So this was my first attempt at RENT fanfiction. I would love comments, criticism, whatever. I know it's a sort of timid attempt, but still.

(luck.)

After living with him for so many years, there are many things that Mark has come to notice about Roger. He's discovered an array of quirks and oddities about his room mate, little mannerisms that only Mark picks up on.

Roger's obsession with luck is one of these things.

Mark has noticed that Roger never leaves a penny on the ground, never walks under a ladder or steps on a crack. Once, walking back from a rare grocery store run, Roger dashed into oncoming traffic to avoid crossing paths with a wayward black kitten.

Roger has a lucky lighter, a lucky t-shirt, even, ridiculously, a lucky cereal spoon.

Mark is sitting on the couch, when, just his luck, Roger comes storming out of his room, fists clenched, his face the picture of frustration. Mark sets down his camera, making sure to switch it off as it hits the table in front of him.

"Have you seen it?"

"Seen what?"

Roger sighs as he pushes Mark's copy of "Catcher in the Rye" off of the table that Mark's feet are resting on, running his hands through his hair.

"My lucky guitar pick. The blue one."

Mark shakes his head, suppressing a laugh. Roger has four blue guitar picks. On any given day, any one of them could be lucky.

"The last time I saw any guitar pick it was in your hand."

Roger lets out a noise like a cat being strangled, and throws himself on the couch next to his room mate. Mark notices his grimace as a spring pokes him in the spine.

Roger sits up, his blond hair a wild mess of static behind him. He moves closer to Mark, sighing as he grinds the heel of his callused palm into his eye.

"I already lost my lucky lighter. And ruined my lucky t-shirt. Fucking ridiculous."

Mark simply raises his eyebrows at his room mate.

"What makes them so lucky, Rog? What makes them special, anyway?"

"I don't know. They just are. They're like...they're like this."

And that's when Roger leans forward and smashes his lips onto Marks.

The kiss is a bruise on Mark's lips. It takes the film maker a second to even process what's happening. Roger is kissing him.

Roger. is. kissing. Mark.

Roger, his seemingly unattainably beautiful best friend, is kissing him. A second after the thought registers in the hazy region of Mark's mind, he starts to kiss Roger back. It's all desperation, will power, teeth and tongue and matching rhythm.

As Mark slips his hands in the back of Roger's lucky jeans, his fingers graze something distinctly smooth and plastic. Breaking the kiss, he pulls out Roger's lucky guitar pick.

His room mate simply grins sheepishly, his face looking like a little boy who has just been caught with contraband sweets.

Mark rolls his eyes, leaning in to kiss Roger again and pulling him closer.

Sometimes, he realizes, luck has nothing to do with it.