Acceptance, a rent fanfic

It was raining. Mark sat at the window, glaring contemptuously at the raindrops that furiously battered against the window.

"Rain, rain, go away," Roger sang hoarsely from across the room. Mark shot him a scathing look.

"Leave me alone," Roger retorted to Mark's unspoken insult. "I'm sick. I'm allowed to act like a kid."

"Shut up," Mark told him venomously. "You're not sick."

Roger shrugged from his position on the couch, buried under mounds of blankets. "I am sick," he said, and reached for another tissue with which to blow his nose. "I wish you would just accept it."

"Shut up," Mark repeated, and this time Roger listened.

Mark had never liked the rain. When he was a kid it had always come at the wrong times. Right when his father had offered to take him to the zoo—"Oh wait, Marcus, it's started to rain. Maybe another time?"—and of course "another time" would never come.

Meteorologists prompted the same dislike from Mark. Those meteorologists, with their smug predictions of there being a 50 chance of rain the next day. Of course there was a 50 chance of rain. Mark could have told them that. It was either going to rain or it wasn't going to rain. If that was all it took to be a weatherman, then perhaps Mark could have skipped this whole freezing-starving-artist thing and gone and become a meteorologist.

Of course, he would never do that. It was the principle of the entire matter.

Maureen had dumped Mark on a rainy day. He had just come into the loft, soaked and dripping all over the floor, depressed and annoyed because no single scrap of footage seemed to be working for him, and there she had been, sitting on the couch like a princess. Maureen always carried herself with a royal sort of presence.

(Mark had once mentioned this to Roger. Roger had laughed and told him that no, just because Maureen ruled Mark and had him whipped, didn't mean that everyone else felt the same way. Mark hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the day. )

Maureen had been sitting there, looking stunning, as usual, in a bright red shirt (it was normal to remember the color of the shirt of the girl who had dumped you, Mark reasoned). She had smiled at him falsely as he walked in and said, in that surreptitious tone of hers, "Marky? We need to talk."

They had talked, all right. If "talked" qualified as Maureen speaking calmly—calmer than he had ever heard her speak before—about how things had changed between them and it was no longer as it used to be, and she was sorry but she felt like this was for the best, and that they could still be friends and as a matter of fact Mark could even still be her production manager—wasn't that great?— and she had already moved all her stuff out and she was leaving now, and by the way, her new girlfriend's name was Joanne.

And she had grabbed his hands and lifted his stunned self off the couch. She had picked up her bag and kissed his cheek and given him a hug, and she had recoiled immediately with a "Gross, Marky, you're wet!" and then she had been out the door.

There hadn't been anything to do but sit on the couch in shock, until Roger had walked in and told Mark to change before he caught pneumonia. That was the point: Roger had always been overly-worried about people getting sick. Roger simply worried too much about silly things like health.

"Mark?" Roger called from the couch. "If you're going out, can you get me some cough syrup?"

Mark discreetly unwound his scarf from around his neck. "I'm not going out," he lied. Well, half-lied, because it was true that he wasn't going out. The lie came in that he had been planning to go out.

"Okay," Roger said after some hesitation. "I just thought I might need some more because…well, because I'm, you know, sick."

"We probably have enough," Mark told him stiffly as he walked to his room. "And you're not sick," he muttered under his breath.

Even worse than rain was cold. Not snow, but cold. Fruitless cold, the kind that forced you to bundle up in layers and layers and layers. The deceiving kind of cold, because when you looked out the window it looked like a warm day, but as soon as you stepped out you were assaulted ruthlessly.

It had been on a cold day that he and Roger had decided to drive away to New York in high school. They had been young and idealistic and possibly very stupid—all things they still were now, but to a lesser degree.

Mark couldn't remember exactly why they had decided to run away to New York that day. It could have been for a multitude of reasons. Maybe they had been having a bad day, or maybe they just felt like it. It didn't really matter why, anyway.

What Mark did remember was calling Roger in the middle of the night and telling him that they were leaving now. Roger had been groggy, and had mumbled something about being tired and about how they could leave in the morning. Mark had wanted to insist on them leaving that very instant—it felt urgent, and it somehow seemed important to him to, for once, be completely spontaneous and conform to the unplanned desires inside of him—but after all, it was Roger who had the car. So he had agreed and hung up and fallen back asleep.

