It was September. Not yet so cold that your teeth would chatter as you walked down the street, but cold enough that you'd find yourself pulling the collar of your jacket up to cover your neck and as much of your chin as you could.
I found myself doing that now – trying to huddle as best I could into my leather jacket, doing my best to ignore the sharp wind that bit even more sharply here on the roof of this old building.
I don't even know if Mark lives here anymore. I don't know where any of them are. If they're even still alive. But whenever I pick up the phone, I find myself placing it carefully back, hanging up without ever dialing. It's just too uncomfortable – I feel like I don't have the right to call them, to make sure they're okay.
To find out if I've been forgiven.
The day before, my drummer Brian came into my hotel room, finding me sober for once, sitting silently on the edge of my bed.
"Hey, man, you okay?" Brian asked, looking concerned. "You look like hell."
I chuckled mirthlessly, not meeting Brian's eyes. I couldn't let him know. I'd just not show up for the concert that night. "Thanks."
"I'm not insulting you, Rog. Just want to know what's wrong."
I sighed, running a hand over the back of my neck. "Nothing. Just – nothing."
Brian shrugged. I never was the most open guy to know. "Fine. Whatever. Just get your shit together before the show." He disappeared through the door, leaving me to my thoughts.
The day before had marked me doing the stupidest thing I'd done since leaving New York. Usually, in the somewhat rare and random times I felt a need for it, I used contacts from the band to score any of the drugs I wanted, and got bodyguards to pull backstage any groupies I pointed out to them. It always hurt the most when I pointed out a blonde, slight-looking man from the audience. But, then, that was the point, wasn't it?
But yesterday. It was a bad day anyway. Mark's birthday. So I'd just taken off. Found myself in some little bar where people didn't recognize me – or at least, if they had, they were too drunk or preoccupied with their own sorrows to care.
I'd ordered Stoli. A bottle of it. I smiled occasionally, but as more and more of the liquid disappeared down my throat I found myself smiling less and less. Thoughts of Mark and Collins suddenly became excruciatingly painful instead of warm reminiscences. And I felt that overwhelming panic, that all-too-familiar urge to run.
I was two blocks away from the bar when I saw the deal being made, and slowly approached the guy. Bought what I needed. Shot up right there, feeling peace running through my veins. Not like it used to be – but enough. Calming enough.
Then I'd run into that boy – he was much younger than me. Blonde. He didn't wear glasses, or really look like him, but he would do.
I will not feel guilty. You're never going to fucking make anything of yourself. You're going to sit in this goddamned loft jerking off to pictures of a life you've never lived.
You're being cruel, Roger. Stop.
No. You're a fake, and I don't care if I ever see you again. I'm going to fucking live my life.
No hairs had stood up on the back of my neck; I'd had no idea at the time that I was being followed, someone stealthily snapping pictures behind me. My manager had called in a panic this morning. It was over. The pictures would hit, I'd be kicked out of the band, my manager had even mentioned jail in that high-pitched tightass voice of his.
I stood now and walked over to the window of the hotel room. I wasn't surprised to see them camped out six stories below – with their flashing cameras, crouching like vultures.
The panic hit me again. I needed to get out, to escape. But there was only one place I could go.
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -
After driving a good eight hours, I'd finally arrived, looking up wonderingly at the old building. I'd climbed up the fire escape, found it ended a few feet before the roof, and spent a few anxious moments negotiating some tricky moves before swinging myself onto the roof.
I walked around, taking in the old sights before finally noticing the cold, and hunching down in an area that cut the wind down somewhat. And then all I had was my jacket and lots of time to think.
I've fucked up so bad. I'd thought I wanted this so badly. The music, the fame, the drugs, the sex. But everything else had ended up overshadowing the music. Fame wasn't fun – it was a pain in the ass. The drugs were good, and a good number of panties are thrown at me every night … All I ever wanted. Glory. But now I didn't want that to be what my life was all about. I couldn't just be living as an escape artist. I know I can't keep this up forever.
To my surprise, I realize I couldn't really give a shit about any of it.
