Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.
Mark
The phone rings. It echoes through the loft, bounces, skids across surfaces and knocks dust to the floor. There's so much dust now. And no food, just tins of soup and spaghetti with sauce. Which I don't eat.
The phone rings. It wakes me.
I groan and sit up. I rub my eyes. I rub my back. I rub my head.
The phone rings. I stand. It's too bright in the loft and I release two photic sneezes. Light pours in, too bright early August sunlight. I support myself on the couch.
The phone rings.
"I'm coming," I whine. Why does it have to be so loud?
I know who it is even before I answer. Only one person is so loud, so persistent, and usually doesn't bother me. It isn't Mom asking me to call her back, her tone hinting that maybe she lent me that money to keep me a part of her life. It isn't the high, smooth voice I want to hear. It's not even Maureen, whining that she just needs to crash for a few days.
"Hey," I answer the phone.
"Hey, Mark. What a pleasure to hear your joyful tone this afternoon." Collins' voice is bright and filled with nipping sarcasm.
I sigh. Roger can't come to the phone, I would say. He's in the shower. He's on the roof. Thinking. He's tuning his guitar. He's crying, I can't talk. He's in the bathroom. He went out for a run. He's taking a nap. He has a headache.
"How are you, Collins?"
"Fine, fine. Hoping to come home soon."
My stomach melts into sickness. "Great," I say. I—"We miss you."
"I'll bet." I deserved that. "How are things with you?"
"I'm fine."
"How's the kid?" he asks.
"Roger's fine. He's…" And I pause, feeling that horrible knowledge overwhelm me. My palm hits the table, hard, and the phone jumps to the floor. "Shit!" I grab it and pick it up. "You still there?" I love Collins, but I almost hope he'll say no.
"Yeah. You were saying about Roger?"
"He's napping," I say. The dustiest room is probably our—my bedroom. I haven't been in since that day. "Roger's napping. He couldn't sleep last night." The bathroom floor is perfectly comfortable. Cold, but acceptable. I sleep under a towel and on top of the other towel.
Sucks after a shower.
"Shit, he's still having nightmares?"
"Yeah." I don't know.
"Why did you tell me?" Collins asks.
"I… this was the first," I lie. "This was the first one in months."
"Good," Collins says. "Or maybe not." He sighs. "I thought he was…"
Getting better.
It's after talking to Collins that the loft seems so big I'm drowning. Funny how unused rooms only loom.
I put on my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck. I need to get out. "Roger," I call, "I'm leaving." Like maybe, just maybe, if the sound echoes, he'll come home. "I'll be back soon!" so he'll stay.
It's my fault Roger left. It's because of my God-damned libido.
When I walked into the room and he was there, stretched out on the bed, naked and facedown, what should I have thought? He had his hands stretched above his head and on the table by the bed, Vaseline, condoms, and all of our… all of my toys. Practically every ounce of blood in my body drained into my cock.
I was on top of Roger before I could think. I came three times before I was finished, then collapsed onto the bed beside him, panting, grinning, madly in love with him. Roger moaned and wriggled over to cuddle up to me, and I put my arms around him and fell asleep.
The next day I decided to change the sheets. Three orgasms produces a lot of cum, and though mine had gone neatly into condoms, Roger's had probably crusted half the bed.
When I pulled back the blankets, though… nothing. No mess. I knew these were the sheets from last night, because Roger had had no chance to change them and I certainly hadn't. Roger had not ejaculated. Now that I thought about it, he had said nothing the previous evening. Well it had been obvious enough, all the toys and nudity and such.
Wait. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he wore condoms, too. No one wants to sleep in cum-crust.
Except that he didn't take anything off. Roger was perfectly still, grunted a bit but not excessively. He only moved to be closer to me after I had pulled out the last time.
I confronted him about it when he came into the bedroom. "Did you have fun last night?" I asked.
"Yeah," Roger said.
"You didn't spray the sheets."
He forced himself to laugh. "You're mad that I d-didn't mess your b-bed?"
