Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson. I'm just borrowing these wonderful characters for a short time. Any lawsuit will get thrown out 'cos there's no way you'll get more than A$1000 out of me, 'cos my (lack of) assets and all my money don't add up to anywhere near that.

Chapter titles are quotes from JL's musical "RENT", (conveniently the characters come from there as well). Bit different from my ordinary "One. Two. Three." isn't it?

Now enjoy! Please?

Mimi's eventual death had brought Roger here, to Santa Fe. He always came here, when things got tough, when he couldn't deal with his emotions. He had never really been an emotional guy... not the he didn't have emotions. Mark had always been good at pointing out every time Roger had ever showed emotion... Mark would focus his camera on Roger and talk for what seemed like hours about it, his favourite being when Roger had to refused to go out of the loft or play his guitar, let alone talk to anyone who didn't make him, for a whole year after April died.

Roger had always laughed at Mark when he did that. The man's face was almost hidden by the large camera. and to Roger it looked like Mark had a camera for a head, a camera with blond, spiky hair. Mind you, Mark's mind worked like a camera, at least is seemed like that to Roger. He wondered what Mark was doing now, whether he was filming, or watching old films.

In fact, the filmmaker was doing neither. Roger didn't know it, but he was standing on the other side of the door, fidgeting. There was no camera nearby, only a piece of paper with an address on it. This time Roger had remembered to leave it. And so now Mark was here, in Santa Fe. It had been their dream, Mark and Roger and Collins, to come here and open a restaurant. A dream, that now, would never come true.

Roger looked up when he heard a knock at the door. Broken from his quiet reminiscence, he rose from the floor and walked towards the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he paused to wonder who it could be, before opening the door.

"MARK?!?"

The smaller man was uncertain now. Roger had sounded almost angry, and he looked ready to run. Roger began to regret that. He should have remembered that Mark wasn't used to being yelled at, couldn't handle being yelled at... but he didn't yell at Mark. He was just... surprised.

"Um... hi Roger..."

Mark's voice sounded small, like he was scared. Nervous. Roger blamed himself. A relatively short time away from Mark and he'd not only forgotten to be careful not to hurt him, but Mark had become scared of him, nervous around him. Now the filmmaker was saying something else. "Um.. if this is a bad time... um..."

Roger pulled Mark closer to him, wrapping the filmmaker in a big hug. He couldn't hear any more of Mark's uncertain talking. It was muffled, muffled from Mark's having to talk to Roger's pullover. Roger hadn't realised he was hugging Mark that hard. He let go, slowly, so that the filmmaker wouldn't think he was being shoved away. Roger still cared about his filmmaker, still felt the need to protect him, to be there for him.

For the first time in his life, Roger was guilty about running away. He'd left his filmmaker alone, all alone in New York. In the worst part of New York...

Even though Mark hadn't been alone, Collins and Maureen and Joanne had been there, Mark had been without Roger, and now Roger was realising that he'd missed his filmmaker, something it had taken him all this time to face up to.

Mark, having regained his control over his breathing, which had been stopped while in Roger's bear hug, tilted his head to one side and looked at Roger carefully. Roger looked back at him, studying his filmmaker's face.

"Can I come in now?" asked Mark. Roger, now ashamed to have left his friend standing outside, not really "outside" outside, but not inviting him into his into his room, the place he lived. Roger stepped aside to let Mark walk in to the place Roger had been calling his home for the last seven months.

So it was a bit messy, with clothes in a few rough piles around the room, an unmade bed, unwashed dishes. The room said 'Roger lives here', but the one thing that had made it home to Roger was that his guitar sat in its case on the bed. Where his guitar was, Roger was, but this place had never been home to Roger. Not really. Home was in a loft in New York, on the corner of Eleventh and Avenue B. He had made that loft home.

Mark sat down on the one chair in the room, a ratty synthetic leather thing which rarely provided comfort to the person sitting on it, as the flaps of material poked into the legs and back, and often got stuck in clothes.

"Want me to get you something, Mark? A coffee?" Roger began walking towards the sink, but Mark stopped him.

"Um, no. Roger, you couldn't make anything if you tried." Roger grinned and pulled a packet from behind the kettle.

"It's instant. You get a spoon, put some in a cup..." Roger found a clean cup and demonstrated. "Then you turn on kettle, and when it boils you pour in the water. See, I'm learning!"

"Yes. Okay. You've proved that. Okay. But Roger, I don't have time. I have to go back to New York, and you're coming with me."

Roger turned off the kettle, slightly disappointed that Mark wouldn't get to try his coffee. He faced Mark and looked him in the eye, squatting slightly to do so.

