Degrees of Separation, 1/1
Title: Degrees of Separation
Fandom: RENT
Characters: The gang
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: The Bohemians all knew one another before December 24th. They just didn't realize it.
Four-year-old Roger walked down the quiet streets of Scarsdale, his tiny fist wound tightly around his mother's soft hand. They were on their way to see the doctor, and although Roger hated going to the doctor (who was mean and scary), his mommy had promised to get him a lollipop on the way home if he was good.
So Roger was going to be on his best behavior.
"Mommy, why we gotsta see the doctor?" he asked in his soft, childish voice, his big green eyes staring up at his mother with curiosity.
"Well, we have to make sure we're not sick, baby."
"Oh." Roger's free hand promptly found itself in his mouth as he stared at the giant house surrounding him. His daddy called this area the - well, he called it something Roger wasn't supposed to say, but his mommy called it the rich area. He had recently found out that rich meant they had a lot of toys - roomfuls, he imagined. He bet it was great to be rich.
As little Roger's head bopped up and down with each step and his big eyes swept from house to house, a little, blonde-haired boy appeared in one of the lace curtain-covered windows. Roger let go of his mother's hand and stared at the boy, his head tilted to the side. The boy looked sad with his head leaning against the glass and his lower lip in a pout. He wondered if he was sad because his mommy hadn't let him have any candy.
Hoping to make him feel better, Roger smiled brightly at him, and the pale boy waved shyly at him.
"Roger, c'mon sweetie…"
Smiling one last time at the boy, Roger left to catch up with his mom before he was left behind, running as fast as his pudgy little legs would let him.
Roger wouldn't remember the small boy until many years later in high school, when a skinny, pale, blonde-haired boy introduced himself as Mark Cohen.
-----
Thomas B. Collins was in jail again. What a big surprise. Not. He had known it would only be a matter of time before the police caught onto his little games, and lo and behold, they had. They had surrounded him outside the library (which held the computer he had been using to hack into the bank accounts of wealthy individuals in the community and transfer some of their money to the pockets of the unfortunate residents of Alphabet City) and tried to arrest him. Tried being the operative word. It had taken six men and five city blocks before Collins had finally been cuffed and thrown into the squad car roughly, which dropped him off at a familiar establishment - the fifth district jail. Joe, the guard, had greeted him with a knowing smile and had sent him to his usual cell. Hell, it was practically reserved for him.
He had been in there for two days while his boyfriend James tried to find money to pay his bail when Joe and another guard brought in a boy (he didn't look any older than nineteen) who was kicking and screaming so loud that China could probably hear him.
"LET ME GO! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME! YOU STUPID BASTARDS!"
Collins watched in amusement as the blonde-haired boy struggled against the large guards and was eventually thrust into the cell next to Collins's.
"Hey, Davis, welcome to Utopia," Joe said as he locked the barred door.
It sounded like the boy - Davis, was it? - threw something against the door for there was a loud bang, and then he started shouting some more.
"I didn't do anything, GOD DAMNIT! Let me OUT!"
"Oh yes, because destruction of private property is perfectly legal nowadays…"
"Fuck you!"
"Hey, watch it, Davis, or you won't get your damn phone call."
"Go to hell, you pudgy bastard!"
Collins laughed. Who said jail wasn't fun?
"Collins!"
The sound of Collins's boyfriend's voice echoing throughout the cold establishment broke through the loud argument in the next cell. James and the other guard were soon at his cell, keys in hand, and before he knew it, he was free.
"Took you long enough," he said teasingly after giving James a much-longed-for kiss.
"I had to dip into the rent fund to bail your sorry ass out…again."
Collins just grinned. "Rent can wait…"
As the couple passed the row of cells, Collins saw Davis brooding in the corner, eyes fixated on a specific point on the wall. "Good luck, Davis," he called out nonchalantly.
"Fuck off," was the only reply he received.
Oh yes, the boy would be just fine.
-----
Two months later, Collins sat on a bench outside of a small courtroom as he waited for his state-appointed attorney to come out of his meeting with the lawyer defending the man whose bank account Collins had hacked into. His lawyer said that he could be in quite a bit of trouble for such an act, but Collins was always in trouble for something or other - he was used to it.
