A RENT Fan-Fic
…I'm
happier now than I've ever been,
And
I'm hoping this feeling won't die,
And
if he says he's just some guy,
That's
fine; the truth is, he's mine:
My
sweetheart, my love – sent down from the sky,
And
so very much more than just some guy.
I
think I've always loved him. From the very first moment that we met, I knew
we'd be as close as brothers. In fact, we're nearly inseparable most of the
time. If not for Mimi, Roger and I would be living happily ever after right
now. Don't get me wrong; I've never hated Mimi. I've never even disliked her.
She was such a nice girl and a great friend to me and the rest of the gang: not
to mention she made Roger happy. Anyone who can do that has earned my respect
already. I can't say, however, that I wasn't jealous of the power she held over
Roger. I was extremely envious, so much so that my face turned from my usual
pallid glaze to a dark forest green. It was as if there had been this fierce
competition between us both, and she didn't even notice! Me? I notice
everything. That's what I do – I stand by and take notice of every single,
insignificant, major or minor details that might or might not be missed by
another's glancing eye. Then, I dissect it like the twisted scientist I am
until the facts have spun out of control and they mesh in a sort of breathless
haze, mixing with a vivid assortment of fabulous colors woven with intricate
delight. So, where do I fit in with the rest of the world? Nowhere. I'm Mark
Cohen.
In
retrospect, I'm not so sure I ever knew I loved him until this one day…. It stands
out in my mind like a banana in a pile of grapes. The day was April 29th.
The year was 1998. This was the day that Collins had died. Mimi had gone back
home, before she'd known about Collins' death, to visit her family. Maureen and
Joanne had moved away to California, where they would soon be getting married.
That left us both alone (not as if Benny cared, since he moved away to New
Jersey with Allison) to grieve over the death of our closest friend. I remember
it was late afternoon, as the sun was setting on a cold New York day. It was
around 6:00PM when I heard the door to our small loft open. I remember thinking
that it was too early for Roger to be returning home and that he and his
band-mates must have had some kind of fight or trouble between them….
"Hey
Roger," I called out softly, sliding off our folding table and standing to my
feet. There was no answer and I remember getting a sick feeling in my stomach
as he entered another step. "Roger?"
"Yeah….
I'm here…." His voice was rasp and choked.
"What's
the matter?" I asked in all my naïve, innocent goodness, moving a step closer
as he did the same. As he entered our dimly lit apartment, I remember the tears
on his pale cheeks. I remember my heart stopping in my chest and all breath
being choked from my lungs as he stared at me with such a melancholy gaze that
I was rendered speechless and motionless. I just stood there like an idiot,
watching those big, brown eyes of his implore me to do something – to take away
whatever pain he was feeling. At this point, I knew something was terribly
wrong. "What is it, Roger?" I assumed the worst. "Mimi…?"
"No…."
He shook his head defiantly with a sense of sadness. He frantically wiped the
tears away and began to walk towards me. "It's…. It's Collins, Mark…. He's….
He's dead…."
"Oh
no…." I breathed, my voice quivering. Never in a million years had I imagined
that Collins would die. "God, no…. Not Collins…." I felt a sharp pain shoot
through my entire body and I fell to the floor, sobbing immediately. Feeling the
coursing waterfall of tears cascade rapidly down each cheek and my heart
stopping and going with erratic motions, I was lost in despair. Just when I
remember thinking that nothing could ease the pain and that I would be forlorn
eternally, I felt the gentle pressure of fingertips on my shoulder. I jerked my
head towards the bearer of this loving gesture only to be amazed and shocked
beyond belief, for it was Roger who had asserted such a wondrous touch! Male or
female, friend or lover – none have since matched the emotions that that
contact stirred within my heart. Then, I watched in stunned silence as he knelt
beside me and we embraced awkwardly. As my eyes slammed shut, I felt myself
clinging to my best friend for whatever love he had to offer me. I felt myself
pulling him closer and my fingers digging into his back as I held him, weeping
like an infant into his chest, burying my face in the flimsy cloth that
separated us. At that moment, my heart had begun to pound like there was no
tomorrow. I remember my breath coming in gasps and I faintly recall choking on
my words as I tried to speak. He hushed me softly and we just sat there, crying
together.
As
my tears subsided, he pulled slightly away and I trembled with the sudden
coldness that washed over me as I left his arms. My own arms instinctively
groped out towards him and then I felt my cheeks grow hot and redden under his
confused gaze. As I opened my eyes, I felt embarrassed and silly, and it was
then that I knew that he'd been holding me only to ease my pain – not for what
I had wanted at that moment. But then, something strange and wonderful happened
– something that changed our lives forever….
