Title: I'll Cry if I Want To
Fandom: RENT.
Pairings: Mark/Maureen, Roger/April, I guess.

Notes and Disclaimer: I once said that I couldn't write anything humorous and that I'd stick to drama. Now that I've given it a shot and all of my deeper stuff comes out soap opera-ish, I'm taking another whack at comedy. This one has even less plot than 'There Was This Girl,' which is, by the way, on hiatus until (a) a certain person send a certain slashy story to my inbox and (b) I know where I want to go with it. This is meant solely to give my Mark an awful, awful day and will be short, in either two or three parts. Characters are purposely out-of-character, and my PriorWalter(!) Roger makes a triumphant return. I hope you enjoy it.

I still don't own anything, so please don't sue.

---

"Hey." A pause. "Hey." Silence. "Hey!"

A very not-awake Mark Cohen groaned into his pillow as he hugged his sheets around himself and turned over in bed, away from the voice that was attempting to pluck him out of his rather pleasant dream and toss him down into the loud, sweltering Hell that was his home in the summertime.

"Wakey wakey, hands off snakey... Shit; I can't believe I just said that."

No response from the comfortable sleeper.

"Come on, Mark. Seize the day. Wake up and smell the... whatever the fuck it is you drink. Herbal tea. Up at at 'em."

Not even so much as a snore.

"Whatever. Dickhead." Even when talking to a nearly catatonic tangle of sheets and limbs, Roger found it necessary to antagonize his listener. Or non-listener, depending on the perspective. "I was trying to be nice, but I guess that just doesn't work for you, huh, Mark? I've got to be a bastard, right?"

When the sleeping blonde's only response was the very slightest flutter of eyelids, Roger leaned down over his friend and yanked his sheet away in one foul swoop before throwing himself at a groggy, but now suddenly awake Mark, knocking into him hard enough to send his mattress skidding a few inches across the floor.

What ensued was about half a minute of swearing and struggling from Mark, laughter and playful hits from his assailant. Only when Mark was secured rather awkwardly in a half-shoulder lock with a knee uncomfortably pinning one leg twisted did the startled victim chill out and stop his struggle, lest he turn the wrong way and snap his neck or his ankle. He scowled, though, up at a grinning and triumphant roommate, who, much to his surprise, was already dressed to go out.

"What the Hell was that for, Roger?" he demanded, cringing when Roger's free hand roughly mussed up his hair, which was already at all odd angles out of sleep.

"You're not sleeping today away is what that was for. Dude, it's three o'clock."

"But I got in late last n-"

"Well, you'll be up late tonight, too, so you had better get started." For a minute, it seemed as if Roger was going to kindly remove himself from on top of his frazzled friend, but a menacing smirk quickly claimed his face as he sat back, but only a little. "But first... hold still, and this won't hurt as much." Much to Mark's horror, he could see, even without his glasses, his friend ball his right hand into a fist and draw it back before it came rushing towards him, hitting him right off the center of his chest.

"One."

Mark gasped, audibly, and fished around to get his wind back.

"Two."

Wash, rinse, and repeat, but to the shoulder this time.

"Three, four..."

With each consecutive punch, Mark whined and wriggled and groaned and squirmed to get away, despite recommendation to the contrary from Roger. For the longest time, he couldn't possibly imagine why his best friend had pulled him out of bed against his will only to beat the living Hell out of him, but as the count approached fourteen and fifteen, the idea began to click.

"... Sixteen aaaaand seventeen."

"I-"

Bam.

"And one for good luck." Grinning broadly, Roger jumped back off of Mark before the aching boy had a chance to recover and try to retaliate, but not before tapping him twice on the cheek, earning a groan and a pout from him.

"Aww. Whassematter, Markie? Too hard?"

"Yes!" Mark squeaked, reluctantly pulling himself into a sitting position and hugging his arms around himself. "And they're supposed to go to the arms, Roger, not to the ch-"

"Well, the times, they are a-changin'; you're a man now, my friend, as long as you stay in the state of New York. You've got to be able to take a few lousy birthday punches." He was sure to add, just for effect, a very Mark-ish break on the word 'man.'

"Not yet." Sitting there in fish boxer shorts and a white undershirt yet still somehow not filling out his clothes, hair beyond help, and a petulant sort of scowl plastered to his lips, Mark Cohen, despite having crossed that invisible line between adolescence and adulthood, was still looking (and sounding) very much a boy, as his loving friend and roommate delighted in pointing out. "Not until 10:37 tonight, technically."

