Forever, a rent fanfic

"Forever"

Rating: R
Pairing: Mark/Roger, Maureen/Joanne cameo
Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance/Smut cough
Summary: Post-RENT, Roger was getting everything together and then he found out there had been a mistake … written for challenge #6 at rentchallenge.
Warnings: Post-RENT, hinted at mention of character death (Angel, Mimi, and Collins), boysex/handjob.
Disclaimer: Don't own RENT.

- - - - - -

It's dark, and smoky, and Mark would cough if it wouldn't brand him as an uptight asshole. He fucking hates cigarettes and there are about twenty people around him smoking, making him want to choke.

Of course, Roger always smells like smoke. But he likes how Roger smells, usually. Roger's cigarettes must be different, somehow.

"Hey." Mark gets pushed over by Maureen's hip as she jostles to be closer to him. "How much longer?"

"I don't know," Mark answers, annoyed. "He comes on when he comes on."

Maureen sneers at him. "Fuck you. Don't take your nerves out on me."

"I don't have any nerves," Mark mutters, staring at the empty stage. Soon enough, Roger will be taking that stage with the band he's gotten together. They've practiced and broken up and gotten together again more times than Mark can count, a dizzying mess with all the petty fights and not so petty crises that have made it nearly impossible to commit to anything. It really is pretty miraculous that they're ready, that they even got this gig. Mark swallows, looking out over the crowd again.

Maureen's shoulder bumps his. "He tell you yet?"

Is she trying to annoy him? Is she trying to make everything worse? "No."

Maureen stares at the stage, too, her mouth suddenly a little tight. "You're going to have to make him tell you, one of these days."

Mark laughs, not a trace of humour in it. "Yeah. I'd need shamrocks exploding out my ass. You want to try to make him talk, you're more than welcome."

She doesn't smile. "It's not fair to make us worry like this."

Mark looks at her, disbelieving. She can't be for real. Why would she bring this up now – tonight? There's nothing he wants to think of less. There's nothing he wants to avoid more than that sick dropping of the stomach that Maureen's words have triggered. "It's his choice."

"It's not fair," Maureen repeats, her voice tense.

"Yeah, well," Mark trails off, feeling pissed. After all this time, Maureen still hasn't learned that it's better to just keep her mouth shut about some things. Doesn't she think Mark would tell her, the minute he knew anything?

One of the last emotions Mark wanted to feel tonight rears its ugly head among all the smoke and hazy lighting as he remembers. Resentment. Fuck Roger for doing this to him. To all of them.

It was, what? Two weeks ago? About that. And the phone rang and Roger had actually rushed over to answer.

He'd waved off Mark's curious look, talking in low tones and using monosyllables that Mark could make nothing of. When Roger hung up, Mark had raised his eyebrows. Roger hadn't met his eyes.

"…Was it your mother?" Mark finally asked, feeling an uncomfortable little stab of … something.

"No." Roger had looked up at him, apparently deciding it was better to get it over with than have Mark on his case. "Look, it's nothing, okay? I just – it was just the clinic, they were reminding me I need to get checked out, that's all."

Mark had walked over from the counter and put a hand on Roger's shoulder. "…Do you want me to come with you?"

Roger had shaken off his arm, and Mark had tried to swallow down the hurt, to deny he even felt it in the first place. "No. I'm fine."

That had been the last of it. Roger had gone into his room and whenever Mark even tried to bring it up – it must have shown in his face, somehow – Roger's face would harden and within moments he'd be gone. Finally Mark had stopped trying. What was the point?

He still looked at Roger sometimes, though, almost about to ask while Roger bent over his guitar, frowning, playing sequences of notes over and over again in between little snorts of frustration, and ends up feeling such a wave of emotion that he gets scared and backs off. Every time. There's something in him that wants to never know. That wants to just have this room, this ignorance, Roger. Forever.

Forever. Mark kind of hates that word. He doesn't think of it too often.

Roger caught him every time. Looking at him. And every time his face closed off almost immediately.

A small murmur goes through the crowd and Mark looks up, sharply jerked out of his thoughts. There they were, and there Roger was, stepping up to the mic, flashing that smile that was so different, but so the same that Mark's stomach clenches.

"Hey, everybody," Roger says, plugging in his guitar and speaking into the microphone. "Thanks for coming."

