Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson (may he rest in peace)

MARK

I snuggled deeper into Roger's bed, trying to detect his scent in the sheets. I pulled the quilt up over my face and breathed it in. It smelled of detergent, nothing more. I wriggled deeper and twisted onto my side to smell the mattress. It smelled of age and dust, and perhaps a hint of urine, but nothing of the Roger I knew.

I sighed. I wanted Roger. It was not that I wanted to have sex with him, but I wanted him near me. I missed his breathing. I missed his solid warmth in my arms, his arms around me, the feel of his hair and the smell of his sweat. Without him, the bed was cold and big, in the way a child thinks of anything too large as a space in which to drown.

I pushed back the covers. Sleep was out of the question. Out the window, I saw the peace of nighttime in the suburbs. Snow glittered ghostly silver-grey in the moonlight; houses sat quiet, family drama hidden behind that extra coat of paint. A figure appeared in the picture, shadowy, carrying something bulky and moving slowly, shaking. After a moment I realized that the figure came from this house, and the figure was Roger.

"Shit!"

Where was he going? Was he leaving, leaving me here? I pulled on my glasses and sneakers. Instead of digging through our bag for a sweater, I pulled the quilt off his bed and wrapped it around my shoulders, then hurried out of the room. The house was different in the dark, more stubbed toes and secrets lurking in shadows. I past them by and burst out into the night, shivered by the cold air.

Roger was nowhere to be seen, but there was shadowy movement in the car. My heart jumped. Leaving? Surely he wasn't, wouldn't. My shoes grew heavier as I approached the car, but lightened as I saw that Roger had not intended to drive. He had folded down the second seat and curled up in the space, shivering under his blanket.

I knocked on the window. "Roger?" He squinted at me, then leaned over and unlocked the door.

I opened the door. "Can I sit with you?" I whispered. He nodded. I climbed into the car and sat on the folded seat, slipped off my sneakers. My foot slid along the edge of Roger's boot as I pulled my feet up. I wriggled under his blanket and covered us with my quilt as best I could.

Before I could swallow my worry that Roger, an HIV-positive man, was shivering in a car in the Jersey winter, he said my name. Only the name--"Mark--" and it died on his lips, as though he lost his courage.

"I'm here." I pulled Roger into my arms.

"What my mom said…"

"I don't care."

"It wasn't like that…"

I tightened my grip, bringing Roger's body against mine. "I don't care," I repeated, bringing my teeth together hard between each word. Roger sounded too young. He was too light. I didn't like what was happening and wanted to leave, but how could I ask? I manipulated him into bringing me here. I wasn't about to manipulate him into leaving before he was ready. "Roger, all kids wet the bed. I wet the bed when I was a kid, Maureen wet the bed when she was a kid, Collins--"

"Collins probably potty-trained himself," Roger mumbled. "Then rebelled against conformity and exploded a toilet."

"And Maureen probably pissed the bed for attention," I added, playing along. "And Joanne probably had trouble." Roger giggled. I felt his breath on my chest and smiled. "Yeah, she had trouble. She's probably so tidy now because she remembers. No one embarrassed her, she put that on herself. And I…" Did I remember a thing about potty training? "I… don't remember much," I admitted. "I was private. My mom says that when I was a baby, I didn't cry, just fussed about a soiled diaper but I screamed if she tried to change me in a public restroom."

Perhaps it should have felt strange to lie in the back of a car and talk about toilet-training with the person I would spend the rest of my life with. When we looked back and talked about it, That night we talked about pee was what we said. "I peed my name in the snow once. That's not that weird, all kids do that--"

"I didn't."

"Really?"

Roger said nothing. Somehow, I had said something to upset him again, I supposed. He rolled away, out of my arms, to face the door. "Hey," I said, trying to keep him from growing agitated. I was worried about him, lying practically outside on a cold night, though I was warm enough to sweat. I wriggled nearer and stroked his hip. "You mad at me?" I asked, flirting. He said nothing. "Hm?"

My fingers sought his waistband. I had assumed Roger would wear sweats to bed like he did at home, but I found now that he had elected jeans instead. When I began to unfasten Roger's belt, he grabbed my wrist. "Don't," he said.

I nodded. Did he realize how tightly he had grasped my wrist? "Okay."

"Just don't."

"I won't, baby. I won't. Please let go, Roger, you're hurting me." He released me, and I pulled my hand back. "Roger?" I asked, hardly whispering. "Did someone…" I swallowed. It was not a question I wanted to ask, not one I wanted answered, as though if I said nothing the topic would disappear. "Did someone... did your stepfathermess with you, when you were a kid?"

"No," Roger mumbled, "nothing like that."

"Oh. Well… good."

"They didn't touch me at all, for a while," he added.

"Hm? Who didn't, baby?"

Roger shrugged. "My mom. Her boyfriend. I was on my own a lot and… I just don't… feel comfortable with that right now. I'm sorry I hurt you, Mark."

"It's all right." It wasn't, but why should I say anything? Something was wrong with Roger, something in his brain not connected, a pathway shut down, a gap. If he hurt me again, I would do something; if it was serious, I would leave him. But if the worst he did to me was hold my wrist a little too tightly, I saw no need for fuss. "Do you want to go back inside? You can sleep in your bed…"

"No."

"Okay." I tried to curl into myself for warmth. The air was cold, and Roger was broken. I shivered.

Roger rolled over and, without a word, hugged me. "Mm…" I needed that. "Rog--"

"Just go to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow will be better, I promise."

"Sing to me," I said.

"Um… esas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David…"

I fell asleep well before the song ended.

To be continued!