were to be truthful with himself. He allowed himself one more glance at Roger, silently memorizing every little detail with the certainty that it would be the last time he saw him. "Okay," he said at last, very softly as he turned to go. "Goodbye, Roger."
He was halfway down the alley, every step slow and painful as it carried him just a little further from the one person he'd missed the most these six years, the one person whose forgiveness he needed most of all, before he heard Roger's voice behind him, rough and reluctant. "Mark."
Mark turned slowly, forcing himself not to expect too much though the faintest trace of hope lit his face, almost invisible. "Yeah?"
Roger crossed the distance between them in a rush, gripping Mark's shoulders hard enough to bruise and pushing him roughly against the nearest wall, and before Mark could catch his breath Roger's mouth was on his and there were all the emotions he'd refused to show before, anger, hurt, loneliness, fear and breathless, desperate love, fierce and possessive, need and hope and some sort of redemption… After what felt like forever and not long enough, Roger pulled back an inch, no more, and whispered fiercely, "Don't you ever fucking dare leave me again."
And Mark pulled him down to kiss him again, and promised wordlessly, never, never, never again.
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 6294
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mark meets Roger again six and a half years after leaving the loft.
Notes: Set in "Lesson #1" universe - Lesson #1, I'll Still Say Goodbye and The Maybes and What Ifs.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny?
Chapter One: On 16th Street
On days like this, Mark missed his old scarf. It shielded him from the cold, true, which he certainly could have used on this late January day, but more, it had always used to shield him from the world, a last-ditch defense against hurt. Pain. Reality. But he didn't have it anymore; it had started to come unraveled in the wash ages ago, and had just sort of fallen apart. But then again, with the scarf went the last scraps of who he used to be, before.
Mark ducked his head, with one hand holding the front of his coat closed tight, and walked directly into the icy wind, careful not to slip in the sludge that had been made of this morning's sleet. Who he used to be before. Before held a whole new meaning for Mark these past six and a half years. It had always meant something specific, but exactly what it meant… At first, it had meant before he met Roger. Then it was before April killed herself. Now, it meant before that night he'd walked out of the loft and Roger's life for the last time, six years ago. These days, before was a word that always stung.
But he'd left all that behind, hadn't he? His scarf was gone, after all, and that was the last thing he'd held on to. His camera, in a closet in his apartment along with a few reels of film, untouched since he'd gotten a real job (which he hated) to pay the rent and feed himself. Benny would be proud. But then, the phone calls from the others were few and far between. It seemed he'd left them behind with the rest of the past—Collins, Benny, Maureen, Joanne, all faint memories captured on reels of film he hadn't watched in years. And Roger, the painful centerpiece of those memories, but even farther gone than any of the rest, dead or gone, and it didn't matter which because it was all the same. Because Mark knew, he knew he would never see him again.
When he'd first left, he used to look around for him. Not consciously, no, but surreptitiously… That was before he'd put his camera away. It was easier then. He used to scan the faces of people on the street, peering through the camera lens for that spark of recognition, searching although it had been he who left in the first place. He used to think he might find him somewhere, just stumble across him on the street and… and then what? It hardly mattered. Mark knew better now. He kept his head down, not even bothering to glance up, through with observing. The best he could hope for now was numbness.
Not a lot to observe now anyway, the whole world frigid white and gray. Very few people out on the street now, if they could help it, between the cold and the wind and the fact that it was almost dark out. No one but Mark, walking home from a job that would have long since crushed his soul had he thought he had any soul left to crush. And Roger always used to be the pessimistic one…
The thought stopped Mark in his tracks, and he stood there for a moment, frozen. He thought he'd forgotten him, but there were always those little thoughts of Roger that kept rising to tear at his heart, and no matter what he did to stop them… no good. It never did any good at all. Mark sighed, his breath frosting in the air in front of him, and kept walking, willing the memory away. No need to remember, to want to remember. What was the point?