"Here," Mark says quickly, turning and shoving his camera into a surprised Maureen's hands. "Film it for me, will you?"

Maureen's eyes widen. "What?"

"Please?" Mark hears the begging tone in his voice. Even if Maureen can't film anything worth shit and all he gets is sound and Roger's boots, he doesn't care. This he is experiencing fully even if he immediately forgets. This is something he's not running from, in any way, even if it kills him.

"Okay," Maureen answers, looking a little confused, but apparently can't help a little grin as she brings the camera to her eye. It's dress-up – she gets to play at being Mark.

Mark turns back to the stage, listening to Roger's voice echoing through the room, talking about the Well Hungarians – which elicits a couple light cheers from the crowd – and how his sound has changed. Mark just watches, staring, willing Roger to look up at him, to smile, to take some courage from this fierce feeling currently burning the fuck out of Mark's chest.

Roger finally shuts up, his head down, and he plays the first few notes. Mark's chest starts to relax, but then there's a horrible silence before a distorted sounding apology that Mark's sure only he can hear. Roger has abruptly turned, leaving the stage with his guitar still clutched in his hand.

Fuck!

Pushing through the muttering crowd isn't easy. He sees Joanne by the door on his way, but purposefully avoids eye contact. If she didn't see, Maureen will explain. Fuck! Mark hopes that Maureen's filming skills are shit. If not, he'll burn the whole fucking reel.

It's like the dreams you had when you were younger, running and running and not being able to move. The people are cascading towers of sand and Mark starts to wonder if he'll ever get through. But finally he finds the back of the stage, finds a virtually empty hall, and he can breathe again.

Hurrying down the hall, looking for an open doorway, Mark hears an angry voice. It's a little muted by all the sound coming from behind him, but it's enough for Mark to know Roger is being yelled at. He's three doors away now; Yelling Man emerges, looking furious, disgusted, and Mark comes dangerously close to sticking out his foot to trip the bastard. He'd be getting off easy, considering Mark would like to break the guy's face right about now.

At the last second he decides not to. Roger, getting to him, is more important right now. Mark gets to the room, finally, closing the door behind him and forgetting about everything else in the world and expecting Roger to be pissed and defensive and maybe ready to shove whoever happens to be available.

What is actually there almost takes his breath away. Mark couldn't have prepared himself, even after all he's been through, to see Roger crouching down in one corner of the room, his guitar lying forgotten on the sticky-looking couch that Mark wouldn't put his worst enemy on. He's not expecting Roger's hands to be visibly shaking as he rakes his hands through his hair. As Mark gets closer, he realizes that it's not just his hands; Roger's shaking all over.

"Roger," he says quietly, and is surprised, when he crouches down beside him, that Roger actually looks over and connects. But then Roger speaks, and Mark wonders how much he's connecting, after all.

"I don't know what to do," Roger says, and there's something wild in his voice and eyes that Mark hates but can't exactly call unfamiliar.

"It's okay," Mark says, trying really hard to sound soothing. It still seems like it could be too much of a risk to reach out and touch Roger, but he does it anyway. He gently puts a hand on Roger's shoulder, and even now – even when he should be concentrating on nothing else but what's wrong, what's right here in front of him – he wishes things were a little different, a little less complicated, and he wishes he could just hold Roger without it having to mean anything.

"There'll be other shows, it's completely understandable, that you'd be nervous – "

"Not that!" Roger bursts out, and his voice is shaking now, too. "You don't know."

There's only one thing that Mark knows he doesn't know, and it's a knife in him, it really his. His lips are suddenly cold, frozen, and it feels like he can't speak. He'll never be able to again.

It's a miracle when his voice comes out so measured. "What don't I know?"

Roger puts his hand over his face, lightning-quick, looking anywhere but at Mark. But after a second he locks eyes with him.

"I don't know how to tell you."

Roger almost smiles, and somehow that's scarier to Mark than anything else could be. He waits, silent, until Roger takes a breath.

"Remember when I told you … the clinic … they called me?"

Roger's looking at the wall across from them. Mark's looking at Roger, even though it hurts. Even though he doesn't want to.

"They told me – "

There's a pain in Mark's chest and it's getting too big to hold. He doesn't know what he's going to do when whatever this thing is bursts. He won't be able to take it.

