Author's Note: This is my first Rent fanfic – my first good, finished one, at least. I had to go through the customary slew of ideas that seem great in your head but refuse to be transferred to the paper before I received this in a rush of inspiration. NO CHARACTER DEATH, I PROMISE! I KNOW what it looks like, but you have to read to the end. If you read all the way to the end, it makes sense. I swear. Or, at least, it makes sense in my head. A lot of things make sense in my head that don't seem exactly normal…
Important Author's Note: I have never seen the Broadway show, only the movie, so all my characterizations are based thereon. Don't like it, buy me some Broadway tickets. I love the Roger/Mimi pairing, so there are heavy hints of that in there, but Mark's side of things is just too lovely to resist.
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"Your eyes…"
The chords grated on him, rang harshly in his ears, again and again, piercing his brain until he felt sure that he would go mad. He wanted to clench his hands over his ears, wanted to screw his eyes shut, wanted to fall on the floor, to shout, to cry, to scream until his voice was swallowed by darkness. But he kept his hands twisted tight in his lap, held his head up, gritted his teeth, and the song played on, and on, and on…
"Roger," he snarled, a furious scream strangled and suppressed until it escaped as a squeak, a growl that was thankfully drowned out by the insistent beeping that made the air shudder and rang in disconcerting dissension to the chords picked out on the guitar. That was what was bothering him, he thought vaguely, it was only the fact that the song wrenched at the rhythm of the heart monitor, disrupted the equipment that had forced his heart to conform to its constant sound. That was all. It was the difference between rhythm and repetition, between music and sound, that was bothering him. It was the tone of the song, and not the heartache, that made him clench his jaw so tight he felt as if his teeth would break.
He shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, deliberately jabbing the sharp edges into his thigh. He needed to do something to work out the anger that he could feel seething inside him like some sleeping volcano; he had never felt so violent and confined as he felt right now, and he had barely enough reason left to know that to take it out on the people around him would tear his fragile world apart, so he took out on himself. He gritted his teeth together until he could hear them grinding in his head; he tried to lacerate himself with the plastic chair, and red marks glared angrily on his hands where he had dug his nails into wrists, palms, elbows, anything that he could reach.
The door opened with a high-pitched, annoying squeal, and a black head showed itself through the opening, looking bizarrely out of place against the marble-white hospital room walls. "Hey, guys," Collins said softly; the guitar stopped in mid-twang to let him speak, and Mark released a pent-up breath at the blessed silence.
Having received no answer, the big black man opened the door further, slipping into the room, taking in the pathetic scene with widened eyes. Mark stiffened again in sympathy; he could almost see the picture that must have been in Collins' head of another hospital room, another hard white bed, another jumble of machines, another small woman tossing and turning, gasping for breath…
"Here," Mark nearly-whispered, standing up with a sudden lurch, freeing his chair. He brushed himself off with numb hands, motioning for Collins to take his seat, propped against the wall beside the door.
Collins hesitated, glancing over at the bed, staring for a moment at the similar chair there, the tight shoulders, the guitar frets and blonde head leaning over the frail form on the cot. He opened his mouth, his eyes flashing with a nervous question, ready to comfort, to console, to scream.
Mark shook his head.
The black man let out a frustrated sigh, and sank down into the empty seat, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. He waved at the door with a languid hand. "Get out of here, man," he murmured, so as not to disturb the unmoving Roger. "I know that look. You feel like you're about to explode, don't you?" Mark nodded, a tight, slashing gesture. Collins didn't look around, but he understood. "Get out of here," he whispered. "Maureen and Joanne are in the waiting room." Now he did look up into the fogged glasses, trying to discern the red eyes behind them. "You don't have to deal with this alone anymore."
Mark sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, obstinately refusing to cry. Without a word to either of his silent friends, he turned and stormed through the door, not closing it because he knew that if he did he would slam it so hard that the doorframe would crack.
Stomping down the hallway, he faintly heard the guitar pick up again, playing the same song over and over, fighting valiantly against the overwhelming monotony of the heart monitor, and losing.
He rounded a corner, his blurry gaze focusing in immediately on a cluster of disgustingly green chairs, the only spot of color in this new dimension of white and gray that he seemed to have plummeted into. The two occupants of the chairs jumped up as he came into view – Joanne (he could tell by her dark skin; tears had now blurred his vision so completely he could see little more than colors and vague shapes) sat back down again, but Maureen continued the motion that had carried her to her feet, turning it into a charge down the hallway. She swept Mark into her arms when she reached him; too tired to pull away, too shattered to know the indignity of it, he broke down and cried, clutching her arms with all the anger he had not dared unleash on Roger's fragile spirit. He heard Maureen talking to him, muttering something, but he could not understand; he didn't care anymore, didn't want to know what she was saying, didn't want to hear anything, ever again. He wanted to fold in on himself, to disappear, to never have to face that hideous beeping that pounded, pounded, pounded along with his broken heart.
