heroeswork | I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

I'm screaming from outside in, Tell me where I've been

Billy stepped out of his building hands shoved deep into his pockets. Even without anyone really knowing his face, he still wore sunglasses and kept his head down. If it weren't the middle of a hot summer day, he would have added a hat and a high-collared jacket as was demanded of him.

He wasn't happy. Far from it. They were in the heart of New York City. Just like he'd always dreamed. He was selling records like crazy. He had droves of fans. Always top of the charts. More than most people could ever achieve at the young age of 22. But it all seemed like it was happening to someone else. Because he only ever saw the studio or his home. Even after moving to New York a few months ago, he still didn't actually see anyone who liked his music. Because he was forbidden from performing. From even having his photo on his albums. Not even his real name appeared anywhere. He was billed as "CHAOS" and nothing more.

He wasn't supposed to even be outside. His manager forbid it unless he was present as well. But he was off dealing with some business for the day and Billy couldn't stand staying cooped up another moment. He bought a copy of Rolling Stone off the news vendor and ducked into a coffee shop. He found a dim corner away from everyone else as he sipped at his drink. He shoved his sunglasses on top of his head as he flipped opened the magazine. He was after a specific article, listed on the cover.

"True CHAOS" the headline yelled in bold, red letters. The subheading added "Fans and journalists alike demand 'Who is He?!'" The article went on to detail the mystery surrounding his own career. Statements from fans. Attempts to stalk the studio. Pleas for information. An analysis of his music trying to guess at what his accent when when he wasn't singing.

Billy scrubbed at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand.

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"So you're a fan of the fact that it's just one guy," Mike says softly, stopping just so the waitress could bring him tea and remind him that she's paying for it until tomorrow. Mark claps his hand in a prayer gesture in thanks before his gaze turns back on Billy.

Not quite as skittish. Not exactly bold, either. Maybe this was a good conversation for them to have? Mark was dying to know about his accent, but it was New York City. There were chances he wasn't a tourist that just strayed off the path and wound up dangerously close to the slums.

"I don't know what to think," He says honestly. "It's either one guy who's completely sequestered himself and is therefore way more pretentious than his music is and therefore a corporate cash-cow sellout, or it's one monkey dancing for Virgin Records, bending over to get fu--I'm sorry, it's been a day." Apparently graphic imagery seems to spew out of his mouth when he's angry.

At least Maureen isn't here to rub salt in the wound.

"You should be glad you don't follow CHAOS. Everyone's obsessed, no one's immune. It's like a fever you can't sweat out. Who do you like, then? If it's not CHAOS."

Guess who dodged the weird subject line? Mark Cohen.

Pretentious. Sellout. Those words cut far deeper than Billy would have liked, and he had to use his coffee once more to help hide his grimace. Is that really what people thought? Sure, his music wasn't entirely his own. Half the time, he barely had a say in what he got to write, and the sound wasn't quite what he'd wanted it to be. But his music still had heart, he was still passionate about it.

Billy gave a vague cant of his head, dismissing the question. He was too hung up on what Mark had said. "There's a lot of stuff I like..." But for some reason, at that moment, he couldn't think of a single band. Not even one he shared a label with. "Do you really think his--their music is pretentious?" He tried so hard to keep his tone neutral. Blandly curious. But there was a slightly raw edge to it that he couldn't mask.

"I don't know," Mark says simply, blowing on his tea and pulling his bag out onto the table with his free hand. There was a couple with a small child, an adorable sight, and Mark was never one to lose B-roll footage.

This CHAOS thing... It bothered him. A lot. Mostly because of Roger. "Maybe one time they weren't," He theorized. "They've got heart and talent, but it's missing something. I'm not the music guy, though--my roommate is. I just set up his sound equipment."

He was actually fairly good at AV things, but his realm was words and pictures, not lyrics and song. Mark takes a large gulp of his tea, pulling out his small, hand-held camera, only half-paying attention to Billy now.

"It's just too conventional for me. It's like they don't know what the real world is like. There could be an argument to be made that it's a form of escapism, but there's no way, no way you can convince me that's what's in those lyrics. Too sheltered."

