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Roger can't help but feel like time means far too much these days.
He had all the time in the world. His mother used to tell him that on lazy Sunday mornings when Roger would want to go out and play. At this point, he hadn't gathered that she had a hangover. Then again, at this point Roger hadn't even asked where his father was yet.
Then he got out of that hell and into this one, New York City. Then, all of his time was a countdown to his next show, the next time he could see April, the next time he could get a hit. When he had a hit, time ceased to exist. The drugs took time away from him. The drugs took time off his life. His life became a countdown to oblivion.
The only other use time has for him is to count the days since. Currently, it has been two years since Angel died; Angel is still missed sorely and Collins has never been the same. It has been one year since Mimi passed away in her sleep. He held her in his arms as she went and he is happy to have loved her.
It has been three months since Mark went missing. Roger came home to find Mark’s camera and small collection of clothes gone. There was no note. No nothing. Roger spent months and months putting up posters, months of asking the homeless if they'd seen him. Calling Mark's parents, Mark's parents screaming at Roger wanting to know, what happened to their boy? The truth being that Roger wants to know harder than they ever will.
Never a sign of Mark.
Three months ago, Collins turned to him. "Hey, at least now you know how Mark felt when you disappeared to Sante Fe," Collins suggested. Roger froze. Karma. He'd asked himself if his best friend vanishing was his fault.
"I told before I went," he'd answered. Collins had nodded to himself before returning to drinking.
So now Roger sits in the apartment, by himself most nights, and counts time away. Collins checks in on him, making sure he’s not returned to his vices. He’s joked about doing ‘Mark’s job for him’. Every time he makes that joke, Roger feels more than a little bit ill; Mark’s job? When did Roger become a chore?
Is that why he left? Bored of playing nurse? Sick of Roger? Sick of New York’s sickness?
He’s made lists in his head filled with reasons why Mark went. It drives him insane. Collins would tell him off for it. What ifs aren’t supposed to be the start of every thought someone has. Roger should spend more time thinking about his death date and how the girl he loved died, and less time thinking about his ex-bestfriend.
He knows Mimi would want him to seize the day. Roger still can’t decide if that means find Mark, or let him go.
Roger is startled at of his thought mess by a voice.
“Roger!” a distant Maureen shouts.
She’s meant to be away. She’s visiting the in-laws with Joanne. Hope floods him for a second whilst he runs to the balcony. Does he get to apologize for being a baby? He looks down at her by herself. Her hands are tucked into her coat pockets. Roger doesn’t blame her. It’s fucking freezing.
Of course Mark isn’t there. Why does he do this to himself? What's the point in carrying on?
“Throw down the keys!” she orders.
Roger nods, he retreats into the flat to grab them off the side. Throwing them down to her, he remembers why Mark usually did this. They land about ten metres away from Maureen. Roger has a crappy aim.
After she’s picked them up and made her way into the building, he walks back into the flat. He picks up a jacket to put on. It’s cold. He doesn’t need Maureen thinking he can’t take care of himself.
He sits on the coach and waits for her dramatic reveal.
Sure enough, the door slides across. Maureen’s grin is splattered across her face, an arm rests on the wall beside the door. She is poised, posing and gorgeous.
Roger lifts an eyebrow at her. She snorts.
“Come on,” she orders, “we’re going to the Life to celebrate Joanne’s parents loving me again.”
“And you came to collect me?” Roger asks, not budging.
Walking in, she has a skip in her step. It’s like she floats through the cold. Roger gets why Mark loved her, he gets why Joanne loves her. Hell, he gets why half of Alphabet City loves her.
“Joanne’s getting Collins and we’re meeting there,” she explains. She sits on the couch next to him, putting her feet up on the coffee table. Roger nods. Not surprised. He swears they weren’t supposed to be back yet. “I felt like coming here…” she adds. She laughs. “I guess I keep hoping that if I go away, he’ll be here when…”
Roger’s eyes widen. He swallows. His hands go into his jacket pockets.
“Every time you shout for me, I hope you found him.” Roger confesses. Maureen nods, her mouth pulled into a tight line.
Looking over at him, she seems him staring straight ahead and into the darkness. Slowly, she rests her head on his shoulder.
He jumps at the touch. But his reaction is muted, he leans into the touch. It’s something he forgets he craves.
