Dive under the water
I'd rather drown than risk the flames
I'm crossing, I'm counting
I'm coming clean
Roots of Rebellion, "Declaration"
Roger hugged a mug of coffee in his booth at the Moondance Diner, awaiting the arrival of Mark and Collins. He kept his head low, but he wasn't sure why—nobody knew him here; it'd been so many years since he'd been back in New York, and he looked different, with his hair much longer and the thick stubble dusted over his cheeks and chin.
Mark and Collins walked in together, their voices hushed but light. Once Roger spotted them, he stood, his hands in his pockets, and waited for them to see him.
"Roger," Mark greeted warmly, wrapping his old friend in a hug. Roger accepted the hug, holding Mark firmly and giving him a hearty pat on the back. He moved onto Collins next, greeting him with just as much gusto. As he hugged the gentle giant, however, he couldn't help but notice that he felt much thinner.
The three men sat in the booth in silence for a short while, with Roger facing his two old friends, after the waitress offered them coffee—both Mark and Collins accepted and Roger requested a refill.
"So, where have you been?" Mark asked of Roger.
Roger took a deep swallow of coffee before answering. "Before Vegas? Austin. Dallas. Went back to Santa Fe for a spell." Mark was surprised as to how gravelly Roger's voice sounded, ravaged by years of cigarette smoking and playing gigs. "I always go back to Santa Fe."
"Feels like home, doesn't it?" Collins smiled fondly.
"In a way," Roger agreed.
Mark cleared his throat. "Will you ever consider staying in New York again?" Roger bit his lip, but Mark prattled on. "Steph and I wouldn't mind if you stayed with us. We have an extra bedroom, you know."
Roger shook his head. "Nah. I couldn't impose on the newlyweds."
"We're not so new anymore," Mark said softly. "I'm sure she couldn't mind."
"I would."
Collins cleared his throat and both Mark and Roger looked at him, expecting him to say something. Collins just shook his head and reached for his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. After he coughed into it several times into it, he apologized. "Sorry. Just a tickle in my throat."
"That was more than a tickle," Roger commented.
Mark set his mouth in a firm line. "Are you alright, Collins?"
"Fine," was his simple quick response. He replaced the handkerchief.
Mark and Roger gave each other a knowing look. He wasn't fine. For Collins, a simple cold could turn into a death sentence.
"It's the change in the weather," Collins explained further. "I'm readjusting from California to New York again."
"Bullshit," Roger said suddenly. "It's been seven years since I've been in New York and I haven't been coughing like I'm hacking up a lung."
Collins' face fell. Roger had called him out.
"Collins," Mark said, slowly and seriously. "Are you sick?"
"Of course I'm sick," Collins said quickly.
"You know what I mean. Please, Collins, tell the truth."
Collins glanced from Mark to Roger, to back at Mark again before staring down into his coffee cup. "It's cancer," he admitted finally.
Roger swallowed hard, feeling his throat close up. Mark, however, remained steady. "Go on," he urged.
"It's a type of lymphoma," Collins explained. At first, his words were stiff and cold, almost unwilling to come out of his mouth. But the more he spoke, the easier they flowed. "It's rare, my doctor said. Aggressive, usually unresponsive to chemo. It causes a fluid buildup around the lungs—or, in my case, it does. It's why I've been coughing. At first, I thought it was the flu…but a biopsy proved otherwise." When Collins was done, another coughing fit ensued. Mark offered him a glass of water, which he took. "Sorry," he whispered when he was done.
A cold silence settled over the diner table. What was there to say? What could they, Mark and Roger, say to make the situation brighter? Collins had recognized his fatality already; it was now their turn.
"How long?" Roger asked after what seemed like several minutes.
"The doctor said six months to two years."
"How is Luc taking it?" Mark asked.
"Surprisingly well," Collins replied. Another pause. "It feels so strange…having someone else be the caretaker. That whole time I held Angel's hand—" he cut himself off, promising himself he would not cry.
Mark put his hand over Collins' and gave a friendly squeeze while patting him on the shoulder, a small gesture of comfort. Roger reached out and put his hand over Mark's, which was covered in turn by Collins' other hand.
"So that's why you moved back to New York," Roger said. Collins just nodded.
All of a sudden, Roger was filled with inner conflict. One of his best friends was dying…but he couldn't stay, not in New York. He didn't want to. He'd seen both Angel and Mimi die from this disease, the same disease that rampaged through his own body; the same disease that was killing his friend. He didn't want to stay and watch someone else die…but how could he abandon Collins?
"I'm going to call Stephanie," Mark said, "and let her know you'll be staying with us, Roger."
"No, it's okay," Roger protested. "I'll…check into a hotel. I don't want to impose on you and Stephanie."
"You're not imposing."
Roger felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. He couldn't stay under Mark's roof, not again. "I'll find something," he assured his friends.
Collins almost offered to put Roger up at his and Luc's place, but stopped himself. Roger didn't need to be reminded about what his fate might be. "Okay," Collins relented. "Just…don't be afraid to ask for something, anything, from any of us."
"I should be saying that to you."
"Don't worry about me. I'm getting exactly what I want out of this," Collins said with a very small smile. "This is the way it should be, surrounded by my family."
Roger gave a slow nod. "Right." He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.