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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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.

Billy slips off the bike, still stunned by everything around them. But his attention was almost immediately drawn to the man with the guitar. Watching his fingers as they moved across the strings. He didn't even notice Mark pulling the notice off the door. He struggled to hold his tongue, wanting to talk to him about it.

But hearing the name dropped, Billy froze. This was Roger?! He found himself staring, wanting to say something. He'd never spoken to anyone who was a fan of his music. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act?

Roger is moving up the stairs before Billy can think of anything. He wanted to offer to help. The man wasn't just sick, he was dying. But he was gone before Billy could do anything more than smile lamely back at him. He just stuck close to Mark, following his lead, trying to find his bearings.

They enter the place, Mark sliding open the large doors. It used to be a music venue--way, way, way a long time ago, and there are still posters on the wall that people had forgotten to put down once they hastily constructed the apartments. There's a tent city outside, the view horribly dingy save for the neon sign of the Cat Scratch, but it's home.

There's almost nothing valuable, though. Art lining the walls--some Mark's photography, some Maureen's canvas work, some Angel's designs--even Joanne has a small doodle up since she's part of the family. There's a large hole in the ceiling with a piece of tarp over it, an illegal wood-burning stove and a large oil drum procured via probably morally grey means for the winter.

It's summer, though, so all of the windows are open. Mark parks his bike in the corner and makes a beeline for the mismatched sets of couches and chairs, grabbing bottles and hastily cleaning up. It's not like they'd expected guests--most of them just practically live here, anyway. The fact that there's a couch with pillows and blankets made up constantly says enough.

The most expensive thing there, though--save for a slightly pricey fender guitar propped up against the coffee table---is a film projector and a small round of audio and visual equipment. It's busted, old, and second-hand but it's still something worth selling so Mark can help Roger out. Roger, who was still trying to go up the stairs by himself.

"Help yourself to, uh..." Nothing. Water? "Make yourself at home," Mark says instead. Flops onto a couch, motions for Billy to join in right next to him. "I can't believe you're doing this, you're incredible. Hey, do you mind if I film this? I want to get the look on Roger's face--" And he's bounding up again. "--It's part of a piece I'm working on documenting the human condition."

Billy wandered into the loft. For the look on his face, one would think he was stepping into an impressive mansion. He'd never seen anything like it. The true New York artist experience. The sort of thing he expected to have to do at this stage in his life. He never thought he'd get signed as early as he did. Whisked off to California for several years, then hidden away in Manhattan, on the opposite coast from most of those he shared a label with.

The posters on the walls. The massive but grimy windows. Even the oil drum received fond looks from him. But then they came to the couch, and Mark dropped onto it like they had all the time in the world. Then there was that request. A request that almost has him bolting for the door. "I'd rather you wouldn't," he says, sounding a bit uncertain. "Company policy." He sounds a bit bolder. And he feels some of the uncertainty slip away. It wasn't any different than talking to people in the company, he reminded himself. "It's a clause in the contract of anyone who isn't a manager or a performer...not allowed to be on camera anywhere. Liability reasons, I guess?" The lie came rather easily. "Really, this has to stay as hush-hush as possible. I could get fired for all of this."

"Yeah... Yeah, I get it." Deflated. Deflated and, for a brief time, defeated, until he springs up. He moves almost in conjunction with Roger making it up the stairs, dragging his acoustic and looking like he'd seen better days.

"Woah," Roger says at Mark's sudden movement, and Mark actually does help him to the armchair opposite the couch where he all but collapses, finally offering a hand to the other. "Hey, I'm Roger, I--"

"Actually, you know what? I don't get it," Mark states, glass in his hand, getting water for his friend. He spins around and starts walking towards the two, looking at Billy in particular.

