The was originally written for speedrent and now I'm entering it in Challenge 9 at Challenge Central. Why? Because I'm hopelessly competitive!

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, Bombay Sapphire, New Jersey, etc.

There was no holiday in mid-January, but that had never before stopped the Bohemians. Nothing stopped the Bohemians. There was always money enough for a little vodka and a pack of cigs, and from there, well, it was only ten minutes to a party, the cold, dark loft filled with laughter and "punkin' white boys falling across each other like a fuckin' bunch of penguins".

This particular eve, it was a Bombay Sapphire bottle circulating. Mark was staring intently at it and muttering something about "dancing light pixies". "You're sure that was marijuana?" Roger asked.

Collins shrugged. "I'm not seein' any pixies," he said, shaking his head. "You want?"

"Uh, no. Not with--"

"SPEAK!"

Roger and Collins sat up straight and glanced at one another. "Did you hear the phone ring?"

"No."

"Shit, how wasted are we?"

The message began recording: "Hello?" It was a woman's voice, elderly and worn. Roger turned towards the phone. "Hello? I don't know if this is the right number, but I'm looking for--" she enunciated the name "Roger Davis. I'm looking for my--"

Roger leapt over the couch and picked up the telephone, "Hello, Nana. Yes, this is Roger."

Collins glanced at Mark and mouthed 'Nana?', but Mark was far too busy shaking the Sapphire bottle to notice.

Meanwhile, Roger had sobered considerably. "Yes, I'm still living in New York… No, I hadn't-- oh, Jesus. She-- she did?… Shit… No, I'm sorry, Nana, I didn't-- no, I don't." Despite himself, Roger smiled, "No, Nana, I have not forgotten everything you ever taught me, I just… I mean… wow. All right. Are you okay?… Okay. Yeah, yeah, of course. Of course. Good-bye."

He hung up the phone and flopped back onto the couch. Before Collins could ask what had happened, Roger snatched the Bombay Sapphire from a displeased Mark ("'S my bottle, Roggie, my-- tell him, Collins! Give it back t'me…") and gulped.

---

Neither Mark nor Collins thought anything of the telephone call the previous evening--Mark especially, as he knew it only by the message on the answerphone. Ten o'clock found Mark recovered from his hangover enough to brave a piece of toast. Collins, who had been high rather than drunk, glanced around the loft once more. "Is Roger out?" he asked. "I haven't seen him all day."

Mark shrugged and nibbled a corner off his toast. "Don't know," he muttered.

Collins sighed, half-laughing at his hungover friend, and crossed to Roger's room. He knocked. "Rog, you in there?" he called. If Roger was hung over, that would not help him any. After a few seconds of silence, Collins knocked again, louder, and called, "Roger!"

The door flew open. "I'm here," Roger said. "You don't need to yell." There were smudges under his eyes, and his voice was a little more raw than a night of heavy drinking merited.

Considerably more worrying, for Collins, was the half-packed bag on the bed. "Where're you going?" he asked, pointing.

"Um… I just… need to go," Roger concluded lamely. "Look, it's nothing. I'll be back, I... it's just for the weekend."

Hearing this, Mark abandoned his toast and joined Collins, unintentionally blocking Roger's doorway. "Where?" he asked.

Roger made a noise something like a sigh, a dissatisfied gurgling of spit deep in his throat. "Guys, it's been two years since Santa Fe," he said. "I'm just going home for the weekend, to visit. There's been a death in the family." The words were rote, stale, something he had heard and recounted only because he knew no other words to say. They were empty, conveying only meaning but no sentiment.

Collins replied with a similar statement: "I'm sorry." It was stale. The denotation of the words was not his meaning, they were simply the sounds one made in such a situation.

Roger scoffed. "My mom's dead," he said. He sniffed, shuddering, then looked at the ground and began to laugh. "Jesus Christ. I mean, all those years I said I'd call her back, she'd be there… all that time I was busy being a brat, now I gotta go home and… help bury my mother. Jesus." Collins tried to hug him, but he shook his head. "It's okay. I just can't believe… Either of you want to come?" Roger asked, suddenly loud, looking up. "You can meet my grandmother."

"The Nazi?" Mark asked. He had heard stories about Roger's grandmother, the little old German who kept her husband's service revolver inside an old hat and still occasionally believed herself to be in the Reich. She carried toffees in her purse, but Roger had no idea what they tasted like. At Christmas she would smack Roger's head and insult him for his liberalism and inability to speak German.

"No, that's Grandma Davis, this is the one who hit me with the frying pan," Roger answered, not missing a beat.

Collins began to laugh. "Christ, man," he said. "A frying pan?" Mark had taken on a sad, disbelieving look. "That explains more than it doesn't…"

"Wha-- not in the head," Roger replied, annoyed.

"Where?"

"I've really never told you this story? Huh. On the butt. Where else do you get spanked?"

Collins was still laughing as he shook his head. "I've never been spanked with a frying pan. Even in my worst moments…"

With a shrug, Mark explained, "The worst thing I did was get a C in math."

Roger knew he would have to tell this story. His friends would never stand for silence. "All right," he said. "Well, when I was nine I started a fire on a toilet seat at school. And I was living with Nana then, and she, y'know."

Mark's mouth had fallen open. "She just started hitting you?" he asked. "Just, like… picked up the pan and…?"

"You want the details?" Roger looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Mark… that's a little kinky. You want the details of my childhood spankings? But if it'll play your fantasies better, no, she had me bend over the couch and it hurt. I didn't start any more fires, though." He had done other things. Roger Davis was not the easiest of students. He dropped live mice down girls' dresses, carved obscenities into the walls, and insisted that the discovery of the Americas by the Spanish was 'a mistake that defied G-d'. "Anyway, I'm going to visit this weekend and to help with it, with the ceremony, and if you guys want to come…"

Mark and Collins exchanged glances. "I got nothin' I can't cancel," Collins said. "Do you want us there?"

TO BE CONTINUED!