Streetlights and Starlight

by alwaysflying

Disclaimer: No, I still don't own RENT. Isn't that funny? And I don't own the Life Café, either. Although I spend so much money there on a weekly basis that I may as well assume I pay a pretty big portion of the rent…

"Hey, Roger, could you open the door, please?" Collins demands, banging hard on the restroom door. A passing waiter chuckles, recognizing the regulars' behavior. "You've been there for twenty minutes and I know what you're doing in there, and I heard you yell 'Mark' all the way across the café."

Roger throws the door open very swiftly after that and returns to the table, allowing Collins full access to the bathroom, which he hadn't needed anyway. The two men return to the table peacefully (Collins pulls Roger's hair; Roger punches Collins's shoulder) and sit down opposite Benny and Mark, still deep in college rememberances. "So, Mark," Roger interrupts, "if you don't mind my asking – didn't you only graduate high school two years ago? How can you be done with college now?"

Mark sighs. "I dropped out," he sighs. "Last year, Benny was my roomie, you know, and then he graduated – and it's just not fun anymore. Too studious, and I was in programs I didn't like and don't need to know about. All I really want to do is make movies, and I was in pre-med."

Roger nods. "Yeah, those are some of the reasons why I dropped out of – "

"So, Mark," Benny says loudly, "What exactly brings you to the city?"

Mark shrugs. "I needed somewhere to go, I guess. My parents weren't too pleased, Cindy – well, you know Cindy – "

"Cindy Cohen?" Roger repeats in disbelief. When two pairs of brown eyes (and one pair of blue) turn to face him, Roger blushes. "I… I remember her, is all."

Oh, he remembers Cindy Cohen all right. Innocent and lovely, tenth-grade Cindy had asked out eighth-grade Roger, back when he trusted easily and didn't think evil, condemning thoughts. Roger, shocked at actually being acknowled, had hurriedly agreed. Cindy's cerulean eyes had mesmerized him, and throughout the date, Roger had fought to discover exactly where he had seen those eyes before. When Mark picked Cindy up later (in his expensive, shiny car, to say the least), Roger realized why he was so drawn to the girl's eyes. They reminded him of his one and only love, Mark. He had never made the connection, however, that Mark Cohen and Cindy Cohen were siblings, even then, even after Cindy shriekingly told everyone Roger was gay over the loudspeaker during Mark's brief reign as student council president and co-controller of the P.A. system.

"Yeah," Mark mumbles now. "Okay. Whatever." Returning to his story, he continues, "Cindy's busy now, dealing with her wedding and all. That Berman must be a pretty special guy, the way she moons over him."

Oh, Berman Welldinger. Roger remembers Berman vividly, from his orange-red hair to his enormous hands and feet. The perfect stereotype of a class clown, Berman had been the first boy ever to throw a punch at Roger, way back in kindergarten. Roger is faintly certain that the tussle had something to do with apple juice, which he now loathes passionately. Regardless, The Berman Problem had continued all the way through Roger's very last day of school. There might have been something between Roger's one-time seductress and his long-time bully, but Roger is too busy staring at Mark's ass at the moment to think on that.

The food arrives, and Roger does not even look up, such is his focus on the strawberry-blonde. "Roger," Collins announces pointedly, making it clear that the blonde's staring is becoming obvious. Or at least that's what Roger thinks he means, but is horrified when Collins continues, "You're drooling." And to Roger's dismay, he is; a gooey, clear line of saliva stretches from his lower lip to just above his shirt collar.

"Oh, god," Roger mumbles. To make up for it, he insists, "Blame it on the panini." And he has drooled over Life Café paninis in the past; they're that good. What Roger doesn't notice is that neither he nor anybody else at the table (nor, in fact, in the entire restaurant) has a panini at the moment, save for the one at this very moment being placed in front of Mark.

"Oh – you want some?" Mark asks, looking slightly revolted either with Roger's drool or simply Roger himself. "Sure, yeah, you can just…" he trails off as Roger shakes his head.

"Nah," Roger says lightly. "I'm good. But thanks."

