Many, many thanks to my wonderful, beautiful reviewers! Without you, (the hand gropes?) this would never be here. Never fear, I WILL finish this story, gosh darnit! As long as people still want to read it, I'll keep writing it. Sometimes it'll take a while, but...it will STILL be written!

And may I just put forward that we REALLY need more RENTfic on this site? We're being ridiculously overrun by CATS, and that really must stop. Really. Come on, fanficers, I know you can do it! Let's take back the site!

Especial thanks to dietcherryemma, for making me happy enough with her praise to actually get off my ass (or on it, seeing as I'm sitting at the computer) and write this chappie. See? Reviewers totally make the difference!

Dedicated to my beautiful, lovely, special, wonderful Chris. I miss you, love. (for those of you freaking out, she's not dead, she's just in Hell)

Written while listening to La Boheme, incidentally, for my Magic of Opera course. Hmm...

Mark was awoken the next morning by a completely unfamiliar sensation; he smelled tea, and he wasn't making any. He sniffed the air a couple times to be sure he wasn't having sensory delusions, but there was a definite aroma of English Breakfast wafting into his room. He sat up, fumbling for his glasses, intening to investigate the source of the smell, when his door opened. Roger stood in sillouhette, framed by the doorway, red plastic cup in hand. He shrugged, as if to ask permission to enter. Mark swallowed, unsure if he wanted to deal with his roommate right now, but Roger looked so forlorn, standing there...Mark sighed. "Come on in, Roger."

Roger walked inside, uncertainty written in his posture. This was a side to Roger Mark hadn't seen for months, and he sat up, curious. "What do you want?"

The musician remained standing, but handed Mark the cup he was holding. Mark took it, and to his astonishment, it was filled with tea; it had three times the normal amout of tea leaves, and was nearly steeped to black, but Mark was still touched by the gesture. He looked up at Roger, but the other man merely avoided his gaze and mumbled, "Just...thought you might want some. You've got your interview today, remember?"

Mark blinked. "Yeah, I remember. You remember?"

Roger crossed his arms defensively. "I listen, you know. And my memory's fine. You told me about it a few days ago. That newspaper office, right?"

"Copy shop," Mark corrected softly. "The newspaper job fell through."

Roger shrugged. "You don't want to work there, anyway." He sat down on the bed, watching Mark carefully for any resistance, then stared down at his hands.

There was something different about Roger, Mark noticed. He laid a hand on Roger's shoulder, and the other man turned to meet his eyes. That's when Mark knew; he was sober. It was the first time he could remember seeing him completely drug-free in at least a month, and he was a little unsettled by this change. "Roger...what's going on?"

Roger shrugged his hand off, then mumbled, "Just...wanted to let you know you're important to me. I don't just want to...I mean, I don't want you just for..." He quickly grew impatient with his lack of words, and abruptly stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Mark sitting there dumbfounded, a small smile growing on his face.

The smile remained as he got out of bed, dressing as he tried a sip of the awful tea, then sat down to force his old, worn shoes onto his feet. As the final shoelace cooperated, he heard a melodic guitar riff floating across the thin partition, and the smile widened. He hadn't heard Roger compose anything new in weeks.

Finally dressed, Mark tiptoed into the kitchen, being careful to pour the tea quietly down the sink. Approaching Roger's room, he knocked softly. The notes paused, and the husky baritone voice called, "It's open."

Mark eased the door open, then walked in and sat on the bed, careful to avoid the discarded lacy blue thong hanging on the bedpost, and eyeing the bed dubiously for any of April's other 'delicates'. "Is that a new song? You're playing the acoustic."

Roger resumed his picking, head bent over then neck of his guitar. "Yeah...they always come easier on this one. I mean, you know how I feel about the Fender, but there's just something about the tone on this thing." He started humming under his breath as his fingers picked out a slow tune, smiling a little.

Mark watched him, content. He folded his legs beheath him, resting his head on his hands, elbows on his knees. "What's it about?"

"Nighttime," Roger told him in a soft voice. "The sounds, the smells, the...screams." He swallowed. "When you lose control." He refused to meet Mark's eyes, but the smaller man understood that this was more of an apology than words could ever be.

They sat there peacefully for the better part of an hour. Roger would venture a lyric, Mark would voice his approval, and the musician would scribble it down on the notepad on the nightstand. This is him...this is my Roger. Mark smiled to himself, content.

Until the front door crashed open, causing both men to jump and turn towards the door. Since Mark had left the door open, they had an unobstructed view of April bouncing into the room, followed quickly by a woman in pleather pants and a bright pink shirt that fell somewhere on the fabric spectrum between a brassiere and a tube top. The newcomer had curls spilling over her shoulders, a wad of chewing gum in her mouth, and a bright smile on her face. Most disturbingly, in her hand was a duffel bag. April leaned over to the woman and whispered something in her ear, then caught sight of the two in Roger's room. Her eyes narrowed, and Mark turned to Roger, confused. "What's going on?"

The other man shrugged. "Dunno, must be that friend of hers. She's supposed to be nuts. Looks like it, too." The woman had thrown her bag on the floor, and was currently jumping up and down on the old rickety couch. April ran into the room, calling in a singsong voice, "Rog, honey, guess what! Mo's coming to live with us! Isn't that great?" She was beaming, looking incredibly pleased with herself, and perched on Roger's lap, kissing him as if to distract him.

Roger blinked. "She is? Why? Where's she gonna sleep?"

"In Mark's room, silly. It's the only other bed."

Mark started, eyes wide. "What? I'm not sharing a room with some strange woman I don't even know."

Roger murmured to April, "What the fuck is she doing here?"

April only smiled more brightly. "Well...she lost her lease, and she needed a place...and Mark has that extra bed in his room..."