I
felt myself bow my head like a young child, and I lowered my gaze innocently to
the floor to avoid any further feelings of foolishness that might be
accompanied with his bewildered stare. My face was beet red now and I could
feel the heat flowing into my cheeks. The harder I tried to think of how to
stop it, the more the color flooded my visage and I was left feeling so below
him and so undeserving of whatever kind of love I had dreamed of, that I didn't
dare think any more about it. But then, just as I thought the world would end
if I said what I was feeling, I felt those lithe musician's fingertips gracing
my chin, pushing it easily up, so that we both gazed into each other's eyes. My
own eyes brimmed with tears, and his were red from having wept before. His skin
against mine should have been a soothing reminder of our cohesive friendship,
but it was, instead, a turning point for the unknown feelings in my heart,
which caused me to shiver more than I had before, in all my timid pining. I
felt my lashes flutter down to rest upon crimson skin as ashen lids were
exposed. His fingers began to roam across my face – starting with my cheek,
lips and jaw line – and my breathing came in harsh gasps that made my chest
ache. I ached elsewhere, as well, and it was then that I felt my heart give way
and I could admit that I loved him. I heard myself whisper it inwardly. 'I love
you, Roger… God, I love you….' But, no words were uttered from my thin, parted
lips as I struggled to maintain control.
I
reopened my eyes and saw him recoil slightly, as if he'd been released from a
magical spell, and he began to stand. I remember grabbing his arm with both of
my weak hands, and I begged him not to leave me. Before I knew it, we were both
standing on our feet and we were inches apart, our bodies nearly touching at
the chest. I felt the heat of his body repel against my own and it drove my
senses wild with frenzied lust. It was more than my inexperienced mind could
handle, but it felt so damn good. It gave me a feeling of courage, and, with
that extra boost of nerve, I reached a quivering hand out and cupped his cheek.
I then remember distinctly that I pulled his face close to mine and we both
turned our heads, moving in for a kiss. My heart nearly leapt from my chest,
and I was so sure he could hear the pounding from where he stood – so close to
me then that our muscles were touching, our chests pressed tightly together.
His breath came hot upon my face as my eyes closed for the second time that
evening. I felt my own breath mingle with his, mixing until I couldn't tell
which was whose. And then, just as our lips were centimeters away, he pulled
away from my gentle offer and strode across the room to the farthest corner. I
whimpered as he moved away, and though my eyes were still closed, I felt him
turn his back to me. I swallowed and licked my dry lips carefully, shaking and
wavering as I stood silently, waiting with a desperate hunger for his lips to
be once again so near mine!
I
opened my eyes and looked at him hopelessly. I moved forward and slipped into a
folding chair at the table, letting my head fall into my folded arms and I let
go – crying again without abandon. My shoulders raised and descended with a
jerking pattern, brisk and freely, as I sobbed into my own arms, longing for
Roger again…. I felt him turn to watch me, silent in his own agony. I
remembering knowing that he must have been thinking, 'Oh God, what do I do?' I
felt him walk towards me slowly, every step more painful than the next. When he
was close enough, his hand moved towards me and it graced the tender skin on
the back of my neck lightly, rousing the tiny hairs that lay there.
"God
Mark…." He whispered so quietly that my ears strained to make it out. "I'm so,
so sorry…."
With
those words, he was gone.
That
was the last I saw of him for a few days. He'd gone and stayed at a cheap hotel
in Jersey with the other members of his band and had left before the payment
was due, leaving the rest to pay. For those few days he was gone, I was a
wreck, tossing and turning in what little sleep I managed to get, and always
wandering around the Village lost, with a dazed look on my face. Mimi returned
the following day. Roger had called her, she'd told me. He'd told her about
Collins and she had returned as soon as possible. I was thankful for another
person in the loft, for without another soul, I would have done the inconceivable
and committed suicide with a cheap plastic knife from McDonald's. But, I was
horrified and distraught by having Mimi there to comfort me. We wept together
the first day she returned, but after that I felt sick and tortured by her
every movement around me. She'd sometimes catch me sobbing on the floor of our
tiny bathroom and she'd try to console me to no avail. She assumed it was
Collins I was grieving, and it was, but only partially. Part of me was gone
without Collins by my side. He'd always been that unmovable force to be
reckoned with. If ever I had money problems, it was Collins to the rescue. If I
was having a fight with Roger (which wasn't often), he'd be the mediator and
we'd be through it by lunchtime. But, Collins' death, though painful and unnerving,
was not the only cause for my sudden depression. Roger's absence was more
terrifying to me, because if he left me forever, I would have lost two of my
closest friends.
But,
within that week, Roger returned and nothing was spoken about the near explosion
of passion between us the other night. He simply went on with his life and we
all mourned Collins' death in our ways.
Now,
it's nearing the year 2000. It's December 11th, to be exact. Roger
hasn't been home for a few weeks now. Mimi died while she was visiting a friend
near 11th and Broadway on the 1st of November. A cocaine
dealer had mistaken her for one of his clients, ironically by the name Mimi,
who hadn't paid her bills for a year and in a fit of rage had shot our poor
Mimi to death with five bullets through her chest. She had only lived long
enough to tell Roger that she loved him and would always love him, no matter
what. She had looked at me and tried to whisper something, but it was such a
strain that she'd passed away in the process. I thought what she was trying to
say was, 'Take care of him', but I could be mistaken. However, I took what I
perceived to heart and had treated Roger with all the tenderness and care of a
dutiful servant or even a loving father. I thought he was progressing nicely
until I awoke one morning to find his bed empty and a handwritten note lying
atop his tussled bed sheets. It contained the following message in its
entirety:
Dear
Mark,
You're probably finding this note hours
after I left. Goddamn it Mark, I don't know what to say. I'm lost and I can't
fight these feelings anymore! I'm giving up on life as a starving artist, or
whatever the hell I am right now, and moving away to a better place…. You have
no idea what this past year has been like for me. I've been lost ever since
Collins died…. You remember that day? Mimi and I weren't getting along,
and that makes her passing so much worse…. I just – I need some time to myself,
Mark. I'll come back…. Soon.
