A/N: I'm pretty new to the writing aspect of RENT fanfiction. Everything is welcomed. Thanks. This is pre-rent. I don't own any of the characters or themes of Jonathon Larson's creation: I rent! Ha…oh god, I'm sure you've heard that countless times….
"You aren't going to that party tonight?" I asked angrily, although I already knew the answer, "Shit!"
"No one said you had to go," Maureen pointed out, a grin on her face, "I would go, but I'm grounded."
"And when has that ever stopped the conniving, sly, mischievous, smart Maureen Johnson?"
"You forgot sexy."
"Oops. My bad."
Maureen stretched her hand palm-side up towards me, and I slapped it hard.
"See ya, Mo."
She started to walk away but then turned around. "Definitely. Probably tonight," she told me with a glint in her eye.
I chuckled as she strutted away, guys' heads turning to gawk at her as she went. I plopped down on the curb of the street and sighed. What was I going to do until the party at that hot chick's place? I could go see if the band wanted to get together for practice: but I knew they wouldn't. Those fucking slackers never wanted to do any damn work lately.
I was as sure as hell not gonna go home: I wouldn't face my father for the whole world. My mom split pretty early on, and then it was just me and my old man. He's ok before my mom left, I think, but then…god damn. I tried not to think of him so much, and I didn't even see him that often. I mostly spent my nights over at Maureen's, but sometimes her parents would randomly ground her because they thought we were having sex. Pfft. What bitching assholes her parents are. I'd rather gag than fuck Maureen. She's like a sister to me.
Not to say I haven't fucked before. Hell no. I'd consider it a hobby of mine if anyone bothered to ask. But I don't think anyone could give a fuck. No one really gives a shit about me. I take care of myself, and I'm fucking fine with it. I'm sixteen years old. I've learned to manage.
I wish she'd glance at me. That chick whose party I'm going to. She's a senior and I'm a junior. Upperclassmen don't date underclassmen. But it's her dating me. Now, that can happen.
"Hey, Blondie!" I called to her. I was no damn chicken. If I wanted a girl in bed, I'd get one.
She whipped around, her long; almost white hair flowing out around her as she did so.
"Who, me?" she asked, looking around.
"No," I answered sarcastically, jabbing my thumb over at a small, wimpy looking blonde boy with glasses, "I was talking to him. Yes, of course I was talking to you! Sit down!"
She hesitated, but she made her way over. She sat down delicately and took in my appearance. My messy dirty blonde hair that fell into dark green eyes. My clean-cut face, yet she probably notices that I still look like a kid. My army jacket with the bands ensigns and anarchy patches. My ripped up jeans. Yeah, she liked me alright.
"Hi," she greeted after taking me in.
"Hey," I silkily replied, "What's up?"
"Nothing…" she trailed off uncomfortably, "Um, what's your name?"
"Roger," I answered, grinning at her, "Roger Davis."
"Ah, I know who you are," she said knowingly with a smile identical to mine, "You're the wannabe rock star."
I almost choked on my spit. "Wannabe?" I sputtered, "Babe, I am a rock star."
She laughed, "So I've just heard. What bands are you into, Mr. Frontman?"
I smirked at her and responded, "You seriously want me to name them all? Hmm, well, the Chili Peppers kick ass, so does Jimi Hendrix. He's not a band though. Same with Bruce Springsteen and Bon Jovi. Led Zepplin is a genius. The Beatles are my fucking bible though, or torah, in your case—"
"I think I get the general idea of what you're into," she interrupted, quite rudely, might I add.
"Hmm. Alright then, Blondie, what are you into?" I asked her teasingly, "And you can't say academics."
"Ha-ha," she said dryly, "Um…I don't know. Volleyball…"
"Of course," I acknowledged, "My little volleyball star…"
"Shut up," she protested, "I didn't bash on your music, did I? So why bash on volleyball?"
"Because," I answered in a sing-song voice, clasping my hands patiently like a kindergarten teacher, "Volleyball is a motherfucking sport. You being athletic will fade quickly, while my musicality will stay with me for the rest of my goddamn life."
"But volleyball makes me happy just as much as music makes you happy," she challenged thoughtfully.
"When did I say music made me happy?" I questioned, studying my nails.
