Notes: This is going on far longer than I ever thought it could. But I swear, only one more chapter (because I'm running out of lyrics in this song). Oh, and somehow some implied Collins/Benny crept into this chapter… but don't worry, there's more Mark/Roger. Again, thank you for the reviews. They make me happy, which makes Mark and Roger more talkative.
Chapter Three – For Telling Even One Lie
I remember being told to be careful
For telling even one lie
Would surely lead to more problems
Of alarming dimensions
I wish I had paid attention
The ticking of the second hand seemed unnaturally loud in the complete silence of the loft, and Mark found himself tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch in a nervous rhythm just to fill the quiet. He chanced another glance at the clock, although he knew he was only making himself worry all the more by doing so.
It's only 1:23. That's not so bad. Roger's stayed out much later before. Maybe he's not coming home at all tonight. I should go to bed.
Mark looked at the closed door. True, Roger had stayed out much later before, and some nights he didn't come home… but this was different. This was the night after Mimi's funeral, and Roger should not be alone now. I have to find him.
He picked up the phone upon deciding that and dialed the number of the person he trusted most to help. It rang. And rang. And…
Someone picked up. Mark heard a clatter on the other end, the kind of sounds made by someone half-asleep trying to figure out how to work a phone correctly. Then a muffled, sleep-fogged voice. "Hello?"
Mark growled under his breath. Benny. Right number, wrong person. "Benny, it's Mark. Give the phone to Collins."
"Nice to talk to you too," Benny mumbled sleepily. The sound of rattling on the other end of the line, Benny's still-sleepy voice as he attempted to get Collins to take the phone… Mark balled his free hand into a fist, fighting himself not to scream with frustration. At last, Collins did take the phone, and Mark let out a sigh as he heard his friend's voice.
"What is it?" Collins asked, sounding slightly more alert and awake than Benny. "Who is it?"
Again, Mark bit back a growl and repeated, "It's Mark. I need your help."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes I know what—Collins! That's not important! Roger left right after we got home and… he's not back yet. He was… really upset when he left. We had a fight…"
A long pause. "How long ago was this?"
"I don't know, exactly. Three, four hours maybe? Help me find him. Please." Mark closed his eyes, biting his lip as he waited for Collins' response.
"I'll be over as soon as I can," Collins said finally. Mark released the breath he had unconsciously been holding, and Collins paused before he went on, his tone sincere. "We'll find him, Mark. I promise."
Mark swallowed back the choked feeling in his throat. "I hope so," he whispered, and slowly set down the receiver, forcing himself not to dwell on where Roger could be at this time of night.
"Where did you think he might have gone? Did he say anything?"
"No, he just said… out!" Mark said. Standing outside of his building with Collins, he momentarily considered slamming his head against the brick wall out of sheer frustration, but decided that that wouldn't do any good. He glanced down the dark street, then back to Collins. "I've told you that three times already."
Collins put a hand on Mark's shoulder, and Mark stopped fidgeting. He hadn't realized he had been fidgeting until just then. Collins met his eyes and told him firmly, "Calm down. Panicking isn't going to help anything. Okay?" Mark nodded, and Collins went on, "We'll start looking down that way, and… You're sure you don't want to get the others to help look? They'd understand, and Joanne has a cell phone, so we can split up and if we find him we could… call a doctor or something. I mean…" He grimaced slightly. "If he needs it." Which, they both knew, was a definite possibility.
"Okay, okay," Mark said quickly, desperate to stop talking and start looking for Roger. He blinked as Collins held out an all too familiar-looking cell phone to him.
"Benny's," Collins explained with a quick smile. "Take it. He won't even notice it's gone." Mark took it, but raised an eyebrow at him. Benny, not notice, when he was practically attached to his precious phone? Collins seemed to ignore the skeptical expression. "I'll run over to Maureen and Joanne's and get them. Call Joanne's cell if you find Roger, alright?"
"I will," Mark said, and slipped the phone into his pocket. Collins squeezed his shoulder, gave him a reassuring smile, and then turned and hurried off in the direction fo Joanne and Maureen's apartment. Mark didn't spare a moment to look after him—he took off down the street at a run, glancing into the shadows in the desperate hope that he might somehow spot Roger.
Where would he have gone? Not the Life, not alone. The same with the Cat Scratch Club, especially with Mimi gone. Which left other, less comfortable places, with less memories attached. Anonymous bars and clubs, maybe just some dark alleyway. Places Roger could lose himself. Mark choked back a lump of silent dread in his throat.
Racing headlong down the street, wrapped in his own thoughts and worried, Mark didn't take care to watch where he was going, exactly—and consequently tripped over something—someone?—sprawled across the sidewalk. He tumbled to the ground, yelping as he scraped the length of one forearm raw on the sidewalk. For a second, he simply lay there, half-stunned, and reached to gingerly touch his bloodied arm. It stung, and he winced, sitting up slowly and glancing back to the person he had tripped over. His stomach flipped over as he let out a choked gasp.
"Roger!" Mark grasped Roger's shoulder, clenching his fingers around a fistful of his friend's coat. Roger's breathing seemed labored and shallow, coming in fits and starts. With his free hand, Mark placed two fingers on Roger's throat, fumbling for a pulse, but he didn't manage to find one, either because it was too weak, or because Mark was too panicked to calm down enough to search for a pulse properly. "Roger, Roger, look at me, please Roger…"
Roger's eyelids fluttered weakly, his chest heaving in a convulsive gasp for air. Mark blinked back tears and touched Roger's cheek lightly, all but whimpering, "Roger, can you look at me? Open your eyes, please, just—"
The songwriter drew another strained breath, opened his eyes. His pupils were mere pinpoints against the blue iris. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes slid closed, lips still moving, but whatever he was saying was too quiet for Mark to hear. Mark gripped Roger's wrist with his free hand and turned it so that he could see the inside of his arm—sure enough, there was the needle mark, just below the bend of Roger's elbow.
"Bastard," Mark muttered softly, and hurriedly pulled Benny's phone from his pocket. What was the number to Joanne's cell phone? Now was not the time to have a lapse of memory. Wincing, he dialed a number he hoped was right. "Joanne? Thank God. Is—is Collins there yet?"
"Yes, we just left the apartment. Are you okay? You sound… Never mind. Where are you and what's wrong?"
Silently, Mark thanked God for Joanne. Always businesslike and to the point, exactly what he—what Roger—needed right then. He gripped Roger's hand, hard, as if by holding tight he might prevent him from slipping away, and glanced down the street in an attempt to ascertain exactly where he was. He hadn't been paying much attention in his mad dash searching for Roger. At length, he told Joanne, "I found Roger. He… I think he overdosed or something. I'm on Avenue B, a little past 14th Street, I think…"
"He what?" Joanne asked almost disbelievingly. Before Mark could answer, she went on, "Never mind. We'll be right there. Stay with him, try to keep him conscious if you can manage it, and don't go anywhere. I'm calling an ambulance."
Mark heard a beep as she hung up on him, and then the dead tone of an empty line in his ear. He grimaced and slipped the phone into his pocket. Holding one of Roger's large, guitar-callused hands in both of his own, he bent over his best friend, rocking slowly back and forth like a child as he knelt there beside Roger on the cold sidewalk. "Don't you dare die on me," he whispered, though almost certain that Roger couldn't hear him. "I'm tired of losing people. I can't lose you." He let out a shuddering breath and pressed his lips briefly to the back of Roger's hand. God, he felt so cold… "I love you, Roger. Stay here, for me…"
His world blurred into a haze of tears and, somewhere nearby, the screaming of a siren.