Rounding the corner of 16th Street, he kept his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, intent on banishing the thought that had come, unbidden, into his mind. He ran right into someone just around the corner, and stumbled backwards. "Sorry," he said automatically, looking up with a start. "I didn't mean to—"
He stopped as he met a pair of blue eyes he knew all too well, his breath stopped in his throat. For a second, he could look at nothing but those eyes, pale blue, unchanged from the picture he held in his memory. Slowly, long suppressed habits of observation kicked in, and his eyes flickered over the other man, taking in the whole picture. The eyes hadn't changed, no, but the rest of him had. He looked gaunt, his face thinner, dark circles underneath his eyes. His hair, cut shorter than the last time Mark had seen him, and darker…
"R—Roger," he stammered, unable to find anything intelligent to say. This was like speaking to a ghost—how does one speak to someone he'd counted dead years ago? "Um… hi." The greeting came out soft, uncertain. There was nothing he could say to make this any less awkward.
The taller man stood there in silence for a second, two, his hands in his pockets, studying Mark's face, and at last said just as softly, "Hi."
Chapter Two: So Often I Think of You
"Hi."
Just one word, a single syllable, but just hearing Roger's voice again made Mark shiver a little, and not from the cold. God, he'd almost forgotten the sound of it, that slightly rough edge to it… "You're… what are you… why…" Okay, questions weren't working well. Mark decided to try another approach. "I thought you were dead." Blunt, yes, but true. His cheeks flushed a little as he admitted it, hot in the cold winter air. How could he have lost faith?
Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted a reason to hold on to hope.
A sardonic smirk lit upon Roger's face, and his eyes darkened a little. Mark's heart contracted. That bitter smile held no trace of humor. "I can't blame you. But it seems neither of us are that lucky." Mark started to protest that he hadn't wanted Roger to be dead, just sort of expected it, but couldn't get the words out. Not under those accusing blue eyes.
"It's just… Collins said you… you just disappeared. He hadn't heard from you in—"
"Six years and four months. I know." Again, that bitter edge. Then again, Mark conceded, he had a right to be bitter, and there was no way to make it up to him. Roger wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look, it's cold, and I was just going home. I'd like to get indoors before I freeze."
"You—you live around here?" Mark choked on the words, unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. "How long…?" How long had he lived a few blocks away from his best friend—former best friend—and not known it? How could he not have noticed? The answer struck him in a second, and he flinched. He never noticed because he never bothered to look.
Roger hesitated, then nodded. "A couple buildings down. Right over there." He pointed, and Mark looked despite himself. "Almost three years now. Not quite." His gaze flickered down the street, and Mark could tell Roger didn't want to look at him. The same as always, avoiding what he didn't want to face… "I'm going home," he said abruptly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "If… if you want to come…" A shrug then, and Mark found it impossible to read whether Roger didn't care or just didn't want to show if he did. Damn him. Even in his own mind, the curse sounded feeble.
"If you don't mind," Mark said at last, softly. "I missed you."
The other man looked at him, but still didn't meet his eyes, a sidling, cautious glance that slid away before Mark could pin it down and make him look him in the eye. "Yeah." No, I've missed you too, just that simple acknowledgement. Mark grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. What was he doing? He could tell already that this wasn't going well, but he had no doubt it could still get worse somehow. Maybe better to leave now, before he got hurt too much… That was why he had left, wasn't it?
But Roger had already started down the street, and Mark had no choice but to trot along behind him. The wind rose and toyed with the front of Roger's jacket, blowing it open. He seemed to ignore it, apparently inured to the cold, and Mark bit his lip to suppress the urge to tell him to button up the jacket or he'd catch a cold. He'd given up the right to look after Roger a long time ago.
Instead, Mark just watched him, savoring the sight of that familiar face, though he'd never admit it. Even if the face had changed somewhat in six years, leaner and harder than it ever was before, Mark could still see his Roger in there. Roger clenched his jaw, his expression set and unreadable, and kept his eyes fixed on anything but Mark as he reached the door of the apartment building, opened it. Mark stepped inside to the welcome heat, though something inside him remained cold, frozen. If Roger would only look at him, really look, or give him one real smile, one meaningful word…
"Do you hate me?" he asked abruptly, disregarding tact. He stumbled on quickly, "I mean, I don't blame you if you do, I just—"
"No." Roger's voice, more rough-edged than usual, cut off whatever Mark had been about to say. He shook his head slowly, sighed. "No, I don't hate you." But he gave Mark no assurances otherwise either.