And on those nights when there are no drugs, no one in my bed, nothing to take me away from what my life was now, all I end up thinking about is what I've left behind. A drafty loft, sometimes lit with candles, Collins with his laughter and Mark with his camera permanently attached to his face. I'd smile in the night, thinking of it, even as my chest felt painfully tight. I could see Mark sitting on the windowsill beside me as I played a new song for him, camera rolling and a soft smile on his face.
It seems now that the happiness I felt then was what I've been looking for all along.
I'm living my life, Roger. I'm here, with you. And I – I don't want anything else. Do you … do you regret this? All that's happened?
I'm sorry if it meant anything to you, Mark. But this is my life – not you.
I slid down until I was sitting, my arms around my knees, shivering. I couldn't stay here much longer. Freezing to death is not an option, and the light of the sun is disappearing fast. Maybe – maybe I should go down and knock on the door. But I can't. What if he's not there?
What if he is?
I stand up again, restless and shivering as I scan the roof and surrounding buildings. But how could I have known? How could I have known what a mistake it all was, how much I'd miss my old life, how cold fame and the music business would leave me, wishing I was back in the old club days?
But mostly, there was no way I could have ever known how much I would miss Mark. I had thought, when my new life started, that there would be others. But there weren't.
A noise off to my left startles me, and I whirl around. And it was like no time had passed at all. There were Mark and Collins, standing there, looking dumbfounded. I couldn't straighten out the emotions overwhelming me enough to realize which of them I was more happy to see.
"Collins," I said, stepping forward. "Mark."
My heart felt like it was swelling in my chest – everything would be right again. Now that I could see Mark, I just knew it. I stared at him, watching the younger man look at me with no discernible expression before abruptly turning and disappearing back into the building. Feeling sad and defeated, I let my head fall to my chest.
Damn.
A moment later, I felt a hand lightly land on my shoulder. "Hey, man."
I smiled, looking up but not meeting my old friend's eyes. "Collins. It is so fucking good to see you."
Collins glanced back towards the empty doorway, hesitating before responding. "You, too."
"Right." I chuckled. "You're unusually subdued for someone who's glad to see me."
Collins regarded me for a second, then suddenly pulled me into a rough, tight embrace. "We have missed you. Like hell."
I swallowed. "Thanks."
Collins pulled away. "But you hurt him, you know. You hurt all of us."
"I know," I told him, hanging my head.
"You were the king of assholes," Collins reiterates bluntly, but the beginning of a twinkle in his eye can be seen. I can't help but laugh.
"I know! I know," I repeat, quieting. "I was a complete bastard."
"You were," Collins says, putting an arm around my shoulder, steering me into the building. "But that's no reason for you to stay out here and freeze. C'mon, come inside, we'll see if the poor little rich boy can somehow make everything up to us."
I laughed again, resisting an urge to snuggle into Collins's embrace. It had been so long since anyone touched me with anything even resembling real affection. A wave of thankfulness rises up in my chest.
"I love you, Collins. I hope you know that."
Collins looks down at me, obviously surprised. "Maybe you haven't gone yuppie on us after all. C'mon, you've gotta come meet Angel."
- - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - -
Collins leads me down the familiar way to the loft; when we get there, Mark is nowhere to be seen but there's a beautiful girl sitting on the couch, smoothing out her miniskirt.
"Hey, baby!" she says happily, and jumps up to give Collins a kiss on the cheek before turning to me. "And who is this fine specimen?"
"Angel, this is Roger," Collins introduces us, grinning. Angel sticks out a hand for me to shake.
"My sweetie didn't quite introduce me properly. Angel Dumott Schunard, drag queen extraordinaire."
"Oh, hi," I say, shaking her hand. "I'm Roger Davis." Her eyebrows shoot up.
"Ohhh. The asshole rock star."
I don't know whether to laugh or grimace. She grabs Collins's hand and says something in Spanish to Collins – I'm sure I hear Mark's name in there somewhere. Collins laughs.
"What did she just say?" I ask him, as Angel eyes me mischievously.
"Hell if I know, but it is damn sexy," Collins answers, and Angel reaches up to kiss him.
"One of these days I'm going to have to teach you Spanish. The dirty words at the very least."
They grin at each other, and I walk around the apartment, feeling out of place. Angel flops down onto the couch and pats the seat beside her.
"Come here, honey, I wanna get to know you better."