“Mimi used to do that when she thought I was thinking about April,” Roger tells her.
Maureen grimaces, trying to move away, “Sorry, I-”
Roger interrupts. “-It’s fine. It’s nice.” There’s an unspoken, ‘please, I need this’.
Maureen nods, she lays her head back down. They sit in silence. A heavy moment goes past before Roger puts his arm around Maureen.
After another moment passes, Maureen clears her throat.
“Come on, let’s go.”
She has this habit of people watching. Joanne's developed it over the last few months. She’d never fancied herself the eagled eyed one before, but she bets that if you put Mark in a room with hundreds of red-headed filmmakers, she’d find him in two minutes tops. Maybe she’d feel happy again. Maybe Collins, Roger and Maureen would smile again too.
She’s always considered herself the realist. She’s logical. She’s a lawyer for fucks sake. Mark has been gone for months. Whether he ran away, whether he’s laying six feet under, whatever whether, Mark is most probably never coming back.
All this logic screams at her every time Collins puts up more posters; every time Maureen sees an old friend in the street and asks after Mark. It screams hardest when Roger turns up to gatherings with a blotchy face and red rimmed eyes. She wants to move on. But she can’t get her muscles to move, and her friends can’t either.
They’ve been sat at the table in the Life for a half hour. There’s so much to miss. To think, they’d been here two years ago dancing on tables to piss off Benny. They’d sang revolution. She’d kissed Maureen with all of the passion she had. Collins had Angel to kiss. Granted, Roger’s happiness came later.
They’ve all lost so much. Joanne tries not to think about it; she just pulls them through if she can, and she pays for dinner. But her throat scratches today. The week away with her parents was great, Joanne thinks that they’re starting to forgive Maureen for her actions. Coming home to New York and it being so quiet is shocking. That’s the most shocking part of all of this. Three voices lost, and it just kills so much laughter.
Joanne doesn’t usually start conversation. But Collins is too busy playing with his hands, Roger is too busy staring at nothing and Maureen is too busy drawing patterns on the table to converse.
“I still miss them,” Joanne confesses.
She tries to look away from the window. There’s no hope. Logic dictates that, remember? She forces herself to look at Maureen.
Maureen grimaces. “I know you do Pookie,” she answers. Maureen takes her hand under the table and squeezes it.
Roger exhales, shrugging her shoulders. “We all know that feeling,” he contributes.
Collins smirks at him, “You have feelings?”
Roger rolls his eyes, smiling. “Fuck off.”
There’s a moment of soft laughter. It isn’t all consuming, it isn’t biting and sharp and isn’t completely alive. But it’s something.
What Collins does know, is that he hates the world; which is good, because the chances are that he’s not going to be here much longer.
Bless Angel for pathing the way, but curse Angel simultaneously for leaving him alone. He’s not scared to die. He’s scared to leave Roger by himself.
Mark whispered to Collins a few times that he was scared of being the one to survive, and since he’s left, he’s given that job to either Collins or Roger. Fuck him for it personally, he’s made their deaths a game.
As Collins thinks this, he walks up the stairs to his old home. The keys are in his hands, and he hates himself. He’d do anything to bring Mark back, anything.
He slides the door to the apartment. Roger’s sitting there already, in his same spot as always on the couch.
Collins nods at him, “Have you written anything good recently?”
Roger snorts, “All I can do at the moment is write, whether any of my shit is good?”
Collins smiles, “That’s up to the world to decide.” Slamming the door shut, his smile falters for a second when his back is turned. It returns when he’s facing Roger again, he points at his friend. “I wanna see it when you’re comfortable with it though.”
Roger nods and plays a familiar chord. Collins shakes his head before collapsing onto the couch next Roger and starting his regular routine.
“Right, so you know that student I told you about, Daniel-”
Roger interrupts, “-Is this ‘Douche Daniel’ or ‘Doesn’t Stay Awake In My Lectures Daniel’?”
“Doesn’t stay awake,” Collins answers.
They fall into their routine of discussing Collins’s work life. It gets his frustration out. It means he can check on Roger, make sure he’s going to his shitty bar-work job and taking his AZT.
Roger usually makes sure he’s got the keys to hand to throw them down and on days where Collins is late or stressed, a beer for when he arrives.
