A/N: I wrote this ages ago, and just never uploaded it, for whatever reason. It's more or less a crackfic - which is VERY odd from me, seeing as I obsessively write angst and very little else. It's been a long time since I've read this, so I don't know that it's as funny as I remember it being - lol. Anyway...enjoy! Also: I don't own Rent. Just for the record.
Mark pulled the thin corduroy jacket closer to him, burying his already red nose further into his scarf as he hurried down Avenue B. After five straight hours of shooting, and, well, stalling in the bitter cold of a New York February night, the film maker wanted nothing more than to get back to the loft, which was, as of that morning, the closest thing he had to a home, outside of Scarsdale, although it wasn't much to look at. Not that he wasn't grateful – Collins was a really great guy and he'd been good to Mark, and Roger, well, he'd only met Roger that morning, but he seemed like a fairly cool guy, if a bit quiet. Mark only prayed that Collins had been joking about the heat not working for the past two months – although he had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't the case.
In any event, he felt a feeling of definite relief when he came in sight of the old building amid the unwelcoming East Village scene. He raced up the stairs, desperate to escape the cold of the night, expecting to be met by his new room mates.
He was not expecting, however, to find Collins sitting Indian style on the floor in front of the metal sliding door, calmly smoking a joint and reading a large volume of text that Mark guessed from the peeling gold lettering on the leather cover was Aristotle or something of the like.
The philosopher looked up at his new room mate with a lazy grin on his face. "Hey Mark," he said, and without further ado, he returned his attention to his book.
"But...what..." Mark started, not knowing what he was trying to ask. "Why exactly are you out here, Collins?"
"Oh, that," he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's 12:27 a.m."
"Yeah?" Mark replied, getting more and more confused by the second. "So?"
"Well, I usually hang out here at 12:27 a.m.," he said enigmatically with a shrug, trying to suppress a grin. "You can go in if you want, but I wouldn't recommend it."
"It's really cold in this hall, Collins," Mark whined, "really fucking cold."
The older man shrugged and scooted to the side, allowing the blonde full access to the door. "There you go," he said reluctantly as the film maker rushed to the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you, man."
Mark opened the door, suddenly tired, pulling off his jacket and scarf and gently placing his camera down on a chair. He turned around and instantly dropped his bag and scarf, staring in a mixture of horror and surprised amusement at what he saw.
Roger apparently hadn't heard the door open – which was quite understandable, really, as he was singing so loudly it was remarkable that Mark hadn't heard him when he was outside. As the would-be rock star proceeded to strip off his jacket and move on to his button down which he seemed to be removing button by button with his back to Mark, his rough, untrained, ever-so-slightly seductive voice floated through the almost empty expanse of the loft, singing the hilariously familiar lyrics, "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts..."
He threw off the shirt, Chippendale-style, dancing his way into a dramatic twirl that left him facing the wide-eyed Mark, his hands resting on his unbuckled belt as Mark couldn't help but stare at the finely chiseled muscles in Roger's chest, stomach and arms. A wrathful expression of shock, embarrassment, and fury flooded the singer's already flushed face. "What the hell do you think you're..."
Collins sat outside the door calmly, a small giggle escaping him as he heard Roger bellowing inside. He looked down at his watch, muttering, "In three, two...one..."
The door slid open quickly, and a blushing, breathless, stuttering Mark was shoved out, looking like he didn't quite know what had hit him.
"I tried to warn you, man," Collins said, his compressed laughter breaking free as he cracked up, laughing his ass off, "but you just wouldn't listen."
Mark sat down beside him, in something of a daze. Collins eventually went back to his book, still shaking his head and chuckling under his breath, leaving the young film maker to try to regain his composure in peace.
In about five minutes, the door slid open again, and Roger stood before them, clad in a black muscle shirt and green plaid warmup pants. "What are you guys doing out here?" he asked, his air perfectly calm and innocent, ignoring the slightest shade of pink that flared up in his cheeks when his eyes met Mark's.
–Six months later–
"Mark, Collins, I really appreciate you guys helping me out here," Benny said as the three of them carried his luggage up the stairs.
"Hey, we're ex-college roomies," Mark said, sounding somehow nerdier than usual, Collins noted. "We're practically family, right?"
Benny laughed a little uncertainly. "Right, right, man," he said they reached the door of the loft. "This it?"
"Sure is," Collins answered with a fond smile before looking down at his watch, a look of slight alarm on his face. "Uh, Mark, it's 12:27, and..."
"..it's getting late, isn't it?" Mark finished for him. "Well, look, Benny, me and Collins are gonna have a smoke out here before we in..." He caught Collins' eye and forced the grin off his face, "so why don't you go on in and start unpacking?"
"Uh, sure, okay," Benny replied with a shrug before doing a quick double take. "Since when does Goody-Goody Cohen smoke?"
Mark rolled his eyes as their newest room mate entered the loft, blissfully unaware.
Collins laughed, lighting up as Mark leaned against the wall, looking very pleased with himself. "Damn, boy, that's cold," he chuckled. "At least I tried to give you fair warning."
Mark shrugged, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Aww, Benny knows how to appreciate a good joke..."
Collins shook his head, listening intently and hearing Roger's roaring voice through the thin walls. "In three...two...one..."