Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson (IamnotworthyIamnotworthy)

Roger

A blush crept up my neck and down my back, giving me an itch where I couldn't scratch. I slumped in my chair, letting fumes off the teacup cling to my skin. I glanced around the kitchen. There was nothing there ingrained into my mind. I had not played here as a child, burnt my hand with this soup pot, once puked into that sink. I had no memories in the room, only memories of the room.

I drank my tea and tried to ignore the conversation my mother was having. I had never worried that she would disapprove of Mark. If she did, what did I care? She could not exactly kick me out. As for disowning me, how could she? We no longer even used the same name.

"Hi, you've reached Bohemia, Cohen-Collins-Davis-Johnson residence--"

"Hey, that sounds kinda funny, Thomas--"

"Shut up!"

BEEEP!

"Roger… Roger? Are you there? This is your mother. Roger, why are you using that name?"

Collins looked up from his cereal to give me a curious look. I growled, stood, and unplugged the answering machine. When I sat down again, Collins said nothing, and that was that.

But what I could not have prepared myself for, much as I disregarded my mother's disapproval, was her pleasure. She had decided almost at once that she liked Mark, and now sat with him at the end of the table looking through photo albums and telling humiliating stories about things I had done in my youth.

"Look," she said, pointing to a picture, "here's Roger, he's fifteen… maybe the oldest I have a photo of. He was attached to that guitar, playing just constantly. He would lock himself in the bathroom so no one could interrupt him; I think once we had to take the door off its hinges!" she concluded, laughing.

Mark joined in. "I was thirteen," I muttered. I was thirteen, terrified. The moment flashes to mind, the way my limbs no longer seemed the shapes they had been, nerves responding in strange ways, my heart racing. I was crying. She returned from a business trip the following day; that was when the door came down.

Maria looked at her son. Me. How did the two separate? "What's that, dear?"

I cleared my throat. "You took the door of its hinges when I was thirteen, Mama," I reminded her. There was a foul note in my voice, something sharp that raised a small shiver from Mark.

Maria nodded. "That's right. I forget…" She turned a page in the album. "You know, Mark, I'm sure I can find you a picture of Roger smiling--I'm not certain he does that anymore." I gritted my teeth as Mark chuckled. Why was she doing this to me? "Here we go."

The picture showed me, a complete mess. My clothes were covered in dirt, my hair sweated against my head where my hat had been. Someone was cleaning a wicked scratch on my cheek. I was grinning. I was, undeniably, a cute kid--all gold and tan and those pale lips and green eyes, smiling like the world had just begun. No wonder I sought glory--I was capable of attaining it. That was my limitation. I was not struggling to push the boundaries but to become everything I had inside me.

It's easy to own the world of the moment. Maybe you just beat your record at the track, maybe you're laughing so hard you wheeze and gasp, maybe you're playing for a crowd and they're cheering you on, maybe you just looked up and realized that the world is beautiful. And suddenly everything is good and everything is yours. I remember feeling that, in my youth.

"Baseball?" Mark asked. The white pants and shimmering green shirt were an interesting fashion statement otherwise.

"Mmhmm. Roger was good at sports--baseball, soccer, you name it."

Mark glanced at me, giving a silly grin, but I was just glaring at the table. I sighed, dunked a biscuit into my tea and decapitated it. "You know, I'm beat," I said. "I think I'll just go to bed--"

"Me, too," Mark said, standing as I did.

"You don't have to," I muttered. I did not realize that I was rejecting him until a cold thought popped into my head: You can stay and let my mother tell more embarrassing stories.

---

Mark

When I returned from the bathroom, I found Roger stripping back the bedsheets. "Do you want to be near the wall or the outside edge?" Roger asked. He kept his eyes down, smoothing the already smooth sheets. Had he ever spoken so gruffly under different circumstances, I might have taken offense. He didn't need to snap at me. I did not know what had upset him, as I saw nothing wrong with what had happened.

"I don't care. Whatever makes you comfortable," I said. It seemed the entire house made Roger uncomfortable; if he preferred one side of the bed to the other, I was glad to surrender it.

Mrs. Hobbs knocked on the open door. "Mark," she said. "We can set the couch up if you like."

Roger gritted his teeth. He had told his mother in advance that he planned to bring over a friend, not just a friend but a boyfriend. "We're in a relationship, romantically and sexually. You're okay with that, Mama?" She had promised she was, as he now reminded her.

"I know that, honey," Mrs. Hobbs said, "I just wanted him to know his options." She turned to me and said, smiling as though sharing a joke, "I'm very impressed with you, Mark, dear, sharing with our little bed-wetter."

A rush of blood painted Roger's face bright red. His shoulders stiffened, and his jaw clenched. Something in his eyes had gone hard, almost cruelly detached. "Everyone has accidents, Mrs. Hobbs," I said, siding as kindly as possible with Roger. "I had my share, too, when I was little."

"I wouldn't have said Roger was little--"

He interrupted, "You know what?" His mother and I both turned to him. There were times, mostly when Roger more controlled by drugs than he was by himself, that I feared Roger. He was stronger than me and senseless. Standing there in his childhood bedroom, looking at the suddenly cold eyes of the man I loved, I felt my throat tighten. I was terrified of what Roger could do.

All he did do was thrust a pillow into my hands. "I'll sleep on the couch," he said quickly. He turned away without seeing me and brushed past his mother.

A part of me wanted to go after him, but Mrs. Hobbs said, "Well, then, you can have the bed to yourself. He'll be all right in the morning." And I nodded, because I wanted so badly to believe it.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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