I
promise.
Your
friend always,
Roger
If
I wouldn't have been so upset and dismayed by what the note was telling me, I
would have laughed at the silly way Roger signed his name. It was so simple,
almost childlike with its large almost capital lettering. I allowed myself to
read the note over too many times. I picked up on everything that Roger was
trying to say. I saw how he'd started to say 'You remember that day?' but had
scribbled it out, probably after a moment of thoughtless recollection. But, why
had he left it there and not gotten a new piece of paper? There were plenty of
sheets left. Why didn't he at least scratch it out completely? 'He wanted me to
read that,' I had known. And after reading it a fifth time over, I fell into
the bed where he used to lie and had fallen asleep instantly – alone.
"Hey
Roger! What the hell are you doing in there?" called a voice from the hallway
outside the bathroom where Roger had blockaded himself with a razorblade.
"You've been in there for days!"
Roger
glanced towards the door, swallowing. A dense sweat had long-since broken out
on his brow and his hair had grown longer in these few weeks he'd been gone
from the Village. He'd grown a goatee, too. He wore torn-up khakis and a
drenched t-shirt. He stood slowly, grabbing hold of the sink and forcing his
eyes towards the mirror. What he saw unnerved him. He was a trembling, dirty
street kid with a grubby goatee that wasn't shaved properly and a mess of
tussled locks that were beginning to fall in his face.
"Roger….?
You still in there?" continued the voice, worried now.
Roger
sighed, letting the razor drop into the sink as he turned his head towards the
door. "Yeah, I'm here." He turned on the water, moving the razor to its
rightful place beside the sink, and threw some water on his unclean features.
"Are
you coming out, or do you plan to live in there?"
Roger
laughed lightly. "If you had food in here, I just might take you up on that
offer."
"I
could call room service, if you so desire, Your Majesty."
"Haha,
very funny Beck…."
"Does
that make me the Queen then, if you're the King?"
Roger
turned the water off, wiping his face dry with his sleeve as he unlocked and
opened the door. "Not that I'm not flattered you'd want to be my Queen, but no
thanks."
"Well
that hurts!" she replied with her hands on her hips. As Roger moved out into
the hallway, she noticed his deranged façade and made a confused face. "Roger
honey, are you okay?"
"Never
been better, why?" He continued to walk, not turning to face her.
"Now
Roger, don't lie to me or I'll kick your ass out of here so fast it'll make
your head spin!" she retorted, running up behind him and turning him to face
her. "Geez, babe, you look awful."
"Thanks,"
he replied sarcastically, pushing her away and plopping down on the small
couch. "You look great too."
"I'm
only trying to help, Roger," she hissed, kicking him playfully. "Still in the
mourning process, I guess."
"Yeah…."
He turned his head away, looking out of the small, plastic-wrapped window of
the tiny, one-bedroom apartment in New Jersey. Becky Kaiser had been an old
acquaintance of his, back in the days when he played with his band at CBGB's
and the Pyramid Club (before they tore it down). He had been sleeping on the
streets, content to just let himself whither away and die there – alone and
lonely – but Becky had noticed him and had taken him in with no questions
asked. The questions came later, once he'd moved in. He'd told her everything –
everything, that is, but what had happened on one occasion between Mark and he.
That was something he had yet to figure out and confront. Until he could talk
to himself about it, he wouldn't tell another soul. He'd attempted to call Mark
a few times, but each time he picked up the phone, he'd drop it just as
quickly. He was deathly afraid that if he went back to live with Mark, he might
lose his best friend as he'd lost Collins and Mimi.
"Wanna
talk about it?" Becky continued softly, placing a hand on Roger's shoulder.
"Not
really." He shrugged her off.
She
rolled her eyes, standing to her feet. "Fine. Be that way, Roger. You know, I'm
only trying to help you here!"
"I
know, Beck…. I'm sorry…. Ask me anything else, okay? I can't talk about my
problems…."
She
stomped off into the bathroom, muttering something about his living there but
not really being all there.
He
sighed, leaning back in the soft cushions. It was nearing Christmas time
already. So many memories resided around Christmas Eve that he didn't want to
think about it. The first time Mimi and he had met when she needed a light for
her candle. Then, he'd purposely tried to hide her stash so that she would stay
a while longer. It was also the first night they kissed. And, it was the night
that he'd told her he loved her and she him. This year, Christmas would seem so
empty…. He remembered further back and smiled, recalling his first meeting with
Angel. Collins had seemed so happy and alive with her. Of course, she'd made
them all feel alive. Poor Collins…. At least they were together in Heaven now.
He recoiled slightly at this thought. Did he even believe there was a Heaven?
He wasn't sure anymore….
