Warnings: This chapter is still pretty damn tame.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT.
Notes: The title of the story comes from a Dream Academy song from the Ferris Bueller soundtrack. Chapter title is from a Dandy Warhol's song.
On her way home April attempts to turn her tired trudge into a confident strut, at least until she can push past the crowds of people flooding the streets, long enough to make it beyond the bums that are hunched against walls looking for a handout. For as long as she has been in the city, the sight of a man in a crumpled old trench coat shilling free newspapers for a price never fails to give her a tickle in her gut. April knows that when all is lost is the time when you can't be restricted. Knowing that these people have nothing left to lose makes her more than a little paranoid. Pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders, she breezes past in silence as a man attempts to charm her into filling his empty cup.
April doesn't think she is better than them. She knows that these people just had a few more rough breaks than she did and they just didn't make it through in one piece. She wants to believe that. She doesn't want to believe that bad things only happen to bad people. She's lost too many people in her life to believe that. She's seen far too much to agree with it. New York chews you up and spits you out, no questions asked. This is what causes April to raise her chin and ignore the calls behind her.
Upon seeing the familiar purple flag flying over her head, April lets out the same sigh of relief she has let out every day since coming here. Feeling as if she is a marionette on strings she climbs the stairs in a fog, legs feeling so heavy that she doesn't know what guided her to the top. Reaching into her bag, she fumbles around looking for her key, turning over books and packs of gum, and the same damn tube of lip gloss, and coming up empty.
Suddenly the door swings open and she is being grabbed by the arm and pulled into the room. Rachel is talking a mile a minute, changing her shirt frantically, and alternately patting and fluffing her hair. April manages to make out a few words through her roommates ridiculously hurried but natural speech and she can't believe that she is able to decode it at all. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, April crosses her arms over her lap and ties her shoulder length hair into a small ponytail. Predictably, the rant winds down to Rachel with her hands on her hips and a high pitched cry of "I'm right, right April?" Pursing her lips, she crosses the room to place her hands on Rachel's shoulders, pulling her roommate against her and enveloping her in a loose hug. When Rachel's breathing has died down and the shaking has stopped, April moves to the fridge, flipping open a soda before looking back up to her roommate.
Rachel collapses on her bed dramatically for a minute before propping herself up on her elbows and giving April a confused look. "So wait, where did we land on that issue, I'm right, right?"
It's times like these that April is glad that she is such a world class, record setting bullshitter. Living with Rachel this past year has been filled with such teenage turmoil that April has honed her ability to placate her in no less than 3 minutes. Knowing exactly what is needed to be said and being able to fake such empathy for a whiny roommate is a skill that is necessary for any remotely sarcastic girl stuck with a fluffy pink nightmare.
A knock on the door causes a squeal to her left and a final check in the mirror. April watches her roommate try to be alluring, squirming and trying to perfect a cutesy peek-a-boo smile over her shoulder. Laughing a bit too caustically under her breath, April opens the door to find the lamest possible mix of a Long Island guido and a frat boy standing before her. She tries to stifle the chuckle tickling up her throat at the sheer gaudiness of the fake chains hanging around his overtanned greasy neck. Beckoning Rachel in a sing song tone, she attempts to appear playful and not completely condescending. She doesn't want to have to worry about a rabid band of lacrosse players banging on her door for the next few months, drunk off their asses, ironically catcalling her and asking for the "Wicked Bitch of the West". This is what causes her to put on her perma-grin and lightly flip her wrist, practically presenting her roommate for his cheesy consumption. With one last shy look back, Rachel is off and April is free to curl up on the couch, nurse her brand spanking new headache, and fall into a quiet evening of Bewitched reruns on Nick at Night.
After a few hours of Samantha's wacky hijinxs and Darren's rubber faced expressions, April pushes her blanket away, shaking out her hair and wandering to her desk, plopping down clumsily. Flipping through her open textbook, a neon flash of green catches her eye before being flattened in the pages again. Leafing backwards softly, she stops when she sees the bright paper clash against the muted background, opening it slowly and smiling to herself.
The flyer was obviously homemade and the text is so jagged that it almost resembles a ransom note. There is a scratchy looking photo in the center with a group of manboys leaning against a wall in a trite attempt to look surly and pouty. She recognizes the boy with the cigarette dangling from his lips as the one from the record store. He's definitely the best looking in his band, and it's no wonder he was chosen to be the focus of the flyer. Even with him, they are just another band struggling to gain attention in a city full of people doing the same exact thing.
Roger wouldn't have crossed her mind twice if it wasn't for his roommate. Guys like Roger don't usually hang out with boys like that. Roger was gorgeous, even April wouldn't refute that, but as soon as the first waft of hubris drifted past his lips, she couldn't stop herself from trying to break him down. People like Roger were used to coasting on their looks and manipulating everyone around him. April had known guys like that, occasionally on her weaker days she even gave in to it. But the next morning, even after a shower, even when she didn't have anywhere to go, she still felt like the girl who shows up to work in yesterday's clothes with makeup smeared over her features, wearing a look of shame. April resented people like Roger, she judged them easily and picked at them when she knew she had them hooked. She liked turning them down and watching as their bravado caved for even a brief moment before setting their sights on a random skank across the bar.
This is where Roger and his kind split that day in the record store. This is what makes Roger a little more interesting. This is what causes her to shed her warm pajamas and well worn grandma slippers in place of ripped leggings and clunky boots. Heavily lining her eyes and smearing it into place with her index finger, she gives a shake of her hair, reaching for her jacket and throwing open the door.