There is a very long pause as each of the table's occupants dings silverware together and begins their meals. "Very good," Collins says immediately, although he is by now used to the typically good quality of Life Café meals. His Life's Sloppy Joe is always delicious, and this is no exception.

"Excellent," Benny agrees, barely looking up from his Cuban sandwich. "Roger?"

"It's awesome," Roger agrees, mouth full of peanut butter and jelly. What can he say? – the Life Café makes delicious peanut butter and jelly, and it's not even on a kids' menu, which Roger would order from if possible. Well, the Life doesn't have a kids' menu, so Roger would have to go through a lot of trouble to gain access to one, but regardless… the teenager would do just about anything for the sticky, delicious taste of peanut butter and jelly.

All eyes turn to Mark, who is quietly beginning his portobello panini. He chews delicately with his mouth closed, and once he's finished the first bite, Mark nods slowly. "It's delicious," he murmurs in approval. "Very well seasoned." A bite of his salad has Mark even more impressed, and by the end of the meal, Mark is smirking delightedly. Brown isn't exactly known for its fine cooking – or, as he learned the hard way, its fun and fascinating curriculum.

"Bye, Jon," Roger and Collins call to a friend, a writer, on the way out. Their friend waves to them as they depart, and somehow the perfectly bohemian look of the four men is impossible for even the scatterbrained playwright to forget. They make their exit, but it is not their last.

When Benny, Roger, Collins, and Mark return to the loft, Mark plops down on Roger's couch and promptly falls asleep. It is only four-twenty-six in the afternoon, but for some reason it is easy for Benny and Collins to fall asleep as well. Roger, knowing nowhere else to stay, curls up on the floor as he did his first night here, and falls asleep too, with time.

He awakens later to the scent of Benny's cooking, which is surprisingly good (though not quite as good as the delectable food served at the Life). "What you making?" Roger asks sleepily, careful as he sits up not to bang his head on the underside of the couch. "Brisket again?"

"Nope," Benny replies proudly. "Working on something different. Mark's favorite food."

"Yeah? What's that?" Roger asks, stifling a yawn. Interesting. Despite the stalkeresque tendencies he'd harbored back in high school, he doesn't believe he'd never learned Mark's favorite food. It is a cause for mild alarm; despite knowing Mark's favorite color, song, movie and class, Roger never learned what the other boy liked to eat.

"Matzoh ball soup," Benny answers. "It's a soup, obviously – very Jewish. Mark's Jewish, you probably know that. Anyway, matzoh balls are these squishy, spongy little balls of unleavened dough that taste really good. Classic. 'Cept it takes forever to cook the whole soup, two days if you're doing it right. Though in restaurants they can have it done in an hour – it tastes like shit that way, you know. Never get matzoh ball soup from a restaurant, even if it's a deli." Breaking off from his rant, Benny yawns. "Sorry. Rambling again. I don't even know how I know so much about this shit. Mark taught me most of it, I guess."

Roger nods. "So how long have you known him? Just since last year?"

"Uh-huh," Benny replies, eyes somewhat narrowed. "You?"

Roger shrugs. "Ten years, give or take a few. Maybe it was eleven years. Yes, I think that's right, I think I met him when I was in kindergarten. So I was five… Uh-huh. Eleven years." He sighs deeply. "Damn. I always wanted to be his, uh, his friend, back in school. He ignored me, though. Everyone did. I really wasn't cool. I was… people said I cut myself, and did drugs, and stuff."

"You did do drugs," Benny points out. "You still do, if I'm to judge from that needle and stash. Or were you holding it for a friend?" he sneers, mocking Roger's last excuse. "And I thought everyone likes rock stars."

"Yeah," Roger agrees. "'Cept I wasn't a rock star. I wanted to be, and that wasn't enough. I wasn't trying hard enough, or I was trying too hard. Or maybe it was that I actually meant something by it. The turnoff in a musician is the depth," he explains, "and I have a lot of that. Always have."