"C'mon
Roger," Becky called, entering again. "We're going out tonight."
"I'm
not in the mood…." He replied, turning away.
"Well…tough!"
She grabbed his arm, pulling him to his feet. "You live in my house, so you
have to abide by my rules," she scolded like a parent.
He
smiled softly. "Do I have to go out?"
"Yes!
If you're not careful, you'll go into withdrawal. You've already become a
hermit – always staying home, never getting fresh air…. Why, look at your face,
Roger! You're pale as a ghost!"
He
shrugged. "I hate going out."
"Even
with me as company?"
He sighed, letting his
shoulders droop. That was his only reply.
"Oh
fine you!" She placed her hands on either cheek and squeezed his face together
so that he looked foolish. "Now," she whispered in baby talk, "If wittle Woger
doesn't come out with Becky, he'll be beaten sewerely when we get home." She
pinched his cheeks.
He
pulled away, laughing slightly. "Fine, fine…. Just don't use that voice again –
ever. Where are we going?"
"It's
a surprise!" She smirked.
He grumbled, "I hate surprises…."
"December
21st: 6PM Eastern Standard Time – I can't believe a month's already
passed. Turn the camera on. First shot: Mimi, just days before she died…."
"What
a beautiful frame, Mark," cooed Maureen, holding Joanne's hand as they sat
inside the tiny loft, watching Mark's newest film.
"Don't
interrupt the narrative," he said with a weary smile. They hushed. "Close on
Roger as he mourns beside her coffin, with Benny in the background, crying on
Allison's shoulder – did we ever truly thing he cared?"
"Of
course I cared!" Benny blurted, folding his arms.
"Shh!"
they all cried.
"Fade
in on a gloomy November day… as Roger runs away – as usual – from all his petty
problems. Watch the letter he wrote me fade into the black…. He left a
half-finished song entitled 'Won't You Please Come Home?' strewn upon the
floor. Let's hear it now as Mimi's coffin falls into the dirt – not a place she
ever wanted to be…."
The
four friends listened intently as Roger's song was played softly in the
background of the film, as Mimi's coffin was buried slowly with all the friends
– save Roger – standing around the grave. The song was bittersweet and
terrified, speaking of things that only Mark could truly grasp. It stopped
midpoint with an unfinished chorus and uneasy notes scribbled out swiftly on
the paper. The film continued….
"Close
on Maureen and Joanne – the happily newlywed couple, fresh in from California.
Just back from their honeymoon, they kiss…." Mark recoiled slightly as he
watched them French-kissing – a little too passionately for his taste – before
his eyes. "Let's fast-forward…"
"Aw,
but that's the best part, Markie!" retorted Maureen with a smirk.
"Yee-aah!"
cried Benny, watching with interest. "This is your best film yet, Mark." He
winked at Joanne, obviously enjoying the lesbian action a little too much.
"Gimmie
a break, pervert!" retorted Joanne, rolling her eyes.
"Tell
me again why he's here," Maureen whispered.
Benny
made a disgusted face and sneered at Maureen. "I'm a friend."
"Some
friend. Didn't even come to Collin's –"
Mark
raised a hand defiantly. "Stop – both of you." He turned back to the camera.
"Back to my movie…."
Shots
of all the friends in their days of glory flew before Mark's eyes, and it was
hard to watch it all at once like that. His heart had given way a long time ago
to sharing emotions in front of others. He'd always been known as the sappy one
and the one most likely to cry. He refused to let such a weakness get the
better of him. But, he couldn't stop the flow of thoughts that pervaded through
his mind like a wildfire. As he watched images – those flimsy moments of tenderness
that he captured on his small 16mm camera – he felt bitter guilt and raging
sadness. The pictures of Roger were the worst. He never looked happy – not in
any one of the shots Mark seized.
Disgusted with his film and the
simple shots he showed, Mark flicked off the projector swiftly and began
packing it away. "I'm not in the mood," was his only reasoning behind it to his
friends.
Roger
stood on the small stage that was set up in the Life Café – guitar in hand. It
was his first time back in New York since he'd left Mark. Becky had made a few
calls, acquiring Roger some small gigs at various eateries and cafes around the
New Jersey area. He'd made a small name for himself and was beginning to grow
popular among underground artists and was becoming something of a cult
musician. His music seemed to reach people of a younger generation, giving him
a chance to be seen in many performance venues – small ones, of course. This
gig was especially important to him, however. The Life Café was not only his first
performance in New York, but it was a place where all his old friends might
very well be seen. He wasn't sure if he wanted Mark there or not. All he knew
was that he was nervous for the first time about performing in front of a
group.
The
waiters rushed about, and the small audience clapped, eating their dinners as
they looked up at the lithe musician who stood before them, holding an electric
guitar and strumming it twice to tune. The bandmates that surrounded him
included one drummer and a bass guitarist. They were nearing the end of the
first set and Roger decided to give them a fast-paced song to pep them up from
all the sappy songs they'd been doing.
"Thanks,
guys," he whispered, nodding his head. "For the last song of this set, we'll do
'Run Away' – a song I wrote a long time ago." Clearing his throat, Roger began:
"Never
again will I allow myself to feel that way,
And
never again will I let love lead me astray –
I've
got to run, run away…."
