Notes: I have a much clearer picture of where this story is going now, so things should be moving much more directly. Concerning the court scene, it's mostly based on when I did mock trial. Concerning what lawyers can get away with in court, they can get away with whatever they're not called on-- and that's not what a leading question is.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

Friday

morning

Mark

There are certain things I will never again be stupid enough to do.

I will never again, for one, be stupid enough to darken my goatee. I did it once, in high school, when I was a pirate for Halloween, and I had the misfortune to think using my sister's mascara was a good idea, since it was available and I wouldn't use much. And of course she had waterproof mascara, and of course she was furious with me for touching her belongings, and of course I tried to get the black goop out with alcohol.

I doubt Dad even would have noticed, except that someone at school noticed the sent of liquor and I earned myself a suspension.

I will never again eat at a Vietnamese restaurant. Maybe that's being racist, but I prefer to call it taste aversion—nice little term from my high school psychology course.

I will never again attempt to sear tuna fish.

And I will never again, I swear as I peel my aching body off the mattress, work in a bar, as it seems the fumes alone intoxicated me to the point that I am, in fact, hung over this morning.

Just getting up sends my head swimming. I moan. Maybe Roger will take pity and make me hangover food.

Does Roger even know what hangover food is? He's probably too young. I guess I can explain it to him, or Collins, if he's home.

I didn't even get undressed last night, just fell into bed in my corduroys and sweater. While I'm fishing for a fresh set of clothes, I notice that there are barely any clothes in the drawer. Better get to the laundromat before the laundry pile eats us.

I dress and wander out into the main room of the loft, our communal kitchen/eating area/lounging around space. A pile of clothes is stacked on the floor, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's is on the table.

Oh. Fuck.

And it all comes screaming back to me. The previous evening, my almost indiscretion, Roger in bed with Collins…

My headache is worse.

I force myself to take a deep breath, to focus on what's going on, on what is here and now.

Collins is sitting at the table, dragging a spoon through a bowl of soup to make little spirals.

"Hey," I say. He watches me. I sit down. What's going on? Of course I'm expecting fallout. I'm expecting shouting. I'm expecting reason. I'm expecting… well, any number of things, but not Collins' angry glower. "Is Roger…?" and I nod in the direction of the bedroom.

"No."

"Oh."

We're supposed to be fighting over a boy, right?

I guess it's sad to realize, and it's a sad fact, but outside of Collins, I haven't many friends. Any friends. I have Maureen, the temptress at work, and I had Roger, but now it's become a matter of me and Collins and what's between us, and that what being "Roger" just won't work.

"Hey, it's his choice, right?" Maybe we can stay on decent terms.

Collins asks, "What?"

"Roger," I say. "It's his choice, who he wants to be with."

For a few seconds, Collins stares at me. I wait. "You think he is leaving you?" Collins asks.

I spit, "Well he fucked you, didn't he?"

"Are you… Mark…" Collins stammers, then he pauses, takes a deep breath, and demands, "Are you out of your God damned mind?"

I physically recoil. "What?"

Collins stares at me, furious. "Or are you just that selfish?"

That crosses a line. Yes, I am upset and yes, I do look out for myself, but that's not to say that I don't or won't or can't care about anyone else. Of course I care. If I didn't care about Roger, how could it hurt so much?

"I saw him in bed with you!"

"Yeah! Because he woke me up last night, practically in tears, what was I supposed to say? 'No, Roger, I won't comfort you, go off and snuff your candle'?"

I frown. "What… I don't know that expression, snuffing your candle."

"Killing yourself."

Now it's my turn to glare angrily. "He's not doing that anymore." It happened once. Roger made a mistake, he knows that, there's no point in harping on it.

Collins just shakes his head. He's disappointed. I struggle to maintain my anger. Something about Collins' disappointment makes me want to apologize, even if I have done nothing wrong. "You think the fact that he failed to kill himself has made Roger feel better?" he asks. "Mark, Roger recognizes how vulnerable he is, so do I. Frankly I don't give a shit what you think, because I'd rather see you miserable than let Roger kill himself."

What? Collins is supposed to be my friend! "He's over-reacting." Real friends don't abandon one another for teenage drama queens.

"Over-reacting."

"Yes."

Collins stares at me in utter disbelief. "Do you care about Roger, or not?"

Is he purposely trying to insult me? "What?" Does he imagine I share my bed with Roger, and hold him at night, and fuck him, and kiss him, and care nothing for him? As though Roger is nothing more than a cheap whore!

"It's a simple question, Mark. I want to know if care about Roger, because if you don't…" Collins shakes his head.

"If I don't, what?" I ask. Collins makes that sound like a threat, and I don't like that.

"Then leave him," Collins said, "because you're making this worse than it already is."

I walk out of the loft without another word.

afternoon

Collins

The truth is, I'm guilty.

I knew Roger was going to try to suicide himself. I knew probably before he knew. I saw the signs, and I took what precautions I saw fit: I moved the sharper knives out of the kitchen, so that if he meant to slit his wrists it would be a time-consuming, hacking attempt. Neither I nor Mark used a straight razor, Mark because he was clumsy in the mornings and me because I wouldn't risk the cuts, my blood being what it was. I bought ipecac in case he took pills.

Against drowning and hanging, I did nothing, only kept an eye on Roger and tried to avoid biting my nails to the quick when he was out of my sight. No one wants a friend to die, especially not under such circumstances.

