b I got this idea randomly listening to the commentary, when Chris Columbus is talking about the table. It's completely random, and slightly angsty. I'd also like to note, the way the whole preRENT thing unfolds in this, and the characterization of Maureen and April are completely different than my usual thoughts, so if it sounds awkward, that's why. Review?
Disclaimer; If I owned RENT, would I be writing fanfiction? Property of the Jonathan Larson estate. /b
I.
"Is this the place?" Roger asks, waving the newspaper around in Mark's face.
Mark looks over the paper, glancing up and down from the address on the building to the paper, "Um, yeah. I guess that's it." The building isn't quite what Mark expected when he ran away from Brown, practically kidnapped Roger, and hopped a train to New York. He expected skyscrapers and doormen; this place is more…squatters and bums.
Roger adjusts the guitar case over his shoulder, "Awesome." He steps over the homeless man sleeping on the front stoop and gestures for Mark to follow. The blonde slings his duffel bag over his arm and reluctantly follows Roger.
By the time they reach the top of the stairs, both boys are wheezing and practically falling on each other for support. Once they regain a steady breathing pattern, Mark knocks on the door. It slides open to reveal a tall, large black man. When the man smiles, Roger almost wants to shield his eyes, "Collins. Tom Collins." The man greets warmly.
"Oh, uh, Mark Cohen and Roger Davis." Mark points to himself and Roger respectively. He holds the paper up, "Is this 'Spacious three bedroom, 1 bath'?
The man, apparently Collins, laughs in a way that seems to make the whole building shake, "Yeah. So, I embellished a little." He steps asides and waves them in, pointing to two small doorways at the back of the building, "If you're still interested you can take those two rooms over there. After you get yourselves settled, come back out and we'll feast."
"You aren't gonna…interview us or anything?" Mark asks slowly, receiving only a shake of the head in response. Mark shrugs, and him and Roger set up their minimal possessions in the rooms.
They return a few minutes later, and Tom directs them to a large, metal table, where three bowls and three paper cups have been set out. They glance around nervously, until Tom's voice startles them, "Well, boys, whaddya think?" before either of them can get an answer out, Tom scoots onto the table, pulling his bowl into his lap, "Pop a squat." Mark and Roger awkwardly sit down, precariously balancing bowls on their laps, "So," Tom starts again, "Let's learn about each other. I'll start. Call me Collins, Tom is for old men. I teach philosophy, tutor, actually. I'm a gay male, single and looking. Got kicked out at 16 because of it. Not by my mom, she's a great gal, her husband was a real ass, he did it. I had a brother; he died when I was sixteen. And I'm working on a theory of my own: Actual Reality. What're your stories?"
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table, sharing every detail of their life, and the first feast of Captain Crunch and Stoli.
II.
The door to the loft slides open, and Mark steps over the threshold. He reaches an arm out, and a soft, delicate hand makes it's way into his, an equally delicate body quickly following. "Well, this is home." He says simply, waving his arms around.
She wrinkles her nose, crossing her arms over her large chest, "It's…nice."
Collins and Roger stumble out of the former's room together, most likely high. Collins just greets the pair with a warm smile and grabs a cup of cold coffee. Roger, however, stand in the doorway stupidly, drool practically spilling out of his wide-open mouth. He feels a hand in his and hears a shrill voice chirp, "Hi! I'm Maureen Johnson, your new roommate." She shakes his hand vigorously, "Hey, aren't you in The Well Hungarians?"
A grin creeps onto Roger's face, ever the one for an ego-boost, "Yeah, I am. You a fan?"
Maureen reels her hand back and shrugs, "You're alright. I saw you guys over at the Pyramid. The only song I'm too fond of is 'Razor'." Roger's face falls a bit, and he walks away wordlessly.
Mark shrugs it off and leads Maureen into the kitchen area, offering her a beer. Although it's only noon, Maureen obliges, helping herself to a seat on the metal table. Mark thrusts the beer into her hands and props himself next to her, "Which one is my room?" she inquires, popping the beer in-between her plump lips. Mark blushes; he's actually not quite sure of the answer. Once he heard that the beautiful new waitress needed a place to stay, he had quickly volunteered, nothing practical entering his mind. "I could always stay in your room." She purrs, running a hand along Mark's thigh.
"Well…uh…yeah…I guess..." before Mark can solidly answer, Maureen's lips have collided with his, and their tongues are exploring each other's mouths.
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table, sharing the first kiss of a million.
III.
When Roger, Mark, and Collins walk into the loft they are overpowered by a foreign smell. It's not Collins' stale marijuana or Maureen's cheap perfume; it smells more of expensive aftershave. Mark soon realizes that the smell isn't so foreign after all; it's the smell of his ex-roommate's cologne, "Benny?" he asks more bitterly than he means to.
