Back from Santa Fe
by Nicole S. nicxf@softhome.net
PG for language and innuendo

Everything belongs to Jonathan Larson, I'm just borrowing them to tie up some loose ends.

Special thanks to Jennifer for beta. She turned me on to a new fandom yet again and made me love RENT.

~~~~~~~~~~~~


Roger stepped out of the car and moved to close the door. It stuck. Rolling his eyes as if he'd forgotten the door's problems, he absentmindedly kicked it shut behind him.

Snow crunched under his feet as he made his way toward the brick building. It was cold. Small fires dotted the darkness down the alleyway as the homeless tried to keep warm. Had it always been this cold? It was too cold for December. Definitely colder than Santa Fe. He stretched his sleeves down over his hands, wishing he had his gloves on. They were in the trunk and the lock had broken. The last time it had opened was in Chicago when he had jammed a screwdriver in the lock, but that had only worked once. Now whatever was in the trunk was in there for good until he got Collins to break in for him.

Walking around the front of the building, he looked back at the car and hoped it didn't get stolen before he could sell it and get his guitar out of hock. Then again it was a piece of shit, no one in their right mind would steal it, not even in Alphabet City.

He looked up. Mark's window was dark.

Before he'd left, Roger had thrown the keys to Mark and said "I won't be back", turning away before he could see the look on Mark's face.

"Stupid," he now muttered under his breath as he yanked on the solid locked door.

"Dammit".

Looking around, he spotted the phone booth on the corner. It was a mass of broken metal and plastic. Sighing, he jammed his hands into his pockets, his breath coming out in a puff of steam. He looked up again. He could call up to Mark or throw something at the window, but he didn't want Mimi to know he was back. He didn't want anyone to know he was back. Not yet.

Kicking the snow, he turned on his heel and went around to the side of the building where the fire escape was. The ladder was too high for him to jump up to reach. The dumpster was nearby, but was too heavy to move on his own.

Some time last year the pull down ladder had mysteriously disappeared from the bottom of the fire escape. Who and how the hell would steal part of a fire escape? Lots of things happened around here without anyone 'noticing'. He pursed his lips together. 'Benny probably sold it for scrap.'

Frustrated, he walked down the dim alley, poking around, until he found a broken lawn chair, three threadbare straps making up the seat. He also found a plastic tub. Smiling, he caressed the plastic, wondering if this had been one of Angel's. He closed his eyes for a moment then dragged his findings back toward the fire escape. Carefully he put the bucket on top of the lawn chair and hoped it held as he climbed on top.

Roger's heart pounded as he nearly lost his balance, but recovered at the last minute, spreading his arms wide, waiting for the wobbling of the lawnchair to stop.

"Fuck!"

Gingerly he stood, reaching up to the fire escape, his fingers just grazing the bottom rung.

"Shit!"

With one fluid motion, he crouched down then jumped, his hands wrapping around the bottom rung. The plastic bucket clattered to the ground as he pulled himself up, cold metal burning his hands. With some effort, he gained some footing, standing there, catching his breath. Finally, he pulled his sleeves over his hands again and continued to climb up to the loft.

The higher he rose, the winder it got. By the time he was at his... Mark's window, he was shivering violently. He slid open the window and stepped inside the loft, leaving the wind behind him.

He looked around, the streetlights illuminating his surroundings. It was exactly the same as when he left 6 weeks ago (as he expected it to be). The air inside the loft was actually warm, which he attributed to the small space heater that hummed beside Mark's bed.

'That's new'.

Roger moved quietly through the loft, past the table piled high with New York Posts and other junk. The light on the answering machine blinked furiously begging for attention. Suddenly, there was a noise behind him and he turned around to see Mark without his glasses on, 16mm film canister clutched to his chest, squinting into the darkness. Mark cocked his head to the side and failed to hide his frown.

"Roger?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Mark cleared his throat then grimaced.

"I gave you my key..."

"When you left. I remember."

Roger flinched at the hurt in Mark's voice.

"You said you weren't coming back," Mark sat on the ratty couch and laid the film canister on the floor beside him then rubbed his eyes.

"Well. I lied."

Roger sat beside Mark and crossed his arms across his middle, he was still cold. Santa Fe had been sunny and hot and all warm colours and bright blue sky. After a month he realized he needed concrete and traffic and dirty streets. There was nowhere in the world like Avenue A and he missed it. Missed this loft and the ratty couch and the table with all the junk on it, the extension cord that could blow the power at any time and a part of him, albeit very small, even missed freezing his ass off.

"So," Mark said and hugged his knees to his chest, taking his bare feet off the floor.

"So, I..." Roger began.

"Your stuff's still here."

"Thanks."

"Except the bed, which you sold to pay for gas." He paused and licked his lips then snuck a short look at Roger before returning his gaze to the floor. "There's always the couch."

"Yeah."

Mark stood and coughed then squinted down at Roger, "Goodnight."

Roger grabbed Mark's arm. "I found it."

"Found what?"

"My song?"

"Oh!" Mark smiled and tried to hide it. "Was it in Santa Fe?"

"No, it was here all along."

"Mimi..."

"Mimi, Avenue A, Collins, you."

Roger slid his hand down to Mark's and squeezed, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb. Mark pursed his lips together and sighed. "That was before... that was a long time ago."

"I know."

Roger stood and looked Mark in the eye as best he could with the current light situation. "I missed you." Roger leaned in and kissed him, lingering for a moment before pulling away.

"Missed you, too," Mark whispered, stood back and squinted at Roger for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he turned toward his bed, pulling Roger along by the arm.

He'd found his song right where he left it.

The End.

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