Oooooooookay then, here's the deal. I just found out that my cousin...is best friends...with FRENCHIE DAVIS...and that I...have been invited...to go to a Halloween party...tomorrow night...with the CAST OF RENT...and crash at FRENCHIE DAVIS's place...and was offered front-row seats to the show...and MY FATHER WON'T LET ME GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HOLY FUCKING HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHY DOES MY LIFE HATE ME???????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, as this is now officially THE LOW POINT OF MY LIFE...:sigh:

He says that it's like, a five hour drive to NYC (which is correct) and that there would be no way for me to make it back to school in time for class the next day (which is also correct) and that these things matter (which is incorrect) and that he's paying the bills for college (which is most unfortunately correct).

And...:chokesobsighsobwail:...now to my lovely reviewers!

Flipper: Chelsea and I have come to the conclusion that we love you. A lot. You make our socks do a happy little dance. Look at them go! :stares at dancing socks:

To the-fraulein: :blushes: I'm a huge fan! :refuses to admit how many times she has read "Why does distance make us wise?" because that would be sad and weird:

Dedicated to the fact that Anthony Rapp (:swoon:), Adam Pascal (:sigh:), Idina Menzel (:cheer:), and Jesse L. Martin (:does dance:) have signed on for the film! And that Taye Diggs is sure to follow (if I were Idina, I'd make him, wouldn't you?)! If you don't believe me, here's the article: double-'u' double-'u' double-'u' dot

Sorry for the weird formatting, ffnet doesn't like links.

And I'm sorry my Author's Notes are always so frigging long! I don't know why I do that! However, get used to it, because it's just something I do!

Do I really still have to tell you that I don't own Mark and Roger (sob) and that it's dedicated to Chelsea? I thought not. I DO own the Mark scarf I'm knitting myself, though! Yeah! That's right! What now, biatches? Wow, my life is sad.

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Dim light. Smoky air. Sweaty bodies. Beer on his tongue, eyes squinting to see through the throng in the club. The pulse of the band currently onstage echoed through his ribcage, unsettling the natural rhythm of his heart.

Already Mark had been jostled, spilled on, stepped on, overlooked, and laughed at by no less than a dozen women, and he had only been there for ten minutes. I hate clubs. Why did I agree to come here?

His question was answered as the band finished their set amid lukewarm applause from the not-quite-drunk-enough-to-appreciate-mediocre-music-yet crowd, and the Well Hungarians took their place onstage. Mark cheered along with the rest of the crowd as the Hungarians started their first song, one of Roger's new pieces. A bit harder than most of his stuff, but still great as far as Mark was concerned.

They had been living together for two months already, and Mark was on top of the world. He'd been applying to jobs, so far without luck, but there was an interview the next day he was pretty confident about. Roger's gigs, which were getting more and more frequent as time passed, brought in enough to pay the rent and (somewhat) furnish the kitchen, enough so that there was always at least a box of cereal and some fruit or something.

They were learning about each other, learning to live with each other without driving themselves crazy. Roger learned quickly that you don't touch the camera; Mark learned you don't touch the guitar. Roger learned that if he was going to smoke, it would be on the fire escape; Mark learned that waking Roger up before ten was likely suicide. Roger learned that more chicks dig nerdy guys than he originally would have thought; Mark learned that walking side-by-side with Roger on the street did less than nothing for his chances of getting a date.

They also learned other things: given time and ingredients, Mark could cook decently; Roger was immensely protective of his friends; they both harbored a secret love of opera. Secret, because if Roger's band ever found out they'd be disgusted, and if Mark's parents ever found out, they'd be overjoyed.

Mark marveled in the changes in himself that had occurred in the last couple months. He was learning that not everyone took every chance to shoot down someone's opinions, learning self-confidence, learning that some things in life were certain. Even if Roger didn't call, he would be home sooner or later, and it was nice to have someone he could count on.

One thing he never would have realized prior to living with him was that Roger was surprisingly insecure. He put on the tough-guy image, and kept it very well, but Mark could see through that as few others could. Roger had rescued him, saved him, but deep down, Mark thought that Roger was the one who needed saving. He never thought his songs were good enough, never thought his voice rang purely enough. Mark had been present at all of his gigs to date, making sure the equipment was in working order, having a few beers with the band after the show.

Which brought him to tonight, in yet another club, trying not to choke on the smoke or slip on the various spilled drinks. He chose to stay at the bar, not venturing out onto the dance floor. His eyes focused on Roger, clad in ripped jeans and an open shirt, eyes closed as he concentrated intently on his guitar solo. His hands danced over the Fender, coaxing impossibly high notes as the crowd went wild. Next to Mark, a girl fell over, toppled by drunken dancers.

