Title: Letting You Go Free
Author: Kait Sudol
Disclaimer: Mark, Roger, and their friends belong to Jonathan Larson, I’m just borrowing them to torture, scath, scar, and have my way with them. Lyric, Jenny, and...um, anyone else that I made up are...mine. ::sweatdrop:: Oh, and I’ve taken some "creative" medical and political liberties, but who knows what will happen in 10 years. The quote is Suzanne Vega from the song "Marlene on the Wall". I don’t own that either, altho I wish I did, cuz the song is so spiffy. The title is yet another steal from the Barenaked Ladies. The song it’s from is "You Will be Waiting". Go buy all their albums right now.
Summary: Is ten years too long to wait to salvage a life? Mark and Roger are about to find out.
Rating: erm, PG-13
Note: This takes place 10+ years in the future. Deal with it. Roger dyed his hair. Deal with it. Oh, and do I even have to mention that it’s got loads or M/R and you need to deal with that too?

letting you go free
by kaitlyn sudol
and i tried so hard to resist - when you held me in your handsome fist - and reminded me of the night we kissed - and of why i must be leaving

He had forgotten how cold November was on the east coast. New Mexico had lulled him into a sense of calming comfort. 10 years had left him ignorant to the stark changes of northern weather. He was explaining all of this to his companion as they entered the small cafe, bundled in thick winter coats and scarves, laughing over events long since past, stories he told of his young and naive adventures in New York City. They amused the pretty redhead with him to no end, seeming so vague and foreign....almost surreal. She knew no world outside of Santa Fe and she had never left the state of New Mexico up until the day the record producer left a message on the young man’s machine. The next night they were on a plane to LA to discuss a deal with producers and soon were touring all of California to small, but packed theaters and stages.

The experience had taught her much, especially about her dark haired companion and their bandmates. Still, there was much she didn’t know about him, much he had changed, and much he had kept quiet. She was curious about him, of course, but was afraid to push too much for fear he would withdraw from her. She couldn’t live with herself if that were to happen. She cared too much about him to see him hide himself away again. It wasn’t just a childish attraction or an attraction at all. She could never love a man in that way, nor he a woman. Well, he had never loved anyone that way, at least, that she knew of. There were vague illusions to his past that included sketchy references to friends and lovers, but again, she wouldn’t push.

Nor would he. Although he tried to act aware and content and jokingly reminiscent, he was scared, deep down. He was scared of this too familiar cafe. He was scared of the city where he had such memories. He was scared of bumping into someone he knew, someone who remembered him, someone he remembered. He was scared of facing the life he left behind.

"Roger, are you listening to me?" He turned his head quickly, slipping seamlessly back into his smiling façade and pushing the disquieting worries out of his head. "I asked when you were here last and if it had changed at all." Roger glanced around the Life Cafe, smiling slightly at it’s lack of change.

"Ten years almost to the day," he mused. "Ten years this past September since the last time I was in this city...this cafe." He took a seat near the door and pulled off his leather duster and scarf. "You’ll love this place, Lyric, they’re health nuts." She laughed and took off her own jacket and earmuffs, placing them on the back of a chair across from Roger.

"I’ll feel right at home, huh?" she joked. Roger grinned, running a hand through his deep black hair. "Why don’t I get us some drinks and you can order?" Lyric bit her lip, her eyes not leaving him as he contemplated this. He was hiding his feelings from her again and doing a horrid job of it. She had grown introspection things would work themselves out. If she left him to his own devices, even for as long as it took for her to get some drinks at the bar, he would settle things himself and they could move on.

"Okay," Roger finally agreed. "That sounds pretty good. Just...get me a coffee or something." Lyric mentally sighed with relief.

"I’ll be right back!" she called over her shoulder as she picked through the moderate crowd and over to the bar. She glanced over her shoulder only once, seeing that Roger was staring into space above an obviously memorized menu. She sighed to herself and made her way over to the bar.

Mark was tired. He wasn’t just exhausted and sleepy. It wasn’t just the aching in his muscles and heart. It wasn’t his depression or his discontentment. It was more than just those things. It was all of those things and more. He was tired of waiting. Tired of spending every night for ten years in the same cafe with the same people, waiting for the same missing entity to return to him. Ten years. That was long, much too long for Mark’s liking. He wanted to get past that dark morning ten years ago. He wanted to move forward, to convince himself that his missing friend wasn’t out there at all. That the virus that had it’s hold on him had destroyed him before the treatment hit the market. He wanted to convince himself that his old friend was forever gone from his life. That he could leave this restaurant...this city. He could pick up and move to California and be with his producer and constituents. He could be with the others who shared his profession and interests. He could be out of this dreary impersonal city and on to bigger and better things. He could put New York behind him completely and leave with a clear conscience.

But here he was. The same loft apartment although, admittedly, it was much more inhabitable with the heat and central air and electricity and furniture that he had obtained. The same cafe that he had been to every night for ten years, and countless nights beforehand. The same routine he had always followed. He was afraid of change. He was afraid that his companion would return to an empty apartment or a cafe where no one knew him by name. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t let him go. He couldn’t get him out of his head...more importantly, his heart. He still spent sleepless nights wondering where he was...what he was doing.

If he had found someone else...

He pushed that thought from his mind. He wanted to spend at least one night without thinking of him too much. He wanted to get through one night and one normally conversation with the help without letting his thoughts wander back to bonds he was supposed to have broken a decade ago.

"I’ll have another cup of tea, Jenny," he said softly. The woman on the other side of the bar gave him a skeptical look. She placed the glasses she was drying on the counter top and sighed.

