Now I Know

by TLRAMP

Yeah, my second m/r. Kait is proud, I'll bet. :-) I started this 'cause I had writer's block with my other story. lol So be kind. Rated R b/c of strong romantic themes and (duh!) m/r stuff. Oh, it's RENT, if you didn't already guess. :-)

1.

****All characters belong solely to Jonathan Larson. Don't let my screwed up ideals and notions change how you view RENT. ::smile:: Besides, I'm only doing this b/c of Kait – blame her! Hehe Okay, all lyrics that I decide to use (if I do so) are from Anthony Rapp's song "Now I Know" (hence the title) or from my own mind. Who knows where this is going. It's just something to do while I've got writer's block on my other story. Oh yeah, if you didn't already know, this is m/r. So, yeah, I get veeee-eery romantic later on here, so BEWARE – fair warning has been given. ::innocent smile::****

"Now I Know"

CHAPTER I: "What The Hell Is Wrong With Me?"

         "Shut the fuck up, Mark!" Roger cried as his lithe hands were placed against my chest, propelling me into the wall with full force. "Just shut up and get the hell away from me!"

         I huffed in my corner, feeling my head spin dizzily. "I-I didn't mean to –"

         "That's the problem with you, Mark! You never mean anything."

         My face became angered with rage and I began to pull myself from the wall. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Roger?"

         Roger's eyes blazed with…hate? He stepped closer to me, his face inches from mine. "Exactly what I said," he spewed, challenging me with that dark stare of his.

         I shrank away, finding comfort in the folding chair only feet from him. I couldn't reply – couldn't make a sound…. I felt my head float away and bright colors swam before my eyes. What happened to cause all this? I told Roger off because he left Mimi to die. He ran off to Santa Fe, leaving a very sick Mimi to die on the streets, as none of us ever wanted her to. He didn't even come back for her funeral. It's been six months since she died and he returned and has been living with me again since. There's been a tension between us all this time and only now did it choose to present itself and flair in my head.

         "I meant every word I said, Roger," I whispered bravely, my eyes glued to my feet, clad in torn tennis shoes.

         I felt him approach me from behind and I shivered, wavering, letting my eyes close as I prepared to receive a blow to the back of my head. "How would you know what I did or did not mean to do, Mark?"

         "I can tell. We've been friends for how many years now, Roger?" I asked, turning desperately to look at him.

         "Friends don't say those things," he growled. "Friends would understand."

         "What's there to understand, Roger? You left Mimi to die because you needed a break and you couldn't stand to see someone close to you leave your poor, wounded soul! You ran away and left all of us alone to deal with your problems, and I tried to help as best I could and forget about it, but things don't always turn out so magically, as in the movies, pal – reality is not a soap opera."

         He leaned down, his dark eyes narrowing as bits of his dirty blonde hair fell into his face. "Reality, Mark?" He laughed a laugh to make me quiver and back away. As I attempted to move from his reach, his hand shot out, gripping at my right elbow with such ferocity that I could feel the very blood in my veins slowing drastically. "Reality? The day Mark Cohen understands reality is the day that he steps out from behind that camera!"

         "Let me go!" I cried, squirming, but he persisted tightly. "So what if I hide? So do you!"

         "Fuck you!"

         "You do. You choose to hide behind that mask of music. Don't want to admit it? Fine, I will – I'm a chicken shit, a hypocrite; I admit!" He shoved my arm away and started to bolt from the room, but I called him back. "For someone who's always been deprived, who refuses to just live alive?" The words are harsh, but exactly what he needs. So I think.

         He spun around with a defeated look – I know I've reached him. But, never the one to give in, he speaks, his voice trembling with hurt, "For someone who wants to film reality, who doesn't even have a sense of his own dimensionality?"

         Damn it! I winced from where I stood, taken completely aback by his attack on me. He knows exactly how to push my buttons. I stormed over to him, pushing my hands against his chest with all my might – which is fairly weak – and he grabbed me, squeezing my arms until they burned, but I didn't give up. "Goddamn you Roger! I'm just trying to help!"

