Ready for You

chapter Thirteen

A/N: UHM.. HOORAY.

So I realized I made a mistake in the prologue. OOPS. It was not meant to say "The first day of fall". It was simply supposed to be "in fall". SORRY FOR ANY CONFUSION.

This chapter is really short. HOORAY ME.

Song: Take Me As I Am - October Project

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even if you shine a light into the mirror you won't see me any clearer

It was the Bermuda Triangle, three points opposing one another, a sea of uncertainty and mystery within the outline four figures created. Words spoken attempted valiantly to cross that void, though were lost in the emotions simply rolling off the other points in waves, leaving no hope for any of the syllables that crept forth hesitantly.

Mark had almost turned tail and simply run for it when he reached the hotel room door. In one hand he gripped his camera, and he'd had to shift the small message machine onto that arm when he'd knocked. The guitar was strapped across his back, and he was thus protected--his camera in front, Roger's acoustic covering his back. The hugs had been awkward, and not just because of what he had in his hands. Maureen seemed to take a longer moment, burying her nose into his hair, taking a long sniff, and giving a smile that would have been knowing if not for the uncertainty paralyzing her features. Joanne's hug was short, orderly, as he would have expected from the woman, but seemed nearly unwilling. It was as though they expected him to go bonkers on them once again.

He'd gotten the gist of what had happened in those few days. The musician hadn't exactly been willing to impart that knowledge to him.

They'd plugged the machine in and retreated to their respective areas. Maureen and Joanne were settled on one of the beds, shoulders to shoulder, fingers laced. Roger was against the wall near the door to the bathroom, leaning and looking decidedly moody, though most of it was a ruse. Mark had taken refuge in the comfortable-looking though unbelievable stiff arm chair, hunched forward so that his elbows were just above his knees, camera in his lap. The three corners of the triangle.

There had been silence as the messages played. It was strange--Mark remembered the first two, and his heart clenched at the third. Why couldn't he remember the one about Benny paying the church? Or about Maureen and Joanne inviting Roger to come with them? If he'd heard those.. if he'd heard those he could have tracked them down without a problem, but something had kept him..

When the messages ended he expected someone to speak. He expected Joanne to jump in and continue where they left off. He expected Maureen to add something. He expected Roger to stare moodily.

Only one of those three things were occurring, and it was most definitely not the most helpful.

The blonde shifted, cringing at the squeaking the issued from the chair, straightening slowly. His back ached from that position, but the sounds were drawing attention to him, and he really didn't want that attention. He really didn't want that attention. Inhaling deeply through his nose, the filmmaker drew his camera closer to himself, so that it was resting in his arms, which were wrapped loosely around his midsection. Though the camera was small, it was concrete--it was a suitable security blanket. In truth, he wanted to press his fingers against the warm wood of the Fender, but the instrument was leaning against the wall beside its owner, and seemed to be glaring just as accusingly.

It seemed as though it was up to him to begin.

"So... how long.. after I left did Collins... did Collins d... Was Collins' funeral?" It was easier to say.

Nobody spoke for a while. Joanne seemed to be searching for an exact date in her head, Maureen was looking at her lover expectantly, Roger's eyes had dropped to the machine once more.

"... You left.. October Twenty-seventh." All eyes turned to Roger, varying degrees of surprise in them. "Collins' died February sixth. His funeral was on the eleventh. He's buried next to Angel--all of the paperwork for the plot was in one of his books." The musician inhaled deeply, shakily. "Maureen and Joanne were moving." It was just the two of them now. "Benny offered me a place to stay--he didn't want me living alone at the loft. I didn't want to live alone. It was either live alone, move in with Benny and M.. Alison, or go to California. So I went to California. I got a job. I worked in a restaurant. It wasn't Santa Fe. I didn't open the restaurant. I was alone.. but I was fucking there." He swallowed. "I call the loft every two weeks. I didn't leave a message. I waited for someone to pick up. No one picked up, Mark. Then it was off. I think.. you pulled it out.." His voice broke. Roger was no longer leaning against the wall. He'd stepped away, turning to stare at his roommate... his friend.. his best friend, who looked back unblinkingly, but not distantly. They were connecting. "It's your turn."

Mark picked up almost immediately.

"I went to Oregon. I lived in Nevada, Arizona, and California. For more than three years I just moved around the West Coast." Palm Springs... he'd lived in Palm Springs. Mark hadn't gone there often. In fact, he'd never been inside the city, but he'd been so close more than once. Within hours of one another. "I lived in Hollywood. I tried to make a living. I couldn't." Another deep breath. "I went to Santa Fe. I pawned my camera and bought a polaroid. I took pictures. I sold them. I was there for a month." He was sitting up straight, no longer slouching, hands relaxed atop his camera. "I pawned that camera and bought mine back. I had enough for a plane ticket back to New York... so I went. I took a taxi to the loft. I'd kept my key."

There was nothing between them. Tension, but not so thick that it was choking them. Roger was the first to move, but it was to the dresser, where he started going through drawer after drawer. Neither of the women protested. It took nearly ten minutes, but after a thorough search of each drawer, the closet, and the women's suitcases, he pulled out a crumpled photograph. Roger held it delicately, eyes seemingly tracing every crease, before he turned to Mark, who wordlessly set the camera down, stood, and extended one hand.

"That's the last picture of Collins we were able to take. It... It was really sudden."

The man in the photograph had a smile large enough to rival the Cheshire Cat's. His eyes were tired. There were lines in his face that weren't caused by the rough handling of the picture. His posture was slumped, nearly defeated, but there was defiance in it even so.

Mark's hands tightened around it as the arms tightened around him, and he allowed his forehead to fall against Roger's shoulder, his glasses pushed up. It didn't matter, though, because his eyes were shut tightly.

He didn't allow tears to fall. If he'd been able to, perhaps they would have, but the lump in his throat was foreign. The burning in his eyes unusual; alien. Water was waiting just below the surface, threatening.. but the drops that felt like rain on his shoulder were his savior, and he allowed the salt to soak into his shirt even as he shook, the image of the philosopher trembling terribly.

There they stood, unmoving, accepting.

"I've.. caught up, Rog."

"Ye-eah. You have."

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