Title: A Little Business

Rating: R

Summary: Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.

Notes: Originally attempted to write this for Speedrent (Challenge: a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?) but had an ADD moment, however the idea struck me again so here it is…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can't 100 get from the play. Oh, think The Family Man…kinda.

Disclaimer: Don't own, not my characters.

A Little Business

It was brand new. Freshly developed and already rolled up neatly inside a shiny new tin. Even the footage on the film had only been shot a month or so ago. A small smile pulled up the corners of Mark's mouth as he gingerly pried open the container. Glossy celluloid slipped neatly into place as Mark threaded it through the old projector he had rigged up rather haphazardly in his room. After double-checking that the film had been correctly loaded into the machine he flipped it on. The telltale sound of film flipping through the body of the projector filled the bedroom, speeding up until the still frames blurred together, creating a moving image of Roger and Mimi on New Years.

Grinning like no other, Mark watched as the large image of Roger projected onto his bedroom wall offered the Mark behind the camera an open bottle of cheap champagne. As the young man handed over the alcohol his lips began to move, rattling off a list of resolutions. Mimi was molded against his side, thin arms wrapped tight around his waist, staring up at him with big brown eyes, so obviously head over heels that Mark almost felt a twinge of empathy. He knew exactly what it felt like. To see that boy in all his glory, pouring his heart out for the camera bit-by-bit, knowing that you were being dragged under by the intoxicating charisma—loving every minute, loving him. The two were so very happy and so very drunk. The camera shifted lower as Mark focused on Mimi. She gave a coy look to the camera before starting on her own list.

'I'm going back to school.'

There was something about the way she said it, a huge smile splitting her face, so full of hope and wonderment that it made Mark pause. He threw the switch and the projector slowly ground to a halt. Every once in a while, when things got really bad financially or otherwise, he would wonder what everything would be like if he had followed his parents' dreams for his future, studied business, finished college. It had been the easier option, just going along with a path already chosen for you, so Mark had always taken pride in the fact he had took the bumpier road and decided to fend for himself. But the way Mimi said those words, as if schooling would solve all her problems, get her back on track and magically make everything right again made M-

"Mark," Roger's groggy voice cut through the quiet air. Mark flinched at the sudden noise pulling him away from his musing. He looked over to see his roommate leaning against the doorframe in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. It was amazing to see Roger so relaxed and, what, was that the beginnings of a smile. "Mark," he repeated with a slow grin. "I can actually hear the wheels in your head turning from my bedroom," he teased his best friend with a sleepy smile. "Go to sleep," he said before turning on his heel, leaving the filmmaker alone with his thoughts.

The mattress was soft and yielded as Mark rolled over onto his back, arms flailed out to the side, spread eagle. A quiet sigh slipped from between his lips as he basked in the unusual feeling of comfort. Normally when he woke up there would be an unbearable kink in his neck or back because of the sheetrock some salesman had dared to call a spring mattress. Not wanting to jinx himself, Mark dismissed the old idea of a painful bed and fully embraced the new mattress. As he slowly woke up he could feel the bits and pieces of a strange dream, the one in which his mattress had been unbearable, slowly slipping through his fingers. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed his glasses off the nightstand beside his bed. The fact he had a nightstand where he had never had one before did not seem to faze him as he stumbled into the kitchen.

"Mark," a clipped tone rang through the room, however Mark distinctly heard the undercurrent of friendly teasing lacing his name. It reminded him of when Roger was in a funk and would become playful yet harsh. He could never predict which way his friend would spin when he was being moody. "I see that you have decided to join the living," Benny. "I made coffee." Wait, that wasn't right, his sleep-addled mind must have been misfiring neurons or something, wires crisscrossed and all that. Shit, Benny was probably here to collect the rent and he and Roger were both flat-out broke. Blinking a few times in rapid succession, he shook his head, wondering where that idea had come from, paying Benny the rent? And who was Roger?

Suddenly it clicked.

"I had the craziest dream," he began worrying his lip trying to remember the details, as they suddenly became intangible feelings. "I was, like, living in some shitty loft over in Alphabet city and you were, like, the landlord or something," he explained, confusion written all over his face. He rubbed the sleeps from his eyes and took the fresh mug of coffee Benny had poured. After a few sips he was feeling a lot better, more settled. It must have been a pretty intense dream.

"Well, you know Allison, the girl you met at the party last night," he gave Mark a sly grin. Ah, yes, Benny ever looking for love in all the wrong places, especially when love was tied around the waist with overstuffed moneybags. "Her father is in the real estate game so it is not all that farfetched an idea, in the not so distant future?" Mark merely rolled his eyes, remembering the ridiculously posh party he and Benny had attended the night before, as well as the twig of a girl Benny was speaking about.