"This is exactly why America the Brave is such bullshit! You guys will let sleaze after sleaze show up on CNN about which celebrities going to jail or who did their boobs, take away from all of what's really happening. Yeah, I get that. But how are you a liability? I mean, do they realize that there's cameras everywhere? That sooner or later, you're going to be photographed. So--- so why not get basic, primal moments caught? Nothing for show, not polished shit that your company makes--exceptions, of course, exceptions, but--but why not? There's a liability in the fact that you'll realize you're a zombie, maybe."

"Jesus, Mark, can you just introduce us before you start ranting, please?"

The moment Mark showed up looking like absolute death, Billy rushed to his side without a second thought. The hesitations he'd had before about social interaction seemed to slip away as he helped get the sickly man to the chair. He itched to help him with the guitar, to get a better look at it. To play it. He hadn't touched an acoustic in months. And that used to be the core of what he did. Just him and a guitar. Now he was just a voice.

He dropped down on the table, in front of Roger, no longer quite knowing what to do or how to proceed. How did he even breech this topic? He felt like he was the one meeting the celebrity, having only heard about Roger liking his music. But Mark returned, with a tirade, before he could do anything. The letter was burning a hole on his pocket.

"It's because we technically represent the company, but none of us have the PR grooming that a lot of people do. Paparazzi trying to take stealth photos and the like might catch us, but we're not allowed to give consent to anything." He said it as smoothly as if it were a truth he said every day.

Then he looked to Roger, some of his confidence faltering again. "I...guess he didn't tell you I was coming? I'm Billy McGee," the false name Higgins gave people when it had to be given. "I...work for Valkyrie Studios?" He gave a cautious smile, watching Roger's face. It also felt incredibly strange and almost thrilling to admit that to someone who didn't already work for the company.

"Sleazy," Mark remarks, and slides into the seat next to him again.

Roger surprisingly allows the help, and it's something Mark notices even when he's in a rant. Mark loves Roger and Roger loves Mark, and that means every single intimate feeling is something the other knows, even if it's by no means sexual. Brothers, Mark likes to think. And that's why Mark doesn't comment as Roger keeps the guitar on his lap and eyes the other warily.

"Okay..."

Alright, maybe he won't keep quiet. Mark adjusts his glasses, still miffed about not being able to film. "I didn't realize you were coming. Billy, uh--"

"Wait, Valkyrie? You guys own CHAOS."

"There's an oxymoron, you can't physically own Chaos--"

"--Mark, shut up." And, to Billy: "There's no way you found my demo tape, that was years ago."

Billy can see it. He's not sure what he's seeing, but he sees how much the two care for each other. Something beyond roommates, beyond friendship. But not like they were involved. He doesn't quite understand it all, or how it is he picked up on it. Part of a natural skill he'd always had, but fell by the wayside due to lack of use in recent years.

But then Roger dropped that word. Own. He did feel owned sometimes. Like he was nothing more than property to them. Every aspect of his life manufactured and controlled.

Billy shook his head with a faint laugh of relief. "No, this isn't about a demo tape." Maybe the next time he was in the studio, or spoke to Dorset, he could see if he could find it. "This...is about something else. I ran into Mark a few weeks ago about how you felt about CHAOS. I'm going to give you something. And you've got to swear to me you never show it to anyone, or tell anyone where you got it. Cause if it gets out...not only am I out of a job, but they'd make your life hell. Do I have your word?" That last part was true. The last thing he wanted to see was his company destroying two nice people like this.

"Mark--"

"Just take it."

Roger, though, can't quite process it. He's not sure if they're shitting him, but he glances from Billy to Mark to Billy and back to Mark, who can't help the small grin on his face as he raises an eyebrow.

"This is for real," Roger sets his guitar down, one last nervous look at Mark. "What the hell did you--"

"Roger."

Roger's hands were shaking, but that had nothing to do with his disease or how much medication he was taking. Mark was curious, too, and he leans in just a bit, still holding his camera.

"You know CHAOS? What are they like?" And he opens his hands to accept the gift.

