HELLO! I have finally decided to venture into the land of SERIOUS fiction! HOLY CRAP! Anyways... the plot bunny for this has been bouncing around in my head non-stop and refused to stop after I'd seen RENT for the third time in theaters... so here it be.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Jonathon Larson is responsible for them, may God rest his soul and send him beams of rainbow love from all us RENTheads!
Looking into the dressing room mirror, he almost didn't recognize himself. It was odd to think that this was the same reflection he was accustomed to seeing, and for a moment, the last three years almost seemed like a dream, or some sort of drug-induced vision. Those he was used to. Those he usually had no problem analyzing and then promptly forgetting about. But the face that continued to stare back at him refused that, testifying that this, here and now was achingly real.
Dusty-blonde hair that was usually wavy had been straightened and spiked out with some sort of fruity-smelling gel. A chin that usually sported a five-o' clock shadow had been shaved clean, letting the smile lines around his mouth stand out in sharper contrast. Light green-blue eyes were rimmed with dark kohl eyeliner, eyes that had once been so angry, cold and guarded. Now a quiet grief shined out from behind them, along with a good amount of hard-earned wisdom. But most prominent in those eyes was that hope, that purpose which they had lacked most strongly in the past.
The loud banging of the dressing room door slamming shut shocked him out of his self-perusal, and his chair was suddenly swung violently around to a grinning face framed by long dread-locks.
"Roger, man, you seen the crowd that's out there tonight? Damn, man, it's the biggest fuckin' crowd I've seen so far!" Dark brown eyes narrowed and he raised a thick eyebrow with a leer. "You should see some 'o the chicks out there too, man! If I don't get lucky at least three times tonight with some class-A hotties, I'll pay you that 20 bucks I owe you!"
Roger laughed.
"Blake, you'll never pay me that 20 bucks you owe me, regardless. Shouldn't you be tuning your bass or something instead of bothering me with tales of your impressive sex appeal?"
"Ahh, don't knock it 'cause you jealous, bro. Hell, I'm sure even your stinky ass could pick up a couple bitches tonight the way they gettin' all worked up already!"
"Not tonight, Blake."
"Fuck, man. You say that every God damn night."
"Wouldn't wanna break the pattern, then, now would I?" A sardonic grin lit up the lead guitarist's face.
"Shut the hell up. I swear to God, Roger, sometimes I wonder if you have any sex-drive at all." Blake turned and strode toward the door, turning half-around after he grabbed the handle.
"Show starts in five minutes, man. Stop angsting all alone in the dressing room and get your ass out there." His teeth flashed brightly against his mahogany skin and he winked in an obscenely sexual way. Roger had no idea how Blake turned winking into something obscenely sexual, but if anyone could do it, he could. Roger grinned and flipped him off.
With a bark of laughter from Blake, Roger was left alone in the dressing room again. With one last glance at the mirror, he turned to leave.
2 years earlier:
Roger rubbed clammy hands onto his freshly-pressed black pants. Hell, he thought he'd been ready for this for months, but for some reason the butterflies just wouldn't stop ricocheting around his stomach. He straightened his tie nervously, loosening it for a moment in some last ditch effort to get the lump out of his throat.
"Ready to go, Rog?" The quiet question made him jump, seeming loud in the previously silent room.
"Jesus, Mark! You scared the shit outta me!" His best friend smiled.
"Well, glad to know you're still in there. I was beginning to think you had gone comatose on me."
Mark looked strangely out of place in the borrowed tux, his fingers peaking out from below the too-long sleeves. Roger glanced at him pleadingly.
"Am I doing the right thing, Mark?" he asked for the hundredth time that day. Mark sighed.
"We've gone through this, Rog. You know you love her."
"I do."
"Then what the hell else is there to think about? Come on, man. I'm the one who over-analyzes shit. Don't pull a me. Let's go. Everyone's waiting."
Mark grabbed his sleeve and dragged him out the door, their shoes echoing loudly on the linoleum floor. The smell of antiseptic and medication reached Roger's nostrils, and he almost balked. Damn, he hated hospitals.