Mark
walked down the deserted streets of Greenwich Village, pulling his coat
securely around his shoulders. He felt utterly miserable on this cold September
night. After January, he knew Roger wasn't coming back. Around February, he'd
finally stopped feeling sorry for himself and had started going out again –
alone. Every night, he felt worse than before, but he never allowed himself to
get really upset over anything, until one day just a week ago when he'd taken a
razor blade and sliced through his right wrist. He didn't even go to the
hospital afterwards. Somehow, he managed to make it through that and lived with
only a deep cut bandaged on that wrist. Maureen and Joanne had gone back to
their humble lives in the Village and Benny went back to Allison, more-or-less leaving
Mark alone completely. As if anyone would care that he was suicidal, depressed,
and emotionally unstable. But, he wasn't pitying himself. He figured it was
only a one-time thing and it wouldn't happen again….
Soon,
he found himself outside the Life Café. He hadn't planned to take this route to
get wherever it was he was going, and yet something had pulled him towards the
restaurant's pleasant and comforting walls. Somehow, every time things were
going wrong, the Life Café seemed to ease whatever pains he had. Standing
outside and peering into the windows, he saw a band onstage and smiled as he
heard their lively lyrics and entertaining music. Letting his eyes droop, he
stuffed his hands in his pockets, producing a few thin bills – enough to buy a
tea or two, at the most. He sighed, shrugging it off. If need be, he'd skip out
on the bill again like always. They'd come to dread his every appearance there,
but they couldn't kick him out without reason.
Pushing
the door open slowly, he let the atmosphere of the café cover him. Glancing
around, he noted that it was packed tonight. 'Must be a big-time band,' he
thought aimlessly, taking a table in the back corner near the door – his usual
place for when he was eating alone, which was often now. A waiter rushed over
towards him, carrying an empty tray, obviously rushed.
"Look
sir," he began, talking as if he'd had three mocha cappuccinos already, "As you
can see, we've got a full house tonight, so if you're not going to buy
anything, then would you please mind –"
Mark
produced the crumpled bills and let them fall to the tabletop. "Just a tea,
thanks…. Keep whatever change is left – if there is any."
The
waiter nodded, rushing off towards another table, all Mark's money in hand.
"…Do
you hear the darkness calling me today?
Well,
I hear it with open ears, and I pray
For
you to run away, run away…"
Mark's
foot tapped along to the rock feel of the song that slid over him, filling his
ears with its peppy feel and yet melancholy lyrics. His tea was brought swiftly
and he took a sip while surveying the crowd. Mostly teenagers – young girls, at
that – sat around, hanging on every word uttered from the lead singer's lips.
Mark chuckled softly for the first time in a long while as he watched the
girls, with their skin-tight shirts and pants that could be sewn on, as they
boosted themselves appropriately and leaned on their elbows across countertops
to try and catch any of the musician's eyes. Shaking his head, he allowed
himself to see what all the fuss was about, and let his eyes stray to the band
in center-stage. His eyes widened immediately and the tea slid from his hands
to the floor, crashing in an aura of sound, which was – thankfully – blocked
mostly by the riffs in the guitars onstage. It had only taken an instant for
the sight and sound to mesh together and produce the vivid image that sat
before him. Though Roger had changed his look considerably, it was still that
same raw quality that Mark had always been drawn to. Roger's hair was longer
now and dyed more blonde than the dirty color it used to be. He'd grown a
goatee that was in terrible need of trimming and it was apparently dyed blonde
as well. His clothes consisted of a skin-tight white t-shirt and a pair of
loose-fitting black jeans. He looked almost like a model from a coffeehouse
magazine.
"Would
you like another…tea, was it sir?" asked a waitress, kneeling to pick up the
pieces of glass that had exploded around all over the floor.
"Uhh….no,
thanks…." Mark replied in confusion, still gawking opening at Roger's lithe
form onstage as the song ended.
"Don't
tell me I've broken you apart!
Don't
tell me you've got an aching heart –
I'm
a modern piece of art –
Strewn
about and cluttered in a cart….
Run
away, I wanna run away…
Run
away, I gotta get away…
Run
away."
They
band's last chord echoed softly as they took their bows graciously and the
crowd clapped. Roger nodded politely. "Thanks again," he whispered. "We're
gonna take a break for a little bit now, but we'll do our second set within the
half hour. Thanks." The applause slowly died down as Roger unplugged his
guitar, setting it off to the side on a small stand there. The other bandmates
dispersed into the audience and found seats.
"C'mon
over and have dinner with us before the next set, Roger," called the drummer.
"No
thanks, Matt," he replied with a soft smile. "I'm not too hungry."
Suddenly
a pair of hands appeared over Roger's eyes, clouding his view. A high-pitched
voice accompanied the gesture. "Guess who?"
"Uh…
Barry White."
Becky
rolled her eyes, letting go. "Very funny. I'm not that sexy, am I?"
"Not
quite." He grinned. "Did you enjoy the set?"
"Definitely!
I always enjoy your songs, y'know. Why do you even bother to ask?"