         "Help? Is that what you call it, 'cause where I come from it's call hurting!" He heaved me away with one mighty push. We stood opposite one another, our eyes locked in a fiery glare that could melt the thickest block of ice. "Don't you get it, Mark – that I don't need you?" he asked with such calmness that I was shocked into denial, shaking my head. "Yeah, that's right. I don't need Mark Cohen to baby-sit me like I'm some bratty toddler who can't have his ice cream until he's been good. Screw you, Mark. I can get along without your constant reminders that I'm nothing and that my music sucks and that I killed Mimi and that I killed April and Angel and am killing Collins and even you – yes, you; the chicken shit hypocrite himself! I'm slowly killing everyone, but I don't need this fuckin' pressure, damn it!" He breathed in heavily, having not taken any breath through that whole speech.

         "Are you through?" I asked with coldness in my words.

         "No," he retorted swiftly, approaching me like a demented monster, escaped from its cage. "You're such a damn sham that you can't even focus on what's real in life anymore. You see things through that fuckin' camera of yours and forget about life and love and pain and regret and shame and everything else that makes up this hell of a life we all live. You hide and you film. Film and hide: the two words have become synonymous with each other, Mark. You're such a sham that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror anymore!" He raised his hands, as if to push me again.

         I stepped up to him courageously, defying him to do something. "Gonna hit me? Push me? Slap me? What this time, Roger? There's no one else here to take out your anger on, so it's gonna be me, right?" I paused, gauging his reaction. It was one of fury. I was pushing the envelope and I knew it. "So what if I try to help sometimes? And so what if I hide? We all hide! The world's too screwed up not to, and you know it. The only reason I help you is because you can't help yourself. You're vulnerable and you can't admit that!"

         "Shut up, Mark!" he cried angrily. "I can too take care of myself! I don't need your constant reminders to take my AZT and to eat and to breathe and to take a shit! I just – don't – need – you."

         I stepped closer to him, getting in his face. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a needle – used and slightly dingy. "You don't need me, huh? Then, explain this." I shoved it in his hands.

         His eyes registered shock, widening in disbelief. It was then that I knew it wasn't a friend of his who'd stashed it in his drawer by accident. Roger was using again.

         "Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, growling.

         "I –"

         "So you go through my shit now, too, Mark?" he accused, tossing the needle to the floor. It slid underneath the table. "You've run out of things to criticize and 'help' me with, so you had to go hunting for new dramas? Is that it?" He pushed me against the wall again, with more force than before. I found myself fighting his hands away. "You snoop through my personal stuff without my opinion and you try to turn things around and blame me? Fuck you!"

         "No, fuck you!" I cried, beating him away through tears that only now began to fall. He pushed me again. I was losing it…. "Fuck you and fuck your secrets and lies, Roger! I've seen the stash that's hidden in your guitar case! I've seen the way you wander around dazed at night, stumbling into your bedroom at 4AM and stinking of booze and drugs and sex and whatever the hell else you're into that I don't know about!" Another shove came, harder as he took out the remainder of his aggression. "You wanna beat me for your sins? Go for it!" He did, knocking me to my knees. I looked up at him as blood trickled down from my thin lips, through tear-filled vision, blocked only by my glasses, which I had to push up. "Feel better now, Roger? Feel like you've accomplished something? Beating on someone who weighs about twenty pounds less than you doesn't make you stronger – it only makes you sadder and stupider for it." He glared at me, leaning down and picking me up by my collar. Before I knew what I was saying, the words slipped, "I can't help that I want to protect you Roger! Damn it, I love you." The rage in his eyes died away until they were flickering with despair and regret. The way those dark orbs traced the outline of my form – bruised and weakened before him – brought a series of shivers tracing down my spine. I felt my entire body quiver as he looked at me. It was then that I realized what I'd said.

