Simple and Clean Chapter 2: The Guilt and the Longing, a rent fanfic

Title: Simple and Clean

Author: Skye Aerrow

Genre: Drama/Romance

Characters: Roger Davis, Mimi Marquez, Mark Cohen, Tom Collins

Summary: He loves her… she loves him… so why are things so difficult?

Skye Says: I didn't think I'd be able to put chapter two up so soon, but I'm really enjoying this fic so far.

Chapter Two: The Guilt and the Longing

Wish I could prove

I love you

But does that mean

I have to walk on water?

When we are older

You will understand

It's enough when I say so

And maybe

Some things are that simple

Some nights, he lies awake with the moonlight streaming in across the sheets and the sounds of the city penetrating the thin walls. He stares up at the ceiling, naked except for a pair of boxers, and lets his thoughts run free. On nights like these, it's hard for him to remember that he's trying to forget. On nights like these, he's lucky if he can last just one minute without picturing her, one minute without seeing her face, her hair, her body. On nights like these, he gets no more than a half-hour of sleep before the blaring of Mark's alarm in the next room jars him out of his trance.

It's these nights that make Roger wonder if he made the right decision. They leave him feeling broken, filling his thoughts with anger and fear, hopelessness and uncertainty, sorrow and regret.

These nights are what are responsible for the guilt and the longing that starve him and drive him insane, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling for days on end.

It's these nights that make Mark wonder if he's going to lose his best friend to depression.

Nighttime is considerably kinder to her. Sleep brings unconsciousness, and with unconsciousness comes a reprieve. Mimi always looks forward to nighttime, and now that she no longer works at the Catscratch Club, she can go to bed as soon as she pleases. On bad nights, her bedtime is ten. On a good night, it varies anywhere from midnight to five in the morning.

She can't even remember the last time she went to bed after midnight.

Unlike Roger, she drops off to sleep in seconds, seemingly at peace with the world.

Seemingly.

She dreams of nothing but a blonde man and his guitar. His voice pleads with her, calls to her, embraces her. It's everywhere she turns, filling the air with the same, bittersweet melody every time.

"Who do you think you are/

Leaving me alone with my guitar?"

She wakes up at the crack of dawn and finds her pillow soaked. Her eyes are swollen, her throat sore.

She isn't sure how much more of this she can take.

As much as it pains her to admit it, there's only one thing she can depend on now. Ironically, it's the one thing that banished the last thing she thought she could depend on.

Her shaking hands collapse on a clean syringe, and she feels the guilt settle in her gut.

By the time she fills the syringe, she's crying so hard that she can't even see the needle.

Mark decides that they should go see Tom, even if they don't stay for very long. He feels that the fresh air will do Roger some good, and maybe a conversation from Tom will shift the songwriter's thoughts away from Mimi.

They sit in silence as the subway nears their stop.

"Which apartment is it, again?"

"Dunno. He's living with someone else now." There's jealousy in Roger's voice. It amazes him that some people could get back on the horse so quickly.

"Come on, Rog. Don't be that way… it's been two whole years since Angel died. Collins needs a healthy relationship."

Roger stares out the window as the tunnel goes whizzing by.

The train slows to a stop. It's three o'clock by the time they find Tom's apartment building- Collins isn't one to give flawless directions- and both Mark and Roger feel like they've just wasted three hours of their life. They walk up several flights of stairs to apartment 4B, and Mark raps on the door thrice.

"I'll get it," calls an unfamiliar voice from inside.

Roger sighs.

He definitely should've stayed home.

The door opens, and a tall African-American… woman ushers Mark and Roger inside. "Have a seat, boys. You must be Tommy's friends," she chirps happily. "I'm Aretha, Aretha Martin. He's in the bedroom, I think. Let me go get him."

Mark and Roger exchange stunned glances as Aretha disappears down the hall.

"Was that a… woman?" Mark asks.

"I guess so," Roger replies.

They sit in silence until Collins himself rises from the shadows at the end of the hall and stumbles towards them, looking groggy. The minute he sees Mark and Roger, his eyes light up.

"Aretha, baby, I'd like you to meet Mark Cohen and Roger Davis."

They shake her hand, and then sit back down, glancing at Tom anxiously.

Collins goes to the kitchen and brings out two chairs. He offers Aretha one before settling into the other himself, and the gesture sends a pang of jealousy down Roger's spine.