Immediately, Mark vacated his stool to help the girl up, shouting, "Are you okay?"

The girl nodded, giggling. Mark wasn't much into gigglers, but she was very pretty. He motioned to the stool next to him, which she accepted. Mark signaled the bartender for two beers, hoping they wouldn't pick today to start carding him. That wouldn't be impressive at all.

The girl said loudly, to be heard over the music, "Thanks for the drink!"

"No problem," Mark called back. Seeing the glazed look in her eyes, it obviously wasn't the first drink someone had bought her that evening. "I'm Mark!"

"What?"

"Mark!"

The girl giggled again. "Oh, that's your name!"

Mark was starting if she was worth the trouble. "Uh, yeah."

The girl stared at him, suddenly no longer amused. She looked him up and down, taking in his entirely inappropriate attire (not many sweaters at the Pyramid Club), his glasses, and probably some other things that branded him an outsider. Puzzled, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Mark wasn't quite sure if he should be offended at her assumptions or impressed that she had managed to observe anything in her obviously plastered state. "I'm with the band," he answered, hoping that would be the end of it.

Her eyes lit up. "Really?" she shouted. "Which one?"

Mark refrained from rolling his eyes, but only with great effort. "The Well Hungarians. They're playing right now."

"What?"

Fed up, Mark yelled loudly, "They're playing now!"

The girl's eyes widened at his volume, and she reeled back on her stool a little, nearly falling over again. A little less concerned now, he still reached an arm out to steady her as she looked up at the band. She motioned wildly to Roger. "He's hot!"

At that exact second, the band stopped playing. Roger caught Mark's glance, grinning as he heard what his friend's companion had to say. Mark glared at him good-naturedly. Yeah, I know. You're not even over here and you're still stealing all the girls. Shut up and play your guitar.

Roger winked at him, then started another song, a little slower. The girl was staring at him again. "Do you know him?" she asked.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "He's my roommate."

"He's hot!" she said, obviously forgetting that she had already said that.

"Yeah," Mark answered unenthusiastically. He knew most of the girls at places like this would prefer Roger over him—just because he's got that voice...and that body...and that smile...and those eyes...fuck, Roger, leave anything for the rest of us? What was he supposed to do? Hang out at libraries, or something? Was there some secret place where all the girls who liked nerdy guys gathered? If so, where was this hideout, and who had the directions?

He'd had a few dates since coming to the city, but nothing serious. There was Jessica of the nosering and the tattoos who carried a snake everywhere; she had asked him to the movies, and he had frankly been afraid to say no. There had been Danielle, who was perfect and gorgeous with the attitude to match but laughed every time he mentioned his films. There had been Keisha, but that hadn't lasted past the second date, when she showed up for their date with another man on her arm.

There were others, but the names and faces blended together. Why do I always pick women who are too much for me?

He was jolted out of his trance by the girl, who had laid her hand on his leg. "Wanna dance?" she shouted.

Mark blushed. "I'm a bad dancer!" he called back.

She laughed loudly and grabbed his hand, pulling him onto the floor despite his protestations. Mark danced awkwardly, letting the girl lead him. He heard a hiccup in the song Roger was singing, and hazarded a glance at the stage. Sure enough, Roger's eyes were fixed on him, and he was trying masterfully to repress his laughter. Mark narrowed his eyes and flipped him off, then went back to pretending he could dance.

After an eternity, the song ended. The girl looked up at him—odd, it was unusual for Mark to find someone so much shorter than he was—and smiled, obviously amused by his dancing. He shrugged apologetically at her, but she just laughed again. She leaned close to him and asked, "Do you want to get out of here?"

Mark stole another glance at the stage, trying to signal his friend's attention, but Roger was again engrossed in his music. He knew Roger wanted him there, but he was a big boy. He'd be fine. "Yeah, okay."

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An hour later over a bowl of ice cream (no place like New York City to get ice cream at two am) Mark got to know the girl a little better. She was sobering up, which was nice, because he hated trying to actually talk to really drunk people. Now, Roger was funny when he was drunk; fun to be around, silly, and willing to do just about anything, Mark had discovered with some glee. He himself wasn't so much fun, tending to get very controlling ("PUT that DOWN!"), he was told. As a result, he generally tended not to drink as much as his friends, also from a certain inability to hold his liquor well.

The girl, who had informed him that her name was April, was studying to be a pediatrician. Her friends had taken her out that night to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, then dropped her off at the club as a joke, promising to pick her up in the morning anywhere she called from.

