I've been branching out into Rent fic for a while now, so I thought I'd start posting some of it. It's all already been posted on LJ too. This was written for speedrent challenge 135.
I don't own Rent.
Mark had thought that they were past all of Roger's addictions. When Roger had gotten through April's suicide and the worst of withdrawal, Mark thought it was finished. When Roger had left the loft to follow Mimi, he had thought they were really in the clear, and when Mimi had died without Roger backsliding, he had been certain of it.
But now it appeared like he had been wrong. Roger had a new addiction, and Mark was getting worried. The new addiction wasn't near as bad as heroin, but it still wasn't healthy. Mark couldn't enter the loft without being half-smothered by it. Collins, Maureen, and Joanne had all noticed it, and were worried, but every time they tried to say anything about it, the situation got worse.
Mark paused outside of the loft door. Inside he could hear Roger playing his guitar. Mentally bracing himself, he slid open the loft door and went inside.
Roger instantly stopped playing, looking up at him piercingly. Mark pretended not to notice, crossing the loft to put down his camera and hang up his coat and scarf.
"You're back late." Roger's voice was flat and low.
Mark inwardly cringed as he turned back around. "I was getting lots of good footage, I didn't want to lose it," he said carefully.
"You shouldn't be wandering around New York by yourself anyway," Roger continued, as if Mark hadn't spoken.
Mark told himself that arguing would only make things worse, but he couldn't entirely contain his irritation as he said, "I've 'wandered around New York' by myself for a while now, Roger. I think I can take care of myself."
That was a mistake. Roger leaped to his feet, guitar abandoned in the window seat, his hands half clenched at his sides. "That's not good enough!" he shouted, "You think you can, but have you ever really had to?" He gestured wildly out the window behind him, "Collins is a lot bigger than you, and he got mugged right outside of the building! What if that happened to you? What if there was no Angel to help you? Fuck, I wouldn't even be there, because you fucking won't tell me where you are!"
Roger's new addiction was Mark. Since losing Mimi, he had clung to Mark like a leech, apparently afraid that Mark was going to be taken away from him too. Not that he would admit it. Every time Mark pushed back, or pointed out that he had lived in New York almost as long as Roger, Roger would get angry.
Mark was getting sick of it. He couldn't live with Roger always on his back about keeping safe. He could understand that Roger was scared of losing another person, but he felt like he was being smothered. Roger's mania was bordering on obsession. Every time Mark went outside, muggers were waiting in the alley, bar fights were going to happen, mass murderers were on the loose. Collins had said to give him time to adjust, that it would get better, but it was only getting worse.
"Look, Roger," he said as calmly as he could, "You know I'm out filming. I'm as safe as I can be."
"You'd be safer if you would let me come with you."
Mark sighed inwardly. The last time he had let Roger tag along, he hadn't gotten any filming done at all. But as he looked at his roommate, standing tensely by the window, he knew he wouldn't hold out against Roger for long, no matter how irritated he was. He knew that knowing he was safe was important to Roger at this moment, that it was his lifeline to hold on to. And he knew why.
Roger had lost April when she'd found out they had AIDS. Angel had withered away before their eyes, slowly losing the battle against the disease. He'd lost Mimi to it barely a year after he'd met her. Mark sometimes caught him looking at Collins with eyes so full of anguish Mark wasn't sure why Collins never said anything. But Mark was the one without the disease. He was the one that was going to survive them, and it had become all important to Roger that he do so. Above everything else, to Roger, Mark had to be safe, so he would survive them all.
They stood looking at each other silently. Roger's face got harder, until he was scowling at Mark. Mark finally let out a long breath. "Fine," he said, "You can come with me tomorrow. But no remarks. And you're not allowed to glare at every homeless person I try to talk to. I'm trying to get their stories, for the film."
Roger's face had cleared at Mark's agreement. He sat back down on the window seat, picking up his guitar again. "I'll behave," he said, "As long as you don't do anything stupid. You're going to get your ass kicked someday by one of those crazy people."
Mark just sighed.
Roger's addiction was troubling, yes, but Mark didn't have the heart to talk to Roger about it, no matter how crazy it made him. That morning, Mark had woken up to wracking coughs coming from Roger's room. The sound had frozen his blood, but when he had gotten up later in the morning, Roger had been in the kitchen drinking coffee and hadn't coughed once during breakfast. His touchy attitude warned Mark not to bring it up.
No, Mark wasn't going to stop this addiction, not if it brought Roger some measure of peace. He didn't know how much time Roger had left, and he wasn't going to spoil it for him. Not even if he went stark raving mad making sure that didn't happen.