I used to do that for Mimi every time I saw her.

"So, Collins," Mark breaks in, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Aretha certainly is… lovely."

You mean female, Roger muses internally.

"Why, thank you, Mark," he beams at Aretha proudly. "We've been dating for four months."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah, good for you."

Mark stares at Roger, curious. The songwriter's lack of interest is all too apparent.

"Really," Roger adds, in hopes of reassuring Mark. "Good for you, Collins."

Aretha laughs, a light, bell-like sound, breaking the tension. She fixes her warm brown eyes on Mark as a grin spreads itself across her face. "So, Mark… what's this I hear about you being a filmmaker?"

He glances down at the camera on his lap. Why did Collins have to tell her that? She'd probably ask to see some of his work next, and the only thing he had with him was Proof Positive…

"Mark? Are you all right?"

The filmmaker blinks and looks up at Aretha, whose neatly-manicured eyebrows are drawn down in concern. "Oh, yeah I'm fine. Just… reminiscing."

"Yeah, he's a filmmaker," Collins butts in. "And a good one, too."

"No, I'm not. Not that good."

"Come on, Cohen. Don't belittle yourself like that."

"I'm sure you're a fine filmmaker," Aretha encourages.

"I'm really not," Mark tries.

Roger catches on. "He really isn't, Miss Martin."

Tom grunts. "What is this, National Let's All Put Down Mark Cohen's Work Day? Seriously, Mark… why don't you just show Aretha a little something of yours?"

Uh-oh. He was in deep trouble now. The Proof Positive tape seemed to be emitting a foul stench from its place inside his messenger bag. Uncertainty twists his gut as he turns to Roger, keeping his voice low. "I can't do this, Roger. I need your help."

"What do you want me to do?" Roger hisses. "Collins isn't going to take 'no' for an answer. Don't you have anything with you?"

"Yeah, but… it's the AIDS video thing."

"Oh. Crap."

Mark exhales loudly. "What should I do? I don't want-"

"Is it in here?" Tom asks suddenly, holding up Mark's messenger bag.

The blood drains from Cohen's face. "No. I think I left it at-"

"There's a tape," Aretha says helpfully.

Roger swears under his breath.

"All right. I'll put this in. Here we go…"

The screen lights up, and Mark scowls as he hears his own voice on the tape. "Proof Positive, a film by Mark Cohen."

Tom blinks hard.

Roger stands and excuses himself to the bathroom.

Aretha and Tom stare at the screen intently. Several images in the video make Collins bite his lip, but none affects him so strongly as the one that floats up on the screen next, one Mark had added only a few days after Angel's death.

"Angel, in your opinion, what is love?" Mark heard himself ask.

The man laughs musically, a smirk on his painted lips as he straightens his skirt and winks at someone off-screen. "Um… love is… love is when you can't eat, can't sleep, can't think- can't do anything except be with your significant other."

Collins waltzes into view, kissing Angel on the cheek.

Angel smiles and takes his hand. "Love is knowing what the other person is feeling even when you don't even know what you're feeling."

"Love is without judgment, without conditions," Collins adds.

"This is love."

Mark curses and buries his face in his hands as Angel pulls Collins into a kiss.

The real Collins shudders and cries out.

Roger emerges from the bathroom just as Tom begins to cry.

"We'll see ourselves out," Mark says quietly. "It was nice meeting you, Aretha."

That night, Roger lies awake with the moonlight streaming in across the sheets and the sounds of the city penetrating the thin walls. He stares up at the ceiling, naked except for a pair of boxers, and lets his thoughts run free. Just like every other night, it's hard for him to remember that he's trying to forget. He knows he'll be lucky if he can last just one minute without picturing her, one minute without seeing her face, her hair, her body. Instinctively, he knows he won't get any more than a half-hour of sleep before the blaring of Mark's alarm in the next room jars him out of his trance.

Again, Roger wonders if he made the right decision. He feels broken, his thoughts filled with anger and fear, hopelessness and uncertainty, sorrow and regret.

The guilt and the longing are starving him and driving him insane, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling for days on end.

As Roger curses and turns over, Mark hears the creaking of bedsprings and wonders if there's any way he can help the songwriter.

"Tomorrow," Mark whispers as he sets his alarm and pulls the blankets up over his chest. "I'll find a way to make him happy again."