"Not personally," Billy admitted with a sheepish smile, as he tugged off his sunglasses finally. "But I know someone who does and he gave me this." On the word, he pulled out the envelope and slapped it into the man's open hand. "I'm told that when he heard about you, and about what Mark was doing for you, he was incredibly moved."

The envelope was sealed. In it was a handwritten letter in a very neat, careful hand, the sheet torn off a yellow legal pad. It read:

Roger,

I wish I knew more about you so I had more to say than this brief letter will contain. But I honestly can't thank you enough. For as little as my fans see of me, I see just as little of them. It seems the world thinks I am behind a one-way mirror, but it is more a solid brick wall with heavy soundproofing. So just hearing about you has given me more inspiration than I've had in years.

Please know that even though we cannot meet, you have made a very important difference in one person's life. It pains me to know that I cannot meet you myself. Or if I could, I could not tell you who I was.

From what I've been told, I assume you're a musician yourself. I hope to some day hear your music, and be inspired all over again. As it is, just knowing I've touched one life so much is enough to last me for years.

Stay strong,
CHAOS

The name was a wild signature, the slash that crossed both the H and A at the same time seemed to strike out the entire word.

Billy watched Roger with some apprehension, gripping the edge of the table. He'd never written anything like this, and certainly never had occasion to see a person's reaction to such a thing. He felt like he was back in high school, passing notes. "I heard you liked me, is that true? Check yes or no."

Mark is staring, not at the paper, not in curiousity, but at Roger, and he moves his hand to grab Billy's shoulder, squeezing it gently, as he picks up the camera and rises. It was his way of saying he won't film the letter, or even Billy. Just Roger's face.

It's no wonder, too, because Roger--strong, steady Roger, Roger who has been through so much. Through his last girlfriend, through Mimi's unfortunate end, to this. This moment.

There's only this, Mark thinks. Right now, this is everything. This is the moment, this is connection in an isolated age. Suddenly, this isn't about art. This isn't about a documentary. This is Mark desperately trying to film his best friend just before he dies. He just wants a fond memory. He wants this moment.

"Wow," Roger finally says, and his voice cracks just a touch. "I... I don't know what to say," Roger tries again, and Mark slides over so he's on the couch's arm, camera down, touching Roger's shoulder this time. Roger doesn't take his hand but he does lean into it, still staring.

"I'd say you paid for this to happen, but you're just as broke as me," He finishes finally, and Mark laughs, finally peering over the paper. Roger, looking up--desperate, with tears in his eyes--gets up and, without any warning, proceeds to wrap Billy up in a bear hug, whooping with delight.

"I'm going to finish it," Roger's saying. "I'm going to finish one great song. Mark?"

"Rolling." He lifts up the camera as Roger scrambles out of the way so Billy can't be seen.

"Hey, AIDS! Zoom in on this--" both middle fingers in the air, and he turns around only to drop his pants and moon Mark's camera.

"Eloquent," Mark observes, and Roger, laughing for the first time in ages, moves back to the chair.

"Holy shit," He pushes his hair away from his face. "I just got a letter from CHAOS."

Billy is so incredibly stunned that he doesn't notice the camera. He doesn't even notice the hand on his shoulder. He just sees Roger. Roger, dying of AIDS, so incredibly moved by a less than eloquent letter that Billy agonized over. He knew so little about Roger when he'd written it. And in writing it imagined what it would be like to give it to him. He expected either happiness or distrust. But not this. Not a tear. It was all Billy could do to not cry himself. Someone crying over HIM. Not a crazed fan like he was always warned about. No screaming, no wild behavior. Just a man moved to tears.

The hug nearly bowled him over. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to return it. To whisper in Roger's ear that it was him. He was the one the two of them had sought. But he just patted Roger on the back, struggling to find his voice. But he didn't have a chance. Roger pulled away and Mark and the camera out. Billy had to yank the bill of his had down to make sure he was out of the shot. But watching Roger's antics from beneath him made him smile.