"I
dunno…." He shrugged.
"C'mon,
let's get a seat somewhere in this packed house, eh?"
He
shook his head. "No thanks. Not hungry." Suddenly, he realized that more than a
few teenaged girls were eyeing him hungrily from the front table. He smiled
nervously. "Hello, girls."
They
bit their lips, blushing and giggling, waving and saying their hellos.
Roger
kept the forced smile and whispered in Becky's ear, "Can we get out of here?
They're making me nervous…."
"Don't
want to get your shirt ripped off?"
"Not unless you're doing the
ripping, babe."
She
squealed like one of the teens and hugged him. "Okay, let's go take a walk."
Roger
nodded and brushed his hair behind his ears – a gesture he'd gotten used to now
that his hair was as long as it was. Making his way towards the door, his foot
slipped on something and he was forced to grab hold of Becky to keep from
falling. "Shit," he whispered, looking around. "There's water all over the
floor…." He waved towards a waiter who seemed busy enough already. "Excuse me,
waiter? Clean this up before someone else slips, please." The waiter nodded and
Roger continued on his way out. Before he took three steps though, he stopped,
his eyes searching around. He suddenly felt the presence of a pair of eyes on
his back. It was like the eerie feeling he got when he felt as if he was being
followed on a dark street. Turning, he only noticed a pale, thin man with
bright red hair sitting before him with his head bowed down, eyes studying the
table.
"Roger?
What's the matter?" Becky asked, tugging on his shoulder.
"Uhh….
Nothing…." He shook his head, trying to turn away, but all too abruptly his
heart stopped beating and his breath was wrung from his body. "Shit," he
muttered under his breath, turning on his heels in one swift motion. Studying
the skinny boy before him, he noticed without delay the striped scarf – so
intense and flamboyant in all its reminiscent glory: unlike any other scarf in
NYC. Making his way slowly back to the table, he stood before it and looked
down at the man there. "Excuse me...?"
Mark
looked up slowly, knowing now the confrontation was unavoidable, much as he
wasn't ready to see Roger again. Their eyes locked and Mark shivered. "Yeah?"
he asked, hoping and praying that maybe Roger wouldn't remember him. What a
stupid thought! How could he not remember after such a short time?
Roger
swallowed, licking his dry lips. "Hey…." Oh God, it was Mark! Something
inside of him gave way at that moment and he knew that he'd only come to the
café tonight in hopes of this very situation. Now that it presented itself, he
knew nothing of what he should say. He still hadn't clarified whatever feelings
he had for this thin boy before him, and so what was he to do?
Mark's
eyes were the first to give way and lower, breaking the intense gaze that
seemed to say more than words could ever do. "Hey," he replied, toying with the
edge of his scarf.
"Can
I sit?"
"Sure…."
Mark found the word hard to speak. It was as if he didn't want anything to do
with Roger, when that was the only thing he really did want – to be with Roger.
Just to once more feel his arms around him – that would be enough! Roger sat
carefully, waving Becky away. Mark looked up in time to witness this and then
glanced back at Roger, confused. "She your girlfriend?" he found himself
asking, although he hadn't wanted to say that at all.
Roger
smiled, shaking his head. "No…. Don't you remember Becky?"
"No."
He
shrugged, trying to make the conversation easy, but it was hard. "She used to
be in my band, back in the CBGB's days…."
"Oh…."
The
silence hung like a black cloud over the table and this gave them both time to
ascertain what the other was thinking. Breaking the reverie, the waiter
reappeared, cleaning the mess.
"Can
I get you another drink, sir?" he asked after picking up all the pieces. "Or
you, Mr. Davis?"
Mark
shook his head, shrugging. "No flow."
Roger
glanced at the waiter and then back to Mark. "Bring him another tea – on me."
As
Mark shot him a shocked glance, the waiter continued, "Anything for you, sir?"
"How
about a tea for me, as well?"
"Sure."
He scurried off.
Mark
stared at Roger until the musician was forced to turn and meet the awkward
gaze. "You didn't have to do that."
"I
know…." Roger bowed his head. "It's the least I can do, right?"
"No."
Mark found his own voice to be bitter and filled with hate, when he wanted only
to forgive and forget.
Roger
swallowed, closing his eyes briefly before turning them up to Mark with a
pleading stare. "God, I'm so sorry…."
"No
big deal…. It's a free tea, after all, and –"
"No,"
retorted Roger with a serious tone. "That's not what I meant…." Roger pushed
his hair back behind his ears again swiftly. "I'm sorry I left so abruptly…. I
just couldn't take it anymore, Mark. Everything was going wrong and I –"
"Don't
worry about it," Mark replied with a shrug, lowering his gaze. "No big deal."
"Yes
it is a big deal, Mark!" Roger retorted in a hushed whisper, leaning over the
table. "God, I've missed you…."
Mark's
head shot up and his eyes brimmed with tears. Roger really hadn't planned to
say that at all, but it was the only thing that came out of his mouth. It was
the first thing he thought of to say. Mark clenched his jaw, trying to steady
himself. That reply could have meant any number of things – not only what he wanted
it to mean.
"You-you
did?" he stuttered.
