Disclaimer- I don't own *fighting the urge to say emotion* these characters *struggles harder* I rent. Damn. I have no willpower to deny bad puns.

A/N: This one-shot has been modified from a chapter of a longer story so that it's entirely platonic friendship with Mark & Roger. The longer, slash version of the story is posted as "I Only Want to Say" and is in progress.

Italics signify the flashback.

Timeline- for my purposes, Roger has been in Santa Fe for about a month.

Enjoy!

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It's been 65 cups of coffee since Roger left, Mark mused mechanically as he sat down at the kitchen table. He didn't mean to keep track of his former roommate's absence through the coffee pot, but each time he sat down he thought of Roger. Stupid burn mark, he grumbled inwardly. The blackened, Rorschach-like scar had been born of Roger's enthusiasm for pyromania during the power outage last winter. The blonde smirked gently down at the familiar blotches, recalling Roger's face when noticed the fire leaping from the trash can to the table top. Instead of panic or fear, Roger had grinned in doggish delight and jumped atop the table, attempting to put the fire out with his feet. Struck by inspiration, he had shouted at Mark:

"Cohen! Put the camera down and get over here, I need your jacket!" The darting firelight below intensified the devilish spark in Roger's eyes.

"What? Roger it's cold in here!" Reluctant to skip filming, Mark nevertheless obeyed, unable to resist the promise of mischief in the rocker's voice. Shrugging off his plaid jacket, he held it up towards his roommate, who quickly tucked it between his legs before leaning down and grabbing Mark around the waist.

"Hold on! Nuh-OW!" was all the protest he could utter before he was hefted alongside Roger atop the burning table. He yelped immediately at the heat, retreating out of the steel arm-lock to the far end of the table. Precisely as Roger had planned, he saw too late, as his best friend whipped the jacket around to approximate a Spanish Matador.

"Your girlfriend's so obsessed with cows, how about you play bull for a while Cohen?" Roger taunted, waving the red fabric at him. "Is that what you two play in the bedroom?"

"She is NOT- Oh EW, that's disgusting Roger! We never-"

"Hold on there Mr. Filmmaker, time for your close-up," a velvet voice interrupted. "Close on Mark Cohen, boyfriend of Maureen Johnson. Who's a little cow-obsessed man, Roger's right on this one," Collins said merrily from the sideline, cheerfully holding Mark's camera at them. "I can see why he asked about the bedroom kink-"

"Hey be careful with that! And for your information we never talk about cows in the bedroom!" Mark started defensively.

"Relax man, we're just teasing. But maybe… this'll be a good trial run!" Collins responded, choking out the last bit with great difficulty before dissolving into hearty laughter.

"Nothing- like- a good- bull run!"Roger added in sporadic puffs of air, doubled over in a hearty belly laugh.

For Mark, time slowed to a trickle as he stared at the former druggie across from him, face was wet with tears of mirth. Could it be? After months of pushing life away, was Roger finally letting emotion back in? Letting his friends back in? Beaming at the realization, Mark gallantly whipped his scarf out of the way, allowing the long-forgotten feeling of joy to overtake him.

"Bring it Davis!" he shouted as he struck a quick pose, scuffing his feet. An uncontrolled grin split Roger's face, making Mark's spirits soar even higher. As Roger stomped Spanish style and shouted "Torro," Mark joined the mayhem, playfully attacking and retreating at his jacket, fingers pointed into a ridiculous parody of a bull. The fact that the fire was by now truly eating away at the table was forgotten, despite the odor of smoke filling his lungs and the feel of heat by their ankles.

What a bunch of idiots, Mark chucked, running a finger over the counter's uneven surface. Looking back, he was fairly certain the entire apartment might have been burnt to a crisp if Collins hadn't finally doused the fire with a stream of piss, typically calm about the whole affair. At the sight of his dick emerging, stream aimed high, the two friends had simultaneously dived for the floor, colliding mid air and landing in a heap.

Rolling his eyes, the MIT professor put out the blaze with stoic calm. "I can't believe you would rather be burnt than be splashed by a little urine. You boys need a priority check in the morning," the more experienced Bohemian lectured as he zipped up.

Gasping for air, Mark had lain paralyzed by his own laughter on top of Roger, unable to move from the position they had landed in after diving off the table. The fit of drunken giggles had begun the instant they heard the hiss of the dying blaze, and only intensified every time they glanced at each other's faces. Their paralysis had lasted the duration of the extinguishment, ending with both men reduced to painful hiccups and convulsions.

"You two are so gay for each other," older man teased as he turned his gaze on them with a chuckle, before heading out for "fresh city air" on the roof. Mark and Roger looked at each other.

"Yep, I love you," Roger declared straight-faced, attaching his hand to Mark's chin. "And I you," Mark responded solemnly, moving to cradle Roger's cheek…before whipping his hand around the smack him on the ass. Façade broken, they had dissolved back into another fit of giggles, before finally summoning the energy crawl to the couch.

In the morning they woken up to tremendous hangers and a table that smelled even worse than they felt...yet overall, it was one of Mark's favorite memories. Running a hand over his face, Mark sighed deeply. These days the time he spent inside his apartment was filled with moments like those- bittersweet and depressing when he returned to the present. Coffee cup growing cold under his hands, Mark gave the darkened wood one last glance before moving to the sofa. The past few weeks had given him a terrible image of what life would be like someday- no Roger to annoy him with half-finished waltzes, no Roger to nag to take his AZT…no Roger to laugh with in the morning over a scorch mark on a table.

Clutching his scarf a little too tight, the filmmaker wondered if praying for his best friend to come home would do any good. It's not like the request is anything but selfish, and there's probably no one listening anyway, he admitted dejectedly as he toyed with the fabric in his hands. Still, just in case, I guess. Please, if- The jarring ringing of the telephone interrupted him from continuing. Mark didn't move to answer it, annoyed at himself for being so desperate as to try something he didn't even believe in.

"Speeeeak"

"Hey man, hide your bagels and shit- the food sucks here, I'm coming home. And Mark, look I'm sorry about our fight. I said some things I didn't mean, I was just scared and angry about Mimi and I took it out on you…"

"Roger?" Mark lunged for the phone, nearly dropping it in his haste.

"Mark! Mark, I'm sorry, okay? I don't-"

"It's okay Rog," Mark interrupted. "I said stuff too- and I'm sorry. You're my best friend, no matter how stupid you are sometimes."

"I knew you missed me Cohen."

"Dream on Davis."

"Well tough luck, I'm back, so throw down the key already."

Mark dropped the phone and ran to the balcony. Two minutes later, Roger was wrapped in a crushing bear hug.

"Knew it."

"Take your AZT. Then you can play some damn waltzes for me, I thought I was finally free of this junk," Mark bantered back.

Watching his best friend as he moved to get a glass of water, Mark glanced upward. Thanks, he thought smiling. Just in case, he justified to himself as he picked up Roger's guitar and shut the door.

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Thanks for reading! Have yourself a super day! ;D