Disclaimer/Author Notes: The first part of dialogue in italics are lyrics to "Goodbye Love" and belong to a Mr. Jonathan Larson, along with everything else. All I've got is plot, people. Plot.
"Mark hides in his work." Roger throws out. Mark quickly looks up to Roger, who's eyes have darkened as he throws his things into a large bag. The words cut deep, and Mark doesn't really know what to say.
"From what?" his voice cracks. Is it true?
"From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact that you live a lie!" Roger sighs heavily as he sees Mark's echoing expression of confusion and thought of retaliation.
"Yes you live a lie! Tell you why: You're always preaching not to be numb when that's how you thrive! You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling... alive..." Roger falters on the last words. It's true, but it's not right. He sees Mark's eyes sparkle with threatening tears. He convinces himself that those tears are not going to push him into apologies.
"Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive!"
Silence.
"Poor baby."
And a few words later, Roger had been gone. And now here was Mark, still reflecting on their last conversation. It had been pounding his brain for every second, minute, and hour that Roger was not there to explain. He hadn't said another word, and it was killing him inside. Now he was in Santa Fe, and Mark was yet again lonely and by himself... just what Roger had spit out in the loft.
The roof had now become a zone of comfort for Mark, and he couldn't help but sneak away every chance he got. Looking out into New York was somewhat of dazzling; even through poverty and ugly smog and grime, it was some sort of home. Some sort of beautiful. At least to Mark it cleared his head.
Poor baby.
Poor.
Baby.
Those words just wouldn't die. Why the hell did they burn inside his mind? No matter how many times he would wipe the slate clean, it was there, etched in stone, pulsing with question.
"I didn't mean it, I swear." Mark spins around on the balls of his heels so quickly that he totters, or is that from surprise? Because look... there's Roger accompanying him on the roof. He blinks, is this a dream?
"But I thought--Santa Fe--" Words just seem to fail him now.
"I'm sorry, Mark. I--"
"Please don't come up here with the apologetic bullshit that you made up in your head and wrote down on paper while you drove back on the bus... I know it all so well, Roger. Just... don't." Mark still stares.
And stares.
And wonders.
"What made you come back?" he inquires. Roger shrugs.
"Like you said, right? I'm insane, there's so much to care about. There's you--"
"There's Mimi."
"Let's forget Mimi for a second. New York is beautiful, isn't it"