"Yes,"
he replied, breathlessly. "I-I really have…."
Mark
nodded slowly, his eyes holding Roger's with their shaky glance. "I missed you,
too."
Roger's
heart froze and he felt himself breathing a little harder. What the hell was
going on? Was he really gay? The words didn't seem to want to manifest in his
mind and he couldn't comprehend the meaning of them. Hadn't he loved Mimi? Was
that only a big sham to hide what he truly felt for Mark? What about the night
that Collins had died? Hadn't he been the one to initiate things between Mark
and himself?
Clearing
his throat and turning away slightly, Roger whispered, "So…how are things?"
Mark's
shoulders drooped considerably, as did his whole appearance. Roger was just making
polite conversation. He was only stopping by to say hello and to sing some
songs, and then that would be it and he'd never be back. So, Mark's voice
became disinterested and he turned to gaze outside the door. "Great."
Roger's
eyes narrowed in confusion, but he didn't allow himself to try and guess what
Mark really wanted to say. "Is that the truth?" he asked.
"Why
wouldn't it be? Should I have reason to lie?" He shrugged, taking his tea from
the waiter as he passed. He took a drink quietly, studying the ice cubes inside
it. "Things've been great."
Roger
nodded, taking a drink of his own tea and making a face afterwards, realizing
that he'd never liked tea. He set it down and just looked at Mark. Suddenly, he
noticed a white cloth on Mark's wrist. "What the hell is that?" he found
himself crying, grasping Mark's wrist.
Mark
jerked it away, glaring. "Nothing."
Roger
slipped into the chair beside Mark and took his wrist again, firmer this time,
and pushed the filmmaker's sleeve up, revealing the white bandages clearly.
"You call this nothing?" he whispered urgently.
Mark
tried to move his arm away to no avail. "It's none of your business what
happens to me, Roger," he retorted coldly.
Roger
glared. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It's
not as if you'd care anyway…."
Roger's
breath stopped for a full moment before he allowed himself to exhale, his eyes
softening. "You think I don't care? God Mark, if you only knew…."
"If
I only knew what? That you'd rather run away from your problems than try to fix
them? Or that you're really afraid of getting close to someone again because
you feel that if you do, you'll lose them like you did Angel, Collins, and
Mimi? Take your pick, but it's no matter, because I know them all." He
squirmed, trying to break free from Roger's grip.
Roger
shook his head, holding tighter. "Fuck you, Mark…. I've been through hell –"
"And
I haven't?" Mark's eyes burned with tears. "God, just let me go and get the
hell out of here… It's not as if you're going to stay anyway."
"But,
Mark, I –"
"You
what, Roger?" Mark cried angrily. "You left me alone, with no one to talk to!
Do you think that I wasn't upset too? God, I was a wreck! But, I put all my
problems aside to help you, because I knew how much you needed me. I knew you
were shaken about Mimi's death and –"
"Stop,
Mark –"
"No!
You need to hear this, damn it! I've waited nearly a year to say it to you, and
I won't let you interrupt." He paused, leaning closer. "You're scared." Roger
winced, still holding Mark's wrist firmly. "Yes, admit it, Roger. You're so
fuckin' scared that you can barely look at me! In fact, you're so scared that
you don't want to admit it. Well, you know what? I feel the same way! So to
hell with you, if you're going to just come back and tell me you're sorry,
because that won't do! I've been through hell and back and farther still, and
now you've come back and I get all worked up and then I'll go home and do this
again!" he motioned to his wrist. "So, if you want to say anything to me, 'I'm
sorry' will not do…." The long speech left him winded slightly and every breath
was a feat to accomplish. He let his eyes drop, closing them tightly. "You
know, I thought you'd come home…."
"I
tried," Roger breathed, edging closer. "You have to know that I wanted to."
"Then
why didn't you?" Mark looked up, his eyes wet with tears. "Why the hell didn't
you?"
Roger
trembled, swallowing as he shook his head helplessly. "I-I don't know…." He
studied Mark carefully, noticing the crystalline teardrops that lingered in his
bright eyes, red from weariness. He barely noticed that he had pulled Mark's
arm so close that it was resting against his stomach and he began to stroke it
gently, tenderly. "I just don't know…."
Mark's
eyes closed again, feeling the hard muscles of Roger's chest. "Please, don't,"
he whispered, inaudibly.
Roger's
hand reached out, tracing Mark's cheek gently as he leaned closer still. "Do
you want me to stop?" He paused, breathing in slowly. "Because I don't think I
can…." He wiped a few tears away, beginning to pull Mark's face towards his
own. The electric shock of a kiss was almost felt – almost.
Mark
gasped for air, pulling himself away fully with ease from Roger. He wrapped his
arms around himself, turning away slightly. "I… I gotta go…." He stood swiftly
to his feet, leaving his tea unfinished on the table as he rushed out the door.
Roger
stood helplessly, trembling slightly. He felt a sweat on his forehead and a
chill upon his face, where Mark's breath had been warm only seconds ago. He
took a step forward and then another until he was racing out of the café. Once
in the street, he spotted Mark a block ahead already, racing towards the loft.
