A/N: I have no idea why I'm connecting the chapters with lines of dialogue… but it makes for an easy transition, and it amuses me, so you'll just have to deal with it until this fic ends. However long that's going to take. Anyway. Thank you so much for reviews, which make me unbelievably happy. I present you with chapter three.


"I know."

Mark's voice had been a little shaky when he said that, though not nearly as shaky as his hands. The picture frame rattled on the coffee table as he set it down. So much for not letting Roger notice.

Lisa. So that was how Roger had survived this long without him. God knew he would have died years ago if someone hadn't reminded him to take his AZT, kept him from getting a cold, whatever, all of the idiotic carelessness Roger was prone to. And it also explained the decidedly un-Roger-ish apartment. But the few times Mark had dared to entertain the notion of finding Roger again, there never were complications. Certainly not complications named Lisa.

And anyway, Roger hated him. Or should, at least, and gave every appearance that he did, even if he said otherwise.

He should leave.

Roger finally stepped out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. He sat on the couch, an odd mixture of the languid carelessness Mark remembered and a new awkwardness he'd never seen in Roger before. It jarred him, seeing Roger ill at ease, and when the other man motioned silently for him to sit on the couch beside him, Mark opted for an armchair across from Roger. Safer there, with a definite distance between them.

The two of them sat there, silent and watching each other, or trying not to watch each other, until Mark asked stiffly, "So… you and Lisa… you—"

"Mark. I don't want to talk about Lisa."

Mark let out a sigh of relief. He didn't particularly want to talk about the woman either, but then, Roger didn't much sound like he wanted to talk about anything. More like he would just prefer Mark gone so that… what? So that he could forget about him, leave him to whatever comfortable life he had now without irritating parts of his past to bother him? Maybe.

He stared at his hands, folded in his lap, and didn't really dare to look up again. Mark had a feeling that if he tried to speak Roger would shut him down again, whatever he said, so he stayed silent, watching Roger out of the corner of his eye. Roger didn't look away from Mark even once, something in his blue eyes hard and accusing.

"You never gave the chance to say goodbye," Roger said roughly. "You never…"

Mark closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I know. I'm sorry. I made a mistake, but you just disappeared and—"

"No," Roger snapped and got to his feet. He stalked halfway across the room before he turned back to glare at Mark. "I didn't disappear. You did. You bastard, you never even told me you were leaving! You just walk away without even bothering to wake me up and all you leave me is a fucking reel of film and all you can say is you're sorry?"

Tears sprang up in Mark's eyes at the fury, the pain in Roger's voice, and at last he looked up, their eyes locking. This time Roger didn't avert his eyes from Mark's. "what else do you want me to say, Roger? What can I say?"

"Tell me why you really left. Tell me why you wouldn't trust me enough to believe I'd stay clean." He stood there, absolutely still, but something in his posture, his expression, hinted at barely controlled violence. His eyes seemed to spark with heat lightning only contained by an effort of will.

Mark couldn't break his gaze, couldn't breathe for several seconds until he realized that his lungs had started to ache with the need for air. He drew in a shaky gasp and whispered, "You promised the first time, and you broke it. Why should the second time be any different? I… I thought it was either lose you right then, or watch you kill yourself, and… Roger, I couldn't do that!"

The other man's jaw tightened visibly. "You couldn't even wait around long enough to see? You couldn't give me one more chance?"

Mark's vision blurred, and he didn't bother to blink back the tears. "Was I wrong?"

For some time, Roger just stood there, and Mark couldn't see his expression through the tears. Then, Roger's rough voice said softly, "I think you should go."

"I think so too," Mark muttered, and got to his feet quickly. He started for the door. To his surprise, Roger followed him, and opened the door to let him out.

As Mark stepped into the hallway, Roger said, "You were wrong."

"Huh?"

"I did stay clean. After you left. I… I kept hoping you'd come back."

Mark stared at him openmouthed, unable to find a response to that. In the end, he didn't have to. Someone was walking down the hallway towards them, and as Mark looked up he saw that it was the woman from the pictures. Lisa. God…

Before she could even say hello or ask his name, Mark squeaked, "I… I was just leaving. Goodbye, Roger." Without another word, he turned and rushed down the hallway, desperate to get away from that place. That woman. That man, still the rock star god at the center of his life, after all these years.

It didn't stop him from hearing Lisa's question to Roger, as he reached the stairs. "Who was that?"

And Roger's response, "Just an old friend. Someone I used to know."