Standing Ovation, a rent fanfic

AUTHOR'S NOTE. Here we are again, after another round of lost-soul-Word-Document sifting! I'd written this a very long time ago and had just recently recovered it from the pile of forgetten stories and (voila!) have decided to spit and shine and release it to the world. XD It's a little different than any other RENT piece I've written before: it gives Roger a little bit of a backstory, and discusses his early friendship with Mark. There are some dark themes; though it's not as dark as my first RENT piece, "White-Washed Walls", this examines Mark and Roger's tumultuous friendship a little differently than in my second RENT piece,"No Dialogue". Movieverse, Showverse, whichever you choose. Again, I dedicate this piece to friendship: the purest, strongest form of love there is. Enjoy!!

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION. This is NOT MarkRoger or RogerMark or MarkCamera or RogerGuitar. This is purely a friendship fic between all four parties.

DISCLAIMER. I don't own RENT, I rent.

"It wasn't me, it wasn't me!"

Roger Davis lay face down in dust-matted, puke-green carpet. He struggled to speak through the tears, spit, and blood that amalgamated on the tobacco stench-ridden floor beneath him, repeating his mantra until the breath no longer came to him. His father stood above him, a leather belt in his hand. "Don't lie to me, son, don't lie!" was his own choice echo, louder and louder and harder and harder beat the belt, until softer and softer grew his son's sobbing. Soon there was nothing but silence: the climax had been reached, and, right after the climax, there was no finale. No standing ovation. Just silence; Mike Davis' face as red as the blood that stained his son's shirt.

"Now, I'ma ask you one last time, you hear me?"

A choked sob for an answer.

"Did you or did you not take my cigarettes?"

"No, I – "

A strong kick to the stomach.

"I said, don't lie."

Roger knew what was coming next.

"Do you feel anything?"

No, no, he could not feel a thing.

"Good."

Mike Davis casually looped his belt through his jeans and stalked off down the hallway. Roger's sister stared from her doorway, frozen. Roger didn't take their father's cigarettes; she did. Her eyes welled as she watched her brother slowly, painfully try to stand. He spit blood onto the carpet. She stared on, unable to move or breathe. He turned and faced her, his chest quietly heaving and falling, blood making his face almost unrecognizable. In fact, everything about him was unrecognizable. Just minutes ago they had been watching T.V. on the couch, laughing together about how old Bob Barker was and when was he finally going to retire; he must be eighty years old by now. She loved her little brother, really she did. But he scared her now. Was he angry at her? Did he know that she took the cigarettes? She answered both questions herself: of course. They continued their staring match until finally, she could no longer bear to watch the tears stream down his blood-soaked cheeks, and she closed her bedroom door, falling back against it and crying until she couldn't breathe.

Roger couldn't tell what hurt him more – his bleeding nose, his sliced lip, or the twenty-plus belt burns that stung his back. Or was it his chest: is it possible for a heart to truly break? He hated his father for being this way. He hated his sister for not sticking up for him. He hated his mother for leaving him alone. He hated every single person he knew, because he could never look at them the same way again. They

have no idea what he goes through, how could they? They don't understand, empathize, or even care. Yet as he dragged his paining body down the dark, shadow-laced streets, there was one person on his mind: Mark Cohen.

The skies began to cloud, streaks of gray marring the clear, black midnight sky. Cold rain drops began cascading from above, cleaning some of the blood from his face before it had the chance to cake. It was release, it was cathartic. He wanted to just lay down right there, in the middle of the slip slip slippery road, and live there under the tear-soaked stars, in the perfect silence, in the perfect misery that washed over him.

His head was throbbing, his vision blurred by the rain. He began to feel light-headed (can a concussion come later?) as he stumbled across the Cohen's lawn and found the small window about four inches off the ground. He was thankful that Mark slept in the basement as opposed to the third floor. He tap tap tapped on the glass, whispering "Mark!" as loud as he could whisper. He was shaking with the cold, with the pain. Soaking wet with rain, with tears. He was hoping to God that Mark was still awake.

"Roger?"

He had been lost in reverie (or was it numbness?) and was half surprised, half completely relieved to see Mark's confused and sleepy face staring up into his own.