"Don’t you think you’ve had enough?" she asked, giving him a concerned look. "You’re gonna be sweating and pissing this crap soon." No response from Mark. He still held out his cup expectantly, his face the same indifferent hazy expression. "Jesus, go home Mark. He’s not going to come tonight. He didn’t come last night, or the night before, or the night before that. Just give up already." Again, Mark didn’t change his position or posture. "Leave this town! You’re too good for this damn city, you fucking moron. Go to California. You can MAKE it in California, I KNOW you can." He remained motionless. He was used to her rant. He heard it every other night. For the past two years, as long as Jenny had been working the bar, he had heard it. It never changed his mind.

"I tell you the same thing every night, Jenny," he replied softly. "I still need him. He’s a bastard and I hate him, but I still can’t go on without seeing him again. I just want him to tell me he’s proud of me. That’s all. I want to know he’s alive. Now will you give me some more tea?" The bartender sighed and pulled the kettle off of a hot plate, pouring him some more water.

"You’re going to drive me to drink, Mark," she murmured. "You need to realize what you could have out in LA. You could go places." Mark didn’t reply, only sipped his tea, continuing to brood. It wasn’t until he felt a jolt in his side that he looked up again.

"Oh, I’m sorry!" a young woman said quickly. And she was very sorry. Very sorry and frustrated. Lyric had been standing at the bar for almost five minutes and she still could not attract the attention of the waitress who had taken her order. Immediately afterwards, as she made her way to the coffeepot, she had picked up a ringing phone and gotten into a deep conversation with the person on the other end. She had tried to signal for several minutes and was getting more and more agitated as time passed. In frustration, she had tried to wave her over, and hit the small blonde man sitting next to her.

Upon second glance, she realized exactly why she had hit him. He was more than small, he was well hidden. Sitting on a worn bar stool up against a wall, it seemed almost as if he were trying to block out the rest of the world. He seemed almost distantly familiar. His face...his face displayed a simple innocence that she remembered seeing somewhere before. Somewhere recently.

"It’s okay," he said softly in reply to her apology. "It happens." Just as he was about to turn back to his tea, she touched his shoulder, on pure impulse.

"I know this is going to sound really odd...but, do I know you from somewhere?" She felt foolish saying it. It sounded so blatantly like a come on or something else just as childish and superficial. From the look on his face, it didn’t make a much better impression on him.

"I’m telling you right now that I’m gay," he said in the same quiet tone. Lyric’s eyes widened for a moment. Not a good impression at all...

"And I am too," she replied. "So, with that settled, where the hell do I know you from?" The stranger’s eyes took on a curious glow, and she smiled to herself. She had piqued his interest. "I’m Lyric DeRossi," she said, offering him her hand. He smiled just slightly, and shook it.

"Mark Cohen," he murmured. "Nice to meet you." Lyric pondered over his name for a moment. Mark Cohen. Mark Cohen...where did she hear that name before? As it clicked into place, her eyes widened and she gasped.

"Mark Cohen...not Today 4 U Mark Cohen..." At the surprised blush that Mark gave her, she almost squealed. "Oh my god! I loved that film! I saw it...like, probably five times! It’s an amazing piece of work!" Mark’s blush deepened.

"Apparently not many people agreed," he said ruefully. "It more than paid for itself...but it was less than stellar with critics...and American movie goers...and everyone but me and my constituents..." It was true. His first and only film released to a major audience had almost...but not quite...flopped. It was easy and cheap to make, so the meager box office earnings paid him for his time, adding a nice bonus to let him step up a little in life. Still, the public generally didn’t appreciate the years of pain that were in that film. He had never met anyone so enthusiastic about it before today.

"Oh, it hit home with me," she insisted. "My manager...one of my best friends...he has...well, had AIDS. And that was a few years before they released that treatment pill. That H-27 stuff? He was looking sick and we went to see that film together a few times. He cried every time. I cried a few times too. It was so moving...." Speaking of which, Roger was probably wondering where she was... *Let him wait,* she thought hastily. *It’s not everyday you get to meet a real celebrity....*

"I had a lot of friends with AIDS," Mark replied softly. "A lot. Most of them...most of them died. And this was the only way I could think to remember them. The only thing I was able to do that would make sure that they wouldn’t be lost forever." But they still were lost forever. If Roger had seen the film, it hadn’t effected him at all. Sure, it was recast for general release. The images were no longer of him or Roger or Collins or Maureen or Angel or Mimi, but the name...the story...he should have recognized them.

Maybe that proved that he was really gone.

Roger was getting tired of waiting. He had been sitting at the table, waiting for Lyric to reappear for almost ten minutes. Her presence was very much missed, for he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of abandonment that this place brought back to him. At least if she were here, she could distract him in some way. But no. He was left with the shadowy fear that he had run from a decade before. The feeling that all wasn’t perfect back here in NYC, as he had tried to convince himself on the long drive to Santa Fe. The feeling that his friends...especially someone...were not content to complete their lives without him. He hated that feeling. He wanted to be able to live guilt free. He didn’t want to have to face this torment of wondering where everyone was, how they were doing. That’s why he left in the first place, to escape the constant worry that surrounded everything in the city. To leave it all behind and start a new life, in a new city, with new people.

He glanced back down at his watch. It had been ten minutes since Lyric left the table. He finally stood up with a sigh, glancing over towards the bar. He recognized her dark hair with the wild red streak immediately. She was deep in conversation with someone seated on a barstool against the wall. He was about to march over to her and pull her away when she moved to the side and he caught a glimpse of her newfound friend.

He froze.

The other man was exactly as Roger had remembered him. His cool and bright blue-grey eyes widened as they stopped on the guitarist. Exactly the same. His unruly hair stuck out in both gelled spikes and casually messy licks and curls. His skin was still a delicate pale, as clear and perfect as it has always been, every nuance still there, still the same. His childlike innocence was still displayed charmingly through his posture and expression, an expression directed solely at him. He was still the same Mark, the same introspective and lonely and loving filmmaker. *Christ, he’s just as beautiful as he was when I left him,* he thought, his heart soaring.

