Written for Rentfichallenge on livejournal. (Go check it out! Pretty please?)
Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.
Roger was as good as naked, the clothes he was wearing little more than rags and soaked through with sweat. He half-curled on himself, his arms near his chest, bucking and whimpering and looking altogether like a hamster.
The room was dark, dim at least, the lamp nothing but shards. Roger had smashed it to bits when the light seared his eyes and jammed pieces into his palms later, when the pain was too much. Mark had swept it up and bandaged Roger's hands, then come back because Roger was crying that it hurt and why had Mark left him in the dark?
"Shh." Mark stroked Roger's face and hair. "Shh, you'll be okay."
"Just one, Mark." He had been saying it for so long that the words had lost meaning. He didn't want drugs. He wanted the pain to end. Those words meant the end.
Mark rocked Roger. He wiped the sweat from his cheek. "It'll be over soon," Mark promised. His throat fought against the words. Tears boiled over, and one slipped down his cheek. How long could Roger take this?
How long could Mark? "I promise," he choked out. Neither of them was sleeping or eating much. Roger was in pain constantly and Mark's growing beard itched him, but he had thrown out his razor. "I promise it'll be over soon, baby."
"B-baby?" Roger stammered. He shook and gasped, and his legs kicked.
Mark nodded. "Yeah," he said. His breath sounded like a sob. "I love you," he whispered. "I love you, Roger."
"No," Roger whimpered.
Mark insisted: "I love you. I always have." He swept the hair back from Roger's face. "I love you, Roger."
Roger shook his head. His eyes widened, he shook his head. "No," Roger murmured.
"Yes!" Mark promised him. "Yes. I love you."
"No!" Roger shoved him back. "Get away from me!" He scrabbled away from Mark.
Mark reached out to stroke his cheek. "Roger—"
"Don't touch me!" Roger snapped.
No… this wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Mark scooted forward. His Roger didn't act like this. "Roger, please—"
Apparently his Roger did, or maybe it was the drugs and the pain that turned his expression to one of disgust as Mark reached for him. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe Roger just needed to lash out. "Get out! Get away from me, get out!"
"Roger…" Don't do this, Roger. Don't do it. You're breaking my heart.
"Stay the fuck away!" Roger kicked Mark squarely on the chest, sending him sprawling back. While Mark recovered his bearings and sucked in air that was never enough, Roger scrambled to his feet and scurried for the door. He paused, turned, and stayed just long enough to say, "You're fucking sick, Mark. You're a fucking fag! I can't believe I lived with you."
Mark ceased his struggle to rise. Shame burned his cheeks and flamed down his back. His stomach knotted. Roger hated him. The man he had loved for years, hated him, found him disgusting. His best friend would never look at him again.
Mark curled up on the mattress. He hugged his legs and hacked up sobs until there were no sobs. And then his arm began to itch. Mark brought his nails to bear on the skin over purplish-brown scars, but the scratching wasn't enough…
"Mark. Mark!"
"Huh? What?" Mark's eyes snapped open. He was lying in bed and Roger was leaning over him, rubbing circles on his chest.
Roger leaned across Mark to turn on the lamp. False light made the boys blink and caught the ends of the hair and eyebrows. Roger's ears turned pink with translucence. "You were having a nightmare," he said. "Are you okay?"
Mark shook his head. The world spun. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Roger squeezed his hand. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Roger kissed him and laid down to return to sleep. After Mark turned off the lamp, Roger pulled him close and nuzzled stubble against his neck. "You know I love you," he said, "right?"
"Yeah," Mark said, "I know." And he did.
Happy Ending!
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