Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's and I am just playing with the characters.
"December thirty-first, nine p.m. Eastern Standard Time—"
Roger looked up from his guitar. He grinned at Collins and interrupted Mark's narration, "I can't believe a year went by so fast!" Collins laughed.
Mark took the camera away from his eye. "Close on Collins, who's abandoned his vagabond lifestyle—"
"To take care of you losers," Collins decreed.
Roger strummed a chord on his guitar. Before the sound faded, he sang, "So he claims!" To Mark he continued a capella, "He neeeeds us!"
Mark laughed. "Don't worry, we love you," he said. "Though I still don't see why we couldn't see the Ball Drop in Times Square," he grumbled.
"'Cause Ball Drop's for tourists," Roger said. "Who wants to watch a Ball Drop?" he asked his guitar.
"Yeah, speaking of dropping balls, Roger, when will yours?"
"Maybe when Joanne pulls the stick out of her ass," he suggested.
"She's gotten better," Mark said. He wound up the film and set the camera on the table, carefully placing it out of range of Collins' beer bottle.
"And she's still with Maureen. Hey, Mark, she broke your record!" Collins quipped.
Roger laughed. Mark muttered something incoherent and stared at his feet. "Hey." Roger set down his guitar. He unfolded himself from the couch and stood in front of Mark. "I promise we'll find your true love this year," he decreed, then grabbed Mark in a bone-crushing hug.
When Roger had released him, Mark straightened his glasses and grinned. "Thanks, Roger," he said, but the joy didn't reach his soul.
Now that he was off the couch, Roger realized how long he had been sitting still. His rear was numb and his arms cramped. He flexed his neck and headed over to the refrigerator for a beer. "When are the lezzies getting here, anyway?" he asked.
Collins chuckled. "Roger wants his present," he said.
"Yeah," Roger said, straightening, beer in hand. "Lezzies with prezzies." He had a way of making a joke sound like a threat, accented as he uncapped the beer on his molars.
Mark cringed. "Don't do that," he complained. "You need your teeth, anyway."
"Wimp."
"Ass."
"Fart."
"So," Collins interrupted, "would that mean Mark is your child?"
"What?" Roger demanded.
"Well, where do farts come from?" Collins reasoned.
Roger found this uproariously amusing. Mark did not, because the suggestion that he had been born through Roger's poop shoot disturbed him and would give him nightmares for years to come. When the phone rang, he was all too glad to answer it. The moment he lifted the receiver, Roger shouted, loudly enough that anyone on the other end would hear him, "Lezzies with prezzies!"
No one had questioned the decision not to exchange gifts on Christmas. Christmas was a time at which Roger's excessive brooding was accepted, when Mark talked him into drinking some tea and maybe eating some toast, and if the doors remained intact, things had gone well.
Mimi only exacerbated the condition. April had liked Christmas, too.
"What did he say?" Maureen demanded.
Joanne fended her off. "He said 'happy new year'," she said. "Throw down the keys."
"You didn't get me that buzzer I asked for, did you?" Mark asked. He hung up before Joanne had finished laughing and climbed out onto the fire escape. He kicked some early snow into the street below and threw down the keys. Joanne caught them neatly.
Mark grabbed a beer and relaxed on the couch. "You guys making resolutions?" he asked.
Collins said, "I'm going to 'not make any students cry'."
"Hey," Roger told him, "you can't stay here if you don't help pay the rent."
"Oh suck it, Roger."
"I would, Collins, but my New Year's resolution is to give up dark meat." Roger laughed and ducked as Collins threw a bottle cap at him. "What's yours, Mark?"
"Oh," Mark said thoughtfully. "I…"
"Get yourself some trouble and strife?" Collins asked, grinning wickedly, and Mark blushed. Luckily he was spared having to answer by Maureen's entrance, always a demand for attention. She and Joanne deposited their presents on the table with the others', completing the 'Secret Santa' table, then Maureen gave Roger a hug and ruffled his hair.
"Hi, Mosie." Roger jumped up and kissed her on the bottom of the chin. His hands shot back and tickled her tummy.
Maureen squealed and jumped away. She smacked the back of his head.
Joanne traded conservative embraces with Mark and Collins. "How've you been?" she asked.
"Fine," Mark said.
"High," Collins said.
"So, fine," Joanne translated.
