Logical
Hopefully everyone enjoys. I obviously have no claims to RENT.
Roger and Mark, they don't really fit logically as lovers. They're best friends, each picking up where the other leaves off: Roger's too moody and brooding and feeling, and Mark is too walled in and invisible and self-forsaking. Roger takes down everyone around him when he falls apart, and Mark bears up no matter what happens. Or at least, it seems to most of the world like he does. It's hard to imagine that Mark could really and completely fall apart, because it hasn't been narrated on camera, and Roger hasn't written a song about it.
When Mark first collapses, it's gradually and silently, as he tears apart from the inside. He can self-destruct as well as Roger, but he just hides behind his camera so that no one sees. It starts once Benny moves out for his yuppie wife, and Collins leaves to teach at Duke University, and Maureen leaves him for the first time. Then it's just the two boys in the loft, both of them alone and in their own worlds.
Back then, Roger is still with the band, addicted only to sex and guitar and cheap alcohol, and April is nothing more than a month. Mark's second film has fallen through, and they've just started screen their calls because every time the phone rings it's Mrs. Cohen trying to convince him to go back to Brown. Back then, Roger is still the one saving Mark.
One day in early November, when the air is crisp with frost, and their building is splattered with the messy remains of smashed Halloween pumpkins, Roger bursts into the loft, grin wide and bright, swinging a plastic bag from Goodwill. As Mark watches silently, Roger reaches in and yanks out what has to be one of the more dubious articles of clothing that Mark's ever seen, and he's been living in Alphabet City for the past nine months, ever since he figured out that Brown was full of pompous assholes (kind of like the one that he moved here with who's now sporadically charging rent). Roger proudly holds up his newest acquisition: a pair of bright plaid pants.
There are a few moments of silence, and then Roger asks impatiently, "Well, aren't they great?" Another moment passes. "They're…certainly something…how the hell are you planning to fit into them?" Mark finally replies, eyeing his roommate holding what looks like not nearly enough fabric. Roger just shakes his head in disappointment at Mark's lack of faith and unzips the jeans that he's currently wearing. They've been living together for long enough that this doesn't faze either of them. As the jeans drop to the floor, Roger steps into the plaid pants and, with a couple grunts and sharp yanks, pulls on the new pants, which cling tightly to him, and look good in this awkward kind of way.
It's times like this that make Mark think about forgetting about using a script for his films. His camera is just itching to have a love affair with this scene—Roger, looking wild and spontaneous and happy and sexy as all hell, standing in the cold living room of their unadorned little loft, wearing plaid pants and a smug smile as he reaches over to ruffle Mark's short blond hair. "See? They fit perfectly," he asserts, putting a hand on his hip and another behind his head to show off."
"Yeah…but I think the fact that they fit really says something about your anatomy," Mark retorts, which earns him a light punch in the arm as Roger collapses next to him on their sofa, the springs moaning and creaking loudly as he settles in. "You're just jealous that you aren't the owner of such an article of clothing," he insists, shimmying down on the cushions until he can lay his head in Mark's lap and dangle his feet over the opposite arm of the couch. Yes, looking down at Roger definitely makes Mark wish he had the guts to stop scripting all together and just catch the raw, alive beauty that he sees around him. He can't do it though. He'd be too afraid to try.
More than just quitting the script-writing, right now Mark wants to document everything that is Roger. Mark wants to be Roger. Roger, who is wild and bohemian and open and so full of emotion. Roger, who puts himself so fully into his art that by the time he finishes a concert, everyone knows him in some way. Roger, who has the world at his feet, and knows it damn well. All Mark has is a camera hiding his face and failed screenplays.
Suddenly, before he knows what's happening, tears are welling in Mark's eyes. He's still only 20, barely more than a kid, and he's given up everything for a dream that just isn't coming together for him. Below him, Roger's eyes flutter open and he immediately catches sight of the unshed tears. Concern settles into his expression as he asks, "You okay?" Mark swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he tries to preserve a little of his dignity, even though with Roger it's hardly necessary. "This just…I don't know why I try sometimes," he mutters, almost more to himself than Roger.
