A/N: Hi everyone! ::waves:: This is my first Rentfic, and my first
attempt at M/R slash. I own nothing—Jonathan Larson owns the characters,
and Matt Caplan owns the song. Please review, or send me email at
LarissaOR15@hotmail.com, pretty please? Hope you like! --Larissa
1 Searching for a Sign
1.1 It's not that I'm stupid
It's not that I'm scheming
It's not that I'm searching for a sign
It's not that I'm righteous
And it's not that I'm unfeeling
I don't expect you to be mine.
--Matt Caplan
I can feel his gaze from across the room. He thinks I don't know he's looking, but I do. He's trying not to look at me on the couch, my arm around Mimi's shoulders, my hand playing with her dark curly hair. He doesn't want to look, but he can't help it, any more than I can help feeling guilty for what I'm doing to my best friend.
I'm a sick bastard. Never claimed to be anything else. I was always allowed to be difficult. I could be the tough rock star, or the pissed off junkie, or any role I wanted. I could yell and scream and slam doors. I could go out and thoroughly fuck up my life, then come back to my friends and beg them to put it back together. And they would, because after the hell I'd put them through, they still loved me.
Mark was always there for me, no matter what. I'd stumble home in the wee morning hours, and retch up my last three meals, and he was the one who'd clean up the bathroom. When my friends got together to tell me I had to do something about my drug problem, it was Mark who arranged the intervention. It was Mark who faithfully traveled to the pharmacy every month to refill my AZT prescription, and it was Mark who risked his life by cleaning up April's blood from the bathtub so I wouldn't have to see that, on top of everything else.
We go back a long way. Five, six years at least, ever since I hopped off the bus in New York and saw the For Rent sign in the window of the loft. During all those days and nights since, I can't remember him losing his temper with me. "Roger, I'm worried about you," he'd say. "Roger, I wish you'd think again before doing that." But never "Dammit, Roger, what the fuck is going on" or "Don't be a shithead, Roger, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." He was always patient when it came to me. Always giving of himself. He could be going through his own personal hell, and he'd drop it in a moment if he thought I needed him.
I know he cares about me. He's proven that time and time again. And I know he loves me. Not how you'd love a friend, or a brother, but the way you love someone with your entire heart and soul, and yet you can't breathe a word of it, for fear of destroying what you already share.
I don't remember exactly when I became aware of this. The first thing I remember was after one of our pizza and movie nights. Benny was spending the summer abroad in Europe with his family, and we hadn't met Collins yet. Ditto Maureen. Benny had been the one who cooked, so needless to say, Mark and I were left to takeout and the occasional batch of waffles in his absence. We'd order in, stick a cheesy horror flick in the VCR, and chow down in silence, two men watching big breasted girls get hacked to pieces on the screen. This particular time, I'd gotten up early to audition a new drummer for my band. As a result, I was more tired than usual, and I fell asleep halfway through the movie.
When I woke up, the TV screen was blank. The lights were off, and I thought that Mark had draped a blanket over me and gone to bed. I felt someone stroking my hair, and for a moment, I was sure I was still dreaming. But when I opened my eyes further, I could see that this was no dream, and it was Mark stroking my hair. I didn't know what to say, or to do, so I closed my eyes again and hoped that when I opened them again, he'd be gone and I'd be able to sort everything out.
I still would have written it off as a dream, except I kept picking up on other signs through the years. How nervous he got when we were alone for too long. The way he seemed almost relieved whenever I broke up with a girlfriend. How when I cut my hand, and he bandaged it for me (this was in the pre-HIV days), he held onto it a split second longer than necessary, and how his cheeks burned afterwards.
But there was plenty of reason for that to all be coincidence, and for the most part, I was able to put it out of my mind and go on being roommates and best friends. I'd bring over my girlfriends, and tried to ignore the glimpse of pain that flickered across his face before he'd smile and introduce himself to her.
It's more than the occasional glimpse this time, though. If I looked at him at just the right moment, I'd see more anguish than I could live with. I've found a fragile happiness with Mimi, when I thought I'd never smile again. I can't lose that. It's all that I have. And if it means that I have to sacrifice my best friend to keep it, then I will, because Roger Davis is a heartless son of a bitch.
