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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"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.

Sure enough, the keys come crashing down after mark disappears, and Mark honestly wonders why he suddenly feels so giddy. Why he's checking himself in the mirror and wishing he wasn't stupidly pale. His lips are too thin. His jaw is too round. Billy's jaw is square, and his eyes are like nothing he's ever seen.

Oh god.

Oh god this is what happened when he first met Maureen.

Shit shit shit shit--

He barely has enough time to splash water on his face when he hears billy come up. Too fixated on how he looks in comparison to billy to realize he's been playing Blue Phoenix while writing. Most of the movie equipment is gone and the apartment is strangely empty, but Mark has just enough time to splash water on his face before greeting billy warmly.

"I was beginning to think the fat cats are you for lunch!"

Billy wasn't worried about appearances as he trotted up the stairs. He felt like he did when he'd been a teenager. Which was a strange idea to have, when he was barely past the legal drinking age. But he was on his own. Meeting with friends. Invited into their unique way of bringing people up to their apartment. And he'd get to see Mark again! Without needing to rush off immediately after.

He shoved open the monstrous door, faltering as he stepped in. Hearing his own voice was not something he expected. He cast around, expecting to see Roger, but the other was nowhere to be seen. He tugged off his sunglasses and settled them on the bill of his hat.

"Sometimes, I worry that might happen," he grinned, giving the place another glance. "So what happened to CHAOS being a pretentious sellout?" He asked, with a small wink.

"It's just us," Mark states, as if he can read the other's mind.

Wait. Was he looking around because he wanted to see Roger, and not Mark? Of course. Of course, Mark had just made fun of someone Billy worked with. He's there to see the one that actually matters, to--

--oh, shit. CHAOS was still playing. Ah, well. It distracts Mark enough, anyway. He feels like he can just tell the truth as he moves to the kitchen section.

"Maybe," He states. "But somewhere under all the corporate layers, he's still got a core of something. Who knows, maybe it's all just been washed away since he signed with labels or something. I'm not a musician. But I am Roger's friend and I'm an artist and that letter was one of the most genuine things I've ever read. I think that warrants me listening to his music, don't you think? Do you want water to drink? I'd over you something else, but uh..." Broke.

Billy followed Mark, looking just so incredibly happy. He still couldn't believe he was here. Free. For the whole afternoon. He tucked his hands in his pockets, as if not quite sure what to do with himself. He was still looking over everything. It was a proper artist's studio in here. Just as he'd always dreamed. Not the homogenized corporate condo he was stashed in usually. On the inside it was hard to feel like he'd gone far from California. But HERE? Here he really felt like he was in New York.

At the offer of water, Billy was about to ask for something stronger, but Mark cut him off before he could even start to speak. He frowned, thinking, fingers drumming on the counter. Then all at once, he remembered what was in his pocket. The other day, before insisting on one of those walks, Casey had given him one of the company's credit cards to get something to eat while he went on his walk. Billy had thought it strange, and Casey never asked for it back after the fact. Now it hit him. All of it hit him. And his eyes lit up.

"Then let's go somewhere!" he said, rather suddenly. "You and me. We could get a drink or something to eat or...well, anything." He dug in his pocket and held it up, the Valkyrie logo printed on it. "My treat. Sort of. Make those fat cats be good for us for once."

It was all to cover up the fact that what Mark said almost brought a tear to his eye. That the letter changed his mind about his music. That there was something to the music. He could HEAR it. Mark liked his music. Why was that a big deal, suddenly? Lots of people liked it, didn't they? Mark hand been hunting for him. But hearing those words made a lump rise in his throat that he couldn't quite explain.

"What?"

Real eloquent, Mark. He's not quite sure what happened--there was a shift. Mark had been about to pull out a box, try to find a tape of Roger he could send with Billy to show CHAOS when the other suddenly decided to yell excitedly and brandish a piece of plastic. A credit card. A Valkyrie credit card. A Valkyrie credit card that Billy is insisting they use.

No way in hell Mark is going to say no. He can't remember the last time he ate in a restaurant. Shit, he barely remembers a day when he's budgeting one packet of ramen a day. Artist living was never glamourous, anyone who said anything else was lying. Especially if he's selling his equipment and all of his money is going to help Roger.

But Billy wants him to go. That's what strikes him as the oddest. That's why he looks genuinely confused, brows knitting. "It's about time we teach them a lesson," He states. That's a 'yes' in Mark's book. "But wouldn't you rather Roger than me?"

Why the hell would anyone want the silent observer?