"Mark. What. Is. Going. On? You didn't have to come all the way out here to collect me, you know. I was coming back soon. I was! I was packing up - see?" He stood back up, defiantly. He was going back! Pointing to a bag, half hidden under a pile of clothes, he continued to make his point. "See - my clothes are already being packed! My guitar is in its case, which is closed, ready to be moved, my - "

Mark held a hand up to stop Roger.

"I know. Now. I didn't when I was in New York. You didn't call, didn't write... how were we supposed to know what you were doing, when you were coming back... if you were coming back at all... whether you were sick, whether you'd found a - " Mark paused, holding back a rush of emotion. " - a girlfriend, whether you had enough AZT? Roger, you forgot about us..."

"I didn't forget, Mark! I just didn't call you every day like your dear darling mommy does. You never answer the phone, always you screen, and you know I always come back! You didn't have to come out here to get me... how would you know whether I'd follow you back, anyway, like your little puppy followed you to school? Maybe I wouldn't have been here, Mark. What if I was out, playing a gig? You were just going to stand there until I got back? And why didn't you write to me? I even left my address this time, but I didn't hear from you, either. So don't get all uptight and start lecturing me, look at yourself!"

Roger knew Mark wouldn't like that. Mark didn't. His face was crumpling, and the filmmaker appeared close to tears. Roger had gone too far. He knew it. Mark had gone back into his shell while Roger had been gone. Roger had just broken it. He knew Mark probably had tried to write, like he had, but the words wouldn't have come out onto the page, and it would have been scrunched into a ball an thrown towards the bin, only to be picked up again later and copied out neatly in case it could be continued. He knew Mark would have been thinking about him, missing him maybe every day. And he welcomed him like this. A fight.

"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't mean it..." Roger apologised. It was pretty good. Roger Davis, apologising. And Mark didn't have his camera... he'd just repeat it for Mark when he did.

Mark shook his head and waved his hand, dismissing Roger.

"You never do. But I don't have time to fight. If you're not coming, I'll go back by myself. Joanne needs her car to get to work - she can't walk all the time or she'll never get any sleep." Which was true, Roger recalled. Joanne lived with Maureen, but it was further away from her office... if she had to walk, it would take her maybe three-quarters of an hour to get there. An hour and a half a day, plus all the work Joanne did after hours, would take a lot out of her day, and with Maureen, who would wait impatiently for Joanne to finish so that they could go out... Joanne wouldn't get any sleep, no.

"Joanne lent you her car to come and get me? What's so important, Maureen wants me back there so she can get me to play guitar at a protest?"

"No, Roger, it's more serious than that. Collins is sick, Roger. We think this is it, and he wants to see you. Joanne lent me her car to come and get you because we didn't think you'd be back before it was over... Roger, you have to come back."

"Collins?"

Roger stood in shock as Mark nodded, slowly. Collins had always seemed so strong. He was never sick, always took his AZT. This couldn't be it... but if Mark said it was...

"Help me pack. But first, you have coffee." Roger grinned and turned back to the kettle, putting it on again. "You look like you need it."

To Mark's surprise, the coffee was pretty good. And Roger was packing up. He picked up the piles of clothes, and one by one, stuffed the piles in the bag. It bulged when it was done, but it held. He took the cup from Mark, and rinsed it in the sink. Mark came over and they did the dishes, so that Roger wasn't leaving the room in a bad state for the next desperate person who needed to stay there.

Finally, Roger said goodbye to the room he had stayed in for seven months, and, leaving the bed to the cleaners, who came in once a fortnight, closed the door. Carrying his guitar in one hand and his bag in the other, he headed towards Joanne's car, and Mark held the boot open for him. He put his things in, and told Mark he'd be back in a minute. Roger had rent to settle. Mark offered most of a wad of notes Joanne had given to him for the journey, but Roger shook his head. Mark got in the car, and waited while Roger crossed the road and entered a dirty grey building.

Taking a lift to the third floor, he knocked on the door of his landlord. It was opened by a young girl, the daughter. Taking money out of his pocket, he gave it to her, and said he was sorry but his friend in New York was dying and he had to go home. He wouldn't be back.

He heard her crying as he went down the stairs. He never went up them, but always went down. It was easier than waiting for the lift to come back. It also gave him time to think. The girl had a crush on him, but he wouldn't have her. It was too soon, and she was too young, only fifteen. He wasn't breaking any appointments, not running out on any gigs, but a few more days and he would have had some more lined up.

But he was going home. With his filmmaker, the person who made home, home. His old audiences would be waiting, and he had a few new songs, had learned a few new tricks that he could amuse them with. He was, in fact, ready to go home.

It was a sad, yet happy Roger who got in the car, ready for Mark to take him home. Home. Where he wanted to be, and right now, needed to be.