Mark found himself gaping. As soon as Roger stepped into view, his heart stopped. Even with black hair, even with the nice clothes, even with the shadow of a goatee, he recognized him. He had dreamed of this day, dreamed of it, and also feared it. After this, he would be unable to invent reasons for his friend’s departure. He would know the real motivations that sent him running and hiding for ten years. He felt his breath catch in his throat as Roger slowly looked him up and down. The woman, Lyric, called his name several times. She wasn’t important anymore. Lyric wasn’t important, Jenny at the bar wasn’t important, Mike, the waiter wasn’t important, Sherie who was sitting on his other side wasn’t important. The whole cafe and all of its inhabitants lost all meaning. All he cared about, the only thing that mattered to him, his whole *world* was suddenly the man in front of him. One word. One word and all the hate and contempt he had ever felt for Roger would melt away. One word and his world would shift. *Say my name...say my name and I’m yours...for god’s sake, say my name...* he thought frantically.

Roger smiled slightly.

"Mark," he said casually, but softly enough to suggest there was still some meaning to him in that simple, single syllable. How much meaning, Mark was unsure of. He tried to remain composed and cool as he struggled to formulate an articulate answer.

"Roger," he murmured gently. He wanted more than anything to jump from his stool and embrace Roger as if no time had passed and nothing had changed. He wanted to feel Roger’s arms around him and sob and scream and just be held. He wanted to smack him and yell at him for leaving. Most of all, he wanted to be with him. He wanted to be with Roger for the first time in a decade, to rediscover that familiar position, that comforting slump that could only be obtained in Roger’s arms. But he couldn’t get his body to do any of those things. He couldn’t even move, he could very barely breathe, or even think straight. *Oh God...he must think I’m a moron...*

Lyric was utterly confused. First Mark zoned out, then Roger came out of no where, and now they were acting like they knew each other. Something was definitely weird...

"Roger, how come you never mentioned you knew *Mark Cohen*?!" she hissed. Roger shrugged and brushed past her, walking slowly towards the blonde, who had slipped off of his stool and now stood, shaking, in front of the guitarist. At his timid smile and the warm grin Roger gave him in return, Lyric suddenly realized where she recognized him from. It wasn’t his film—he never even appeared in it. It was from a photograph, the only photograph that Roger possessed from his life prior to Santa Fe. A photo of two blonde men sitting on the stairs to a decrepit looking apartment, smiling at the camera and leaning on each other. The photo Roger was never without, but never explained. "A friend; my only regret," he would say when asked about the other man. Then he would change the subject and the picture would slip back into his guitar case, forgotten by all but him. His only regret. She suddenly got the impression that this man was once the center of Roger’s life. And from the look on the tired filmmaker’s face, he had never quite recovered from the loss.

"It’s...it’s been ten years. That’s a long time," Mark finally stuttered very quietly. A younger Mark Cohen would have started to blush at the way Roger held his gaze unflinchingly, but the years had calloused him to the flighty effect of emotions. Instead, he merely tried not to look as pathetic as he was sure he sounded. He let his mind wander to Roger’s whereabouts for the past ten years...to the questions he wanted to ask, the doubts in his mind. Anything and everything that kept him from wondering how, even after ten years, the guitarist was able to hold his gaze like that...how he could possibly give Mark only one look that conveyed so much attention and emotion it made him forget the sins he had committed and fight to restrain an urge to fall back into his arms as if a moment hadn’t passed since their last time together. It had been ten years since the last time he held someone’s attention so raptly. Ten years since Roger had last given him that pensive, thoughtful look as he listened to whatever was on Mark’s mind. Ten years and already the years without him seemed a dull memory in the back of his already overcrowded mind. He felt his heart melt as he tried to hold himself up as those cobalt eyes dug into him, analyzing him and listening to him, remembering every line and curve of his face.

"It is a long time," Roger replied simply. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Mark. He was so incredibly right. Ten whole years...he wanted to just sweep him off his feet and out of the restaurant and into the sunset like nothing had happened, like they had last spoken only an hour beforehand instead of a decade. He knew that was impossible. He had to settle for rescrutinizing Mark’s face. Every line and dimple had been etched into his memory long ago, but the years change a person. He still looked as young and gorgeous as he had the last time Roger laid eyes on him, but there were a few new lines to his face. Still, it wasn’t his face that gave away the hard times he had obviously been through. It was his eyes. Roger had never believed that you could look into a person’s eyes and see their soul until he met Mark. He was a private, detached person, but his eyes gave him away every time. He didn’t know how to mask them properly and anyone who took time to look could see exactly what was going on in his head, know exactly what he had been through in the past.

The rest of their friends...many of them never took proper time to look. Roger had made a habit out of looking into Mark’s eyes. Ever since his time in withdrawal so long ago, he had tried to understand Mark through those pale grey eyes. He had learned they changed colors with his mood and learned how to spot every emotion through them. And now...now they were pleading. They were pleading for an explanation. He could clearly see the abandonment that Mark felt, clearly realize what his leaving had done to the filmmaker. He could also spot the love shimmering in them. Amongst hate and fear and regret and betrayal was a love so deep that he remembered it from a decade before hand. The same shining, nervous, caring look that had lulled him to sleep when he was ill and made him laugh and whoop when they were together...it was still there. *After all this time... Christ, he still loves me after ten years...why did I ever leave him? Why do I have to do it again?*

"We have a table," he said softly. "Sit with us." Mark’s eyes widened and he nodded quickly, pulling a coat and scarf off of the back of his chair. The coat was new. Mark had always complained about the size of the last one. But the scarf...it was the same scarf he had since college. The familiar navy blue and white stripes coaxed him into a state of calming familiarity. It was as if Roger believed that as long as Mark possessed that scarf, that handmade, classic, simple accessory, he couldn’t have changed much at all. His eyes still on the scarf, he gestured toward Mark, guiding him towards the table. He was too frightened to touch him, too frightened such intimate contact would convince him to stay in the city and leave the band and give up everything he had worked for. As much as he loved Mark, something about his old life still alarmed him too much to return to it too quickly.

