Roger realized as he pulled his car up to the curb and parked it, glancing up at the still-familiar building on the corner, that this was almost like a replay of a previous scene in his life, that one time returning from his month-long escape to Santa Fe (glory, I have to find…). This was different, though. Very different. That time he had been coming home. This time, this was his escape. He wasn't even sure which escape mattered more—the departure from reality of the first time, when he'd needed to get away from Mimi, hurt, love, pain… or this time, the need to depart from the rumors and lies, and even worse, the scraps of truth, get out of the limelight and away from the tabloids, out of the searing spotlight (beyond the cheap colored lights) that was continually fixed on Roger-Davis-the-rock-star. Well, an escape was an escape, no matter what it was from or to.

Hell of an escape, too, Roger thought wryly as he stepped out of the car and slammed the car door shut behind him after pulling out of the backseat his guitar and a small suitcase. Looking at the building that used to be his home, his eyes automatically flicking up to the big arched windows on the top floor, he found it odd how he could see it at once in two completely different lights. It was a dump, half-falling apart and probably not fit for anyone to live in under any circumstances, and he could see that now more than he had ever been able to back when he did live there. But at the same time, there was the warm glow of a place he belonged (had belonged), a place that (had) felt like home.

You don't belong here, Roger, he reminded himself, shaking his head to clear it before walking to the front of the building and carefully trying the door—unlocked, thankfully. Maybe you used to, but not anymore. Which was well enough. He actually liked central heating, electricity, not having to choose between buying food and buying AZT. If his (former) friends wanted to hate him for that, let them.

One of the places on the lower floors would be empty. Mimi's old place, maybe. He felt a moment of apprehension at the thought of going there again and facing the memories and ghosts of… everything (a young girl)… but quickly shoved it down. Memories and ghosts couldn't harm him, and he was more concerned about running into whoever was still in the loft. He thought he'd noticed a couple lights shining through the windows from outside. Probably Mark. Whatever his complaints about it, Mark had loved the loft, and wouldn't have left unless forced to. And he probably wouldn't leave even then.

Roger wished it were otherwise. In some ways, running into Mark would be one of the worst things he could do. Another replay from another part of his life, the argument before he'd left… not all that different from the argument before he left for Santa Fe (who are you to tell me what I know, what to do?), except there had been more venom that second time, more anger and hurt afterwards, and no reconciliation. And it hadn't been just with Mark, but with all of them… Just to thoroughly alienate myself, Roger thought with a sarcastic smirk. Well, if that had been his aim he couldn't have found a better way to go about it than that last argument with his friends, after which he'd stalked out of the loft with nothing but his guitar, a small suitcase like the one he carried now and a few notebooks. He hadn't seen any of them since.

Distracted by those memories, Roger gently shouldered open the door to the apartment that had been Mimi's—the apartment he'd lived with Mimi for a while, before… (leaving me alone with my guitar…) The bead curtain was still there, hanging over the door to the bedroom. A few pieces of furniture here and there, left after Mimi died…

And Mark.

Mark, standing there in the center of the room like he belonged there, like he'd been waiting there, and just glowering darkly at Roger from behind his glasses, making Roger's hope that he could lay low here for a few days without being noticed by anyone he'd used to know evaporate almost immediately.

Roger took a breath, bracing himself for whatever Mark wanted to say to him—but Mark didn't say anything, just watched him. Waiting for him to speak first. Roger set down his guitar and suitcase on the floor, then straightened and eyed Mark cautiously. "Uh… hey, Mark," he said lightly, raking his fingers through his hair in an automatic nervous gesture, not quite meeting Mark's eyes. It wasn't that he was afraid of Mark, really, it was just… Mark's eyes were so intense, so piercing, pale blue, flame blue, and burning almost as hot when he was angry like this. "What're you doing here?"

Bad question. Very bad question. He saw Mark curl one hand into a fist at his side, saw him tense and clench his jaw. "What am I doing here? What about you? You think you can just show up here out of the blue and act like nothing happened?" In the quiet, empty apartment, his words cracked out like a gunshot, hard and startling as a slap to the face. Cold, too. Roger was glad he hadn't been searching for forgiveness here, because it was clear he wouldn't find it. (The fire's out anyway.) "I saw you, from the window. I thought you might come here…" He trailed off as if he'd meant to add something more but decided against it.

"So what? You just wanted to make sure I know you still hate me?" Roger asked, a cutting edge of sarcasm to his tone. "I promise you, I haven't forgotten, and in case you're wondering, the feeling's mutual."

The Mark that Roger had known would have flinched away from the harshness in his voice, would have dissembled or tried to explain himself. This Mark—older, harsher, more angles and lines to his face, more old and unhealed hurts in his eyes—didn't even blink, just sneered in response to Roger's comment. "No. I want to know what the hell right you think you have to come back here. Where you get the nerve to even show your face here after the last time."

Roger shook his head. "I'm not here to talk to you, Mark. I didn't even want to see you. It's just… a place to stay, okay?"

"Oh, please. Roger Davis, the famous rock star, comes back to New York and the only place he's got to stay is a little shithole apartment that used to belong to his girlfriend? That's bullshit."

"Fine, so maybe it is bullshit. What does it matter to you?"