Roger started up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Mark to follow. They stopped at one of the nearer doors down that hallway, and Roger unlocked the door and shoved it open. "And this is home," he said as Mark stepped past him into the apartment. His blue eyes lingered on the smaller man, but only for a second, and Mark was too distracted to notice.
This place… didn't feel like Roger, unless he had changed to someone almost unrecognizable since Mark had last seen him. For one thing, it was neat. Tidy. Orderly. Not the way the loft had always looked, like a tornado hit it. There was real furniture, not the makeshift crap Mark would have expected of Roger, that they had always made due with in the loft. There was a coffee table, and pictures on it.
Mark walked over slowly and picked up a picture frame. It showed Roger in the park with a woman—brunette, fairly pretty. She was smiling, a bright smile that reminded Mark of… Roger was smiling too, in the picture. A crooked, perhaps broken smile, yes, but it was a smile, and an honest one. Mark knew Roger more than well enough to tell that.
He lowered the picture frame, feeling cold. A quick glance at some of the other photos in the room confirmed his initial thought—most showed Roger with the same woman, whoever she was. He looked up to find Roger still standing in the doorway, watching him, though he averted his eyes the instant he saw Mark look up. Mark didn't know what made him ask, because he already knew and did not want the answer. "Who's she?"
It took Roger a moment to realize who Mark meant by she. "Oh… that's… her name is Lisa. She's my… my—"
"I know," Mark interrupted, almost gently, and quickly set the picture frame back on the table to hide the trembling of his hands.
Chapter Three: Are You Seeing Someone New?
"I know."
Mark's voice had been a little shaky when he said that, though not nearly as shaky as his hands. The picture frame rattled on the coffee table as he set it down. So much for not letting Roger notice.
Lisa. So that was how Roger had survived this long without him. God knew he would have died years ago if someone hadn't reminded him to take his AZT, kept him from getting a cold, whatever, all of the idiotic carelessness Roger was prone to. And it also explained the decidedly un-Roger-ish apartment. But the few times Mark had dared to entertain the notion of finding Roger again, there never were complications. Certainly not complications named Lisa.
And anyway, Roger hated him. Or should, at least, and gave every appearance that he did, even if he said otherwise.
He should leave.
Roger finally stepped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He sat on the couch, an odd mixture of the languid carelessness Mark remembered and a new awkwardness he'd never seen in Roger before. It jarred him, seeing Roger ill at ease, and when the other man motioned silently for him to sit on the couch beside him, Mark opted for an armchair across from Roger. Safer there, with a definite distance between them.
The two of them sat there, silent and watching each other, or trying not to watch each other, until Mark asked stiffly, "So… you and Lisa… you—"
"Mark. I don't want to talk about Lisa."
Mark let out a sigh of relief. He didn't particularly want to talk about the woman either, but then, Roger didn't much sound like he wanted to talk about anything. More like he would just prefer Mark gone so that… what? So that he could forget about him, leave him to whatever comfortable life he had now without irritating parts of his past to bother him? Maybe.
He stared at his hands, folded in his lap, and didn't really dare to look up again. Mark had a feeling that if he tried to speak Roger would shut him down again, whatever he said, so he stayed silent, watching Roger out of the corner of his eye. Roger didn't look away from Mark even once, something in his blue eyes hard and accusing.
"You never gave the chance to say goodbye," Roger said roughly. "You never…"
Mark closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I know. I'm sorry. I made a mistake, but you just disappeared and—"
"No," Roger snapped and got to his feet. He stalked halfway across the room before he turned back to glare at Mark. "I didn't disappear. You did. You bastard, you never even told me you were leaving! You just walk away without even bothering to wake me up and all you leave me is a fucking reel of film and all you can say is you're sorry?"
Tears sprang up in Mark's eyes at the fury, the pain in Roger's voice, and at last he looked up, their eyes locking. This time Roger didn't avert his eyes from Mark's. "what else do you want me to say, Roger? What can I say?"
"Tell me why you really left. Tell me why you wouldn't trust me enough to believe I'd stay clean." He stood there, absolutely still, but something in his posture, his expression, hinted at barely controlled violence. His eyes seemed to spark with heat lightning only contained by an effort of will.