Billy very nearly blurted out a rather rude question. What did Roger have to do anything? Thankfully, he was aware enough of himself to halt the words before they escaped. Sure, Roger was important. He was the core of the reason Billy was there. But Billy barely knew the musician. Then again, he barely knew Mark. But Roger wanted CHAOS, not Billy. It was strange to think of himself as two people like that, but here he needed to be just Billy. Mark was the one who wanted that. He'd been the one to offer the invite, not Roger.

At least, that's how Billy reasoned it. It had nothing to do with his own feelings. How could it? He'd only meet Mark twice, and both encounters were incredibly brief. Even with that bike ride with his arms wrapped around the man's chest...

"We can wait for him if you want. I've got all afternoon. But..." His mind was working a little slower than his mouth. Did Mark really doubt that Billy wanted to hang out with HIM? "...I'm totally fine with it being just you and me."

Wow.

So Billy really did want to hang out with him. Mark tries to hide the fact that he's floored but fails miserably. And he knows they should wait for Roger--it would be the nice thing to do--but...

...But couldn't he be selfish? Just this once? Because Billy is looking straight at him. Straight at Mark and not Mark's camera, and it gives him a weird sort of fluttering feeling, like the first time he laid eyes on Maureen.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck no. That was not happening.

"We'll get a doggy bag or something," he states. There, see? He could be nice as well as selfish. He clears his throat. "You've got the money, so you get to decide the type of food. We'll go from there." Because he felt like he hadn't had a decent meal in days. Probably hasn't. In the distance, he can hear Angel's drum.

Idly, Mark wonders if Angel is cupid in disguise.

"Excellent!" Billy smacked his hand on the counter, and gave a little hop. He was already trotting back toward the door.

"But we're gonna decide together. Cause all I know is that I'm completely sick of pizza."

He tried to hide excitement, but he couldn't contain himself. He was able to hang out with someone. Someone close to his own age. Without a bodyguard present. Outside of the apartment. Someone that wasn't part of the company. Someone he actually liked. It was a dream come true.

"Hey, I'll do you one better!" he said suddenly, turning toward Mark before opening the door. "After we get something to eat, we'll hit up the store. What better way to stick it to those fat cats than stocking you and Roger up for the week?" Positively beaming at this idea, he twisted to yank the door open.

He knows Billy is trying to be good to him--he knows. It's a weird feeling, actually. Makes him slightly uncomfortable, but not in the way it normally does.

Today for you, Tomorrow for me. Wasn't that Angel's theme? Shouldn't he just go for it? He opens the door and locks it up, figuring they can get whatever they want in alphabet city. Even if part of him is tempted to order something ridiculously expensive just because it's from a record company he doesn't like. Just because it's sleaze.

He doesn't want to get Billy in trouble, though.

"You know," He says carefully, "Roger and I aren't charity cases, right?"

He's grateful, but there's a strange sense of pride. Especially for him--he hasn't known Billy for that long, after all. Who's to say he's just not feeding his guilt? Then again, isn't that what Mark is doing? Feeding his guilt by filming the homeless?

Shit.

Well, no one said Mark wasn't a hypocrite.

"Of course not!" Billy said as he made his way down the stairs. And he honestly wasn't thinking of it as charity. Mark had done something for him no one else ever had. He'd inspired him. Sure, it was also Roger, it was his enthusiasm that had caused it. But it had been because of Mark that he even knew about Roger. It was Mark's drive and passion that made it possible.

Billy just wanted to repay that some how. He couldn't outright tell them both who he really was. Notes from himself veiled as though they were from someone else was completely empty gestures. They were both such talented and wonderful people. They deserved better. And Billy wanted to give them that.

"The way I see it, we could blow a couple hundred bucks living it up for one evening. OR we could spend that money on stuff we bring back so you and Roger can live it up until I can come back. Completely selfish," he said with a grin. "I swear. Not for a single charitable reason I could ever think of." He winked at Mark before racing down the stairs.

"It's such a weird dichotomy," Mark follows Billy, skipping stairs but not racing down them--he'll probably break his ankle. "When do you just help someone out, and when is it a pity thing? That's the hard part. Like... When does it stop becoming art, and starts becoming work?"

They open the door and the drumming gets louder. Mark grins and starts heading towards it, touching the other's wrist for him to follow.

"Like, when did someone like CHAOS become schlok? He didn't start out that way. You evolve over time as an artist, but at one point did that guy decide to be chained up by corporate america and Valkyrie records? He didn't raise a hand and say 'hey, I'm going to sell my soul' obviously, but when was the big push? You know? Do you mind if we stop by and say hi to someone for a second?"

Edited 2015-08-28 04:32 (UTC)

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