"Hey, Mark." The man greets sheepishly. His dark complexion, baldhead, polo, and dress slacks are a stark contrast to Mark's…everything.
"Hey." Before Mark can ask any of the questions running through his mind, Maureen is protectively at his side.
"Pookie, do you know this guy as well as he says you do?" she narrows her eyes at the newcomer.
"Yeah, we were roommates at Brown." Mark assures her, "What are you here for, Benny?"
"Just out of school. I need a place to stay until I find I good job. I can chip in on bills and stuff." He provides smoothly.
Mark shrugs, "I don't think any of us are gonna have problem with help on the bills." Maureen releases his hand and leans across the table, her voluptuous breasts nearly falling out of her shirt, "Hello, I'm Maureen Johnson, your new roommate." She grasps his hand, and as she pulls away, brushes his thigh lightly.
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table, and for the first time since she moved in, Maureen flirts with someone who isn't Mark.
IV.
Maureen drunkenly stumbles into the loft, Mark, Collins, and Benny not far behind. She flips a light on, and the boys nearly fall over in surprise when somebody lets out a shrill shriek. They turn to the metal table to see a small-framed girl, her red hair flying around her chiseled face, lying on the table, Roger thrusting on top of her. Maureen throws her head back in laughter, and mocks in a singsong voice, "Roger's getting laiiiid, Roger's getting laiiiid."
"Roger gets laid a lot. He's a rockstar." The said man growls, then turns his attention to the girl under him, "Don't worry about them, babe, they'll leave." He thrusts again, and digs his teeth into her neck.
"Roger, where are your manners?" she pushes him off of her and holds his jacket in front of her barely clothed body. "Hi, I'm April. Ericcson." She extends a hand.
Maureen jumps towards the young girl, briskly shoving their hands together, "Maureen Johnson. And that's Mark Cohen, Tom Collins, and Benny Coffin." She points to each man respectively, then prances over to Mark and wraps a shirt arm around his waist, claiming her turf.
The girl, April, waves timidly, then props herself back on the metal table, legs dangling off of the edge. Roger's arm snakes it's way around her tiny waist, a pair of jeans safely covering his manhood. "It's very nice to meet you all." April says. Suddenly, something clicks in her head and she seems to realize that her and Roger are almost naked. She pardons herself and disappears with Roger behind a door. The pair returns a minute later, fully clothed, and hand-in-hand. Mark, Maureen, Collins, and Benny are all leaning against various pieces of furniture and walls. Roger grabs two beers, handing one to April. "Thanks, babe." She gets onto her tippy-toes to kiss his cheek. Mark and Collins share a humorous glance. "Let me try this again," she starts, "Mark, Tom, Benny, Maureen, right? She points to each person respectively, and smiles when she is approved. "April. Ericcson. Roger's girlfriend."
The other four occupants simultaneously roll their eyes, fully expecting Roger to pull away or start tapping his feet nervously. Instead, he snakes an arm around her waist and envelops her lips in a kiss. "So," she props herself back onto the metal table and takes a small sip of her beer, "tell me about yourselves."
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table, and get the first taste of the fury that is April.
V.
Roger emerges from the bathroom, bleached blonde hair freshly spiked, and a leather jacket on his shoulders, "You almost rea-" he stops dead in his tracks. April is standing behind the couch, a tourniquet wrapped around her forearm and a needle held tightly between her teeth. "April, can't we go out without you being high for once?" he whines.
"I could," she shrugs, "but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun." Without another word, she shoves the needle into her vein, eyes rolling back with instant relief.
Roger pouts his thin lips, "You don't have fun with just me?"
April chuckles, throwing her head back, "Aww, babe, of course I do. I'll be right back." She disappears behind the bedroom door suddenly.
A few minutes later, she bounces over to the metal table where Roger has positioned himself. April prances over next to him and sets about holding a bent spoon over a nearby candle. Roger suddenly slides across the table, "April, you just shot up, what the fuck are you doing?"
She pulls the spoon away from the candle and blows it out delicately. She lets her blue eyes meet Roger's green, a small smirk on her carefully lined lips, "It's your turn, baby." She professionally pours the contents of the spoon into a syringe.
"No." Roger nearly bellows, "I've already told you, I'm not doing that shit."
April picks up the tourniquet and freshly prepared needle, waving them slowly about, "Come on, Elvis," she starts, knowing Roger can't resist the nickname, "try it once. If you don't like it you never have to try it again." She leans up to peck his cheek.
Roger leans himself back on the table and bites his lip, "Okay. Just this once, though." he pushes his elbow out the way he's seen April do it countless times.
