A/N: I love RENT. Obviously. Why else would I be writing this?
And I know this basic plotline has been done in nearly every Mark/Roger fic
out there, but I think I can make it original. I think this is going to
turn into slash by the end. So if you don't like that, get out now.
Disclaimer: The late Jonathan Larson owns them all - the characters, the original story (I own this one!), the songs, all of it.
Rating: PG-13, because, well, it's RENT.
~
"December 24, 11 PM, Eastern Standard Time. One year and one hour since the last time I said that. Everyone was just here.they're gone now. We had a Christmas Party, or something, whatever it's called when you hold a party on Christmas Eve with a bunch of people who believe in no particular religion."
Mark paused his dialogue for a moment. He'd often wondered what he himself believed. He was raised to be religious - half Jewish and half Christian actually - but by this point in his life he had no idea. So he figured he just believed in nothing until he found something that could remain certain for a long period of time. Mark was careful not to trust anything, as he had learned that nothing ever lasts.
"Zoom in on the empty champagne glasses. Of course no one cleaned up after themselves."
Mark smiled at this. The apartment was more of a mess than it had been recently, yet he knew he wouldn't clean it up. What did it matter? No one would be there with him to impress. His smile faded at this thought.
"Maureen and Joanne seemed pretty happy. They're better off than they used to be. I think they survive on arguing. Or on bossing each other around. Benny actually showed up to give us the latest on Allison. Long, complicated story. Collins was here and still coping well. Hasn't found anyone new, but he's better off than.well, he's happy."
Mark shut off his camera. He had gone too far. He had vowed long ago that he would never let himself record his darkest secrets. He didn't want anyone else to find them and realize that he wasn't as happy as he pretended to be. Mark was a wonderful actor. He often wondered what it would be like to be in front of the camera instead of behind it.
But that was a view on life Mark didn't want to take. He highly preferred the position of observer, where he could remain safely uninvolved, never to be truly hurt if something went wrong.
"That's a lie", that voice told him. That annoying voice in his head that never, ever shut up. Mark often wondered if the past few years had slowly driven him insane. He knew perfectly well that hearing voices was never a good thing, but those voices were always right. They were always some part of Mark that he didn't want to admit to, couldn't admit to. They were the painful part that he hid from everyone else.
Mark took the film out of his camera. It was used up now, ready to join the collection of other old memories on the shelf that barely got watched. He stopped as he was about to pull his hand away, instead running it sadly over an old tape.
"Your Eyes", it was labeled, in Mark's scratchy handwriting.
Roger hadn't even known Mark had filmed that. The musician was so wrapped up in his own grief that he hadn't noticed the camera only a short distance from him. He hadn't noticed the churning in Mark's stomach when that song hit too close to home. And he had taken it for granted when Mark pulled himself together enough to thank whatever God there was that this moment wasn't the last.
Mark had watched that video for about a month after Roger left again. He was going to show Mimi, with some crazy idea that it wouldn't break her heart, but no one knew where she was. When Roger had excluded himself, he had driven away.
But Mark knew that song, the last song he had heard by Roger, would always mean something completely different to him than to Mimi. Because with Mark, Roger couldn't look into Mark's eyes when they said their goodbyes. Yet he somehow found the nerve to yell at him and accuse him of horrible things. Not to mention the borderline physical abuse that went along with it.
But Mark took it all coolly. He just stood there and let Roger yell at him, let the musician vent his anger, because he knew if he didn't take this, someone else would be the victim later. So Roger had left, leaving behind nothing but stinging words and unspoken thoughts.
Mark sat by the tiny window, trying to think. Or to remember, more precisely. He wanted to remember the way it had been, when he and Roger had been inseparable. They had been best friends. That was what Mark needed more than ever right now. A best friend. But he hated that feeling of helplessness, so instead of letting himself be helped, he closed himself up, lying to the world. He stared at the moon, restless inside, but ready to give up to another lonely night.
"How did I get here, how the hell?"
Mark's solemn reverie was broken by a sudden ringing. The phone. Mark didn't move. He hadn't actually picked up the phone in a long time. He always let the machine get it, not caring enough to speak for himself.
"SPEAK!" he and Roger yelled simultaneously.
There were a few seconds of silence as Mark wearily waited. But as the person on the other end began to speak, he didn't recognize the voice at first.
"Umm.Mark? It's me. I know we haven't talked in awhile and all but.I just wanted to say 'hey'."
Mark froze. He knew that voice now. But it had changed. It was deeper, more tired sounding. He felt his heart skip a beat as he held deadly still waiting for Roger to continue.