Mark couldn't break his gaze, couldn't breathe for several seconds until he realized that his lungs had started to ache with the need for air. He drew in a shaky gasp and whispered, "You promised the first time, and you broke it. Why should the second time be any different? I… I thought it was either lose you right then, or watch you kill yourself, and… Roger, I couldn't do that!"
The other man's jaw tightened visibly. "You couldn't even wait around long enough to see? You couldn't give me one more chance?"
Mark's vision blurred, and he didn't bother to blink back the tears. "Was I wrong?"
For some time, Roger just stood there, and Mark couldn't see his expression through the tears. Then, Roger's rough voice said softly, "I think you should go."
"I think so too," Mark muttered, and got to his feet quickly. He started for the door. To his surprise, Roger followed him, and opened the door to let him out.
As Mark stepped into the hallway, Roger said, "You were wrong."
"Huh?"
"I did stay clean. After you left. I… I kept hoping you'd come back."
Mark stared at him openmouthed, unable to find a response to that. In the end, he didn't have to. Someone was walking down the hallway towards them, and as Mark looked up he saw that it was the woman from the pictures. Lisa. God…
Before she could even say hello or ask his name, Mark squeaked, "I… I was just leaving. Goodbye, Roger." Without another word, he turned and rushed down the hallway, desperate to get away from that place. That woman. That man, still the rock star god at the center of his life, after all these years.
It didn't stop him from hearing Lisa's question to Roger, as he reached the stairs. "Who was that?"
And Roger's response, "Just an old friend. Someone I used to know."
Chapter Four: It's Been Such a Long Time
Just someone I used to know.
That stung, more than Mark would have thought it would, and it rang in his mind long after he had reached home. Someone he used to know? How about his roommate for seven years, his best friend for nine? How about someone he used to care about… to love? Surely something more than just an old acquaintance.
"Oh, get over it, Mark," he said to himself under his breath. "Roger certainly has."
He stood at the window, hands on the windowsill and forehead pressed against the cold glass. With a start, he realized he had been staring down the street towards Roger's building. Mark jumped backwards, away from the window, and had backed halfway across the room before he even realized what he was doing. He couldn't handle this. Couldn't know that… that…
"That I was wrong," he whispered, sounding almost shell-shocked. He'd left for nothing, he'd spent seven years apart from his best friend for nothing… Mark ran a hand through his hair distractedly, let out a slow breath. He almost expected to see his breath misting in front of him, the way it always did in winters in the loft. But no, his apartment had central heating now. Right. He'd rather be back in the loft, freezing and starving, but warm in the knowledge that he wasn't alone. Now, though… he was about as alone as he could get.
Numbly, Mark walked into his bedroom, automatically focusing on the closet across the room from the bedroom door. He hadn't opened that closet in at least three years, probably more, but now he pulled the door open slowly, half-bracing himself as if he expected a monster to leap out. There lay his camera, untouched for so long, and several reels of film, all but one dated and labeled. He didn't want those, though. Hell, he didn't even have a projector to watch them on.
Mark dropped to his knees and gently set aside the film. Behind that was a small shoebox, nondescript and unlabeled. He pulled it out of the closet. As he did, his fingers brushed over the camera, and he hesitated. After a moment, he picked it up and carefully wiped the dust off the lens. Running his fingers over the still-familiar contours, he sighed. How had he lost this? No, not lost it… Given it up.
He was tempted to see if he had any blank film in the closet, something to record with, but to what purpose? What would he film? He smirked wryly and muttered to himself as he set the camera back down, "Close on Mark, who's lost everything that ever mattered to him." Getting to his feet, Mark grimaced, adding, "And only just realized it."
He walked to the bed, shoebox in hand, and opened the box as he sat down on the bed. Photographs filled the box almost completely, bright and vivid as the last time he'd dared to look at them. Too long ago. Mark shifted through the pictures slowly, each one rubbing raw the empty spot in his heart. In some, Roger was aware of the camera: Roger and April with their arms around each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera; Roger, Collins and Benny a little while after they had all moved into the loft, when it was just the four of them; Roger alone on the couch, smirking at the camera (or more likely at Mark, behind the camera). But most of the photographs had been taken with Roger completely unaware: Roger on the fire escape, leaning out and just staring down at the street; Roger and Mimi apparently shouting at each other, both furious; Roger on stage in some club, illuminated by the stage lights, beautiful and confident, all but immortal.