"Okay," I answer, sitting down and throwing a look towards where I know Mark's room is. The door is closed, so I don't know if he's in there or not in the apartment at all.
Angel turns to face me, tucking her legs beneath her. "So what happened? Between you and Mark, I mean? And why are you here?"
I can see Collins out of the corner of my eye, watching us as he rummages through the kitchen. I wonder how much Mark has told them.
"Um," I say, wishing I had my old guitar with me to hold and fiddle with as I speak. "Mark and I – before I left – we … oh, god." I roll my head, trying to release some of the tight muscles. "Has Mark talked about this at all?"
Collins leans on the counter. "Let's see. Angel, has Mark talked about this at all?"
"No, I don't think so." Angel speaks seriously, looking at Collins. "Well, there were those few times – "
"All ten thousand of them – "
"When he mentioned – just in passing, mind you," Angel says earnestly, placing a hand on my knee, "How you and he started fooling around, and he fell for you hard, and he told you he loved you, and then … what happens next, baby?"
"Next Roger tells Mark that he's going to L.A., and not to wait up." Collins speaks grimly, not looking at me.
Angel looks at me sympathetically. I must look like shit for her to feel sorry for me after what Mark's told them. Not that it isn't the truth.
"I do believe, honey, there was also a little part of the story where you told him you never wanted to see him again, and that he didn't mean anything to you."
"I didn't say that!" I jump up, agitatedly running a hand through my hair. "At least, not exactly that – I – I never said he didn't mean anything to me!"
Collins walks over and hands me a glass. Stoli. I smile.
"You might as well have, for how that boy's heart broke," Collins says, his voice low as he looks towards the closed door of Mark's room. I close my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "God, I've been such a dick."
"That you have, friend," Collins says easily, turning back to the kitchen. "Now answer the girl's other question – what are you doing back here?"
I look at the ceiling. "You want the whole story or the simplified one?"
"Let's try the whole one," Angel says, smiling gently at me. I take a deep breath.
"Okay. I – I've fucked my life up royally. Right now, the fucking paparazzi are after me – thanks to my being caught shooting up in some fucking alley and taking home some random guy – and I'm about to get kicked out of my band for it, and lose everything."
Collins whistles. "Well, you certainly have fucked up but good."
I laugh bitterly. "You don't know the half of it, Collins. The truth is, I'm almost glad I fucked up. I – okay, the money is okay and everything, but I just don't care. I – I hate what my life has become. And I – " I have to stop to swallow the lump in my throat. "I miss you. And Mark. And I …" I pause, only realizing for the first time just how true what I'm about to say is, "I want to come home. I miss it too much."
Collins regards me levelly. "Sometimes you can't go back, man."
"I know."
Collins looks over at Angel. "We should probably go. You're always welcome with us if … just give us a call. Mark knows the number."
I look at them both, feeling that old familiar panic flooding my chest. Can I do this? How on Earth can I apologize to Mark for everything I've done – for all the hurt and all the lost time? Will he even listen to me? I feel a deep pang in my stomach as I think of him, keeping me at arm's distance, not letting me back into his life.
I step forward as Collins and Angel step through the loft's doorway. "Wait! Is- is Mark – is he with anyone?"
Collins looks at me semi-seriously, his lips quirking up at the corners. Angel looks at me, eyes full of kind sympathy.
"No," he says, and I realize I wasn't breathing as I let out a whoosh of air. "He isn't."
"Thanks, Collins." I say, seeing them out. "Later – after … well, later, I'm taking you guys out for a huge party."
"Damn straight you are," Collins says before disappearing. I grin, but the smile slips off my face as I turn back towards the loft. Now what? Will he even come out of his room?
Only one way to find out, I decide as I walk towards the closed door. I knock tentatively.
"Collins?" his voice is quiet, tired. I close my eyes and clench my jaw, feeling so afraid. I want so desperately to say the right thing.
"No. Mark … it's Roger."
"Fuck you."
The words sting, but I realize I can't let them. I deserve this, and more.
"Mark, please come talk to me."
There's only silence as I wait, breathing hard and repeatedly tightening my hands into fists. I stand like that for what must be ten minutes.
"Fine," I say, trying to keep my voice calm, the frustration and anger out of it. "But I'm still going to talk, and I hope you listen." I pause, hoping for a response, but get none. I sigh.