"Mark…"

"Shit, Roger! It's almost twelve!"

"Mark, please…"

It just took one look into Roger's eyes to see that this was important, more important than anything he had ever called upon Mark for. He unlocked the window and grabbed Roger by the forearms and pulled him through the window as gently as he could.

"My God...what happened to you?" Mark asked, running his fingers over the smarting bruise on Roger's cheek.

"Cold..." Roger offered, shivering from the storm outside, if not the one in his head.

"Oh, yeah, wow. Hold on." Mark ran out of the room, then returned with a quilt. "It's pretty ugly...but it's warm." He chuckled, and Roger smirked. Mark sat down next to him, staring at the floor, waiting. When some time had passed in an uneasy and fragile silence, Mark cleared his throat.

"Roger...are you okay?" he asked, complete sincerity filling every syllable, radiating from every breath. It was genuine concern for another. Roger was not used to this, this caring. He could have kicked himself for what he did next: he began to cry. Mark instantly brought him into an embrace, trying to emanate as much warmth and friendship as he possibly could. He didn't know why his friend had come to his window this night, or who or what had hurt him so badly. What he did know is that he needed to be there for him, in any way that he could. And it was at that moment that Roger first understood what friendship was, and love and kindness and all that was good in the world. People talk of peace on earth, but how could that exist if every man does not know what love is? For the first time since the beginning of memory, Roger felt cared for and acknowledged. It was pathetic, almost, he would think, years later. It was two fifteen year olds sharing a hug on a rainy night in March. Yet it was also the conception of a beautiful and lifelong friendship.

Sometimes it was once a week, sometimes twice a month, sometimes twice a night that Mark would find himself startled by a rapping on his window. Sometimes Roger would be badly hurt and needing a place to hide. Sometimes he'd just want to talk, or rant, or just to sit in the silence. And sometimes, when the window was already unlocked, he'd just lay down next to Mark and try to absorb his comfort and love and goodness, afraid that he'd forget what it felt like at some point later on in his life. He prayed that it would never come. As long as he was Mark's friend, he'd never forget beauty.

So many many many years later, while Roger was sitting alone at night in a dingy motel room in downtown Santa Fe, his hands over his face and his head against the wall, silent tears streaming for the first time since his girlfriend died three years earlier, he came to a stunning realization. His innocence had left him as a young boy, but he had chosen a path in life which was anything but redeeming. He had spoiled blood, a spoiled relationship, a spoiled life. His present girlfriend was probably living on some cold street corner back in New York. His guitar was probably being stripped and sliced and made into a coffee table. And Mark, his Mark was probably cutting together some last bits of film: images of happiness and life dancing on the wall of the dark loft. His Mark was probably freezing cold, since Benny left and there wasn't even a chance they'd have heat. His Mark was probably boiling tea on the stove, a great novel from Collins on the table, open to some page that Mark has read a hundred times over because he can't bring himself to accept the fact that he's almost near the end. His Mark was probably thinking of Roger, wondering where he was and if he was still alive, and why Mark keeps picking up a bottle of AZT every week when he's been living alone for over a month. His Mark was probably replaying the script of the fight they had the last time they saw each other, (wondering if it would be their last), Roger's scorching words burning holes in his heart, oh, and only if he knew how Roger regretted it. And the stunning realization was that without Mark, Roger was the lonely one. He somehow found it in him to chastise Mark for being left alone with his camera, when all Mark tried to do was empathize with him and give him a reason to stay. Maybe, Roger thought, maybe not for his own good, but because he knew how alone Roger would be without him. And the stunning realization was that he had, in fact, forgotten the love and the goodness and all that was right with the world, and trying to soak it in all those years ago went to naught because Roger was still selfish enough to leave all that he held close back in a freezing cold New York loft while he was having a grand old miserable time across the country, and oh, how he regretted it. The next morning he packed his belongings, sold his car, bought another guitar, and took the cross-country bus back to New York where Mark was waiting with open arms.

And there it was - his standing ovation.

A/N. Thanks for reading! And please, let me know what you think! I love constructive criticism; heck, I can even take a flame or two. Thanks again! -A.