So he led by gesture. Gestures that caused Mark to feel as if he were nothing more than a puppy, following its master so easily and willingly. Following its master to the injection that would kill it. He knew that’s what this was. It was nothing more than a single, chance encounter with Roger. After this he would leave the city and never call and never write and leave Mark in a state of depression and panic and hopelessness, just as he had the last time. He knew the new band was doing well. Lyric had told him as much. Of course, he didn’t realize it was Roger’s band at the time, he only knew that it was starting to take off. And Roger couldn’t have him hold his career back as he had done so many times before. Ira had once confided in him that the "Well Hungarians" were offered a record deal twice, a deal only obtainable by moving to LA. Both times Roger had refused, and although he cited his reason as a fondness for the city and his roots, the entire band knew, just as Mark did, that the real reason was the NYC-based filmmaker that he came home to every night. Ira hadn’t mentioned it until years after Roger left, but it still made his departure sting. Roger wouldn’t leave him for a record deal in Los Angeles, but he would take off to God-knows-where without saying a word or leaving a note.

Mark snapped out of his reverie as Roger pulled a chair over for him. He placed his coat and scarf on it and sat down slowly, his eyes back on the lean guitarist in front of him. His mind swam with thoughts and questions, but for some reason he couldn’t articulate any of them. He was saved as Lyric returned with their drinks, the two mugs of coffee and Mark’s chilly, half-drunken tea. He thanked her quietly and watched as she took the seat across from Roger. There was a brief silence at the table.

"Jesus, I don’t even know where to begin, Mark," Roger said gently. "How’s everyone been? How’s Ira doing? She’s what? Twenty nine, thirty years old now?" Roger was too frightened to say the things he wanted to say outright. He stalled and started to come up with excuses. He knew exactly what Mark wanted to know. He wanted to know why he left the city. Quite honestly, Roger wasn’t even sure himself. He just woke up one morning to find a note from a meeting-bound Mark and the walls closing in around him. He knew it was time to leave. And he left. It was that simple.

"Ira just turned thirty," he replied with a nostalgic grin. "I remember her twentieth birthday party still. The one she insisted on having even though I was..." he trailed off and looked at the floor suddenly. Roger blinked for a moment, and then realized what was wrong. Ira’s twentieth birthday was just a month after he left the city. "But, well, she’s thirty now. We threw her a surprise party. She graduated with honors at 23. She majored in Musical Composition and Theory and psychology. She’s been touring a lot, and she bought that used bookstore off of her cousin a few years back. That new age place?" Roger nodded in slow recognition. He remembered the cousin more than the store. Strange man. Very disoriented and befuddled most of the time. Roger didn’t have a clue how he had kept that store running for so long.

"Ira kept the band together, huh?" he said softly. "Wow." Mark chuckled slightly.

"Yeah. She was so angry with you...then, after about three weeks, she put out an ad and found a new guitarist and got everyone back together. They’ve been touring ever since. They got a local record deal and they’re pretty popular and up and down this coast. Not wildly popular, but they have a nice sized fan base." Mark was aware that Roger was stalling. He wasn’t sure if he was angry with the other man, or glad that he had the sense not to rush head on into the topic of his departure. Mark himself still wasn’t sure what he would say. ‘How the hell could you leave me, I loved you!’ just didn’t seem to fit, for one reason or another. So he played along, delivering long familiar responses as his mind whirled for a proper way to beg Roger never to leave his side again.

"How about Maureen and Joanne? Are they still together?" Mark couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

"As soon as Governor Williams signed the law for homosexual civil union they set a date," he laughed. "And they’ve been married for almost five years, even though every other week one of them comes stomping into the loft shouting about filing for divorce."

"Collins?" Mark froze on that question. He felt himself very slowly move his eyes from Roger to the tiling of the floor. Collins...Thomas Collins... six years...

"Collins...Collins didn’t make it, Roger," he whispered. "He died six years ago." Roger closed his eyes briefly. He had expected as much, but a back part of his mind had always prayed that his old friend would survive, at least until H-27 came about.

"He didn’t make H-27, huh?" Roger asked gently. Mark laughed softly and shook his head, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes.

"No...no...almost...six more months and...and..." He sighed heavily. "The...the doctors said that even if he did make it, he was too sick for H-27 to do him any good. It...it could control the level of the virus, but Collins was so sick and so infected...his blood counts were always high and then..." There was a lengthy pause as Mark stared at the floor and Roger squeezed his eyes shut.

"I wish I could have been there for him..." he murmured. Mark glanced up quickly, but before he could interrupt, Roger hastily added, "At least he got to see your film." Mark’s eyes widened slightly, but from his position he knew that Roger would be unable to see that. So Roger had seen his film. Roger had seen the movie and watched their story unfold. He had witnessed the pain and suffering depicted, seen the torment Mark had gone through without him.

It obviously hadn’t phased him in the slightest.

