Disclaimer: I own nothing.

When Roger entered the room and saw Mark standing by the bookshelf, the first thing he did was step forward, intent on wrapping his arms around Mark and kissing his neck and telling him that he was loved. Mark's glare stopped him dead.

"Tell me what happened with Cindy," Mark said. Roger lowered his eyes, and Mark's throat constricted. So there was something, at least, something about which Roger felt guilty. "Roger, I need you to look at me and tell me what happened."

Roger raised his eyes. He could do this. I did nothing wrong, he reminded himself. "Cindy flirted with me," he said, and immediately regretted it. He should have spoken without blame, somehow, kept from badmouthing Mark's sister. "She… Lea was sick, I held her hair back and Cindy was saying thanks, and she sort of rubbed my arm. I said I needed to get back to the seder and… that was it," he concluded. It was. Nothing more had happened."

Mark nodded. "Okay," he said. If Roger said so, that was that. Mark took his word. Roger had never been able to lie. He had never been the badass punk he struggled to fake.

"Where did you go, Roger?"

Roger looked at the floor, then at Mark . "Nowhere," he muttered, his hands moving in his jacket pockets.

After, when Maureen braved the apartment again, when Mimi, Angel and Joanne heard the stories, they would ask, did he hurt you, Mark? The question itched a place Mark could not scratch. Aw, did the scawy junkie hurt poow Markie? Because they meant well, Mark swallowed his pride and laughed. "Hey, we had our fights," he would say. "But I think I hurt him worse."

Mark slammed Roger against the wall, furious. "Where the fuck did you go, Roger?" he demanded, breathing hard. "What did you do? You bought drugs, didn't you?"

"I need it…"

Mark gave one final shove and released Roger, turning his back. He whirled around and stuck out his hand. "Give it to me," he ordered. "Give me the drugs, now. Right now." When Roger refused, standing stock still, Mark grabbed Roger's arm and pulled his hand out of his pocket.

Roger shoved Mark. "It's mine--"

"It isn't fucking yours!" Mark shouted. "You fucking child!" He tried to slip his hand into Roger's pocket, but Roger once more shoved him back. Mark lost his temper then. He swung at Roger's face and landed a fairly solid blow. Roger's head snapped to the side. He didn't say anything, just grabbed Mark firmly by the arms, restraining him.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Mark snapped. "Stupid fucking junkie; get your fucking hands off me!" He broke free of Roger's grasp. Roger, his adrenaline fading, was nothing. He was tired and sore; it had been days since he had eaten and not throw up. His muscles trembled. Roger suddenly didn't care about the drugs. His cleaner half won. Mark could take it, Roger just wanted to close his eyes, lie down…

He reached into his pocket to bring out the heroin, and Mark, misinterpreting the gesture, hit him again. "Don't you fucking dare!" Mark told him. He couldn't stop himself. His fists moved by themselves, landing on Roger's shoulders, head, arms, chest. Whatever got in the way, Mark attacked.

The story they imagined, the story Mimi, Angel, Joanne, Maureen and even Benny imagined, involved Roger assaulting Mark to run out and buy drugs. Mark knew that he fell asleep and Roger left without a fight. He knew that Roger didn't hurt him, did not raise one finger as Mark hit him.

There was one aspect often imagined and completely accurate: it was Collins who pulled the boys apart. "Mark, calm down! Enough, man!" When Mark stopped struggling, Collins released him. Mark strode forward and once more smacked Roger across the face. "Fuck!" Collins grabbed Mark and once more hauled him away. "Mark--" But Mark kept struggling. "Okay, let's go."

Collins hauled Mark to his room and slammed the door. "The fuck, man?" he demanded.

"He brought drugs into the apartment," Mark muttered.

"Of course he did," Collins retorted, "he's an addict. And how many times has he apologized over the past week?"

Mark sighed. "Every fuckin' time he's lucid."

"Now you owe him. When you're lucid," Collins snapped, and left the room, shutting the door with less violence this time.

When Mark decided he was lucid, or at the least calm, he crept out of the room. Roger's door was ajar--now that it was just the three of them in the loft, each man had his own room. Though sound carried and echoed, they had at least a modicum of privacy. From Roger's room, Mark heard hushed voices. He stepped up to the door, listening.

"Sorry," Collins said.

"It's okay."

"You didn't deserve this, Roger."

"Is he okay?"

"He beat you, not the other way around."

"Should I leave?"

"Don't even think about it."

Mark opened his eyes. They were lying in bed, Mark nearest the wall, and by some amazing feat of twisted physics, they were not touching. Roger had his back to Mark, though not by any conscious design. "Rog?" Mark asked. His voice hushed naturally in the quiet darkness. "You awake?"

"Uh-hmm," Roger murmured.

"Did I ever tell you," Mark asked, wondering why he was not touching this boy who he had barely taken his hands off in months, "that, that time when you bought drugs and I… kind of lost it? I'm really sorry."

"That's okay," Roger said.