"No, I don't." Mark interjected. "I have an extra bed frame. I don't know what the fuck Collins did with the other mattress."

April waved that aside. "You've still got room in there. She can sleep on the floor. It's better than the streets." She pouted at her boyfriend. "Please, Roger? Can she stay?"

As if my opinion doesn't matter. She's only going to be sharing my room, after all. Don't bother asking what I think.

"Eh, why not?" Roger nudged Mark. "It's okay, right, Mark? You don't mind?"

Mark threw up his hands. "Not like it matters, but...what the hell. I guess we're a homeless shelter now."

Roger snorted. "If we weren't, you wouldn't be staying here, Marky. Or did you already forget how I took you in?" He grinned, letting him know he meant it in good humor, and Mark grudgingly grinned in response. "Okay, fair enough. But I'm NOT sharing my bed," he grumbled.

"Fair enough!" April exclaimed, then yelled to the woman, "Mo! Put your stuff in the other room!"

The blonde squealed, then grabbed her duffel bag and burst through the door to Mark's room. Mark hurriedly followed her to make sure she didn't break anything. As he walked in, she had thrown her bag in the corner she seemed to have claimed for her own, and was looking at him prettily. "Which side do you want?"

The whole room! "Uh...whatever you want, I guess." Mark scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh...what's your name, anyway?"

She grinned brilliantly – she was really quite pretty, he observed – and walked over to shake his hand. "Maureen Johnson." She struck a pose. "Performing artist."

Mark raised his eyebrows, but merely said, "Oh, well, that's cool. Where do you perform? Do you act, or sing, or..."

Maureen perched herself on the edge of his bed and tossed back her long, blonde hair over her shoulders. "Honey, I do it all. I even write my own material! Wanna see my latest piece?" She stood up without waiting for an answer, positively glowing with excitement, and struck a pose again. In a dreamy, trance-like voice, she began, "The year is nineteen nintey-nine, the date...apocalypse!" She fell to the floor in a boneless heap with a screech, and Mark jumped, startled. He rushed over to her and touched her shoulder, asking, "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, annoyance clear in her eyes. "Would you ask Mozart if he was okay when he was composing?"

Mark blinked. "Uh...I guess not...I mean, I never really...that was part of the act?"

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Of course it was part of the act! You know," she stood up, straightening her clothing, "it was a huge hit when I did it in the park the other day."

"You...you perform in the park?"

She shrugged. "When there's nowhere better. I really like being outside, though. I once got kicked out of a kids' playground for some of my racier material." She winked at him, and he blushed. "But that's okay. They weren't truly appreciating me there, anyway. I need a place to cater to true artists, a place, where...where I can liberate the souls of those less creative than myself!" She spread her arms wide, huge grin on her face, and turned to him. "Don't you see? I'm like...like a..." She frowned, frusterated. "What's the word I'm looking for?"

He shrugged, and she sighed. "Hold on." She walked out of the room, then after a minute, back in. "Damn. April doesn't know, either." She looked over at her bag in the corner. "So...how should we work this? Where do you want me to sleep?"

He shrugged again. "Anywhere you want to is fine, really. Sorry there's not another bed..."

She stepped a little closer to him, brushing her hair gracefully out of her eyes. "It's okay. I just want to make sure I'm not getting in the way too much. What do you do, anyway?"

She seemed genuinely interested, and he smiled shyly. "I, uh, make movies." One of his hands gestured a bit awkwardly to his camera, sitting on the bed by his pillow.

Her eyes lit up, and for a second he was dazzled by the intensity of her smile. She gasped, "Really? Oh my god, April so didn't tell me that at all! What kind of movies? Are you looking for actresses?"

A bit flustered, he answered, "Uh, mostly independent-type stuff...you know, like what you see in arthouses? Hopefully, anyway. I've got plenty of screenplays, but it's hard to find someone who wants to produce them."

Her eyes widened further, and she grabbed his hands in excitement. "Then you have to produce them yourself! Make it happen! And I'll be your star!" That dazzling grin returned full-force, and he had to catch his breath. "Um...I guess so."

One of her long, sparkly-green fingernails was tracing his cheek, he observed. Her face was very close to his, and from this distance, he could observe that she was wearing very little makeup. That was good; girls who wore too much makeup had always seemed fake on the inside to him as well, like his sister. She leaned closer to him, until her lips nearly brushed over his, and he pulled away quickly. He mumbled, "I'm sorry...I just...it's not quite...I mean, I..."

She didn't look as insulted as he would have figured; a little frighteningly, she looked more determined than upset. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and asked softly, "It's just what? You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

He shook his head numbly, and she pressed on, "You think I'm hot, don't you?"

He blushed beet-red, but nodded, embarrassed. I...I do think she's hot. What's wrong with me? If I'm in love with Roger, doesn't that make me gay? Then why am I attracted to her?

She attempted to pull him close for a kiss, but he broke out of her grasp and stuttered, "I...I didn't...I'm sorry, I just...I can't. Not now." He looked down at the ground, feeling like he was eight years old and talking to Rebecca Gershman for the first time.

Maureen pouted a tiny bit, then shrugged. "Oh, well. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?" She smiled again, but he could still see the gleam of determination in her eyes. Without meaning to, he blurted out, "Why do you want me?"

Her smile widened. "Why wouldn't I? You're cute, you're talented, and April says you're really sweet." She lowered her voice just a little bit. "She also says you're good in bed."

He let out a strangled noise that sounded like something between a yelp and a gasp, and she laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'm not going to pounce on you." She folded her hands. "I'm a good girl. See? Retracting my claws." Without further ado, she turned around and started unpacking. "So, the right side is mine? Good? Good."

Oh, yeah. Living with her is going to be interesting.


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