"Okay. Mark, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, I can't even tell you. What I did then – leaving you like that, the horrible things I said … they weren't true and saying them – doing that – it was the biggest mistake of my life."
Still no response. Fuck.
"Mark, please," I say quietly, resting my forehead against his door. "If I could take it all back – "
Suddenly the door opens, and Mark is standing there, looking furious. It's still hard to not lean forward and wrap my arms around him. I'm scared by how much emotion washes over me, just seeing him in front of me.
"Fuck you," he hisses, eyes sparking dangerously. "Do you even remember what happened? Or was your brain too fucking drug-addled? Well, let me refresh your memory. You – you fucked me, and then I, the fucking idiot that I am, decide to just take a leap and tell you how I feel. And then you – " Mark mimics an arrogant laugh. '"Well, don't get too attached. I'm leaving in a couple days.'"
"I'm sorry," I tell him helplessly.
He just looks at me, and then his eyes – I don't even know how to describe it. It's like they've lost some of their light. "Sorry isn't good enough, Roger. It doesn't even come close."
"Please, Mark – "
"Will you just get out?" he interrupts me, starting to close his door. My hand shoots out, holding it open.
"No."
He looks at me, and his shoulders slump. "Fine. We're old friends, right? You can sleep on the couch."
The bitterness in his voice slashes at me. If only I had come back sooner – then he'd have to believe the truth. That I've come home for him.
"Mark," I say, feeling desperate. "I don't think you understand. I was so fucking terrified back then – I felt like I had to go to L.A., and I knew you'd never come – there was no way for us to be together, and I knew I was hurting you, but I couldn't help myself – "
Mark turns his head from me. "Will you just shut up? I don't want to hear it."
I take a chance, letting my hand drop from his door to grasp his arms. "Mark, I still love you." I can't believe how hard it is to say those words, to admit it. I can feel my throat constricting, that familiar prickle in the back of my eyes. I'm a fuckup, but I want him to forget. I want him to step forward and take me in his arms. I want him to love me.
Please let him still love me.
"I love you," I say again, watching his impassive face. Is it my imagination, or does he tremble, just a little?
"Like I said," his voice is quiet, and he still doesn't look at me. "If you need a place to stay, you can crash on the couch. Good night."
He closes his door; I let him, although I get the feeling he would have hauled off and hit me if I'd tried to stop him again. I've never seen Mark so angry.
I return to the living room, and lay down on the couch, shivering and feeling as alone as I ever have as I wrap my arms around myself. It's still goddamned cold in here.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -
I'm woken the next morning by the phone ringing, and then an annoying beep. If I had a pillow, I'd cover my head with it right now.
"Hi, you've reached Mark Cohen. Please leave a message after the beep."
Another beep, and then a click. Hangup.
I sit up slowly, feeling sadness heavy in my chest. Funny what things can set you off.
I get up and walk around, noticing the loft feels awfully empty. I wonder how Mark keeps up the place on his own, if he has a job during the day. I grimace at the thought. From now on, if he'll let me, I'll take care of him.
I walk past his room, into my old room. His door is open, and the room is empty. He's not here. I go into the room that used to belong to me, and find it not much different. Same bed and sparse furniture, just nothing is covered with blankets, or clothes, or papers. I stride over to my old dresser and open the top drawer, not expecting to find anything but feeling a need for the feeling of old habits.
My eyebrows shoot up when I see a notebook stored in there. One of my old books stuffed with scribbled pages, most illegible, with little random sketches interspersed throughout. I rifle through it, smiling, catching some of the lyrics that started the songs on my band's album now. Then I come across some blank pages, and fall to staring at that lined whiteness for a good long time.
After many moments of thinking, I leave my room to hunt up a pen. It might work. And even if it doesn't, it makes sense that I would turn to this. It's the only thing I've ever felt even halfway good at.
- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - -
In the middle of my feverish writing, I decide I should stop and call Brian's hotel room, see what the situation is. He answered on the first ring.
"Roger?"
"Hey, Brian," I say uneasily.
"Man, you better be with one fucking hot woman, because that is the only weak fucking excuse I will accept for your lameass disappearing act."
"What?" He sounds furious.
