A/N: This is a companion piece to my fanfic "Those Were the Days," centered around Joanne. I suggest you read it first; it's also a one-shot, not very long, and it will explain the situation and what happened to everyone. I didn't want to post this as another chapter in that story because I believe they stand better alone.
Simply put, this is a songfic to the Les Miserables song "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," which I have fallen in love with and believe is one of the most haunting songs I've ever heard. I've never seen Le Miz, but I truly love this. And the lyrics were perfect to base a one-shot around Mark.
Disclaimer: If I owned either RENT or Les Miserables, I would not be writing a fanfic using both.
Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
Unseen by Joanne, Mark stepped out from the alleyway across the street. He watched the receding back of his old friend, but made no move to call after her. Their lives had moved on; he wasn't even sure she would recognize him. Time and grief had not been kind to Mark. His blonde hair had grayed prematurely, and his face was tired and careworn. His blue eyes, once so lively, rested haunted in their sockets behind his glasses. Mark's clothes were torn, and his scarf, the same he'd always worn, was threadbare and holey. The camera was missing from his hands; in a fit of agitation three years before, he'd dashed it on the sidewalk and left the pieces scattered across the street. Later, he sobbed as he realized all he'd done was lose something else precious to him, one of his last links to sanity.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.
Mark lost a little more of his mind each day. Sometimes he forgot where he was and would scatter his frugal belongings across the floor in an effort to find himself. Then his hands would close around some familiar object; it used to be his camera, but now it was usually Roger's guitar. And he'd remember, which was worse than not. When he knew exactly who he was, there was nowhere to hide. He could huddle in one spot for hours, gazing emptily into space and visualizing that they were there, surrounding him in invisible form. But with the vision came the voices…their voices, as he remembered them. And their faces – but these crumbled to dust as quickly as they materialized, leaving Mark only with a raw feeling of loss.
Mark hugged himself and crossed the street. He ignored the sign on the front door and circled around to the back entrance, in a secluded alley. The padlock there had been broken long ago. It had taken Mark only three tries with a metal trashcan – Angel taught him well. He pushed his way inside, shutting the door quietly behind him and looking around calmly. Nothing had changed since the last time he'd come – two days ago.
The truth was that Mark only left the city for a year, moving briefly to Santa Fe. But the emotions there were too much to take – he didn't think it was fair to be living out Collins' dream without the man himself. So he returned, back to the very Loft he'd left. Benny didn't ask for the rent anymore, but there was no power, either. Mark had gotten used to freezing cold rooms lit by candle stubs. He bundled up in layers of tattered clothing and hoped to die of hypothermia every night. And every morning he woke up.
Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about tomorrow
And tomorrow never came.
Mark pulled a chair off a table and sat down. This chair was free of the layers of dust and cobwebs that had taken hold everywhere else because Mark sat in it three or four times a week. He visited as often as he could bring himself to; most of the time he had to force himself. The remnants of days past were most present here; it was painful, but it was also where Mark's friends were the most tangible. Where he could make himself believe they were with him.
His eyes traveled, almost unwillingly, to the table they had always chosen as their own.
From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
And I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade at dawn.
Mark felt an unexpected tear tracing its way down his cheek. He sighed and several more leaked out. Instead of feeling like an empty shell, he suddenly felt his body, bottled with emotions, wrack with the pain of a thousand hammers chiseling away at the little courage he had left.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Their faces swam in the tears masking his sight, as if he was once more looking at them all through the lens of his camera, and it had gotten soiled. Mark wished what had truly happened to him was that simple.
Phantom faces at the window.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Mark shook with choked sobs. There was no one to hear. They weren't there. They had moved on, leaving him behind, alone. In the fading winter sunlight forcing its way through the grimy windows, he shuddered and wished he could die like they had. He wished he could die instead, so he wasn't left alone. But his curse was to be lonely; to watch his life drag by as he would watch a movie, with no pauses, rewinds, or fast-forwards – but plenty of flashbacks.
Suddenly, Mark leapt up and fled the Life, opening the door with a bang and letting it close itself as he sloshed through the slush, desperate to get far away. He promised himself he wouldn't go back. That he was strong enough to stay away.
But he knew that he'd be back tomorrow. He always was.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will sing no more.
A/N: I hope I did the song and Mark's situation justice. I've been planning on writing this for weeks now. The lyric that really gets me is "There's a grief that can't be spoken - there's a pain goes on and on." Review?