A/N: I'm sorry! I know I should be updating MTaT… I mean, only 3 chapters left! But I had this oneshot written and it was begging to be typed while I was still on my caffeine buzz…
Disclaimer: Mark, Roger and the rest of the RENT characters aren't mine, I promise you.
Hiding Place
Collins knows things. Among the Bohemians, this was common knowledge. You didn't have to tell Collins anything; he just knew.
He knew whenever Maureen was plotting another of her hair-brained schemes or wild protests from the way her eyes flashed around, the was her legs bounced when she sat and the edge of excitement in her voice. The fiery performer could never keep secrets long anyways, but regardless, Collins was the first to know.
Whenever Joanne was feeling jealous, no matter how hard she tried to maintain her collected image, he noticed. Her arms tightened slightly around her girlfriend, and her brows furrowed; when she couldn't remain attached to Maureen, her hands twisted themselves anxiously around each other.
Collins could tell that Mimi hadn't actually quit smack. He knew from the way her hands and her tiny frame shook when no one was looking and the haunted look in her eyes when she stared at the ground. From the way that she always changed the subject whenever one of them talked about how proud they all were that she'd given it up, given it up for Roger and for life. The way she cast longing looks at her apartment when they walked past it on their way to the loft.
If Roger was worried, Collins was one of the first to figure it out- second only to Mark. His movements became jerky and his demeanor abnormally controlled and calm. When Mark came home after a mugging with unexplained bruises on his arms and scrapes on his knees, his smile and assurances that he was fine shaky and unconvincing; when Mimi started coughing for the first time after her close call on Christmas Eve. Roger would ask them slowly if they were okay and what had happened, soothing Mimi's cough with a cough drop and a kiss; helping Mark clean out his cuts carefully. His eyes were too tight, muscles too tense, for his calm to be a real thing.
And Mark… Collins knew something about the Jewish man that no one else did, and something that Roger could never fully understand. Collins knew why Mark his hid in his work.
The anarchist observed where Mark's camera was pointed when no one was paying close attention. He saw the way the blonde filmmaker went out of his way to do everything his roommate asked of him, no matter how small; the dreamy look in his eyes and the flush on his pale cheeks when Roger grinned and hugged him one-armed around the shoulders in thanks. He would sigh slightly when he was let go once again in exchange for Mimi's lips and thin dancer's body, eyes darkened and drained of their brief happiness. He watched as the shorter man picked his camera up again and trained it back on the green-eyed guitarist laughing, talking, just being there- and a slight smile would return to the filmmaker's face.
Collins remembered the night before Santa Fe with perfect clarity, watching Roger and Mark's spectacular dispute from the hallway unbeknownst to his two friends in their frustrated emotional outpouring. That day had been strenuous, everyone on edge for one reason or another. Despite Collin's and Mark's attempts to dissolve the tension, Roger and Mimi and Maureen and Joanne has continued to argue. The two tumultuous couples had already been at the breaking point, and the death of their good friend had finally pushed them over the edge.
And then Mark, poor Mark who had always, always, ALWAYS been in love with his roommate and his best friend, couldn't take it. He was the rock, hiding behind his camera from the world where he could never hope to be loved in return. But even a rock will fold under enough heat and pressure, and that day had provided more than enough of both.
Most of all, Collins remembered the tears streaking his friend's face when Roger had stormed out and Benny had escorted Mimi away, presumably to take the broken Latina to a rehab facility. With a scary precision he recalled the uncontrolled sobs of the hopeless artist as his defenses finally crumbled; with no one around to support, he seemed unable to support himself. He cried, he kicked the walls and he threw whatever items were at hand before collapsing onto the dusty floor of the empty loft with a strangled, desperate cry.
"Fucking Roger!" It rang in Collins mind, a scream of raw despair. He still felt the distant shock of the past at seeing his stoic friend so upset. "Everything is wrong," Mark had whimpered to himself, as though even without a camera in hand he was narrating his life. "Angel, dead- Mimi, Benny- Roger gone- Roger-" It cut off in a choked sob.
The way that Mark had clutched his chest was burned into Collins retinas. That, he thought, was when he really understood. Because just then he could see the soul-deep anguish wracking the filmmaker's body, the way he was literally fighting to keep himself from falling apart as his best friend left him alone. And he knew that Mark Cohen was in love.
But now, between HIV, Mimi and the rest of the crazy shit that had befallen the bohemians' lives, the only thing Mark could do about it was burrow deeper and deeper into his work. It was his hiding place. When he picked up his camera, it acted as a shield; mark could detach, observe from beyond the lens where it was safe. There, he couldn't feel his heart breaking.
Sure, Collins knows why Mark hides in his work. And there isn't a damn thing that he, or anyone else, could do about it.