I'm Not Alone
A/N: Well, taking a small break from my main fic right now, "I'm Fine," here's a short little one-shot. Enjoy and please review!
Disclaimers and warnings: I don't own Rent or anything associated with it, unfortunately. Mark/Roger slashis somewhat implied, but the story is mainly focused the friendship aspect of their relationship. Deals with cutting, drug use, attempted suicide, mild language, etc.
Roger knows that Mark is his closest friend, his confidante, and the biggest fan of his songs. He knows that Mark would do anything for him, that if he even thought to breathe a request from him, chances are Mark had already thought of it and done it for him. He knew that Mark loved to talk about the guitarist's problems, to give him help and advice, to make his last few years on earth the best they could possibly be.
But he also knew that it was impossible to get Mark to confess to his own emotions, to admit that he needed help every now and then. He knew Mark was a stubborn jackass the majority of the time, and he wouldn't do anything at all that he didn't want to do. He knew that he loved that damn camera more than life itself, and with it in his life, he really didn't admit to himself that he needed anyone else. Roger knew that Mark needed to feel independent. But most of all, Roger knew that they had an unspoken, understood contract – there were some things that weren't discussed. He knew there were some things Mark couldn't handle talking about.
He knew that this was just one of those things.
Little red, angry Xs were etched into the film maker's forearm, and thin red lines ran dangerously close to his protruding veins on his small wrists. He would refuse food quietly for weeks at a time, lose weight in great amounts only to gain it back in a few weeks. His small frame was constantly varying, always left him looking underweight and tired. Roger knew what he wanted, he knew that Mark needed control and regularity, and when he didn't get it, he took it out on himself.
There were mornings when Roger would find Mark sitting huddled in a corner, obviously having spent the night there, fresh cuts to be seen on his pale, little arms, his face looking sallow and gray from a lack of sleep, his eyes swollen and red from crying, bruises scattered at random on his body. Roger would bring him coffee, take him the couch, and sit around as Mark silently drained the coffee. Their eyes met for a brief second, Mark's blue eyes begging him silently to remember their unuttered pact, pleading with him not to ask.
And Roger never did.
Mark knew that Roger had his work, too. He knew the rock star had April, the band, his Fender – Roger didn't deny emotions, he reveled in them, soaking in his glory. He knew that the only thing Roger lived for was the applause, the glorious triumph of a roaring audience.
Mark knew that Roger hated himself when the applause wasn't sincere enough, the crowd wasn't loud enough. He knew that Roger needed approval to survive. When he didn't have an audiences' approval, he found it from other people – from his band members, from April, from the community of people that said drugs came with the territory of being a rock star.
When Roger came home high the first time, Mark knew then that he couldn't ask. He couldn't grab him the shoulders, or punch him, or ask him why the hell he would do this. Avoidance was the only way they knew how to function in these situations. When he found out that Roger was HIV positive, he couldn't talk to him about it, couldn't get everything cleared up before he left for good.
When he walked in on Roger with April's razor pressed onto his wrist, he remained silent, staring at the familiar situation which hit him harder than a hard blow to the chest. He quickly taking away the blade from an unprotesting Roger, and threw it away. He sat beside him on the bed silently, unable to say anything, until Roger moved towards him, a tear running down his cheek in a beautiful display of emotion that Mark would never be able to express. He buried his face in Mark's shoulder, his own shoulders moving up and down sporadically from the heart-wrenching sobs. Mark knew Roger wanted to get better, to be able to live without April, to live without smack, and that he had to help him – after all, sorting out other people's problems while ignoring his was his speciality. He whispered soothingly into the songwriter's ear, his hands gently rubbing his heaving back. He softly kissed the other man's rough, stubbled cheek comfortingly without thinking about it as anything more...even as Roger remained awkwardly in the film maker's arms, they accepted that they would never mention it.
Then Roger would leave for a few days, a week, three months, and Mark would be alone again, wishing only to have someone to talk to, someone to confide in. Roger would shoot up, and Mark would cut, and they would be miserable, wishing for the other's presence but knowing that it would be filled with terrible, pregnant silence like a dam about to burst.
Roger knew that Mark needed space, time alone, and independence. Mark knew that Roger needed emotional intimacy in relationships of all sorts, companionship, and someone to depend on...
But when Roger and Mimi fought now, Mark felt it all change. He saw the light go out of his eyes, his face expressing the same blank emptiness he himself always felt. At Angel's funeral, Roger saw a new side of Mark – the part that needs the rest of the world, that longs for an affectionate hug or a heart-to-heart conversation or a shoulder to cry.
But Roger had to go to Santa Fe, and Mark knew that it was all merely another unmentionable subject.
"I'm not alone."
They ran to each other's arms, basking in the warm comfort of love and overwhelming emotions and openness and a sense of ease. Small tears were streaming happily down Mark's cheek gently as he released his best friend.
Roger smiled sheepishly at the small film maker, pushing his long hair behind his ear in a sort of wonderful awkwardness. "Hey, Mark," he said, his voice almost apologetic, and his expression shifted to one of a more serious, somber variety. "I just...I wondered – well...can we talk?"
Mark gulped as the silent contract that had bonded them for the past two years was swept away and let go with those three, nervously-uttered words, and he found to his surprise that he didn't care, that their silent pact should have been broken ages ago.
"I think talking would be...nice." He lifted his eyes to meet those of the songwriter, a small, embarrassed smile on his thin face. Roger nodded, putting his arm around the film maker's shoulders in a strangely open manner as he led him off the roof and into the loft. As they made their way back into their home in silence, a realization struck them both – that no matter what, they weren't alone.