A/N: Sorry for lack of updates! As usual I don't own Rent, just any OCs I may create.
Mark Cohen walked through the apartment door, having just left a quite lengthy meeting concerning the direction of his latest documentary project. He smiled as Angela came into the room to greet him:
"Hey, Dad, dinner's on the table; Mom made it before she went to work, I'm gonna go upstairs to the computer, bye."
Ah, teenagers.
He saw his son, Andrew, relaxing on the couch in the living room. "Hey, Andy."
"Hi."
"You finish your homework?"
" . . . Possibly."
"Andrew."
"Okay, okay; I'm on it."
Mark chuckled, taking off his coat and heading to the hallway closet to hang it up. As he opened the closet door, his attention immediately wandered to the various clothing items that had fallen onto the dusty floor since that morning when he grabbed his coat for work.
Again, teenagers. Always with the big messes.
Mark sighed, leaning down to pick up various hats and raincoats, and that was when he saw it, scrunched up in the corner of the closet, dust particles clinging to its material: his blue and white scarf.
A small smile beginning to show in his features, Mark picked up the scarf, brushing some of the dust away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn it. But he'd had it for many, many years, and never had the heart to throw it away.
"Ew, Dad, what is that?" Mark closed his eyes and sighed. It would make sense that his kids wouldn't be able to appreciate all the memories held in each thread of his little scarf. He turned to face Angela, who was chugging a glass of milk before her gymnastics session in an hour.
"Haven't you seen this before, Angie?"
"Well, sure. In old pictures of you and Mom. But I didn't know you still had it. And look at how dirty it is!"
"I've had this scarf for years," Mark mused, shuffling over to sit at the kitchen table, "It's been on a crazy journey. Your Aunt Cindy always used to make fun of it."
"Aunt Cindy makes fun of everyone," was the voice of Andrew as he entered the room.
"True. She inherited your grandmother's cheekiness," Mark replied with a roll of his eyes, "Anyway, this scarf meant a lot to me. I even violated the Best Friends Code because of it."
"The what?" Angela asked, clearly curious.
"Oh, you know. I mentioned it to you before, a while back. It's an unofficial set of rules my friends and I made up."
"Like, how you can't date your best friend's ex?" Angela asked.
Mark leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "It's a little like that, yeah. In fact, this scarf was the reason the Code was brought up in the first place . . . "
I had just turned 19, and my mother had sent me a scarf for my birthday. She'd always been paranoid when it came to my health, and New York winters showed no mercy.
Considering I wasn't exactly thriving with money, I appreciated the gift, and wore the scarf religiously. It kept me warm when it was cold practically everywhere---especially inside the loft where we all lived---and I was grateful for that. I wore it everywhere. It became part of me ("That's so cheesie, Dad!"); a part of my personality.
So when I had accidentally spilled hot coffee all over the aforementioned scarf one day, I was determined to do whatever was in my power to fix it. Everything I was doing at home wasn't working, and I refused to walk around with a gigantic stain on my precious scarf.
The closest specialty cleanser was a few blocks away, and so I knew I'd have to take my bike for a bit of a ride. The problem was, Roger was playing a show with his band at one of the local clubs, and naturally, I was expected to go.
Why? Because it was part of the unquestionable Best Friends Code. I didn't know this at the time.
"Rog," I said as I walked through the loft door briskly, rushing around in order to make it before the cleansers' closed, "I'm gonna have to miss your show tonight. I need to get to this place before it closes, and you know the owner of that club hates me and doesn't let me in after the show starts, like last time---"
Roger cleared his throat, interrupting me. I finally looked over at him where he was standing outside his small bedroom, his electric guitar in hand. "Well, well. We have a dilemma, don't we?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I chose to ignore him altogether. Then Collins, who was at the time commuting from college, let out a bellow of a laugh as he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. "I don't think he gets it, Rog. You might have to say something."
Now I was really confused. "Alright, what the hell's going on?" I was exasperated, my scarf was stained and smelled like old coffee, and I was a bit, well, pissed off.
