| Roger smiled slightly. �Mark,� he said casually, but softly enough to suggest there was still some meaning to him in that simple, single syllable. How much meaning, Mark was unsure of. He tried to remain composed and cool as he struggled to formulate an articulate answer. �Roger,� he murmured gently. He wanted more than anything to jump from his stool and embrace Roger as if no time had passed and nothing had changed. He wanted to feel Roger�s arms around him and sob and scream and just be held. He wanted to smack him and yell at him for leaving. Most of all, he wanted to be with him. He wanted to be with Roger for the first time in a decade, to rediscover that familiar position, that comforting slump that could only be obtained in Roger�s arms. But he couldn�t get his body to do any of those things. He couldn�t even move, he could very barely breathe, or even think straight. *Oh God...he must think I�m a moron...* Lyric was utterly confused. First Mark zoned out, then Roger came out of no where, and now they were acting like they knew each other. Something was definitely weird... �Roger, how come you never mentioned you knew *Mark Cohen*?!� she hissed. Roger shrugged and brushed past her, walking slowly towards the blonde, who had slipped off of his stool and now stood, shaking, in front of the guitarist. At his timid smile and the warm grin Roger gave him in return, Lyric suddenly realized where she recognized him from. It wasn�t his film-he never even appeared in it. It was from a photograph, the only photograph that Roger possessed from his life prior to Santa Fe. A photo of two blonde men sitting on the stairs to a decrepit looking apartment, smiling at the camera and leaning on each other. The photo Roger was never without, but never explained. �A friend; my only regret,� he would say when asked about the other man. Then he would change the subject and the picture would slip back into his guitar case, forgotten by all but him. His only regret. She suddenly got the impression that this man was once the center of Roger�s life. And from the look on the tired filmmaker�s face, he had never quite recovered from the loss. �It�s...it�s been ten years. That�s a long time,� Mark finally stuttered very quietly. A younger Mark Cohen would have started to blush at the way Roger held his gaze unflinchingly, but the years had calloused him to the flighty effect of emotions. Instead, he merely tried not to look as pathetic as he was sure he sounded. He let his mind wander to Roger�s whereabouts for the past ten years...to the questions he wanted to ask, the doubts in his mind. Anything and everything that kept him from wondering how, even after ten years, the guitarist was able to hold his gaze like that...how he could possibly give Mark only one look that conveyed so much attention and emotion it made him forget the sins he had committed and fight to restrain an urge to fall back into his arms as if a moment hadn�t passed since their last time together. It had been ten years since the last time he held someone�s attention so raptly. Ten years since Roger had last given him that pensive, thoughtful look as he listened to whatever was on Mark�s mind. Ten years and already the years without him seemed a dull memory in the back of his already overcrowded mind. He felt his heart melt as he tried to hold himself up as those cobalt eyes dug into him, analyzing him and listening to him, remembering every line and curve of his face. �It is a long time,� Roger replied simply. He couldn�t take his eyes off of Mark. He was so incredibly right. Ten whole years...he wanted to just sweep him off his feet and out of the restaurant and into the sunset like nothing had happened, like they had last spoken only an hour beforehand instead of a decade. He knew that was impossible. He had to settle for rescrutinizing Mark�s face. Every line and dimple had been etched into his memory long ago, but the years change a person. He still looked as young and gorgeous as he had the last time Roger laid eyes on him, but there were a few new lines to his face. Still, it wasn�t his face that gave away the hard times he had obviously been through. It was his eyes. Roger had never believed that you could look into a person�s eyes and see their soul until he met Mark. He was a private, detached person, but his eyes gave him away every time. He didn�t know how to mask them properly and anyone who took time to look could see exactly what was going on in his head, know exactly what he had been through in the past. The rest of their friends...many of them never took proper time to look. Roger had made a habit out of looking into Mark�s eyes. Ever since his time in withdrawal so long ago, he had tried to understand Mark through those pale grey eyes. He had learned they changed colors with his mood and learned how to spot every emotion through them. And now...now they were pleading. They were pleading for an explanation. He could clearly see the abandonment that Mark felt, clearly realize what his leaving had done to the filmmaker. He could also spot the love shimmering in them. Amongst hate and fear and regret and betrayal was a love so deep that he remembered it from a decade before hand. The same shining, nervous, caring look that had lulled him to sleep when he was ill and made him laugh and whoop when they were together...it was still there. *After all this time... Christ, he still loves me after ten years...why did I ever leave him? Why do I have to do it again?* �We have a table,� he said softly. �Sit with us.� Mark�s eyes widened and he nodded quickly, pulling a coat and scarf off of the back of his chair. The coat was new. Mark had always complained about the size of the last one. But the scarf...it was the same scarf he had since college. The familiar navy blue and white stripes coaxed him into a state of calming familiarity. It was as if Roger believed that as long as Mark possessed that scarf, that handmade, classic, simple accessory, he couldn�t have changed much at all. His eyes still on the scarf, he gestured toward Mark, guiding him towards the table. He was too frightened to touch him, too frightened such intimate contact would convince him to stay in the city and leave the band and give up everything he had worked for. As much as he loved Mark, something about his old life still alarmed him too much to return to it too quickly. So he led by gesture. Gestures that caused Mark to feel as if he were nothing more than a puppy, following its master so easily and willingly. Following its master to the injection that would kill it. He knew that�s what this was. It was nothing more than a single, chance encounter with Roger. After this he would leave the city and never call and never write and leave Mark in a state of depression and panic and hopelessness, just as he had the last time. He knew the new band was doing well. Lyric had told him as much. Of course, he didn�t realize it was Roger�s band at the time, he only knew that it was starting to take off. And Roger couldn�t have him hold his career back as he had done so many times before. Ira had once confided in him that the �Well Hungarians� were offered a record deal twice, a deal only obtainable by moving to LA. Both times Roger had refused, and although he cited his reason as a fondness for the city and his roots, the entire band knew, just as Mark did, that the real reason was the NYC-based filmmaker that he came home to every night. Ira hadn�t mentioned it until years after Roger left, but it still made his departure sting. Roger wouldn�t leave him for a record deal in Los Angeles, but he would take off to God-knows-where without saying a word or leaving a note. Mark snapped out of his reverie as Roger pulled a chair over for him. He placed his coat and scarf on it and sat down slowly, his eyes back on the lean guitarist in front of him. His mind swam with thoughts and questions, but for some reason he couldn�t articulate any of them. He was saved as Lyric returned with their drinks, the two mugs of coffee and Mark�s chilly, half-drunken tea. He thanked her quietly and watched as she took the seat across from Roger. There was a brief silence at the table. Page 4 |