"Something with the computers … there was a mistake." Roger meets his eyes again, briefly, before quieting and staring at the wall again. In the back of his mind, Mark thinks he sees a kind of peace there, and he hates it with as much feeling as he's able to muster and bring to the surface right then.

"I … I got tested again. I'm negative."

This isn't something Mark can process. It makes no sense. It's like Roger telling him New York doesn't exist.

"… What?"

Roger won't look at him, and he looks so tired. A little half-smile cracks the side of his face. "They told me I don't have HIV." Roger pauses. It seems like he pauses for a very long time. "I never did."

The wall. Mark realizes that he's looking at it now, too. He further realizes, kind of slowly, that he's no longer able to stay in a crouching position, and has sort of slid into sitting, his back collapsed against the wall. And Roger's sitting now, beside him.

Roger is wearing black pants, a white wifebeater that's kind of grey, it's so old now, and a blue dress shirt that's only slightly frayed. The blue shirt is open, exposing the curve of chest and collarbone above the kind of-white, the many necklaces and the tight-looking throat. Roger swallows.

Mark's hand moves to settle between them, and brushes against a small fold of Roger's blue shirt, which he grasps at, holds on to. And then he lifts his other hand, to check his watch. Because he doesn't have his camera, so he can't be concentrating on lighting or composition or anything else to ground him. And he needs something to ground him to this moment, Roger staring silently ahead.

11:54. It's still the same day.

- - - - - -

Mark is watching Roger.

Mark is unbelievably frustrated. Mark is getting ready to fucking scream.

Because, goddammit, he's never felt this way and he would have expected Roger to feel the same way. It almost makes all the loss worth it, to have this feeling that Roger's time isn't past due, that they're not both living on borrowed time. Mark wants to be transported into Singin' In The Rain so he can dance and sing and whirl around lampposts. It is a beautiful fucking life, and even if he feels guilty about it, he's never been so fully convinced before that there is a God. And he'd thought everything would change.

But Roger won't let him be transported, not just yet. So Mark worries.

It's not like he wouldn't be worrying, anyway. Roger will still have to get tested, a lot. Mark had thought of that even before Roger's meltdown about Mimi.

Another time of desperately wanting to put his arms around Roger but knowing that he couldn't – that it wasn't the right time, not yet. Because after getting home from the club that night, leaving a stunned Maureen and Joanne behind, Roger hadn't come out of his room for days. The first time of trying to talk to him had gotten Mark nothing but silence, so he had left Roger alone, feeling confused. And then out of nowhere one night Roger was in his room, standing in the doorway and telling him he can't have it happen again.

Mark had sat up, his blankets tangled around his legs. "What?"

And then he had noticed that Roger was shaking again, a little, and goddammit but he wanted to kill someone right then, as if anyone were actually responsible for this whole fucking mess. It's not as if Mark's an idiot; he saw more clearly than anyone how Roger had pushed Mimi away until she'd pulled out that little fucking bottle. Mark knew the moment Roger picked up his guitar again that things were going to reach a semblance of being okay again, that Roger was ready for something of life and love again.

And he knew, when Roger pushed Mimi away, just what it was he was really resisting.

That, and certain looks from Roger whenever Mark gets too near, lets him know that too much touching was a dangerous thing that Roger wanted to avoid. Roger was giving him that look now, even from over in his doorway while Mark's in his bed. Even when at the same time it seemed like he wanted … something.

"I – " Roger hadn't been able to look at him. "I can't go through that again – Mimi – there were so many times – "

Mark had managed to keep a grimace off his face. It figured, that Roger wouldn't speak for a week and this would be the first thing he said. It couldn't be a simple hello or request for coffee or anything normal or easy. It had to be one of the big questions. Mark couldn't help but wonder if he'd feel such a surge of bad feeling if he could – well, react the way he wanted to.

As it was, he'd put his arms around his knees, holding tightly. "You won't," his voice sounding firmer and more strong than he felt. "You'll keep getting tested, we'll make sure, but – "

"I can't do it." Each word had been pronounced, tense.

Mark had looked at him. "You can." He'd paused, looking away. "You have to."

When he'd glanced back, Roger had been gone. And Mark had tried to go to sleep in the silence.

