Oops, this was supposed to be out MUCH earlier, but I just got so excited about the film casting news (Rosario Dawson as Mimi, Tracie Thoms as Joanne, Wilson as Angel, Adam as Roger, Taye as Benny, Idina as Maureen, and the incomparable Anthony as Marky!!!)!!!!

I'm in an Anthony Rapp swing right now (well, right now especially), so this chappie is dedicated to him. Maybe I shouldn't have spent like, a hundred dollars at Borders buying "Dazed and Confused" (for Sweet!Anthony), "Road Trip" (for Creepy!Psycho!Anthony), "Adventures in Babysitting" (for Annoying!Redhaired!Anthony), "Six Degrees of Separation" (for Angry!Harvard!Anthony) and "A Beautiful Mind" (for Math!Geek!Anthony). Then...I'm really bad, but I bought "David Searching", "Man of the Century", "Grave Secrets", "School Ties", "Far From Home", and his "Look Around" online the DAY my debit card came in the mail! :p My dad's gonna kill me. (Whatever...he wouldn't let me go to RENT! This is the least he can put up with.)

Actually, I'm very happy with my dad right now. He bought me tickets to see "Little Shop of Horrors" with ANTHONY in San Francisco when I go home for Thanksgiving Break!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also, dedicated to Anthony's comment on Broadwayworld, "What is fanfiction?" If he only knew what we do to him! Well, so far I've been pretty good to Marky, but it just can't keep going. You know it can't.

To GayApparel: I heart you! And yeah, I lived in Cali. L.A. when I was little, but then a tiny town in Northern (shudder) for 14 fcking years, until I came out to NY for college. (dances and sings "I'm free! I'm free!") (pities Chelsea, who is still stuck in NorCal)

PS: Your review jumpstarted this story again...I was getting annoyed with it, and with myself for waiting...so I waited some more...and it still didn't write itself...and Chelsea yelled at me...and I still couldn't write...so I just did it.

To mydracomalfoy: Um, yeah, this is going to be slash. I heart slash too! I'm sorry it's been ambiguous...I'm trying so hard not to rush it, I'm afraid I'm taking way too long! And yes, they are making a "RENT" movie! Go to broadwayworld dot com to check out Anthony (himself)'s posts on the subject!!!!!!!!!!

"Tiva: it's like, TV, only for girls!" ---Chelsea

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A chilling breeze swept into the apartment, ruffling Mark's hair and coaxing him out of his uneasy slumber. He sat up slowly and winced at the pain that comes from sleeping in an uncomfortable position on a hard surface. Like a table.

Frowning as much from the trace of a hangover he carried as from the complaint of his muscles, Mark looked around the apartment with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what had awakened him.

His eyes landed on the open door, and the highly amused Collins standing in the doorway. "Okay," the older man said with a smile in his deep voice, "what'd I miss?"

Mark realized that the table wasn't the most normal of places to sleep, although it had felt like a good idea a few hours earlier, and saw Roger sprawled out on the floor next to the table, snoring contentedly. What a pair we make, he thought wryly. He shrugged in response to Collins, then hopped off the table to grab a bowl of cereal. On his way, he kicked Roger awake.

"Smarfnak," Roger replied. Mark rolled his eyes, and knelt next to his friend. Grabbing the other man's shoulder, he shook Roger roughly. "Roger, it's like, three o'clock in the afternoon and you're lying on the kitchen floor, so you need to wake the hell up. Plus, you're in my way."

Roger's arm very nearly collided with Mark's face as he swung wildly (but thankfully, blindly), trying to swat whatever insect was annoying him. Mark stood up and nudged him with his foot again. "Roger!"

"S'your fault I'm fucking tired," Roger groaned, turning onto his stomach.

"Uh, lovebirds?" came the voice from the doorway. Mark looked up to see Collins still in the same spot. "Are you two responsible for this?" In his outstretched hand, he clutched the sad remains of what was once a telephone.

Two heads turned to Collins, and then to each other. When their eyes met, their mouths twitched, but they turned innocently to Collins. "Uh," said Mark, "whatever gave you that idea?"

Collins merely raised his eyebrows at the two, who just shrugged sheepishly. He sighed. "You girls had a fight again, didn't you?"

Mark was startled as Roger laughed, "Yeah." He hadn't thought they fought that much. Apparently, it wasn't as seldom as he had thought. But come to think of it...he wouldn't call them 'fights', per se, but there were arguments. He didn't remember them too much because more often than not, he wasn't fighting. Roger would come into a room and rant about some little thing Mark had done; moved his guitar, or borrowed a shirt, or something. Mark would stand there confused, then apologize, and Roger would laugh it off. Then they'd go to lunch, or to one of Roger's gigs, or to the park, and forget all about it. It never used to happen in the old days (old? I moved in two months ago!), but Mark guessed it had to do with getting used to sharing an apartment, sharing a room, sharing a life. Most often it was something about Mark invading his privacy.If it had been anyone but Roger, Mark would have thought that he had something to hide.