Yes, that must have been it; he had gotten completely trashed at the party. That would explain the crazy dreams. He always had the most vivid and intricate dreams when he was shitfaced. Though he had perfectly reasonable reasons for consuming half of New York's vodka supply in one night. Mark had cracked under the new ultimatum presented by the president of the advertising agency and the new knowledge that yet another woman had cheated on him.

"Oh, like you could nail that frivolous debutante," Mark replied with a grin, glancing over Benny's shoulder at the clock. "Shit, I have be at work in ten minutes, and I have a fucking new client," Mark swore as he rushed back inside his bedroom. Rusting through a few wrinkled suits, sniffing the least crumpled button down and shrugging it on before winding a blue tie around his neck.

"What?" Benny asked, intrigued. "Who is it?" he inquired, watching his friend frantically pulling up the dress slacks. Mark almost tipped over the edge of the bed but managed to tug on his socks and shoes in the same movement.

"Some musical group, indie or pop-rock, something like that," Mark answered, quickly rattling off the information.

"Those are two very different categories," Benny replies with a smug grin as if he knew all about the music scene.

"Not anymore, anyways the firm wants to expand beyond hotels and clothing designers," Mark replied distractedly as he snaked a belt through the loops of the waistband and tugged it tight. "And, if I do well with this new client then I'll make partner," he threw on the suit coat and dashed out of the apartment, grabbing his wallet and unopened briefcase.

Despite being a half-hour late Mark nailed the presentation to the band's manager, some hotshot from L.A. who was wasting his talent on sugary pop-rock bands. It was simple to market, boring and bland as white bread but at least it was more artistic than hotels and clothing. And, while he would refuse to admit it to himself at face level, the young man had been rather attractive to look at while giving the presentation, all light hair and intense green eyes. Thankfully it was just the manager. Mark had an overpowering hatred for all musicians because of his impossibly vulnerable weak spot for them. If he could not control something he instinctually despised it.

Beyond his control was out of the question.

Which is why he had ended up in the AgencySacks building and not some mundane cubical his parents would have been content with. Mark knew intrinsically that he had been molded for more than that. He would have put a needle to his arm or a bullet in his brain if he had been stuck forever between three and a half faux walls where he could stick up a fluffy kitty calendar with big red X's counting down to his vacation to nowhere. While he had returned to college, after spending the summer trying to find himself between freshmen and sophomore year, he made the change to study advertising. In that particular field of study he would still be able to incorporate his old hopes and aspirations of artistry. It was a beautiful business. Every time his agency was shooting a new commercial for a product he was always on call to help the director, storyboarding all the shots and in charge of the casting calls.

However, like everything important in one's life, it was a double-edged sword. In exchange for being one of the youngest members on staff up for a partnership position his personal life was practically nonexistent. The party he had gone to the night before was the first he had attended in the past three years, and that was after an hour of Benny bullying him into it. And the girlfriend, the one who cheated on him, had been his first in a grand total of five long years. Well, that is not counting the pathetically desperate nights when he would stumble into bars, grab the first girl he found with a sweet smile and drag her into the bathroom.

Not to mention the way the corporate world had begun to corrupt him, piece by piece, taking chunks of his soul away every extra hour he stayed late working on some agreement. Stripping away his every fleeting thought of compassion and devotion to another human. When he first found himself in New York he was naïve and headstrong, diving into the Bohemian life. But college and his parents had called him back down to earth, clamping down on his silly dreams of filmmaking by threatening to cut him off if he did not finish college. By then his almost every fresh idea has been sucked out of his mind. His wit had developed into a razor sharp weapon, fine-tuned to only to be used to cut others down to a more appropriate size.

Cynical did not even begin to describe the acid tongue of Mark Cohen.

But at this moment Mark was as tame as a kitten sated with a warm bowl of milk. Distractedly thinking about the boy with the intense green eyes, Mark's fingers slipped over a ballpoint pen, spinning it around. Tap the top, sliding fingers down; flip over to the cap, sliding fingers down again, and again. The steady rhythm of his pen fiddling was suddenly interrupted by the annoying trill of his phone.

"Mark Cohen, AgencySacks," Mark answered his phone, a little more flustered and anxious than normal. Usually he had a perfect monotone voice, perfectly neutral for his various clients. A light flush was running up the back of his neck, it had been a while since he thought of pretty boys.

"Hey, Mark," a low, jovial voice boomed over the phone and into Mark's ear. It was a pleasant sound that sent Mark reeling back into yesteryear, a veritable lifetime ago. He had heard that voice the night before, calling out to a sweet boy dolled up in a beautiful sleek wig and skirts.

"Collins," he sighed, sinking slowly into the haze of nostalgia. "It's been forever since I last talked to you," his voice was filled with genuine surprise and mirth. A smile was spreading over his face, the first real smile his lips had been stretched into since he last saw Collins. Every detail about his old friend came rushing back and his mind turned to the obvious question. "How you doing?"