She ties the tourniquet tightly around his forearm and twirls the needle between her fingers, "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be." He says. And before he can get another breath out, a needle is shoved into his vein.
And he sits on that old, rusty, metal table and allows poison to course through his body for the first time.
VI.
When Mark and Roger enter the loft something just feels wrong. No lights are on, even though both girls have been left home alone, and the whole apartment smells a tad like vomit. Mark pulls himself onto the metal table, his legs tucked under him. Both men share a glance, silently acknowledging what sounds like sobs coming from behind the bathroom door. Roger signals for Mark to stay put and gently pushes the bathroom door open. He stops in his tracks, both hands planted firmly on the doorframe. "Roger, is everything alright?" Mark calls, his body immediately perking up at the strangled sound Roger emits.
"Maureen, get out" Roger hisses.
It's at this point that Mark decides he should investigate. He walks up behind Roger and instantly feels as if he's about to collapse; April is sprawled out on the bathroom floor, and her favorite party dress drenched in her blood. Maureen sits on the floor, screaming obscenities at the lifeless body through her tears,
Roger, seemingly unable to stare any longer, lunges himself at the metal table, his breath coming in heavy gasps, tears finally beginning to stream down his cheeks.
Mark catches sight of the mirror; three horrifying words spread across it in lipstick, "Maureen, get out" he spats.
"No." she returns firmly.
"Look at the fucking mirror, Maureen. Get the fuck out!" He's suddenly screaming, and Mark doesn't scream at Maureen. He's allowed, though, right? Two roommates are out of town visiting family for the holidays. One roommate is outside, clutching a metal table for life, on the verge of breaking down. One roommate, the one who happens to be his girlfriend, is on the floor covered in infectious blood. And the final roommate is in the bathtub. Dead. Taking all that into consideration, Mark is allowed to scream. Mark is practically required to scream.
Once Maureen sees the mirror, she is frozen; paralyzed by fear, shock, and sorrow. Mark has to practically drag her out of the bathroom kicking and screaming, but she's out, and she's calling 911. Roger is full out full out sobbing on the floor now, his knees pulls to his chest. Once Maureen in situated on the phone, Mark crouches down next to Roger. He runs one hand through Roger's greasy locks, and his other hand moves sporadically up and down Roger's back. "Shh, Rog, everything's going to be fine, shh." Mark whispers soothingly, rhythmically, falsely.
An hour that feels like a week passes, and April's body has been taken away. Roger's sobs have subsided into sniffles. Maureen finally gets up and leans against the table where the boys sit, "Collins and Benny are hopping on the next train." Mark nods, a hand still running up and down Roger's back.
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table in an awkward silence, and for the first time, the loft doesn't feel like home.
VII.
When Mark steps out of the bathroom, the sight he sees is one he's grown quite accustomed to over the last two months; Roger is sprawled across the metal table, wearing nothing but his boxers. His entire body shudders violently, yet sweat drips out of every pore. Mark drops the towel he's been drying his hair with and materializes at Roger's side, rubbing his back furiously. These are what everyone refers to as 'spells'. They don't come often; once every other day or so, but they aren't pleasant for anyone. Sure, they aren't as bad as when Roger would scream, punch, and kick his way out the door. But, they last nearly an hour; Roger is hot one minute, and freezing the next. The shakes go way beyond tremors; they're medically described as convulsions. Sometimes, he cries for April or drugs, but the cries are usually just sobs of anguish. On this particular day, the cries are for Roger's desired hit.
Mark's hand shifts positions and he runs his slender fingers through Roger hair. Without warning, Roger throws himself over the side of the table, dry-heaving wretchedly. "Shh, it's okay, Rog, shhh." Mark whispers hoarsely.
A few minutes passed, and Roger seems to have calmed a bit, although he's still quietly pleading for drugs. Suddenly, he lets out a shrill scream and rolls off the table. Mark hoists him back up before he can hit the ground, "What is it?" he asks softly.
"Table's cold." Roger murmurs.
Mark resists chuckling at how pathetically, heart-breakingly adorable Roger is, "Stay here. I'll get you some clothes." He gives Roger's shoulder a quick squeeze and disappears behind a door, returning a moment later with a bundle of cloth in hand. Roger shakily pulls on a sweatshirt and Mark covers him with the quilt Mrs. Cohen sent last Hanukah.
The door slides open to reveal Collins and Maureen, paper bags in hand. Maureen kisses Mark's cheek habitually, "Is he having a spell?" she asks, points to Roger
"Yeah, he's winding down, though. Did you guys get food?" he wiggles out from under Roger, who is now sleeping restlessly, and begins rummaging through the bags. Before Collins or Maureen knows what's happening, Mark has four bowls set out and is pouring hot soup into each. He hands Maureen and Collins each a bowl and begins gently shaking Roger. The latter begins to stir and looks up at Mark, "Whaddya want?"