They reached the end of the hall, opening two big wooden doors seeming out of place in the bleak white hallway. Dim lighting from candles and the single stain glass window gave the small chapel a homey feel, and the small group gathered there stood. Everyone was smiling. Collins flashed him the biggest shit-eating grin Roger had ever seen on his face. Well, except for that time he'd seen Angel dressed in nothing but an American flag she'd converted into a very irreverent dress for the Fourth of July. Then he saw her.
The butterflies disappeared immediately. For all that she was too weak to really stand, laid out in the movable hospital bed, several IVs running into her arm, she was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Maureen and Joanne had helped her out of the hospital gown and into a glittering light blue dress; she'd flat out refused to wear the traditional white. Her deep brown eyes were lined with her favorite blue eyeliner, her full lips accentuated by an almost sheer gloss.
The quiet smile that reached those beautiful eyes of hers made his stomach do flip-flops. He was falling in love all over again, as fucking cliché as that was. No more regrets, he strode up to stand next to her, his hand immediately seeking out hers.
The ceremony was short and to the point. No one had much time to waste anyway. He slipped the simple gold band onto her finger gently, and recited the vows he'd spent nearly a week perfecting.
"Mimi, there's no way I can tell you how thankful I am you came into my life. You taught me how to laugh again, you taught me how to live again, but most importantly, you taught me how to love again. I love you, and if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life loving you." Her smile got even bigger, and he could see the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks. She reached for his hand, and slipped on his matching gold ring.
"Roger, you gave me back everything that I'd lost somewhere along the way. I love you, baby. And even though I'm stuck in this stupid bed, I want you to know that this is the happiest day of my life."
He didn't hear the reverend announcing they were now man and wife. He didn't hear the uproarious applause from his friends. All he knew was that he was holding Mimi, he was kissing Mimi, and he never wanted to let her go.
3 weeks later:
Her body was drenched in sweat, and so was he, curled up holding her on the small hospital bed. She wasn't even shaking anymore, her breaths coming in short rasps, and he knew it wouldn't be long. Mark was sitting in the corner across the room, looking on solemnly, Maureen and Joanne standing next to him and holding hands so tightly their knuckles had turned white. Collins had left an hour before to call Benny and hadn't come back. Roger didn't blame him. It would have been hell to have gone through this a second time.
He was vaguely aware that he was whispering into her ear, rocking her, the string of 'I love you's becoming a desperate chant. Suddenly, her hand was squeezing his back, and she moved her head to look into his eyes.
"Roger, baby," she breathed out, each word a tremendous effort to get past her lips, "you gotta promise me…"
"Promise what, Mimi?" he choked out, tears running freely down his face.
"That you'll…keep going," it was getting harder for her to speak. He almost wanted to tell her to be quiet, to save her breath, but he knew these might be the last words she ever said. "Promise…you'll still keep writing me songs? I swear… I'll still hear them."
"Mimi…"
"Promise me, Roger." That sentence had been strong, adamant, almost like she wasn't struggling for breath, almost as if she wasn't even sick anymore.
"I promise, baby. I promise." A smile lit up that beautiful face, her brown eyes sparkling.
"Good. Love you." She was falling back into a restless sleep. He held her tighter.
"Love you, too, Mimi," he whispered into her hair, trying in vain to stifle his sobs.
They called her three hours later.
Present:
Roger ran his fingers lightly over the gold band he still wore on his left ring-finger. He placed a small kiss to it, and walked out towards the stage. He could hear the pulsing beat of the crowd, and smiled.
Mimi had never really fully recovered after that cold Christmas eve they'd found her in the park. They'd had one more year together after that, and he had treasured every day of it. He never regretted the three weeks they'd had together as husband and wife; he almost got pissed at himself that he hadn't married her sooner.
He had kept to his promise, and instead of blocking everyone out like he had when he'd lost April, he channeled the grief into his songs. He'd gotten the old band back together, and now the Well Hungarians had built up quite an underground following along the east coast. They'd been touring now for almost a month, and he was still amazed at the number of fans they packed into the small-time venues they'd been hitting.