Billy only heard half of what Mark said. For as troubled as he was by the comment, that camera may as well have been a live grenade dropped on the table for the way he looked at it. Talking to a random stranger was one thing, but if he was caught on camera...wait. Why was this guy suddenly filming? Was he press, after all? Some twisted paparazzi? If that camera swung his way, he was doomed.

Frantically, he shoved his sunglasses back down onto his face and got up from the table. He muttered a quick "I have to go," and got to his feet, almost upending his half finished coffee in the process. He strode toward the door, trying to keep his pace casual and not rushed, holding the magazine between his face and Mark's camera. He needed to get back before Higgins returned from his meeting, anyway.

What the fuck just happened?

It was none of his business, Mark wanted to say. Just let him abruptly go and act like a complete lunatic. Hell, maybe he is, this close to ABC. Mark wouldn't be surprised. But he'd been fine, if nervous before, and the moment Mark pulled out his camera...

Was he wigging out because of Mark's camera? Interest got the better of him--he swings his messenger back on, still holding the small thing but not turning it on, and immediately follows the other outside the coffee shop.

"Hey--" He had stopped, ready to talk, but Billy kept his pace brisk and so Mark had to continue on wards as well, confusion written over his face.

"Are you alright?"

Shit shit shit. Billy couldn't just head straight home of Mark was following him. It was only a couple of blocks. How could he shake the guy without raising suspicion? The apartment was in his manager's name and as far as anyone knew, Billy was just the guy's assistant. No one special or worth nothing. But if Mark followed him there...there could be trouble.

"I'm fine," he said, a bit brisk and terse. "I just have...a meeting that I realized I'm late for. Please just...go back to filming or whatever it was you were doing." He ducked his head, picking up his pace a little bit.

Oh no, Billy. Mark knows that it's something he did. Probably filming, though he doesn't know why. Still, Mark also knows now that Billy's trying to hide that fact from him. It was too casual, too convenient.

"You'll have to forgive me if it sounds like you're bullshitting," He states, voice dripping with sarcasm. "This isn't a bomb, it's just a camera."

Something inside Billy just sort of snapped. Between the constantly nagging voice of Higgins in his head, and Mark trying to pester him now, he reached a breaking point. He was sick of being jerked around. Sick of being told what to do. Sick of having to answer for his actions. Sick of people questioning him. Sick of being unable to live his own life.

He stopped rounding on Mark with a strange sternness in his face that seemed like it belonged to someone much older than his 22 years. "Perhaps I am. But I've got no reason to explain myself to you. I've only just met you, and in that time you've managed to insult one of the most successful artists that happens to work for the same company that I do. Without so much as introducing yourself. It may not be a bomb but it is incredibly rude to pull such a thing out without asking if it's alright. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be that is away from the likes of you."

He turned on his heel to start off again, hoping to maintain face as the realization of what he'd just said hit him.

That got Mark to stop, at least, mouth open. Watching the first few steps the other takes in shock and awe.

He'd found it. He'd found a connection. He'd found something so he can show Roger. Someone who works in the same company. It's a start. It's a start and Mark suddenly feels absolutely giddy, as if the other's anger and sternness hadn't effected him at all.

"Wait, hold on--" He moves his hand out to grab the other's wrist, glasses nearly sliding down his nose. "Please. I'm sorry, I didn't know that--but please just stop a second and listen to me, this is important!"

Billy didn't know how to handle this. He'd never stood up to anyone like that. He'd always been the one to slide out of things without confrontation. Or just doing as he was told and keeping his head down. He wanted to just walk away before anything else could be said. He didn't know how if he could keep up the lie on his own. It's just what Higgins always said. That Billy worked for the company.

He stopped, looking back at Mark as he hastily hid his uncertainty. "I really don't have time to talk," he said, trying to pull his arm free. What if Higgins came back early and found him gone? This was a stupid idea.

"My best friend is dying," Mark says. He's not thinking, he's not too detatched like he normally is, he's full of emotion and he's not even sure where it came from. All of the stress, all of the anguish has finally got to him over the last year. Maureen. Mimi dying. Roger going, too. Angel and Colins going the same way, eventually.

"He's dying and there's nothing I can do about it, and I made a stupid promise to myself that I can't keep because I wanted to keep him happy. CHAOS is his biggest influence and he was talking about how mysterious they are and I kind of thought if I could get a message to him somehow, I could find him Roger'd like that but I can't so I was frustrated and I took it out on some random guy I never met and--"

He cuts off abruptly, as his voice was growing more and more frantic. He really was losing his shit, not just his touch, and Mark forces himself--wills himself--to calm down.