Mark sighed. "Oh, come here already, you must be half off the bed," he said, exasperated, and pulled Roger closer. It was his rough, proud way of telling Roger that what had happened with Cindy that evening was already forgotten. Mark nuzzled Roger's shoulder. "You're amazing," he said. "You've been perfect, Rog."

Roger said nothing. He took Mark's hand and pressed it to his lips. "I love you." The words choked Roger. His heart twisted into his throat, shutting off air with the painful realization of the emotion, the truth of it. He loved the pain of the words.

The moment had never seemed perfect to Mark. He did not want the first time he said 'I love you' to be over a bowl of cereal. He did not want it to blend with a thousand other times, and no time ever seemed right. Those that were perfect, in retrospect, Roger nabbed, leaving Mark no choice but to mumble, "Love you, too," which meant so much less.

---

Mark and Roger packed their bag the following morning. Roger slipped away while no one was looking and set his guitar gently on the back seat. He strode up the path to the Cohen house with a bounce in his step. Mark loved his family. Roger was more than pleased to return to the city, their cold loft, their bare shelves and dirty sheets. He waited by the door as Mark made his farewells.

Mark and Samuel embraced. "Visit again real soon," Samuel said, clapping Mark on the back.

"I will," Mark promised, grinning.

"We'll be waiting."

They embraced once more, then Mark was passed to Lily. He looked at his mother and tears welled in his eyes. "Mom…" He hugged her tightly. "Thank you so much," he muttered.

As Roger stood by the door, anxious to leave, Joshua approached. The old man cleared his throat discreetly and, when Roger turned, offered his hand. "You'll take good care of him," Joshua said, a request in disguise.

"Of course," Roger said. "You take care of yourself, Mr. Cohen."

Mark ended the hugs with his parents and joined Roger by the door. "You ready to go?" Roger asked.

"Yeah."

"'Kay." Roger grabbed their bag off the floor and slung it over his shoulder. He opened the door and rested a hand on Mark's back as he stepped through. That hand roamed to Mark's shoulder as Roger fell into step beside him. "You okay?" he asked.

Mark considered the question. Was he? His chest felt tight with the pain of leaving his home behind, the same tightness he had experienced leaving the first time, at twenty. He felt he was not leaving his home but leaving his home behind, and he was unready to sever those ties.

Mark glanced over his shoulder. Was he okay? A part of him wanted to break free of Roger's grasp and run home. He could endure that life: get a degree, a suit, a career, a mortgage. He could go back to school, to suburbia, to women. He would never be as miserable as he was now: no, that misery would be replaced with a wrenching nostalgia for the days he could not have, the man he chose not to.

They paused by the car, the beat up old excuse for transport. Roger squinted at Mark. "Hey, babe?"

"Hm?" Mark blinked, seeing Roger for the first time in what felt like ages since leaving the house. He's dying. He was beautiful and sweet, he was all kisses and cuddling and that puppy face asking Mark if he would listen to this new song. But he was also a sudden temper, an inexplicable coldness, blood tests and breakdowns and AZT.

"You coming?" Roger asked.

Mark shook his head. What was he thinking? The house had been a holiday, a lullaby. Why stay? Why stay for his mother's gossip, his father's criticism, after how proudly he had walked out the door all those years ago and discovered Bohemia?

Mark opened the passenger door and flung himself into the seat. He buckled his seatbelt. "Learn to use the fucking brakes," he advised, taking a letter from his pocket. "I want to read."

Roger leaned over and pecked Mark on the cheek before twisting the keys in the ignition. He sighed happily as the engine sputtered to life, churning wheels carried them home again.

Dear Mark,

All I can think of is, what are the milestones in your life? They aren't the same as everyone else's. Your graduation, academic achievements, you're not using them. It's like they aren't achievements at all, like you're looking down on us saying, "Look. This is how good I am. This is what I could do. I would be so good in your world."

And you would, Mark. You'd change things and hold on to the morality you would never have learned if not for all that time spent in books. You'd do well, and I'd be proud of you. I'd brag all the time.

You don't want that. Okay. You threw all that away. I don't understand. You're damn lucky, and you toss it. It seems ungrateful to me and I keep wanting to be furious with you, Mark, but there's a problem with that, and it's that every time I think of the day you left, I try to be angry. I try to think, 'That little schmuck, what did he think he was doing? How much did he know, the child?' But all I can think, Mark, all I can feel, is how proud I was the day you walked away without looking back.

You can always come home to us, and I hope you will. I also hope you'll leave. I hope you'll go back to the city and make changes there. Because what the hell kind of changes does Scarsdale need? Fewer gossips and someone to convince Rabbi Himmelfarb that it's time to retire. I'm proud of you, Mark, and I want you to know that. You'll do well. I'm real proud of you.

Love, Dad.

THE END!

I hope you all enjoyed my story--don't see that you'd've read this far if you didn't! I'd love to hear from you, reviews are like smack. Well, okay, like caffeine.

Also if you liked this oneI've posted the startto the sequel (shameless self-promotion!) called 'Jersey Boy' about Roger's home.

So long!