Note to Readers: First and foremost, I don't own Rent. It's credited to the genius Jonathan Larson, of course.
Secondly, this is my first fic, so be easy on me. It was originally intended to be something between my girlfriend and I only, but I figured it was pretty good, and that I'd give this FFN thing a try. Sorry in advance if Roger gets a little bit out of character. I was actually basing him off of myself in the beginning and yeah. Also sorry that the ending seems so rushed. But, overall, I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it.
It's been years since his last cigarette, months since his last drink, and a week since his last erection. Roger Davis, hungry sex god and self proclaimed king of rock and roll (after Elvis, of course) had been reduced to an obedient housewife; Mark Cohen's obedient housewife. Sure, the smell of cigarette smoke still made his mouth water like that of a dog whimpering under the dining room table. And, yeah, it took every ounce of energy to say "Uh, no, thanks..." to the band whenever they challenged Roger to a game of good, ol' fashioned beer pong. But most of all, it was the porn that Roger missed; the naked boys clad in leather straps, and forced into positions that Roger didn't even think possible to get into. Things had certainly changed, and at first, Roger resented these changes, but deep down, he knew it was for the better. Deep down, he always meant to thank Mark, but never put his gratitude into words. It was one of those things which he just figured Mark always knew; like the way Roger kept silent whenever Mark told him something he never particularly wanted to hear, like the way Roger loved Mark, but never came close to telling him quite enough, like the way Roger needed Mark to survive, but never credited it more than to Mark reminding him to take his AZT. There was a lot Roger suspected that Mark knew, without words ever being involved. He figured that some things just never needed words.
"You're killing yourself!" Mark had shouted once during one of their usual fights. "You're killing yourself..." He choked out again, fresh, salty tears welling up in the film-maker's eyes. Roger kept silent, nostrils flared, his gaze averted to his boots. What could he say to that? Nothing. What snappy remark could he come up with? None. Mark was right, of course. He usually was, whether Roger wanted to admit it or not. "Did you fucking hear me?" Mark was losing his temper, something that didn't happen often, but when it did, Roger knew he had done something wrong. "I said you're fucking killing yourself! And you don't even care. ...Do you?" Mark stood in front of his scraggly best friend, a look of mixed confusion and anger flashing across his azure eyes. In turn, Roger looked defeated, the same sort of look a child gets after he has been scolded for doing something wrong. Then, suddenly, a look of defiance took over, and Roger smirked.
"Well, I'm dying, anyway, aren't I?" Roger's tone was emotionless and quiet, but the remark stung his best friend, regardless. Mark had never used physical violence against Roger before, even through the countless fights and arguments, but Roger figured, if it was ever going to happen, it would now. He braced himself as Mark came towards him, but instead of the sharp pain of a smack against his cheek, he felt the soft, wet sensation of a kiss. Roger's heart raced as the kisses increased in size and numbers. Mark hesitantly crawled into the junkie's lap, his kisses traveling from Roger's cheek, to his neck, and finally to his chapped, raw lips. The smaller boy trembled against Roger's chest, soft mewling noises muffled by the rock star's thrift store shirt.
"Stop it... Don't talk like that. Please, don't talk like that... Don't you fucking get it? I need you. I lo---" Before the word even had the chance, Roger locked his lips onto Mark's. The kiss intensified as lips parted and tongues were free to explore. A tornado of emotions ravaged Roger's brain. Fear, comfort, anticipation, confusion, arousal, sadness, joy, but most of all, that of being loved and giving it in return, something he had never truly done before. It made him feel safe, yet the dangers of heartbreak, disease, and loss were always in the back of his mind. He pulled away, only to find Mark gasping softly, his eyes still closed as he inched forward, wondering why Roger's lips had left and when they would be returning.
Roger couldn't help but smile weakly, Mark's taste still lingering on his lips and tongue. The smaller boy finally opened his eyes, slowly. His cheeks, now flushed pink, were still stained with tears. "Roger, I..." Mark began, but before he could continue, Roger met his lips with another kiss, a less awkward and questioning kiss; a kiss that said thank you and I love you and I'm sorry all in one. "Just shut up." Roger laughed softly, a low, gruff laugh in the back of this throat that made Mark crack his infamous lopsided smile. The smaller boy curled up against his best friend's chest and yawned softly. Fighting had always worn the boys out, but kissing... Kissing seemed absolutely exhausting.
Mark, breathing softly now and drifting off to sleep, made himself comfortable, listening to the rhythmic lullaby of Roger's heartbeats. Some things, those intimate sorts of sounds, actions, and emotions, were better left unsaid, Roger thought. Those were the things that didn't need words to get across, but rather needed to be heard, done, and felt. Roger may not thank Mark enough for all he has done for him, but deep down, he knows Mark realizes. Roger may not express every emotion, especially love, but deep down, love is the one thing that's keeping him alive. Mark is the one thing keeping Roger alive, but that's one of those things Roger likes to believe is better left unsaid. Love is one of those things both boys know without needing to hear the word.