Silence that was still going on, that still enveloped them as Mark sat on the couch, staring at Roger, and Roger sat on the table, staring out the window.

Talk! Talk, for god's sake!

But he doesn't.

- - - - - -

Mark can't help it; he's curious. "How are you feeling?"

Roger looks up at him sharply from his bed, sitting there with a cup of coffee in hand. "What?"

Mark crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. There's a small smile on his face, because Roger is at least talking again and things are, at least, a little bit normal again. He's not as locked away, and even if Mark realizes he shouldn't be so grateful about that, that there's so much else he wants, he can't quite help it. It feels good, even if it's pathetic.

"It's not exactly a difficult question," Mark says. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

Roger looks up, seeming confused at Mark's pushing. "What? Yes, I'm fine. Why?"

Mark turns away. Because 'fine' is not something Roger usually is, it's just a fact. Especially lately, he's been paler than usual, tired, feeling sick. It's not like Mark didn't notice.

But even if Roger is so fucking unbearably quiet, even if he won't talk and, what's worse, won't play, it almost doesn't matter.

Because Mark's noticed that Roger isn't so pale, doesn't seem so sick.

And right now, as long as Roger seems safe, that's all Mark can really find it in himself to care about.

- - - - - -

Mark keeps watching Roger to make sure any of that sense of safety doesn't begin to slip away. Because Mark loved April, too, in his own way, and he hasn't forgotten what it felt like to lose her. And somehow, now, he wants to hold onto Roger more strongly than ever.

It's at nighttime, when he's almost sleeping and his guard is the most down, that he hears the crash. And he's almost relieved, because he knows he's been waiting for this. This happened, too, with every other horrifying change. The utter silence, the deadness that almost emanates from him. And then the explosion, the breakdown.

Mark hurries out to the main room of the loft, where the hard, loud thuds seem to be coming from. Roger is kicking and punching at the wall, and Mark would almost want to roll his eyes if it weren't for the fact that he can see something shining on Roger's hands through the darkness. Seeing blood – it's not an easy thing for Mark, anymore, and it doesn't make him snap but it makes him react a little quicker, a little more openly than he's used to. He rushes over to Roger, grabbing him from the back.

"Roger! Roger!" Mark manages to get his arms around Roger's waist and uses all his strength to pull Roger back, the other man twisting, fighting it the whole time. When Mark finally gets him far enough away from the wall he lets go and elbows himself around to be standing in front of Roger. As soon as he feels sure enough on his feet, Mark lunges forward and shoves Roger hard, hard enough that Roger looks shocked and stumbles back.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mark says breathlessly, voice hard. But still somehow a little relieved. Anger. This, at least, was here.

"What am I doing?" Roger shoots back, still looking furious. "What the fuck is going on, that's what you should be asking. What the fucking hell happened?"

Taken aback, Mark feels himself grounding, his anger starting to cool. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I don't do anything," Roger yells, his face suddenly so close Mark wonders for a second if he's going to feel Roger's spit hitting his face. "I don't work, I don't do anything, I don't teach anybody anything, I – "

Roger's voice breaks, and Mark suddenly processes. Teaching.

"I don't even make anybody happy," Roger continues, voice strong and hard again. "I shouldn't be here."

That's another knife, and Mark has to look down to gather his thoughts, decide what to do and try to swallow some of this choking fury. It's not often that what he really wants to say comes out of his mouth – but one of the times that he's guaranteed to say something he'll regret is when he's really angry. And Roger is being so profoundly stupid Mark's afraid he's going to say something he won't be able to take back.

But even as he feels afraid, there's something in the back of his mind that he is almost able to recognize as a feeling of gratitude to Roger's idiocy, that he is so fucking livid he has the opportunity to say this without censorship.

His head shoots up when he hears Roger take a deep breath. Roger's eyes are locked on him, and they look hard and closed off. Mark is really sick of that look.

"You think so, too," Roger says quietly, and Mark's anger bubbles past uncontrollable.

"You are a fucking idiot," he practically bellows, feeling a little horrified. He had really not meant for that to come out that loudly. "It's not like I'm here because I feel like I have to be, you know! It's not like I don't have other choices!"

They stand, staring at each other, and Mark struggles to keep his voice level, chest rising with each fought for breath.