Roger responds anyway. "Is this about Maureen? Because you know what she's like, and she's going to keep on—" Mark cuts him off before be can finish. "No. It's not Maureen." Well, not entirely, anyway. "I mean, I guess that's part, but…it's everything. Do you ever wonder why we're doing this? Benny and I came to the City to start over, where art actually matters. I've put it ahead of practically everything—food, clothes, my girlfriend. And I've failed every single fucking time. Now Benny's gone, and Maureen and Collins are making something worthwhile of themselves, and even you have something that just clicks for you. I'm just a footnote, a nobody, with no inspiration. I'm a failure, and I don't know what's so worth it." When he stops talking, Roger looks stunned for a moment. The two boys are motionless, eyes locked, and then suddenly Roger is surging upwards to press his lips against Mark's.
There is an instant during which Mark is too shocked to do anything, but then he curls his fingers into Roger's short, bleached hair and slides down on the couch so that Roger is on top of him, licking and biting at Mark's lips. In between kisses, Roger manages to gasp, "You…are…not…a…failure," before he gives up on words altogether and concentrates on yanking off Mark's shirt and kissing down his chest while Mark moans in pleasure. In moments their clothes are in a messy heap on the floor, and their limbs are tightly tangled up for as much skin contact as possible. Mark's eyes are shut as he enjoys the taste of Roger's mouth and the roughness of his kisses, so it's like an electric shock when the guitar-callused hand wraps firmly around his cock. He gasps, breathing, "Mmm, more," and gets Roger's deep, throaty laugh in response.
That laugh sounds especially good when it's followed by a tongue delving into his ear, and the feeling of Roger's hard cock against his leg. For a moment Roger leans away and Mark moans at the loss of contact, but it's only for a moment so that he can pull a condom out of the pair of jeans that he'd discarded in favour of the plaid pants. Trust Roger to always have a condom handy. Then he begins to slide himself down Mark's body, still keeping a hand wrapped firmly around his erection. Finally the musician is in a perfect position to switch his hand for his mouth, and he lets his teeth lightly scrape along Mark's cock. His tongue is doing some really amazing things, and Mark writhes in incoherent amazement. He's afraid that with as hard as he's bucking, he's going to hurt Roger, but since his roommate isn't pulling away, it must be alright.
He knows he isn't going to last too long, and it's really an almost embarrassingly short time before he's stiffening in the throes of orgasm. As Roger pulls back, Mark looks up at him, thinking that he looks good with his hair tussled and lips dark pink from being stretched out and sucking. Mark moans in the afterglow, eyes half-open as he watches Roger lick gently at his lips and then lean over to kiss the prone boy. Despite the stale, thick taste of the other's mouth, Mark doesn't complain or push him away, just kisses back.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and then he pushes himself up on one elbow, trailing random designs along Roger's spine as the musician hovers over him. He begins to slide his hand lower, and with an air of uncertainty that he'd never have expected from Roger, his roommate hastily assures him, "You don't have to…if you don't want to…" Mark just smiles in what's meant to be a mocking way, but really just ends up looking like he's about to melt. "But I do want to," he assures, twisting his way out from underneath Roger's weight and brushing his hand down along Roger's stomach, letting one finger follow the trail of hair that leads from his navel to the base of his cock.
All stretched out as Roger is, with his eyes lidded in a manner very reminiscent of a feline and a contented grin playing at the corners of his mouth, Mark takes a moment to just admire him. He runs his hands over the bare chest, up into his hair, and then lets them fall back to the thin, jutting hips. Roger breathes out heavily, arching his hips up a tiny bit, and Mark takes notice and finally wraps a hand around Roger's cock, which is throbbing in a very agreeable way. Roger strains upwards and they quickly fall into a slightly offbeat, fast rhythm. Neither of them cares if it's a little awkward, and they've both managed to push from their minds that they're supposed to be best friends who are straight. It's not important right now.
A few minutes later, Roger pushes upwards and then collapses back against the couch, the tired springs squeaking in protest of their efforts. Mark wipes his hand across the back of the couch, promising to himself that he'll clean it up later, because as fun as that was, leaving it there would just be gross. Then he scoots down a little until he's comfortable lying on top of Roger, both of them flushed and breathing a bit erratically, and buries his face in Roger's chest.