Shit. It was always bad news when the stammer returned. "I don't know why we're having sex if you don't like it," I said, more coldly than I meant to.
"Y-you like it," Roger said.
"Not if you don't."
"You did l-last n-night."
"Roger... if you didn't want to have sex," I began, finally asking about what had truly puzzled me, "why would you do that? Lie like that, all… naked?"
Roger shrugged. "You l-like s-s-s…" Roger looked at his shoes, took a gulp of air and said, "sex."
"But you--"
"I like it," he told me so quickly the words blurred together. He even looked at me as he spoke, though after his gaze dropped. "After," he whispered.
"What?"
"You… you like s-sex. I l-like a-after," he explained. "J-just being w-with you."
"Roger…" Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. He thought he needed to be a whore for me to love him? He thought… he thought I cared more about fucking than about him? "Why couldn't you just say that?" I demanded.
He shrugged. "Y…you'd been… h-holding me. Lately. I w-w-w… th-thought you c-could h-have s-something, t-too."
"Jesus, Roger!" I stood up. I couldn't listen to this. "I can't do this!"
"Mark--"
"I love you," I fumed. "I love you, but I want to be with you! Where are you, Roger? I can't be with this degenerate, insecure child, I want my boyfriend back!" And I stormed out of the apartment, because I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take his insecurity, his need.
I couldn't take being a complete asshole.
And that was it. When I returned home, Roger, along with his possessions, had disappeared. He left the guitar, though.
As I stomp down the pavement, I can't stop thinking about that day. I still don't know why I shouted. Well… I do. I just wish I hadn't.
"Can you spare a quarter?"
I try to close my ears. I hate bums. I hate them because I'm afraid of becoming one, and because when I was small my parents gave me allowance and I could give change to beggars and now…
"Please, mister. It's really cold. You got a quarter, mister, please?"
Now, I can just shake my head. No, I don't have a quarter. I try to go invisible as I approach the bum. I try to think about Roger. I try to remember him before, when he smiled and laughed and hugged me because he wanted, not needed, to.
"Spare change, miss?"
It doesn't work.
"Please, miss, do you have a dollar? Thank you, miss. Thank you so much."
Why does he have to sound so young, this damned beggar?
I forgot Roger's birthday. Again. Last year he was upset. He tried to hide it, but he was. This year? I think it hurt him. He remembered my birthday. My birthday was before, and Roger gifted me two pairs of socks and a night of amazing sex. He liked sex, then.
"D'you got a dollar, miss? Spare some change? Please, miss. Miss… It looks like rain, miss, you should get inside with your nice dress on. Thank you. Thank you so much."
He sounds as though he means that.
I'm only a few feet away. He'll start working me soon.
"Mister?" he asks. His voice is quiet. He made sure the others heard. Maybe he knows I can't pay him, because he practically whispers to me. "Please, mister. You got any change? Please, mister." He's sick. I can hear in his voice that he's got a nasty cold coming on, and on the streets, at this time of year…
I turn. He's young, this one. He isn't a child, but probably a teenager. "Please mister," he whispers, in the same tone Roger would beg me to finish it, when I used to tease him so he screamed when he orgasmed. "Please…"
There's something too familiar about his eyes and his lips. Under all that dirt, he could be Roger's baby brother if his hair was lighter.
"Please," he says again. Then he covers his mouth and coughs. This guy's sick. He's sick, and he's so like Roger, or maybe it's just my memory saying so.
It's been almost five months, I realize, since I even saw Roger. Maybe I don't even know what he looks like anymore. Maybe I see him everywhere.
When this beggar raises his damp eyes, he sniffles and wheezes, "'s cold. Y-you g-got a quarter, mister?"
"Shit," I say.
I look at him, at this beggar on the street with his grimy hands out, his pathetic face, and I say, "Oh, Roger…"
To be continued!
Yikes, I don't know how it got to be so long between updates. Hopefully next chapter'll be out in less time. Until then... review? Pretty please?