"Don't you get it? If I believed in that shit, I'd be sacrificing every fucking possession I own to the gods right now."

Roger stares at him another moment, his face changing. But Mark can't read what that look means, and he nearly starts pummelling at something himself, in the frustration of it.

"I've gotta go," Roger says suddenly, wheeling around. Mark takes a quick step forward, feeling his stomach drop. Something is making him feel like he won't be able to stand Roger vanishing now, he needs to know where Roger is and that he's within reaching distance.

"Roger," he says quietly, then yells again, surprising himself again, when in a blur Roger has his jacket on and is already disappearing out the door. "Roger!"

But Roger's already gone. Mark looks down at himself, at the ratty sweatpants and shirt he sleeps in, white socks on his feet.

"Oh, goddammit," he mutters to himself, furious, rushing around to grab shoes and slamming them onto his feet, grabbing up his jacket and awkwardly pulling it on as he rushes down the stairs and out the building.

The second he hits the pavement Mark is looking but there's nothing to find. For a while he walks around, eyes open, watching and hoping, but eventually he realizes that there's no point. Disgusted, he turns around and heads back to the loft, even though everything in him is telling him to search, and roam.

- - - - - -

It's still dark when Roger returns.

"Do you ever leave the loft when you're not just fucking running away?"

And there go the eyes again.

"Where were you, anyway?" Mark sighs before he finishes the sentence, interrupts himself. All these words are escaping him before he's able to think. "No. You know what? I don't care."

Mark stands up from the couch, the notebook he's been staring at and trying to write in falling forgotten to the floor. Roger's been watching him silently, but at this he turns abruptly and starts for his room. Mark smiles, mentally kicking Roger. What, he thought Mark wouldn't guess that move? Mark beats him to the door by a split-second, pushing just ahead and slamming his hand into it before Roger can even try to open it.

"No," Mark says, feeling nerves jangling all over his body. Not from fear, but at the overwhelming closeness as he reaches around, trapping Roger between his arms and shifting his body closer to the wall. After everything that's happened, everything that Mark's seen and everything they've talked about, Mark can't even imagine that Roger doesn't feel the same way. But the violent outburst of earlier does make him pause, makes it seem a little more likely that Mark could walk away from this with a bad split lip or even a broken jaw.

But he is so terribly sick of waiting. He's loved Roger so long now he can't even remember when he started. And as far as he can see, there's no good reason to hold back anymore.

Mark steps even closer, pushing Roger back into the wall. He meets Roger's eyes, and looks at him seriously.

"What are you doing?" Roger asks, nervously, and Mark just looks at him as if he's an idiot. It's kind of obvious at this point.

Roger licks his lips quickly, and Mark thinks that shouldn't affect him the way it does. There's something not quite right about it. "I … I don't know who I am anymore, Mark, and this … it's just not in me, okay? I'm different now, but it hasn't changed anything, it's just made everything worse, I – I don't …"

"You don't have that excuse anymore," Mark tells him quietly, and he understands. Suddenly there is no special treatment and none of that same fear and no reason to not live. Before, at least, there was a reason. Maybe not a reason that should be listened to, but it was still there.

"Fuck you," Roger says, his voice a little hoarse and looking stunned, hurt.

"No, I don't mean it that way, exactly," Mark says, furrowing his eyebrows but not moving away. "But now you don't have any reason to hide, to stay away, and that must be …" Mark pauses, thinking of how badly he wants to close the distance between them and wrap himself completely around Roger. To forget words altogether. "I would guess that it would be scary."

Roger's eyes slide sideways, getting away from Mark. "It's not just that … it's everything."

Everything. Mark thinks back to the night at the club, which seems like a lifetime ago now. Roger's reaction starts to make a little more sense now, that he treated it like a loss instead of how Mark felt about it – like it was the greatest fucking gift in the universe. Because it wasn't even Mark going through it and he remembers his life passing before his eyes, feeling like he could pass out from the inevitable shifting of change that's always seemed to bring Roger so much pain and fear. It was a physical sensation and thanks to it he hadn't been able to stay on his legs. Mark lets his arms fall, one hand coming to rest on Roger's waist and the other sliding gently over the side of Roger's face.

