For Angie. Enjoy!
Note: in this universe, when Collins left for MIT Roger went with him. Based on a canon developed a few years ago.
Disclaimer: Rent is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.
Collins tossed his backpack against the wall. It hit two feet off the ground and slid to the ground. The canvas was faded almost white at the seams, but in places it still showed its original navy. The last flakes of snow were just melting into it.
"Fucking freezing in here," he complained. He had to step over Roger's head to reach the windows and shut them. The rest of Roger was not so much in the way.
"Hey," Roger called, giving a little wave.
"Hi. You know I'm not kissing you when you're like that, right?" Collins asked.
Roger laughed. "That's because I have a book over my face," he replied, his voice muffled by the pages.
Collins swooped his copy of Fear and Trembling off Roger's face, snapped it shut and set it aside. Roger grinned up at Collins from the floor. He was draped halfway across the couch, upside down, feet in the air. "If you drooled on my Kierkegaard, so help me, Roger…"
Again Roger laughed. "I've drool on your Kierkegaard before," he replied, making it clear from his tone that in this context 'Kierkegaard' meant something altogether different.
"Well I'm still not kissing you," Collins retorted and went to hang up his wet coat. "You leave the house at all today?"
Roger made a noise that was a cross between "um" and "no".
"Yeah, figured," Collins said. "Eventually you'll have to… I've been thinking therapy probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for you," he announced, heading into the bathroom. "And don't take that as criticism! I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt you to seek professional help!"
Still on the floor, Roger rolled to face in Collins' general direction. "You don't have to yell," he said, normal volume, aware that Collins couldn't hear him, "it's not like I can hear you peeing." Their apartment in Cambridge had four rooms: a bathroom with no bath, a kitchen, a bedroom and an L-shaped living room/dining room that also functioned as an office for Collins if you asked Roger and a guitar storage area for Roger, who still wasn't playing, if you asked Collins. Collins was now practically shouting from the bathroom, trying to drown the sound of the tap, and Roger was laughing. "You haven't even shut the door," he observed.
Collins returned to the living room/dining room/office/guitar storage area and stood over Roger, looking into his eyes. Roger shifted to look back at Collins without getting distracted halfway there and Collins wondered how someone as skinny as Roger could have a double chin. "Will you consider it?"
"I'unno," Roger mumbled. He shrugged and looked away. "I can't really afford it."
"Insurance, genius. This from the boy who wants to get a cat."
Roger looked up at Collins. "Yeah, let's get a cat," he said. "That'll be better. I read about a study, I mean about a sort of therapy that involved animals."
"You read about crippled kids riding horses," Collins replied. He headed into the kitchen.
Roger followed him with his eyes. "I made dinner!" he called. Despite not leaving the apartment all day, he had accomplished something. He also kept the place clean and did their laundry, which in his opinion should count for something. He said as much when Collins returned and sat on the part of the couch not occupied by the bottom half of Roger. He was just at the point about laundry when he inhaled a dust bunny. Roger slithered off the couch and propped himself up on one arm, keeping his free hand in front of his mouth as he coughed out the dust.
"You were saying, about keeping the place clean?" Collins asked.
Roger shot him an angry look, one of the moments that made Collins wonder if he didn't need to seriously reevaluate his relationship with Roger. He offered a hand and hauled Roger onto the couch. Roger settled, then asked, "Are you gonna kiss me now?"
Collins flipped through Fear and Trembling. None of the pages were sticky, so he kissed Roger. They had been kissing for almost fifteen seconds and were getting ready to advance into more than kissing when the phone rang. Roger opened his eyes.
They pulled apart about an inch. "You know it's creepy when you open your eyes while we're kissing," Collins murmured.
Roger chuckled. "Hypocrite. Are you going to pick up?" The phone continued ringing.
"Could be—"
"It might be a student."
The answering machine whirred as it began recording. An all too familiar voice poured into the apartment. "Hi Roger… Collins… um, Mark here. I just… I wanted to check in with you guys. Um… everything's fine here. I thought I might come visit you some time if, um, if that's okay with Roger. I… No, that's it. I guess that's it. Okay. Well, take care. I'll, um, I'll… bye now." The recording ended with a click and Collins watching Roger, trying to read his reaction.
Roger looked away. What would he say? He didn't like hearing Mark's sound so miserable. Yes, he was angry with Mark, but no one deserved that much misery. Pity and anger battled, Roger struggling to decide if he could handle seeing Mark. He knew he really couldn't, but he felt guilty leaving Mark sounding so miserable. Everything that had gone wrong between them, though it was largely Mark's fault, Roger could have prevented.
He pushed himself off the couch and started setting the table. "We should eat now…" he explained, eyes fixed on the task at hand. "Are you having that? I mean, does beer go with lasagna?"
From the couch, Collins watched him. "Rog, you okay?"