Mark lingered over that photograph, biting his lower lip. That wasn't his Roger anymore, not the Roger of the present, nor even the Roger he'd left behind six years ago, but he could still see it in him. Changed, maybe, but the same person who'd been his best friend for years, who he'd fallen in love with… The same person he'd kissed that one morning in the hospital, spent that single night with…
He closed his eyes and dropped the photograph back in the box. "And you let that go," he whispered to himself. "Idiot."
The next morning, he called in sick to work, though he didn't even try to sound like he was actually sick. His boss let it slide; after three years without once taking a sick day, Mark deserved one now. He had sort of intended to just lie in bed so he wouldn't have to face the world, but Mark found it more difficult than he would have thought to just languish in his misery. Especially knowing exactly where Roger lived, only a few blocks away… God damn it.
For several hours Mark debated with himself, swore he wouldn't go, but by noon he had thrown on a coat and started out for Roger's apartment. He remembered the route there perfectly—there was the use of hold habits of observation, even if he'd been almost consciously trying to shut out the rest of the world. Mark wasn't even certain what he planned to do, to say. Find Roger, talk to him, and everything would just click into place, right? Like two pieces of a puzzle, put them together and there were no problems, no complications… That had been the plan the first time around, and it hadn't exactly gone over well, had it?
He stopped outside of Roger's building and just stood there for a moment, debating. He could go back home, climb in bed, pull the blankets over his head and just close off the world for the rest of the day. He could go somewhere and get drunk enough to forget the world for the rest of the day. Or he could wait.
Mark picked a spot on the stoop that wasn't damp from melted sleet or covered with icy sludge and sat down carefully, pulling his coat tighter around him. Freezing or not, he was going to sit here and wait until Roger came out of the building or came home. And maybe while he was waiting he could consider what he might say when he did see Roger. He had the feeling another "I'm sorry" wouldn't cut it.
But Roger wasn't the first person to notice Mark sitting there. Mark didn't even see the woman walking towards him until she was almost directly in front of him, and his heart jumped as he looked up and recognized her. Oh… shit. Not her. Not again.
"I… uh…" he began awkwardly, scrambling to his feet. "I was just…"
Lisa smiled at him sympathetically. "You're Mark, right? God, you look like you're freezing. Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea or something?"
Mark could only stare at her.
Chapter Five: Will I Still Know You?
"Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea or something?"
This couldn't be real. Mark wanted to hate this woman just for being to Roger what he had been for so long, but it was difficult with her smiling at him and inviting him in for tea. And at the same time, he wanted to thank her for taking care of Roger, keeping him alive, for he had no doubt she had. All he could manage, after a moment of simply staring at her, was a stammered, "Um… I… I guess… Yes, thank you."
Lisa nodded and opened the door, leading the way up the stairs to her apartment. Her and Roger's apartment. The thought made Mark wince for some reason. "I expect you wanted to talk to Roger, right? I don't think he'll be home for a couple hours, at least, but you're more than welcome to stay." As they stepped inside the apartment, she gestured to the couch. "Sit down and I'll get the tea started."
Mark watched her in silence as she walked to the kitchen and put on a pot of tea. Finally, he asked tentatively, "How'd you know my name? Did Roger—"
Lisa gave him a faint, oddly sad smile across the kitchen counter. "Roger doesn't talk about you. There are things he doesn't talk about, and I don't ask."
"Then how…" Mark began, and trailed off. He wasn't sure this was a story he wanted to hear. He was fairly certain now that he didn't want to be here in the first place.
The woman nodded to a door behind Mark. "There's a projector in that closet. Old films. I watched some of it once or twice, when Roger wasn't around. You shot it?"
"Yes," Mark said quietly, turning to glance at the closet, then down at his hands. "I didn't think he'd still…" He looked over his shoulder again, at the closet door, unable to disguise the longing in his eyes. He wanted that film, that projector… He missed it, a part of him he'd left behind but never quite forgotten. Like Roger himself. "it's nice to know that he…" Mark wasn't even sure how to complete the sentence.
Lisa took the tea off the stove and quickly poured it into two mugs before she walked back into the living room and sat on the couch beside Mark, handing him one of the mugs. For a second she didn't say anything, staring into the tea she cradled in both hands for some time before she looked up at Mark and said suddenly, "I love him."