He felt a hand stroking his back, gently, a pair of cold hands prying his arms from their stranglehold around Maureen's neck, a gentle grip at his elbow, guiding him, steering him forcefully, pushing him down into one of the chairs that Maureen had so recently vacated. He bit his tongue to stifle his harsh sobs, sensing that he must be strong, he must be calm, for the sake of the girls.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to pull himself together. He felt his glasses move; someone was tugging at them, pulling them, and years of bullying and broken lenses moved his hand to stop them. The world dissolved for a moment into wavering, blending smears of color; then there was cold metal on his face, and the universe returned to its proper shape, and he could see more clearly than he had been able to for the past hour.
"Your glasses were all fogged up and wet, honey," Maureen said by way of explanation, as Mark watched Joanne throw a damp rag into the trash. "I don't know how you could see anything."
"I didn't want to," he said harshly, not in the mood to mince words, to beat delicately around the bush. Shove diplomacy up your ass, he growled silently at the universe. This hurts too damn much to talk about for long.
"Mark?" There was gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing, trying to get his attention. "Mark, hon, can you hear me?"
"Mimi's dying," he blurted out suddenly, brushing Maureen's hand away with a callous shove. He heard Joanne let out a strangled gasp, as though from immensely far away; she had known that, of course, had known ever since Mark had managed to make a barely coherent phone call to the loft, where Collins had been staying. She had known ever since Mark had managed to babble out that Mimi, who had been looking sick, had fainted and had a fever and they were taking her to the hospital. She had known for two days; but hearing it from him, here, made it painful, made it certain, made it real.
Maureen was trying to hug him again, but he shoved her away, wormed out of her grasp, started pacing back and forth, back and forth, with all the fury of a caged animal. "She's dying," he said again, harshly, violently. "I don't know what the hell it is, I don't understand a fucking word the doctor said, but she's going to die and Roger isn't much better off and damn it all to fucking hell I can't take this anymore!" He slammed his fists against the wall, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to the cold plastic. Joanne had shrunk back into her chair with every word as though it were a blow, and now crumpled in on herself, hands clamped tight over her mouth, shaking with silent tears. Maureen half-rose, her own eyes glistening, apparently torn between her distraught lover and her homicidal friend; pain won out over anger, and she sank back down, putting a comforting arm around Joanne's shaking shoulders.
"It's going to be fine." The drama queen's high-pitched, musical voice was harsh and soft and raw. "I-It's going t-to be all right – it's going to be –"
"It's going to be far from fucking fine," Mark choked out between clenched teeth, "and you damn well know it. Don't pretend – there's no use –" his throat closed with raw emotion and he could not finish the thought.
There was a violent clatter of metal from down the hall, a cavernous silence, a keening whimper that turned into a heartrending howl that managed to choke out the words of a familiar song between sobs. Mark jerked away from the wall as if he had been burned; Maureen froze, her mouth hanging open, and even Joanne sucked in a shuddering breath and did not let it go. Mark was flying around the corner – flying – feet thundering, through the door, hitting it with his shoulder so hard it swung back and slammed into the wall –
The sight that met his eyes knocked the breath out of him, and he simply stood as though in death, staring.
Collins was on his feet, his hands locked around Roger's waist, the black muscles bulging to restrain his friend as Roger, kicked, bit, scratched, fought like an animal gone mad to return to Mimi's side. The guitar lay against the wall; a dull, numb corner of Mark's mind realized that three strings were broken and to replace them would cost more money than they could spare. The chairs, he noted with a small satisfaction, had been kicked aside and lay on the ground. Fitting revenge.
It was a few minutes before the noise penetrated – the high, constant siren wailing that made his vision blur and his pulse race, that made his fingers twitch to cover his ears, that resonated in his soul but was not quite loud enough to drown out the screaming in his head.
Mimi is dead.
Say it again; the first time was nothing, was sound without meaning, words without form.
Mimi is dead.
Still nothing. Mark shook his head in frustration. Shouldn't that mean something? Shouldn't it be more than just a garbled pulse of noise? The words meant something individually, he knew that they should be understood. But put together they could not possibly be comprehended or felt, they were too staggering, to shattering, too deadly.
"Mark, help me!" Collins grunted, heaving backwards against Roger's fury. Mark moved mechanically, woodenly, to his big friend's aid; but no sooner did Mark touch Roger's arm than the songwriter went limp, clutching weakly at Collins' wrists, tears streaming down his face. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were glazed and blank; he did not seem to be aware that he was crying, or even that he was breathing.
"Take him home," Mark said lifelessly. "Make sure he takes his AZT. I'll stay here –" even in his own ears, his voice sounded as though it was spoken by a statue or a ghost. "—I'll stay here for a little while."
Collins looked at him dubiously, but relaxed his grip, taking Roger gently by the shoulder and steering him towards the door. The other man walked as though in a leaden trance; he would have tripped over the threshold, had not Maureen and Joanne appeared to catch him. Slinging one of his arms over each of their shoulders, they supported him out, both sobbing, their charge strangely silent.