         I love you. Such simple words. Had I meant to say them in such a way as I implied to Roger? The way I felt thinking about it – queasy and unbalanced – made me regret ever letting the words flow from my mouth, but another feeling surfaced, causing me to rethink everything about my life thus far – my pulse was racing and my palms were sweating like hell. Those tears in my eyes weren't because of the pain – although Lord knows it was horrible to endure; they were from anxiety and repressed emotions. All this time, I've loved this man before me, and I never even knew it!

         I saw him tremble as a hunger replaced that abandoned gaze. My voice hoarse with emotions, I let myself repeat the words, "I love you."

         God, how right it felt now! I love you, I love you, I love you! I could've shouted them from rooftops if I hadn't been shaking like a little puppy that'd been out in the rain too long. I wanted to take Roger in my arms; forget that I'd seen those drugs, forget that we'd been arguing, and forget what I'd said to him in the heat of the moment – I just wanted to touch his face, to feel his lips…. I didn't realize my yearning showed until he started to back away, conscious of the word's double meaning – I not only loved him as a best friend, but now as I would a lover.

         I stepped forward and reached my trembling hand out, laying it over his cheek. His eyes closed and he stopped in his backtracking, breathing heavily as he wetted those thick lips of his. As I took another step closer, he straightened, stumbling away from me to the other side of the room. The distance between us was more than the length of the room – it was as if there was a wall between our souls now.

         "What the hell, Mark?" he asked with a confused air. I stood, stupefied and humiliated. He stammered some more words that swirled through my head, but all I could think was, 'God, how pathetic! How stupid, how wrong, how unbelievably erroneous, Cohen!'

         "I-I didn't mean it," I found myself stuttering, aimlessly groping for words. But, I did mean it!

         As if he read my thoughts, he breathed heavily, glaring at me. "You wouldn't have said it if you hadn't meant it, Mark…." He swallowed nervously. "I think you're confused…. I'm not – "

         "Oh, oh I know," I replied with a shrug, shivering. "Me neither. I meant it differently than you're taking it, Roger. I mean it as friends. I love you like a…" I searched for the right word. Lover. Husband. Other half. Fiancé. The sexual God that you are! "…Brother," I ended up choosing, despite my heart's heavy protests.

         Roger gawked at me, motioning to where I'd caressed his cheek. "Then what the hell was that?" I faltered, stumbling for a reply, but he cut me off quickly. "Are you gay?!"
         The way he asked it made me cringe in hopeless misery. Was I gay? Hell, I didn't even know! I didn't even guess anything of that sort until two seconds ago! Did he think I was always like this – touching men in "that way"? I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs, 'No! I'm not!', but at the same time I knew how right it felt to be that close to him. My emotions tangoed with fervor, fighting over which extreme I'd select. "I-I dunno…."

         "The hell you don't!" he cried, moving around the table that separated us until he was standing before me – not as close as before, I noted. "I can see it in your eyes, Mark. You're thinking something and you're trying to decide what I want – or need – to hear. Stop thinking and just decide, damn it! If you're gay, tell me, 'cause I'm more than slightly unnerved here."

         "I don't know, Roger." He groaned, getting ready to turn away. I grabbed his arm, but we both looked down at the contact between us, making me release just as swiftly. I was a jumble of nerves. "I honestly don't know!"

         He stood looking at me for a full minute; silent in whatever ponderings he was turning over in his mind. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, he dropped his gaze and headed into the bathroom. I stood still then, wavering slightly in agony. Was he coming back? This thing wasn't resolved yet…was it? Thoughts were spinning through my mind. How right it felt to love Roger that way, but how wrong it felt when he looked at me in condemnation and disapproval. I slid into the folding chair again and let my eyes stare off into space – I zoned. Feeling slightly chilled, I wrapped my arms around my body and rubbed myself, sending heat spreading through my shoulders and into the rest of me. I glanced over my shoulder towards the bathroom and I saw Roger's back as he was bent over, searching for something. I turned back – least he catch me gawking at his behind and get any more ideas about my confused sexuality. Damn it! Why did this have to happen to me? Mark Cohen can't be gay. I mean, I loved Maureen, didn't I? And that cute little blonde at those CBGB's gigs that Roger took all those years ago – remember her, Mark? You've slept with women, Cohen. Don't be a moron and turn into a faggot. I suddenly felt resentment towards that word. How harsh it sounded now to my bruised ears.

