Title: Chiaroscuro
Summary: Who's really alone?
A/N: "Chiaroscuro" is defined as a strong contrast between light and dark. It's usually used to describe a work of art, and while I don't quite think this is a work of art, I think the term describes the story. You'll see.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT; heck, I don't even rent RENT. All credit goes to Jon Larson. |*| - light a candle.
Chiaroscuro
By Morgan (firedancer)
There he sits, across the room at the kitchen table. His spiky blond head is tilted downward over the separated pieces of his camera. Parts I could never know the names of are competing for his complete focus. He never looks up from the tabletop. I could never be so absorbed in my work. It's not true, what's been said. Mark doesn't hide behind his work. His camera is a part of him, as much as his innocence. If living in Alphabet City for four years hasn't made him a hardened bitter man, nothing will. It's not that he hides from the world behind the lens. If you saw him, you'd know. It's almost like a third eye. An added perspective. It's no wonder he has enough insight on people to fill a book.
The body beside me shifts. I sigh. "I hope I'm not too obvious," I think to myself. Not that it would matter. Nothing I do is blatant enough to cause a stir anymore. I could shoot up every night of the week, and no one but Mark would know. He always knows. If it's been a bad day, or if I'm caught in a fight, Mark is there for me. He'll make me a cup of peach tea, calm me down, and get me to breathe again. There's no way I could pay him back for his kindness. Not the way I want, at least.
This virus. Every time I begin to forget about my mortality, I get reminded to take my AZT. He's so pure, not even a date since Maureen left him for Joanne. It's all I can do to get him to come to a Well Hungarians gig, let alone clubs or other bars with us. Even if he loved me like I love him, I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't kill Mark. I wouldn't. His sweet outlook on life is what keeps me coming back for more. If I caused him to be at all corrupted by this plague, I don't know how I could live with myself.
I know he doesn't love me. Mark's heart belongs to someone else. He's in love with someone he thinks he could never have. It's not true. They're perfect for each other, but they're both so blind. If it weren't for me, Mark could be happy. I'm the one keeping them from being happy. I hate to think that I cause either of them pain, but it's true. Mark, especially. It's in his eyes. He never says a word, never misses a beat, but I know how he feels. He longs to hear those three words, to have them sealed with a kiss, but not from me. Never from me.
Suddenly, he springs into action. Mark is going through cabinets, peeking into Count Chocula boxes. Three empty cardboard cartons go into the trash.
"Roge, Mimi? Can we go to the Life? I'm starved." He lays his head to the side and puts on that adorable puppy-dog face. "Please?" If only I had chosen a different time to light that candle.
Roger grins broadly and stands to go out the door with Mark. He grabs his beat-up leather coat, opens the door, and pauses. Roger turns back to look at me. I was wondering when he'd notice I wasn't beside him.
"Mimi, you coming?"
"Nah, I'm good. See you later, sweetie?" I manage. I'm a fake, I'm a fraud; I admit it. Yes, I love Roger, but lately it's been getting harder to pretend that Mark's nothing more than a brother to me. It seems the closer Roger and I are, the closer Mark and I are. Those two just can't make it easy on a girl, can they?
"All right. Let's go, Mark." He turns his back to me. "Live Hard, Die Young", his jacket reads. I remember, it was around his birthday last year when I had those words airbrushed on the back. It was either that or "No Day but Today". Frankly, I consider that phrase mine. I'll loan it out, but if you're going to airbrush words on your favorite jacket, it had better be your personal philosophy.
They walk out the loft door and down the stairs. I listen closely until I can't hear their light footsteps anymore. The pieces of his camera still sit, spread out, on the kitchen table. A car drives underneath the window. A grey pigeon perches on the rail of the fire escape. If I look up at the ceiling, I can see the cracks that the boys sleep under every night. I wonder what happens when it rains.The afternoon calm is just too calm. I almost wish I had gone with them to Life Cafe. No, it's better this way. I'm sure of it. I stand up from the ragged couch and begin the walk to my apartment downstairs. I can't stay in the loft any longer. Even when they're gone, a shadow of them remains. It's more than I can take.
At night, when I'm lying in bed with Roger, I used to wonder who the third wheel in this relationship was. I've found my answer this afternoon. Actually, here's the better question. Who's really the only one without someone?
