A/N: Umm. This is getting more and more difficult by the chapter. I am going to try to finish this by November, but if Mark and Roger spring any more surprises on me like this, it's going to be difficult. It's going to be hard enough as it is to find my way out of this… Anyway. Thank you for the reviews—they really make my day. ...Which somehow only furtherproves how much of a loser I am.
"Hi."
Just one word, a single syllable, but just hearing Roger's voice again made Mark shiver a little, and not from the cold. God, he'd almost forgotten the sound of it, that slightly rough edge to it… "You're… what are you… why…" Okay, questions weren't working well. Mark decided to try another approach. "I thought you were dead." Blunt, yes, but true. His cheeks flushed a little as he admitted it, hot in the cold winter air. How could he have lost faith?
Then again, maybe he hadn't wanted a reason to hold on to hope.
A sardonic smirk lit upon Roger's face, and his eyes darkened a little. Mark's heart contracted. That bitter smile held no trace of humor. "I can't blame you. But it seems neither of us are that lucky." Mark started to protest that he hadn't wanted Roger to be dead, just sort of expected it, but couldn't get the words out. Not under those accusing blue eyes.
"It's just… Collins said you… you just disappeared. He hadn't heard from you in—"
"Six years and four months. I know." Again, that bitter edge. Then again, Mark conceded, he had a right to be bitter, and there was no way to make it up to him. Roger wouldn't meet his eyes. "Look, it's cold, and I was just going home. I'd like to get indoors before I freeze."
"You—you live around here?" Mark choked on the words, unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. "How long…?" How long had he lived a few blocks away from his best friend—former best friend—and not known it? How could he not have noticed? The answer struck him in a second, and he flinched. He never noticed because he never bothered to look.
Roger hesitated, then nodded. "A couple buildings down. Right over there." He pointed, and Mark looked despite himself. "Almost three years now. Not quite." His gaze flickered down the street, and Mark could tell Roger didn't want to look at him. The same as always, avoiding what he didn't want to face… "I'm going home," he said abruptly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "If… if you want to come…" A shrug then, and Mark found it impossible to read whether Roger didn't care or just didn't want to show if he did. Damn him. Even in his own mind, the curse sounded feeble.
"If you don't mind," Mark said at last, softly. "I missed you."
The other man looked at him, but still didn't meet his eyes, a sidling, cautious glance that slid away before Mark could pin it down and make him look him in the eye. "Yeah." No, I've missed you too, just that simple acknowledgement. Mark grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. What was he doing? He could tell already that this wasn't going well, but he had no doubt it could still get worse somehow. Maybe better to leave now, before he got hurt too much… That was why he had left, wasn't it?
But Roger had already started down the street, and Mark had no choice but to trot along behind him. The wind rose and toyed with the from to f Roger's jacket, blowing it open. He seemed to ignore it, apparently inured to the cold, and Mark bit his lip to suppress the urge to tell him to button up the jacket or he'd catch a cold. He'd given up the right to look after Roger a long time ago.
Instead, Mark just watched him, savoring the sight of that familiar face, though he'd never admit it. Even if the face had changed somewhat in six years, leaner and harder than it ever was before, Mark could still see his Roger in there. Roger clenched his jaw, his expression set and unreadable, and kept his eyes fixed on anything but Mark as he reached the door of the apartment building, opened it. Mark stepped inside to the welcome heat, though something inside him remained cold, frozen. If Roger would only look at him, really look, or give him one real smile, one meaningful word…
"Do you hate me?" he asked abruptly, disregarding tact. He stumbled on quickly, "I mean, I don't blame you if you do, I just—"
"No." Roger's voice, more rough-edged than usual, cut off whatever Mark had been about to say. He shook his head slowly, sighed. "No, I don't hate you." But he gave Mark no assurances otherwise either.
Roger started up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Mark to follow. They stopped at one of the nearer doors down that hallway, and Roger unlocked the door and shoved it open. "And this is home," he said as Mark stepped past him into the apartment. His blue eyes lingered on the smaller man, but only for a second, and Mark was too distracted to notice.
This place… didn't feel like Roger, unless he had changed to someone almost unrecognizable since Mark had last seen him. For one thing, it was neat. Tidy. Orderly. Not the way the loft had always looked, like a tornado hit it. There was real furniture, not the makeshift crap Mark would have expected of Roger, that they had always made due with in the loft. There was a coffee table, and pictures on it.
Mark walked over slowly and picked up a picture frame. It showed Roger in the park with a woman—brunette, fairly pretty. She was smiling, a bright smile that reminded Mark of… Roger was smiling too, in the picture. A crooked, perhaps broken smile, yes, but it was a smile, and an honest one. Mark knew Roger more than well enough to tell that.
He lowered the picture frame, feeling cold. A quick glance at some of the other photos in the room confirmed his initial thought—most showed Roger with the same woman, whoever she was. He looked up to find Roger still standing in the doorway, watching him, though he averted his eyes the instant he saw Mark look up. Mark didn't know what made him ask, because he already knew and did not want the answer. "Who's she?"
It took Roger a moment to realize who Mark meant by she. "Oh… that's… her name is Lisa. She's my… my—"
"I know," Mark interrupted, almost gently, and quickly set the picture frame back on the table to hide the trembling of his hands.