Finally, the giant wooden doors opened, and his lawyer walked out with a smile on his face, followed by a grim-looking African-American woman.
"Good news," his lawyer said, walking over to him. "They've offered you a plea bargain."
"Uh huh, Collins replied skeptically. "What is it?"
"Two hundred hours of community service if you plead guilty."
He was joking, right? "Two hundred hours? Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"
His lawyer shrugged apologetically. "It was either that or fifteen months…"
The anarchist sighed and rubbed his face in a stressed manner. Neither choice seemed particularly appealing. "Are you sure there's no other way out of this?"
"Their attorney is being very firm about this matter. I tried to get you 150 hours, but she refused to budge."
He groaned. Fuck. "Is that her," he asked, nodding his head towards the woman he had seen earlier. She didn't look very lenient with her shoulder-padded jacket, trousers, and Doc Martens…
"Yes."
-----
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Mark muttered underneath his breath as he rode as fast as he could through the streets of New York. It was his first job in over five months, and he was already late. Of course, he wouldn't have been late if Roger hadn't hidden his camera from him. Stupid bastard… He knew how much they needed this money for rent and Collins's AZT.
Hooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!
"Watch it, asshole! I'm drivin' here!"
"Sorry…"
He pedaled away as quickly as he could and didn't stop until he reached his destination - the Third Street Theatre. His job was to record a workshop of some musical entitled something or other for the producer of the show. It was a boring job, an easy job, not what he wanted to do in regards to filming, but the pay was okay, and that was his only incentive for taking it. Well, that, and the fact that he didn't have to stay in the loft and listen to Roger play Musetta's Waltz repeatedly because he was bored.
"You must be the filmmaker," he was questioned immediately after stepping foot in the theatre. Before he could reply, the questioner told him "You're late."
Mark's cheeks flushed, and he mumbled an apology. Hopefully, it wouldn't come out of his pay.
"No matter," the man (Mark assumed he was the director) continued. "I want you to stay back most of the time so the whole stage can be seen, but I would like a couple of close-ups on Maureen."
"Who?" Mark asked as he set up his equipment.
"The curly-haired girl," he replied, waving his hand in the general direction of the stage, on which stood a curly-haired brunette.
Mark glanced at her briefly for reference and continued setting up, making sure the camera was in a good position and that the lens was clean. Suddenly, one of the stage lights fell from the ceiling with a loud crash. Maureen screamed, the director started yelling at the lighting crew in a foreign language, and Mark silently rubbed his temple.
Was this job over yet?
-----
He wasn't addicted. He didn't need it. He just wanted it.
That was what Roger told himself as he raced through the streets of New York, looking for The Man, ignoring the tremors in his hands and the sweat on his brow.
He wasn't addicted. He could stop anytime he wanted. He hadn't lied to Mark because he didn't want him to find out he was a junkie. He wasn't a junkie.
"I just want to feel good," he muttered to himself. And he did feel good when he slid that needle into his vein. He felt very good. When he was high, he was invincible. His music was better, his lyrics were better - he sang and played with more passion than anyone could ever imagine. It was better than any adrenaline high…words couldn't describe the feeling he received from a single shot of smack.
It wasn't that he was addicted, he just wanted to please his fans. And please them he did - on and off the stage. The smiling and screaming faces assured him of that. And at night, when he and whatever groupie he brought back climaxed…that was proof in itself.
Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.
There!
He spotted The Man with another customer - a young girl with red hair - and raced over to him, his hand firmly around the roll of tens he was supposed to use to pay rent to buy another baggie of his inspiration. Of course, he hadn't expected that the girl would elbow him in the stomach when he arrived.
"Back off, asshole, it's my stash. Get your own."
"I wasn't going to steal your stash, bitch," he shot back. "Now hurry it up; I'm illin'."
"Don't worry," The Man said with a twisted smile. "There's plenty for everyone." The girl shot Roger a dirty look (which he returned) and stormed away.
