See? I'm a good girl, and I can update if I want to! True to my word, since I got ten reviews for my last chapter, there is slash in this chapter! Maybe not as much as all of you wanted, but it's HERE, dammit. See? I really am a whore for reviews. Keep that in mind, kiddies...

I'd like to point out a few things; my room is Paris, Renee is a funny drunk, I had a good dream last night, and three birthdays in two weeks makes my bank account cry.

Dedicated to Evie with her insane reviews, Renee's Camel with No Name, and my beloved, Chris.

Mark was halfway home before he realized there was nothing for him there. April wouldn't want to see him, Roger would be high, and he didn't want to see Maureen. Uncertain, his steps turned away from his path. His footsteps were slow, approaching plodding speed. The streets were gray, the buildings shabby, the sky nighttime-cloudy. He mentally searched for the literary term he was trying to recall...pathetic fallacy, that was it. When the weather mirrored your moods.

Images and thoughts flashed through his head, none staying long enough to make a clear impact. Every fleeting notion revolved somehow around three central figures; Roger, April, Maureen. Roger, April, Maureen. One he'd slept with, one he desired, and one it seemed the other two wanted him to want. My mother got it wrong...it wasn't the thugs in the city I should have been afraid of. The thugs are kind compared to my friends. For the first time since he'd stepped off the train, Mark contemplated returning to Scarsdale, or at least Brown. What good was torturing himself, anyway? His screenplays didn't sell, his hot water didn't work, he couldn't hold down a job (literally) to save his life, and he was entangled in some odd sort of love trapezoid.

Unbidden, his mother's voice rose in his mind. "Why didn't you listen to me the first time? I'm only looking out for my little boy. I knew the city was too much for you. Didn't I tell you?" And as always, soup would follow.

But he was a big boy. He could make his own damn soup. And after soup, there would be a lecture from his father, a re-entry form to the Brown Medical Program, a "gentle" scolding from his mother, and he'd be sent off to bed by ten pm. Or...he could go back to the loft and face his problems. Face Roger. April could go to hell for all he was concerned; if he stayed, it would have nothing to do with her or her pleas.

He wasn't alone on the playground, he suddenly realized. A woman and her daughter, who must have been three years old or younger, had stolen into his sanctuary. It might have been the East Village well past evening and into night, but there were still people simply enjoying themselves. Like...like that flower, growing between the cracks of the sidewalks that every single up-and-coming filmmaker seemed to shoot. A symbol for struggle in diversity, or something. Or was it adversity?

Whatever it was, he was starting to feel cold. Not that it was an unusual experience for him, skinny as he was during a New York winter, but still uncomfortable. He got to his feet slowly, facing the loft at last. It wasn't as if his problems were going to fix themselves at the park, after all. Plus...he thought it was time to let the mother and daughter have their swing for themselves.

Roger was, fortunately, not fucking April when Mark entered the loft. That would probably have sent him either to his room in an angry fit, or right back out the door. Instead, the musician was perched on the table, plucking out the chords of the song he'd played for Mark the day Maureen had moved in. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and the quiet strummings where the only sounds besides the constant hustle and bustle of the traffic many flights below. He looked up briefly as Mark shut the door behind him, and smiled at his roommate. "Hey, c'mere. I think I figured out the transition."

Mark walked slowly to his side, expecting April to pop out of their room and skewer him for being close to Roger. Fortunately, his cross of the room was uneventful. He hopped up onto the table next to his friend, watching closely as those strong fingers glided gracefully over the strings, listening to an explanation that didn't make any sense to him. Something about G minor and a diminished sixth, but he never could figure out music theory. That was Roger's arena, not his. When the song was over, he asked quietly, "Where are the girls?"

Roger shrugged, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable. "They went out. I...asked them to."

Mark's head snapped around sharply at those words, and Roger sighed. "Look, Mark, I had a talk with April while you were out."

Oh, God. What did she...I know exactly what she told him. "Oh," he said softly, waiting to see whether Roger would throw him out right then, or give him time to pack. Somewhere in his mind he knew that was an irrational fear, given that Roger had many gay friends and was quite accustomed to people being attracted to him (in his own words, he was a fucking rock star), but being rational wasn't on his to-do list for the day. "And?"

Roger swallowed, hard. "Look, Mark, I just...I don't know what to say, here. I mean, April's a first-class bitch, I don't even know if she's telling the truth." His downcast eyes seemed to plead with Mark to fill in the blanks without making him explain himself.

But Mark didn't want to give him the easy way out. He didn't want to fill in the blanks. Whatever sort of rejection Roger was working himself up for, Mark wished he'd either get it over with or back down. "Telling the truth about what?" He heard all of Roger's unspoken replies clearly in his mind: that you yelled at her; that you're a fag; that you admitted to being in love with me; that you've been secretly gay all this time.

Roger didn't say any of those things. He raised his head to look into Mark's eyes almost pleadingly. Mark remembered the first time they'd ever met, in the Life Cafe; remembered the generosity of his open invitation of a place to stay; remembered his encouragements about his filmmaking, his interviews, his auditions; remembered the day he'd cornered Mark on his bed, forced him down and kissed him roughly.

Suddenly, Mark closed the few inches between them, pressing their lips firmly together. He waited for Roger to shove him away, to curse, even to hit him, but none of these things happened. Instead, Roger's lips met his softly, almost hesitantly. Mark's hand slowly moved to the side of Roger's face, brushing over the stubble, feeling his strong jawline. Absently, he wondered if Roger had ever kissed a man when he was sober before. Then he realized that it didn't matter, nothing mattered when Roger was kissing him like that. Roger had wrapped his strong arms around Mark's upper body, pulling him close, and Mark had to fight back a whimper in his throat. He deepened the kiss, encouraged, but faltered as Roger abruptly pulled away.