"You do realize, Mark," said Roger, casually walking up behind me to place a hand on my shoulder, "that you're violating the Best Friends Code by missing my show. Right?"
"The what, now?" I muttered, only half-listening.
"The Best Friends Code. Every group of friends has one. And you're breaking the rules. Right, Collins?"
"Damn straight."
I sighed. "Okay. You have my attention. What, oh what, Roger, is the Best Friends Code?"
"I'm glad you asked, my friend." Roger grabbed a cigarette from his back pocket, lighting it. He then began to speak in a mock-British accent as Collins pretended to play the violin behind him. "See, the Best Friends Code defines why, and how, best friends exist. I like to consider myself your best friend, Mark, and I consider you and Collins and Maureen and Benny to be mine. Are you with me this far?"
"Uh-huh. Hurry up. They close at 7---"
"The Best Friends Code is no joke, Mark," Collins said, a look of faux seriousness in his eyes, "It is the root of friendship. It is---"
"Just tell me what the hell I'm violating and then I can get my scarf cleaned," I interjected. Roger and Collins exchanged a look of horror.
"See, the fact that you are going back on a commitment to see my show at this very moment, Mark, only proves further that you have violated the Code. Because according to the Code, you can't back out on your best friend last-minute, especially if you're backing out of your best friend's breakthrough rock concert that will define a music generation."
"You made that last part up, Rog."
"Whatever. Point is, that's one of the rules of the Code. Collins, would you like to go on to explain the others while I go get ready?"
"Sure thing." Collins clasped my shoulder. "Man, the Code is serious business. Like, I could be doing a lot of course work right now, but I'm going to see Roger's show. Because he's my best friend. You have taken it upon yourself, unfortunately, to make an inanimate object"---he gestured toward the scarf--- "a priority. Which leads to another rule: the best friend is always the priority. Not the girlfriend, not the parents, not the pet goldfish, not the damn scarf. Speaking of girlfriends, there's a whole rule about not letting your best friend's girlfriend cheat on him with you. I would make you a diagram, but we're short on time---"
"Collins, seriously? You're studying philosophy. You're a smart guy. You don't honestly believe this 'Best Friends Code', do you?"
Collins looked almost sad by my question. "Of course I do. Wholeheartedly."
I just looked at him for a moment, then to Roger's closed door. And then I left the apartment.
The problem was, kids, at the time I thought I was on top of the world. At 19, I thought I could become a renown filmmaker in a matter of a couple of years. Life doesn't work that way. You have to make a commitment; you have to work for what you want.
I was 19 and stupid and still spoiled by my parents even though they were miles away, and took everything---including my friends---for granted.
But as I stood in line at the cleansers', glancing at my watch knowing Roger's show was about to start (his first in a while), it suddenly hit me as to what the Best Friends Code truly was.
Collins and Roger had probably made it all up on the spot. I wouldn't be surprised if they had, although I never did ask them. It's something to ask your Uncle Collins at some point.
But the Code wasn't something that necessarily needed to be spoken of. It was just a representation of everyday things you take for granted when it comes to the people you're close to in your life.
Like how Roger used to pick up a coffee every single day for Collins and me after band practice, despite his grumbling about it. Or how I would go all the way back downstairs to get the mail for him when he forgot to. Or, later on, when I would nag him about taking his AZT no matter how much he yelled at me because I wanted him to take care of himself. Or how Collins would critique my short films, however harshly, and turn out to be the greatest and most honest "fan" of my early work. Little things like that. That's the Best Friends Code.
And I was violating the Best Friends Code because of a damn scarf.
I remember running as fast as my legs would carry me out of the Specialty Cleansers', and to Roger's show.
After that, the rules of the Code were never spoken about again. They didn't need to be.
"But did you get the scarf cleaned? I mean, it didn't seem like a big deal to miss one show of Roger's, right?" Angela asked, picking up her gymnastics bag.
Mark shrugged. "That wasn't the point. I did get the scarf cleaned eventually. Point is, as I've been telling you over and over, kids: Never take the people in your life for granted. You don't know when you might lose them."
