Come to the Meeting / He Says
A/N: So I read two of Stephanie Pascal 's fics, which were based on the 1994 New York Theatre Workshop version of the songs from Rent. With her permission, I'm continuing the interpretation (albeit, slightly differently from her).
Anthony Rapp and Daphane RV are the only ones who were kept on throughout the whole thing. Visualize who you will, but remember that these characters are pretty different from what they are today (other than Angel :D) Mark's the most different I think, pining after Maureen like no other, and during "Goodbye Love" he's the one who admits "Mark hides in his work, etc."
Come to the Meeting: Benny has just left the loft in pursuit of his Range Rover, which is getting towed, and Mark takes the opportunity to leave and therefore avoid the 'rent' issue, attempting to drag Roger along to a support group meeting in the process.
[Come to the Meeting]
Benny was last seen running down the street chasing his Range Rover. After they finished laughing at Benny's expense, Mark decided it was about time to exploit the City of New York Parking Control Department and get going.
"Now's our chance!" he announced to the group, satisfied that Benny would be gone for at the very least long enough to vacate the premises.
Angel petted Collins arm fondly while glancing through the bay windows in confusion, "Mr. Fincance lived here?"
Collins nodded, "Before the real estate career," he explained dryly. Angel collapsed into another fit of giggles and Roger laughed.
"We can't stay," Mark stressed and Roger ignored him, instead plucking out a C chord on the guitar,
"Benny was a dilatant, Benny met a debutant," he belted out and Collins grinned at him, amused. Mark continued to watch him impatiently, unimpressed. "Go ahead, I'll catch up," Roger insisted, trying vainly to wave Mark off.
Mark made no move to leave. "No way."
They glared at one another for a moment, both waiting for the other to back down and Collins sighed. It was time to play mediator once again. This time he decided to side with Mark, "Come to the meeting?" he suggested and Roger looked at him with borderline disgust,
"What meeting?"
Angel resurfaced from Collins' shoulder, "He lived here?" he asked looking slightly bewildered. Collins ignored him for a moment, answering Roger instead,
"Support group. P.W.A."
Angel backed off, seeing that the priorities lied with getting Roger off his ass and into the world. Making a mental note to ask Collins about it later, he decided it was time to pay attention to conversation once again.
Mark was looking nervously towards the window, "Benny will be back- come!" he pleaded with Roger, who wasn't having any of it.
Glowering at Mark and Collins he said, "I don't need 12 steps!"
"I know Benny, he'll make us pay. For someone cool, he's a fool." Roger joined in on the last line as they reminisced about their previous row. The moment passed quickly however and Roger kicked his feet up on the chair across from him,
"He kicks us out- we move, so what?"
Mark shook his head, unable to understand how Roger could be so apathetic towards their situation. "But-"
"Where, do you know?" Collins asked curiously.
Roger ignored Mark and turned to Collins. "I've got a car so as far as April's bucket'll go. Santa Fe, Austen-"
"We couldn't make Boston," Mark interrupted, putting a stopper to Roger's dreams. He's seen April's car and it was an unreliable P.O.S. He'd be surprised if it even made it to Santa Fe. Plus, it wasn't like they had money for gas.
"April?" Angel interjected questioningly, unable to stay silent.
"Suicidal girl who O.D." Mark explained bluntly. He nodded towards Roger, who was visibly tense. "He says he loved her; what he loves is to bleed. Over two years since she left that car key, but he never drives it-"
Roger stood up with his hands curled into tight, white fists, "That's enough!"
"Dinner's on me!" Angel announced quickly with a grin, hoping to relieve some tension between the two roommates. He got a sympathetic look from Collins as the announcement predictably failed.
"First the meeting," Mark said sternly, facing off with Roger, "Then Maureen's show-"
"I'll see you at the restaurant!" Roger yelled, turning away from him.