It happened a week ago. I'd been moping around the loft, as was my custom since April died. Mark and I had a routine established. He'd knock on my door at precisely six thirty, and try to talk me into going out for a bite to eat. I'd refuse, and Mark would leave. I'd lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling until he got back, always bringing something back for me. He would give me the food, and shut the door, leaving me to mope some more, and pick at whatever he'd brought for me that night.
It didn't happen that way on Tuesday night, though. We had gone according to schedule right up to eight thirty, when Mark knocked on my door and handed me a veggie wrap. I thanked him and started to close the door when he stepped inside and said he wanted to say something to me.
I can still see him standing there, his hands in his pockets, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck. It started out the same as always. "I'm worried about you, Roger," he said. I'd heard this part so much, I could almost recite it myself. "You won't talk to anyone, you isolate yourself in your room for days at a time, and you forget to take your AZT. I hate seeing you like this."
I nodded and waited patiently for the next part. He would urge me to call Collins, claiming that he had been down this road himself, and might have some good advice for me.
"And I can't do this anymore," Mark continued.
I picked up my head. This was different. "What?"
"I can't do this anymore," he repeated, his voice shaking. "Roger, you're my best friend. I love you, but I can't just sit here and watch you die."
I shook my head, still unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Huh?"
"I've found another apartment," I heard him say. Everything he said after that didn't sink in at all. Mark was leaving me. After all these months, after all we'd been through, I'd finally managed to drive away the only person I had left.
"Mark, no, please," I begged. "Don't leave."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I have to do this."
I felt it before I heard it. A long, low wail of misery, filling up my chest and lungs and pouring out of my mouth until the room was full of it. My breath became ragged, and tears splashed down onto my hands. "Don't leave me, Mark," I sobbed, holding out my hands to him. "Don't leave me all alone."
"Oh, God, Roger," Mark whispered, and then he sat down next to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't go," I insisted, burying my face in his shoulder. "I need you, Mark."
"Shhhh," he whispered, stroking the back of my hair with one hand, and rubbing my back with the other. "I'm not going anywhere."
He held me until my sobs slackened, and my tears dried. When we finally pulled apart, I saw that he had been crying too.
"It's going to be okay, Roger," Mark promised me. "We're going to make it through this."
His hand was still on my neck. What happened next happened as easily as if it had been planned all along. Our faces moved closer, our eyes closed, and our lips joined together.
The kiss was like Mark itself; sweet and gentle. When I put my hand up to his face, I could feel his heart thumping beneath my fingers, in a regular and soothing rhythm. I was surprised at how easy and natural this felt. How right it seemed.
We slept together in my bed that night. Mark held onto me tightly, his arms around my waist, and his breath warm and sweet on my shoulder. "I love you," I heard him whisper, late at night, after I had been lying still for ages, and he thought I was asleep.
When I woke up the next morning, the bed was empty, and I figured it had all been a dream, and a strange one at that. I went out into the kitchen, and saw Mark making waffles, and call me crazy, but when he smiled at me and wished me a good morning, I knew for a fact that last night had been no dream. It was obvious in the little bounce in his step, and the tune he hummed as he poured the syrup over his waffles. No, last night had been no dream, and now that the morning had come, I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do.
"Some night, huh?" Mark laughed, handing me my plate of waffles.
"Some night," I agreed. "I must have been bombed out of my mind, because I can't remember a thing."
I'll never forget the way his face fell, or how I felt in the exact moment when I saw his heart break. I felt guilty as hell, much the same as I do now, kissing Mimi when I know that Mark's watching us from his corner of the room.
Why do I pretend it didn't happen? I honestly don't know. Perhaps it's because I don't want to believe that I'm gay. Maybe it goes along with a sensitive filmmaker, but it's a lot harder to be homosexual when you're a moody rock star. Or perhaps it's because I'm not gay, and that night was a simple mistake, and I can't bear to break Mark's heart by telling him I don't feel the same way.
Perhaps it's because I destroy everything and everyone I care about, and I'm trying to spare Mark the hell that comes from loving me.
Except I can't. I'm already destroying him, every time I touch Mimi, and every time Mark risks a glance at me, and I turn away. He's sitting over there right now, searching for a sign that I remember even a little bit of what happened, and for the tiniest shred of hope that I might feel the same way.
