CAN I JUST SAY THAT TRACIE THOMS JUST REPLYED TO ME ON TWITTER! For the second time! And good news, she might be coming to Australia! Another angsty one shot. I'm being a bitch to Mark today. But I'll make up for it with some good ol' MarkRoger smut later.
Almost MarkRoger. A few hints of it in there, though it can be viewed as slash or friendship.

Disclaimers note: Tracie Thoms just replyed to me one Twitter, do you think I give a shit if I own RENT? Which I don't.

Tashie,

X,

Mark wanted out. He wanted out, now. The filmmaker sat wordlessly on the couch, fiddling around with a lose thread on his scarf, contemplating ending the life he was supposed to be living. Like hell he was living it. He was too afraid. Too fucking afraid. To afraid to face reality, too much of a god damn pussy to face the facts. The facts that the people he called family were and had been dropping dead around him. He couldn't face that.

So far he'd lost April, then Angel, followed by Mimi, Collins and Maureen. Maureen had died of a drug overdose after she turned to smack to numb the pain after Collins killed himself. That had only been three months ago. Three months since Joanne stumbled into the loft clutching an empty smack baggie, tears staining her delicate mocha skin. Since she'd collapsed onto the grimy floor of the loft, choking on the words she so desperately wanted to form. The image still burned in Mark's mind.

Now there was hardly any one left. The fabric holding the group together had worn out and was well and truly tattered to shreds now. His life had hardly any meaning.

Film barely kept him occupied now. Inspiration was no where to be found. There was no Angel to parade around, stealing the camera's attention as she modelled another hand made out fit, or as she jumped around in an abstract dance. There was no Mimi to attempt to steal the camera from his grip so she could have a go at filming something. No Collins to talk about some philosophical shit which he filmed for no reason. No Maureen to do something outrageous for the sake of Mark's film.

Mark had considered suicide numerous times. When his Dad somehow discovered he was bisexual and kicked him out for three months. When he'd been forced into law school by his mother. When Roger had come home so high, so drunk, so fucking trashed that he hit Mark. But Mark couldn't do it. There was always something stopping him. Dreams. Art. Love.

But now nothing seemed to matter.

He could slit his wrists. Or was that too Aprilish? It would probably kill Roger to see him like that. Plus, he might fade away slowly. And blood always scared him shitless.

Maybe he could overdose on aspirin. Yeah, an overdose sounded pretty good. It wouldn't hurt, would it? He'd be able to lie down in bed, arrange every thing so it seemed rather poetic before drifting off to the other side. No, there was something repulsive about OD'ing on pain killers. It was weak. Not like Mark really cared, look at his own weakness for god's sake.

Maybe he'd jump off the fire escape. It seemed like a quick death. Though, he'd never been one to cause a scene. It'd probably scar people to see some suicidal jerk jump.

He could hang himself. He could film it. That would make some seriously good footage. But then again, the rafters of the place really weren't stable, and he could end up paralysed. Then life would be so much worse.

Perhaps electrocution was the way to go? Benny had warned them numerous times not to touch the wires snaking their way around inside the walls:

"Roger, I hear you've been getting violent during withdrawal?"

"Fuck off you asshole."

"I'm just gonna warn you, these walls are thin and there are a lot of faulty wires in the. If you touch on, it's over."

"It's gonna be over for you in a second if you don't get the fuck out of my house."

Mark suppressed a chuckle at the memory. Maybe he'd bang a hole in the wall and get electrocuted. But then again, that wouldn't be very poetic. Not at all. And he was a filmmaker, a writer, an artist. Poetic was just how he rolled.

He could shoot himself. It wasn't poetic but it was good enough for Collins right? Though he probably wouldn't have the nerve. If I only had the nerve, the filmmaker thought to himself absentmindedly, remembering his love of the Wizard of Oz growing up.

Mark suddenly stood; he'd made up his mind. He didn't care if April had done it first, slitting your wrists seemed like an okay idea. Blood or not, pain or not, it seemed easy enough.

Leg's quivering with fear and anticipation, Mark attempted to casually walk over to the kitchen. Searching around for a while, he finally found his item of choice. Small knife in hand, Mark grabbed his camera and scarf and entered his room. Flinging the curtains shut, the artist set down the camera on a chair opposite his bed. Mark wound his scarf around his neck and with shaking fingers wound up the camera.

Taking a seat on his bed, Mark decided it was best to leave a note of sorts for Roger.

Inhaling deeply, he began:

"Hi Rog. Well, I really have no idea what to say. I mean, what can I say? I'm leaving a suicide note for fucks sake.

"I guess I'm just here to tell you that, it's not your fault. You're the only reason I didn't do this years ago. I just- I miss them Rog, and life just isn't worth the pain anymore. But please don't blame your self.

"Um. Well, I'll miss you buddy, but I'll be sure to sort it out with April and Mimi who gets dibs on you when you arrive. Plus I'll make sure we've got a hellava lotta pot up there when you come.

"I'm sorry I have to do this. It's just- it's just to hard."

"I- I love you Roger. I'll watch out for you."

Mark raised the blade of the knife to his pallid wrist, ready to slit across his skin. The loft door suddenly opened, rattling loudly on its hinges. Roger was home.

"Honey, I'm ho-ome," Roger called in a mocking voice. And with that Mark dropped the knife. He wasn't going anywhere.

Basically, Mark can't kill himself with Roger around, he loves him too much. But not necessarily in a slash way.