I took so many precautions, I thought, and yet I failed. I expected every day to come home and find a hysterical message or note from Mark—We're in the hospital. Roger's had an accident.—but it never came. I would stand at the door, blinking to re-orient myself.

When did it happen? Why, when I stood right by. I knew what was going to happen, and I let it happen.

Looking back, I was a fool. Oh, I took into account the eventuality, but it was never an eventuality. It was going to happen, Roger was going to make that attempt, and I knew it. I did nothing to stop it.

Maybe it wasn't going to happen.

No, that's stupid. It might not happen, but still, no harm in sitting the kid down for a talk, right? But I didn't, and if my only excuse is uncertainty, I have precious little excuse to make.

Maybe he needed it to happen.

That makes a bit more sense. Roger tends towards the dramatic. He would never take his own life for flair; no, that's not his style. He would do it because he believed, quite certainly in that undeniable soul-like place inside him, that he was better off dead.

Why not? Roger took a beating when he moved in with us. Mark wasn't what Roger had hoped, but going back to his mom was out of the question. But even then, he had school for routine, and soccer for love.

Now what does Roger have? He has Mark, who failed him. He has nightmares of something no one should ever experience. He has his mother who comes around every few nights to check up on him and touch his hair and not understand. And he has me, and I think I've shown just what sort of friend I am.

Stop it.

It doesn't do any good to harp on the negatives and failures, especially not one my day off.

I figured, oversleep two classes, it's as good as illness.

The moment the rain begins to pound, I know Mark will return home as soon as he can. He's useless with mechanics, wouldn't dare risk his camera being ruined. So I do what I have to. I put the kettle on. I start preparing myself for the conversation.

When he comes through the door, Mark glances at me, pauses, then heads for his bedroom.

"Mark."

He pauses. "Collins." Mark sighs. "I'm not in the mood." He starts for the bedroom again.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

I don't know if Mark misheard, doesn't believe it, or just wants to make me say it again. I suspect the last, and I indulge it. "I'm sorry, Mark. I crossed a line earlier and I'm sorry."

Mark nods. "Well… thanks for saying so."

"Will you sit down?" I ask. "We should talk. Tea?" Another glorious gift from Roger's mother, who actually believed he had developed an affinity for tea the last few months he lived with her.

The way he watches me as he sits at the table, it's as though Mark thinks I'll bite him—and, more importantly, that I'll give him rabies. It's not so funny when I think about what I could give him, in any manner of innocent accidents.

"I'm worried about Roger."

"I care about him," Mark snaps. "I care about Roger just as much—"

"I know," I say, trying to cool him down. "I know, Mark. That's why I'm talking to you, because you care about him and I know you want to help him. I'm just not sure if you know how."

Mark doesn't say a word. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to admit that I don't know how to help my boyfriend, not when he's halfway between offing himself and just not getting up in the morning.

I continue, "I was thinking it might help him to talk about it, or at least have the chance to talk about it, in an environment that doesn't involve thirty strangers."

But the real question is, can Mark handle that? There are things Roger whispered to me last night, that were painful enough for me that all I could do was hold him tighter, phrases like "rectal tearing" and "inflammation" hinting at pains we never knew he felt. He told me how long it lasted, and how many of them there were.

And even though Roger told me the details, of what they did to him and what they did to each other, he didn't get to the heart of the problem. He didn't begin to tell me what he was feeling, and there's not much chance of that happening now. And now he won't tell me. If the boy only felt safe enough to speak in the dark, so he didn't have to see my reaction, and in bed, held, and to me…

There's no chance now of recreating those circumstances. Roger didn't wake me this morning, but I have a fair guess at what happened, since by the time I did get up, all of his clothes were folded into neat piles and set out of the way. He knows what Mark thought.

So I will never again be that close with Roger.

"You want me to talk to him?"

"Unless you can think of a way he'd trust me like that again, without thinking you've kicked him out."

Mark's eyes go cold, and I know I've made a mistake. "He still wants to kill himself," I add hurriedly. "Mark, he still doesn't know what to do. He's lost everything, and he had some problems to begin with."

"So what should I do?"

I shake my head. "I don't know." He's signed out of school, and honestly I wish I had insisted he stay. At least when he moved in, he had classes and he had soccer. "Could you get him a job at the bar?"

"He's seventeen."

"Washing dishes?"

Mark bites his lip. He nods. "I'll see. I just started there but I'll see."

"All right. Well that's something, at least. And it wouldn't hurt to be affectionate… like really affectionate. And Mark… thank you. I know this isn't exactly easy for you and I appreciate your making the effort."

It's then, with Mark staring at me and me wishing, somehow, that I had made him see, that the door slides open and in walks Roger, damp and dripping. He shakes himself and pulls off his wet sweater, trudges into the bathroom and hangs it in the shower to dry.

I give Mark a Look. He stands and goes to the bathroom door. "Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Hey, baby."

Roger steps up and kisses Mark's cheek. "Hey."

Roger starts to move away, but Mark reaches out and touches his cheek, and Roger stops. I've got to admit, the boy knows what he's up to. "How was your day?"

"Fine." Mark stares. "Oh. Yours?"

"Fine."

Roger heads past Mark and walks into the 'kitchen'. "Anyone got a preference on dinner?" he asks. He suggests pasta.

I know what'll happen tonight when Mark asks Roger if he would maybe like to talk about what happened. It's over. We had a window, we didn't use it.

That's the problem with people, they change. You make a plan for an open, loving child, who happens to have been mistreated. And over the course of a single day, he's closed his heart.

To be continued