".Umm, I know this is pretty sudden and all, but I've had a break in work.well, who am I kidding, they fired me, so I'm coming back. I should be there pretty early tomorrow morning. Tell Mimi I'll see her first thing. Bye."
There was a decisive click and then the silence kicked in again. Early tomorrow morning.that was only a few hours. He must have left San Francisco awhile ago then, thought Mark. Mark also realized he didn't have much choice in the matter, or any time to prepare. Roger was already on his way back, with no prior warning.
Wait a minute, what the hell am I thinking? Haven't I wanted this? But Mark realized he didn't. He didn't want Roger back, not if Roger was going to assume it was perfectly okay to come back whenever he pleased. Mark hadn't been doing necessarily well, but he'd been better off than at times in the presence of the musician.
Tell Mimi I'll see her first thing. Oh God - Roger didn't know. Roger didn't even know that no one had any clue where Mimi was. Or even if she was still alive. For all Mark knew she could be dead by now, the same way as Angel. But Angel didn't have to die alone. Mark noticed how Roger didn't have any similar words for him. No "I'll see you first thing", or "I can't wait to see you." Nothing. Just as he had left it.
Well, Mark would just have to tell him then. Tell him the horrible truth about Mimi and that he couldn't stay. Roger couldn't stay if he didn't understand.
Mark hated himself for that thought. But he knew it was what had to be done.
~
Mark awoke in the middle of the night to something heavy shaking him. He scrambled for his glasses but it was too dark to see anyway. Whatever it was was pressing on his shoulders very hard, and being really loud. Mark was finally able to groan, "Who's there?"
"Geez Cohen, you don't even know me anymore? I'm home," the musician laughed.
"Roger." Mark moaned incoherently. Roger was being overly loud and was too in his face for this hour. Not to mention the fact that now Mark's eyes had focused, and he could see large amounts of what he assumed to be Roger's luggage strewn across the floor. Roger leaned in again, and Mark could smell alcohol on his breath. The musician was clearly completely drunk.
"Roger.ouch, you're hurting my shoulder," Mark whispered. Roger was no fun to deal with when drunk.
"Thanks for the warm welcome, Mark," the musician growled angrily, before throwing himself down on the bed next to Mark and falling right asleep.
Mark sighed. He was not looking forward to tomorrow morning. He would have to tell Roger the truth, tell him how much pain he had caused. And it would be the film maker suffering from the consequences.
Disclaimer: The late Jonathan Larson owns them all - the characters, the original story (I own this one!), the songs, all of it.
Rating: PG-13, because, well, it's RENT.
~
"December 24, 11 PM, Eastern Standard Time. One year and one hour since the last time I said that. Everyone was just here.they're gone now. We had a Christmas Party, or something, whatever it's called when you hold a party on Christmas Eve with a bunch of people who believe in no particular religion."
Mark paused his dialogue for a moment. He'd often wondered what he himself believed. He was raised to be religious - half Jewish and half Christian actually - but by this point in his life he had no idea. So he figured he just believed in nothing until he found something that could remain certain for a long period of time. Mark was careful not to trust anything, as he had learned that nothing ever lasts.
"Zoom in on the empty champagne glasses. Of course no one cleaned up after themselves."
Mark smiled at this. The apartment was more of a mess than it had been recently, yet he knew he wouldn't clean it up. What did it matter? No one would be there with him to impress. His smile faded at this thought.
"Maureen and Joanne seemed pretty happy. They're better off than they used to be. I think they survive on arguing. Or on bossing each other around. Benny actually showed up to give us the latest on Allison. Long, complicated story. Collins was here and still coping well. Hasn't found anyone new, but he's better off than.well, he's happy."
Mark shut off his camera. He had gone too far. He had vowed long ago that he would never let himself record his darkest secrets. He didn't want anyone else to find them and realize that he wasn't as happy as he pretended to be. Mark was a wonderful actor. He often wondered what it would be like to be in front of the camera instead of behind it.
But that was a view on life Mark didn't want to take. He highly preferred the position of observer, where he could remain safely uninvolved, never to be truly hurt if something went wrong.
"That's a lie", that voice told him. That annoying voice in his head that never, ever shut up. Mark often wondered if the past few years had slowly driven him insane. He knew perfectly well that hearing voices was never a good thing, but those voices were always right. They were always some part of Mark that he didn't want to admit to, couldn't admit to. They were the painful part that he hid from everyone else.
Mark took the film out of his camera. It was used up now, ready to join the collection of other old memories on the shelf that barely got watched. He stopped as he was about to pull his hand away, instead running it sadly over an old tape.
