A/N: Just a random Mark/Roger idea I was hit with, once upon a midnight dreary. Enjoy. Review. I don't own RENT, but I do own the soundtrack, for what it's worth. :0)
Fear
It wasn't a subject they cared to discuss. Post-RENT. Mark/Roger.
A hard rain pounded against the loft. The two men sat on opposite ends of the couch. One absent-mindedly strummed his guitar; the other flipped through a book. The final strains of Musetta's Waltz were all at once drowned out by a deafening crash of thunder.
"Holy shit!" yelped Roger, startled. The look of sheer terror on Mark's face echoed the sentiment. The filmmaker grinned sheepishly, picking the book up off the floor.
"Never did like thunderstorms," he added with a nervous laugh. The other nodded.
"Right--me neither, really." This granted a measure of comfort for each. Somehow, it was easier to endure something frightening if you knew your best friend was just as uncomfortable. Roger resumed plucking out the familiar melody, and Mark returned his attention to the book. But a question had pushed its way to the front of his mind and made it nearly impossible to focus on the page.
"Hey Roge," he started.
"Yeah?"
"What're you afraid of--I mean, really afraid of?" Straightforward, Mark decided, was the best way to go about it. It was quiet for a long time.
"Dying," came the eventual answer. "I'm scared as hell to die." The words were hard--hard to say, hard to hear, for each knew this issue would have to be faced soon enough.
"Have you always felt like that?" the other probed. While they had been friends for years, neither Roger nor Mark had ever truly told the other what frightened them the most.
"Kind of…when I was young, I was afraid the people I was close to were going to die--" Mark nodded; he knew what that felt like. Roger continued on. "Now, my fear is mostly for myself. What about you--are thunderstorms the only things that freak you out?" While he was slightly shaken by his friend's admission, Mark knew that he should be just as honest.
"Being alone, I guess…being abandoned. This may shock you, but…growing up, I was a little insecure." Roger laughed.
"You're such a nerd, Cohen."
"I am not!" The good-natured banter gave way to a calm, and each again became immersed in their own activities. The storm raged on outside; every flash of lightning, every thunderclap sending silent chills down their spines. Suddenly, Roger stopped playing.
"I can't do this," he spat. "I just can't." Mark looked up.
"Do what?"
"This. This going along, pretending that everything's gonna be okay--it won't. It won't be okay…" The other was confused.
"Roger, what are you talking about?"
"Whether we wanna admit it or not, pal, I'm gonna die! Not sure when, but it'll happen. And it'll hurt like hell--" His tone softened, then. "but when the chips are down, I'd really like it if you were there with me…" His voice faltered slightly. The other wasn't entirely sure what he'd just heard.
"Wh-what?"
"It might not hurt as much," Roger reiterated, "if you were there." The silence drove an even deeper wedge between the two. All that could be heard was the sounds of nature's fury outside. Mark's head throbbed as he tried to comprehend the conversation that had just taken place; never before had Roger been this open with him. And the very thought of losing him threatened to drive him insane. Finally, it became too much to handle.
"Damn it, Roger!" Mark exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "You think you're scared?! Try being me! Try waking up every morning and wondering if this'll be the last day you'll get to spend with the people you love!" He could feel his temperature rise as the hot slices of anger surged through him. "Try going to bed every night, unable to sleep because you're wondering which of your friends is gonna be next! Is it you, Roger?! Collins?! Mimi?!" Now it was Roger's turned to be surprised by his buddy's spasmodic behavior.
"Mark--"
"Here's the thing…" Mark was beginning to wear down, now. His voice was beginning to crack, tears filling his icy blue eyes. "You'll always have me, I'll always be here. So sure, Roger, I'll hold your hand when the time comes, but what happens after you're gone!? After everyone's gone?! What will I have left!? A guitar I can't play, films I don't think I'll be able to watch, and an empty loft! That's it! Oh, fuck…" The bespectacled blonde sank back onto the tattered sofa, burying his head in his hands, his breath coming in big, gulping sobs. Profoundly moved, Roger inched closer to his best friend, putting an arm about his shoulder.
"Easy, man," he whispered. "Easy…"
"You can't do this to me, Roger," Mark growled. "You can't leave me alone!" The musician felt the tears burn his eyes as he held his friend a little tighter.
"I won't," he answered. Not yet. A few tense moments passed, the tears gradually subsiding. A sudden flash made Mark jump. Roger couldn't help but laugh as he watched his friend glance around nervously, comparable to a small puppy.
"What's so funny?" Mark asked, adjusting his glasses with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Nothin'--it's just kinda pathetic how nerdy you are." Roger didn't have time to protect himself against the pillow the other swung at his head.
"I--am--not--a--nerd!" With every shot, the grin on the attacker's face grew wider. When the barrage was over, Mark leaned back, pleased with himself. "Come on," he challenged, "hit me back." Roger declined.
" What? No!"
"Chicken." No longer could Roger pretend that he was above a good pillow fight.
"All right, that's it---you're dead meat!" Somewhere in the chaos that followed, it occurred to them that yes, they were chicken, each afraid of something that they could not control. And each glad that the other knew about it.