Mark blinked, startled, and opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, biting his lower lip before he managed to actually speak. "I—I knew that. I did. It'd be hard not to love him, and I swear I didn't think—"
"I love him," she went on, silencing Mark's awkward stammering, "but I'm not in love with him. And I won't even pretend to think he's in love with me." When Mark stared at her blankly, she smiled wryly. "It's a matter of convenience and mutual need. We're both… both living in the past, holding on to something we lost. Easier to hold on to each other." Lisa frowned at him for a second. "I always assumed you were dead, though. That something had happened, and that was why he didn't want to talk about you…"
Mark grimaced and looked down into his tea, taking a sip before he said anything, just to give him time to collect his thoughts. "I guess I might as well have been dead. Might be easier if I were."
"Well that's a silly thing to say," she said with a faint smile.
Mark hesitated. "Why's that?"
"You're sitting here now, aren't you? You know where Roger is. You can sit here until he comes home, and then you can talk…"
"Oh, I—I couldn't," Mark stammered. "I can't wait until he… I mean, I really shouldn't…"
Somehow what he meant to say wouldn't come out. If he'd actually known what he meant to say, it might have helped.
"If you don't want to wait, I can tell you where he is. You could go find him, talk to him now. You need to. He needs to see you again, talk to you."
Mark frowned at Lisa. "You know, you're a very odd woman."
Lisa shrugged noncommittally with that still faintly sad smile he had seen earlier. "Since I met Roger, I was the second most important thing to him. Maybe the third, if the second was his music. But the most important thing was a ghost. I never blamed him, because it's the same for me. But now… it's nice that you're something solid, something other than a ghost." She paused. "So, are you going to go see him or not?"
He sat there for a moment, actually considering the question. Did he really want to go, to face whatever anger and resentment Roger had to throw at him. But then again… "Yeah. I think so."
Chapter Six: Will You Still Know Me?
"Yeah, I think so." Mark had to wonder, now, what he had been thinking, giving that answer, what kind of a stupid answer that was. Saying that while talking to Lisa was one thing, and it had seemed sensible at the time. But now that he was actually walking down the street to where Roger worked, trying not to slip on the hardened ice that had a few days ago been new snow, he had to think… Stupid idea. Stupid, stupid idea. Roger didn't want to see him. He'd made that quite clear the last time he spoke to Mark, made sure he knew Mark didn't mean anything to him now, after abandoning him. But Lisa had said…
No way to know unless he talked to Roger, though that was currently high on Mark's list of things he would like to avoid doing even on pain of death. It had hurt too much the last time… And you hurt Roger by leaving, he told himself. Be a man and talk to him.
However much it may hurt.
He'd reached the bar where, Lisa had told him, Roger was working, and Mark shoved open the door. There weren't many people in the dingy little place, and at first he didn't see Roger—but no, he was there, behind the bar at the far end, staring distractedly into space and looking distinctly unhappy to be there. Somehow that was comforting—Roger had always hated to hold down a steady job when Mark knew him, been fired from several jobs like this for just that reason, and if the same held true now… Well, Mark liked the idea that some things, at least, stayed the same.
With slow, cautious steps, Mark walked over and sat at the far end of the bar. Roger didn't seem to notice him at first, and so Mark sat there, watching him—until Roger caught sight of him in his peripheral vision and turned with a start. "Hey, can I—" He stopped mid-sentence as recognition lit his eyes for a brief instant, before his face darkened. His voice was flat when at last he said quietly, "Mark."
Mark glanced down for a moment and folded his hands on the bar in front of him awkwardly. "Yeah."
"What're you doing here?"
"Lisa told me you worked here and… uh…" He trailed off, realizing that perhaps bringing up Lisa wouldn't be the best way of starting this conversation. Sure enough, when he looked up Roger was all but glaring at him, no visible emotions in his expression other than anger.
"You talked to Lisa?"
"I was looking for you, and she…"
"What else did she tell you?"
Mark winced. "Not—not a lot," he stammered, the attempt at deception painfully obvious. "I just wanted to see you so that I could… um… I wanted to tell you…"
"You want a drink?" Roger asked abruptly, completely interrupting Mark's train of thought. Mark stared at him for several seconds before he composed his thoughts enough to respond.