"Roger," he whispered, hoping Roger wasn't about to strike out at him. The musician's face was still very close to his, close enough that Mark could feel Roger's labored breathing against his upper lip. Mark swallowed, praying he hadn't just ruined a wonderful friendship.

"Mark, I..." Roger faltered, finally meeting Mark's eyes. There was a moment of silence, in which neither man said anything, and then they were kissing again, tongues warring for dominance, a frenzied moan escaping from Mark's throat. Roger's arms around him, now a hand tangling in his hair, were driving him insane. He was more aroused than he could ever remember being, feeling the man he had desired for months pressed up against him, kissing him, holding him tightly. Then they were standing, bodies crushed roughly together in Roger's strong grasp, and Mark groaned against Roger's tongue as he felt his roommate's arousal against his own. The noise seemed to trigger some sort of reaction in Roger, and before Mark knew it he was standing on his own as the other man was leaning on the table, eyes wide.

"Mark...I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." He ran his fingers furiously through his hair, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have done that."

Wounded, confused, Mark asked incredulously, "Why not? We both wanted it, didn't we?" And I want more...so much more...

Roger was shaking his head then, a sight Mark hadn't wanted to see, not from him, not at a time like this. He was silent, and Mark took that as an opportunity. "Roger, I...God, I wasn't going to tell you, I wasn't. Never. But...but is it really so bad? I want you, so much. More than I've ever wanted anyone. Roger, I lo--"

"I think you should go out with Maureen." Roger's voice, hoarse but crisp, cut through his attempted declaration with the finality of a door slamming shut.

"You...you do?"

Roger refused to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I do." He jumped back on the table, fingers fiddling with the pegs on his guitar. "Go on. You'll have fun."

Mark was at a complete loss for words. "I'll have fun? That's all you can say?"

"Look, Mark, I don't know what you want me to say. You kissed me, remember?" Roger nearly slammed his guitar down on the table, jumped off, and walked quickly to his room. Mark heard him mutter just before he closed the door, "I need a hit."

And just like that, he was gone. He had left Mark standing, lost and hurt, in the middle of the living room. He could still feel the imprints of Roger's large hands on his back, in his hair, still feel the coarse hairs on his chin scraping over his own skin. Why the hell did I kiss him? I just had to go and ruin things, didn't I? God forbid we could have stayed friends.

He walked slowly to the couch and sank into it, as much as one could sink into that abomination. The worst thing was how right it had felt, there in Roger's arms, with Roger's mouth on his, Roger's smell, touch, taste surrounding him. He hugged himself, wondering why he was suddenly so bereft. It wasn't as if he'd lost anything he'd had, anyway.

He stayed that way until the front door opened. He hugged himself tighter, not wanting to face Maureen or especially April just yet. He was therefore surprised when a deep voice said with a sigh of relief, "Hey, there's no place like home."

Mark shot out of the couch, overjoyed, and nearly tackled Collins to the ground. "Collins! You're home!"

The taller man grinned, flashing white teeth at his smaller roommate. "So they told me at Customs, yeah. How've you been, man?" He grabbed Mark in one of his trademark hugs, lifting him at least an inch off the ground. Mark gave him the biggest smile in months, hugging him back fiercely.

"I missed you! Why didn't you call? You were in jail? In Greece?"

Collins laughed. "Yeah, I had a minor...incident. Don't worry, it was all in good fun."

"But what did you do?"

Collins pursed his lips slightly. "Let's just say...I was reminding them that no matter how advanced we've become, you can tell right away there aren't any black statues in the Parthenon."

Mark blinked, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

But the other man only grinned at him. "I'll tell you when you're older. Hey, where's Roger?"

The smile fell from Mark's face as he thought of their "other" roommate. "Uh...he's in his room, but..." He panicked as Collins strode over to the musician's door, and spluttered, "Collins, no, don't go in there!"

Collins gave him an odd look and pushed open the door. "Hey, guess who's--"

Mark could tell by the look on his face that he had witnessed approximately the same sight he himself had a month or so prior; Roger, a length of steel in his arm. Or perhaps the needle was lying by the bed. Or just being filled. Whatever Collins could see, his reaction hadn't been to close the door as Mark's had been. His face hardened, grin vanishing instantly. The door hung adjar as the tall man walked angrily into the room, and Mark hurried over so he could see what was going on.

Roger was, sure enough, just dropping the needle, attempting to cover his arm with the blanket. "Hey, Collins...when did you--" was all he managed to get out before the other man had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

"Drugs?" Collins hissed, close to his face. "You're doing heroin now? God, Roger, I thought you were smarter than that!" His face was contorted in pure rage, and even Roger, high as he was, looked afraid.

"Collins...man, what's wrong with you?" His eyes weren't focusing too well, rather diminishing his indignation. "Since when've you been so...ya know..." His words were a bit slurred, and he giggled, a sound Mark always winced to hear.

Collins released his collar, and Roger fell back to the bed, euphoria written all over his face. The prodigal roommate turned around, looking crushed, and met Mark's eyes. Mark, about to apologize for Roger, about to stammer about how he was going to tell Collins as soon as he got home, swallowed his words, seeing something he didn't expect.

There was fear in Collins' eyes.

"Mark," he said quietly, "we need to talk."

Wow, I quite like this chapter. Stuff actually happens! I've been getting better at that lately, I think. Don't think so? Review, tell me! If you want REAL boyporn, I'll need some more reviews...I did mention that I'm a whore for them, yes? Good!

PS: Edited because of a technical detail. Thanks for your help, baby!