Notes: Eeeh, angstyness. I really didn't want to end the story on this note (even I have my limits of angst…), but the characters made me. I apologize. I'll attempt to rectify the situation in a later story. Anyway. This is really the end, I promise—it's completed! Whoo… Thanks to everyone who reviewed—that's what really keeps me writing these things, and it makes me very happy to know that people are reading my stuff.

Don't you know
It's just as sure as the rising sun
Don't you know
To tell the truth is lesson number one

When Roger opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a tiled ceiling, lying on a narrow, unfamiliar bed. Not home, then. And obviously not the alleyway where he'd stuck that needle in his arm, the last thing he remembered clearly. So… where was he?

Someone nearby coughed, and Roger heard the shifting of cloth on cloth, realizing after a moment that there must be someone in the room with him. God, what was he on? His brain was fogged, and he couldn't quite think clearly, but it wasn't like with heroin. This had to be something else. Sluggishly, he tried to roll over on his side, but stopped when he felt a tugging on his arm, and blinked in sudden realization at the IV in his arm. Shit, he'd really fucked up this time, hadn't he?

Ignoring the pain of the IV needle being pulled tight against his skin as he moved his arm, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and glanced over to see Mark and Collins both sitting in chairs pulled up beside his bed. Mark had sort of curled up sideways in the chair in what looked like a very uncomfortable position, his neck bent awkwardly with his head lying semi-cushioned on the arm of the chair, one of his arms hanging off of the chair entirely. Someone must have removed his glasses after he fell asleep, and dark circles under his eyes attested to how little sleep he must have gotten. Collins, on the other hand, looked wide awake, and for a moment he simply exchanged an unreadable glanced with Roger before nudging Mark gently.

"Hey. Roger's awake now."

Mark sat bolt upright almost immediately—an awkward procedure, given his original position, that nearly resulted in him falling off the chair. A red line ran down his cheek from where his face had been pressed to the arm of the chair while he slept, and his head stuck out at odd angles on one side. It almost reminded Roger of that night… Oh God.

Mostly to avoid looking at Mark, to avoid the guilt that would bring on, Roger took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. Definitely a hospital room—as if he couldn't have guessed, with the IV in his arm—with the midmorning sun streaming through the window. If only he could remember anything that had happened last night, after he'd gotten high, but when he tried to think… Nothing. He decided to risk asking.

"What happened?"

He looked back at Mark as he said it, and saw the sudden shift in his friend's expression, the darkening look in his eyes. The filmmaker put his glasses back on and shoved himself out of the chair, leaning over Roger and bracing himself by placing both hands on the edge of the bed. "What happened? You left the loft and got high, you fucking idiot. You almost killed yourself, and the doctors had to pump you full of methadone and God knows what else to keep you alive. What were you thinking?"

Roger could only sit there, transfixed by that look of absolute fury in Mark's cool blue eyes. Fury… and hurt, though clearly Mark had made an effort to bury that beneath his anger. "I don't know," Roger choked out at last. "I just… without Mimi… I couldn't… Mark, please don't—"

"Don't what?" Mark snapped, almost a challenge. Roger could tell Mark was looking for a reason to keep up his anger, to scream, curse, yell. He wanted a reason to hate him. Roger fought back the words he had been about to say, deciding instead upon something else.

"Please don't look at me like that. I won't do it again."

Mark's hands clenched on the edge of the bed, hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Absently, and completely irrelevantly, Roger noticed that the entire side of Mark's right forearm was scabbed, as if he's scraped it against something recently. The methadone must have been messing with his head, to make him notice something like that at a time like this. Mark's voice snapped him back to reality.

"You said that the last time, Roger. You swore you wouldn't do this ever again, but just look where we are. Look where you are! You expect me to believe you now?" His chin trembled with held back emotion, his voice beginning to quaver, but there remained a fierce bite to his tone as he growled, "You lied. Why should I even think you actually mean it this time?"

Roger looked over Mark's shoulder at Collins, silently pleading for help, but Collins simply met his eyes and shook his head slightly, making it clear that this was between Mark and Roger alone. He cleared his throat and slowly rose from his chair, beginning to edge towards the door. "I'm going to leave the two of you alone for a while…"

Mark didn't even seem to notice Collins' departure, just continued glowering at Roger wordlessly. Finally, Roger looked back at his filmmaker, shocked to see that Mark had started to cry, tears tracing their way silently down his cheeks. Just seeing that nearly made Roger break down, knowing he had made Mark this upset. At that point, he would have said or done anything to fix this, just to make Mark trust him again. He reached out and took Mark's hand, twining his finger's through Mark's before he could pull away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking. I'll do anything you want me to to prove it, Mark. Anything. Please…"

For a moment or two, Mark said nothing, clenched his jaw as if steeling himself for something. He withdrew his hand from Roger's and answered bitterly, with unmistakable pain in his voice, "You lied, Roger. And you will again. I hope it was worth it."

He leaned forward, slipping his hand around the back of Roger's neck and pulling him towards him. Roger didn't have the chance to pull away, really, although he probably wouldn't have even given the opportunity. In an instant, he felt Mark's mouth crushed against his, a fierce, desperate, breathless kiss, Mark holding tight to him as if he meant to never let go… and then he released him. Took a step away from the bed, another step towards the door.

"I can't deal with this anymore, Roger," he said softly, his voice low, hushed, spoken in a half-shocked tone as if he couldn't quite believe the words himself. "I'm leaving the loft. I'll be gone by the time they release you from the hospital. I—Goodbye." He seemed to choke on the last word, and then he turned and hurried out of the room, head bowed. His final word seemed to reverberate in the air, the death kneel of friendship, of affection, of all they'd ever had and might have had. The end of… everything.

For the longest time, Roger simply stared at the doorway, willing Mark to come back, to change his mind, but it was Collins that walked through the door, after a couple of minutes. Collins blinked at him, frowned in consternation. "What did you say to him?" he asked after a moment. "Mark was crying, he wouldn't talk to me, he…"

Roger shook his head slowly, disbelievingly, and Collins trailed off. The songwriter's voice broke as he began to speak, the hollow truth falling heavily from his lips. "He's gone."