Collins nodded with his one-of-my-dumbass-students-actually-got-a n-answer-right smiles, hugged Joanne again and suppressed a comment about her manicured fingernails.
Maureen whined, "Joanne! Roger's trying to take my virginity!" not realizing exactly what she had said about Mark, who blushed.
Joanne only laughed. "Yeah, Maureen. I'm sure those three abortions were immaculate conception."
"I thought it was two?" Mark remarked, puzzled.
Roger leapt up. "Present time!" He snatched a Santa Claus hat off the table and jammed it over his head.
To maintain the secrecy of 'Secret Santa', the presents were placed in identical brown bags and labeled with nametags all penned in Mark's neat script. Roger had spearheaded 'Secret Santa', his face alight with childlike glee as he made arrangements, but it was Mark who made sure Roger's plans were seen through. And now Roger danced around the room, calling out names and distributing presents.
"Mark!" he yelped. "Mark's present!" was promptly deposited in Mark's lap, along with a hug and a big, sloppy, St. Bernard –esque kiss on the cheek.
"Lezzie prezzie for Maureen!" Roger declared. She goosed him as he headed away. "Joanne," Roger said, and handed her a bag with solemnity and respect. The next gift was "Mine!" and Roger cuddled it before tossing it unceremoniously on the table.
Last of all, Collins received a "fag bag" from the "honkey donkey."
Much later, when Maureen was passed out in Mark's room and snoring like an elephant, and Collins was wrapped around his pillow, sucking his thumb and talking to Diogenes, Roger climbed out onto the fire escape. Joanne sat on the steps, hunkered over in her nice coat. Roger cleared away the snow and joined her. He tugged on the maroon sweater he had received in his 'Secret Santa' bag. It had been carefully folded atop three pairs of boxers (red with pink hearts, Homer Simpson, and duckies) and under a white sweater.
"Thank you," Roger said.
"You knew?"
Roger laughed. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "You lost your will and threw in sensible clothes," he said. He offered Joanne a cigarette. She hesitated before accepting. "I'm a bit late having this talk with you," he said around the cigarette, leaning close to light both at once, then snapped his lighter shut and shoved it and the package in his pocket.
"Yeah, well," Joanne said, then shrugged, an effect of the amount of gin she'd consumed.
"Maureen really likes you," Roger said. He laughed and shook his head. "I used to start it that way. She does, though."
Joanne grunted.
"Two years is a long time for her. She's serious."
"She checks out men," Joanne whined, then coughed. Roger rubbed her back until she had stopped.
Roger told her, "She's horny." He shrugged. "The only time I knew her not to be…" He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "For a while when she was sixteen. Drugs. But listen, Joanne, Maureen's a great girl. I know she can be a handful, I know she likes to flirt, but she won't give her heart to anyone else." Roger was slightly rusty, not having recited this speech since he gave it to Mark. He took another drag and exhaled it, then said, "If you hurt my baby, I'll…" Roger paused. "It used to be 'castrate'," he admitted.
Joanne laughed. "I get the idea," she said. "So. Your baby, hm?"
Roger shrugged. "We were neighbors. My parents really pushed the 'take-care-of-your-cousin' business." He stubbed out his cigarette, through with smoking, and with talking.
"Roger! Er… you don't have anything to worry about from me," Joanne said. "I wouldn't hurt her."
Roger smiled. "I know," he said. Then he went inside.
Mark was cleaning up, bringing plates to the sink. He closed his eyes and yawned into the back of his hand, blinking his eyes open when something warm and solid grasped him, gently but firmly keeping him in place.
Roger kissed the back of Mark's neck. Spurts of excitement flowed through Mark, but he shook them off as 'Roger's had a few too many'. However, when Roger began nuzzling, it was too much. "You should get to bed," he murmured.
"Just let me finish cleaning up," Mark returned, his words slurred slightly. Roger wasn't the only one who had had a few too many.
"If you go to bed now," Roger said in a breathy whisper, "I'll come with you."
Mark swallowed. "Wh… what… I'm not gay."
Roger laughed. Hot puffs of breath against his neck made Mark whimper. "You still telling that lie?" he asked, fingers worming up under Mark's shirt.
Mark pulled away roughly. "You're drunk," he accused. "You're drunk and you're lonely and you don't--"
"Mark?" Roger interrupted lazily.
"Yes?"
Roger pulled him close and kissed him. "Shut up, Mark."
The end!