Mimi had been right in making him promise. Every night he went out and sang for her, he sang to reach out, to tell her story. He would never let her death be in vain. And even though he sang for her, he sang for his friends, too. He sang for Angel, he sang for Collins and, even though he may never admit it to his best friend's face, he sang for Mark sometimes too. Because this was his way of showing them what they all meant to him. To show that he would never forget.
And in keeping that promise, an amazing thing had happened. He found that he would never forget Mimi, never forget any of his friends, but for the first time in a long time, he was really happy. He was glad he was able to still be out there, bringing his music to people; that rush he got from being onstage was bigger than ever. He found a joy in sending out his message, the same type of joy he'd had whenever Mimi smiled at him, whenever Angel made a snarky comment, whenever Collins laughed, whenever Mark's eyes lit up with a quiet pride and slight awe for him when Roger played Musetta's Waltz perfectly all the way through.
Blake rushed past him with a short clap to his shoulder as Jeff started in with the drum beat, the crowd screaming as Blake picked up his guitar, thrusting his pelvis out obscenely as he ground against it. Roger smiled and shook his head. That was his cue.
Get ready for another kick-ass show, Mimi. I know you're listening.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, a bead of moisture running down his temple to the already soaked pillow. His eyes clenched shut then relaxed in spasms, wordless whimpers escaping his lips he was biting so hard he was drawing blood. Even that small pain couldn't wake him from the now familiar nightmare that ravaged his sleeping mind.
Cold. It was freezing cold. Not the kind of bone-numbing cold he was used to; it was the kind of cold that filled you from the inside, ate you up until there was nothing left. He was shivering in vain, hugging himself as he took in his surroundings. The headstones were looming over him, a stark black against the grey sky, almost as if they were holes cut out of the air, a gaping nothingness staring back at him beyond.
His knuckles were white as they clenched the sheets. Blankets tangled around his legs as he began to kick restlessly. One violent kick moved the whole rickety bed, bumping into the bedside table and jarring a pair of glasses onto the floor.
Names stared back at him from the headstones. Friends, acquaintances, family members. Some he remembered readily, grieved their death every day, others he didn't remember and felt guilty for forgetting. He began to walk slowly through the barren landscape, hugging himself closer as he passed individual gravestones. These were the names he knew.
A pang of pain hit him as he passed each one, almost bringing him to his knees with the harshness of it. He passed one gravestone. Angel. A second. Mimi. A third, the newest and therefore most painful. Collins. Tears were rolling down his face now, burning against his cheeks like razors running down his skin. Vaguely, he remembered that he almost never cried when he was awake.
A sick feeling began sinking into his stomach as he came up to a new gravestone. He was coming up behind it, and he couldn't see the inscription. It was like he was stepping on knives as he walked around to the front to read the inscription. Slowly, he raised his eyes to read it. Roger Davis.
His mouth opened in a soundless scream of denial and he was falling, tumbling into the abyss carved out by that gravestone, and suddenly there was nothing all around him. Absolutely nothing. And he was alone. All he knew was that he was alone…
Mark awoke when a harsh scream ripped into the silence of the empty loft. Slowly, he realized it was himself that had screamed. Breathing harshly, he tried to calm himself down. He took in his surroundings, reminded himself where he was. He was home in the loft. He was safe. Roger was fine, he was just on tour. Had been for almost a month.
He fumbled for his glasses, setting them onto his nose after he found them on the ground and turned on the bedside lamp. It wasn't because Roger was gone that the nightmares were occurring.
Hell, Roger didn't even live in the loft with him when he wasn't on tour. Hadn't for over a year. As soon as the Well Hungarians had begun to hit it big, he'd been forced to move to an apartment that was closer to the recording studio, closer to his other band mates. If Mark remembered correctly, Roger had been adamantly against moving out in the first place. Mark had convinced him it was better in the end.
No, the nightmares had been occurring almost regularly for over a year. They'd started right after they'd finally lost Collins.
