Life goes on as usual in the autumn of 1989.
Roger lies in bed all day pining, stroking his guitar, dwelling miserably on his own mortality; Collins meanders from school to school, building small armies of liberal students before being booted for some misdemeanor or other; April is still dead; Benny is still an ass. Mark watches, his camera glued to his face, and wishes he we were brave enough to do some of the things he's always wanted to.
Then, about a month after she breaks up with Mark, Maureen gets a new job.
He doesn't hear about it until late November, because – honestly – he's been studiously avoiding her since long before she left that damning message on his answering machine. It's not as though he can really say that their relationship was a healthy one, or even a good one, but there's just something depressing about being single again for the first time since he was eighteen.
Not to mention, Maureen is the type of girl to move on immediately to greener and more glamorous pastures.
Mark just isn't sure he can bear to see the parade of beautiful people marching in and out of her bedroom.
Not yet. Just… give it time.
They'll be friends again someday, he reassures himself. Someday. Hopefully within the next couple of years…
But then she starts calling again.
To Maureen's credit, they'd parted on seemingly friendly terms. She had no idea – none at all – that Mark felt so awkwardly about the whole thing, and if she did, she was cheerfully ignoring it. "Mark, I know you're there!" came her voice, loud even through the machine. "I need to know how you feel about Sydney!"
He almost doesn't pick up, but Roger is smirking at him. He grits his teeth and snatches the phone from the receiver, wandering as far away as the cord will let him. "Sorry, I was in the shower." It's not the smoothest lie in the world, but Maureen probably doesn't care enough to call him on it… "What do you mean, Sydney? Australia?"
"Yeah!" Overenthusiastic as ever. Mark winces and holds the phone slightly away from his ear. "Do you want to go? I can get us there for free!"
"Free?" he echoes as though it's a foreign concept. "Australia…? Why – no, how? Maureen, that's insane!"
"It's a perk!" He can practically hear her bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Don't you want to go? Joanne said she'd pay for the hotel! It's only for a few days, we can get a little tan, maybe see some coral reefs…"
Joanne. That's right. Her new beau.
Someone is prodding his shoulder, leaning in with his chest to Mark's back, trying to listen in. Mark ignores Roger's owlish curiosity, swatting halfheartedly behind him, and thins his lips. "I don't think Joanne is going to be okay with it when she finds out who you're taking… And – a perk of what?"
"My job?" She snorts, and there's a rustling sound that he can't identify. Roger deliberately blows hot air into his ear and he squirms away – unsuccessfully, because the other man has his arms wrapped around his waist now, and he doesn't even have to look back to know he's wearing a shit-eating grin. "Come on, Mark. Think of it as a Christmas present! I can't book until next week, so you might even get to be gone for the holidays…"
She leaves that sentence hanging as if she knows that he'd immediately perked up at the idea of having an indisputable reason not to have to go home for Chanukah this year. "Still."
"Pookie!" He can tell she's pouting now. He hates how well they know each other. It's a constant reminder – every time he thinks he's getting over her, something like this happens and his heart stutters. (Although, that might be Roger's freezing hands sneaking up under his shirt.)
"Bastard," he twists and mouths, eyes narrowing, but Roger just leans in and blows him a kiss.
"I think I'll pass, Mo. But – thanks." He prepares to hang up, and Roger's hands are out from under his shirt in record time, flashing up to snatch the phone.
"I'll go, if he won't," he says brightly, and Mark sends him a scandalized look. "No, it's Roger. Hey! You do so want to sit on a plane with me for twelve hours!" He frowns, chewing on his thumbnail. "I'm fucking hilarious, you'll never be bored."
They squabble for another ten minutes. Mark wanders into the kitchen and goes through the ritual of making himself tea, watching Roger out of the corner of his eye, trying not to smile. Secretly, he really hopes he doesn't get to go. Christmas is lonely enough with just the two of them in town right now; if he's going to be just by himself, he'd almost rather be with his family in Scarsdale.
Almost.
He only catches the last minute of the conversation because Roger is shouting, pumping his fists. "Fuck yes! You're amazing. Jesus! I should have been a flight attendant."
He laughs in the next second and Mark can imagine what she'd said to that.
Sorry, Davis, but you just don't have my rack.
"Sure, whatever. Thanks! I'll force him, don't worry." He's beaming, slamming the phone down and Mark barely has the time to be nervous before Roger comes stalking toward him, a gleam in his eye. It's the liveliest he's looked in months, and he can't help but feel hopeful, even as Roger yanks him up out of his seat by the arm.
"We're going to pack," he declares, and Mark splutters, tugging weakly at his arm.
"What?! Roger! I said I wasn't going!"
"Yes you are. You're going with me. You don't have an excuse." Roger smirks through the dirty curl of his hair in front of his eyes. Mark feels his heart clench again, and this time he's afraid to wonder why. "Come on, Cohen. Where's your sense of adventure?"
Coming from the guy who hasn't voluntarily left the apartment in almost a year now, Mark thinks this is a small miracle.
He struggles to find words.
"I – well I guess…" How can he possibly deny him this? Getting Roger out of his damn room was up there with "avoid Maureen" on his to-do list, and he had to succeed in at least one of them today. So that meant…
"Great! We're going to Sydney for Christmas."
Mark blinks, bemused, as Roger dives toward the closet and starts rummaging. He was like an entirely different person.
That might not be a horrible thing. Except –
"Isn't it a little early to pack…?"