"Fucker," he muttered to her retreating back before handing The Man his money in exchange for a gram.
He wasn't a junkie.
-----
Collins and Mark walked quietly down the street, sweating profusely as the sun beat down on them. Collins couldn't help but notice how the weather was completely opposite of their emotions and lives. The weather was calm, but they were not. Nothing about their lives was calm at the moment.
"Maybe we should go back," Mark commented worriedly, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of their loft.
Collins shook his head. "You need a break, Mark."
"I'm worried about him," the filmmaker whispered.
Collins nodded. He was worried too, but he was also worried about Mark's well being. "Benny and Maureen can handle Roger for an hour. Besides, it keeps Benny from seeing Alison."
Mark laughed, his first laugh since this whole mess had started. It gave Collins hope that Mark would be able to handle this while he was at MIT. And that was the reason he had insisted that Mark take this walk with him - to tell him about his new job. He felt guilty about leaving him to deal with Roger, but Benny and Maureen were still with him, and Collins needed the money. Besides, he wasn't leaving for another month… Roger could make excellent progress in that time.
Or he could relapse…
He shook the voice out of his head and took a deep breath. "Uh, Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"I - " He stopped mid-sentence as the rhythmic sound of drumming filled his ears, and he saw a young Latino drummer a half a block away, tapping a beat on a ten gallon pickle tub with two wooden drumsticks. "I was wondering if you had a quarter."
Mark raised an eyebrow but pulled out a quarter from his pocket and handed it to him. When they walked past the drummer, Collins set the money on top of his drum and flashed him a quick smile. He didn't usually get sudden urges to give money to every artist or homeless person on the street, but for the young drummer, he had felt the need. Collins always followed his urges.
"Thanks, sweetie," the drummer replied in a high, chipper voice, and Mark and Collins continued their walk.
"Mark, I've got something to tell you…"
-----
Mimi hummed a little tune to herself as she sat on the edge of the roof, gazing out at the sparkling skyline of New York City. It was late at night (her favorite time), and she had a rare night off from the Cat Scratch Club. Since she didn't usually get nights off, she wasn't sure what to do with herself. She had thought about going to visit Benny, but he was spending time with his wife tonight.
The door to the roof squeaked, startling her so much that she almost fell off the roof but caught herself before she did. A young man walked out, and when he saw her, he stopped and looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights.
He lived above her, if she wasn’t mistaken. She had seen him before, sitting on his balcony in his plaid pants (which he had on now) with his roommate or by himself. She didn't know his name, and she hadn't figured out how to get him to tell her, but he was certainly cute. Mimi wanted him.
And that was when she got an idea.
"Can I bum a smoke?" she asked sweetly, motioning to the cigarette dangling from his fingers. Stiffly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a carton, took out a cigarette, and threw it to her. She caught it and lit it with her lighter, ignoring the fact that she had half a carton in her apartment.
The man stayed rooted in his spot as she took a long drag, so she smiled at him and motioned to the ledge. "You wanna join me?"
"I - I've gotta go…" he said and practically ran to the door, leaving her there with a pout on his face.
She'd get his name…somehow.
-----
"Oh, sorry," Angel exclaimed as she almost ran into a couple coming out of a pet shop, yapping dog in the man's hands, who was holding it like it was diseased. She didn't blame him. The dog kept barking at Angel despite the man's attempts to shut it up.
"It's not a problem," the man told her, then proceeded to try to shush the dog again.
"Ooh, aren't you so excited, sweetheart?" the woman asked her husband as Angel moved on, slowing her pace to listen to the man's answer. He looked anything but excited.
"Uh, well…" he said, struggling to control the dog. God, the thing was annoying…and Angel didn't usually get annoyed. "Excited isn't exactly the word I'm looking for…"
"And what is the word you're looking for, Benjamin?" the woman asked, her tone extremely cold.
"Uh…enthralled…yeah, enthralled."
The woman squealed happily, causing Angel to giggle. Those two had their problems. "Oh baby, Evita's going to be just like a member of our family!"
The man, Benjamin, took another look at the yapping dog and sighed. "Yeah, she'll fit right in."