Collins was grinning as he dropped himself on the sad excuse for a couch Roger had found the other day stuffed into an alleyway. "Who threw the phone?"

Mark glared at his friend. "You have to ask?" He picked himself off the floor, and made his way to the cupboard to pull out a box of cereal. "You want some, Rog?"

Roger shook his head. "Nah." Groaning loudly and dramatically, he pushed slowly off the floor and headed over to "his" couch, flopping down next to Collins. "Any chance of fixing the phone?"

Collins only laughed, and dumped the mangled phone bits into Roger's lap. "I think not. But hold on..." Rising, he walked quickly into his own room, emerging again a moment later with another phone, certainly newer-looking. And if Mark wasn't mistaken, it was cordless as well. Mark stared at him in disbelief. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Collins gave him a mysterious smile, and replied cheerily, "It wanted to be free. I helped it escape."

"Anarchists are awesome!" Roger proclaimed, tearing the box open like a kid on Christmas.

Mark dug a somewhat debatable-looking spoon out of the drawer and plunked it into his cereal, munching absently. "So, Collins, where were you all of last night and all of this morning, eh? Out with Derek again?"

"Nah, that was Monday. This was Alex." He paused. "And Kevin, come to think of it."

Mark laughed. "Slut."

The other man grinned. "Hey, college is the perfect time to experiment, right?"

Mark rolled his eyes, and said, "Collins, you're not in college anymore."

"I didn't mean for me, Mark." Wink.

Mark leaned back on the counter, shaking his head. "You know, all this seducing of unsuspecting students is going to catch up with you and bite you in the ass some day." At the gleam in Collins' eyes, he hurriedly added, "And not in the good way, either!"

"You know," Roger interrupted, head bent low to the scattered parts of their new telephone, "these things should come with instructions."

"They do," Collins pointed out, waving the pamphlet in front of Roger's face.

Roger frowned at him. "Well, the instructions should come with pictures!"

Grinning again (A/N: He just got laid! He's allowed to grin too much!), Collins deftly removed the phone from Roger's inept hands, assembled it in a matter of moments, and plugged it into the giant electrical cord running out the window.

Mark stared at it for a moment. "How do we know if it's working?"

At that moment, the phone rang. Mark brightened. "Providence!" He plucked the phone from its base and scrutinized it for a moment before pushing the "Talk" button. "Hello?"

"Mark! It's Mom!"

Mark dropped the phone, and quickly picked it up again, somewhat panicky.

"I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere! You never call, you never write, you could be dead for all you told me! After all, what am I? Only the mother. I gave birth to you, I raised you, and what do I get? Do I get a phone call? I get nothing! If I hadn't been looking in Cindy's address book to find Mrs. Gershman's number, who knows how long it might have..."

Mark, who had been holding the shrieking receiver several inches from his ear, stared at the phone in horror. It was plain from the expression on Roger and Collins' faces that they, too, could hear every word Mrs. Cohen said.

Finally, Mark heard a strange beeping from the phone. Saved! "Uh, Mom, we just got a new phone and the batteries aren't charged yet. I have to go. I'll..."

"You'll call, Mark. That's all. You're going to call me. Promise, Ma—"

Fortunately, the phone died. Mark carefully replaced it in its cradle, and walked over to the couch and sat down. "We have to start screening our calls."

Roger laughed. "Uh, how? We don't have an answering machine. Fuck, we barely have a phone!"

The phone rang.

"Don't answer that!" Mark said firmly as Roger reached to answer the phone. Standing up, he hauled his friend up by his arm. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

Ring!

Mark looked around for his shoes, then realized he hadn't taken them off before going to sleep. "To buy an answering machine."

Collins quirked an eyebrow at him. "Legally?"

Ring!

"Yes, legally. Some of us don't have the luxury of being immune to policemen."

Collins sighed. "You'll learn, Mark. You'll learn. But if you're going to go through with the perpetuating of the corporate chains the government subjects our appliances to, go to this place."

Ring!

He grabbed an old sheet of music with lyrics scrawled on one side and scribbled an address on the other. "It's in Chinatown. Tell him I sent you."

Ring!

Mark laughed as he pocketed the scrap of paper, and dragged Roger toward the door, still resolutely ignoring the phone.

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"I can't believe you've never been to Chinatown! Are you serious?"