"Who cares? They're not going to know."

"Who's not going to know?"

"You'll see. Get dressed."

"No. Wait, I-"

A flying tank top interrupted Mark's interruption when it whizzed across the room and landed on top of his head.

"Score. Now hurry up and get dressed so we can leave," Roger demanded, tossing Mark a pair of jeans while he seemed to survey the room.

"Roger."

"What?"

"Where are we going, and... and what did you do to my pants?" The garment in question, the would-be pants held up in Mark's hand, while they hadn't been painted or bleached or Sharpied all over, were, in fact, no longer pants, but crudely hacked cutoff shorts, frayed and choppy at the ends and quite a bit too short, to end all.

The sinister musician could barely contain a smirk at the sight of Mark in his new shorts and Roger's beater; only if he had been in leather straps and nothing else could the pale, reedy Mark manage to look less natural. "I was doing you a favor; it's going to be a fucking Hellhole where we're going, and since you don't have any shorts, I made you a pair. Happy Birthday."

"No way." Mark, dressed as he was, had acquired the habit of pulling down on the ends of his shorts, hoping to cover a bit more skin, more likely than not. "I can't really go out looking like a..." He trailed off, blood creeping in to color his face in his hesitation.

"Like a...?"

"Stripper."

"Mark!" An overjoyed Roger promptly attacked his friend's head with a tube of gel and a comb, masterfully fixing his hair in a matter of seconds before ushering him towards the ladder to escape their bedroom. "I'm surprised."

Bewildered at Roger's sudden burst of energy, Mark hurried down the ladder and towards the kitchen, only to be dragged over to the couch, where his tattered shoes were waiting for him. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't think you'd catch on."

"Didn't think I'd catch on to...what, exactly?"

"The stripper thing, dumbass. How'd you guess?"

---

"Maaarkie, I really don't care. It's your birthday, baby! It's okay, I know how it is." A very tipsy Maureen giggled and hiccoughed between words, lazily throwing her arm around her not-quite-so tipsy boyfriend as he profusely stumbled through apologies for having let Roger "drag him" to a cramped, sleazy, and as he had been warned, absolutely sweltering strip club in an introduction to the nastiness of the adult world.

"Really, Maureen; I'm so sorry. I swear I didn't... you know... I didn't-"

"Touch?"

"Right, I didn't-"

"Damn, boy! Why not? I would have!" Knocking back yet another shot, Maureen turned her attention from the blushing birthday boy and towards Roger, who, along with April and Collins, was reclining between the milk crates that served as chairs, sloppily filling shot glasses and passing around an expertly-rolled joint that was giving the open room a very distinct odor. "Roger!"

"Huh?"

"Why'd you take him-" indicating Mark, who was nursing his drink much slower than the rest of the small party, "-and then not tell him to have fun? You asshole!"

"I didn't! ...Did... Whatever!" Roger hoisted himself off the floor and made his way over to Mark, taking the bottle out of his hand and replacing it with the cigarette that he had taken for his own, helping himself to his buddy's drink while making sure that Mark took a hit of the marijuana that Collins had so kindly supplied for the occasion. "He had fun. He had fun! Look: when's Mark gone and gotten all high and stuff without being scared to Hell?"

Laying off the chemicals for a minute, Mark grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not high."

"You're gonna be."

"I'm not high, Roger. I've never been high!"

Collins and April exchanged knowing glances, solemnly shaking their heads before going back to making a xylophone out of variously filled shot glasses.

"Mark, Mark, Mark: you're gonna be so fucking messed up. You're gonna, like... I don't know. You're gonna be puking up whatever you drink, but you're gonna be seeing things, so there're gonna be crazy elephants and shit watching you." Giggling, Roger held his joint to his lips, stopped when he realized that he didn't, in fact, have it on him, as Mark was still rather enjoying it, then burst out into complete laughter, obviously either cracking himself up or finding the image of elephants in their bedroom pretty hilarious.

Even Mark, who, like most people, was not too keen on vomiting on his birthday, grinned at the idea, giggling lightly even with the cigarette balanced over his lower lip. "Elephants? Really?"

"Sure. Pink elephants."

"I think you'd look good in pink, baby," Maureen added, needing to find her way back into the conversation, tugging on the tank top Mark had earlier borrowed from his roommate. "You should find this in pink, you know?"

"Roger," the mildly goofy boy began, turning twice around to find Roger, who had seated himself on the couch, and taking one last drag on the cigarette before Maureen plucked it out of his hold, "Do you have a pink one of these?"