"It's a little much," she confessed to him over her mint chip. "You know, New York and all that. I mean," she continued, gesticulating wildly with her spoon (and sending ice cream flying), "it's HUGE! You know? Like, bigger than I thought. Before I came, I mean. Like, I knew it was big, and it's not bigger than I thought it was, like the size of the city, but the streets, you know? They're bigger than, like, San Francisco, and that makes the city bigger, you know?"

Mark was beginning to wonder how much of her behavior was due to the alcohol and how much was due to her inherent personality.

"And..." she continued, taking another bite of ice cream between sentences, "it'll, like, chew you up and spit you out! You know? Like, it's cold, so cold, but it's got this light, and you can feel that there's nobody here in the big streets!"

Mark raised his eyebrows, starting to realize why she always said, "you know?" Most people wouldn't know. He certainly didn't know. "Um, yeah," he responded, not quite knowing how he was supposed to react. As incoherent as she was, there was a sort of vibrancy about her, as if she lived each second to the maximum that it could be exploited. Everything about her was extreme.

He seized on the only bit of that thread he could, and asked, "You're from San Francisco?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No, but I do live in Nor Cal. A tiny town nobody's ever heard of, above Napa Valley. You know it?"

He shook his head. "I've never been to the West Coast."

"Oh." She sounded almost disappointed. "It's really great, you should come some time. It's cold, but it's not cold like New York is cold, you know? Like, in San Francisco it's cold, but not cold enough to freeze your soul." She laughed almost hysterically for a minute, then looked straight at him and said, "But seriously." She took another bite of ice cream and looked thoughtful. "It's funny, because there's more space there, like, between towns and cities and stuff, but all the cities are so..." she motioned squashing something with her hands, "you know?"

"Not really," said Mark.

She looked him for a minute, puzzled, then exclaimed, "Oh, of course! You've never been to the West Coast! Oh, you should come!"

She went on to list the many virtues of California, from the deserts ("If you see the sunrise at dawn, it's like, a miracle!") to the mountains ("I can't ski, I fall over too easily, but I love to sled! Do you sled?") to the oceans ("I surf, did you know that?") to the farmland ("I miss good produce. Am I just going to the wrong places, or are all the fruits and vegetables in New York crap?"), all in the same manic (and tipsy) fashion.

She was just getting started on the difference between Northern California and Southern California when he blurted out, "You're beautiful."

She stopped talking abruptly and looked at him. Blushing, he realized what he had just said, and how random it must have sounded. But she was smiling now, and he could feel her leg under the table brushing his. Slowly, he leaned across the table to kiss her. She responded immediately, parting her lips ever-so-slightly. He reached for her hand with his, and entwined their fingers as they kissed gently, but with passion.

Blushing a little herself, she asked when they parted, "You want to come back to my place for a cup of coffee? Or, uh, something else?"

Mark hesitated. He really liked her, but he wasn't that kind of a guy, and he wasn't sure if she was sober enough to know what she was doing. The look of disappointment on her face, though, as he took a breath, was enough to spur him to sputter, "Yeah, um, okay."

They took a cab, Mark picking up the fare. It was a long ride, but eventful for the couple making out in the backseat like high-schoolers. Giggling again, April led Mark up the many stairs to her apartment. Behind them, the door swung shut.

Mark kissed the back of her neck as she struggled with the key to her apartment, somehow missing the lock time and time again. Finally the key turned, the lock clicked open, and the door moved to reveal a dingy little apartment on the fifth floor of a building without an elevator in a neighborhood that seemed to exist to house the world's Mexican restaraunts and dollar stores. A/N: I just spent a week here. It exists.

Her mouth was cold from the ice cream, but her hands were warm as they slid under Mark's shirt. He buried one hand in her hair, kissing her gently, and his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her to him. He thought vaguely that he should call Roger, tell him that he probably wouldn't be home that night, but then one of April's hands took off his glasses, and the other traveled lower on his body, and all thoughts of the musician vanished from his mind.

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Warm. Soft bed. Good feelings. Very warm. Slowly, Mark fought his way back to consciousness, finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings.

Last night came back to him, from the club to the ice cream place to the apartment, and...Mark smiled. He wouldn't be the first to admit it, but it had been a very long time for him. And it had been good. He looked next to him, searching for April, but the bed was empty.

Curious, he groped blindly for his underwear, wishing he had his glasses. Unfortunately, if he remembered correctly, they were somewhere by the front door.

Eventually he succeeded in finding all his clothing and his glasses (while picking up quite a few bruises along the way), but April still was nowhere to be found. Puzzled now, he checked the kitchen, and found a note stuck to the refrigerator with a strawberry magnet.