Roger followed, running swiftly until he was directly behind Mark. "Wait! Mark,
please!" he called out, grabbing Mark's shoulder and turning him around.
"What?"
retorted Mark, shaking his hands off. "What do you want? Do you want to torture
me some more? Don't lie and tell me that you're going to stay and that we'll be
together forever and all the rest of that BS, because I know it's a lie! Just
tell me what the hell you want from me and get out of my life!"
Roger
gasped for air, trying desperately to get the words out of his mouth, but he
found they wouldn't flow.
Mark
glared, nodding and turning around again. "That's what I thought…." Mark walked
away, leaving Roger standing in the street – alone. "Goodbye, Roger. Have a
nice life…. Good luck with the band…."
Terror
seized Roger. More than anything, he wanted to get that safe feeling back – the
feeling he always had when he was with Mark. Whenever he'd been in trouble or
had been sick or upset or just needed a smile, Mark had always been there. When
Collins had died…. Suddenly, he remembered vividly what he'd been thinking that
night. He'd been thinking of every kind thing Mark had ever done for him and
that he should do something to help the scrawny man who had sat before him,
weeping like a child. That feeling came back again, this time with so much
energy that he couldn't help crying out his feelings exactly as he thought
them. "Wait! I love you, Mark…."
Mark
stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving with anxious breaths as he turned slowly
to face Roger who still stood – motionless and still as a statue. His long hair
flowed in the breeze slightly and Mark noticed the tears…. Roger was…crying? He
didn't know what to do or what to say. They were both still, gazing at each
other with a stare so passionate – and yet so innocent as well – that both of
them shook.
"Wh-What?"
Mark questioned softly, gradually making his way back to Roger.
Roger's
lips lifted by bit, his face relaxed now. "I-I said I love you…. And I always
have…. God, Mark! I've always loved you…. I don't know why I didn't want to
admit…. I was scared and I freaked out…." As Mark stepped closer, Roger tensed.
"I'm still scared."
"Me
too…." They were standing a few inches apart now. "But I love you, too, Roger….
You have to know that it's always been that way."
Mark
raised his trembling hands and held Roger's face between them. Roger flinched
slightly and shook his head. "I don't wanna lose you Mark…. You were right all
along…. I'm so scared, and I don't wanna lose you…."
"You
won't. I promise."
And
then, as Roger relaxed, their faces moved towards each other unhurriedly. As
the heat from their breaths mingled and their lips brushed lightly against each
other, Roger's arms lifted and fell around the small man before him, pressing
him tenderly against his body. Without another word, they kissed.
I
woke up to see your face again.
I
woke up to see
You
had spent the night again with me.
I
never thought we'd be like this again.
Never
thought we'd be…
Then
you came back to me,
And
now I know I should've never let you go,
And
now I know I've always loved you,
And
you are so much more than I deserve.
I
want you to know that now I know.
"For
the last song of this set," Roger spoke into the microphone, glancing out in
the audience towards Mark, "I'd like to sing 'Won't You Please Come Home?',
which is a song I couldn't finish until I understood what I was writing." He
smiled gently, strumming the acoustic guitar once. He was alone onstage to do
this last song. "So, here it is….
I've been walking down that street again today.
Every time I go outside,
My heart begins to pull
towards that same old street.
Do you think that I'm
crazy?
Would say that I'm insane?
Just because I want another
lifetime of this pain –
This torturous existence
isn't mine.
Would you think I've lost
my mind,
Were I to tell you that I
love my lover still,
And that still I churn?
As my heart begins to burn
within my chest,
I rest against an empty
roomless wall,
And I fall –
Down into the abyss I go,
alone.
Won't you please
Won't you please, please
come home?
Won't you please come home,
my friend?
Won't you please come home?
Well, I've found another
path today.
It goes around the block
where we used to eat –
Near that empty street
Where we used to hold each other
tight:
Now we fight.
Would you label me a
sucker?
Would you call me that to
my face?
Can't you see I'm broken – torn apart?
Don't you know that
Everything's turning for a
reason,
So I've heard.
Don't you care that
Every time I feel I've
caught myself,
I begin to fall again.
Won't you please
Won't you please, please
come home?
Won't you please come home,
my friend?
Won't you please come home?
I'm lost without your eyes
–
So distant yet so wise
I'm aching for your touch –
So gentle yet so tough
I feel that if I don't
Walk by your house at least
a million times a week,
I'm so weak…
I can barely stand to tell
you what you mean to me –
Can't you see?
And now you're here with me
again,
And now I know the way to
love again,
But all I want to say to
you is this:
I love you….
I love you, my best friend….
Come home to me…
Won't you please come home?
Won't you just humor your
dear friend?
Won't you please, please
come home?
Don't misunderstand – I
love you so…
How could you not know?
Won't you please come home,
my friend?
Is this the bitter end?
Don't tell me that we will
never mend.
Won't you please come home?
The
audience applauded and Roger took his bows once again, stepping off the stage
and taking Mark's hand, leading him out the door, guitar in hand. "Let's go
home."
****I
know, cheesy, right? But, hey, that's what makes
a
good love story. ;-) Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.
This
one was a lot shorter than my other RENT fic, huh? ;-)****