"They don't make pink weed, Mark. God, you're dumb."

"No. I don't need- The shirt, I mean."

"How the Hell am I supposed to know? I'll check, since it's your birthday, but stop asking dumb questions!" Seeing Mark's face fall, the quite-trashed Roger heaved a sigh and held out the hand that wasn't still holding Mark's beer. "Fine, fine. Don't cry, geez. Give me that one, then."

Immediately lighting back up again, Mark began to wriggle out of his borrowed shirt, having way too much trouble with it, considering that it had no sleeves and offered plenty of places to escape; he probably would have been able to pull himself through the sleeve without getting caught, but throwing the unfamiliar mix of beer and marijuana, there seemed no escape for the young artist.

"Maureen," he whimpered, knocking his elbows together as two arms got tangled through the same sleeve. "Help me!"

Maureen just stared and laughed, attempting to blow smoke circles but succeeding only in producing a cloud of bitter smoke around her. Some girlfriend.

"Never fear!" Collins, who had been up to that point very content to kick back and nurse a drink, exclaimed, hopping to his feet and steadily -for Collins, experienced as he was, could stay relatively sober much longer than his experimenting friends- making his way over to the struggling Mark. "Stay still, Mark, and you'll be free in no time." Wrapping one arm around Mark's waist, Collins effortlessly lifted him and flipped his legs over his shoulders, leaving the boy literally hanging, his fingertips not quite at the floor. Though he squirmed and whined, one tug from Collins and the offending garment came right off, earning whistles and cheers and alcohol-laced laughter all around. "See? You could have done that in the first place." Pleased with himself, the hero rearranged Mark so that he was cradling him, planted an obnoxious kiss on his cheek, and proceeded to drop him onto the couch, which groaned and slumped under his weight.

"Roger, here," Collins said, turning to the grinning musician and tossing his shirt back at him. "And I know you've got that in pink."

"I'll get it, I'll get it," Roger whined, turning from the scene and towards the ladder leading to the room that he and Mark shared. "You guys are so pissy tonight." Needless to say, he tripped quite a few times before finally disappearing into their bedroom, much to the shaking of Collins' head against the milk crate where he had again taken up lounging around.

"Markie…"

Now, Maureen's sudden interest in her boyfriend could have stemmed from any number of things. Perhaps she felt a twinge of guilt at having spent more time getting drunk than cuddling with Mark. Maybe she was worried that, if someone wasn't talking to him, he was going to pass out and sleep the remaining hours of his birthday away. It's possible that, at one point or another, she had some sort of intelligent comment to make, but taken that she was Maureen and very under the influence, probably not. Most likely, it was the fact that Mark was stretched out on his back, mellow and hot and dressed in nothing but the shorts that a careless Roger had hacked too short that caught Maureen's attention.

"You're so cute!"

Gracelessly making herself comfortable on top of Mark, who grunted lightly at the new weight, Maureen wasted no time in burying her hands in Mark's hair and sticking it straight up and out in a mix of sweat and gel, something she rather enjoyed before, during, and after sex, and at just about any other moment when she was looking to get something out of her complaisant boyfriend.

"So! Markie. What can I get you for your birthday, hm?"

"You and Collins already brought the stuff, Maureen. Didn't you?"

"Well, yeah, but that's for all of us. What about for just me and you?"

"Aw, I don't need anything, Maureen. It's okay," Mark replied, smiling gently and resting his arms across her back. "I'm fine."

"No, really! Come on, baby; there's got to be something."

"No, I don't need anything, Maur-"

Obviously frustrated with Mark's cluelessness, Maureen took the situation into her own hands, quite literally, in fact, as she pressed one hand solidly against Mark's crotch and lifted his chin in the other, and kissed him resolutely, catching the boy by surprise and eliciting a squeak from him loud enough to alert Collins and April.

"Get a room!"

Not that something like that would stop Maureen; as Queen of Everything, she always got what she wanted, and at the moment, what she wanted was sex. Unfortunately, with Roger in Mark's room and Collins and April very much within earshot, making out was going to have to do. Generally speaking, Mark would have blushed awfully and shied away, but the lovely effects of controlled substances had him in their grasp, and he was, at the time, perfectly willing, though perhaps not entirely able to follow Maureen's lead.

"Damn." April giggled as she knocked a shot over and attempted to mop it up with one of the empty cardboard cases that had once been home to some of the beer bottles that were strewn around the room. "Mark's ballsy when he's trashed."