"Yeah," Benny agrees. "Since I met you, you've been pretty deep. And you're right, they don't like that in school. I was never like that, though. I was upper-middle class and really bratty. I was student council treasurer once, and I was in the Future Entrepreneurs of America club a few years. Always liked money. Saved up every penny of allowance and my Tooth Fairy cash when I was little and spent it all on a car the day I turned sixteen. Went out 'to the mall', I told my parents, and returned in a Mercedes, twice as nice as the car they already had. They were stunned. Told 'em I bought it, they checked the papers, and it was valid. Nothing they could do."

Roger laughs. "I wasn't good at that. Music and sports were my things, except that nobody would ever pick me for their teams 'cause I was so skinny and short and my hair would always get in my eyes 'till I couldn't see and ran into a wall. I was bad at sports, but I liked running. I had to tie my hair back all the time, though. I never wanted to do soccer professionally, though, it was just there. And as for music, everyone in my school was a yuppie – they knew that I'd chosen the most exclusive, competitive business in the world to pursue. But I didn't have any money even to buy a guitar – still don't, obviously. And I always wanted a guitar. But I don't think anybody actually cared."

Benny frowns. "I never knew you wanted a guitar," he says accusingly. "You should have said something. When's your birthday?"

Roger shakes his head fiercely. "No – don't. Don't get me one. Don't even think about it. Really. How'd we afford the rent last month, remind me?"

Benny blushes. "Um, let's not go there," he decides firmly. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did, shithead."

"Don't be a smart-aleck," Benny replies automatically. "Well – did your parents kick you out? And how'd you get to the city from Scarsdale? And why?"

Roger pauses for so long that Benny returns to his ladle, assuming that he won't answer. But it comes as a surprise when, two minutes into the stirring, Roger begins to talk in a somewhat raspy voice.

"A few months before Collins found me on the streets here, I was back in Scarsdale. I was just madly in love with M – with this guy." He glances to Benny, hoping he didn't notice the slip. Luckily, he didn't, and Roger continues. "This guy," he adds. "I'm bisexual, but mostly gay. Anyway," he adds hurriedly before Benny can interrupt, "I was trying out for track because I wanted something to do, and he was there. When tryouts were over, we were in the showers, washing up, and the coach caught me watching him. Uh – the guy, I mean, not the coach. He freaked on me and called me names, then told my parents. And they kicked me out."

You little fag! Get out of my house! I never want to see you again!

"Except," Roger continues shakily as his father's words echo in his head, "that I didn't have anywhere to go. I had literally no friends that would take me in, and all my relatives that lived close enough had already been informed by my parents what had happened. So I stayed on the streets a few days and then one night, when my parents were out, I broke in and stole money, enough to get on a train. I didn't care where I'd end up, I just wanted to be away from Scarsdale. So I got off at a random spot, which turned out to be the city, and stuck with it. I had my own sidewalk square. I was pretty happy."

Roger shrugs and grabs a heavily-seasoned carrot out of the soup, popping it into his mouth. "Good," he announces, his mouth full. "Very good." With that, Benny shooes his loftmate out of the kitchen so he can think.

Roger chooses to sit on the fire escape. It's early evening now – seven-thirty, typical in the loft but for Mark's presence, Roger's near-constant erection, and Benny's cooking. It smells delicious inside, but Roger gives it up temporarily for the view of the city that he now has. Moments pass with Roger staring longingly at the sky, and then the window slides open and Collins steps outside as well.

"You okay, Rog?" he asks, arm over Roger's shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Here – want a light?" Collins offers, holding out a cigarette. "I wouldn't normally – I mean, I know you're only sixteen and all, but they help you think sometimes. And you kind of need that now, with Mark here – no offense. Clears your head."

Roger shakily accepts Collins's offering and puts it between his lips. "You ever done this before?" Collins asks as he struggles to light a match. "Smoke, I mean."

Roger shakes his head.

"Well, don't make it a habit," he tells the boy. "It's just that I think you need something to do with yourself – apart, of course, from wallowing in self-pity, because that's just unnecessary." Roger watches him amusedly as Collins repeatedly strikes the match against his matchbox. Finally, a tiny flame blossoms, and Collins touches it to Roger's smoke. The boy breathes in deeply, and Collins corrects, "No – don't take in too much. Exhale. Puff it out."

