A/N: For an old friend. Happy birthday six days early. I miss you and I'm sorry for everything. Read my regret as follows.
Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine.
Brother, My Brother
There comes a time when something unexpected occurs and throws everyone off kilter.
For the bohemians, that thing is Mark.
Once in a while Mark forgets to be the rock, has actual feelings, and no one knows what the hell to do about it. Of course they feel bad, of course they want to help, try to understand, but secretly all of them know that they can't and they won't. All of them but Mark, who stands by hurt and needy and sad, waiting for the rescue team that's never going to come for him.
It's not his fault that his friends don't know how to deal with him the way that he knows how to deal with all of them, all at once. Mark is a bit of a mystery: he never shares, never voices his own opinion, never rocks the boat. Or at least, he tries not to. He just wants to take care of everyone, all of them, make them happy, and he can't do that if he takes risks.
And it can't be blamed on them, either, because it was Mark's responsibility to speak up when he needed them. He knew it, they knew it, and in the end no one was happy.
All that lingered was a stale bitterness, a bad taste in everybody's mouths, and no matter how hard they tried to pretend that things went back to normal it stayed anchored firmly in the backs of their minds. Unseen tension, crackling and strained just below the surface…
It was just bad luck that one of these times occurred just before Roger's death. Lying in the hospital, the life draining out of him by the second, Roger had grimaced and gripped an emotional Mark's hand, the words escaping him.
There were no words to comfort the boy who was about to lose his best friend.
Said best friend slipped away in the middle of the day, leaving no words behind to heed, no final requests. It was a clean break, or so everyone had hoped.
Mark stared dumbly at the lifeless hand in his. It wasn't until half an hour later that he was pried away, stiff and uncomprehending, from the husk.
Was that really Roger he had seen lying there? Because it didn't seem like it.
But he supposed that he looked different now, too, all pale and overtired and shivering like a crack addict, so full of restrained emotion that he feels like he's going to burst.
When exactly had he stopped being the rock in the middle? When had he crumbled? He wished he could remember the moment.
Without Roger, things began to crumble rather quickly. Collins would be gone, soon, and Mimi had died nearly a year ago. Maureen and Joanne had their own life to live. Mark realized too late what all of this meant, sitting in the dusty silence of the loft by his lonesome and staring at the possessions that Roger had left in his wake.
Roger his roommate. Roger his friend. His best friend, since they were four years old and running rampant at a kiddie park back in Scarsdale, crawling around on their hands and knees and laughing like children do. Roger his brother. Roger, the man he had loved more than anyone else in the world. The only one he had ever cried in front of, the only one who had always been there.
He was gone.
Somehow, despite all of the warning signs, he hadn't seen it coming.
No one was around to witness this panic attack, this hysterical breakdown. No one extended a hand to him when he needed it most. So many people who loved him, and none of them turned his way to see. Somebody please, see me! Help me!
The worst part, he thought as he struggled to breathe through the tears, Roger's shirt clutched to his chest, was that he hadn't done a thing to hold on. Just allowed them to whisk him back home, let the coroner take him, and the funeral was to be held in two days or so he'd been informed.
God, he wasn't ready.
But if left to his own devices, would he ever be?
Goodbyes were something that Mark had been awful at, and Roger too. Once again the blame was cast into the unknown because neither of them could really take it. If Mark had his way he would blame all of the troubles of the world on himself, slit his wrists and make everyone happy. But realistically that wouldn't be helping anyone, would it? Anyone but himself.
Everyone watched him now, like he was some sort of bomb liable to explode any minute. He certainly felt like one, but Mark had never enjoyed being the center of attention and he certainly didn't appreciate it now when he felt like falling apart and never picking himself back up again.
When had it gotten to this point? When had he lost Roger's trust- and, more importantly, when had Roger lost his?
He wished he had nerves of steel, all of the answers, all the right words on the tip of his tongue. Mark wished he had the magical ability to make all of the lives he touched happy. He wished he could go back in time and take back all of his own words, every one a blunder, replace them with some of the new ones he's been agonizing over for weeks and months and years since the conversation actually happened. He wishes that he could undo all of the damage they'd sustained.
Mark couldn't help being human and his friends couldn't help having their own lives, and no one could read anybody else's mind to figure out what they were supposed to be doing.
He couldn't help but wonder if it was him, him all along, that had torn them all apart…
They'd all been so determined. They'd all had so many dreams, so many goals and so much love in their hearts. Such pretty words, such good intentions… but forgetting regret was so much harder in practice, wasn't it?
There were so many times he had just wanted to pitch a fit, go berserk, scream because that's the only way he's going to be heard anymore. All those things he couldn't do even when he was teetering at the edge of a dark abyss, waiting to plunge in.
Stay silent, for their sake. Don't let them see you.
How had he expected a rescue team when he had hidden from them in the first place?
If only he had said something sooner, said something at all. Maybe he wouldn't have lost his best friend, his brother. Maybe at least they would have parted on good terms.
Long after the funeral, Mark feels the aftereffects of the diaspora that sent his friends in all directions, away from him. He feels Roger's death like he would feel a ghost sleeping beside him, cold tendrils snaking around him at the worst moments, shuddering and curling tighter into himself. At night, he remembers the other man's face long ago, before he was a man. Before they had grown up.
So much for our ever after…
There are times when it hurts so much that he can barely breathe, but then it goes numb again and everything is alright… at least, as alright as it's ever been. Which isn't very.
Nobody sees him when he's hurting anymore. Nobody is around to.
But such was the life of an introvert.