"You saw my film?" Mark said slowly, praying that he was wrong. He didn’t look up. He just sat there, stiff with fear and anticipation. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer from Roger. He wanted to go on thinking that Roger had a reason for not coming back. He wanted to think that this all made sense. He didn't want to destroy so much of his inviting façade in one night. He didn't want to believe that Roger had a choice in not coming back. He didn't know if he could believe it. He honestly did not believe that he would be able to go on if he learned that Roger had made a conscious choice in never returning to the city. It was hard enough knowing that he had left on his own. It had taken him years to think about that without crying. But to learn that he had seen the pain and problems that had taken over Mark's life without once looking back was too much to bear. He had been through too much...put up with more than his share of issues...he couldn't take this now.

Roger was unable to read any emotions on Mark's face. His head was bowed, his fair hair dangling in his eyes. He tried to think of something to say, something comforting, something that would make him seem like less of an ogre and more like the lover he once was. He mentally grappled with the problem, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.

"Of course I did!" he whispered hurriedly. "How could I not? The title...your name attached...I saw it five...ten...maybe fifteen times. I always cried over it, Mark. It was my link to you. My connection. I could go to that theater and watch that film and be with you for two and a half hours, be back with you, talking to you and holding you and reminiscing..." He watched Mark carefully, gauging his reaction...ANY reaction...He stiffened. And that was all. His body tensed and his frame gave a single tremble.

"You could have gone to some multiplex in a city I've never heard of...or you could have come home." Roger was silent this time. That hurt, but he didn't know what to use as a rebuttal. He was right. Every time he sat through that film, he was overcome with this overpowering feeling of regret. This feeling that enforced the thousands of miles between himself and Mark. As he watched the actors relive the events that tore their family apart and put it back together, he had to suppress the urge to get out of his seat and catch the next flight to New York. As he sobbed through the ending, watching the characters comfort the suicidal artist left by his lover in the big city, he had to physically hold himself from running to the nearest phone and calling up Mark and apologizing and crying and begging for forgiveness. Each time he saw it, those feelings became harder and harder to ignore. Maybe that's why he kept going back. Maybe he had hoped that his resolve would finally break.

"That film...Roger, are you fucking blind?" Lyric's eyes widened as Mark snapped at Roger in a calm, even, level voice. This was serious and deep and much more significant than a chance encounter between old friends. She quietly picked up her coffee and backed away from the table. Neither of her companions noticed. Roger was too busy gaping at Mark's demeanor...his handle on what was going on. Mark was too busy trying to keep that handle and still get answers from his friend.

"What...what?" Roger stuttered, softly. Mark took a deep breath, but did not look nor change his tone or posture. He was going to handle this. With ease. He was going to get these answers and get through this and not cry and sob and scream like he wanted to.

"It was a cry for help, Roger," he murmured quietly. "An obvious cry for help. Everyone else saw it. Producers, financial aids, friends, workers, even the fucking copy boy. Everyone saw it and inquired about it and let it go and silently prayed that you'd get the hint and before I did something drastic. And I'm not sure if you did. So, either you're thick or heartless. Take your pick." It has come out more harshly than he had hoped. It made him sound mean and hate consumed, when the opposite was really true. When all he wanted to do was pick up where they had left off so many years before, hug and kiss and make up and resume their life. He blinked his eyes of the tears that started to rise at the realization that this could never happen. He nearly started up again as he felt Roger's hand timidly cover his own, which was clenched into a fist on the tabletop.

"I never, ever stopped loving you, Mark," he whispered. "I never will." Mark took another steadying breath, trying his hardest not to react physically to Roger's gesture. He still loved Roger. He always had. From the day they met to the day they parted, he never wanted to be with anyone else but him. Whether it was a deep friendship or an unrequited lust or a mind-numbing mutual love, his emotions had always kept him more attached to Roger than anyone else.

"I know you love me, Roger," he finally said slowly. "It's not your love I've questioned. It's your ego and your intentions and your real feelings." There was another pause as Roger tried to process that information. His fingers ran slowly over Mark's hand in that comforting, warming way they used to in year's past, the way that used to send Mark into a content glee that nearly melted him into an emotional goo. He tried to ignore the way Roger's fingers were tracing patterns over his pale, chilly skin, warming his hands and his heart at the same time. He suddenly realized that this was their first contact. It was the first time in ten years that Roger had actually touched him.

"I never meant to hurt you," Roger said timidly. Mark didn't move.

"Well, you did. You knew that you would and you did. You ruined my life, left me in ten years of hell. Ten years of dealing with everything on my own. You forced me into ten years of prayers and tears and self-loathing. Ten years of trying my hardest to muster up a hate for the one person who I knew loved me unconditionally for years. Ten years of self-rejection as I realized just how impossible it was for me to hate you, even after what you had done to me. Ten years of life by myself after you promised you'd never leave me." There was another lengthy pause as Roger's hand tightened around Mark's. Mark held his breath, waiting for his response, hoping that he wouldn't get very angry, praying that he saw that the hate and loathing and resentment and Mark was pouring out was really just to mask the fear and hurt and pain and hopelessness that he was really feeling. His pulse quickened as Roger lifted his hand from the table and raised it to his lips.

"I know. I hated myself for it. I watched those actors in your film and I...I knew they were us. And I could finally see how much damage I had caused...Christ, I was so afraid that you had hurt yourself...and then when I saw that you...that you had tried..." He took a sharp breath and brushed his lips across the back of Mark's hand. "I love you. I do, I love you so much." *God...it's so true...please let him believe it...please let him realize I didn't mean any of that to happen...* Roger's breath caught in his throat as Mark's hand, which had finally relaxed in his own, stiffened again. He should have known this was coming. He *did* know it was coming, he just didn't want to believe it was really going to happen. He wanted a happy ending, to ignore the years of pain and focus on the happiness and love they once shared. He wanted to start all over again. Obviously, Mark wasn’t going to let that happen.