I was broken all along. Now I'm breaking Mark as well.
1 Searching for a Sign
1.1 It's not that I'm stupid
It's not that I'm scheming
It's not that I'm searching for a sign
It's not that I'm righteous
And it's not that I'm unfeeling
I don't expect you to be mine.
--Matt Caplan
I can feel his gaze from across the room. He thinks I don't know he's looking, but I do. He's trying not to look at me on the couch, my arm around Mimi's shoulders, my hand playing with her dark curly hair. He doesn't want to look, but he can't help it, any more than I can help feeling guilty for what I'm doing to my best friend.
I'm a sick bastard. Never claimed to be anything else. I was always allowed to be difficult. I could be the tough rock star, or the pissed off junkie, or any role I wanted. I could yell and scream and slam doors. I could go out and thoroughly fuck up my life, then come back to my friends and beg them to put it back together. And they would, because after the hell I'd put them through, they still loved me.
Mark was always there for me, no matter what. I'd stumble home in the wee morning hours, and retch up my last three meals, and he was the one who'd clean up the bathroom. When my friends got together to tell me I had to do something about my drug problem, it was Mark who arranged the intervention. It was Mark who faithfully traveled to the pharmacy every month to refill my AZT prescription, and it was Mark who risked his life by cleaning up April's blood from the bathtub so I wouldn't have to see that, on top of everything else.
We go back a long way. Five, six years at least, ever since I hopped off the bus in New York and saw the For Rent sign in the window of the loft. During all those days and nights since, I can't remember him losing his temper with me. "Roger, I'm worried about you," he'd say. "Roger, I wish you'd think again before doing that." But never "Dammit, Roger, what the fuck is going on" or "Don't be a shithead, Roger, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." He was always patient when it came to me. Always giving of himself. He could be going through his own personal hell, and he'd drop it in a moment if he thought I needed him.
I know he cares about me. He's proven that time and time again. And I know he loves me. Not how you'd love a friend, or a brother, but the way you love someone with your entire heart and soul, and yet you can't breathe a word of it, for fear of destroying what you already share.
I don't remember exactly when I became aware of this. The first thing I remember was after one of our pizza and movie nights. Benny was spending the summer abroad in Europe with his family, and we hadn't met Collins yet. Ditto Maureen. Benny had been the one who cooked, so needless to say, Mark and I were left to takeout and the occasional batch of waffles in his absence. We'd order in, stick a cheesy horror flick in the VCR, and chow down in silence, two men watching big breasted girls get hacked to pieces on the screen. This particular time, I'd gotten up early to audition a new drummer for my band. As a result, I was more tired than usual, and I fell asleep halfway through the movie.
When I woke up, the TV screen was blank. The lights were off, and I thought that Mark had draped a blanket over me and gone to bed. I felt someone stroking my hair, and for a moment, I was sure I was still dreaming. But when I opened my eyes further, I could see that this was no dream, and it was Mark stroking my hair. I didn't know what to say, or to do, so I closed my eyes again and hoped that when I opened them again, he'd be gone and I'd be able to sort everything out.
I still would have written it off as a dream, except I kept picking up on other signs through the years. How nervous he got when we were alone for too long. The way he seemed almost relieved whenever I broke up with a girlfriend. How when I cut my hand, and he bandaged it for me (this was in the pre-HIV days), he held onto it a split second longer than necessary, and how his cheeks burned afterwards.
But there was plenty of reason for that to all be coincidence, and for the most part, I was able to put it out of my mind and go on being roommates and best friends. I'd bring over my girlfriends, and tried to ignore the glimpse of pain that flickered across his face before he'd smile and introduce himself to her.
It's more than the occasional glimpse this time, though. If I looked at him at just the right moment, I'd see more anguish than I could live with. I've found a fragile happiness with Mimi, when I thought I'd never smile again. I can't lose that. It's all that I have. And if it means that I have to sacrifice my best friend to keep it, then I will, because Roger Davis is a heartless son of a bitch.