Roger didn't remember Mark being able to move so fast, or with so much force behind him. Then again, he'd almost never seen Mark this angry, and never at him. In a second, before Roger could brace himself or shove Mark away, Mark had crossed the distance between them, planted his hands on Roger's shoulders and slammed him against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him momentarily. "You left, Roger! You didn't just leave, you fucking sold out, like none of this ever mattered to you, like your friends never mattered to you, and you made that perfectly clear before you walked out the door. And then you just come waltzing back here and expect me to ignore it?"

Roger pushed Mark away from him, not really trying to hurt him, but not exactly gently either. "I expect you to leave me alone, Mark." (The door is that way.) "If you're that pissed with me, then why can't you just do that? All I want is to be left alone, alright?" But it seemed he couldn't get that anywhere. Not even here, in the place that was supposed to be—had always been before—his sanctuary, the one place he didn't have to face the outside world. But it had stopped being that when he left, hadn't it?

Mark took several steps backwards, clenching and unclenching one hand rhythmically without seeming to notice it. Roger wondered abruptly if he was going to try to punch him, but he didn't. Didn't even move. He just eyed Roger quietly, and finally said in a low, soft voice, "The papers say you're using again." Almost an accusation, not quite. Close enough, though.

Roger had grown better at lying over the years. He used to have tells—he'd look down and away, not meet someone's eyes, or he'd tap his fingers against something, like a table or a windowsill or his leg—but that had been a long time ago, and he'd learned better since then. Now, he could look straight in a person's eyes and tell a lie without a shift in his tone or batting an eye. "The papers are wrong." He felt, inexplicably, like rubbing at his arms, hidden under long shirt sleeves—but that would be a tell, and he knew better. (I used to be a junkie.) "I just had to get away from that, until they forget about it…"

Before, Mark had always been able to tell when Roger was lying. It was hard to be sure that the same held true now. He did watch Roger suspiciously, as if he didn't quite believe what he said, but he didn't call him on it, and thank God he didn't ask to see his arms—it didn't occur to him to wonder why it mattered if Mark knew or didn't know the truth. Just old habits, maybe. He held Roger's gaze for a moment, steady, something very close to hatred shining from his blue eyes when Roger had never seen anything of the sort in his eyes ever before. At last, Mark shook his head and shouldered past Roger as he walked to the door. "Collins was right, I shouldn't have…"

Roger didn't bother watching him go, just stalked to the door after Mark and slammed it behind him. He could only stand there for a moment, standing at the closed door, and then sighed and leaned heavily against it. Some kind of escape this was…

After a while, he pushed himself away from the door and walked across the apartment to where he'd set down his guitar, pulled it from his case. There was a ratty couch still left in the corner of the room, and Roger recognized it as Mimi's, with a painful twinge of memory. He sighed and flopped down on it, with a protest of the springs in the couch, quickly making sure his guitar was tuned and playing a few quick chords, just to keep his mind off of what had just happened, what had been said. The music drifted through the empty room, filling the silence, but it didn't chase away the memories, or the sting of Mark's words. (I'm writing one great song before…) That was nothing new, though. The old sting, the memories and the pain of them… never really did go away, so why should now be any different? At least it didn't seem any worse now that he was here in the place that should have hurt most of all. Maybe he'd just grown numb to the pain, after so many years of dealing with it. There were things you could get used to… pain, loneliness, isolation. Just like building up a tolerance to a drug. And he'd found his glory (like a sunset), so it was worth it. It had to be worth it.

Before long, though, the strains of broken melodies began to sound somewhat hollow, empty, and he wasn't paying any mind to what he was playing anyway. With a soft exhalation of exasperation, he set aside his guitar on the couch and pushed himself to his feet, had started out the door and up the stairs to the loft before he could even really think about what he was doing. What was he doing? Mark didn't want him. Collins, if he was there as Mark's comment had implied, probably wouldn't be any more welcoming. But his feet carried him there without his mind having anything to do with it, so he gave up thinking about it and just went along… until he reached the door to the loft.

It was partway open, so he could see inside, see the table, a few lamps, the couch and the window beyond it—it was almost exactly like it had been when he'd last seen it, like nothing had been moved, nothing had been changed, except that it wasn't his home anymore. It was familiar and strange at once, just as the first sight of the building itself had been. And he could see, through the half open door, Collins and Mark curled on the couch, Mark leaning against Collins' chest, his glasses taken off and set aside on the coffee table as Mark pressed his face into Collins shoulder, Collins murmuring something to him Roger couldn't quite hear…

Neither of them could see Roger, standing outside, out of the light and hidden by the shadows in the stairwell. Neither of them even looked up at the doorway, neither of them glanced his way, and he certainly couldn't enter, couldn't intrude on this, though some distant, half-forgotten part of himself wanted to, wanted to push open the door and step into the light of the loft and let them yell at him and yell back, and let them all rage and cry and at the end hug them and apologize and let it be as it had been. He wanted to let go of the fame and who he was now, Roger-Davis-the-rock-star, and be the person he had been with them, the person he'd been at first, the person he'd thought he'd lost and maybe had. But he couldn't do that. This wasn't his home anymore, this was no place that he belonged. This was the place he had left behind, the place he had left to them, and now here he was, a stranger standing outside the only place he had ever called home.