Fandom: RENT
Characters: The gang
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: The Bohemians all knew one another before December 24th. They just didn't realize it.
Four-year-old Roger walked down the quiet streets of Scarsdale, his tiny fist wound tightly around his mother's soft hand. They were on their way to see the doctor, and although Roger hated going to the doctor (who was mean and scary), his mommy had promised to get him a lollipop on the way home if he was good.
So Roger was going to be on his best behavior.
"Mommy, why we gotsta see the doctor?" he asked in his soft, childish voice, his big green eyes staring up at his mother with curiosity.
"Well, we have to make sure we're not sick, baby."
"Oh." Roger's free hand promptly found itself in his mouth as he stared at the giant house surrounding him. His daddy called this area the - well, he called it something Roger wasn't supposed to say, but his mommy called it the rich area. He had recently found out that rich meant they had a lot of toys - roomfuls, he imagined. He bet it was great to be rich.
As little Roger's head bopped up and down with each step and his big eyes swept from house to house, a little, blonde-haired boy appeared in one of the lace curtain-covered windows. Roger let go of his mother's hand and stared at the boy, his head tilted to the side. The boy looked sad with his head leaning against the glass and his lower lip in a pout. He wondered if he was sad because his mommy hadn't let him have any candy.
Hoping to make him feel better, Roger smiled brightly at him, and the pale boy waved shyly at him.
"Roger, c'mon sweetie…"
Smiling one last time at the boy, Roger left to catch up with his mom before he was left behind, running as fast as his pudgy little legs would let him.
Roger wouldn't remember the small boy until many years later in high school, when a skinny, pale, blonde-haired boy introduced himself as Mark Cohen.
-----
Thomas B. Collins was in jail again. What a big surprise. Not. He had known it would only be a matter of time before the police caught onto his little games, and lo and behold, they had. They had surrounded him outside the library (which held the computer he had been using to hack into the bank accounts of wealthy individuals in the community and transfer some of their money to the pockets of the unfortunate residents of Alphabet City) and tried to arrest him. Tried being the operative word. It had taken six men and five city blocks before Collins had finally been cuffed and thrown into the squad car roughly, which dropped him off at a familiar establishment - the fifth district jail. Joe, the guard, had greeted him with a knowing smile and had sent him to his usual cell. Hell, it was practically reserved for him.
He had been in there for two days while his boyfriend James tried to find money to pay his bail when Joe and another guard brought in a boy (he didn't look any older than nineteen) who was kicking and screaming so loud that China could probably hear him.
"LET ME GO! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME! YOU STUPID BASTARDS!"
Collins watched in amusement as the blonde-haired boy struggled against the large guards and was eventually thrust into the cell next to Collins's.
"Hey, Davis, welcome to Utopia," Joe said as he locked the barred door.
It sounded like the boy - Davis, was it? - threw something against the door for there was a loud bang, and then he started shouting some more.
"I didn't do anything, GOD DAMNIT! Let me OUT!"
"Oh yes, because destruction of private property is perfectly legal nowadays…"
"Fuck you!"
"Hey, watch it, Davis, or you won't get your damn phone call."
"Go to hell, you pudgy bastard!"
Collins laughed. Who said jail wasn't fun?
"Collins!"
The sound of Collins's boyfriend's voice echoing throughout the cold establishment broke through the loud argument in the next cell. James and the other guard were soon at his cell, keys in hand, and before he knew it, he was free.
"Took you long enough," he said teasingly after giving James a much-longed-for kiss.
"I had to dip into the rent fund to bail your sorry ass out…again."
Collins just grinned. "Rent can wait…"
As the couple passed the row of cells, Collins saw Davis brooding in the corner, eyes fixated on a specific point on the wall. "Good luck, Davis," he called out nonchalantly.
"Fuck off," was the only reply he received.
Oh yes, the boy would be just fine.
-----
Two months later, Collins sat on a bench outside of a small courtroom as he waited for his state-appointed attorney to come out of his meeting with the lawyer defending the man whose bank account Collins had hacked into. His lawyer said that he could be in quite a bit of trouble for such an act, but Collins was always in trouble for something or other - he was used to it.