Roger nods and obeys, shuddering as he breathes out. "Feels weird," he mumbles, sounding somewhat whiny. "But… I can think better. 'S like a drug."

Collins laughs. "It is a drug, Roggie-pie. But since you're so high or stoned or whatever's going on in your little head, mind answering something for me?" he asks. Without waiting for an answer, Collins grabs Roger's forearm and twists it so that it is facing up. "Where'd you get these scars?" he demands.

Roger shakes his head and tries helplessly to twist out of his roommate's grasp. "Nowhere – I mean, they're old – had them forever – dad used to hit me – accidents – never meant to – " he babbles, backing against the the open window. "I – Collins, really, I never meant to – "

"I did that once," Collins says, thoroughly humorless. "Cutting, I mean. I was more like you as a teenager than you think, believe me. But I'm giving you zero choices now. You are going to stop. Hear me? I don't care how else you relieve frustration – smoke or drink or even shoot up in moderation. But this is not something you can moderate. If you can't control it, you can't do it."

Roger shakes his head. "I'm not – "

"Shut up."

Roger blinks as Collins stares at him stonily. "Listen. I am doing you the courtesy of keeping my voice down so nobody inside can hear me. I will speak up if I need to. I will find your parents and bring you back to them if I have to."

"You can't," Roger whispers nearly silently, but Collins plows through that excuse as well.

"I don't care what you think I can and can't do. I will do whatever I need to. What were you using, knife or razor? Knife. Well, I will replace all the cutlery in the loft with spoons if I need to. You can't cut with a spoon, Roger, believe me. And I will take out all the razors and replace them with waxing shit. Do you know you can kill yourself like this? You could end up dead. Everyone dies, but do you want yours to be a result of stupidity at the age of sixteen?"

Roger shakes his head. "No, but – "

"No buts."

Roger exhales shudderingly again, letting the smoke form an arch in the air. "Please believe me, Collins, I didn't do that. It was – someone else. Something else. It's not cutting. Please – I never – "

Collins sighs. "I thought I could trust you," he tells the boy disappointedly. He climbs back inside and warns, "I'm going to check you regularly. If I see any new scars – you're in trouble. Got that, kid?" he asks coldly, and leaves Roger outside, puffing desperately on his cigarette as salty teardrops wash away the smoke clouds.

"Back to high school," Roger tells himself, and it is several moments of recollections before he realizes that he didn't say that, he sung it, and more words flow easily once he's realized that fact. "Back to friendlessness, monarchies and no control." And he'd used his notebook to fuel a fire four months ago…

Roger climbs down the fire escape until he's on the sidewalk, arms huddled around his body to protect himself from the chilly March air. He approaches his dealer, trying to look casual with his brown-blonde curls falling into his eyes. I can stop anytime I want to…

As both men extend their hands, they slide their palms against each other's, never really touching skin. Roger watches a flash of his dollar bill slide into The Man's pocket as he himself pockets the white powder and needle. Then he ducks into the alleyway he'd found Collins in… Collins had found him in…

From inside the alleyway, he is somehow warmer. Just a bit. He watches all sorts of people pass by: a too-skinny, awkward-looking girl who is somehow beautiful; a young woman in a suit and tie with her hair contradictingly wild; a leather-clad girl downing shot after shot after shot; a quiet-looking young man tapping drumsticks against a pickle tub; a confident-looking girl in her early twenties who knows she's sexy. She is the one who catches sight of Roger in the alleyway.

"You okay?" she asks him gently.

Roger shrugs. "Don't know," he grunts. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"You have a gorgeous smile," she informs him, smiling coyly. "I was just about to go into a club. You wanna come with me?"

Roger shakes his head. "Not into large groups of people," he replies, even though it's a lie. His troubles with clubs are the bands; tattooed, pierced, and scarecely talented, the bands performing in clubs remind Roger of his old heroes. When he sits in alleyways strumming on an imaginary guitar, he feels like himself, but watching real-time guitarists makes him wonder if there is any truth in music at all. Surely there must be for some, but others… the ones that find performances to be a high… is there anything there at all?

She sighs. "Okay." She turns away and leaves Roger huddled, alone.