Okay, so I'm a filthy liar and this wasn't up yesterday. So sue me.

Blame the fact that I (finally) bought a TV (a whole 13 inches...go college savings!) and a DVD/VCR player (Target, I love you! $99.99!), and have been watching Mel Brooks movies (The Producers, Young Frankenstein, Spaceballs, etc) and old movie musicals (Guys and Dolls, The Music Man, A Chorus Line) all day. And for some reason, I watched "Star Wars: TPM" while I wrote this, eating (literally) month-old cheese puffs. Go figure. Ah, Sunday.

Disclaimer: Oh, I forgot this last chapter. Oops. Er, I don't own Mark and Roger. Hell, I don't own anything. Not even the weird guy at the end. Chelsea owns him. I think I own "homeless man," though.

This chapter is for Christina, my next-door neighbor, who can't understand why I get excited when I remind her to take her Prozac, or why I call it AZT.

And as always, to, with, and for Chelsea, who sent me this wonderful email:

"WRITE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You have to write right now.
No. I don't care what else you are doing.
Write it now!
Nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow
nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow
nownownownownownownownownownownownownownownownownow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

For you, angel.

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After a week, Mark was considerably less excited about his dream of being a starving artist. Starving sounded a lot more romantic when your stomach wasn't grumbling, he realized. The first three days were bliss; he would rise at the crack of dawn, film the sunrise over the skyline, go out in search of anything he had jotted down in his previous night's notes, grab something at a coffee shop, wander until late at night, then go back to his hotel room and scribble furiously at one of his many screenplays-in-progress. His filming was hampered by his lack of actors, studio, etcetera, but he didn't allow that to interfere with shooting what he could.

But a week into life in New York, the serious lack of nutrition and sleep was starting to catch up to him. He had spent most of his money on the bill for the hotel, leaving him about ten dollars a day for food and transportation. Unsurprisingly, he became very acquainted with walking.

He had steadfastly refused to consider long-term plans in setting out for the city, determined to live in the moment, survive by the skin of his teeth. He had decided to live on his movies (of which he had two or three completed); sell one, then live on the paycheck until the next one sold. He had failed to realize just how long it took to sell a movie, especially in New York. None of the producers he'd talked to had been interested in the footage they'd seen; in desperation, he had even attempted to sell the screenplays he had used as the basis of his movies, but that hadn't worked either.

Much as he hated the prospect, he knew it was past time to look for a job. WAY past time. He was down to thirty-two dollars and sixty-four cents, and how that was going to last until his first paycheck he had no idea. So he had shuffled into convenience stores, supermarkets, grocery stores, video rental stores, movie theaters (if only!), even in desperation fast-food chains. Unfortunately for Mark, the second question was always the same: "Place of residence", or "address". As hard as he tried to explain his situation, nobody wanted to hire a homeless college dropout with zero practical work experience.

Somehow, he had managed to avoid the hotel manager and stay in his room an extra day, but on his eighth day he was forced out onto the streets clutching his camera and his bag.

The door swung shut behind him with a resounding click, and he stood still for a moment, shivering despite his thick coat. The wind whipped past him, stirring candy bar wrappers and fliers on the street into a frenzy. For the first time, the city looked less inspiring to Mark than...intimidating. "Well, shit," he said to nobody in particular.

Quickly, he mentally ran over his list of possibilities. He could call his parents---veto. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He could call his sister---veto. Even if she didn't tell their parents, which she might do simply out of concern for his well-being, he didn't want to admit that he needed help. Which he did, of course. He was alone in the city with no money and nowhere to go.

Then it struck him; he could call Benny! Lending money was definitely within the roommate, even ex-roommate, realm of possibility. He hurried over to a pay phone on the other side of the street, saying good-bye to another quarter. Silently he prayed (to whom, he wasn't sure) Benny would be home.

"Hello?"

Prayer answered. "Benny! It's me."

There was a short pause, then an incredulous, "Mark? You're still alive! Make it big yet?"

Mark winced, knowing how pathetic he was about to sound. "I, uh, not really. It's kind of...uh...I need to borrow some money."

"No problem. Go to the nearest Western Union, and I'll wire you a thousand dollars."

"Really?!"

Benny laughed. "No! What, do you think I'm rich? I'm a college student! Being broke comes with the territory, you know that."

"Fuck you," Mark grumbled. So much for the Benny idea.

"Hey, man, you know you could always call---"

"I'm not calling my mother, Benny," Mark growled. He knew that. He knew that wasn't an option.

"I hate to remind you," Benny said with a tone that made it perfectly clear that he didn't hate it at all, "but I'm pretty sure I said something about finding a place to stay when you left. Didn't I tell you you were gonna starve? Huh?"

Mark pulled the phone away from his ear for a minute, stared at it, then placed it back in its holder. He couldn't think of one thing he wanted to say to the other man, and he wasn't in the mood to be lectured. I can get enough of that at home, thanks very much.