"Where the fuck were you? What the fuck did you think you were doing? Do you know how many fucking tickets were sold that we're gonna have to fucking refund? Jesus! You've been pretty random before, but you've never skipped out on a gig before."
I take a breath, waiting for him to calm. "Brian, have you read any of the papers? Or talked to our manger?"
Brian makes an exasperated noise. "Yeah, yeah, you did some stupid shit. It's never kept you from playing before."
"But – I thought – I'm still in the band?"
He sighs irritatedly. "Of course you are, you fucking idiot. We have a tour to do."
I pull back slightly, just looking at the phone. This changes everything. I can go back. Back to the band, back to the money, and fame, and people acting like they love me. I can go back to normal.
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - -
It's after midnight before Mark comes home. I figure he's been staying with Collins to avoid me. That's fine. I've been patient. And somewhat busy.
After talking to Brian, I went to a shop not too far away that sold guitars. I bought an acoustic, took it back to the loft, and then went to the grocery store to stock up. And when I got back and put everything away, I fell to writing again.
When I finally felt somewhat satisfied with the results, and after the sun had set, leaving pinky-purple light streaking through the loft, I brought out the candles I bought and started placing them around the loft and lighting them.
I feel almost stupid when Mark walks in. It's not like this is enough to make up for everything. I just hope that somehow Mark decides it's enough for now. Enough to give me more time to make this up to him.
He stops when he sees me on my old spot on the windowsill, holding my guitar in the darkened loft, everything lit only by wavering and flickering candlelight. He stares at me for less than a second before striding over to the fuse box, muttering to himself.
"Third fucking time this year the power's gone out," I hear him say.
"The power's not out, Mark," I say, my strong voice echoing through the loft. "I just – I turned off the lights. You know, for atmosphere."
He turns slowly to look at me. "Fuck your atmosphere."
"Mark, wait," I say as he starts to leave the room. "Come here, please."
He just shakes his head, but he doesn't move.
"Will you come over here?" I ask him, holding out a hand. He just sneers at me, and I lower my arm to cradle my guitar more firmly.
"Okay. I get it, I do. But thank you."
"For what?" he asks grimly.
"For listening," I tell him, trying to catch his eyes with mine. But he still won't look at me. I sigh quietly. "I'm not going to ask for your pity, Mark. Or your understanding. I don't deserve it." I laugh darkly. "I don't deserve anything from you, and I know it. But I'm still going to ask for something – another chance."
Mark snorts, wrapping his arms around himself, staring at the floor.
"I know! I know, you have no reason to give me another chance … I just … God. I love you Mark," I say hoarsely, looking down at the guitar in my lap. "I've never stopped. I think of you all the time. Any time I – I was with someone else, I could only think of you."
"Now you're telling me about your sexual conquests? Very smooth, Roger."
I can't help it; I laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm even fucking this up."
"You're good at that," Mark says coldly, finally meeting my eyes. I swallow.
"I know."
We're silent for a moment, looking at each other, candlelight flickering over Mark's face and glinting slightly off of his glasses. I smile.
"Do you remember when we first kissed?"
Mark looks away again, and doesn't speak.
"It was before one of our first big shows here in the city – and I was so nervous – "
"Are you still using?" Mark interrupts me suddenly, making me flush. I've never regretted it more than at this moment.
"Yes." Mark makes a disgusted noise and I hurry to add, "But not as much as I used to. I'm better, I am."
Mark just shakes his head, and I feel myself slipping. I can feel this getting messed up beyond repair. I shift my guitar.
"I wrote a song today," I say quietly, unable to look at him and feeling myself blush. Fuck, I can get up and sing in front of hundreds of people but in front of him my throat is constricting and my hands are shaking.
"Good for you," Mark says tiredly, going over to sit on the couch, his back to me.
"Will you listen to it?" He doesn't respond, and I take it as an agreement. I strum a few chords experimentally before beginning to play what I spent the better part of the day writing.
"It's still kinda rough," I say over the music, before starting to sing. My hands steady once they're on the strings, but my face still feels hot as the music fills the loft, a gentle driving energy in the chords.