"I'll be sure to to pass on your response," Billy said, too stunned to think of anything else. "But..." he glanced to Mark. "I've really gotta get back. My boss's gonna murder me if he finds out where I got off to."

"Oh. Sure, I can drop you off if you want--cabs don't stop in Alphabet City," He hastily explained. "Roger, what if--"

Too late. Roger had grabbed his guitar and had begun playing. It was Musetta's Waltz, as usual, but he had already blocked out the entire world.

"Angel will be coming up soon, I'm going to drop Billy off." And as an side to Billy once he grabs his bike: "He's not going to be able to hear a damn thing for at least 72 hours, he's got his inspiration back. And..."

The moment they're out of Roger's sight, Mark closes the door with his foot and sets his bike down in the hallway. It's... It's not that this is difficult, it's just that this is weird. Awkward. "Hey, um..."

Try again, Mark.

"I was thinking.."

One more time.

"I wanted to thank you. I mean, I pretty much walked in in the bitchiest mood I'd been in since my last girlfriend dumped me and I took it out on you. And now you're doing this for me and we haven't even met. La vie Boheme, right? But, uh... What you did for Roger. What you did for him, it's... I can't thank you because... God, what does this say about my screenplays when I can't even tell you what I'm trying to say?"

Billy followed after Mark, but it was a hesitant, stumbling pace. He looked back at Roger, wanting to just stay and listen. It had been far too long since he'd been able to just sit and listen to other musicians. But he really did need to get back. It was with a reluctant and heavy heart that he crossed the threshold and let Mark shut the door.

He busied himself with putting his sunglasses back on, more to hide his eyes from Mark than anything. He could mask his emotions easier if half of his face was obscured.

"It's not any easy thing to say," He said with a small smile. "But if you could get it, I'll bet a tape of his music would be a great way to say thanks. I'll even make sure it gets into the right hands to get to CHAOS. I'll bet he'll love it." His smile grew strained, almost awkward. Like he didn't know what he was saying. But really, he was struggling to hold everything in. Holding himself back from hugging Mark the way Roger had hugged him. Resisting the urge to insist the immense thanks should be going the other way.

"I'll mix it personally," Mark promises, even though it sounds fake compared to what just happened. To everything, really. He sounds like he's Maureen, wanting to put her nose into everything, her fingers in all of the pie. He means it with sincerity, though--he hopes he gets that across. That Mark will take good care of it because Mark takes good care of Roger, and that Billy won't be disappointed. Maybe it's a mixed metaphor.

Maybe Mark has to stop thinking so much.

Still, it's confirmed. Chaos is a 'he,' not a they.

"I can't believe I called him pretentious. That's the most sincere thing I've heard from Valkyrie records since I started listening to music." They're down the stairs, now, and once outside Mark hops on and waits for Billy to get on the back.

"Whenever you get a break, you should sneak off here more. Or we should meet up somewhere safer, like the park. Either way, I'll catch you around, right? Since the whole CHAOS and Roger thing..."

Billy can't help the smile that spreads over his face when Mark says the letter was sincere. It was one of the first things to reach anyone that truly came from his heart. He had to reach under his glasses to rub at his eye before anything happened. But he quickly covered it as though he were merely adjusting his sunglasses.

"Of course!" He said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He really wanted to see both Mark and Roger again. If just to hear Roger play, properly. To chip away at Mark's cynicism. And maybe, just maybe, finding a way to tell them the truth, if they prove to be as great as they seemed. "I mean, I haven't been in the city long, so I don't know many people. I'd really like to see you both again."

As Billy got himself situated on the bike, he wrapped his arms tightly around Mark, trying to play it off needing to get his balance. But he'd forgotten just how good human contact felt. True, genuine contact. He was reluctant to let go. But he settled his hands on Mark's shoulders. "Ready," he said.

