When Mark and Roger arrived back in New York, they went straight to the hospital where Collins was. It was where Mimi had been, too, when she was dying. Roger remembered walking through the same corridors he and Mark were running through now on their way to see Collins, on his way to see Mimi. It was different, going to see her... she had been hit by a car on her way to work one night, and while she looked alright, underneath the sheets of the hospital bed her body was bandaged, covering the wide gashes where glass on the road had cut into her, and the horrible mess that the car had left her right leg to be, a bleeding mass of muscle and bone. It had hurt Roger to see her like that, looking and acting fine but hiding her pain, it had hurt him even more to learn that several of her wounds had become infected, and she wouldn't have the strength to fight her death. He had held her hand as she died, listened to the beep-beep of the monitor change to a single, long, "beeeeeeeeeep". When it finished, he had expected Mark's mom to start leaving an annoying message, but he had instead been torn away from the body of his love and taken out of the room, only to see them wheel her... it, for she had left it, what had made it her had gone... it past, and take it away.
He saw a doctor striding down the corridor, Mark pulled Roger close to the wall, so they could let him, and the body on the gurney behind him, pass. Roger looked at it, wondering who it had been, and who they'd left behind...
They kept going, reaching the waiting room of the wing where Mark said Collins was. Joanne was waiting for them, Maureen standing on the other side of the room talking to one of the nurses. She looked upset, and it didn't seem to Roger that she was trying to chat the nurse up, like she had been when she'd been in to visit Mimi. Mark and Roger stopped, standing still as Joanne rose and came over to them. She had been crying. Roger knew then, that they had come too late.
"How long?" he asked.
"An hour, they just wheeled him out."
"We saw. He... they... passed us on our way in." Mark was overcome, leaning against the wall and then sinking down to sit on the floor. He was tired - they'd hardy stopped on the way back, making the trip across the country in less than 48 hours - and he didn't need to hear that he'd rushed across the country and back and ultimately failed to do what he was asked to do. Roger balled his fists. It wasn't fair. Mark shouldn't have to go through this...
"Nonononononononono, this isn't right, this isn't fair! It should've been me! I deserved it more than he did! Why?" Joanne took a step closer to Roger.
"I don't know."
Roger banged his fists on the wall. It wasn't fair. He sat next to Mark, and put his arms around the filmmaker, who, this time, couldn't hold back his tears.
"It'll be alright, Mark, we'll make it through. I'm going to stay with you... I'm not going to leave you again." Mark leaned in and allowed Roger to hug him, rocking him gently, not trying to calm him, but being there like he hadn't been there the last seven months, like he should've been there.
"He wrote you a letter, Roger. He made me promise to give it to you as soon as I saw you." Roger looked up and took an arm away from Mark to receive the letter, and watching as Joanne went to comfort Maureen. There were only four of their little family left now... Angel, Mimi and Collins had died, and nobody knew where Benny was. He'd distanced himself from them since Mimi died, whether he blamed them or whether he had just moved on was something they'd never know.
Roger unfolded the piece of paper and looked at the letter Collins had written him before he died. He nudged Mark, who looked up from Roger's shoulder, and they read the letter together.
"Dear Roger,
Probably you're on your way here as I write this. I couldn't hold on to see you again before I leave, and I'm sorry. I see Angel waiting for me - coming closer all the time. She wants me to go with her, I dare not keep her waiting.
Told Mark to come and get you. He kept trying to write, but never felt his letters were good enough. Roger, he needs you now to keep going. You can't leave him alone.
Mark's always been strong, but sooner or later he's going to break. Nobody can be that strong forever. You have to look after him, make sure he'll be okay. It's your turn to help him through the hard times now. You can do it.
I have faith in you.
Collins."
Roger wiped away a solitary tear. He had to be strong, be there for Mark. From now on, his crying for the deaths of his friends, his family, would be inside.
