A/N: So sorry it took literally a month to get this chapter up, but NaNo and stuff got in the way, I'm afraid. But here you are, and I promise not to take so long on the next chapter. And many thanks to reviewers, as usual, because reviews definitely make me happy.
Chapter Four: It's Been Such a Long Time
Just someone I used to know.
That stung, more than Mark would have thought it would, and it rang in his mind long after he had reached home. Someone he used to know? How about his roommate for seven years, his best friend for nine? How about someone he used to care about… to love? Surely something more than just an old acquaintance.
"Oh, get over it, Mark," he said to himself under his breath. "Roger certainly has."
He stood at the window, hands on the windowsill and forehead pressed against the cold glass. With a start, he realized he had been staring down the street towards Roger's building. Mark jumped backwards, away from the window, and had backed halfway across the room before he even realized what he was doing. He couldn't handle this. Couldn't know that… that…
"That I was wrong," he whispered, sounding almost shell-shocked. He'd left for nothing, he'd spent seven years apart from his best friend for nothing… Mark ran a hand through his hair distractedly, let out a slow breath. He almost expected to see his breath misting in front of him, the way it always did in winters in the loft. But no, his apartment had central heating now. Right. He'd rather be back in the loft, freezing and starving, but warm in the knowledge that he wasn't alone. Now, though… he was about as alone as he could get.
Numbly, Mark walked into his bedroom, automatically focusing on the closet across the room from the bedroom door. He hadn't opened that closet in at least three years, probably more, but now he pulled the door open slowly, half-bracing himself as if he expected a monster to leap out. There lay his camera, untouched for so long, and several reels of film, all but one dated and labeled. He didn't want those, though. Hell, he didn't even have a projector to watch them on.
Mark dropped to his knees and gently set aside the film. Behind that was a small shoebox, nondescript and unlabeled. He pulled it out of the closet. As he did, his fingers brushed over the camera, and he hesitated. After a moment, he picked it up and carefully wiped the dust off the lens. Running his fingers over the still-familiar contours, he sighed. How had he lost this? No, not lost it… Given it up.
He was tempted to see if he had any blank film in the closet, something to record with, but to what purpose? What would he film? He smirked wryly and muttered to himself as he set the camera back down, "Close on Mark, who's lost everything that ever mattered to him." Getting to his feet, Mark grimaced, adding, "And only just realized it."
He walked to the bed, shoebox in hand, and opened the box as he sat down on the bed. Photographs filled the box almost completely, bright and vivid as the last time he'd dared to look at them. Too long ago. Mark shifted through the pictures slowly, each one rubbing raw the empty spot in his heart. In some, Roger was aware of the camera: Roger and April with their arms around each other's shoulders, smiling at the camera; Roger, Collins and Benny a little while after they had all moved into the loft, when it was just the four of them; Roger alone on the couch, smirking at the camera (or more likely at Mark, behind the camera). But most of the photographs had been taken with Roger completely unaware: Roger on the fire escape, leaning out and just staring down at the street; Roger and Mimi apparently shouting at each other, both furious; Roger on stage in some club, illuminated by the stage lights, beautiful and confident, all but immortal.
Mark lingered over that photograph, biting his lower lip. That wasn't his Roger anymore, not the Roger of the present, nor even the Roger he'd left behind six years ago, but he could still see it in him. Changed, maybe, but the same person who'd been his best friend for years, who he'd fallen in love with… The same person he'd kissed that one morning in the hospital, spent that single night with…
He closed his eyes and dropped the photograph back in the box. "And you let that go," he whispered to himself. "Idiot."
The next morning, he called in sick to work, though he didn't even try to sound like he was actually sick. His boss let it slide; after three years without once taking a sick day, Mark deserved one now. He had sort of intended to just lie in bed so he wouldn't have to face the world, but Mark found it more difficult than he would have thought to just languish in his misery. Especially knowing exactly where Roger lived, only a few blocks away… God damn it.
For several hours Mark debated with himself, swore he wouldn't go, but by noon he had thrown on a coat and started out for Roger's apartment. He remembered the route there perfectly—there was the use of hold habits of observation, even if he'd been almost consciously trying to shut out the rest of the world. Mark wasn't even certain what he planned to do, to say. Find Roger, talk to him, and everything would just click into place, right? Like two pieces of a puzzle, put them together and there were no problems, no complications… That had been the plan the first time around, and it hadn't exactly gone over well, had it?
He stopped outside of Roger's building and just stood there for a moment, debating. He could go back home, climb in bed, pull the blankets over his head and just close off the world for the rest of the day. He could go somewhere and get drunk enough to forget the world for the rest of the day. Or he could wait.
Mark picked a spot on the stoop that wasn't damp from melted sleet or covered with icy sludge and sat down carefully, pulling his coat tighter around him. Freezing or not, he was going to sit here and wait until Roger came out of the building or came home. And maybe while he was waiting he could consider what he might say when he did see Roger. He had the feeling another "I'm sorry" wouldn't cut it.
But Roger wasn't the first person to notice Mark sitting there. Mark didn't even see the woman walking towards him until she was almost directly in front of him, and his heart jumped as he looked up and recognized her. Oh… shit. Not her. Not again.
"I… uh…" he began awkwardly, scrambling to his feet. "I was just…"
Lisa smiled at him sympathetically. "You're Mark, right? God, you look like you're freezing. Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea or something?"
Mark could only stare at her.