This was nice. Almost like he could attach himself to someone, if just for a moment. Roger had withdrawn, sure, and he had a good reason to, but Mark? Mark just hides behind his work. This, though--it's stupid, but he really likes this.

Mark is opinionated, even if it's sometimes the wrong ones--there's a reason him and Maureen dated for so long. He begins to pedal, taking the usual side ways and alleys, cutting off a few cars in the process as they begin to move to the better neighborhood. The difference between him and Maureen is that Mark's opinion changes.

CHAOS is a perfect example.

He stays quiet for the most part--it's rush hour, now, there's a lot of obstacles to avoid--and it's only when they're back at the park and Mark slows down that he speaks.

"Before you go, here. A friend of mine and Roger's is putting on a spoken word night at the Life Cafe--you know, where we met? You should come." He's digging around his bag, now. Camera, pen and paper, a huge mess and what looks to be a scarf (why a scarf in summer, no one knows) before he pulls out a flier for Maureen's event.

"It's actually an open mic night, but she's normally there. You should come. I mean--you should be off work if you're not busy, and I'll definitely be there."

As they rode, Billy felt he was having a harder time keeping balance with Mark. Maybe it was the traffic. Maybe it was the focused silence. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse. But he found his arms wrapped tight around Mark's chest before they were even halfway there. It was easier to feel the other's shifts that way, to make sure he didn't make them crash or go skidding into a car. Or maybe it just made him feel comfortable.

He was reluctant to let go when they finally stopped. But he had to. Slowly peeling his arms off of Mark's torso and planting his feet on the pavement. He takes his time to dust himself off, to make sure he didn't look like he'd gone on an unsanctioned trek through the city.

Slowly, he took the flier, looking it over. He used to go to shows all the time, until he got signed on with Valyrie. But never spoken word. He so badly wanted to go, if even just to hear Roger, or see Mark. Getting out during the day was easy. Night was harder. "I can't make any promises," he said with a heavy heart. "But I'll see if I can."

"Even if you can't, at least stop off for lunch or something. Here--" And, once again, he's digging through his pockets. A pencil and not a notepad, but another recipt. This time for a book about Akira Kurosawa's life and career.

His address.

"--At the very least, Roger's always home. Just shout and one of us will drop the keys off to you. Does that work? If you want to, I mean. I know you're very busy selling your soul to Valkyrie," he teases, "But it would mean a lot."

Shit.

"To, um. Roger. It would mean a lot to Roger."

Billy took the bit of paper, looking down at the address scrawled on it. The amazing apartment where they'd just been. Slipping off there on a random afternoon would be far easier than making it somewhere on a specific night.

He smiled at the joke, not at all offended. It so often felt like that was the case, really. Tucking both paper and flier away in a pocket, he nodded. "It'd mean a lot to me. To see you both." He flashed an endearing smile at Mark, before glancing behind himself.

Then his face fell completely. He cursed under his breath and added. "I gotta go. I'll see around, alright?" Without waiting for an answer he bolted off toward the park, where Casey was looking irritated, checking his watch and looking out over the park.

"Enjoy your 'walk'?" The body guard inquired with a sour look. Billy just answered with an awkward smile.

***

Strangely, nothing was said to him about his going missing. No comments. No scolding. No warnings. He did hear Casey and Higgins argued, more frequently it seemed. Billy just closed the door to his room and focused on the song he was trying to write. He knew they'd change it, but he had to perfect it his way first.

He didn't try to sneak off anymore. He didn't even try to call Mark. And he certainly didn't try to go to the spoken word event. He just kept his head down, out of fear that he might get caught if he tried again. But all he could of was seeing them both again. Roger for his music. Mark for...he didn't know what. But he couldn't get the man out of his head. The longer he waited, the darker his mood grew.