"Well, you didn't," she agreed, sounding perplexed, "I just assumed—"
"There's a lesson for you: assuming is bad," I interrupted, "But yeah, you assumed correctly. This time. But I can guarantee that when you first saw that it was me who had called out to you, you assumed that I was a great, big, cocksucking loser."
"But you're not," she argued, folding her arms.
"And there you go," I encouraged, smirking at her, "Yet, everyone else thinks I am. And have they even spoken to me? Nope. I'm just some fucking brooding musician who somehow gets lucky with girls and cuts himself every night."
With that, I flipped open my Swiss Army Knife and pretended to slit my wrists while moaning, "Oh, woe is me! I'm a poor boy who seems to find himself caught in awful situations! I can never do anything right!"
She studied me as I did this, a curled smirk on her pale, angelic face. "You seriously have problems."
"Aha! There you go again with assuming!" I exclaimed.
"Actually," she tested knowingly, with amusement and—did I see attraction?—sparkling in her eyes, "Since I have already met you and witnessed your behavior before I said that you have problems, it's wouldn't really be assuming as much as knowing."
I could already feel myself begin to go hard in between my legs. Damn, her wit was turning me on; what was going to happen when I finally see her naked?
I smirked down at her as she slept, my head resting on my hand, which in turn rested on the pillow beneath me. On her bed. I was in her bed. In which she was amazing in, even though I took her virginity.
I could hear the people disperse beneath me. The party had lasted a good while, and long after we had finished performing the deed. We had talked for a long time on the curb, trying to outwit each other with sarcastic comments and such. She dragged me along to the party, where we talked some more, and then finally did it. And here I am, watching her sleep soundly, and the idea sounds pleasant. I haven't slept in a while, probably about two or three days. I perpetually run on coffee. But, skipping your coffee addiction for a day and fucking someone can wear you out quick. I quickly succumbed to my desire to sleep in a matter of seconds.
"Shit! Shit!" she cursed in my ear, pushing and pulling me, "Roger, get the fuck up now!"
I mumbled something incoherent, still pretty exhausted, and swatted at her hand.
"Fuck you," she growled, springing out of bed and rushing around the room to find some clothes.
"CINDY! WAKE UP!" a male voice shouted, and that quickly woke me up.
"What the hell?" I questioned.
I was answered by having my own clothes thrown at me.
"Get dressed," she snapped, rushing over.
"CINDY! I'M COMING UP!"
"DAMNIT!" she screamed.
She grabbed me, regardless of me being only in my boxers, and shoved me inside her closet. Right on cue, the door to her room flung wide open. I opened the closet door enough to see who had come into her room. It was that nerdy-looking blonde boy with glasses I had pointed at yesterday. Cindy folded her arms.
"What the hell do you want?" she questioned angrily, "And knock before you come in."
"I gave you fair warning that I was coming in," he pointed out, "And mom was wondering where you went. It's time for breakfast."
"Well, I'll be down in a minute…"
Then, I saw it: his crystal blue eyes traveled to the long, ripped up jeans, the army jacket, and the plain black shirt. Fuck.
"W-whose are those?" he asked, pointing towards the clothes, his voice suddenly changing from sounding like a strong willed man to frightened little boy.
"Yours," Cindy answered quickly, scooping them up from their place on the floor.
"No, no they're not," he challenged, backing away, "I don't wear ripped jeans. I don't even wear jeans. I wear corduroy pants."
"Look—"
I knew what I had to do.
I pushed the door opened and emerged from my spot in the closet. I gave the guy a small wave.
"Hey, I'm Roger Davis," I introduced myself like I normally would.
He stared, taking in my appearance. Including the fact I was only in boxers.
"H-hi," he stuttered, "Um…uh, I'm just gonna go…"
"Hey man, do me a huge favor?" I asked as he was about to walk out.
"Sure, what?" he questioned meekly, sounding as if he couldn't say no.
"Will you not tell Cindy's parents about this?"
"N-no problem," he answered, looking ashamed, his cheeks burning.
"Thanks man, I owe you a fucking big one."
He gave me a small smile, and then quietly stepped out of the room. Yet, I heard him bolting towards the bathroom, which was followed by a gagging sound.
"Who is that?" I asked with a chuckle.
"My brother," Cindy muttered, clearly embarrassed, "Mark Cohen."