"What? Roger, why would I—what?"
"We're in a bar," Roger pointed out. Suddenly, Mark felt like smacking him. He'd forgotten how frustrating this could be, Roger's stubborn refusal to even acknowledge something he didn't want to, simply ignoring a conversation he didn’t' want to have… Now, remembering all of that, Mark wanted to scream at him.
"That's not why I'm here, and you know it." He grimaced and looked down again. "Look, is there somewhere I can talk to you alone? Just for a couple minutes, I just… really need to talk to you."
"Mark, I—"
"Please, Roger."
"Wait until I get off work, in about half an hour. We can talk then." He didn't give Mark a chance to respond, just turned away, everything in his posture indicating that he was hell-bent on ignoring Mark at this point. Mark could have been hurt by that, and was a little, but he took the opportunity to watch Roger, taking in the way he moved, the lines of his face, every little detail, as if to make up for six long years of absence.
Roger seemed to take no notice of Mark for some time, refusing to even look at him, but at last he glanced up and met Mark's eyes, jerking his head toward the back door and starting to walk away without waiting to see if Mark would follow. Mark hesitated for a moment, and then all but vaulted out of his seat to follow him. Roger led him out to an alley in the back, turned to face Mark as he leaned back against a wall, and eyed his former friend with a visible edge of hostility. "Well?"
Mark couldn't think clearly with Roger looking at him like that, and for a moment forgot completely what he had come to say. God, he couldn't do this, there was no way that—
Suddenly he found himself speaking without any conscious thought, the words spilling out and tumbling over themselves in a confused rush. "I just wanted to tell you that… that I miss you and it was stupid to leave and I swear I never meant to hurt you, I just don't know what I was thinking anymore. I probably wasn't thinking, and it's been hell without you and I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I don't even know what else to day, I just don't want you to hate me anymore. Please, Roger, please, I'll do anything, I just… I…" He trailed off for a moment, the torrent of words coming to an abrupt halt, and at least finished weakly, "I'm sorry."
And Roger just stood there, arms folded over his chest, impassive and unreadable as if Mark's words had no effect or only served to close him off more, and God it hurt to see Roger, of all people, looking at him like that. The distance between them, just a few feet, seemed an impossibly huge gulf, the way barred by years and unhealed wounds, and how could a simple apology span that, however sincerely it was meant?
At last, Roger said flatly, without the slightest trace of a sneer or a glare or any other expression, "I bet you are. But Mark, you had the chance to come back and you didn't. You left me. And it took you six years to realize you're sorry? It's too late, Mark. I can't—"
"Please, Roger. Give me one more chance. Please."
For the first time Roger's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing fractionally, posture stiffening a little though somehow he managed to retain that air of cool, uncaring disdain. "One more chance? Like you gave me before you left?"
Mark flinched and let his gaze fall to the ground, shivering in the winter air—not from the physical cold, but from the icy disregard radiating from Roger. He'd thought that anger and hatred would be bad, but this was worse, and Mark now realized that he had no hope of being forgiven, and never really had if he were to be truthful with himself. He allowed himself one more glance at Roger, silently memorizing every little detail with the certainty that it would be the last time he saw him. "Okay," he said at last, very softly as he turned to go. "Goodbye, Roger."
He was halfway down the alley, every step slow and painful as it carried him just a little further from the one person he'd missed the most these six years, the one person whose forgiveness he needed most of all, before he heard Roger's voice behind him, rough and reluctant. "Mark."
Mark turned slowly, forcing himself not to expect too much though the faintest trace of hope lit his face, almost invisible. "Yeah?"
Roger crossed the distance between them in a rush, gripping Mark's shoulders hard enough to bruise and pushing him roughly against the nearest wall, and before Mark could catch his breath Roger's mouth was on his and there were all the emotions he'd refused to show before, anger, hurt, loneliness, fear and breathless, desperate love, fierce and possessive, need and hope and some sort of redemption… After what felt like forever and not long enough, Roger pulled back an inch, no more, and whispered fiercely, "Don't you ever fucking dare leave me again."
And Mark pulled him down to kiss him again, and promised wordlessly, never, never, never again.