Disclaimer: I think I forgot this in the last story I posted, so this'll be a double disclaimer. Rent and all the characters in this story belong to Jonathan Larson, and I could never even dream of taking credit for them!
A/N: The background of this one shot isn't too confusing (at least I don't think it is!), really, though it may not seem like it until you get to the end! You'll be confused, but you'll get it at the end. (The whole thing is set Post-Rent though). It's kind of weird, but I figure I'll just go with it.
Everybody laughed as Mark handed the joint back to Collins and exhaled, adding to the cloud of smoke that filled the apartment. The apartment he used to share with Roger. "Oh man, I forgot how great this stuff is." More laughter ensued.
"Welcome back to the forbidden substance buddy, we've missed you since the NYU days." Collins took a hit and passed it on to Benny and Mimi. Mimi sat on the couch, her legs casually resting over Benny's, she examined her freshly scarred arms.
Mark shrugged. "Well, I didn't want to shove anything like that in Roger's face."
"Mark, he ditched you for the drugs, remember?" Benny replied, taking a long hit before passing it back to Collins.
"Ohhhh yeah." He paused for minute. "Wait, didn't you leave too?"
"Yeah, but I came back, remember?"
"Ohhhh yeah," he giggled a little, he definitely never felt this stoned in college.
"This is some real high class shit Benny, how'd you get it with Allison's dad no longer lining those pretty pockets of yours?" Collins took a hit before throwing the remains in the ashtray.
"With that cash Mimi got from selling Roger's crap guitar. Amazing what people will pay for a piece of old, rotting wood," Benny replied. Mimi swung her legs off of Benny's legs and brushed her lips upon his.
"I've got work in five, see you after." She threw on her coat but then returned to the couch, straddling Benny and giving the entire room a show.
"You sold Roger's guitar?" Mark wheezed, choking a little on the smoke that filled the room.
"And you just inhaled it," Collins joked as he rolled another joint.
"I don't think we're being fair," Mark protested, fighting the haze that fogged his mind.
Benny took a break from his little game of tonsil hockey with Mimi. "Mark, you didn't hand him the syringe! You didn't force the needle into his arm! You begged him to take the AZT for weeks. You weren't his death sentence, AIDS wasn't even his death sentence, he was. Why should you give him the glory he would not have dreamed of giving you. You saved him once, and the second time he didn't even deserve saving."
"Amen to that!" Collins held his alcohol filled paper cup high.
"See, even Mimi realizes her mistake." Benny smiled, as Mimi proceeded to almost attack his neck. "Rehab certainly did a lot for your sex drive, doll!" He returned his lips to hers.
Mark sat as Collins guzzled down another glass of liquor and as Benny and Mimi tore at each other. Maybe Benny was right.
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What the hell was happening? Why were they talking about him, and where was he in the whole situation?
Roger bolted up in bed. He rubbed his forehead and looked around frantically. He glanced over at Mimi, asleep peacefully. Her one hand was intertwined in a lock of her hair, and her other hand rested on his leg. He kicked away the covers and recovered his sock that was most likely lost during that terrible nightmare. He still didn't know what the hell that whole dream meant.
Getting out of bed, the ground felt hard against his feet as he took a few steps toward the door; peaking out he saw Mark on the other side of the room, blankets blocking the light from the windows. Mark sat behind the projector, watching the images on the screen. Roger just stood there, silently. It was him on the screen: scenes of him with April. He was smiling, she was smiling, but somehow they didn't look happy. April's eyes looked sunken, her figure was gaunt. Roger's bright eyes were bloodshot. They looked scared, high, and just pathetic.The track marks on both their arms were visible. They were gruesome, nothing like the faint scars that he was left with today. He rolled up his sleeves, to examine the faded marks of his past. As his arms were slowly exposed, a wave of fear rushed over him; his left arm was bruised, a clear needle mark surrounded by black and blue. He turned around quickly looking at Mimi, but his attention was soon diverted to the dresser across the room. There was a needle, a half melted candle, and an oh too familiar white powder in a plastic bag.
He began to succumb to the wave of guilt. He vaguely remembered the night before, what he told Mark when he walked in on he and Mimi, just as the needle was being pulled from his arm.
"You can't run my fucking life."
The words rang in his head. Was he screwing up again? His subconscious seemed to definitely think so.
"Ow," he whispered, running his right hand over his bruised arm. Too loud apparently. Mark bolted around, shutting off the projector in one swift motion as he turned to face Roger. Roger took a step out of the doorway, rolling down his sleeves, a little more gingerly over his left arm. Mark turned back around and stared at the blank sheet hanging on the wall.
"You can throw out the film Mark, because that's never going to be me again." Roger walked towards the darkened half of the apartment. Mark drew his eyes away from the screen, he looked a little afraid.
"Roger!" Mimi called from the bedroom. Her voice was hollow, the way she always sounded when she was going through withdrawal.
"And I'm not going to let Mimi turn into April." Roger turned around to tend to Mimi, and to throw out a few things before she even knew they were around.
"Don't forget your AZT Roger," Mark tossed him the bottle from the counter.
Roger gave him a weak smile as he caught the bottle. Roger didn't reply, after all Mark had done for him, he knew a thank you would never suffice.