"Oh," he said very quietly, his body trembling. "So just because you love me, this is all alright. The abandonment, the betrayal, the departure...it’s all okay. Because you love me. None of what happened to me...what I did to myself over this...none of it is important, because you loved me. Of course." He felt his insides start to twist as he fought to hold back sobs and tears which had been threatening to spill all night. *Why am I being so cruel? Why won’t I just let him apologize so I can love him again?* he thought helplessly as Roger gaped at him. *Because you know he’s going to leave you again. You know after he says goodnight you’ll never see him again.* He felt Roger clutch at him like there was no tomorrow, his fingers lightly digging into his skin.

"Mark," he whispered. "I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to say! I’m so sorry for leaving you...I can’t even put it in words...I still love you...I still need you..." he murmured desperately, repeating it over and over again until Mark felt the need to scream. He pulled his hand away from Roger and snapped his head up, trying to ignore the tears that were forming on his face.

"WHY?!" Roger froze. Roger froze, Lyric froze, all of the tables surrounding them froze. It was the first time he had raised his voice that entire evening. He realized it. But it was overtaking him. These apologies and pleas, he just couldn’t stand them anymore. He wanted answers. "If you cared so much, if you needed me so much, if you still fucking LOVED ME than why did you leave?!" he shouted. The tables around them were cautiously returning to their meals and conversations. He was glad. He didn’t want to make this a show, he just wanted to get it over with. "God...do you have any idea what I’ve been through?! What you’ve done to me? Do you know the therapy I’ve been through and the hospitalization? Even worse, there were the tears and the anger and the HATRED. Not for you. God, it would have been so much easier if I hated you...but I didn’t. I hated myself." It was said. It was out in the open, and he was crying. Roger was crying too. Crying, and gaping at Mark, blinking off the words that had stung him.

"Mark...but...you shouldn’t have..." he said dumbly, realizing how stupid he sounded the minute the words left his mouth.

"I fucking know that!"

"But...god, I didn’t know! I swear, I’m so sorry for making you do that! You don’t understand how badly I feel, Mark!! You can’t! I just...I never wanted to...I never meant to..." He trailed off, looking at the man in front of him, as if for the first time. The filmmaker was so shaken and worn. Everything about him seemed hurt...broken...followed by a dark cloud that he hadn’t lost in ten years of struggle. It was sending tears down his cheeks...shaking his arms and hands...tearing his soul out.

It was all because of him.

"Mark...I’m so sorry..." Roger’s voice changed from a plea to a solemn confession. He took a step forward. Mark didn’t move. Another step...another. He gently wrapped his arms around the filmmaker without protest. It took a few moments for Mark to relax but as soon as he did, it was as if no time had passed at all. Soon Roger was sitting down again, leaning against the window and letting the sobbing Mark’s sweater absorb his tears as he rocked the exhausted man back and forth on his lap. When he closed his eyes, he could even pretend that it was still a decade beforehand and he and Mark were only reconciling after a silly tiff at the restaurant.

"I missed holding you." His choked confession broke the silence surrounding them. Mark moved his head slightly, looking up at Roger with regret and hurt and longing in his eyes.

"I missed being held." It took all of Roger’s will power not to kiss him right there. Mark wiped listlessly at his eyes, sitting up, but still leaning heavily against Roger. "God...it hurt so much...because...because I remembered." Roger gave him a curious look.

"What do you mean, love?" he asked gently, slipping back into old habits without even realizing it. The way he was holding Mark...the way he interlocked their fingers...the way he stroked his hair and called him ‘love’ without even noticing it. He was falling all over again...

Mark lowered his head, resting it lightly against Roger’s jaw, pausing for a moment. "I just...I remembered it all. What it was like to be with you. Every thing that happened. The first time you held me. The first time we made love. The first time you kissed me...I...I remember every second of all of it, Roger..." It was as if he could reach out and touch the memory, he felt so close to it. Just reach his hand out and close his shaking fist around it and pull it back, close to his heart.

"You remember the first night I kissed you?" Even his voice was calm and soothing, just as it had been then. His hand worked over Mark’s back, easing out the tension and pain of ten years of solitude.

"Of course I do," he replied softly. "Everything about it. It was Mimi’s funeral. I was fine all night and we got home and I just...I started to sob." He laughed somewhat bitterly. "God, I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about. Maybe it was Mimi...maybe it was a combination of Mimi and Angel...maybe it was because I knew you were next. I just...I couldn’t handle any of it. I started to cry and I didn’t stop. I was so hysterical and you were...you were so lost. You tried your best to get me to stop. You whispered to me and soothed me and murmured in my ear, telling me that it would be okay...that we still had each other. And none of it worked. Nothing.

"Finally, you picked me up. You lifted me off of the couch and pulled me onto your lap and just...held me. God, that was all I wanted in the world, but I still couldn’t stop. I just cried and held you as you tried to discern what was wrong. You asked if it was Mimi...if it was Angel...if it was something else entirely. I didn’t know. I didn’t know, and I didn’t do anything except cling to your neck like a child, letting you hold me and plead and promise. You promised me I wasn’t alone. You promised that you loved me and that I would never be alone. You told me that you would never ever leave me if you could help it. That I would always have you. And...I believed you. And I stopped." He smiled to himself, closing his eyes and letting Roger hold him again, just like he had on that night.

