March Madness, Day 9, Rent, Mark/Roger
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1051
Notes: Taking a break from all the fluff and schmoop with that thing I wrote that was too bleak and depressing for me to even continue. All of a sudden an ending came on the train tonight.
“So,” Roger says. That’s all there is to say at this point. They can hear people in the streets outside: laughter and music. Celebration.
Inside, Roger and Mark can’t find anything worth celebrating. Mimi lasted another two days after her “miraculous” recovery, which is about what Mark had expected. Even with Benny footing the bill, there wasn’t anything to be done for her. She’d been on the streets too long without meds. Roger had dared to hope when she awoke on Christmas, but Mark knew it was a chance, not a beginning: an opportunity to say all the things they hadn’t, to part without secrets, to say the goodbyes that April hadn’t stayed long enough to hear. And then Mimi was gone again.
It’s a new year, or will be in seventeen minutes, but inside, the party seems uncalled for.
Mark looks at Roger and doesn’t know what to say. Mark’s pretty sure that they don’t make words for a situation like this. Roger hasn’t slept for a week, and he’s only eaten because Mark’s made him. His face is sallow with sunken eyes and dark circles, and he’s shivering even though Mark’s made a large fire for them.
Roger’s “so” hangs in the air between them, no more than an attempt to fill the silence. They’ve been alone in the apartment since the funeral. Collins disappeared to who knows where, all of Mark’s messages left unanswered save for a postcard that read, “Cope. Grieve. Hope. No worries, no regrets. Love, Tom.” The postmark was within the city, but for three days, Mark has only gotten the machine. Joanne and Maureen have taken to phoning instead of visiting after three days spent exchanging glances in the silent, motionless apartment.
Mark turns back to the window, examining the reflection rather than the scenery below. This is his life: these four walls and Roger. This is what he has to show for twenty-four years of existence. He can’t think of anything that could make him give it up, and he can’t decide if he’s depressed or comforted by that fact.
Roger sits in the window seat across from him, watching the street below. It’s the closest he’s gotten to outside contact, and Mark doesn’t even have the strength to push him. He knows he’s letting Roger drag him down with him; he also knows that Roger’s right: this is where it’s safest, locked away with the one person who never really let you down.
There’s counting in the streets, in Mimi’s old apartment where two grad students now live and thrive and cast bright, encouraging smiles in Mark’s direction when they see him in the stairwell or on the fire escape.
Mark closes his eyes and awaits the three, two, one like a blow and he braces himself for the future.
“Happy new year,” he tells Roger, and his voice cracks from lack of use, or so he tells himself.
“Happy new year, Mark,” Roger whispers, and in the light from the fire, Mark can see his wet cheeks.
“You should sleep,” Mark says because he doesn’t know what else to offer at this point.
Roger shakes his head. “There’s no solution for this, Mark. We’re just gonna have to take it day by day and see how it goes. A little sleep isn’t gonna fix it.”
He’s not mad, just tired. Broken.
“I know that,” Mark says. He stands and goes over to the hot plate where a can of soup has boiled away to practically nothing waiting for either of them to get hungry enough to eat it.
“You sure you don’t want this?” he asks. “I’m throwing it out.”
Roger says nothing. He stands and leans his forehead against the window. To think that they had been down there a year ago, laughing and singing with the rest of New York. He wipes his face with his hands and walks over to where Mark stands, looking down at the soup-turned-sludge.
“Get rid of it,” he says, so Mark pours it down the sink, and this may just be the most interesting thing that’s happened in two days.
“Mark.”
When Mark looks over at him, Roger’s eyes are still watching the soup slide down the drain and his eyes are still red.
“If I”-and there’s a thousand ways this sentence could end, and Mark doesn’t like most of them, but so long as the next word isn’t some form of “die” he’ll play along-“go lay down, will you… will you come lay down with me?”
For all the expected endings to that sentence, that may be one of the last ones Mark might’ve stumbled upon.
“Um.”
The last of the noodles slide down the drain.
“I won’t sleep. I know I won’t. But I don’t want to be in there by myself.” His voice gets so quiet that Mark has to lean in a bit to hear.
“Okay,” Mark says, and he hopes he doesn’t let on how strange the request seems. But Roger’s expressing a want, which is something other than complete misery, so Mark will take it.
Roger closes his eyes and lets out a breath, and Mark feels the urge to smile though it doesn’t quite reach his face.
They climb into Roger’s bed, which is too small for two grown men, but neither of them say anything, neither draws attention. Mark feels Roger curled up against his side, breathing deep and even, and wonders how he could possibly not sleep. The rhythm is soothing, Roger’s body warm if broken.
“Hey,” Mark says, and Roger’s breathing changes ever so slightly so he knows he’s listening. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. He’s not sure if he means here in this bed or in the loft, here in his life or here anywhere on the planet and still breathing. But Roger shifts closer, which Mark didn’t think possible, and Roger lays one hand on Mark’s chest and whispers, “Me, too.”
And it could mean that he’d glad that he himself is still here, that he’s survived so far, or he could be saying he’s glad Mark is here. Either way, Mark doesn’t care. It’s enough to make him lay his hand on top of Roger’s and fall asleep, watching their fingers rise and fall with each breath.