A scribbled invitation graces her message board, and she recognizes the chicken scratch as Jay's from downstairs. His girlfriend throws wicked parties at her apartment uptown and she has a seemingly never ending supply of alcohol and killer weed. The sound of lips smacking and clothes rustling kicks her out of her daze and she turns her head quickly to take in the sight of a giggling Rachel pushed against the wall by her cheap bastard boyfriend. They stumble together through the still open door and kick it with their foot, slamming it forcefully.
Yeah, April will definitely be going to that party later.
Friday nights in New York are always absolutely insane. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for all the commuters from the outskirts who don't know where they're going, what they're doing, or how to not act like such a fucking tourist. Years ago, this was Mark. He knows he shouldn't be so damn elitist after only four years, when natives could put him in his place in a second, but watching teenagers in their Gap jeans ripped to all hell, trying to replicate honesty...well at the very least it earns a roll of the eyes and a quick "What the hell?" to Roger.
Mark knows that he should be happy that his best friend is able to sell out a club. But he also knows that Roger wishes he could have the respect of his peers, instead of the undeserved admiration of a group of screeching girls from Bayshore High School.
Hoping to get some shots that Roger promises will be gold when they make it big, Mark lightly plops down at a table almost directly in the center near the back of the crowd. He intensely searches the crowd, stopping for a moment when a cute brunette gives him the eye and a flash of a smile that explodes. Losing her quickly to the building mob, he looks back one last time for April before turning to the stage as the band begins setting up their equipment. A grin crosses his face as he waves clumsily at Roger, who in turn matches it and gives him a wink. Mark hears a collective sigh being let out, followed quickly by a round of giggles that sound like a group of crazy chickens.
Mark hasn't told Roger about his undercover mission earlier that day, he doesn't want to get his hopes up. Mark hates seeing Roger crushed and from the tiny bit he has seen of his best friend when he is within 30 feet of April...well that is an emotion likely to be repeated. In the past few years of knowing him, Mark has only seen tiny hints of this brand of Roger. It took him months to work up to that kind of overt affection from the rock star, but April manages to turn him into a stuttering child craving an almost innocent relationship within moments.
Mark can definitely see where the attraction lies, she has a quality that makes you want to get to know her and investigate every aspect of her personality after a few short words, some unbroken eye contact and the change of a record. April is a mystery, seemingly an anomaly in a city that is filled to the brim with beautifully dangerous women.
As the lights lower, he switches his camera on, and attempts to capture more than the multitude of screaming fans in attendance and focus on what he knows. On what he knows matters. At least, on what he knows matters to him.
About halfway through the set, Mark feels two hands gently press down on his shoulders from behind, and he whips around to find April smiling wide, allowing dimples to embed themselves in her cheeks. Standing up, he politely offers her a chair, before asking if she wants a drink. As Mark scurries off to get her a rum and coke, April lifts herself onto the chair, looking around aimlessly for a moment, before casting a glance to the stage. Roger is silhouetted and glowing, all sweat and bravado. Pouty lips push out the words as fast as he can while still attempting a breezy rhythm that aims to make his practiced demeanor seem effortless. She fixes him with a knowing stare that she is sure will be reciprocated with a typical feral rock star smirk, but is surprised to see him smile almost demurely, looking down for a moment before recapturing his bombastic swagger.
The crowd practically spits Mark back to the table, and April can't help but laugh when she sees him clutching their drinks to his chest protectively, before glaring back for a moment, landing heavily in his chair. She throws back half the glass, glancing at Mark who is lightly sipping his beer, surprised that such a small girl could probably give Collins a run for his money in a drinking contest. Aiming to raise her voice over the din of the people clamoring for more of Roger, April remembers she still doesn't know his roommate's name, and she can't help but laugh, knowing he is a huge reason she is even out tonight. He looks embarrassed for a second, blushing slightly, before extending his hand and sputtering out a simple "I'm Mark." Nodding lightly, she turns back in her chair just in time to catch Roger grinning flirtatiously in their direction. She doesn't catch Mark's similar smile or the twinkle that lights up both their eyes. She just sways along to the music, feeling better than okay.
Mark and April finish off their drinks, waiting until the crowd clears before heading to the back of the club. At the end of a long hallway, Mark flashes a pass, entering a small room where most of the band is packing up and heading out the back door with their various conquests for the night lazily draped across their chests. Roger reminds him of Tinkerbell, nothing but a bright flash of light bouncing off the walls before slamming into Mark's chest and hugging him fiercely. Nuzzling into his neck, Mark pulls out of the hug and holds Roger at arm's length before wrapping his other arm around April's waist and tugging her close. Standing up a bit straighter, she raises an eyebrow and fixes Roger with the same look as earlier, managing to get a similarly chaste but dazed expression out of the man in front of her.
The air in the room is stifling, and she watches as an obviously inebriated groupie stumbles out of the bathroom, followed quickly by a man with a face so smarmy, April feels itchy just looking at him. Turning back to Mark and Roger, she finds them silently speaking to each other hurriedly for a second, before they feel her eyes on them, and look up shyly. Roger keeps his eyes on his shoes, Mark merely shrugs and asks if she wants to get something to eat down the street. April nods a little too quickly for someone who is trying to keep up at least a hint of mystique, but she hasn't eaten all day, and her stomach would have answered just as promptly.
Roger races to the door, with April and Mark trailing behind him, still entangled. Out of his periphery, Mark catches Roger periodically checking over his shoulder to make sure they were still following, before flicking his gaze to April quickly, keeping his head down to hide the flush.
Mark can't wait to watch this play out.