Collins stays later than he usually does. And late is the normal for this place, especially on a Friday.
“You know, you could move in if you wanted,” Roger whispers. Slowly tinkering away at some notes on his guitar, he grits his teeth as he waits for the response.
Collins nearly laughs. His apartment is warm, it’s got heat sometimes. It’s classy, and not too far from where he works. Besides, it’s the home he shared with Angel. There’s still some pillows that smell like the love of Collins’s life, all this time later.
Yet, it’s been years and he still can’t shake this place. And there’s no beer waiting for him at his apartment. And there’s no Angel either.
His apartment isn’t his home.
Collins whispers, “Sure.”
Roger’s face lights up into a grin. Collin’s points at him, “You’re letting me fix the whole in the roof. And you’re letting me pay for it,” Collins demands.
Nodding, Roger says, “Feel free,” Collins watches the mischief grow back into his eyes, refreshing to witness again. “Sell Out,” Roger adds.
Maureen remembers far too much. She remembers Scarsdale, and the way her parents used to fight. She remembers when her mother would scream so loudly it shook the ground. At least she knows where her singing voice came from. Scarsdale was difficult. She’d had a lot of friends. Some good times, some bad. In the end, she outgrew it.
Leaving home is one of her fondest memories. She’d never expected leaving to be so liberating. She’d never anticipated how much her heart soared when she saw the first skyscraper in the distance.
She’d been in New York for nine months when she walked into the Life and met Collins, then she’d met Roger. After Roger, she turned around to a person she’d never expected to encounter.
“Mark Cohen?” she’d exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Little did Maureen know he’d left Scarsdale a month after she did. Little did Maureen know that he’d end up being a pretty good fuck, and that she’d fall a little bit in love with him.
She also didn’t know she was going to come back to the flat one day with an ambulance outside. That she’d lose Mark, and gain Joanne through it all.
She gained Mark back, as a friend in the end. And they were almost happy, for a while. Angel died. So did Mimi.
Maureen never lived in the past. Never ever did she focus so much on something that happened as much as now. She can’t let Mark disappearing go. She can’t lose another friend.
In her sleep, Maureen clings tightly to her girlfriend. She can’t help but be scared that when Maureen wakes up, Joanne will be gone too. As a result of it all, Maureen realized that her biggest problem hasn’t been that she’s unreliable, or flirty, or too wild. Her biggest problem is that Maureen Johnson is terrified of being alone.
Roger thinks too much. It's all Collins ever says to him.
Roger's thinking about that time Mark was telling him about life support, before he agreed to go. He thinks about how Mark's cheeks were still pink with cold.
"This guy just like, was scared? But it was okay?" Mark laughed, "He said that he's a New Yorker, fear is his life." Mark chuckled quietly to himself, 'Isn't that the truth?"
Roger had just rolled his eyes at the time. Carried on.
Fear really is his life. He's scared of everything. Living without Mark, dying with him here. He's scared for his friends.
Four friends versus the world. Of course the world will win.
But Roger looks over at Collins, reading on the sofa. He listens to Joanne and Maureen bicker in the kitchen. He thinks about Mark. He thinks about Benny. He thinks about Angel, and Mimi.
The world is unfair, but he's glad the world gave him a chance.
"Roger!"
Roger jumps when he hears his name shouted. He looks up.
Collins, Joanne and Maureen look back at him. All with the same expression, none of them the culprit.
Sprinting to the balcony, he looks down at the figure on the street. Bruised, dirty and thin, but definitely him.
"I'm sorry!" Mark shouts.
Roger knows it wasn't his fault anymore, because Mark shouted his name first.
Roger grins, "You've got a lot of explaining to do!"
They hear Mark's laugh, "I know." Collins knows he won't leave Roger alone, because Roger's face shows everything. Mark's home. Mark's not dead. Mark's a dick, but they can deal with that. "Throw me the keys!"
Joanne's logic is wrong, and she is free. And Maureen is not alone, when Joanne grasps her hand, she knows she never was.
Roger shakes his head, "I'm coming to get you!". He starts to run to the door, he opens it and flies down the stairs.
The world stops becoming a countdown to the day he dies, and a countdown to the moment he gets to hug his best friend and then slap him. That's okay with him.