Title: Who I Am Hates Who I've Been
Summary: Years of wear and tear, and Collins has had enough of Mark's façade.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Tragedy, some unrequited Mark/Roger
Warnings: Mark's mouth gets nasty when he's upset.
Authors Note: Written while listening to Relient K's "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been" and going through PMS-inspired depression.
Disclaimer: Today 4 U, RENT doesn't belong to me.


Proverbial Sunrise

Collins knows a lot of stuff. He knows metaphysics, extremely advanced mathematics, and he knows four different versions of Mark Cohen.

But, if you told Mark that, he'd probably deny it.

So, Collins watches with a somewhat amused smile as Mark wobbles to the front of the church, looking like a penguin in said wobbling state, black suit, and white button down. Collins didn't even know that Mark owned a tux. But, then again, what else did he really expect? This was Roger's funeral. Of course Mark was going to try to look nice. As Mark heads to the front, his legs shake and his lips tremble.

But if you pointed that out to him, he'd probably deny it.

Walking up to Roger's closed casket, Mark's shoulders shudder and his hand immediately covers his face. At least the casket wasn't open—unfortunately, much like Angel, Roger had fallen into the pits of AIDS, the disease biting at his skin until the remains looked incredibly unpleasant. Collins thinks back to the day that he had to tell the curator to close the casket, to the day that he had to pick out the wood—Mark was too shocked, too dumbfounded, to say anything. It was somewhat ironic, really…one of the biggest days in Roger Davis' life (or afterlife, Collins supposed) and his best friend, lover--life--had absolutely nothing to do with it. But now, at the funeral, Mark continues with his silent sobbing.

If you told Mark that he was crying and upset, he'd probably deny it.

Collins looks at the picture of Roger fondly; even from his pew he can make out the image perfectly. (Although, seeing it a million times already would probably help with that.) Yes, yes—a picture of Roger on stage, back in the days when he could hush a crowd with one look in their direction. He's sweating in the picture, his bleached blonde hair spiked and the cheap stage lights reflecting off his spiked choker. Most importantly, though, Roger is staring straight at Mark and the camera, smiling.

His amused smile grows bigger as he remembers what happened just ten minutes after that film reel was taken. He had, in fact, streaked in the middle of Roger's crowd, gaining some followers as he went along.

Mark opens his mouth and closes it repeatedly as he tries to find the right words. His Adam's-apple bobs as he chokes back tears, and Collins feels the need to hold his hand as he would a first grader. He also feels the need to tell Mark that he doesn't have to say anything. Everything's been said. Roger's heard it all.

Roger knows they love him. Roger knows they know that he loves them. Roger knows he found his one song, that Mark finished his film, and that Mimi finally gave up smack. He knows Joanne has finally got a grip on Maureen and she's never letting go…although, Collins reminds himself, Maureen probably wasn't Roger's top priority in the last years of his life. Still nice for him to know that, though. Nice to keep up with current events; stay up to date and all. Keep posted, if one would.

If you told Mark that he is hurt and alone and dying, he'd probably deny it.

Something about Mark's apathy, about the way he's handling the situation, angers Collins. Even after all they went through with Angel and almost went through with Mimi, Mark stayed closed up and behind that damn camera. For Christmas, Collins wants that camera in a million pieces.

Almost a whole year that Mark stayed locked up. Now, as the reds, oranges, and yellows of November leaves dance outside, Collins remembers a very important fact: Roger always hated the fall. Mark always loved it.

That might change now.

He figures his anger is just part of his love for Angel, though, because Mark is wearing that same sad smile he had at her funeral, and he's wearing that same caring glaze in his eye that marks him as shoulder for anyone to cry on. Those same expressions that say, "Please, mourn—I'll help you through. I'm alright."

It makes Collins mad that he never asks for a break.

Mark's hand is shaking, Collins notes, and it's shaking badly. Roger's Fender is being gripped so tightly that the filmmaker's knuckles are white.

It's somewhat ironic, really. What used to be a camera is now a guitar.

What used to be an innocent, shy smile is now a glare that says, "Even think about coming near this guitar and Iwillkillyou."