"I stopped and held you so tightly...I held on to save myself and you and the rest of my world, which kept changing...I didn’t want it to change...I was so scared...and you didn’t say anything after that. Finally...god, it seemed like forever, but finally I looked up. I looked at you. You held my face and tried to wipe my tears away. You were shaking...your entire body was shaking, but your hands were out of control. I thought you were going to lose it. Cry or scream to throw things or hit me...but your eyes were still so sincere and loving. I was captivated by them. I was so in love with you, even then...that was part of my emotional fit, I suppose. I felt so guilty. I had wanted you for so long...I felt as though I had wished Mimi away so I could be with you. But I forgot all about that as you stared at me like that. Your eyes had me frozen to the spot. You tried to hold me still, but you were shaking so hard...You brushed my bangs away and cradled my face and just...leaned forward and kissed me.

"It was so foreign and at the same time...so right. So perfect. It was soft and shy and shaky. You were so unsure and I was so scared of everything. And for a minute...for a minute I forgot to be sad and just let myself melt into you...God...I loved you so much...so much. When you pulled away, you didn’t try to make excuses or explain...you just smiled at me, still shaking, and held me and told me to go to sleep. And I trusted you. I fell asleep right there, in your arms, in those stuffy church clothes on that horrible lumpy couch. I didn’t feel any of it. I just felt you, rocking me and singing to yourself and I realized...I started to realize that maybe I didn’t have to be alone. Maybe you loved me the way I loved you. Maybe we could get through this together." He felt Roger start to shake again, just like he had that first night. His entire body was shuddering. Mark’s eyes flew open. He turned around slowly, looking up into Roger’s eyes. That same captivation. That same frozen feeling, worried that Roger would strike him or shout at any moment. *It’s happening all over again.*

Once again, Roger took his face very gently and leaned over him, kissing him softly and sweetly. Once again, Roger was confused and desperate, and Mark was scared out of his mind. But this time...this time it deepened and strengthened. This time they didn’t part after a mere few moments. It lasted longer as they pushed back harder. Ten years worth of suppressed passion and desire and love suddenly started to make their way to the surface. For what seemed to be the thousandth time that night, the rest of the cafe faded away. Mark clung to Roger for dear life, while Roger tried to fight through his emotions and obligations. It was as prefect as the first time. The bliss and closure they had been groping for blindly since their separation. Finally it was theirs. Finally—

*beepbeepbeep*

"Shit." Roger pulled away from Mark, his hand immediately reaching for the pager at his hip. Mark’s lower lip trembled, but he said nothing, watching as Roger checked the identity of the caller. He looked up as Lyric walked slowly back to the table, wary of interrupting the couple. All hopes Mark had of rebuilding what he had with Roger started to crash. He hoped it was well hidden, for Roger was looking at him once again, his face fallen. His hand was squeezed tightly around the pager, but his jaw was set.

"I have to go." It was quiet, but final. He wasn’t asking Mark for approval; it was already decided. "I’m sorry." He helped the filmmaker to his feet. Mark only looked at his shoes as Roger started to shrug on his jacket and scarf. "I don’t...I mean...I..." he mumbled, searching for something to say...something comforting. Nothing came to mind. *How the FUCK can you do this to him again, you insensitive bastard?! HOW?!* He tried to ignore that voice as Lyric nodded to him and left the cafe, waiting for him outside. He looked down at Mark again. His angel. His baby. His gorgeous little star, even after all of these years. The smaller man was near tears, barely holding on to himself. "I’ll...I’ll keep in touch, Mark," he finally muttered. Mark’s eyes shifted, staring at the ground to his left.

"Sure. Sure you will." He sounded almost bitter, but Roger did his best to block that out. He hesitated, and then leaned over, kissing him once more. Mark’s lips clung to him in a sort of desperation, but he cut it short again.

"I...I love you. Take care of yourself. I will keep in touch. I promise." And he whirled around, ducking out of the restaurant and striding down the street without looking back.

It was over. As Mark numbly watched the guitarist walk down the sidewalk, he realized just how over it was. He had always held that if Roger had ever come back to him...if they had seen each other just one more time...things would go back to normal. They would pick up right where they left off. But...Roger was gone just as suddenly as he had appeared. He was halfway down the street, while Mark stood in the cafe, blinking and trying to keep himself from crying again.

"He’s gone...oh God, I’ve lost him again..." It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all!! Roger swore, he *swore* that he loved Mark...but he just left again. How could he leave if he knew how much it hurt Mark?! How could he really love Mark if he knew, and left still? It didn’t make any sense...at least, it didn’t make any sense to him. Why couldn’t you be with the person you loved? Why couldn’t you be with the one person in the world who made you happy?

"He’s not coming back this time, buck-o." He was startled at the sudden intrusion. He was even more startled when he realized who had said those words. It was him. He hadn’t even realized he was saying it, but as he stood there, slaw-jawed, he realized it was true. *He’s not coming back...* The past ten years of his life had been built around a notion, a brief glimmer of hope that maybe...just maybe Roger would come back to him...maybe Roger would return to him and love him again. But suddenly, that hope dissipated. He had been here...and left. He had a chance to spend his life with someone who still loved him...and left with barely a kiss and a promise of postcards. The hope was gone. His center, the notion that he had been living on these past ten years, was snatched away with the ringing of a pager.

"Mark, that girl covered your—" He barely heard Jenny. He was already stomping towards the door and out into the chilly November air. The very soul of his existence was gone. Wasted away. Disappeared. Ten years of waiting for 1 hour of bliss and a slam into the concrete wall of reality. *If I wait another ten, will it be any different? Any different at all?* What was the POINT of waiting another ten years to see the love of his life again? He couldn’t see it at all through the haze of self-hatred that surrounded him as he crossed the street and headed towards his apartment. He had spent a decade coasting on a false hope that he would be happy some day and for what? Another ten years of depression until Roger stumbled upon him at a concert. Another decade of pain and torment and isolation. Another lifetime of guilt that wasn’t his to bear but always somehow landed on his shoulders.

He didn’t want to deal with it any more.

