It was the end of November. He'd left New York the end of October. It had taken him less than a month to realize that leaving was a mistake. That he still loved Mimi and she needed him. Only a few weeks in Santa Fé, and he'd found his song, the inspiration for which was back in the big apple. He had decided. It was time for him to go home.

He packed his bags and his new guitar and rode out of Santa Fé in his beat up old/new car. He drove from dawn till dusk, stopping only for food, sleep, and sporadic breaks to pee and take his AZT. Whenever he stopped, he always jotted down lyrics and notes for his song. It was still a work in progress, but he was proud of the way it was coming together. With his determination of driving, the trip that before had taken him a week he did in a matter of days.

The feeling that washed over him as he entered New York city limits was euphoric. When he left, New York had seemed like hell. Now, it felt like home. When he left, Santa Fé seemed like paradise. It still was, but it would never feel truly right unless he had his friends there with him. Home is where the heart is, and his heart lived in New York with his bohemian family.

He wanted to head back to the loft right away, but he knew he couldn't. He had some errands and things he had to do first. He drove to the clinic and picked up a new bottle of AZT, knowing without a doubt Mark would have his hide if he saw how low Roger was running it. Next, he went to the music store. His new guitar was nice, but really not his style. The man at the counter, Tristan, looked up and smiled warmly. He was an old band mate of Roger's and a good friend too.

"I knew you'd be back" Tristan said warmly, "Took longer than I thought it would, but I knew you'd come home eventually."

Roger nodded and put up the guitar. "Got this in Santa Fé. It's nice, but it's not my kind of thing."

Tristan smirked, "Oh I know. I think THIS is more you." He reached underneath the counter and pulled out a guitar. Not just any guitar either. It was Roger's Fender.

Rog stared in shock. This wasn't possible. That Fender couldn't be his. He'd sold it at least a week before he left. He expected someone else to buy it within a day. He looked at Tristan. "Is that..."

Tristan nodded, "Yup. It's your baby. Saved it for you. Like I said. Knew you'd be back sometime. I know how much this old thing means to you. Trust me. I only let you sell this little beauty off to me because I knew you'd regret it later, and I'd rather it be here in my store where I could keep it safe for you than in some dirty old pawn shop where it'd get broken and sold off to some yahoo for nowhere near the real value. I've kept it here under the counter, safe and sound, because I knew that once you came to your senses, you'd want the old thing back."

Roger couldn't help himself. He reached over the counter and gave his old band mate a hug. "Thank you Tristan. I...I never thought I'd see it again. I honestly don't know how to repay you. I owe you more than money with this one dude."

Tristan smiled and hugged the rocker back. "Hey. It's what friends do. And on the money front, don't even TRY to give me cash for this thing. It's yours. Always has been, always will be. If you really wanna buy it back, lets just do a trade. You get your old Fender, I get the Santa Fé acoustic. Sound good?"

Roger nodded. Both men knew the Fender was monetarily worth much more than the Acoustic, but it was silently understood that those sorts of things didn't matter. The trade was purely symbolic. As he handed the acoustic over to Tristan, he was trading in Santa Fé for New York. He gently picked up his Fender. It fit naturally into his hands. It belonged there, the same way Roger belonged here. New York was his place. He was home.

Tristan sighed contentedly at the sight. "Now that's how things should be. The musician and his instrument. It's a bond that can't be touched. So, you've 'paid' me for the Fender. Now, I know a perfect way for you to started repaying me for the favor"

Roger looked up, eyebrow quirked in question. He knew Tristan would never ask him to do anything too serious, but still he was slightly worried at how Tristan had worded that sentence. "And what exactly would that be?"

Tristan chuckled softly and shook his head before looking at Roger. "Relax Davis. I was just gonna ask to hear a song on that piece of beauty. It's been a long time since I heard you play Rog. I don't care if it's that god forsaken Musetta's Waltz, just wanna hear a song."

Roger smiled, "That I can do. Actually, I'm working on a song at the moment. It isn't done yet, but tell be what you think."

Roger lay his fingers softly across the strings and strummed. He sighed, basking in the sound he'd come to miss. He then started in on the song. It wasn't done. It wasn't much. But it was his song.

Tristan leaned against the counter, smiling softly as he listened. Roger was a real talent. Alway had been, always would be. He'd missed that. The nostalgia washed over him listening to the music. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture the green room at CBGBs. The pre-show jam sessions and band practices. The dirty jokes and pranks and Roger tuning up for the eighth time in an hour. Sometimes Mark would come in and film them. Those had been the good days. Before the drugs. Before the fights. Before the girls. Before Roger's test was positive. Before the band broke up.

Roger finished what he had of the song and looked up. "That's all I got. It any good so far?"

Tristan nodded, "Ya man. That was awesome. It'll be even better once you put the words to it."

Rog smiled. "Thanks Trist. For everything. Well, I better head out. None of the others know I'm home yet."

Tristan nodded, "It's cool. Ya, you should go. God knows Cohen will have your head if you keep him waiting. Just don't be a stranger, ok? Drop by anytime. Maybe we could get the guys together and hang out sometime."

Roger nodded and waved goodbye to his friend before hurrying back out to his car.

He stopped at the Food Emporium to get some groceries. Just the basics that all Bohemians need to survive: sugary cereal, some fruit, band aids, a lighter, coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He had just enough money to pay for it, even with a little left in his pocket. One good thing about Santa Fé is that the street performers can get paid really well.

Roger hopped in the car and drove to the loft. He'd originally thought of selling the thing, but decided it may still prove useful in the future. Driving was faster than walking, and it allowed you to take more with you. It was also a good investment. If they ever needed money desperately, they could easily sell it then. It was fairly fuel-efficient. If it ran out of gas, he could just hawk it off for the parts or siphon off another vehicle. To Roger, keeping the car sounded like a good plan.

Rog pulled up to the building and sighed contentedly. He was home. He smiled and unpacked his stuff from the car. He didn't have much, so Roger was able to carry it all in one trip. Guitar in one hand, duffel bag over his shoulder, grocery bag in the other hand. He walked in the door and up the stairs.

When he reached the loft, he fumbled slightly with his key before unlocking the door. Roger still had his key. The fact that he did was a simple testament to how little he really committed to Santa Fé. New York and the loft were home. This was also the reason he didn't feel like he had to knock before he came in. In hind sight, he should have.

The second he entered the loft, he saw it. He saw him. His smile disappeared, his expression morphing to one of shock and horror. The grocery bag slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor. The sound snapped him out of his frozen state. He gasped as he hurried forward.

"MARK! NO!"