This blood, not enough for the
bleed
A sacrifice
to make things right
Take the sight of you
in
not enough for my need
I could drown in your eyes
but
they're dry
Unforgiving as hell
but I still have to try
Not
enough blood for this bleed
running out of my veins
till I'm
spent
But I won't rest
Until you're here again with me
For
you, I'll bleed 'till I'm gone
I need you to strengthen my
weakening heart
I need you …
This blood, not enough
for the bleed
not enough for my need …
I let the last notes fade into the silence of the room, bowing my head and waiting. After a few moments, I see Mark raise his head out of the corner of my eye, his outline fuzzy in the dim light from the candles.
"It's a good song," he says, a grudging tone in his voice, and I smile.
I wait a moment, then look up to watch the back of his head when I speak. "I quit the band."
I'm rewarded with Mark jumping slightly. "What are you going to do?" He asks after a moment.
I pause, looking out into the night, taking in the skyline I know so well. "I'd like to come back here."
Mark jumps up. "No. No! There's no way, Roger. I'm not letting this happen again … There's no way …"
I jump up, too, tossing aside my guitar as Mark bolts for the door to his room. I catch up to him just as he's about to slam the door in my face. I use the same trick that I did last night, keeping the door open and grabbing his arm.
"Oh, no you don't," I exclaim, dragging him out to the couch. "You are not getting away from this, Mark Cohen."
I pull him down beside me, still keeping a tight grip on his arm.
"Let me go."
"No. I want you to listen to me. When I left, you said you were living your life by being with me." I swallow. "Well, I haven't been living, Mark. Not … not the right way. But I want to. And I want to be with you."
I slide my hand down his arm to his wrist, and lift his hand to my lips, kissing the soft skin stretched over his knuckles before he jerks away.
"No."
I drop his hand and look into his bright blue eyes. "Tell me you don't love me, and I'll go."
He looks at me, silent for a moment. "I don't love you."
"You're lying!" I hit my fist into the cushion under me, frustrated. I shift myself forward so I'm closer to him, grab both his hands and yank him towards me, his knees crashing into mine as I lean forward and press my lips to his, gently, just letting my mouth skim against his before drawing back.
"Tell me you don't love me," I say again quietly, slightly breathless now.
There's another moment of quiet staring before he jumps up. "All right! I love you! Fuck!"
I let out a shuddering breath, smiling.
"But that doesn't mean anything can go back to how it was," Mark says, turning back to me. "I can't – I won't let myself go back there."
I look at him, a slight smile on my lips. He looks beautiful in this lighting. And I can feel the hope rising within me. "Will you give me a chance to prove myself? To try and – and regain some of that trust?"
He lets out a frustrated-sounding breath, looking towards the ceiling.
"Is that a yes?" I say, getting up and slowly walking towards him. He takes a small step backwards, fear glinting in his eyes. My heart just drops – I'm so sorry I ever did anything to make him afraid.
I close the distance between us, and cup his face in my hands. "I've meant everything I've said to you tonight, you know," I tell him, resting my forehead against his. "And all this shit I've been through – every stupid thing I've done – I can't regret any of it. Because if it hadn't happened, I might not have realized how I really felt."
I lean in, giving him time to protest, to pull away, before again placing my lips to his, reveling in the soft feel of his lips against mine, wrapping my arms around him and pulling his body close, him allowing me to deepen the kiss, tongue exploring his warm mouth and the sweet taste of him …
It's all so much better than I'd remembered.
He breaks away first, breathing hard and stepping back. "You can have your old room."
"Thanks," I say, letting my arms rest on his shoulders, resisting the urge to pull him closer to me. But he slides out from under my hold, and walks towards his room. He looks back at me before he disappears inside.
After a moment, I call him back. "Mark?"
His head pokes out of his room. "Yeah?"
"I love you," I say seriously, saying the words I could never say before in the hopes that, in some small way, this will show him that I've changed – that I know what I want now and that I'm sorry.
"I know," he smirks, and disappears into his room. A moment later, as I'm walking by to get to my room, his door opens again and he grabs my arm. I look down at his hand, then up at his face, smiling.
"I lied," he tells me. "That was a beautiful song."
I smile. "I wrote it for you."
I know he's blushing – I can tell by the small smile on his face. His embarrassed smile. "I know."
"Good night," I say, letting my hand brush down his arm.
"Good night," he says, closing his door again. But that's okay.
I know it will be open in the morning.