         "You might need this," came a soft voice to my right. I looked up in a jerky motion, nearly falling off my chair, seeing Roger there, holding out a small scrap of cloth that once belonged to one of his mother's rags for washing. He steadied me with a laugh, squatting down before me and reaching out to dab my lips with the cloth, staining its white fibers with red. I flinched slightly at the contact, nervous and unsure, but he persisted with a gentle gleam in his eyes. "I guess I kinda went too far, there, huh?"

         I nodded slowly, aloof. "Yeah." I felt my breath quicken with every moment he was near. Shit, control yourself Mark.

         He noticed my unease and handed me the small towel. "Here, you can finish cleaning yourself." He paused, not knowing what to do, and then finally settled back, sitting before me Indian style. "I'm really sorry, Mark."

         "Huh? Oh…. I'm all right. I heal fast."

         "No, I mean about those things I said to you – I had no right."

         I nodded, letting my gaze fall. "Well, I can't say that they didn't hurt, but for what it's worth, most of them were right." I set the cloth down on the table, studying my shoes again. "But, I can't apologize for what I said. I meant every word." Wow, brave, Mark. Keep it up and you'll get another black eye.

         Roger sighed, letting his eyes rise to meet mine, almost timidly. "I'm not using, Mark…"

         "What?" I cried, nearly jumping from the chair. "You can't tell me that that needle is –"

         "It's a friend of mine's. Sometimes we trade guitars on the rode… It's crazy out there."

         "Why were you so defensive about my finding it then?"

         "I don't know…. I just felt like I had no privacy or anything. I mean, you're always reminding me to do things, always checking up on me to make sure I'm okay, always ranting…"

         I nodded with a cock-eyed smile. "Yeah…. Sorry. I just wanted to help 'cause I…" I allowed my voice to trail off. We both knew what I was going to say, however.

         "Yeah…" he replied softly, lowering his gaze again. "About what you said earlier…"

         I gulp. "What about it?"

         "Were you completely serious? I mean… I didn't know you were… I mean…umm… You're not… uhh…"

         "I don't know, Roger," I replied, somewhat defensively, wrapping my arms around myself again.

         "Not that there's anything wrong with it…. I just wanted to know." He seems nervous and I become upset slightly. What the hell is he nervous about?

         "Yeah, well, when I figure it out, I'll fill you in," I retorted coldly, standing to leave. Before I could make it two feet, I felt Roger's hand on my shoulder and I halted, freezing in position. His touch was so gentle, so soothing, so…not Roger. I turned, feeling intense emotions surging through my chest as I found my eyes gazing into his like I never thought I would. Everything was so different. He was so afraid and so vulnerable. So was I. "Yeah?" I found myself asking with little less than a hard breath.

         "Umm…." He retracted his hand, turning away, his shoulders drooping. "Never mind." He started to walk away.

         Like a never-ending carousel, I grabbed his arm, attempting to get him to face me again. "No. What?"

         "Nothing. I said never mind." His voice was rising slightly.

         I should've stopped there, right? But I'm an idiot sometimes and I never know when to let things be. I spun him around to face me and I held his eyes steadily. "What is it?"

         "I said, it's nothing, Mark! Geez, why don't you ever let things the fuck alone?" He was up in my face now, angry again and I shrank slightly.

         "S-sorry," I stammered. "Don't hit me," I found myself whimpering. I guess I could take no more. I was a wreck anyway.

