This is an entry for Challenge Central challenge 16, in which the chosen pairing must have sex... without actually having intercourse.

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters are Jonathan Larson's.

Roger sat on the floor, a dopey grin on his face. A tiny kitten crawled up against his legs, stumbling on unsteady legs. She mewled, high and thin and pathetic, and Roger immediately scooped her up into one palm and cradled her against his chest. He petted her trembling body.

"Shh, baby. It's okay," he crooned.

When Roger had bathed the kitten, a first rinse turned the water pink with blood and the bodies of insects. Roger himself had been near tears at the kitten's pathetic wailing; he had petted her and promised that it would be all right.

Now the fleas were gone and the kitten drier.

Mark entered the room and sat beside Roger. He leaned in quickly to peck Roger's cheek. "He's cute."

"He's a girl," Roger replied.

"She's cute, then," Mark decreed. He reached out one finger and petted the tense ridges of the kitten's spine. Her white fur was damp, though Roger had done his best to dry her. "Are you honestly going to feed her eggs?" he asked.

Roger looked at the collection of objects spread on the towel before him: two eggs, a bowl of milk, a spoon, an empty glass and an eyedropper. "Yes," he said. He held out the kitten to Mark. "Hold her?"

Mark did. The baby was tiny and he felt the fragility of her bones. Her skin seemed loose and her whiskers thin as thread. She cried. "Shh, shh," Mark cooed, feeling silly.

Roger cracked an egg against the glass and split it open. Albumin and water spilled over his fingers; he tossed the slick yellow yolk from shell half to shell half, letting the white dribble away before plunking the yolk into the milk. He repeated the process with the second egg, then mixed the milk.

A small stream against Roger's wrist confirmed the warmth of the mixture. He filled an eyedropper. "Here, open her mouth."

Mark didn't know how to. Roger eased the dropper between the kitten's gums and squeezed out a small amount of yolky milk. Some dripped onto her fur and some onto her whiskers, but she made little noises of sucking.

"She's eating," Roger said. He grinned at Mark and offered the kitten the dropper again. This time she opened her mouth and accepted the liquid food.

One look at Roger's face told Mark that this baby was theirs for good. He suppressed a sigh. The baby was adorable, but their salaries were not exactly ample. Keeping her would be difficult, especially if she was not a mouser or had some disease. They would need a litter tray and cat food, and Mark suspected he knew just who would be refreshing the litter every week.

But Roger was in love, and that was that. Mark was powerless against those doe eyes.

"We'll have to name her," he murmured.

"How about Mick Jagger?" Roger suggested. His last cat had been called Keith Richards. In the eighth grade he had a goldfish named Al Yankovic, and at the age of six a pet mouse called John Lennon. But Richards, Al and Lennon had all departed long ago.

"No musicians," Mark said. "Picasso?"

"Picasso is a nice name for a fluffy white long-hair with a black ring of fur around one eye." Roger's image surprised Mark: it was exactly accurate. The kitten whined, and Roger fixed another dropper for her.

Watching his boyfriend's besotted face, Mark had a wicked thought. "How about Sex?" he asked.

"Not now--"

Mark interrupted Roger by initiating a long kiss. Roger moaned deep in his throat, and was left with his usual half-horny, half-on-the-brink-of-tears expression when Mark pulled away. "I meant as a name," Mark said. He tickled the kitten. "Hey there, Sexy!" he cooed. She peed on him.

Roger giggled as the kitten was thrust into his hands and Mark hurried to the bathroom to scrub the urine from his fingers. "Hey, there, Sex," he muttered. "Hey, Sexy-girl."

Yeah, he could live with that.

Fin!

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