He chooses his words carefully and fiddles with his hands, just like he did when he spoke at Angel's funeral, "I'm…sorry that it took so long for me to change. I'm ready to…to try and never become that way again…" Mark's head drops and he mumbles various obscenities. Everyone hears them, but no one acknowledges them. The filmmaker looks back up, lower lip trembling, "…Who I am hates who I've been."

Those are the only words that come out of the filmmaker's mouth before he steps down, eyes glued to the floor. Confusion settles over the room until Collins stands and heads to the front, hugging Mark tightly on his way up. Mark's hand remains outstretched—he's hell-bent on making sure that nothing happens to Roger's Fender.

As Collins stands at the front of the church, Mark settles back into his seat and watches in somewhat resentment as the philosopher flashes the crowd a huge smile that he's not even trying to cover up. A few return his smile, although everyone knows why it's there. He's smiling because Roger is at peace. He's smiling because Roger and Angel are tearing up wherever the hell they are right now with a blaring rock'n roll guitar/drum duet. He's smiling because Roger lived by no day but today, because Roger did every single task he'd ever wanted to do, because Roger loved and was loved and lived.

Even Mimi is smiling.

"Damn, Rog….you still owe me twenty bucks," Collins lets out a wheezy laugh as he usually does, and a few others laugh in spite of themselves, "Because of all those lost poker games and those times I paid your split of the rent. But don't worry about it, big guy. You paid me back with a thousand of the greatest moments man has ever witnessed. They should put you on coffee mugs. Big, white coffee mugs with your picture and something like, 'Start your day the right way, with…Roger!'"

A bigger group of people laugh. Some might see his statements as inappropriate or void of emotion, but Roger and Collins find them filled to the rim with emotion. Roger and Collins are cracking up because they know that Collins right and they know those mugs would sell big. "I love you, man. I love you."

Mark's in the worst of all positions. On his left, Maureen is sobbing on his shoulder. On his right, Mimi is resting her head on him, tears running down her face despite her big smile. Then, there's Mark, staring up at Collins, blank face and dry eyes.

If you told Mark that he was a better friend to Roger than any of them, that he was stronger than any of them for witnessing all the pain Roger put him through and for dealing with it, he'd deny it.

Collins returns to his seat as more people walk to the front of the room. Despite the heart wrenching stories, the philosopher's mind stays on one thing.

…" I'm…sorry that it took so long for me to change. I'm ready to…to try and never become that way again…" Shit. Fuck. Damnit. Why the hell am I fucking here? Damnit, damnit, shit damnit. "…Who I am hates who I've been."

People are still perplexed by his statement. Collins isn't, though, for Collins knows all, sees all. He knows what Mark is talking about. He's seen what Mark is talking about.

But if you told Mark that Collins knew, he'd deny anything ever happened.

The Mark that is sitting only pews behind Collins is not the Mark he met six years ago. If you told him that, he'd definitely deny it—Collins was willing to bet his life on that. It was the truth, though. Now, if Collins told it to the Mark he did meet six years ago, he'd completely agree.

The Mark Cohen that Collins met six years ago was a small, scared, confused, eighteen-year-old filmmaker who came to New York with nothing but twelve bucks and a piece-of-shit camera. That and a Big Mac.

Collins laughs silently to himself, shoulders bouncing up and down as he shakes his head and rubs his forehead. He told Mark that a hobo on the subway had eaten his Big Mac; in all actuality, it was him.

He was terrified of Collins until he saw the teacher give some hobo a few bucks. He was scared of Benny until Benny hugged him and took him out on the fire escape, waving his hand dramatically over the city and exclaiming, "Welcome to Bohemia!" He was scared of Maureen until she made him a "Welcome to Shitsville" dinner, complete with three week old ramen and a small bowl of stale potato chips.

He fell in love with Roger the minute he saw him. And vice versa.

Together, they could take on the world. And they did. The Mark Cohen Collins met six years ago let himself feel and experience every emotion.

Sighing, Collins looks back at Mark and compares his worn, tired face to the bright, exuberant (yet just as pale) face of the Mark Cohen that, six years ago, was allowing himself to fall in love.

Years do too much damage.