Mark sighed. "Yes, for the tenth time. You know I've only lived here two months. Why would I?" He looked around Canal Street, rather fascinated against his will at the money-grubbing half-shops selling cheap knock-offs to unsuspecting tourists who were convinced they were getting designer accessories for a tithe of what they would pay in a store. "How do you think Collins knew that guy, anyway?"

Roger laughed. "Man, I'm not sure I want to know." They had entered a dimly-lit flat over a Starbucks (nice to know that some things were universal, anyway) to find a tiny man with the air of a used-car salesman smiling an oily smile. He proceeded to show them his not-inconsiderable collection of overpriced machines, then blanched as soon as Roger mentioned a certain appliance-liberating anarchist. He had thrust a machine hurriedly into Roger's hands, instructing him to tell his friend that it was sold at exactly what the man himself had paid for it and not a penny more. Mark gave him two dollars (as instructed), and the two had left, barely containing their laughter.

"What kind of store sellls only answering machines, anyway? I mean, how much business can he possibly do?"

"I don't know. Hey, do you want to grab something to eat before--"

Mark stopped abruptly, both verbally and physically. Roger had stopped dead in his tracks, staring fixedly at something on the street ahead of him. Mark looked, but couldn't see what his friend was looking at. All he saw was a mass of people milling around. "Roger?" he asked tentatively.

Roger's face was white, and in a mask of shock. Slowly, he walked forward. If Mark wasn't mistaken, he was staring at a shabby-looking middle-aged man with a bad haircut and a faded sports coat. The man didn't look up as Roger approached, but raised his head as Roger asked uncertainly, "Dad?"

Mark thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the man's eyes, but the man just shook his head and turned away. Roger persisted, grabbing the man's arm. "Lloyd Davis!"

The man shook him off, wrenching his arm free. He walked away quickly, but Roger followed. "Lloyd Davis, you were married to Alicia Davis for eight years! You're my father!"

He was drawing a crowd now, as Mark followed at what he considered a safe distance from the drama. He wished he could help his friend, but how? By interfering in an obviously personal conflict?

"Fucking answer me!" Roger yelled. The man threw up his hand, signalling for a taxi. "You left us! Why the fuck did you leave? We needed you! You..."

A cab pulled up, and the man quickly opened the door and got into the backseat. As the taxi pulled away, Roger shouted, "Fuck you, man! Fuck you!"

He stood perfectly still, breathing hard, watching the car fade into the mass of city life as Mark cautiously approached. "Roger?" he asked uncertainly. Roger didn't acknowledge his presence, merely stared at the street. Mark said softly, "Let's go home."

Roger still didn't look at his friend, but nodded slowly. With what looked like tremendous effort, he turned away from the traffic and followed Mark to the subway.

He didn't say a word on the ride home, or the climb up the stairs. Mark tried frequently to engage him in conversation, ranging from "Do you want to talk about it?" to "Hey, it's cold." Nothing worked.

As they entered the loft, Roger headed straight for their room, slamming the door behind him. Mark stood in the doorway for a moment, then decided that he could do more harm than good by staying in the loft. Grabbing his camera, he turned around and descended once more into the East Village.

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Okay, it's been three hours. I'm freezing, and I want to go home by the fire. Ready or not, Roger, here I come...

Mark ascended the stairs, his thighs burning by the last story. The door swung open with some protest, creaking on its hinges to reveal utter darkness. The loft appeared to be empty. Flicking on the light, Mark glanced over at the table, where a note lay.

Mark:

Off to seduce more unsuspecting college boys.

--Collins

Mark smirked to himself, then jumped as he heard a noise from the bathroom. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see a thin line of light under the door. "Roger?" he called uncertainly. There was something unsettling in the air, something...not quite right. He walked slowly to the bathroom door, disturbed by the noises he could hear from inside. He raised a hand and pushed gently on the door.

Behind the door was Roger, kneeling over the toilet, pale and sweating. He was coughing violently, gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl for support.

"God, Roger, are you okay?" Mark asked, alarmed at the state of his friend. He moved forward and knelt beside him, but Roger hardly seemed to notice his presence. He laid a hand on Roger's back, and the musician jumped, gasping.

"What..." he choked out, then bent over the toilet again to throw up.

Mark was starting to get frightened. "Roger, what the hell is going on? What happened? Are you sick? Did..." he trailed off as his eyes swept the bathroom and landed on the floor next to him.

Empty plastic baggie.

Empty needle.

Lighter.

Burnt spoon.

Slowly, Mark stood up, putting distance between himself and the man he suddenly felt he didn't know at all. "Roger..." Mark's voice shook as he took in the damning evidence all around him. The man next to him trembled violently, seemingly incapable of speech. "Roger, what the hell did you do?" He backed away from Roger, disgusted. There were a million other things he could have said, things he wanted to say, but none of them would make the situation less real.

