A/N. Erm. Sorry. I've had a lot of personal life issues that have gotten in the way of me updating this story. But I promise I won't disappear from the face of the planet again. At least not without a warning. At least I bring crackfic slash in penance, right?

I originally had the idea for this watching Rent the DVD and wondering exactly why Roger was so upset that Mimi had dated Benny. I mean, he had to know that she dated people before him, right? And then the thought popped into my head, like a bolt from the blue: Roger had been in love with Benny. And this chapter was born.

And, with no further ado, what you've all been waiting for (for entirely too much time. Sorry!)...

Roger was not gay.

This was the important bit. He liked women just fine—their soft curvy bodies, their pouting lips and bouncing breasts. The women dressed in leather and ripped jeans, contorting themselves on the dance floor to the sound of his guitar, still made him breathe heavy and have to stare at the ceiling until his fingers regained their usual quickness.

It's just that he liked Benny too.

One cold winter's night, when Roger and Mark had been huddled together for warmth, trying to decide whether to spend their last few dollars on food or a motel room, Benny had walked up to them and said, "White boys like you two shouldn't be homeless. You don't know how to do it and, frankly, everyone else on the street cringes at you. How about I give you a place to stay for the night? It's not much and it's technically illegal, but it's warm." Roger and Mark had agreed eagerly, and a night had stretched into two, then into a week, then a month.

Then, about six months later, Roger had gotten a bottle of cheap whiskey to celebrate getting a nightclub gig and next thing he knew he was naked in bed with Benny with a throbbing headache. He was about to protest, hey, I'm not gay, I totally like women, I was just drunk and thought this was a good idea—but Benny's lips were on his and then they moved downward and Roger's fingers were gripping the sheets so hard they ripped and his mouth was in an O and somehow he had never really gotten around to objecting.

And, slowly but surely, without any of them quite bringing the topic up, it became understood that Benny and Roger were a couple, and that Roger would stop bringing home pink-haired teenyboppers delighted to screw a "real rock star," and that Benny, as the non-artiste of the group, would get a job with Grey Enterprises to support their boho lifestyle and this would not count as selling out.

Which was why Roger was so confused at Benny's announcement.

"You're—what?" Roger asked.

"I popped the question to Alison Grey," Benny said. "We'll be getting married in June."

"You're—what?" Roger asked.

Benny smiled the smile that always made Roger weak at the knees—the one that was almost a scowl, just with the tips of his lips turned up at the edges. But Roger was not going to be dissuaded by Benny's smile. "I'm going to get married to Alison Grey," Benny said. "It's really not that hard to grasp, Roger."

There were Rules about Roger's and Benny's relationship, and the most important Rule of all was that they did not talk about it. Ever. So it was testimony to how utterly flabbergasted Roger was that he blurted out, "But what about me?"

Benny smiled. "Don't worry. It'll be fine. Alison will never know about us."

Roger hadn't been to Mass in years, committed all seven of the deadly sins with great abandon and mocked the very idea of God with great glee. But inside of him was still that little Catholic schoolboy who had been hypnotized by the ritual of the Mass and had counted up all his little sins—stealing his brother's cookie, missing his daily prayer—preparing for his first Confession. And that little schoolboy recoiled, instinctively, the way he recoiled against rotten cabbage. This was wrong. Marriage was sacred.

"So, what?" Roger said. "You want me to be the little rocker boytoy of the rich guy out in Westport? Sneak around while your wife"—he spat the word—"waits for you at home? Want to put me in a tiny Speedo and make me clean the pool while you're at it?"

Benny's smile turned lustful. "If you really want to…"

Roger glared at him, ignoring the tightening in his stomach that that smile always gave him.

Seeing his face, Benny turned serious. "It's really quite the opportunity," he said. "I can get in good with the boss if I'm married to his daughter. We can have all the things we dreamed of, Roger, with the Greys' money. Own the building fair and square, no rent, no need to worry about the fuzz kicking us out. I can get you that guitar you were drooling over in the store, and Mark can have that video camera he always wanted..."

"But I don't want a new guitar or no rent. That's just stuff. I can live without stuff. I want." Roger's voice broke. "I want you."

"And you'll still have me," Benny said. "More, probably. We hardly see each other at all, with you playing in the clubs till dawn and sleeping till three, and me working nine to five and networking after. We can spend weekends together—I've arranged it all with Alison. Imagine cool wine and hot sandy beaches, napping in the sun and going swimming to cool off and getting all hot and sweaty again together…"

For a moment Benny's seductive words swept Roger away on a wave of blissful temptation. A room all of their own, together, no Mark or whatshername the performance artist barging in, no work to rush off too, long luxurious afternoons stretching into nights…

Roger bit his tongue sharply. "That's not the point!"

"Then what is?" Benny looked honestly puzzled. "We can still be together, just richer this time."

"I don't want you to be with her," Roger said.

"Why? It's not like I love her."

"No," Roger said. "It's like I love you."

It was the first time either of them had said anything approaching those words. The Rules firmly forbid any mention of the L word. Benny's expression was full of shock and surprise, all furrowed brow and puzzled glance. It made Roger's heart swell, and all he wanted to do was take those stupid girly lips of his and bite them until they bled.

Instead, he hardened his heart and said one word. It was the only word he trusted his voice to say without shaking.

"Go."

For the rest of his life, though April and Mimi and the years of loneliness, Roger would never forget the exact look Benny had on his face that second. Actually, Roger had spent several hours one sleepless night in the throes of heroin withdrawal working out the perfect metaphor for it. Imagine a man in solitary confinement, his only interaction with cold, faceless jailors who never spoke. Then, one day, this man was given a small tabby kitten. The man lavished his love on this kitten—starving himself to give it food when his jailors took away a meal for some petty infraction, cuddling it and petting it all hours of the day, working for hours to make it some weak toy out of his own flothing. Then the jailors, those cruel unspeaking jailors, took the kitten away from him and bashed its head in. And the man never knew what sin of his had caused the death of his only friend.

The expression of the man when he saw the kitten's blood-covered body—that was Benny's expression when he got his coat and walked out the door.

Roger sat and stared into empty space for a while. Finally he took from the table the postcard he had bought to send to his mom. Instead he licked a stamp and put it on, addressed the postcard, stared at it for a few minutes and finally scrawled, "Best wishes for your wedding. Love from Roger."

Then, in a sudden movement, Roger grabbed his leather jacket and hurried outside.

The Man wore the same stained dirty trenchcoat he always wore, sitting on the same street corner Roger had passed, uncaring, a thousand thousand times. But now Roger walked directly to the Man, his strides long, and pulled out fifty bucks. "Give me something to make me feel better," he said.

The Man silently took a small bag of white powder from his pocket.

A/N: So. Love the story? Hate the story? Pissed at my lack of posting? Simply click the friendly little button and spread your opinions to the world! Or at least to my inbox.