Summary: Who's really alone?
A/N: "Chiaroscuro" is defined as a strong contrast between light and dark. It's usually used to describe a work of art, and while I don't quite think this is a work of art, I think the term describes the story. You'll see.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT; heck, I don't even rent RENT. All credit goes to Jon Larson. |*| - light a candle.
Chiaroscuro
By Morgan (firedancer)
There he sits, across the room at the kitchen table. His spiky blond head is tilted downward over the separated pieces of his camera. Parts I could never know the names of are competing for his complete focus. He never looks up from the tabletop. I could never be so absorbed in my work. It's not true, what's been said. Mark doesn't hide behind his work. His camera is a part of him, as much as his innocence. If living in Alphabet City for four years hasn't made him a hardened bitter man, nothing will. It's not that he hides from the world behind the lens. If you saw him, you'd know. It's almost like a third eye. An added perspective. It's no wonder he has enough insight on people to fill a book.
The body beside me shifts. I sigh. "I hope I'm not too obvious," I think to myself. Not that it would matter. Nothing I do is blatant enough to cause a stir anymore. I could shoot up every night of the week, and no one but Mark would know. He always knows. If it's been a bad day, or if I'm caught in a fight, Mark is there for me. He'll make me a cup of peach tea, calm me down, and get me to breathe again. There's no way I could pay him back for his kindness. Not the way I want, at least.
This virus. Every time I begin to forget about my mortality, I get reminded to take my AZT. He's so pure, not even a date since Maureen left him for Joanne. It's all I can do to get him to come to a Well Hungarians gig, let alone clubs or other bars with us. Even if he loved me like I love him, I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't kill Mark. I wouldn't. His sweet outlook on life is what keeps me coming back for more. If I caused him to be at all corrupted by this plague, I don't know how I could live with myself.
I know he doesn't love me. Mark's heart belongs to someone else. He's in love with someone he thinks he could never have. It's not true. They're perfect for each other, but they're both so blind. If it weren't for me, Mark could be happy. I'm the one keeping them from being happy. I hate to think that I cause either of them pain, but it's true. Mark, especially. It's in his eyes. He never says a word, never misses a beat, but I know how he feels. He longs to hear those three words, to have them sealed with a kiss, but not from me. Never from me.
Suddenly, he springs into action. Mark is going through cabinets, peeking into Count Chocula boxes. Three empty cardboard cartons go into the trash.
"Roge, Mimi? Can we go to the Life? I'm starved." He lays his head to the side and puts on that adorable puppy-dog face. "Please?" If only I had chosen a different time to light that candle.
Roger grins broadly and stands to go out the door with Mark. He grabs his beat-up leather coat, opens the door, and pauses. Roger turns back to look at me. I was wondering when he'd notice I wasn't beside him.
"Mimi, you coming?"
"Nah, I'm good. See you later, sweetie?" I manage. I'm a fake, I'm a fraud; I admit it. Yes, I love Roger, but lately it's been getting harder to pretend that Mark's nothing more than a brother to me. It seems the closer Roger and I are, the closer Mark and I are. Those two just can't make it easy on a girl, can they?
"All right. Let's go, Mark." He turns his back to me. "Live Hard, Die Young", his jacket reads. I remember, it was around his birthday last year when I had those words airbrushed on the back. It was either that or "No Day but Today". Frankly, I consider that phrase mine. I'll loan it out, but if you're going to airbrush words on your favorite jacket, it had better be your personal philosophy.
They walk out the loft door and down the stairs. I listen closely until I can't hear their light footsteps anymore. The pieces of his camera still sit, spread out, on the kitchen table. A car drives underneath the window. A grey pigeon perches on the rail of the fire escape. If I look up at the ceiling, I can see the cracks that the boys sleep under every night. I wonder what happens when it rains.The afternoon calm is just too calm. I almost wish I had gone with them to Life Cafe. No, it's better this way. I'm sure of it. I stand up from the ragged couch and begin the walk to my apartment downstairs. I can't stay in the loft any longer. Even when they're gone, a shadow of them remains. It's more than I can take.
At night, when I'm lying in bed with Roger, I used to wonder who the third wheel in this relationship was. I've found my answer this afternoon. Actually, here's the better question. Who's really the only one without someone?