The next day, Roger didn't even remember the phone call, so they had had to first go through an entire day of school. Mark informed Roger that they were running away to New York right after last period, and Roger had wholeheartedly agreed.

They had left as (poorly) planned. Mark remembered it being exciting and intriguing, but most of all he remembered it being cold. Roger had a crap car that didn't have a heater, so he had pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hand and had watched as Roger's teeth began to chatter more and more.

The cold hadn't been enough to stop them, though, and Mark had prided himself on that fact. But then they had stopped at a gas station because they had decided that it might be smart to call their parents and inform them not to worry because they had run away. Roger had used the phone first, and Mark had expected to hear yelling streaming out of the phone (Roger's mom was very vocal). Instead, he had only heard small answers from Roger, and had watched as Roger's face changed from rosy pink to an unsettling pale, and Roger had hung up the phone and just looked at Mark. Mark knew then that the cold had gotten them once and for all, and that they were going back.

Mark had driven on the way back, because what had happened was that Roger's dad had gotten into a car accident while looking for the boys. Roger was too shaken up to drive, so Mark had for him, and they hadn't talked the whole way back.

It had taken Mark years to stop equating stale cold with guilt.

They had driven the whole way back in silence, except for when Mark pulled up to Roger's house and parked the car. Then they had sat in five more minutes of silence, until Mark had said, "It'll be okay."

He repeated it over and over, and even though Roger didn't believe it, he forced himself to.

And even though he was the one who had ultimately been wrong, he still maintained that it was Roger who was too pessimistic.

"I changed my mind," Mark decided, emerging from his room once he was sure that the rain had stopped. Roger was still on the couch, looking pitiful. "I'm going to go out."

"Mmkay," Roger mumbled, and coughed. He was obviously half-asleep.

Mark was almost completely out the door when he heard Roger sniff and sleepily murmur, "Get more cough syrup."

Mark pretended not to hear him.

Sometimes Mark even had problems with overcast days. Windy days, when the clouds covered the sun and everything looked gray.

He and Roger and Collins and Maureen had all gone out on a day like that, once. Well, to be specific, they had gone out on days like that several times, and it actually had been night. But all particulars aside, overcast nights, when the wind was blowing and there were clouds blocking the moon, reminded him of the night that they had met April.

The funny thing about the night, he remembered, was that Roger hadn't actually been performing. Roger had wanted to scope out his "competition", or simply put, another band that was probably better than his. Roger had announced to the roommates that he was going out for some spying at the club. Maureen had jumped at the opportunity to go out, Mark had jumped at the opportunity to go anywhere with Maureen, Collins had jumped at the opportunity to get drunk, and Benny had jumped at the opportunity to have all of them out of the loft so that he could get some work done.

So they had ended up at the new club, the whole bunch of them—Roger, slouching in, attempting to not be noticed and failing miserably. Maureen right behind him, smiling brightly at everyone but Mark. Collins, scoping out the scene, deciding that the night wouldn't be wasted, and laughing at his own puns. Mark, clinging to Collins and staring hopelessly after Maureen. They would have formed a funny picture, Mark thought, if any of them had stopped to look at themselves.

They had sat down at a table, where Roger had intently trained his focus on the band, refusing to acknowledge anything else. Maureen had sat at the table for five minutes before getting impatient and deciding that she was going to "dance and have a good time!" Mark, who had anticipated a night of sitting with Collins, chugging down cheap beer, was disappointed to find that Collins had found some old friends of his and was chatting with them. He had sat glumly across from a scarily-absorbed Roger, tapping his fingers (off-beat) on the table, waiting for Maureen to come back or at the very least invite him to dance with her.

And then, before he knew what was happening, a girl had sidled up next to him, taken a sip of his drink, and smiled dazzlingly. Mark hadn't been impressed (at that point in his life he was completely consumed by the fire that was Maureen).

"Hey," he had said. "That's mine."

"I'm April," the girl had replied.

Mark was more annoyed than intrigued. The girl had the gall to take his drink and then introduce herself as if she hadn't done anything? It may have been cheap beer, but it was cheap beer that he had paid for with his limited supply of money.

"Don't take my beer," He told her.

"I'll help you get that girl," She replied. And suddenly Mark was all ears. "I'll help you get that girl," She pointed to Maureen, and Mark watched Maureen, in the center of the dance floor, looking like she was having the time of her life without him. "If you help me get him." She pointed across the table at Roger, who looked like he hadn't shifted his gaze or blinked once since they had arrived.