He did not know how long he stood there, staring at the lifeless hands that were brown against the stiff white cot, at the eyes that would not open, at the curls spread out across the pillow wet with Roger's tears. He did not know how long he stood there, convincing himself with iron will that the could hear her breathing, telling himself constantly that she had just now exhaled, that she would take another breath in only a moment, that the machine was malfunctioning; his chest ached, he was holding his breath, waiting for the high keening to break. Maybe it was a nurse who forced him out of the room; maybe it was Collins, returned from the loft. He didn't know, and he couldn't find it in himself to care. All he knew was that, after an indeterminate amount of time, he stood in the unnaturally silent loft and stared around at the darkness and prayed that it might drown him.
It was too quiet.
A sudden fear jolted his sluggish heart, and he moved forward, crossing the loft with jerking, mechanical steps, mouth open, gasping for air because he felt suddenly that the world was closing in on him, pressing down on his chest, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe –
He rammed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, and it crashed into him like a punch in the stomach, a blow to the face – there was red, red everywhere, white tile Oh my God, the floor had once been white – red now, all pulsing red, shimmering red, red that clutched at his ankles, pulled him, drowned him – dear fucking God – no, another color, blond hair amid the red, green eyes gray dead lifeless gone – silver razor glinting on the edge of the sink, no, that was red, that was red too –
He fell to the floor, he screamed, he screamed as loudly as he could but he could not drown out the pulsing of his own heart as he knelt in a pool of Roger's blood and died.
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Mark woke with a start.
His hands flailed wildly – beat the air around him, clawing, grasping – no dear God no no please let me die die why did you have to die can't breathe can't see – it was too dark, too cold, too dark!
He thrashed violently, rolling over; there was a second of plummeting, a hard crash, he hit the ground, smacked his head against the floor and lay there, panting, breathing, only breathing. The world was dark and wavering; he felt something cold under his right hand, his fingers running along the familiar lenses. He put them back on his nose with shaking hands; he sat up, looking wildly around the loft, the moonlight-frosted window, the open fuse box, the couch with all the pillows shoved up against one side and a man-shaped depression in the cushions.
He breathed.
It was all right. He told himself that. It's all right and if I keep thinking it, it'll be true. It's all right. Everything's fine. It was only a dream –
Oh God – the dream –
His stomach lurched, and he scrambled to his feet, lunging across the loft into the dark bathroom, just in time to be violently sick. He doubled up over the toilet, rocked with tremors, as the contents of his stomach came up; he couldn't think, clenched his eyes tight shut.
The inside of his eyelids flared red – the light had come on – there was a patter of feet, a soft voice – "Mark?" – there was a gasp, a crash, and someone was standing beside him, someone had removed his glasses, was rubbing his back, and there was a high-pitched shout – "Roger! Roger, hurry, Mark's sick!"
The last of it came up, and Mark straightened up, slowly, breathing harshly, in quick bursts, as the tremors that had shaken him subsided into a fitful shivering. He didn't open his eyes; without his glasses, he wouldn't be able to see anything, anyway, and he savored the darkness.
"Mark? Mark, are you okay?"
The sweet voice crept into his fogged brain, and he wanted to cry. Instead, he opened his eyes, holding out a hand for his glasses. The smooth metal touched his palm, and he put them back on, blinking as his eyes were dazzled by light.
Mimi stood beside him, clutching a bathrobe tight around herself, looking up anxiously into his sweat-streaked face, her eyes wide with concern. Roger, shirtless and blinking sleepily, stood behind her, looking at his friend with the same furrowed brow, the same tight-lipped frown.
To see them, standing there – Mark did not even bother to turn away as he felt the tears he had suppressed escape his control and stream down his face.
Mimi moved quickly to support him as his knees gave way and he sank to the floor, sobbing shamelessly, clutching at her arm the way a child clutches his mother, with no intention of ever letting go. Roger moved around to his other side, and he felt himself being raised back up to his feet, being half-carried out of the bathroom, returned to the cold darkness of the couch. Blinking away tears, he saw Roger vanish into the bedroom and return with a blanket; he felt a sudden warmth descend on him, he heard Roger's voice faintly as though from many miles away, "He had a headache this morning. Probably just the flu or something…"
He saw Mimi's face, she was leaning over him, and there was cold hand on his forehead. "He's got a fever," she said to Roger, then turned back to him, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. "Get some sleep, Mark," she told him sweetly, then straightened up and turned around –
Leaving, she was leaving! She was going to vanish, disappear – going to die –
"Mimi, wait!" He grabbed her sleeve in a frenzy of fear, fighting the darkness that rose to overtake him. "Don't go – promise you won't –" Roger appeared over her shoulder, his expression puzzled and frightened, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Don't leave me – either of you."
"We're just going into the other room, Mark," Mimi reassured him, folding her hand around his, stroking his fingers in a soothing motion. "We're right here if you need us. Now get some sleep; we'll see you in the morning." She managed to work his fingers free of her sleeve, and let his hand fall, standing over him as he slid swiftly into sleep. Roger led her away, stepping quietly over the creaking floor.
Mark watched them retreat out of half-closed eyes, and he felt darkness engulf him, let out a single sigh before he was reclaimed by sleep.
"Don't leave me alone…"
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If you didn't get it, Mark is sick and sleeping, and the first section of this story is a dream that he has. I was just thinking about the raw pain in his voice as he says "I'm the one of us to survive," and I wanted to write what that would mean for him.