Even the pristine white walls were in shadow, as those that Collins had left behind stood, and together left the waiting room, and then the hospital, with its memories and fresh wounds from death left behind, fading away through the rear windscreen of Joanne's car, as Roger looked back. The hurt was still deep in Roger, and would always be there, painful and ready to knock him out at the first instant he was reminded of it. But his tears and his pain would be inside, as he had promised himself, and as he now promised Collins, somewhere up there, beyond the grey skies, with his Angel.
There was still the funeral to organise, and they had to move Roger back into the loft. The latter wouldn't be hard, considering that Roger had one rather large bag and his guitar, but the funeral wouldn't be that easy. They couldn't expect Benny to pay again, nor could they pay for it themselves, even using all of their savings, and they knew nobody would organise it for them knowing that they couldn't pay. But they could think about that, even leave it to Joanne. She'd find some way, have some contact, that would help them to manage. It had to be done, but first, Mark was speaking to Joanne, telling Joanne to drop them off here, they'd walk the rest of the way. And Roger realised that they were at the end of his street. His street. Where he lived, with Mark. His home. Underneath his grief and his pain, he was relieved and excited and happy, all at once. Home.
The car soundlessly pulled up against the curb, and Roger unloaded his guitar and his bag from the boot. It was a modern, comfortable car, undoubtedly it came with the job, but it didn't fit in around here, where hardly anybody had a car, let alone one that ran more than once a week.
He waved Joanne and Maureen away, and followed Mark home.
He'd almost forgotten what it meant to him to trudge up the stairs after heaving the door open with his shoulder, his whole body. Even his guitar felt heavy by the time he got to the top, but as Mark opened their door and Roger walked into the loft that was home, that looked almost exactly the same as he had left it, it didn't feel heavy at all. He put the case in its usual spot next to the couch, where the dirty carpet still bore the outline of the case, where dirt couldn't reach, where stains couldn't mar. He walked into his bedroom and put his bag down next to his bed. It was all his. He was home.
He still couldn't believe how close everything was to the way he had left it. It was obvious Mark had been living here still, of course, and that Mark had been in this room, gone through every drawer, looked in every possible place for something that had been left behind, something to hold onto. He knew he'd left nothing important and private behind, but Roger was still uneasy about Mark being in his room. They never went into each others rooms uninvited. Ever.
Roger smiled, knowing that Mark must've missed him more this time, more than any other time. Knowing that Mark was glad to have him home, and that he was glad to be home, with Mark. For though the last seven months had seen him call a dank flat in Santa Fe home, home was really here in his loft in New York City, though it would never be the same now that he could never look out the window and see Collins waving, waiting for the key, and he couldn't dart downstairs to see Mimi when he was lonely. Nor could he return without seeing Mark's smiling face, resting on the arm of the couch, glasses askew, hair rumpled, seeing one of his films on the television, watching him edit it, not knowing what he was doing but appreciating how it improved what he was watching. It was, indeed, home. And he thought he could live there again.
"I thought you would be needing this..." Roger turn and saw Mark at the door, holding a small box in his hand. "I put all your picks and your toothbrush and your spare razor and everything else in here so I didn't lose anything in case you asked for them or you came home and wanted your stuff and I -"
"Mark. Calm down, for God's sake. I'm home, you look shit, and I'm fine unpacking my stuff so you go have a shower, get some clean stuff on, shave or whatever and stop fussing over me like you're my mother."
Mark looked shocked but nodded, put the box down on the end of the bed, and left. Roger picked up the box and quickly rummaged through it. The one thing Mark hadn't mentioned was the one that Roger had been secretly hoping that would still be here, the one thing he'd learnt to miss when he was in Santa Fe, but deliberately hadn't taken, thinking that he'd never want to see it again. It was only small, only a photograph, but the only one he had of himself and Mimi. Later, he'd try to find one of Collins and Angel and frame them both. But for now he was content to just have the one of Mimi, something to remember her by.
He could hear the shower running, through the wall, and sat down to unpack, knowing that he wouldn't be interrupted for some time, while Mark was dressing and maybe then they'd go and get something to eat.