"There's nothing to be frightened of," he says softly, and Roger's eyes widen. He doesn't need to say that he disagrees.

"There isn't," Mark reiterates, insistent, and moves so that their bodies are together now, Mark's thigh between Roger's legs. It's the absence of space that Mark has been craving so deeply for so long.

There's a sharp inhalation from Roger, and Mark leans his head forward, never breaking eye contact. Roger still looks scared, but that hard closed off look – it's gone. Something swings deeply through Mark's chest, something that feels light and impossibly heavy at the same time, something that makes him almost dizzy. One more slight movement, one more leap, and Mark's mouth is on Roger's.

It only takes a moment to realize that Roger isn't fighting, isn't turning his face away or pushing at him, so Mark deepens the kiss, molding his body to Roger's and moving to wrap his arms around the strong body next to his. It was still strong, and it would get stronger. Mark closes his eyes, pressing his tongue against Roger's, tasting. He barely even means to, when he rocks his hips up and against Roger.

"No." There's a light gasp, and Roger's pulling his face away. "We can't."

Mark tries to bite back his frustration, refusing to move his body. It all feels too warm, too good. "Why not?"

Roger keeps being the one to turn his head, to look away. "I – we don't know. Mimi …"

Mark wants to bash his head into the wall beside Roger's, he really does. "You got tested again, right?"

Now he looks at him, eyes unsure. "Twice."

Mark doesn't look away. "That's good. But it doesn't matter to me." He pauses, and realizes he's slipped his hand under Roger's shirt and is rubbing at his stomach. "Not for this."

Roger looks down at where Mark's hand is, then back up at his face. He stays silent, and that's enough for Mark to start kissing him again, to trail his lips down Roger's neck and trail his hand down Roger's stomach, feeling downy hair brushing against him as he grabs at the top of Roger's jeans and clumsily unfastens the button there.

"No." Roger says it quietly, just as Mark takes hold of the zipper. Mark freezes, looks at him. "No, don't."

Mark leans closer so their foreheads are touching. "Do you mean that?"

Roger doesn't answer, is silent again, and this time Mark's grateful. After a moment he pulls away, enough to see Roger's eyes and make sure there's no last minute protest, and pulls the zipper down, pushing away the folds of material. He can feel Roger's stomach expand as he takes a breath, the warm skin pressing into him, and then he slips his hand under the material of Roger's briefs, taking him in his hand.

He's surprised when Roger pitches forward, grabbing onto him and shoving his face into Mark's neck. But then he smiles, feeling the warm erratic breath, and brings his free hand up and under Roger's jacket to press into his back, holding him there. Mark realizes, as he feels Roger's weight on him, that he's holding him up, too.

He doesn't mind one fucking bit.

Mark strokes him, slowly at first, feeling him harden and turning his head so he can nip at Roger's neck, kiss and lick at the pulse point there and it's more tasting, and Mark could collapse from it, it's all so good.

Pausing, noticing that Roger has tensed, Mark kisses his neck once more before mumbling, "You'll be okay."

Then he starts stroking harder, tightening his hand, and he keeps kissing at Roger until he hears Roger moan, until he feels Roger clutching at his shoulders and his mouth on his neck as he finally starts to kiss him back.

- - - - - -

When Mark wakes up, Roger is sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear. Roger's bed, Mark realizes dimly, and then he can't help the grin that breaks over his face.

"Hey."

Roger looks over his shoulder at him, and as he turns a bit Mark can see he's got a notebook on his lap, a pen in his hand. He fights to keep the grin from getting bigger.

"Hey," Roger's answer and look are both a little uneasy. "I – I don't know." He puts the pen down on the bed. "I just thought I might as well try to get – something done, you know?"

Mark's smile gets softer as he sits up, and then half-crawls over to where Roger is, sliding his arms around his waist from behind and biting at his shoulder, teeth scraping over skin before he kisses the same spot. Roger looks back again, and smiles, so Mark slowly pulls him backwards until they're lying on the bed, Mark holding Roger close.

"There's plenty of time for you to write, but for now …" Mark trails off, still smiling, but he doesn't care. Maybe it's raining outside. And for now, this was where and how he wanted everything to be, no matter what else happens. They could have this.

Mark looks at Roger, sees that he's smiling too, so he leans forward to kiss him.

Forever.