Mark, the note began,

I'm really sorry about last night. I had way too much to drink and...oh, god, I can't believe I actually did that. You must think...never mind. I'm really sorry about this, but I'm not that kind of a girl. I really like you, but I don't think I can see you again. Please don't call me, or come see me. I'm just trying to figure everything out...I'm still a small-town girl deep down. I know I gave you the wrong impression, but all I can say is I'm sorry. There's a subway station two blocks away, on 116th and Lexington, or you can call a cab.

She had written the number for a cab below the note, to make up for leaving him so abruptly.

She didn't even sign her name, Mark realized. He wondered as he dialed if this was how all guys felt after a one-night-stand, or if it was normal to feel like he'd lost a friend.

When he got back to the loft, nearly an hour later, he saw Roger sitting on the table, glaring at him. Surprised, Mark glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen. What on earth was Roger doing awake?

"Where the hell were you?" Roger asked angrily. "I was looking for you all night, man!"

"I, uh, went home with a girl from the club," Mark answered, confused. How many times had Roger done the same thing?

"What the hell, Mark?" Roger yelled, jumping off the table. Mark backed up until he was pressed against the wall, slightly frightened of his friend. "You just left! You didn't say anything! And then, you didn't call! I thought you were dead or something!"

Mark stared at Roger, bewildered. "You do the same thing all the time! You're never home after gigs anyway, so I thought I'd go with her." Why is Roger so upset about this?

"You know I need you at my gigs! You know I want you there, man. And you just left halfway through! And you didn't call! What, I don't matter anymore because some chick'll let you fuck her?"

"Roger," Mark said, "just because you get laid all the time doesn't mean the rest of us do. And why the fuck are you being so jealous?"

Roger glared at him. "I'm not jealous, I was fucking worried! I needed you there, and you just left!"

Suddenly, Mark heard an unspoken phrase: 'just like everybody else.' "Roger," he growled, exasperated, "I'm not going to be your security blanket. My life can't revolve around you any more than yours does around me. You probably didn't even notice I was gone until you needed me to tell you how great you were afterwards!"

He knew he had gone too far, saw it in Roger's eyes. Fuck, he's scary when he's in a temper. Roger slammed his hand into the wall behind Mark, and Mark felt it quiver with the force of the blow. Mark flinched, but held his ground. "Roger, get the hell away from me. You're being stupid."

Angrily, Roger stalked away, still fuming. "You know what, Mark? I don't need this shit! I always call, or leave a note, or something! And you know I'll be back! I always come back!"

"Yeah, so you don't feel guilty for leaving me alone again!" Mark hadn't even known he'd felt that way until he said it.

Roger moved suddenly, grabbing the first thing that was within his reach and chucking it at the wall.

Unfortunately, the first thing within his reach was the phone. Even more unfortunately, Roger had left the window open that morning.

Roger and Mark stared at the telephone as it sailed serenely out the window, ripping the cord from the wall, over the fire escape. Several moments later, they heard a crash. Stunned by the randomness of the action, both men gravitated toward the window, climbing out onto the fire escape. Slowly, they peered over the edge, eyes taking in the unfamiliar sight of a smashed telephone lying in the middle of the road. Many people on the street were looking puzzled, some downright panicked, and one woman had caught sight of Mark and Roger.

Silently, the two climbed back into the loft, then sat down on the table. All of a sudden they looked at each other and burst into laughter.

"God," Roger gasped as he shook with the force of his humor, "we're such girls!"

"Don't leave me alone!" Mark mimicked, nearly falling over.

"You don't appreciate me!" Roger did fall over, off the table.

Tears rolling down their faces, much-needed relief swept through them. Eventually, they quieted, Mark lying on the table and Roger on the ground. They didn't know when, but at some point, everything had become okay. Sides aching and exhausted, they both fell into relaxed dreams.

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Whoa! Believe me when I say that I have NO IDEA where the hell that came from! I had writer's block, and suddenly...I don't know, it just happened!

Kelby, I know you like Happy!Roger, but this chapter simply calls for Angry!Roger, so...sorry!

I can't believe I wrote something het! That's so not me! I didn't even know if I could! And is it totally obvious that I used to live in California, and now live in New York?

I'm trying desperately to figure out a way to incorporate that adorable scene from "La Boheme" where Rodolfo (Roger) and Marcello (Mark, obviously) dance...

Rodolfo:

(gallantly, to Marcello)

"Lovely maiden..."

Marcello:

(in a high, girlish voice)

"Please, sir, respect my modesty!"

They're so cute! Tell me, reviewers: is there any way I can make my not-slashy-yet Mark and Roger be as cute as the originals? Also, I just got the entire "La Boheme" soundtrack, so don't be surprised if I start stealing stuff unrepentantly.