He knew exactly how he would do it as he slammed open the door to his building and started for the stairs. His antidepressants. He often wondered why such an effective tool for suicide was given to people barely holding on. It would be easy. He could take some vodka...schnapps...whatever he could find lying around. A bottle of that, and the rest of his medication. He had it filled at the beginning of the week...there was still enough in there to make it quick. Maybe he could add some valium to the mix to make sure he went down peacefully. No one called him. No one ever visited. No one would notice.

He mentally located all of the things he would need. The last flight of stairs...

Mark slammed his own door open, heading straight for the bathroom. *Valium...meds...I can get the alcohol from the cupboard in the kitchen...*

He stopped suddenly. Someone else was there. He prayed and prayed and silently pleaded for sympathy from whatever gods were listening as he stood, motionless.

"I couldn’t leave you..." Roger was crying. He could tell from the ache in his voice. "I couldn’t leave you again, Mark..."

He had been so close. It had seemed easy, out of the cafe, onto the street, down the block. Lyric was behind him and he could feel her eyes burning into him.

"Say it!" he finally yelled to her without slowing. "Just say it! You know you want to." He couldn’t slow down...if he stopped walking, he knew he would go back.

"I’m not going to say anything!" she shot back. "If you know enough to realize what I’m going to say, then I think you can make the right choice." He kept walking, frowning to himself and kicking himself as they reached the corner. A car whizzed by. He had to stop. Lyric caught up with him quickly and grabbed him by the shoulder. "No," she shouted, "you know what, I am going to say something. I’m going to say that you’re cruel, Roger Davis. And that’s ALL I’m going to say." She was glaring at him. It was too much. His guilt and Mark’s guilt and Lyric’s...he didn’t even know why he was leaving.

"Lyric, I love him. Which is...god, Lyric, I need him so much, you don’t understand..." he whispered desperately.

"Than be with him!" she screamed, startling the entire block. "For Christ’s sake, go back there and find him and sweep him off his feet and love him! Goddammit, if it’s meant to be that way, than go after him!" He stared at her for a moment. And then he was off, running down the street at top speed, wondering if his old keys still worked or if he’d have to break in, just like he used to. Down the sidewalk, up the stairs...like a madman, shoving an old key into an older lock, and watching in wonder as the door slid open. Four flights of stairs and he was there. Again, the old key worked.

No one was there. He blinked several times. The old loft had furniture...it was decorated and livable. There was heat blasting from the vents, and appliances that seemed to actually work. It looked like a normal apartment. He was frightened of it. It proved that time had passed. It proved that he had really left his poor angel for nearly a decade.

He slumped into an unfamiliar chair and glanced at his watch, wringing his hands together. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again...he needed Mark. He loved him. He couldn’t go through with this again...

Mark didn’t move, even as he heard Roger’s hollow footsteps across the floor. He didn’t move as those familiar, callused hands gently touched his shoulders. He could get through this if he didn’t see Roger’s face. As long as he kept his back to the guitarist, he could still do this. His body tensed as Roger leaned into him.

"Christ, Mark, I need you...I need you so much...I couldn’t leave again, Mark! I couldn’t hurt you again, I couldn’t put you through that..." No...no...those were lies. He would just leave again, he always did. He was always leaving and forgetting about Mark...always. This wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change anything at all...

"No...no, I won’t fall for that again," he murmured. "I won’t let you do this to me again...I won’t..." Roger’s hands found themselves at Mark’s hips. His arms quickly encircled the filmmaker’s waist, still murmuring love and promises and hope, his lips tracing along Mark’s neck, his face burying itself in his hair... "I can’t...I...I can’t hurt anymore...you have to understand that, I can’t let you hurt me...I can’t hurt myself..." He started to tremble, his hands and arms shaking so violently...tremors enveloping his entire slender frame...

"Mark, I won’t hurt you, I won’t leave you, I just need to be with you...I need you, Mark, I don’t need the band or music or money or fame or anything else. I only need you...please let me stay with you, Mark...please oh please..." The tears started nearly a full minute before he noticed them. A sob stuck in his throat. Roger’s lips grazed his ears and neck, begging for acceptance.

"I...I can’t...Roger...I..." His voice cracked and the sob escaped, and with it, his resolve. He finally let himself go, turning around in Roger’s arms and falling against him, feebly hitting his chest and sobbing. Roger held him so tightly...so very tightly. It was as if he was afraid they would slip apart again, his fists closed around handfuls of Mark's shirt, pulling him closer and closer. "I hated you," Mark wailed to him. "I hated you so much for...for leaving me...but I love you and I need you and I want you and you can’t ever leave me again! I was going to kill myself, I wanted to! I...I d-didn’t want to be hurt anymore!" Anything else he tried to say was lost to the onslaught of sobs and the strength of the embrace Roger held him in.

"Don’t ever, ever, ever think that, you’ll hurt us you’ll hurt me please please please..." he whispered into Mark’s hair. He ran his hands over it, over him, and held the sobbing mess closer than he thought possible. "I need you so much...you can’t go away like that...please don’t think about that, please...it’s not the answer! Hate me and hit me and refuse to be with me but don’t think that, ever..." His legs wavered. They couldn’t support the two of them, not after that revelation. No more Mark...god...His knees were so weak...they started to give way, and he barely cushioned the fall as they collapsed to the ground.

Mark didn’t notice the fall. He was so wrapped up in the man surrounding him that he couldn’t do anything but sob and wail and gasp for air. His fingers dug into Roger’s chest, as to assure himself that his lover was still there, still with him. Roger held him tightly, whispering to him and stroking his hair and back and begging him to never, ever think thoughts like that again. They were together again. They were together and complete for the first time in ten years.


-end-

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