"--If you work for the same company than maybe, maybe you can contact him, or them, or whatever--just some sort of message to somehow give to Roger."

Everything just stopped. The rest of the world came to an abrupt and sudden stop. It may have fallen away to a blank white void for all it mattered to Billy. Never before had he heard of his music, even the watered down version the studio insisted on, moving someone to such a degree. He was only allowed to know the highlights of the fan letters he received, and never got any of the gifts. To hear it so raw and so close, it made it almost difficult to breathe.

He didn't know how, but he had to do something. Just hearing that, in the midst of being so frustrated and so angry, when he'd been feeling so stifled, he felt so incredibly moved. Moved and inspired.

He forced himself to breathe. To think. He was supposed to be just a PA. Which would mean a long shot. He could spin a story. He could DO something. He'd have to get away from Higgins, though. He could mask it as working on a song. But he could never send out a letter or sneak off until Higgins was guaranteed to be gone, and without leaving security detail behind to babysit.

He managed a weak, strained smile, trying to mask how stunned he was. "I...could try to do something. I don't...really have access to CHAOS myself, things are pretty locked down, but I could try to get a word through. Is there somewhere I can contact you, uh..." he still didn't know the guy's name.

Mark stared. For once, things were going alright. For once, things were looking up. There had to be a catch, there just had to be, but--but he so very wanted to believe this was true.

He has to stay guarded with things. Mark knows this, knows he has a problem with this. Too much of an observer, waiting for the moment the plot twist happens to realize it happens to him. He wants to be suspicious. Wary.

Mark starts to laugh. "Mark. Mark Cohen, I--oh, God. Even just trying. I can't thank you enough--" He digs through his pockets, wishing he had business cards or something cool like that. Eventually, he finds an eyeliner pencil (Angel borrowing his pants no doubt) and a receipt for a pharmacy from picking up Roger's prescription.

He writes the number with a quick 'Mark & Roger - camera guy' so the other would remember who he was. He doesn't realize he's laughing and smiling.

"Here. Here, just... Wow. I was ready to just give up today, and this..." This is fate.

Billy smiled and managed to hold himself back. He wanted to tell Mark the feeling was mutual, in a way. He'd been on the brink of either just rolling over and letting Higgins do whatever he wanted and just out-right quitting, even if it meant violating his contract. Which would mean giving up all rights to his music and resigning himself to living with basically nothing, because a clause in his contract still prevented him from working with other labels for a number of years. But now? Now he had the strength and inspiration to keep going, and keep fighting.

He glanced at the number before shoving it into his pocket. "Thanks, Mark," he tried to sound neutral about it. "I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

He's forgotten about it by the time Billy calls. It's been weeks and Mark has already settled on the idea he was being preyed upon by someone who liked fucking around with him. Besides, he had a few things he was caught up in.

Between all of them working to help Roger out, they managed something else. A protest. Maureen's idea, of course, because on top of that it looked like Mark and Roger and Collins and--hell all of them--were getting evicted. Again.

They'd fight. They always did.

The point was that Mark barely got time to shoot anything for his footage, let alone think about a phone call. He's in the middle of trying to figure out how much money he'll get if he sells his film production stuff when the phone rings.

"Speaaaaak," Roger and Mark's voices together closely followed by the tone, and it's only when Mark realizes who it is that he picks up the phone and apologizes. They decide to meet, and Mark is very careful about where. Chooses a spot near but not in Alphabet City and the tent quarter so Billy doesn't have to go into the shadier part of town, and chooses a park because Mark can't pay for a damn thing like a drink at the moment. He arrives, on his bike at the promised time, and catches sight of the other.

"Heeey, you're actually here!"

It had been a rough couple of weeks for Billy, as well. He'd beat Higgins back to the apartment, but not Casey. He'd found the body guard waiting for him, with that sour look on his face. Then the terrifying hours and days that followed, waiting for something to be said. It was hard to get time alone, to work on writing something for Roger. And even when he did, he was stumped.