"Come on, Rog, sit up, you need to eat something." Mark says.
"We have food?"
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table and for the first time in what seems like forever, Roger smiles a genuine smile.
VIII.
"And there was a thousand tiny bugs swarming me, " Maureen swats furiously at her face so furiously she nearly falls off the table she's standing on, "Then I said-"
"Hold on." Mark cuts her off, "Do you want the little lights on you or the audience?"
Maureen rolls her eyes, "You're the production manager, you tell me." She positions herself so that her legs are pulled under her and mutters something to the tune of, "This is why Joanne should be doing this."
"What was that?" Mark asks hesitantly, pressing a few buttons on the fuse box with a bit too much force, "Who's Joanne?"
Maureen looks like a deer caught for a moment, then visibly relaxes her body and gestures for Mark to sit next to her. He, of course, obliges. "Marky," she starts, "you know, lately, all your attention has been on Roger, and I've been going out a lot, meeting new people…"
Mark runs a hand over her curly hair, "What are you saying, Mo?" he takes a shaky breath.
She pulls away from his hand and casts a glance to the couch, where Roger is sleeping peacefully for once, "I didn't want you to find out this way." She whispers.
"Yeah, well, I probably don't want to find out." He retorts. Roger stirs, and Mark scurries over to him. When he sees that all is well, he reluctantly sits back on the table.
"This, " she hisses, pointing to Roger, "is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm trying to talk to you, albeit not about something you're going to like, and you have to check on Roger every five fucking seconds.
"Maureen," he speaks slowly, forcing her face in his direction, "what are you trying to tell me?"
"There's someone else, Pookie," she blurts.
Mark jumps off of the table, his face instantly red, "You…I…he…" he can't articulate a complete sentence and his breath is coming in heavy gasps. "How long?" he finally manages to get out.
"What?" she squeaks.
"How long have you been seeing him?" Mark speaks as if he's talking to an imbecile.
"Three months," she returns, "But, come on, Marky, did you honestly have no clue?"
"It doesn't matter," he spats, "Come back for your stuff tomorrow." Maureen pouts, then leans across the table as if to kiss him goodbye, but he turns away, "What's his name? I deserve to know his fucking name."
"Joanne." She squeaks, and before she can receive an answer, she turns on her heels, dashing out the door.
It's at this point that Mark starts to cry. Chest-heaving sobs, really, but there are no tears. It feels foreign to him, but he can't stop it, he can only clutch the table and try to control his breathing. Mark hears Roger sit up, but doesn't bother checking on him. Before Mark realizes anything in the world has moved, Roger is on the table next to him, "What happened?"
Upon seeing the terrified look on Roger's face, Mark calms himself down a bit. Roger probably seen Mark cry since they were 16, probably because that's the last time Mark cried. "Maureen…dumped…another…woman." He manages to choke out.
"Maureen dumped you for another woman?" Roger clarifies, and the loud sniffle from Mark is enough of an answer. Roger simply nods in a daze and runs a finger through Mark's hair, "That bitch." He finally concludes, earning a small laugh from Mark.
And they sit on that old, rusty, metal table, and for the first –and only- time, Roger holds Mark as he cries.
IX.
Mark exits his bedroom to find a fully clothed Roger propped up on the metal table, his guitar closer to him that it's been in a year. Mark slyly flips his camera on, and greets, "Merry Christmas."
"Oh, yeah, Happy Hanukah." Roger returns, fumbling with the hem of his shirt.
"Thanks. Are you feeling alright today?" Mark asks, although he knows the answer is most likely, 'No, I never will be again, how many fucking times do I have to tell you?'
Roger shrugs, "I guess." He answers surprisingly. And then, nearly knocking Mark over, he pulls his guitar onto his lap, "Do we have anything to eat?"
Mark shakes his head, "No. But if you decide to come to the Life tonight, you can eat." He says hopefully.
"I told you, I'm not going, "Roger snaps, "and I don't see why you are, either."
"Me and Maureen are friends." Mark returns weakly.
"Yeah. I'm sure you, Joanne, and Maureen are just gonna be the best of friends," Roger shrugs, "Whatever. I know you blame me, anyway."
"I don't blame you, Roger." Mark insists, "I don't."
"Whatever, I'm not going." He catches sight of the camera, subtly dangling from Mark's hand, "Are you fucking filming me?"
Mark grins sheepishly, raising the camera to his eye, "Yeah. Smile!"
And he sits on that old, rusty, metal table and for the first time since April killed herself, he plays his guitar.
"December 24th, 9pm, Eastern standard time…"