He wandered, filming, much in the same way he'd done the last week, but his heart wasn't in it. He grabbed something to eat only when his knees started to buckle from lack of food. He tried every cheap-looking hotel and youth hostel he could find, hoping to find somewhere to stay for the night, but everywhere he tried was full on account of the holiday season.

"Fucking Christmas," he grumbled as he trudged along, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that it had always been his favorite holiday despite the fact he was Jewish. He had always loved the colored lights, the nutcrackers, loved peering in other families' windows at huge spruces and firs, decked out to within an inch of their lives. He loved the way you could almost hear sleighbells when it began to snow. Like now, he realized, pulling his coat tighter around himself. Fucking snow. It's fucking freezing!

Desperately, he took stock of his situation. Twenty-five and a half dollars in his pocket. Very little he could do with that. Spare clothing, toothbrush, and screenplays nobody wanted in a bag in his left hand. No help there. Crappy watch that barely kept time on his wrist. Definitely nothing. Camera that felt like it weighed at least fifty pounds in his left hand. He could pawn it, if he got really desperate, although the thought made him wince.

Freezing, nearly shaking with exhaustion, he sat down on a park bench a few minutes past two am. He tried to wiggle further into his coat, stopping periodically to brush the snow off of his head and shoulders. The earpieces of his glasses felt like they were colder than he had imagined metal could get, and the lenses were fogging up from the condensation in the air.

An hour later, he realized he was losing the battle against sleep. As terrified as he was to drift off in the open like this, exposed, vulnerable, and virtually blind, he knew there was very little else he could do. This is what I wanted, isn't it? How fucking romantic. Cold, hungry, and homeless. Fuck this, I'm calling my mother in the morning.

But even in his state, he didn't want to concede that this might be his last night in the city. Instead, he told himself, Well, you never know, I'll see what happens tomorrow. Maybe that'll be the day...you never know...

With optimism's last gasp echoing in his mind, he slipped into unconsciousness.

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Poke. Poke. Ow. "Dammit, Cindy, leave me alone," Mark mumbled, wincing at the pain in his side. He came wide awake instantly, however, upon seeing that it wasn't the broom handle Cindy had been clutching in his dream poking him, but a nightstick. Not Cindy then, but a policeman. "Um, officer, can I help you?" He hoped he sounded less nervous than he was; he'd never had a run-in with a cop before.

"Yeah," the policeman answered. "You can get your bum ass off of public property. This ain't a shelter."

"Sorry," Mark muttered, wondering where the hell this guy was when his wallet was stolen last year. Under the cop's disapproving glare, Mark forced his frozen limbs into action. Grabbing his bag and bringing his camera out from inside his coat, where he had hid it while he slept, he stood up, legs complaining under the strain. As the policeman went on his way, Mark checked his watch, and saw that he had only slept three hours.

The city didn't look anymore inviting in the pre-dawn light than it had in the ambient glow of too many lights earlier. Mark resigned himself to waiting until a decent hour then calling his mother when a hand gripped his shoulder, startling him.

"Hey," a gruff voice said in his ear. Mark whirled around to see a homeless man clutching a sleeping bag. "I...uh..." he stammered, "I don't have any money."

The man frowned at him, but continued, "Kid, you got someplace to go? Someplace warm?"

Mark shook his head, hoping the man would leave him alone.

"Come with me, there's a tent city a couple streets over. There's usually a fire going." He led the way, leaving Mark stunned. Not only was this person not trying to mug him, as he had originally thought, but he was actually offering him a place to go, somewhere he could get out of the snow. Hurriedly, he followed.

Just when you think you understand the city, he marveled to himself, it turns around and does something like this. He began to see the city again, squinting against the dim light. It had such flavor, so many levels of meaning. Every moment, a new sight appears, a new sound makes itself known, a new smell...oh, that smelled good. He had forgotten how hungry he was in favor of worrying about how cold he was, but the smell drifting past him currently...he looked up, trying to see the name of the place that made such good food.

Shit.

'The Life Cafe'.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks, causing his guide to turn around and stare at him. "What?"

Mark looked at him, then burst out laughing. "I am such a dumbass!" he yelled, then ran up to the man, shoved five of his last dollars into his hand, and sprinted off, finally knowing where he was, and where he was going.

How...why didn't...what the hell's wrong with me? Didn't he say if I needed somewhere to crash, I could? And it's taken me this long to think of it? All right, I'm officially an idiot, he thought as he scooted in Roger's building behind a lower-level resident, taking the stairs up to the loft two at a time.

Whereas he had no idea what he would have said to his mother, he knew exactly what to say to Roger: "I'm a dumbass and I need somewhere to stay." He was still laughing to himself about his own stupidity as he knocked on the door.

He shut up quickly, though, as the door opened a crack and a pair of unfamiliar, suspicious eyes peered out at him from inside. "What do you want?"

Suddenly unsure of himself, he stuttered, "I'm, uh, just ... I'm looking ... I'm here to see...does Roger Davis live here?" It had been a year and a half, after all, and who knows what could happen in a musician's life?

The eyes darted up and down, taking in Mark's extremely rumpled appearance. "Who wants to know?"

