Author's Note: Agh. I'm so incredibly sorry for the dely in this. This was one hell of a chapter to write. It isn't even long. Haha. I haven't been feeling all that great lately, so that's sort of been getting in my way. But here is an update. I don't think chapter at all, by the way. It's empty. I'm going to really try with the next one! Please enjoy it anyways. :) And thanks to my wonderful reviewers. I'd be nowhere without you.

CHAPTER FOUR: Model Prisoner

But when we're broken, we hate to be broken

It's hard enough to breath in and out

-- Model Prisoner

Three days have passed. Or maybe it's been four. Possibly it's been two. Roger can't really remember, nor does he really care to remember. Mimi hasn't made any sign of forgiving Roger. They haven't even run into each other. The beauty of knowing each other's schedules, Roger decides, is that avoiding each other is easier for him than taking a breath. However, this activity of avoidance has plunged the musician into a world of nothingness. He would probably occupy his time and boredom with Mark, but, for reasons unknown to even Roger, he cannot comfortably face his roommate until the separation from Mimi seems much more final.

Of course, Roger is only human and being lazy can get too much for him sometimes. Unable to face the world just yet, he's needed something to jump into, to make time go by and let his thoughts and emotions stew. Music has always been there for Roger when he needed it, and now he's relying on it again.

It was the day after Mimi made her exit that Roger had noticed, sitting, undisturbed for a while now, in the corner, the box he kept of all his old music that had no place in his guitar case anymore. Having nothing to do, and knowing this would be the case for a while, the guitarist fetched the box and set it down on his bed. There, he proceeded to lift all the pages from inside. Once they were sitting nicely on his bed, Roger began to shift through the sheets of music, making a mess of the only thing he ever kept organized. Afterwards, he put it all back in the box, making a note to sort through all the song properly whenever he felt too lazy to do anything else.

So, feeling incredibly lazy and useless at the present moment in time, Roger picks up the box and, once more, places it on his bed. He takes the sheets of music, each one marked with his scratchy writing, and lays them down one by one. Carefully, methodically, Roger puts the songs back together. He sorts them into groups –unfinished, finished, useless, needs to be fixed up; a lot of songs go into "needs to be fixed up." As his musician-hands piece together another song and prepares to put it in a pile, he stops and looks at the song. A laugh escapes him.

Years ago, when Mark first started dating Maureen, Roger had loved teasing the filmmaker about the way he fawned over his girlfriend. Eventually, when he had run out of other things to do, he wrote a song that, to the average person, would seem like a wonderful written by an amazingly gifted musician. To Roger, Mark, and all their friends, it was one of the best inside jokes they'd ever had. And, although this memory brings a smile to Roger's lips, what makes him laugh the most is the irony of the song. He had had no idea that this song would eventually reveal his inner workings. In a way, that disturbs him, but he pushes passed that and forgets all about the rest of the songs for now. He picks up his guitar and starts to play the familiar song before him.

Mark pokes his head into the room, and, when Roger notices, the guitarist strums a bad note. His fingers rest above the strings, and his eyes watch his roommate. Mark walks into the room, only semi-aware of the analysis he's receiving. He stands near the door, with a smile playing on his face.

"Were you just playing what I think you were playing?" It is clear to Roger that he isn't the only one amused by the memories the song invokes. Mark moves over to where his friend is sitting and picks up a page of the song. "I didn't know you still had this."

"Neither did I," Roger replies. He feels as though he hasn't seen Mark in years. He also feels slightly intoxicated by the sudden closeness of him. "I found it with the rest of these." He motions vaguely to the other songs, trying to focus his attention on something else.

Mark flips through the music, making sure to keep it all as organized as Roger had it. His eyes pass over each song, remembering when Roger wrote it and when he first heard it. Roger, who normally would watch to make sure his precious songs weren't messed up, is entranced by Mark's hands. Perfect hands, he thinks. They look delicate, but Roger knows better. He cannot count the number of times he's relied on those hands to pick him from a night of drunken stupor, or to hold him when he had nowhere else to turn to. Roger loves the hands. He wishes he could kiss him.

"You're sorting all of them?"

Roger's head snaps up to look at Mark. Luckily, Mark looks up only when Roger does, so Roger knows he did not notice Roger's hand-watching.

"Yeah … Into piles." Roger clears his throat. Of course Mark knows he's sorting them into piles. Mark isn't blind. Roger needs to clear his head. "Unfinished, finished, useless, needs to be fixed up."

"Where does this one go?" The filmmaker holds up the song Roger was just playing.

"Well … I don't know …" There isn't much Roger can think of at the moment.

"I think it's useless now. I mean, unless you know someone else to taunt with it." Mark grins while Roger reaches for the song.

"No … I guess not." Roger wants to say that, yes, he does know someone to taunt with it. He doesn't like the idea of taunting himself though. "Useless it is." He puts the song on top of some blank sheets, two stacks away from the useless songs. Mark stands up, and Roger watches. "Where are you going?"

"Maureen wants me to go into the city with her to meet Joanne for lunch. They're having issues again." Mark laughs a bit.

"Er … Tell them I say hi."

"Alright. See ya." Mark smiles and leaves Roger's room.

Once Roger hears the door of the loft close, he picks up the song once more. The title, the lyrics, everything screams at him. He would like to think that the song means nothing to him, and says nothing about him. But he knows better. He cannot deny the slight ache he got as soon as Mark left.

Author's Note: Yep. Not much to say. I think I just need to stop planning and just ... Write. Please review. It makes me smile, and it keeps me going.