15 months ago:
Mark kept himself occupied with getting his camera out of his satchel as he walked into the hospital. He had to distract himself to get up the nerve to come in here. It was too soon to be back in this fucking hospital. Only nine months since they'd lost Mimi. Now they were getting ready to say goodbye to Collins. He was sick of hospitals. With a humorless smile, he wondered if Roger and him should have a contest over who hated them more.
He walked to room 106 on autopilot. He opened the door, making sure to adopt a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He walked over to the edge of Collins' bed. He was awake and sitting up, re-reading a book of poetry by his beloved Langston Hughes. He marked his spot when Mark sat down on the edge of his bed.
"Another visit, Marky? So soon? Shit, man. The way you act, you'd think I was about to die or something!" Collins chuckled at his own morbid joke.
"Ha ha. Very funny," Mark deadpanned. Only Collins would still be his same cheerful self, even when Death was knocking on his door. Mark wouldn't be surprised if he managed to be late for his own funeral, making some excuse about having gotten tied up when he finally showed, and did they know how much leather chafed? Mark couldn't resist a smile at that image.
"Seriously, Mark. I'm just tryin' to lighten up the atmosphere in here," Collins shifted closer and lowered his voice. "Between you and me, I think the people in here all seriously need to have themselves a good party for once. Or get laid."
"They need to get laid? You should tell them to fax me. I'm getting desperate enough." Mark couldn't resist joking back with Collins. His humor was infectious. Collins let out a throaty laugh.
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about, Mark. Good to see there's still some sort of funny bone left in that Kosher body of yours."
"Enough about me. How are you feeling, Collins?"
"Same as always. Pretty damn shitty. But that's how it goes, I guess. I refuse to let something as little as a chronic cough and nausea get me down." Almost as if on cue, Collins turned his head and began hacking violently. Mark helped steady his shoulders when he threatened to flop over on the bed.
"The meds helping at all?" he asked when Collins was done coughing.
"Not much they can do anymore, I'm afraid," Collins said, his voice taking on a serious tone uncharacteristic of him. "I gotta level with you, Mark. They're saying I've got a month left at the most."
Mark nodded numbly, the tears that always seemed to be threatening pushing at the back of his eyes. But he refused to let them come. He was the strong one. He had to stay in control.
"Now don't get all depressed on me," Collins said kindly with a short chuckle. "Seriously, Mark, I've made my peace. I haven't really been the same since Angel went, you know. It's almost a relief that I finally get to follow him."
"I know, Collins. And like you keep telling me, there's not much I can do about it, right?"
"There you go, acting all defeatist." One of Collins hands came up to grip Mark's shoulder strongly. "I'm worried about you, Marky."
"Don't worry," Mark smiled. "Roger's had a flame lit under his ass with how well the band's been doing. He's happy to remember Mimi and make her proud. Sure, Benny's still an asshole, but that was a given. And Maureen and Joanne will always have each other to bitch at and screw alternately."
"I didn't mean 'you' as in 'you guys', Mark. I meant you," Collins corrected him.
"Oh."
"Listen, Mark…"
"Don't, Collins," Mark cut him off. "I can handle it. I'm fine."
"No, you're not, Mark." Collins paused for a moment, meeting Mark's eyes with his own. Finally he broke into a wistful smile.
"I always knew you were gonna be the one of us to make it," he continued. "You would be the one to survive. You've just got this power about you. It's a quiet kind of strength, but it's there. You're only problem is that you care too fucking much." Mark let out a laugh that he would not admit was on the watery side.
"It's a bad thing to care, Collins?"
"Not a bad thing to care, Mark, but it's a bad thing when you care so much that you're constantly questioning whether anything you could have done would've changed the way things are. It's not your fault, Mark. It's never been your fault. And I'm afraid that when I go, you're gonna block people out. Not that I'd blame you. The best of people would after losing three close friends in such quick succession.
"I think the problem is that you're so used to being neglected. Not that we ignored you on purpose, but I think you never really had a chance to grieve yourself. When Angel went, you were trying to hold me together, hold Roger together when he was tripping over Mimi. When Mimi went, you were too busy staying strong for Roger to realize that he didn't need you to be strong for him. He'd already found his purpose out of what happened. He's dealt with it better than I dealt with losing Angel. You, though, I think you've been slowly losing yourself since Angel died."