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1051
Notes: Taking a break from all the fluff and schmoop with that thing I wrote that was too bleak and depressing for me to even continue. All of a sudden an ending came on the train tonight.
“So,” Roger says. That’s all there is to say at this point. They can hear people in the streets outside: laughter and music. Celebration.
Inside, Roger and Mark can’t find anything worth celebrating. Mimi lasted another two days after her “miraculous” recovery, which is about what Mark had expected. Even with Benny footing the bill, there wasn’t anything to be done for her. She’d been on the streets too long without meds. Roger had dared to hope when she awoke on Christmas, but Mark knew it was a chance, not a beginning: an opportunity to say all the things they hadn’t, to part without secrets, to say the goodbyes that April hadn’t stayed long enough to hear. And then Mimi was gone again.
It’s a new year, or will be in seventeen minutes, but inside, the party seems uncalled for.
Mark looks at Roger and doesn’t know what to say. Mark’s pretty sure that they don’t make words for a situation like this. Roger hasn’t slept for a week, and he’s only eaten because Mark’s made him. His face is sallow with sunken eyes and dark circles, and he’s shivering even though Mark’s made a large fire for them.
Roger’s “so” hangs in the air between them, no more than an attempt to fill the silence. They’ve been alone in the apartment since the funeral. Collins disappeared to who knows where, all of Mark’s messages left unanswered save for a postcard that read, “Cope. Grieve. Hope. No worries, no regrets. Love, Tom.” The postmark was within the city, but for three days, Mark has only gotten the machine. Joanne and Maureen have taken to phoning instead of visiting after three days spent exchanging glances in the silent, motionless apartment.
Mark turns back to the window, examining the reflection rather than the scenery below. This is his life: these four walls and Roger. This is what he has to show for twenty-four years of existence. He can’t think of anything that could make him give it up, and he can’t decide if he’s depressed or comforted by that fact.
Roger sits in the window seat across from him, watching the street below. It’s the closest he’s gotten to outside contact, and Mark doesn’t even have the strength to push him. He knows he’s letting Roger drag him down with him; he also knows that Roger’s right: this is where it’s safest, locked away with the one person who never really let you down.
There’s counting in the streets, in Mimi’s old apartment where two grad students now live and thrive and cast bright, encouraging smiles in Mark’s direction when they see him in the stairwell or on the fire escape.
Mark closes his eyes and awaits the three, two, one like a blow and he braces himself for the future.
“Happy new year,” he tells Roger, and his voice cracks from lack of use, or so he tells himself.
“Happy new year, Mark,” Roger whispers, and in the light from the fire, Mark can see his wet cheeks.
“You should sleep,” Mark says because he doesn’t know what else to offer at this point.
Roger shakes his head. “There’s no solution for this, Mark. We’re just gonna have to take it day by day and see how it goes. A little sleep isn’t gonna fix it.”
He’s not mad, just tired. Broken.
“I know that,” Mark says. He stands and goes over to the hot plate where a can of soup has boiled away to practically nothing waiting for either of them to get hungry enough to eat it.
“You sure you don’t want this?” he asks. “I’m throwing it out.”
Roger says nothing. He stands and leans his forehead against the window. To think that they had been down there a year ago, laughing and singing with the rest of New York. He wipes his face with his hands and walks over to where Mark stands, looking down at the soup-turned-sludge.
“Get rid of it,” he says, so Mark pours it down the sink, and this may just be the most interesting thing that’s happened in two days.
“Mark.”
When Mark looks over at him, Roger’s eyes are still watching the soup slide down the drain and his eyes are still red.
“If I”-and there’s a thousand ways this sentence could end, and Mark doesn’t like most of them, but so long as the next word isn’t some form of “die” he’ll play along-“go lay down, will you… will you come lay down with me?”
For all the expected endings to that sentence, that may be one of the last ones Mark might’ve stumbled upon.
“Um.”
The last of the noodles slide down the drain.
“I won’t sleep. I know I won’t. But I don’t want to be in there by myself.” His voice gets so quiet that Mark has to lean in a bit to hear.
“Okay,” Mark says, and he hopes he doesn’t let on how strange the request seems. But Roger’s expressing a want, which is something other than complete misery, so Mark will take it.
Roger closes his eyes and lets out a breath, and Mark feels the urge to smile though it doesn’t quite reach his face.
They climb into Roger’s bed, which is too small for two grown men, but neither of them say anything, neither draws attention. Mark feels Roger curled up against his side, breathing deep and even, and wonders how he could possibly not sleep. The rhythm is soothing, Roger’s body warm if broken.
“Hey,” Mark says, and Roger’s breathing changes ever so slightly so he knows he’s listening. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. He’s not sure if he means here in this bed or in the loft, here in his life or here anywhere on the planet and still breathing. But Roger shifts closer, which Mark didn’t think possible, and Roger lays one hand on Mark’s chest and whispers, “Me, too.”
And it could mean that he’d glad that he himself is still here, that he’s survived so far, or he could be saying he’s glad Mark is here. Either way, Mark doesn’t care. It’s enough to make him lay his hand on top of Roger’s and fall asleep, watching their fingers rise and fall with each breath.