"Your Eyes", it was labeled, in Mark's scratchy handwriting.
Roger hadn't even known Mark had filmed that. The musician was so wrapped up in his own grief that he hadn't noticed the camera only a short distance from him. He hadn't noticed the churning in Mark's stomach when that song hit too close to home. And he had taken it for granted when Mark pulled himself together enough to thank whatever God there was that this moment wasn't the last.
Mark had watched that video for about a month after Roger left again. He was going to show Mimi, with some crazy idea that it wouldn't break her heart, but no one knew where she was. When Roger had excluded himself, he had driven away.
But Mark knew that song, the last song he had heard by Roger, would always mean something completely different to him than to Mimi. Because with Mark, Roger couldn't look into Mark's eyes when they said their goodbyes. Yet he somehow found the nerve to yell at him and accuse him of horrible things. Not to mention the borderline physical abuse that went along with it.
But Mark took it all coolly. He just stood there and let Roger yell at him, let the musician vent his anger, because he knew if he didn't take this, someone else would be the victim later. So Roger had left, leaving behind nothing but stinging words and unspoken thoughts.
Mark sat by the tiny window, trying to think. Or to remember, more precisely. He wanted to remember the way it had been, when he and Roger had been inseparable. They had been best friends. That was what Mark needed more than ever right now. A best friend. But he hated that feeling of helplessness, so instead of letting himself be helped, he closed himself up, lying to the world. He stared at the moon, restless inside, but ready to give up to another lonely night.
"How did I get here, how the hell?"
Mark's solemn reverie was broken by a sudden ringing. The phone. Mark didn't move. He hadn't actually picked up the phone in a long time. He always let the machine get it, not caring enough to speak for himself.
"SPEAK!" he and Roger yelled simultaneously.
There were a few seconds of silence as Mark wearily waited. But as the person on the other end began to speak, he didn't recognize the voice at first.
"Umm.Mark? It's me. I know we haven't talked in awhile and all but.I just wanted to say 'hey'."
Mark froze. He knew that voice now. But it had changed. It was deeper, more tired sounding. He felt his heart skip a beat as he held deadly still waiting for Roger to continue.
".Umm, I know this is pretty sudden and all, but I've had a break in work.well, who am I kidding, they fired me, so I'm coming back. I should be there pretty early tomorrow morning. Tell Mimi I'll see her first thing. Bye."
There was a decisive click and then the silence kicked in again. Early tomorrow morning.that was only a few hours. He must have left San Francisco awhile ago then, thought Mark. Mark also realized he didn't have much choice in the matter, or any time to prepare. Roger was already on his way back, with no prior warning.
Wait a minute, what the hell am I thinking? Haven't I wanted this? But Mark realized he didn't. He didn't want Roger back, not if Roger was going to assume it was perfectly okay to come back whenever he pleased. Mark hadn't been doing necessarily well, but he'd been better off than at times in the presence of the musician.
Tell Mimi I'll see her first thing. Oh God - Roger didn't know. Roger didn't even know that no one had any clue where Mimi was. Or even if she was still alive. For all Mark knew she could be dead by now, the same way as Angel. But Angel didn't have to die alone. Mark noticed how Roger didn't have any similar words for him. No "I'll see you first thing", or "I can't wait to see you." Nothing. Just as he had left it.
Well, Mark would just have to tell him then. Tell him the horrible truth about Mimi and that he couldn't stay. Roger couldn't stay if he didn't understand.
Mark hated himself for that thought. But he knew it was what had to be done.
~
Mark awoke in the middle of the night to something heavy shaking him. He scrambled for his glasses but it was too dark to see anyway. Whatever it was was pressing on his shoulders very hard, and being really loud. Mark was finally able to groan, "Who's there?"
"Geez Cohen, you don't even know me anymore? I'm home," the musician laughed.
"Roger." Mark moaned incoherently. Roger was being overly loud and was too in his face for this hour. Not to mention the fact that now Mark's eyes had focused, and he could see large amounts of what he assumed to be Roger's luggage strewn across the floor. Roger leaned in again, and Mark could smell alcohol on his breath. The musician was clearly completely drunk.
"Roger.ouch, you're hurting my shoulder," Mark whispered. Roger was no fun to deal with when drunk.
"Thanks for the warm welcome, Mark," the musician growled angrily, before throwing himself down on the bed next to Mark and falling right asleep.
Mark sighed. He was not looking forward to tomorrow morning. He would have to tell Roger the truth, tell him how much pain he had caused. And it would be the film maker suffering from the consequences.