"But the meeting!" Mark insisted. It happened too fast for Collins or Angel to do anything but Roger crossed the threshold within moments, punching Mark hard in the stomach.
Mark made a small noise of surprise and pain, falling onto his knees. Roger didn't linger and by the time Mark was on the floor he'd grabbed his guitar and stormed over to the table. He swung himself around so that his back was to the huddle of people.
Sometimes he hated how small the loft was.
And sometimes he hated how pushy Mark could get.
And how passive-aggressive Mark could be; what the hell was he playing at anyways, telling some random stranger in a Santa outfit about April like that (although, Collins' new friend did seem pretty awesome).
And sometimes he hated how angry he'd get.
Fucking Mark.
Served him right.
Mark didn't have any problems, so he didn't know what it was like.
Mark didn't know anything.
[He Says]
Mark watched Roger's back sadly. When was Roger going to get past it? It'd been over four years since April died; the poor guy was still being tormented by those demons every day.
"He says he'll see us at the restaurant," Mark whispered to himself, trying not to cry. Roger wouldn't come to the restaurant. Roger never came anywhere.
"He says, he wants to stay and play his guitar." He saw Roger tightening his grip on the guitar, holding onto it tightly. It took him over a year to start playing again, and now all he played was one melody, over and over. Sometimes Mark regretting bringing Roger to see that play.
"He says, he wants to be obsessed with art, like me." Yeah, sure, Mark knew the filmmakers, the artists, the notable bohemians, the respected renaissance men but that wasn't what made him obsessed with art. It was his passion for creation and Roger had had that once too. Roger still had it- Roger just couldn't see it.
"He says he wants to redevelop the creative side of his brain." There was Roger's current obsession. Identify with the right side of his brain- the creative side. It wasn't that the heroin and HIV had destroyed Roger's creativity- he just didn't know how to find it again. And he wasn't going to find it sitting around all day at the loft, being depressed.
"He says, he doesn't need support groups."
"I say he'll bring his camera," Roger shot back without looking at Mark, beyond pissed. He knew what Mark was doing, and where this was going. Right now all he wanted to do was hurt Mark as much as Mark was hurting him. He did say those things, and Mark knew him well enough to know more about himself than he did. Roger didn't want to hear the truth from Mark right now.
"He says, he doesn't know why I go, when I'm not sick or queer,"
"But it's to make a career!" Roger said and Mark shook his head sadly, disappointed with how Roger was reacting to the situation.
"He says, he doesn't think that love is possible anymore,"
"It's not," Roger growled bitterly.
"One day I'll(he'll) fix that car she left me(him) and fly," Roger said. (Mark repeated his words in time with him; he had the mantra memorized. Roger had been saying it for years.)
"I don't believe a word, I don't believe a word, I don't believe a word… he says."
Collins came up and wrapped an arm around Mark's shoulders, breaking their private, isolated moment. Roger still hadn't turned around and Angel threaded his arm through Mark's other side as the two gay men departed.
There would be no talking Roger around this one.
Roger watched them go, slumping down when he heard the door shut.
Of course Mark was starting to get frustrated with him- he'd made it to that point with himself a long time ago. He just didn't know how to shake it, and he was too scared to venture into the outside world. Participating in life made it real, and that made Roger uncomfortable.
"Will I lose my dignity?" Roger questioned quietly into the darkness.
"Will someone care?" He often had trouble convincing himself that someone would. And if he alienated everyone, there was no chance of that fear being recognized.
"Will I wake tomorrow from this night…" instead of finishing the word he picked out the notes to the song he'd worked out after Mark had taken him to see La Boheme, too long ago. To him the song represented hope, the chance for redemption. It represented something he'd yet to find in his life. He hit a sour note and frowned, trying the fingering again and failing.
After a third time he angrily he smashed the guitar into the table and huffed. At least the song represented his life at the moment. A failure.
What the hell was he going to do?
And how the hell had he brought this upon himself?
A/N: P.W.A. = People With Aids