"Uh, my name is Mark. Mark Cohen. Is this...a bad time?"

"Yeah," the owner of the eyes muttered. "Yeah. Bad time. Go away."

And the door swung closed with a note of finality.

Thoroughly bewildered, completely crestfallen at his last hope being shattered, Mark turned to trudge back down the stairs and find a pay phone when he bumped into--

"Roger?"

Roger's eyes, which looked a little more tired than the last time Mark had seen them, lit up upon seeing Mark. Mark could see his brow furrow as he struggled to place Mark's face, and then his eyes widened. "Holy shit, Mark!" That huge grin Mark had remembered broke out on his face as Roger grabbed him in a huge hug, knocking the wind out of the smaller man.

Pulling back, Roger asked incredulously, "What the hell are you doing here? And..." he paused, sniffing the air, "where have you been staying? You need a shower, man."

Mark blushed. "I, uh, slept in the park last night."

Roger stared at him. "You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding." Mark shook his head, unrepentantly. Truth be told, he retained a little perverse pride that he had survived. Roger, predictably, punched him in the arm. "I told you that you could stay here! What, you forget?"

Mark nodded, rubbing his arm. "I do that a lot." He shivered from the freezing air in the stairwell, and Roger noticed.

"Hey, let's talk inside."

Mark stopped as Roger put his key in the door. "Um, Roger? That guy who answered the door..."

"Oh," said Roger, shrugging, "that's just Stan. He's a little...never mind. He's moving out anyway," he added as he shouldered the door open, ushering a grateful Mark into the warmth of the loft.

Mark saw Roger's roommate catch sight of him then run into his room, causing Roger to shrug again. He grabbed Mark's bag and threw it down on the floor next to the table, then hopped up on it.

Mark felt a smile spread across his face, seeing how little the loft had changed. There were boxes stacked next to the door, and the old chair had collapsed in a corner, but other than that it was exactly as Mark had remembered it. He felt a rush of pleasure, knowing that this time he wouldn't have to go back to Scarsdale after witnessing a lifestyle like this.

That was what had nearly driven him crazy the last time; a brush with perfection, only to have it ripped away.

"It's so warm," Mark murmured, feeling frozen limbs thaw.

Roger grinned at him. "We've got an illegal wood-burning stove. Keeps it toasty."

Mark gave him a look. "I don't think you can pull off that word."

"What, toasty? I can totally pull that off," Roger protested.

Mark shook his head, denying Roger's claim. "Nah, you've got to be, like, forty and a mother."

Roger winked at him. "You never know..." He laughed as Mark rolled his eyes, then asked, "So, how'd you get here?"

"Walked," Mark quipped, but then went on, "I dropped out of Brown."

"Why?"

Mark shrugged, but couldn't help smiling. "You were right, it wasn't me. I had a falling-out with my parents, then got on a train and came here. I got kicked out of my hotel yesterday," he explained. "That's why I slept in the park."

Roger raised his eyebrows. "You mean you came to New York City without money, a place to stay, or a job lined up?"

Mark sighed, hearing the old arguments again, but nodded. He jumped when Roger let out an enormous laugh, yelling, "That's the dumbest fucking plan I've ever heard! That doesn't even deserve to be called a plan—it's just something dumb you did!"

Mark laughed too, a bit sheepishly. Roger motioned next to him on the table, and Mark hopped up beside him. "So," Roger continued, "you still want to live the boho life?'

Mark nodded fervently. "Absolutely! It's all I've ever wanted!"

Roger stopped smiling, fixing Mark with a serious glare. "And you just assumed you could live here for free?"

"Uh...I, um..."

Roger rolled his eyes. "You know you can. I told you that." The grin was back, full force.

Mark shoved Roger off the table, forcing a surprised "Oof!" from the other man. Roger jumped back up, tackling Mark, and they both landed on the ground, wrestling. Roger won, of course, and held Mark down, pinning his wrists. "You can stay on one condition," he panted, lowering his face so that it was mere inches from Mark's.

Mark gulped. "What?"

Roger leaned closer, then whispered, "Take a shower!" and rolled off Mark, laughing.

Mark sat up, rubbing his wrists. "Yeah, I get it, I stink. Where do I throw my stuff?"

Roger gave him a mock-bow, and opened the door to his own room. "You can share with me. There's two beds, don't worry," he added hastily, seeing Mark's eyebrows raise. "Stan shares the other one with Collins. You'll meet him Thursday, I think he's visiting his family until then."

"Okay," Mark agreed. He hadn't considered the fact that there would be other people living with them, but he guessed it wouldn't be much different from having a roommate in college.

As he grabbed his last pair of clean clothes and headed for the shower, he was baffled by everything that had happened in the last week. He had dropped out of college, moved to New York, become a starving, freezing artist, become homeless, become not-homeless, and was living with a man he had met once before in his life. As the hot water (which Roger had said he could only guarantee for about five minutes) cascaded down his back, he shivered, and not with the cold of the day or the heat of the water, but with completion.

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:slaps slashy muses: Dammit, not yet! Go back to your cage!