After a moment Roger speaks. "Mark?" he asks, and Mark replies with a very sleepy "Mmm?" Roger wraps an arm around his friend, leaning his head back onto the arm of the sofa. "You're fucking amazing."
Mark is already asleep.
The Roger-saving-Mark stage really doesn't last that long. Maureen comes back, throwing apologies at Mark's feet, and what would he possibly do other than forgive her? It is, after all, Maureen. Then April shows up; it's already May, the air is getting warm, and the Well Hungarians have started getting more regular gigs. April charms her way backstage after a show, gets Roger (well, and Mark, but he's really only there because he's too shocked at her materialization to really do anything about it, or leave) to buy her a drink, and then, when they're all drunk and laughing, follows them home.
After that, she just doesn't really leave. No one asks her to, either. Her energy and enthusiasm permeate the Loft, brought in by her infectious smiles and bright eyes. It's her eyes that hold Roger captivated, not because they're a certain colour—as a matter of fact, the colour is hard to pinpoint because it's somewhere in the realm of brown, or maybe hazel—but because there's such as amazing amount of life behind her eyes. Mark sees it too; his camera loves her almost as much as it does Roger or Maureen.
Their time with April always seems to Mark as if it last an eternity, even though it was really only a little over a year. Maybe it seems like such a long time because during the latter half of that year, she and Roger pass the time destroying themselves. Mark starts spending less time at night sleeping, and more time worrying about when the two of them are going to stumble into the Loft, laughing and groping, and pass out somewhere; he uses less time during the day to go out to film, and more time listening to them screaming at each other because April has gone and given the Man a blow job so that they can get more of their smack. Every time, though, they quiet down enough to get high again. It's during these months that Mark gets the first part of his education on how to be Roger's savior.
The real learning comes in June, on a foggy morning, after breakfast. Collins is back in town, and when the boys come back from a reunion meal that Collins has graciously and expectedly paid for, Roger heads into the bathroom and starts screaming. Mark and Collins rush in, and there's April lying in their tub, with Roger trying to climb into the bloody water next to her. Mark grabs for Roger, pulling him back even though his jeans are already soaked with the mess, and in the confusion, he locks eyes with Collins. Collins is holding the little Post-it note that April left on the mirror, with her single sentence suicide note, and his eyes are so profoundly tragic that Mark almost forgets to breathe for a moment.
From then on, Mark is Roger's connection to reality. Mark is the one who holds him while he shakes and sweats and cries, not letting anyone but his best friend get near him. Mark is the one who goes out at three in the morning to find Roger after the symptoms have gotten to be too much and he's gone off to try to get another hit. As the six months of alternately yelling at Roger and keeping him tightly cuddled in his arms wind down, Mark learns quickly that love isn't always about pining for someone with every fiber of yourself. Sometimes it's about knowing that you love them, but also giving them the freedom to love someone else without holding them back. Sometimes it's even encouraging their love for someone else. It isn't always about proclaiming how much you want them or need them, it's just about being there for them and supporting them and picking up after them when they fall. It's about being ready to do anything for them, but not keeping your innards a torn-up mass just because they don't love you in the same way.
That's what Mark has to learn when Roger finally picks up his guitar and decides to start living again, only to be pushed back into emotional turmoil just hours later when a beautiful girl waltzes in dressed in moonlight and promises.
It isn't until the next February that they're alone in their loft again. Now Maureen and Joanne are together, Collins is at MIU, and Mimi's candle has finally gone out. Once again, it's just Mark and Roger, with Mark busy hiding his emotions and Roger busy broodingly trying to decide where he could run away to this time. Santa Fe didn't work, but there has to be somewhere that he'll feel safe and whole again.
By all logic, Mark and Roger shouldn't really fit as lovers. But they manage to present a descent portrayal of it when Roger has found his way into Mark's room instead of running off to somewhere that he'd be as miserable in as he was in Santa Fe. It's less of a stretch to imagine them working out as lovers when Mark is petting Roger's hair to comfort him, and his touch is becoming a little more possessive as Roger twines his arms around Mark's waist, and while they talk in whispers, their faces end up so close that the words melt into kisses.
Mark and Roger never really follow the logical path.