"Oh, he's not trashed," Collins replied, smirking contently and staring at the ceiling, rather than at the couple engaged in some heavy petting across the room. "If Mark were trashed, not even Maureen would be able to hold him down. Boy's a lunatic with more than a few drinks in him... until he's puking his insides out, of course."

"Really? 'Cause he's... that's like frigging clothed sex there."

"It's his party," the great philosopher offered, shrugging his shoulders and lighting a second cigarette, as Roger had apparently disappeared with the first. "But if Maureen's shirt comes off, I'm going upstairs. There are some things I just don't want to see."

"What about Mark's pants?"

"I'll stick around for that," Collins responded, grinning broadly, falling into laughter when April choked on her drink and slapped him. "Roger was very right in cutting up those shorts."

"Okay... wow." Supporting herself on one of the milk crates, a tipsy April carefully stood to her feet and smoothed out her skirt, giggling at the whoosh of blood in her ears and the teetering and tottering of the room around her. "You're just too weird now. I'm out of here; you ogling Mark is one of those things I don't want to see, and Roger's... I don't know where he went." Taking a roundabout way to the couch, April tapped Maureen on the shoulder, waved at her when she turned her attention away from Marks' mouth for a second or two, and then, laughing, kissed each of the two lovers. "Bye bye, you too. Happy birthday, Mark, and don't get too sick tomorrow, okay?"

"I.. uh- - yeah, okay. I won't," the birthday boy stammered, opening his eyes and trying to rub away the lipstick marks from his lips and cheek and just about everywhere else where skin was exposed, which, considering his shorts, was a lot.

"You're crazy," April sing-songed, shaking her head as she turned towards the door and heard the two behind her go right back to what they had been doing, completely oblivious to the door opening and closing and then opening again, to April's, "Whoa, I don't know you," between exiting and closing the door, to the 'oh shit' expression on Collins' face after the door re-opened, and, most importantly, to the startled gasp of a middle-aged woman and the drop of a plastic bag to the floor.

"Ahem. Maureen." Collins' voice, after a long silence, was anxious, something it almost never was, but even so, Maureen kept herself busy torturing a gasping Mark.

"Maureen. Mark. You two might want to-"

"Colli-" Mark began while trying to catch his breath, only to be cut off again by Maureen's mouth on his own.

"Mark!" Naturally, Roger chose to make his grand re-entrance here, slipping down the last three or four rungs of the ladder, pink tank top in hand and cigarette nowhere to be found, obviously flying higher than he had been when he first went on his search. More notably, he was down to his boxers and one of April's glittery tank tops, two different socks, and a pair of red sunglasses in his hair. "Look, I got it. I found this, Mark."

"That's okay, Roger," Maureen replied giggling, scooting up to sit on Mark's chest and watching Roger as he made his way towards the couch, swaying just a bit in his trip. "I don't think we'll need it now. Tomorrow, maybe."

"Fine." Roger groaned and tossed the pink shirt behind him, ringing an empty bottle of vodka, then grudgingly dragged himself to the edge of the couch and seated himself heavily in Mark's lap, much to the squirming and whimpering of the disheveled-looking blonde. Luckily enough, Roger was much too messed up to notice anything that could possibly be making Mark blush so hotly.

"Er, Roger... Could you-"

"I got to tell you, Mark," Roger interrupted, gently stroking one of Mark's shins, eyeing him sleepily, "You've definitely got the legs for those shorts."

"Uh... thank you, I think..."

"I mean, look! Collins, what do you think? Don't you think it looks good?" Collins was too busy being silently dumbfounded to reply, so Roger turned his attention to the shocked woman standing near the open door, the woman who had gone unnoticed by Maureen because she had her back to the door and unnoticed to Mark because Maureen was in his way. "You think so, right? I mean, look: so fucking cute."

"Roger, who the Hell are you talking to?" Maureen turned over one shoulder, then right back to Mark, confusion written all across her face. "There's someone staring at you, pookie."

"What?" Groggily, Mark fixed his glasses, which, in all of his vigorous movement, had been pushed up into his hair, and struggled to lean over the side of the couch to see just what everyone else was staring at. It took a good ten seconds to register, but when the all-too familiar figure clicked somewhere in his sex-focused, alcohol-laden, marijuana-laced mind, all color drained from his face, which had been flushed significantly from the mix of the three. His blue eyes widened behind his glasses, his hands started to shake, and when his full and proper name seemed to echo across the room, loud and angry in the woman's voice, Mark Cohen promptly fainted dead away.

---

End Notes: So? Get it?

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