Finally, the giant wooden doors opened, and his lawyer walked out with a smile on his face, followed by a grim-looking African-American woman.
"Good news," his lawyer said, walking over to him. "They've offered you a plea bargain."
"Uh huh, Collins replied skeptically. "What is it?"
"Two hundred hours of community service if you plead guilty."
He was joking, right? "Two hundred hours? Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"
His lawyer shrugged apologetically. "It was either that or fifteen months…"
The anarchist sighed and rubbed his face in a stressed manner. Neither choice seemed particularly appealing. "Are you sure there's no other way out of this?"
"Their attorney is being very firm about this matter. I tried to get you 150 hours, but she refused to budge."
He groaned. Fuck. "Is that her," he asked, nodding his head towards the woman he had seen earlier. She didn't look very lenient with her shoulder-padded jacket, trousers, and Doc Martens…
"Yes."
-----
"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Mark muttered underneath his breath as he rode as fast as he could through the streets of New York. It was his first job in over five months, and he was already late. Of course, he wouldn't have been late if Roger hadn't hidden his camera from him. Stupid bastard… He knew how much they needed this money for rent and Collins's AZT.
Hooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!
"Watch it, asshole! I'm drivin' here!"
"Sorry…"
He pedaled away as quickly as he could and didn't stop until he reached his destination - the Third Street Theatre. His job was to record a workshop of some musical entitled something or other for the producer of the show. It was a boring job, an easy job, not what he wanted to do in regards to filming, but the pay was okay, and that was his only incentive for taking it. Well, that, and the fact that he didn't have to stay in the loft and listen to Roger play Musetta's Waltz repeatedly because he was bored.
"You must be the filmmaker," he was questioned immediately after stepping foot in the theatre. Before he could reply, the questioner told him "You're late."
Mark's cheeks flushed, and he mumbled an apology. Hopefully, it wouldn't come out of his pay.
"No matter," the man (Mark assumed he was the director) continued. "I want you to stay back most of the time so the whole stage can be seen, but I would like a couple of close-ups on Maureen."
"Who?" Mark asked as he set up his equipment.
"The curly-haired girl," he replied, waving his hand in the general direction of the stage, on which stood a curly-haired brunette.
Mark glanced at her briefly for reference and continued setting up, making sure the camera was in a good position and that the lens was clean. Suddenly, one of the stage lights fell from the ceiling with a loud crash. Maureen screamed, the director started yelling at the lighting crew in a foreign language, and Mark silently rubbed his temple.
Was this job over yet?
-----
He wasn't addicted. He didn't need it. He just wanted it.
That was what Roger told himself as he raced through the streets of New York, looking for The Man, ignoring the tremors in his hands and the sweat on his brow.
He wasn't addicted. He could stop anytime he wanted. He hadn't lied to Mark because he didn't want him to find out he was a junkie. He wasn't a junkie.
"I just want to feel good," he muttered to himself. And he did feel good when he slid that needle into his vein. He felt very good. When he was high, he was invincible. His music was better, his lyrics were better - he sang and played with more passion than anyone could ever imagine. It was better than any adrenaline high…words couldn't describe the feeling he received from a single shot of smack.
It wasn't that he was addicted, he just wanted to please his fans. And please them he did - on and off the stage. The smiling and screaming faces assured him of that. And at night, when he and whatever groupie he brought back climaxed…that was proof in itself.
Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.
There!
He spotted The Man with another customer - a young girl with red hair - and raced over to him, his hand firmly around the roll of tens he was supposed to use to pay rent to buy another baggie of his inspiration. Of course, he hadn't expected that the girl would elbow him in the stomach when he arrived.
"Back off, asshole, it's my stash. Get your own."
"I wasn't going to steal your stash, bitch," he shot back. "Now hurry it up; I'm illin'."
"Don't worry," The Man said with a twisted smile. "There's plenty for everyone." The girl shot Roger a dirty look (which he returned) and stormed away.
"Fucker," he muttered to her retreating back before handing The Man his money in exchange for a gram.
