Roger is the impulsive one. Mark can take forever to do something, if he does it at all. He waits, weighing pros and cons, possible consequences. Roger forgets to do this sometimes. Frequently. On an impulse, Roger took off across the country and didn't contact anyone for weeks, and just as impulsively, he came back without a word.
Roger loves Mimi, but she isn't the only reason he came back. He thought of Mark just as frequently as he thought of her, and the thought that the last words they exchanged were so cold kept him awake at night sometimes. He wanted to tell Mark that he hadn't meant to be so cruel about the things he'd said just before leaving, and that maybe Mark had a point about what he had said. About how Roger was running, avoiding all the painful thoughts. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry for leaving him alone the way he had, more alone than he was before. He wanted to tell him that, for what it's worth, he finally managed to write the song he'd wanted to write.
For once, he planned how he was going to say everything, but when he sees Mark, he just forgets it. He can hardly speak at all, and neither can Mark, really, so they just move toward each other in a hug that's long overdue, and the way Mark's shoulders are sagging suggests just how hard the past two months have been on him, and for a moment Roger feels horrible again.
He just planned on making things better between them, taking back the harsh words and fixing their friendship. Instead he finds himself kissing Mark, his fingertips pressing into the suede jacket and the shoulders underneath. He's trying to be gentle but after a moment Mark is the one sucking and biting his lips, curling his fists around handfuls of Roger's shirt and pulling, trying to get closer.
Mark has to be in control. Roger knows this, so he lets Mark lead him down off the roof into the loft. They go into Mark's room, and Roger thinks that maybe this was what was keeping him up all those nights. Thoughts of Mark going down on him, his mouth hot and slick and wonderful even through the latex; thoughts of Mark pushing inside of him, hard and desperate but deliberate; thoughts of Mark's hands on him, fingers plucking and tweaking at his skin, nails digging in, leaving tiny crescents on his chest and shoulders and neck and scalp. Mark pushing his hips down, holding him there, his brows furrowing, trying to concentrate but coming apart a little more every time he pushes back in.
When Mark comes, he falls forward, gripping Roger's shoulders, his breathing ragged. Shaking. It takes him a moment to go down on Roger again, and only a few more moment until Roger comes too, screaming and moaning and thrashing, pulling handfuls of Mark's hair, trying not to fuck his mouth and scare him off from doing this again.
They haven't said much, and Roger keeps trying to remember what it was he was going to tell him before, but he can't think of it. It can probably wait anyway. He knows they're both too spent to have a deep discussion about anything, especially everything he was going to say. Whatever it was.