Roger wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "Yeah," he lied. "Would you just… come sit down please?" He disappeared into the kitchen and eventually returned with two plates of lasagna, one in either hand, and a sweating can of Sprite in his pocket. Finally, Collins joined him, and together they tried to forget everything the phone call meant.
Later, Roger did the dishes while Collins spread the latest slew of essays across the table and wished he had a grad student to do this for him. Roger's fingertips were wrinkled when he finished washing everything up. He sniffed Collins' beer, now three-quarters gone, and took a sip. Roger recoiled. That tasted horrible! Why would anyone voluntarily drink that? Roger put the bottle in the fridge, dried his hands on his t-shirt and flipped off the lights.
"Hey, I'm headed to bed," he murmured.
Collins looked up from his work.
"Are you coming?" Roger asked. When Collins looked at his lap and replied that he wasn't, yet, Roger rolled his eyes. "I'll be asleep," he said, heading for the bedroom.
"No you won't," Collins murmured. Roger balled up his shirt and threw it at Collins' head. Collins turned in his chair. "If you don't get attention, will you take off your pants?" he asked.
Roger laughed and took off his pants. He grinned at Collins, then headed into the bedroom. A few seconds later Roger's boxers came flying out.
Collins left comments on twelve essays, and decided on grades for nine of them, before standing. He placed his chair carefully with the back touching the edge of the table, piled the papers neatly, and turned off all the lights.
Their open bedroom window let in blasts of cold air. Collins sighed. He glanced at the bed. Roger was curled up against the wall. Asleep? Collins couldn't tell. Sometimes Roger seemed asleep while he went through the day. Sometimes he said perfectly rational things from his sleep.
Collins crossed the room. Snow had blown in and piled on the windowsill. The world outside was dappled, a world only here and there hidden by snow. Collins scooped up the snow in the bedroom and held it out to drop it, but he hesitated.
Last winter they lived in New York. Last winter it snowed. Last winter, when he was dating Mark, Roger ran out of the loft barefoot wearing nothing but his X-Men pajama bottoms, laughing and shrieking. He danced, not because he was happy but because the snow burned his feet with cold. He scooped up armloads of snow and threw them in the air.
Collins' initial response to this had been to check his stash. Sixteen-year-old kid dancing barefoot in the snow, there was only one possible explanation. When he found nothing missing, Collins joined Roger on the fire escape. "Rog, man, I need to know what you're on and where you got it."
Roger shook his head. "No… I, I'm not high."
"C'mon, Snowflake. I'm asking because I'm your friend."
Roger laughed. "No," he said, "really. I'm telling you, I'm not on drugs, I'm just…" Roger paused to search for the term and seemed surprised to find it, "really happy."
Collins looked at the snow. "Your family?" he teased. Even for a white boy, he had said, Roger was white.
"No, it's snow. This is only like… the third year I've seen snow."
Collins raised an eyebrow.
"This is a miracle, Collins," Roger said. And he meant it.
Collins sighed, dumped the snow out the window and brushed off his hands. That was before. A year ago, he would have left the window open, as freezing cold as the weather was outside. A year ago, HIV wasn't a part of their lives. It was now. Collins latched the window, changed his clothes in the silver moonlight, and slipped into bed.
Roger twitched violently. "Freezing fucking feet," he complained.
"Wimpass," Collins replied, drawing Roger against him. "You're shivering. Maybe you should stop leaving the windows open!"
"I like the windows open."
Collins rolled his eyes. "Then maybe it's because you still can't grow chest hair."
Roger laughed. He rolled onto his side and snuggled up to Collins. Mark used to say Roger stifled him even in his sleep. Collins didn't mind. Roger automatically latched onto whoever shared his bed. He had a teddy bear before moving to the loft. "I have hair where it counts."
"Yes you do, Goldilocks." Collins toyed with Roger's hair, and somehow that became kissing Roger. Roger was already naked, his preferred form of pajamas. Collins rested his hand on the small of Roger's back, but after a few seconds that hand began to travel across Roger's hip. He got as far as the happy trail before pulling back. "Wait. I dunno about this."
"No, it's okay," Roger murmured. He was breathing heavily.
"You're shaking," Collins observed. He felt Roger's hand move toward his groin and grabbed it gently. "And you're not hard," he added. "Roger, tell me you'll go to therapy at least once."
Roger bit his lip. "I'll… I'll try," he said softly. He sighed and let his body go limp against Collins. Nothing hurt to try, right? Maybe it would to him some good to talk about Mark and everything that had passed between them, what Mark had done and what Roger hadn't. Maybe then he would stop throwing himself at Collins, or at least be able to look at the answering machine without thinking of Mark and feeling furious and disgusted with himself.
By the time Roger tore himself out of his thoughts, Collins' breathing was deep and even. Roger sighed. He hated missing their last moments of the day together because he was busy sulking in his thoughts. "I love you, Thomas," he said. Even when no one heard him, Roger felt better for saying it.
"I love you, too, Roger."
Roger smiled and fell asleep.
the end
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