He wasn't a junkie.
-----
Collins and Mark walked quietly down the street, sweating profusely as the sun beat down on them. Collins couldn't help but notice how the weather was completely opposite of their emotions and lives. The weather was calm, but they were not. Nothing about their lives was calm at the moment.
"Maybe we should go back," Mark commented worriedly, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of their loft.
Collins shook his head. "You need a break, Mark."
"I'm worried about him," the filmmaker whispered.
Collins nodded. He was worried too, but he was also worried about Mark's well being. "Benny and Maureen can handle Roger for an hour. Besides, it keeps Benny from seeing Alison."
Mark laughed, his first laugh since this whole mess had started. It gave Collins hope that Mark would be able to handle this while he was at MIT. And that was the reason he had insisted that Mark take this walk with him - to tell him about his new job. He felt guilty about leaving him to deal with Roger, but Benny and Maureen were still with him, and Collins needed the money. Besides, he wasn't leaving for another month… Roger could make excellent progress in that time.
Or he could relapse…
He shook the voice out of his head and took a deep breath. "Uh, Mark?"
"Yeah?"
"I - " He stopped mid-sentence as the rhythmic sound of drumming filled his ears, and he saw a young Latino drummer a half a block away, tapping a beat on a ten gallon pickle tub with two wooden drumsticks. "I was wondering if you had a quarter."
Mark raised an eyebrow but pulled out a quarter from his pocket and handed it to him. When they walked past the drummer, Collins set the money on top of his drum and flashed him a quick smile. He didn't usually get sudden urges to give money to every artist or homeless person on the street, but for the young drummer, he had felt the need. Collins always followed his urges.
"Thanks, sweetie," the drummer replied in a high, chipper voice, and Mark and Collins continued their walk.
"Mark, I've got something to tell you…"
-----
Mimi hummed a little tune to herself as she sat on the edge of the roof, gazing out at the sparkling skyline of New York City. It was late at night (her favorite time), and she had a rare night off from the Cat Scratch Club. Since she didn't usually get nights off, she wasn't sure what to do with herself. She had thought about going to visit Benny, but he was spending time with his wife tonight.
The door to the roof squeaked, startling her so much that she almost fell off the roof but caught herself before she did. A young man walked out, and when he saw her, he stopped and looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights.
He lived above her, if she wasn’t mistaken. She had seen him before, sitting on his balcony in his plaid pants (which he had on now) with his roommate or by himself. She didn't know his name, and she hadn't figured out how to get him to tell her, but he was certainly cute. Mimi wanted him.
And that was when she got an idea.
"Can I bum a smoke?" she asked sweetly, motioning to the cigarette dangling from his fingers. Stiffly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a carton, took out a cigarette, and threw it to her. She caught it and lit it with her lighter, ignoring the fact that she had half a carton in her apartment.
The man stayed rooted in his spot as she took a long drag, so she smiled at him and motioned to the ledge. "You wanna join me?"
"I - I've gotta go…" he said and practically ran to the door, leaving her there with a pout on his face.
She'd get his name…somehow.
-----
"Oh, sorry," Angel exclaimed as she almost ran into a couple coming out of a pet shop, yapping dog in the man's hands, who was holding it like it was diseased. She didn't blame him. The dog kept barking at Angel despite the man's attempts to shut it up.
"It's not a problem," the man told her, then proceeded to try to shush the dog again.
"Ooh, aren't you so excited, sweetheart?" the woman asked her husband as Angel moved on, slowing her pace to listen to the man's answer. He looked anything but excited.
"Uh, well…" he said, struggling to control the dog. God, the thing was annoying…and Angel didn't usually get annoyed. "Excited isn't exactly the word I'm looking for…"
"And what is the word you're looking for, Benjamin?" the woman asked, her tone extremely cold.
"Uh…enthralled…yeah, enthralled."
The woman squealed happily, causing Angel to giggle. Those two had their problems. "Oh baby, Evita's going to be just like a member of our family!"
The man, Benjamin, took another look at the yapping dog and sighed. "Yeah, she'll fit right in."