It wasn't until he pulled out that bit of paper that something shifted. He considered calling Mark and saying he had nothing. Or just throwing it away. Maybe it was better that way. But then he ended up turning it over and seeing just what the paper was. He had to ask what AZT meant for medications. And he felt the bottom of everything drop out. Roger was dying of AIDS? On a rush of sadness and inspiration, he locked himself away in his room and set to writing. It took him a few days to perfect the letter, but he had something.

It was a while before Billy had a chance to slip out again. Higgins was off doing things for the company again, but Casey was there. "Protecting" him. With some careful planning, he was able to call Mark and convince Casey to go for a walk. The park was perfect. Claiming he needed fresh air and something new for inspiration. Casey made him add a baseball cap to his sunglasses, but reluctantly agreed to go out. And once they got to the park, Casey grumbled something about feeling peckish and telling Billy to not wandering too far. While conveniently turning his back.

Billy arrived at the agreed spot at almost the same time as Mark. He grinned, looking around. But Mark was alone. He'd hoped he could actually meet Roger. "Yeah. Almost didn't make it, boss being a hard ass and all. But..." He took a big breath. "I've got good news and I've got bad news."

Mark's grinning. He can't help but grinning, plopping off of his bike rather unceremoniously. This is real. He's trying not to act too giddy, trying not to look like a total loser.

...Then again, hasn't Mark long since embraced the fact that he is, in fact, a total loser?

"Lay it on me," He expresses. The fact that someone was there didn't seem to occur to him--he didn't even notice. Instead, he's leaning on his bike, glasses slightly askew as he waits expectantly. Billy--he had the guts to show up. To call him. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten," He says after a small beat, before the other can talk. Now he can tell Roger.

"Not in the least!" Billy proclaimed. "It just took a while to work things out and I didn't want to pester you with updates that were all just waiting, you know?" A total lie, but he couldn't exactly share the truth.

"The good news is..." From his back pocket, he pulled an envelope with Roger's name scrawled on it. "I've got something for your friend. But the bad news comes in two parts." He lifted his chin, as if it were going to be grave. "I've been sworn to deliver it to Roger myself. And for the second part, I'm kind of just on a really short break." He glanced toward Casey who was still at the hot dog cart. He was taking an awfully long time, which was odd for Casey. "Personal business on company time, and such."

"That's--" Amazing. He reaches out to grab it before realizing what he was doing--if something's handed to him, he's going to take it. It's not his place though, but mostly he's just shocked. Can't help it.

"Yeaaaah, but I don't live near here, I'm on Avenue A." There's no way they're going to get a cab and it's not that far a walk, but he has no idea if Billy has even been to his part of town. The artists alleys, so to speak.

Still, he knows the whole two thing. "I mean--assuming you wanted to see him. And deliver that. But I can definitely just take it, it's not going anywhere if you have to go back to your corporate hell job." The latter had come out without realizing it.

The comment didn't really rattle Billy, he was too disheartened by what came before it. And it shown plainly on his face, his shoulders falling. He didn't know the city well enough to know where Avenue A even was, but it didn't sound like it was all that accessible.

A paranoia on the level for his PR manager started to set in. This was starting to sound like a set up. This guy, with a camera, shows up and starts asking him very pointed questions about his music. Then he blurts out a sob story about a dying friend. He even hands over subtle but convenient proof of a fatal illness. And now, trying to get the letter without the friend present. Logically, Roger couldn't make it due to his illness. But...would a reporter be this underhanded? Set up a ploy like this to get word from the artist himself?

He slowly pulled his hand back, not wanting to look like he was snatching the letter away from Mark's grasp. This was all a really stupid idea. "No...I promised I'd deliver it to Roger myself. I mean, with all the security and everything, it's a big deal. If it got into the wrong hands, well...you said it yourself. It's like a fever."

"A fever you can't sweat out," Mark remembers his words clearly. He notices, this time--Billy's strange look of disappointment. The sudden retraction of the letter, like this was a bad idea. Mark hmmm's for a second before glancing around.

Billy's accent and how jumpy he was was probably because he was out of town. Maybe devoted all of his time to his work, like mark does when he's not chasing imaginary musicians. It stands to reason the way he's dressed that he probably lives by here but definitely not alphabet city. Which means...

Oh.