         He must've sensed my disturbance and terror for I could feel him easing before me. I looked up to find that his eyes were surveying me as they had earlier – with a timid (and yet powerful) look that words couldn't describe. Before I knew it, his hands were caressing my jaw line with a tenderness that will never be matched as his eyes continued to wander over my skin. My heart seemed to beat a mile a minute and it was all I could do to control the urge to push forward and pull him into my arms. I kept telling myself to chill and stay calm – relax, Goddamn it! But, those thoughts were all in vain the moment he laid his hands on me. I never imagined it would feel so good to have him be like this with me. I never thought of Roger like this…or had I? I seemed to recall, in that instance, being considerably jealous of Mimi all those many months ago. I'd even spoken to Collins about it, but nothing ever happened, and when she died, I dropped the whole thing, focusing on Roger's problems, sort of letting mine fade into the background like a bad film shot.

         I felt Roger's hands moving to the back of my neck, tracing the tender skin there and I shivered. His eyes opened – damn, I didn't realize they'd closed! – and he looked so helpless and scared. "Shit," he muttered, retracting his hands and holding them out in front, as if he didn't know what else to do. "I'm…uhh… sorry…. I don't know why I did that…. Shit," he repeated softly, shaking his head. Those blonde locks fell into his eyes. "I didn't mean to –"

         I looked to him with so much love filling my bright, dancing eyes, and whispered a reply: "It's okay. I mean, I don't mind… Shit, I mean, it's not like you've done something wrong." I paused, shaking my head too. God, I can be such a child sometimes. "I liked it."

         He looked startled then, and for a moment I regretted saying anything at all. Geez Cohen, why did you have to go and screw it all up like that? Couldn't you just be happy letting him touch you without squirming like a worm through the dirt? "The weird thing is," he replied quietly, "I did, too."

         Our eyes were locked – such an intense minute of silence and wonder. I remember thinking that he looked so young and naïve at that moment, and I must've looked petrified – I was! I'd never been in this kind of situation before and it freaked the hell out of me. What if it was wrong? What if I wasn't gay after all? What if I was? What if I was in love, completely head-over-heals, for Roger? What if he didn't like me? What if we kissed? What if I wanted to kiss and he didn't? What if I was too scared to make the first move? What if he was? What if this ended our friendship? What if it kindled the flame that's been inside us both for so long? What if…?

         Luckily, I didn't have much time to ponder what to do; Roger and I had closed the small gap between our bodies and were breathing over each other gently. His breath was so comforting then – like waves of musical ocean water against the backdrop of a fallen sun. I hardly realized that we were moving in for a kiss, both of us steadily gaining closer to the other's lips. I faintly realized that his hand was tracing my arm and that my own hand had risen and was running through those thick tendrils of his hair. I parted my lips slightly as pallid eyelids were exposed and lashes fluttered to rest on my pale cheeks. His hand slid up my shoulder, over my neck and came to rest on my cheek, cupping it and pulling it towards him. Damn, he was so experienced with this stuff, and I was so innocent to most everything. Our lips brushed against each other so many times that I lose count. I remember panting, my chest heaving with longing and lust, my eyelids twitching, threatening to open so that I could watch his face melt into mine. I remember trembling and hearing Roger's voice coo whispered words of courage to me, which seem to escape me now. Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore – I pushed forward, parting my lips further, begging him to do the same. Our lips met and I felt a tremor of pleasure race through my body. My head was spinning, I was reeling, I was floating, falling, dancing, spinning, spiraling – I was alive!

         "Fuck," I barely heard him whisper as he pulled swiftly away, leaving me alone and cold. The heat of the moment rushed out from my body, leaving me with a cold blanket of ice surrounding me. "Fuck…."

         I remained silent. What the hell could I say? I wanted to run over to him and just tell him to trust it and feel it and let everything work itself out, but how could I when I wasn't even sure I was doing the right thing? I felt so damned confused and alone that I couldn't even bring myself to reply to him. I was barely breathing, barely moving, barely alive then.

         He didn't say anymore; he only gave me one last glance and fled from the room, out into the dark night. I stood for a long time there, just standing. Thinking. Pondering. Waiting. Would he come back? Was he gone for good this time?

         The question of the day: what the hell is wrong with me?