"I..." Roger gasped, struggling with his nausea, "I think...I got...a bad hit." He doubled over, clutching his stomach, sweating profusely. His blond hair was matted to his forehead, and his skin looked clammy.

This wasn't the Roger Mark knew. The Roger he knew was a rock star, a strong man with the attention span of a five year old. The Roger he knew had dragged him outside in negative weather to play in the snow, had rescued him when he had nowhere else to go. The Roger he knew would never do something as stupid as fuck up his life with drugs. The Roger he knew wouldn't be bent over a toilet in the middle of the night, shaking and pale. He couldn't be so stupid. "No shit, Roger," he whispered, wondering how on earth his life in Scarsdale was supposed to have prepared him for something like this.

Unable to get a grip on the situation, Mark knew that if he didn't leave the room immediately, he would do something he would regret. Feeling angry, frusterated, shocked, and betrayed, he shoved the door open so hard it banged the wall. Trembling nearly as badly as Roger, he paced the living room furiously. What the hell was he supposed to do? Call an ambulance? Yeah, Roger would be sure to thank him when the paramedics took one look at his arms and called the police. Would serve him right, Mark thought bitterly, but he didn't believe it. He didn't want Roger in a jail cell anymore than he wanted him to jump off the fire escape.

He could call someone...who? 9-1-1 was out, obviously. Collins? God-only-knows-where. Roger's mother? That would hardly go over better than the police. Furiously, he kicked the couch. Who knows, kicking and punching shit helps Roger...fuck, what am I going to do? Staring at the empty apartment, he realized the answers weren't in the living room. Somewhat resigned, now feeling more helpless and terrified than angry, he reentered the bathroom, slowly kneeling next to Roger. "Why?"

Roger shrugged, wincing a little at the movement. "Needed it." His voice was barely a whisper, hardly above a breath. It was raw with the coughing and hacking and vomiting that had occupied the last hour, raw and low. He sagged back onto the tile, back braced against the edge of the bathtub.

Mark stared at him, incredulous. "You needed it? You've never needed it before...or have you?" he ended quietly. Suddenly needing to see for himself, he reached out his hand and grasped Roger's arm, pulling it to him. Roger attempted to wrestle free, but was too weak even to push Mark away. Swallowing, Mark pushed up the long sleeve, afraid of what was beneath it.

Sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed. Although the arm didn't resemble anything he'd seen in school as a scare tactic to keep kids off drugs, there were definitely visible tracks. And they weren't all new, either.

"How long?"

"A couple months before you moved in. Not all the time, just sometimes..."

"When you need it." Mark turned away. "Right? That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? God, how could you be such an idiot? How could you possibly think that doing...doing smack was going to make anything better?"

Roger stared up at him, eyes deadened but angry. "Fuck you. You have no idea the kind of shit I live with, the kind of shit I've always lived with."

"Why didn't you tell me, or tell Collins, or anyone? Why do you always have to be such a Goddammed fucking martyr all the fucking time? Why do you always--"

"Why do I always fuck everything up? Is that what you were going to say? I fucking know, okay? I don't need you to tell me. I warned you, Mark."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Roger cut him off. "No, I fucking warned you. The day we met. I told you I was a fuck-up. If you didn't believe me, that's your problem, but I told you."

Mark stared at him in disbelief. "Roger, you're going to ruin your life! Don't you care?"

"It's my life to ruin, okay? It's none of your business what I do with it. Not yours, not anyone's. I—" He broke off, coughing again. When the spasms subsided, he looked up at Mark, considerably less angry and much more defeated. "Mark?"

"Yeah?"

Roger said quietly, "I want to go to sleep."

Mark knew that this was as close to asking for help as Roger was going to get. Trying to suppress his disgust at the various shit Roger was covered in, he wrapped an arm around his friend, helping him to his feet. Step by step, he led Roger to their room, laying him down on the bed. Roger turned over, obviously halfway asleep already. Unable to be in the same room with his friend at that moment, Mark turned around after grabbing a blanket and headed for the couch.

Mark shut the door of the room behind him and leaned back, trying to will the image of Roger's haunted eyes out of his mind. This was Roger; vibrant, sexy, youthful, funny, capable Roger. If someone like him can end up like that, Mark wondered, what the hell kind of hope does that leave for me?

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Author's note: All credit for the scene with Roger's father goes entirely to Chelsea. It's her baby.

Review, please! It's the only way I know people want more!

Mini mock-poll: Can anyone guess what my favorite curse word is? Rolls eyes at obvious sarcasm (And I believe I've used the word "fuck" 21 times in this chapter alone! Woo hoo!)