Casey started insisting they go to the park in the afternoons. Billy would just sullenly stick by his side, behaving himself, keeping his head down. After several of these trips, Casey nudged him. "Why don't you go for a walk?" he said. "Clear your head." And Billy did. Aimlessly strolling through the park, keeping his head down, and getting nothing out of it. It wasn't the park that had invigorated him before.

Three weeks had passed since the last excursion. Billy had stopped working on his song completely. Casey kept insisting he go walking alone, and each time greeted him with that sour look. Nothing Billy did seemed to make the man happy. As they approached the park, Casey turned to face the musician, his arms arms folded. Despite needing to look up, he still gave the impression he was looking at a child. "It's clear to me you're not getting the hint here," he scolded. "When I say go on a walk, I don't mean wander around the park until you're bored. I mean go on a 'walk.' Go. Do your thing."

Billy blinked behind his sunglasses, confused. "But I...Higgins. He said--"

"Higgins is an idiot," the body guard huffed. Everyone with two brain cells to rub together knows that. And you're smarter than that. So go. Do what it is you need to do to get your head on straight."

"But--"

Casey held up a finger to hush him. "And if I see you back here before sundown, I'm sending you back out."

Billy practically glowed, a grin spread across his face. He uttered his thanks and took off as if Casey might somehow change his mind. He didn't care how long it took to get there on foot. He didn't want to take a car. He wanted to walk the streets on his own.

It took him longer than expected, getting turned around a few times. But soon he found himself staring up at that familiar bank of windows that he'd thought of fondly so often in the past few weeks. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, "MARK! ROGER!"

Mark realized around the second week that he'd gotten his hopes up. That he'd thought maybe he had a friend, one for him, as selfish as that was. Maureen had Joanne. Tom had Angel. Roger had....

Yeah. He was being selfish. He had Roger. Roger had his guitar and he has his camera. Pity he'd sold almost all of his equipment by now, courtesy of absolutely no health insurance and the need to do stuff like eat while paying for it.

Still, when someone like Maureen calls you over dramatic, that's when you pause and look at your life and your choices. Like how all he wants to do is film in black and white for some reason. Even though he grins and laughs with Roger, Roger sees right through it. He says nothing, though, and Mark is grateful for it--he knows Roger's a little sad, too.

Shit, if Roger's not being a drama queen then Mark can't afford to be one, too. He gave a powerful moment to his brother-in-arms, now he has to move on. No time like the present.

It's hot--way too hot--and even with all of the windows open and all of their fans pointed in the huge but threadbare apartment, it's smouldering. Roger's away to the Doctors, Joanne taking him, and Tom and Angel have gone on a date. Maureen's god knows where and Mark, as usual, is left alone. He's in the middle of trying to write a script when he swears he hears someone shouting his name. It's only when Lito in the apartment a few floors below yells right back at the shouter that he realizes he hasn't imagined it. Gone are the button downs and jeans, because Mark has actually borrowed Roger's too-big tank top and a pair of cargo shorts to just try to escape.

He opens the window, because he's fairly certain whoever yelled that wasn't a usual goer--not a girl, too high to be Collins, too low to be Angel--and he freezes when he looks down and spots him.

Billy.

Billy McGee.

Is this a mirage?

"Woaaaaah!" No it isn't, and Mark's face feels like it's going to split in two. "You didn't forget about us! Give me a second and I'll throw down the keys."

Billy was shouting his lungs out. Probably dangerous given his profession, but he didn't care. He had a moment of absolute freedom. No stress of getting back or being found out. No one knew where he was. And the only person waiting for him to come back wanted him gone for hours. He hadn't felt this free in years.

He was just about to give up, thinking maybe he had the wrong place, when Mark finally appeared. And Billy grinned all over again. Billy himself was in shorts, sandals, and a teeshirt. With the same baseball cap and sunglasses as before.

"Well, hurry up, then!" Billy shouted back. He wasn't actually in a hurry, though. He was willing to wait as long as needed, now that he knew this was the right place.

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