Notes: I meant this to be the last part of the story… but Mark and Roger insisted on making it longer. I'm not sure whether to appreciate that, or be annoyed with them. Beth, I apologize for killing Mimi… and for writing angst without any real slash to make it better. Cookies to Lael for catching the NYTW reference in the previous chapter, and thankies to everyone who reviewed!


Chapter Two—A Sorry Losing Game

To lie to your lover
Is a sorry, losing game
To lie is a violation
And a shame

Don't you know
It's just as sure as the rising sun
Don't you know
To tell the truth is lesson number one

"Roger," Mark said softly, his eyes on his friend as he unlocked the door to the loft. "Do you need to talk?"

He certainly needed to say something, because Mark hadn't heard a word from him for the past several hours, and he could count on one hand the number of times Roger had spoken over the past week. Since Mimi died, the best Mark could really expect from Roger was something less than being completely ignored.

He sighed as the lock clicked in the door, and he held open the door to let Roger in first. As the musician stepped past him into the loft, Mark looked up at him, glanced into those pain-filled eyes ringed with dark circles from a lack of sleep. This was a Roger he hadn't seen in years. Not since… No, he wouldn't think about that. He slipped into the loft behind Roger, closed the door, and then looked back to his friend, who was already stalking to his room. He wouldn't be out for days. "So I suppose you're not going to answer me, then?"

He expected Roger to keep on walking, ignore him just as before, but to his surprise, he turned around, something in his eyes suddenly shifting, seeming to darken with helpless rage. That rage had probably been building since Mimi's death, barely held in check, and now, returning home from her funeral, Mark had unknowingly provided the spark to set it off. He didn't even have time to brace himself for the explosion.

"Talk?" Roger snapped, his voice harsh as the crack of a bullwhip. "A hell of a lot of good that's going to do, Mark. I'm sure it's going to help Mimi now, huh?" His hands clenched into fists at his sides, probably unconsciously, but Mark noticed. Roger was dangerously on edge. "She's dead. Just like I will be before long. You can talk all you want, Mark, but no one else gives a fuck, least of all me!"

Mark clenched his jaw, uncertain what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke Roger further, but he couldn't just let this go in silence. At last, he said, "So is that all that matters? Mimi's dead and there's nothing else left for you to care about?" He knew the answer he wanted: You matter, Mark. I care about you. But that was something he would probably never hear from Roger, especially when he was this angry. Even knowing that, Roger's reply made Mark jerk backwards at its violence, as if at a physical blow.

"Yes, that's exactly right. Thanks so much for pointing it out to me. Bastard." He started to turn back to his room, and Mark reacted more on impulse than anything else. If he let Roger go now, he wouldn't see him for a week, wouldn't speak to him for a month… The filmmaker lunged forward, grabbed hold of Roger's wrist.

"Roger. Stop. Even if you've stopped caring, we care about you. Collins, Maureen, Joanne, even Benny. Me." The last came out a half-broken whisper, and he had to regain his composure before he could go on. "Don't turn your back on us." On me. "Don't lock yourself away from the people who care about you."

Roger pulled his arm away roughly, his jaw clenched tight in an effort to seem unaffected, but the mixture of emotions in his eyes betrayed him, too tangled for Mark to decide whether that was fury or… something else he saw in them. "Do yourself a favor and stop caring," he growled. "Save yourself the trouble. I don't need people to care about me. I can take care of myself."

He shouldered past Mark and started to walk to the door, out of the loft.

"Roger!" Mark called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

The slamming of the door behind him finalized the simple statement. Mark stared at the door blankly, wondering when—and if—he would be back.


"What the hell am I doing?" Roger murmured softly to himself, staring at the needle in his hand. He could stop now. He didn't have to… Yes he did. He needed to stop feeling, stop caring. He needed that old rush.

It used to be easier to find a vein, he thought as he slid the needle into the skin near the bend of his elbow. Then again, it was hardly surprising when he hadn't been using for two, three years. I am such a hypocrite. All that time spent trying to get Mimi to stop using… and here he was, shooting up on the street with a borrowed needle. Stupid. Dangerous. But he had nothing to lose.

Withdrawing the syringe from his arm, Roger sighed and rubbed at the tiny mark left on his skin without thinking about it. Already, he could feel the beginnings of a rush coming on, that feeling of euphoria he hadn't realized he missed until then. And what was he to do now? If he went back to the loft now… Mark would know the signs that he was high. So would any of the others, if they saw him like this. But it was late. Mark would be asleep by now, probably. He could go back to the loft and stay there until the high wore off… That was all Roger really wanted just then, to sit in his room in comfortable numbness, not have to think, not have to feel that ache of emptiness. He could do that.

Roger started down the street in the direction of home, a few blocks away. From here, he knew he could find his way back to the loft no matter how high he was. He hadn't made it half a block down the darkened street, though, when something seemed to contract around his chest, making breathing difficult. A sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and he swayed on his feet.

Shit.

Something was wrong. Too much, too strong, too pure… something. An irrelevant thought slid across the surface of his mind, an echoing memory.

"Promise me you won't do this again. Ever. Promise me, Roger."

"I swear."

Roger stumbled… and collapsed.