...will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone?

Mark froze at that thought, right there in the middle of the cemetery, unable to quell the jolt of true fear at that sudden realization. Somehow it hadn't quite fallen into place before, that they would all be gone, before long, they'd die or drift away, and here he'd be, lingering like a ghost, clinging to fragments of film.

Alone.

The word sent a shudder through him that made him close his eyes, put a hand to his forehead as if suddenly dizzy. He didn't feel dizzy, really – a little nauseous, perhaps... maybe more than a little, but...

When he opened his eyes, he realized that the others were walking toward him, and quickly tried to disguise the stricken expression he knew he must be wearing. He was fine, he was calm, he was stable, he was not watching his family fragment and fall apart in front of him...

Mark always was a bad liar, even – no, especially – to himself.

He could see Mimi saying something, too quiet for him to hear, but as they drew closer he did hear Roger's response – "It's true. I'm leaving now for Santa Fe..."

Mark didn't even really hear the rest of what he said, ducking his head as that wave of nausea hit him again, and now he felt dizzy, felt like he couldn't breathe, locked away in some dark airless place and choking on nothing. He fumbled blindly with his camera, comforting habit, found the button to turn it off, certain he wouldn't want this recorded. Roger had said he was leaving before, but it was all vague and "some day", the way Roger got from time to time. This time, he sounded certain.

He's going to leave me, Mark thought numbly, looking up at Roger, shaggy blond hair mostly hiding his face from Mark, turned as he was to look at Mimi. But Mark didn't need to see his face, could read him perfectly anyway – the lines of tension in his body, the way he hunched his shoulders forward, almost hiding in his jacket, the way he clenched his jaw tight to fight back some biting comment he'd probably regret and they all knew he'd make anyway.

He glanced to the others, Maureen and Joanne all but screaming at each other, Mimi glowering at Roger, Benny hanging back uncertainly, and he realized that just like Roger wasn't leaving in some distant "some day", they weren't falling apart "some day", but now, here in front of him. He took a breath and stepped forward, one hand outstretched in a placating gesture. "Calm down..."

Roger knew there were lines you didn't cross with Mark. Big, bold lines with flashing lights and neon signs, just so that they were absolutely clear. Roger knew where the lines were, had known almost since he'd met him – and knowing that, he'd managed to step over every fucking one. And then that pathetic promise to call him, like that made it any different or better...

He snarled and slammed his hand against the steering wheel, glowering out at the road ahead of him and the thin yellow line stretching out to nowhere. As if it were the road's fault for being there, the car's fault for carrying him away. As if it weren't all his fault, every last fucking bit of it, every last inch he drove away from New York, away from Mark.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel almost of their own accord, until his knuckles went white. He didn't even notice until his fingers started to cramp, and then with a grimace he uncurled them before settling them more loosely on the wheel. He could, he supposed, blame this on someone else. On Mimi, for breaking promises time after time, and yes, he'd pushed her away, but she'd known that would happen, he'd given her so many chances... On Mark, for losing his temper, and yes, he was human, he couldn't be patient and understanding all the time, and he was hurting just as much as the rest of them, but he was supposed to be endlessly patient, he was supposed to humor all of Roger's moods. He wasn't supposed to yell back at him, fling words just as hurtful back in his face.

Maybe it's because I'm the one of us to survive!

For a moment, Roger found it a little difficult to breathe, remembering that. He shook his head and reached over to switch on the radio, to give him something else to focus on, anything at all but Mark's anger, Mark's frustration, and Mark knew he was being an idiot right then and there, and Roger probably should have listened to him. The only thing he heard on the radio was static. He frowned, tried flipping through stations, but in the middle of nowhere there was nothing, nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts. Roger switched off the radio.

If there had been more time to think, more time to consider his decisions, he wouldn't be here, he knew, on the road to Santa Fe. But there hadn't been any fucking time, the world kept turning and Angel was dead and everything that was right about the world had gone and shattered into little fragments, and things just carried Roger along with them, like a giant wave that carried away everything, regardless of right or wrong or should be. There hadn't been any time to find his feet or figure out what he ought to be doing.

He could blame it on that too. On events, on the world, on anything else... But he knew it wasn't. He knew, that if the fault lay with anyone, it was him.

The thought had occurred to Mark over and over in the past month or so – not long after accepting Alexi's offer, on Halloween no less, which should have been an omen; so many times he couldn't count on the course of that inane, agonizing month or so of working for that stupid show; and no, quitting. He didn't regret quitting, had the feeling that if he didn't he'd end up throwing himself off the roof before long. On the other hand, having money for once had been... nice, and he knew perfectly well that wasn't likely to happen again any time soon.

And now that he didn't have anything to hold his attention, it was hard to keep his mind off the fact that he was the only one in the loft. There was nothing to distract him from the fact that he was alone here – but then, he'd known he would be, that morning on Halloween, not that that had been hard to predict, not than it had taken any effort to see beyond opening his eyes and looking around. But know it was real, and unavoidable, and he hated it.

The loft, to Mark, seemed to have been frozen in a moment – a moment in which Roger had simply stepped out and was bound to return any minute now. His guitar was gone, of course, but there were still things of his everywhere, scrawled lyrics on notebook paper here and there, many times crossed out or sometimes crumpled into balls, an empty pill bottle on the table, a green pullover draped on the back of a chair Roger had somehow forgotten to pack. Mark drifted through and tried not to disturb anything, as if by leaving Roger's things right where they were he could somehow draw Roger back, as if Roger's presence consisted of his things, waiting for him.

That didn't make it any less lonely.

The city moved around him, winter crept in, life continued for everyone else, and Mark watched it without ever being a part of it. Time had stopped in the loft, and stopped Mark with it, and if he just focused on his camera, his film, he could ignore the creeping numbness, the ice forming crystals around the edges of his heart.

The door opened one day, cold air gusting in as Roger stepped inside, set his suitcase down. Mark stared at him for a second, unmoving.

"Roger." Not hello or anything like that. Just his name. It was all he could manage.

Roger closed the door behind him, and didn't quite look at Mark as he murmured, "I had to come back." No more explanation than that, no why, no apology, but it was enough, somehow. Mark pushed himself out of his chair and moved toward Roger in a rush, throwing his arms around him and nearly knocking him down with the force of impact.

"Do that again and I swear I'll kill you," he mumbled. Roger didn't answer, just pressed his forehead against Mark's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him, and Mark didn't mind that there was no spoken response. Time resumed its normal pace. The ice shattered.