What the hell could he say to that? How had Collins been able to rip right past all his carefully constructed façades to see into the truth of the matter? Mark stayed silent, staring at a speck of dust on the blanket.
"You've got so much to give, Mark," Collins continued after squeezing Mark's shoulder encouragingly. "You tend to get a little caught up in your work sometimes, but you have the same capacity to love that Angel had. You find people you love, and you stick by them unconditionally, no matter what." Collins paused for a moment, almost as if he was gathering himself. Finally, he continued.
"I learned things from all of my friends, but I'd have to say that Angel and you taught me the most. Angel taught me about passion, and you taught me about patience. He taught me about love; you taught me about loyalty. I love you, man. I just didn't wanna go without ever telling you that."
Well, shit. Now Mark was crying. Collins seemed to understand, though. He opened his arms, pulling Mark into a hug. Mark was amazed that there seemed to be so much strength left in him as he held him, letting him sob into his shoulder.
"Mark, I want you to keep loving after I go," Collins whispered when Mark had calmed down. "Like I said, you've got so much to give, man. Don't stop giving just because my tired old body decided to quit on me. I'd hate to rob the world of such a prize; well, the parts that haven't been destroyed by that damn conservative upbringing of yours." Collins grinned, and Mark couldn't help but smile back. He sat back up, took off his glasses for a moment and wiped his eyes.
"I don't know if I can promise you that I'll be able to do that, Tom," Mark finally said. "But I can promise you that I won't ever stop trying." Collins laughed and clapped him on the back.
"That's all I ask, Mark. That's all I ask."
Present:
It was three weeks and two days after that conversation that Collins finally went to join Angel. Ever since then, Mark had done his best to keep trying, but it seemed like lately it had begun to get even harder. And during these cold nights when he woke up alone and freaked out, all those doubts came back to him. Especially doubts that had been planted by a fight with Roger on Halloween.
Who, Mark, are you?
Mark rubbed weary blue eyes and swung his legs out from under the covers. He shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing cold water into his face. He glared at his reflection in the mirror. These days, he almost didn't recognize himself.
Mark hides in his work. From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact you live a lie.
He went back to his bed and flopped down onto it face first. He almost hoped the comforter would smother him into oblivion. With a sigh, he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He felt cold. He wished he didn't feel anymore.
You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive.
He couldn't stand this anymore. He stood up to go start a pot of coffee, reaching to grab his mug off the shelf when he got to the kitchen. In the dark, he fumbled it, and there was a loud crash as it shattered on the floor.
"Fuck," he breathed to the empty apartment.
Carefully, he reached for the light switch, careful not to move his bare feet. He didn't want to step on any broken glass. When he flicked the light on, he made sure not to step on any shards and grabbed a dust pan. After sweeping up most of the little pieces, he went to pick up the bigger ones.
"Shit!" he cursed again as he felt his index finger get sliced by a piece that he'd grabbed, misjudging which side was the sharp one. He automatically put his finger into his mouth, tasting the copper tang of blood.
Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive!
Mark grabbed the band-aids out of the medicine cabinet, rinsing his finger off with soap and water, wincing at the sting. Finally, he wrapped his relatively clean cut in the sterile band-aid.
Why am I the witness? And when I capture it on film, will it mean that it's the end and I'm alone?
"That's fucking it," he stated to the empty loft.
Along with all his worries and neuroses, an idea had planted itself in his mind about a year ago. He'd finally decided it was about damn time he put the idea to good use.
He went back out to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. It was almost 6:30 in the morning. Good. That meant she'd be up since it was a Wednesday. He picked up the phone.
"It's time I started trying a little harder, Collins," he whispered as he dialed the number. He waited. A few rings, and she picked up.
"Joanne? It's Mark. I need to ask for a favor…"
Soooo... dat be it for Chapter 1. Chapter 2 should be out fairly soon, as I have half of it done at the time of this posting... yay! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!