"Fine, it's a good week, so far at least," somehow Collins knew exactly what he was asking. How was he coping with the disease, surviving still, not developed into anything more than HIV? It was an odd feeling, the spike of compassion digging into his chest. Mark actually cared for the well-being of his old friend, the last standing tie to his glory days of innocence, wholly consumed by creativity. Anything had been possible then. "Actually the reason I'm calling is because of a friend of mine," Collins's voice lowered an octave, conspiratorial if nothing else. Mark remembered the old anarchist's creed to be always mischievous, always a wonderful mix to any life.

Collins; the magical ingredient to the martini of life.

Mark's eyes widened.

"I'm not into blind dates, Tom," Mark's tone suddenly got very sour, his mind jumped back to last time Collins asked him to do a friend a favor. Collins had been worried about this buddy of his, a veritable Rock and Roll God. The boy was getting a little more fame and groupies with a whole rainbow of STDs were starting to hang around the band, all wanting a piece of the pretty singer. And Mark, having his weakness for musicians, accepted the invitation to go on a blind date with the wild boy with vivid green eyes ringed in dark eyeliner. Or at least that was how Collins described him. Mark had yet to this day to meet the nameless, faceless musician. "You remember that rocker you tried to set me up with a million years ago," his knuckles turned white as he gripped the red ink pen. The plastic was beginning to crack with the pressure. "You know, the one who stood me up because of some girl he disappeared with for the next two months," the pen snapped, ink pouring out over his fingers and onto the pristine paper cover his desk. "Fuck," he cursed jumping out of his chair, moping up the ink up with a tissue from the box he kept in his drawer. "Last time I tried to swing that way," he mumbled into the phone bitterly, looking down at his stained skin.

"God no," Collins chuckled at the irony. "Actually, he's," he began, the truth on the tip of his tongue. Pausing for a moment Collins reconsidered. It was probably not in Roger's best interest if the man Roger was trying to get a job from was the same boy he had stood up. "Actually, what I wanted to talk to you about was my friend needs a job," Collins finally said quietly. "Nothing special, just like a secretary or mailroom, something simple," his voice trailed off as he waited for Mark's response. A few extended minutes ticked by as Mark turned the idea over in his mind. He could use a temp assistant to organize his file cabinets; they were really starting to get messy. But he could get his secretary to do that and just take his calls directly. Not much to it.

"He's positive," Mark stopped. "He only found out a few months ago when his girlfriend off-ed herself."

"How'd he…?"

"Needles, Mark," Mark felt his skin crawl. "But he's clean now, still a little shaky on his feet but that's why I think he should get a real job to occupy his time, rather than sitting at home wasting his time and procrastinating."

"Collins we're not running some bleeding-heart campaign over here," Mark snapped vindictively. He wanted nothing more than to lash out at any give opportunity. An old wound, rubbed raw by the reminder, the band and its very attractive, and very male manager, was putting him in a foul disposition.

And, to top it all off, even Mark could see through it.

It was just like Collins. He could just see the wheels spinning in the man's mind, needing to bring out the humanity in Mark's life. Drag him into the tangled mess of some poor dying junkie life. He didn't need it right now. What he needed was a drink and someone to fuck into a mattress.

Oh, wait even better, the junkie was probably some young boy, once beautiful and full of life, with a smile to warm your soul and melt your heart. But somehow, beyond all reason, he had tragically been led astray by some woman in a short skirt or a boy in tight leather slacks. Whichever way it happened, he had been corrupted before he fully developed into a man.

Fuck.

That.

Care about one, give the problem a face, a name, a fucking salary and you began to die inside thinking about all the others alongside them.

Fall in love with misery and you become its landlocked lover.

"I can't hire a fucking junkie!"

'I can't begin to care again, not now!'

"Mark this kids your age," good shot Collins, hit home, just left of the shrunken heart. "He's fucked himself over royal," we all make mistake; if he is supposed to pick himself up he can do it alone. No need for Mark to get involved, dirty his hands in someone else's problems. "Don't tell me your corporate world has completely extinguished that little light of Bohemia I saw in your eyes so many summers ago," low. Very low, Tom. "Please," that was the last straw.

"Alright, he can start tomorrow," Mark breathed into the phone. "Tell him to meet me in the main lobby of the AgencySacks' building on 7th."

"Thanks, Mark," Mark could hear the small smile in Collins's voice, never smug, sincerely thankful.

"Wait, Collins, what's this guy's name?"
"Roger," something in the back of Mark's mind began to stir.

"Just Roger?" He asked glibly.

"Roger Davis," it sounded oddly familiar.

AN: There is a second part, but tell me if you want it...it's just a silly idea...:D