Billy thinks Mark is trying to dupe him. Well. Mark decides to put and end to that, and suddenly looks down his bicycle, up and Billy, and raises a mischievous eyebrow.

"Looks like I'll deliver you to Roger, then." He's settling on his bicycle, shifting slightly forward so billy could stand and ride behind him. All he has to so is grab the others shoulders. "Mark Cohens delivery service to Alphabet City, round trip with no scenic stops due to a crushing time restraint as set by America the Corporate Thug. "

Seeing that, just that small shift, it reminded him of high school. Less than five years ago, and it seemed like a distant memory. Reckless stunts between friends, scraped knees and carefree attitudes. All at once, his hesitations dissolved into giddy elation.

He cast a quick glance toward Casey. But his bodyguard seemed to have vanished from the food cart. And that clinched it. This was his chance to slip away. What he didn't know is that Casey was allowing this. He hated Higgins almost as much as Billy did. When he'd been sequestered in his bedroom, there had been hushed arguments about how Billy should at least be allowed a small social life.

Thinking he was giving the bodyguard the slip, Billy just nodded eagerly. He slipped the letter into his pocket and threw his leg over the bike. "Then we'd better make this quick!" He announced, getting himself settled.

He's not sure what's happening, but Billy seems absolutely elated that some random guy from Alphabet City is giving him a jockey ride on his bike.

Ah, well. Just because it's normal for Mark doesn't mean it is for Billy. So Mark hops on his bike and heads to his home. He takes shortcuts, though--winds down alleys, passes the cafe they met with minimal head ducking to avoid the waitress.

"Where are you from?" He asked as he weaves in and out of traffic, behind yellow taxi cabs and the like, moving with the kind of confidence only a New Yorker can have while navigating the shitty streets and shitty drivers. For someone who looks like a dweeb, he's incredibly good at shouting right back at the drivers who shout at him. "Your accent, I mean," he clarifies, and shoots down an alley.

The more and more they go, the dingier it gets. It's not quite poor, not yet, but it's certainly not favourable. Even the outskirts of alphabet city leave something to be desired. It's when Mark cuts through another alleyway and winds up on a street next to a stripper bar called the Cat Scratch that there's a noticeable difference. Incredibly so--there are homeless people on the streets begging for change, a few junkies outside another alley. It's a bad place. In the distance, there's a sound of someone beating an old plastic bucket like a drum and Mark is biking towards that very sound.

"Edinburgh," Billy said as he clung to Mark. "Born and bruised." He sounded a little distracted, still working on being comfortable as they rode. Trying to not throw off Mark's balance. At the same time, he was trying to watch where they were going, taking it all in. He hadn't seen much outside of his neighborhood and the studio. And even that was limited. He watched it all from his bedroom window, but that's about it.

This is what he'd always wanted to see. Where the artists lived. The ones who were just starting out, who were too far ahead of the industry to be profitable. The ones who had real creativity, who were in control of their craft. He seemed awed by it all, not at all deterred by the beggars and junkies.

"This is where you live?" Billy asked, gazing up at the buildings.

"Alphabet City," Mark explains. "But east 11th Street and Avenue B is technically where I live." He has a weird feeling about Billy. Corporate pencil-pusher, sure, but something else. He's got a knack. He's got something, a spark. Sheltered, wanting to yearn for more.

Well, looks like he's gonna get it. He slows down near the empty lot by their house, tents for the homeless crammed in every single area. Mark calmly gets off his bike, waits for Billy to do the same, and snatches the eviction notice pasted on the door without even looking at it. It goes straight into the trash, Mark lifts up his bike by the frame, and unlocks the door with one smooth motion. The door screeches but it doesn't seem to bother him. What bothers him is the man on the steps, leather jacket and plaid pants, picking notes on an acoustic guitar.

"You should be inside."

"Temperature's the same here. Who's the guy?"

"Just get up the stairs, Roger."

"New boyfriend?"

"No, and before you harp on my non-existent love life can you move so I can stop carrying this bike?"

Roger, laughing despite how pale he was, carefully hoists himself up so Mark can pass. All it takes is a quick grin, a small 'hey,' to Billy before he's trying to move up the stairs on his own. Mark knows better than to help him with this stuff--Roger has his pride. He'll die before he's completely babied.

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