Mark had hardly thought about it. "Deal!"

Somehow, it had worked out. April had dragged Mark to the dance floor, and Maureen had gotten jealous, proving that she did have feelings for Mark. The band had finished playing and Roger had unhappily gotten up to tell Mark and Maureen that he was ready to go, and then April had worked her magic.

Sometimes Mark thought, as he walked into the grocery store, he figured that cloudy, windy, days were good. When he thought about how the night had ended with all of them ending up with someone—even Collins, with the bartender—well, he began to think that they were good things.

And then, he thought, as he strode by the cough syrup aisle, he remembered about how Maureen had left him for a woman, April had "left" Roger forever, and the bartender had left Collins with HIV, and he began to lean towards not liking those days after all.

"Roger? I'm home."

Mark arrived back in the loft, carrying food and feeling disgruntled. By the time he had dumped the groceries on the table, Roger was stirring from his place on the couch.

Mark waited for a moment, hoping that he didn't wake up Roger, before he continued putting away the groceries. When he was done, he quietly retreated back to his room and shut the door softly, so as not to disturb Roger—but only, he reminded himself—because it was rude to unnecessarily wake up a sleeping person. Not because Roger was si—well, anyway, it was rude to unnecessarily wake up a sleeping person, and that was all that mattered.

But the worst kind of weather, the absolute worst, was when it rained ice, or when it hailed. That was almost a combination of every type of bad day—there was precipitation, pouring relentlessly down from skies that were cloudy, and everything was unnecessarily cold.

It was a day like that when Mark had found out that Roger was HIV-Positive.

Mark hadn't been the one to find the note. Mark hadn't even been the first one to stumble upon the scene in the bathroom. That had been Collins. It was Collins who bore the brunt of the painful memories of that sight, but all of them had their own share as well.

Mark had come home last. He'd been out filming, and when he came home the ambulance was just leaving from the loft. He hadn't thought twice about it, had just continued walking up the stairs as usual.

It was once he'd walked in that he was slapped across the face by the situation. Roger was on the couch, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, while Collins and Maureen were in the bathroom, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

Mark had spent the night sitting next to Roger, holding him and staying with him, pushing his shock to the back of the mind in favor of comforting his best friend. It was only after Roger had fallen into a distressed sleep that Mark had even attempted to get up from his spot. He had been intent on staggering into his room and falling asleep on the bed next to Maureen, pretending like the day hadn't happened.

Collins had materialized in front of him, though, impeding his way. Collins looked older than he ever had. There wasn't a trace of the customary mirth on his face, only sorrow, and sadness, and overwhelming tiredness.

Collins stood in front of him and held out a note expectantly. Mark mechanically took the note, read the words, and handed it back to Collins. He turned to go into his room.

Collins stopped him again. "He needs to be told. He needs to get tested." Collins was HIV-Positive, something inside Mark reminded him. Collins would know this sort of stuff, but Mark didn't care.

"No, he doesn't." He pushed past Collins.

Collins blocked him once more. "He's going to need you. He'll need to get tested, and he'll need AZT-"

"Don't say that," Mark had whispered, his teeth clenched and his fists tightened. He had stared at Collins, willing him to understand, to just let him pretend that none of this was happening.

"Ignoring it won't make it go away," Collins said quietly.

Mark hadn't answered.

Now, Mark sat on his bed and stared out the window. The rain had cleared. He could hear Roger coughing in his sleep in the living room.

Maybe Collins was right.

"It's sunny outside." Roger stood in his doorway, apparently awake from his nap.

"I know."

"Do you want to go out?"

Mark swallowed and forced himself to ask. "Aren't you…sick?"

Roger stared at Mark in disbelief, seemingly unable to comprehend that it was Mark, finally acknowledging Roger's sickness.

"I feel better now," Roger eventually managed to choke out. In completely poorly timed fashion, he sneezed.

Mark considered. "Okay," he said. "Let's go. But…uh, bring a jacket, okay?" Roger continued to stare at him incredulously before nodding.

Roger turned to leave, but Mark stood up and called to him before he could exit the room. "Hey Roger?"

"Yeah?" There was a wary look on Roger's face.

Mark swallowed again. "Take your AZT."

It felt cheesy, but Mark couldn't help but think that the smile on Roger's face was brighter than the sky outside.