It happened a week ago. I'd been moping around the loft, as was my custom since April died. Mark and I had a routine established. He'd knock on my door at precisely six thirty, and try to talk me into going out for a bite to eat. I'd refuse, and Mark would leave. I'd lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling until he got back, always bringing something back for me. He would give me the food, and shut the door, leaving me to mope some more, and pick at whatever he'd brought for me that night.
It didn't happen that way on Tuesday night, though. We had gone according to schedule right up to eight thirty, when Mark knocked on my door and handed me a veggie wrap. I thanked him and started to close the door when he stepped inside and said he wanted to say something to me.
I can still see him standing there, his hands in his pockets, his scarf hanging loosely around his neck. It started out the same as always. "I'm worried about you, Roger," he said. I'd heard this part so much, I could almost recite it myself. "You won't talk to anyone, you isolate yourself in your room for days at a time, and you forget to take your AZT. I hate seeing you like this."
I nodded and waited patiently for the next part. He would urge me to call Collins, claiming that he had been down this road himself, and might have some good advice for me.
"And I can't do this anymore," Mark continued.
I picked up my head. This was different. "What?"
"I can't do this anymore," he repeated, his voice shaking. "Roger, you're my best friend. I love you, but I can't just sit here and watch you die."
I shook my head, still unable to comprehend what he was saying. "Huh?"
"I've found another apartment," I heard him say. Everything he said after that didn't sink in at all. Mark was leaving me. After all these months, after all we'd been through, I'd finally managed to drive away the only person I had left.
"Mark, no, please," I begged. "Don't leave."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I have to do this."
I felt it before I heard it. A long, low wail of misery, filling up my chest and lungs and pouring out of my mouth until the room was full of it. My breath became ragged, and tears splashed down onto my hands. "Don't leave me, Mark," I sobbed, holding out my hands to him. "Don't leave me all alone."
"Oh, God, Roger," Mark whispered, and then he sat down next to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't go," I insisted, burying my face in his shoulder. "I need you, Mark."
"Shhhh," he whispered, stroking the back of my hair with one hand, and rubbing my back with the other. "I'm not going anywhere."
He held me until my sobs slackened, and my tears dried. When we finally pulled apart, I saw that he had been crying too.
"It's going to be okay, Roger," Mark promised me. "We're going to make it through this."
His hand was still on my neck. What happened next happened as easily as if it had been planned all along. Our faces moved closer, our eyes closed, and our lips joined together.
The kiss was like Mark itself; sweet and gentle. When I put my hand up to his face, I could feel his heart thumping beneath my fingers, in a regular and soothing rhythm. I was surprised at how easy and natural this felt. How right it seemed.
We slept together in my bed that night. Mark held onto me tightly, his arms around my waist, and his breath warm and sweet on my shoulder. "I love you," I heard him whisper, late at night, after I had been lying still for ages, and he thought I was asleep.
When I woke up the next morning, the bed was empty, and I figured it had all been a dream, and a strange one at that. I went out into the kitchen, and saw Mark making waffles, and call me crazy, but when he smiled at me and wished me a good morning, I knew for a fact that last night had been no dream. It was obvious in the little bounce in his step, and the tune he hummed as he poured the syrup over his waffles. No, last night had been no dream, and now that the morning had come, I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do.
"Some night, huh?" Mark laughed, handing me my plate of waffles.
"Some night," I agreed. "I must have been bombed out of my mind, because I can't remember a thing."
I'll never forget the way his face fell, or how I felt in the exact moment when I saw his heart break. I felt guilty as hell, much the same as I do now, kissing Mimi when I know that Mark's watching us from his corner of the room.
Why do I pretend it didn't happen? I honestly don't know. Perhaps it's because I don't want to believe that I'm gay. Maybe it goes along with a sensitive filmmaker, but it's a lot harder to be homosexual when you're a moody rock star. Or perhaps it's because I'm not gay, and that night was a simple mistake, and I can't bear to break Mark's heart by telling him I don't feel the same way.
Perhaps it's because I destroy everything and everyone I care about, and I'm trying to spare Mark the hell that comes from loving me.
Except I can't. I'm already destroying him, every time I touch Mimi, and every time Mark risks a glance at me, and I turn away. He's sitting over there right now, searching for a sign that I remember even a little bit of what happened, and for the tiniest shred of hope that I might feel the same way.
I was broken all along. Now I'm breaking Mark as well.