Our Lives
Rent
Summary: Five short shots of our two favorite boys, their lives: fun, sad and always supportive moments.
Author's Note: Based of the Song Our Lives by The Calling. It began as a Doctor Who video and I thought this would fit really well with most any fandom, so I wrote this :)
Is there love, tonight
When everyone's dreaming
Of a better life
In this world
Divided by fear
We've got to believe that
There's a reason we're here
Yeah, there's a reason we're here...
Oh, yeah...
Roger Davis dropped his bag in a nearby seat and with as much attitude as a twelve year old could muster he fell into the chair as though the class was a death sentence, and the teacher in the front of the room-who looked remarkably like a drag queen version of Patrick Swayze- was his executioner.
His glanced across the rest of the hormonally unbalanced pre-teens scattered throughout the room. As every other class in middle school, there were cliques of kids. The snobs sat in the left upper hand corner of the room, talking in their annoyingly high pitched and squeaky valley girl voices; that made Roger's ears want to bleed.
The dumb jocks sat across from them a few feet over; ogling the girls as they talked about their sports and sex lives: which Roger highly doubted existed, they were after all not even teenagers yet, so the likely hood of any of them actually being laid any time soon, was slim to none. They hadn't screwed anyone or anything but their own damn hands.
Then there were the Goths, glaring through their heavily black lined pasty white eyes at everyone else in the room as though they were trying to curse the others. Their chains and black hair just brining out how pale and stupid they looked as they attempted to rebel against something in their own sick and twisted way.
Finally, about eight chairs to the right of Roger, sat a very small looking boy. Probably no more than eleven, he had reddish blonde hair and stunningly clear blue eyes—which appeared to be filled with loneliness; surrounded by thick black rimmed glasses.
"Welcome to Senior Choir, today I'd like to listen to your voices and place you in Soprano, Alto, Tenor or Bass. If the girls would please join me up at the front of the room, we can get started."
There were fifteen girls—who quickly ambled to the front of the room with the Sawyze look alike. Roger glanced back at the kid and quickly decided they could be lonely together. Grabbing his overweight backpack, he stepped over to the short scrawny kid. Blue eyes glanced up as Roger sat down in the chair next to him.
Seeing no contempt at being interrupted from his loneliness, Roger decided to introduce himself, sticking out his hand he grinned, "Name's Roger Davis; I'm a seventh grader."
The blonde glanced at the ruffled looking thirteen year old; as though sizing him up. Roger wore black jeans ripped at the knees, and a dark forest green shirt. "Mark Cohen, sixth grader," the younger boy finally replied in a voice that obviously hadn't cracked yet.
"How'd you get in this class?"
"I tried out last year, my older sister Cindy was in the class."
"Cool—so you like middle school?" Small talk sucked, Roger quickly decided.
Mark shrugged, "Not really people are too—"
"Attitude prone," grinned Roger, "That's preteens. Aren't you in my science class too?" Roger could see the kid was oblivious a quiet little boy, "You wanna come over to my house after school, and work on the science project together?"
Mark's eyes seemed to light up at this idea, "That sounds cool—you wanna join me for lunch?"
Roger smirked, "Yeah, that'd be cool," Roger replied, causing the younger boy to chuckle softly.
o0o
Cause these are the days worth living
These are the years we're given
And these are the moments
These are the times
Let's make the best out of our lives...
See the truth, all around
Our faith can be broken
Our hands can be bound
But open our hearts
And fill up the emptiness
With nothing to stop us
Is it not worth the risk?
Yeah, is it not worth the risk?...
He ran as fast as his scrawny, chicken legs could carry him. Heading only in one direction—tears streaming down his pale chilled cheeks; he was running on auto pilot until he reached the door to the house where he spent fifty percent of the past seven years. He began to pound fiercely against the door-huffing through burning lungs in desperation.
The door flew open; the long haired, green eyed blonde gaped at the sight of his younger friend. Jade eyes landed on the unmistakable hand print against the boy's cheek. "Mark? What happened? Get in there, it's November, where the hell's your jacket!" Stripping his hooded sweatshirt off, he quickly handed it too the college drop out.
Mark mechanically pulled the shirt over his short sleeved shirt; not realizing how cold he was until the body warmth from the former wearer cloaked his entire body. Roger grabbed his best friend's wrist and pulled him into the kitchen. Sitting the eighteen year old down on a stool, he reached into the freezer and withdrew a handful of ice cubes. He then grabbed a sandwich back from the top of the fridge, dumped the ice cubes in the small bag. Finally sealing it, he gently pressed it to the bruising cheek, receiving a gasp of pain and surprise from its owner. "Sorry, it'll bring swelling down. Another run in with your old man?" Mark merely nodded.
Roger sighed—continuing to move around the kitchen, he got them both a cup of coffee. Seven years they'd been best friends, inseparable—even when Roger began high school and his first year in college. They were always together. Their mother's described it as two lost souls in the most unlikely friendship. Roger was out going, loud, boisterous, and sought adventure like there was no tomorrow. He dreamed of being a famous musician, having just currently formed a band.
Mark was quiet, unemotional; he strayed from the wild and crazy ideas of others, unless it was Roger. He spent most of his life looking through the viewfinder of a camera. He dreamed of becoming a famous filmmaker. However the two had more in common than most people believed. For them, they both acknowledged that they needed someone to protect them, offer them comfort and perhaps on some level love. It had been an automatic easy friendship for the two boys.
"What was it about this time?" Roger had found out about David Cohen's mean streak only weeks after Mark and Roger's first encounter. Mark had shown up at school the next day with a black eye and the typical excuses of a child who was being abused.
"New York," muttered the blonde teenager.
Roger sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose; he left at the end of next week for New York city, where he would be sharing a loft with two friends he'd made along the way to getting his music noticed. Mark had gone ballistic at this information, until Roger had openly invited him to come.
"Mark, you're eighteen, it's not like you need their permission. You already dropped out of college. You'll be fine, and free from your bastard father."
"I'm just scared," it was rare for Mark to so openly show his emotions.
Roger nodded, "Me too Mark—but this has been our dream, we could make it big! We'll be together, facing the rest of the world. Tell you what, you can sleep here tonight; tomorrow we'll go to your house and pack you're stuff. I won't let him hit you anymore: we move next week, you'll stay here, where you're safe, until then. Mom and Pop won't mind, they like you more than me anyway. Go wash up, and I'll heat some of mom's left overs for you."
Gratitude shone in Mark's azure eyes as he slowly stood, "Thanks Rog."
"No problem kid, what are best friends for—if not to get snot on their shoulder while you use it to cry on?"
o0o
No, yeah...
Cause these are the days worth living
These are the years we're given
And these are the moments
These are the times
Let's make the best out of our lives...
And even if hope was shattered
I know it wouldn't matter
Cause these are the moments
These are the times
Let's make the best out of our lives...
Roger,
We have AIDS
Love,
April
If this wasn't a kick in the crotch, Mark didn't know what was. He looked at the stained bath rub. He'd been the one to find her; he'd never forget screaming for Collins, then trying desperately to keep Roger from seeing the lifeless body of his girlfriend; drenched in her crimson life force. He'd fought, and now Roger was in his bedroom, crying from shock, anger and betrayal.
Mark felt his stomach roll, as the pale gaunt image of April's lifeless corpse flashed through his mind again. Sighing, he made his way from the bathroom to Roger's room and quietly knocked.
"Go 'way," came the half sobbed mumble.
Mark closed his eyes to stave off tears, "Roger, let me in." the musician had always been there for him in the bad times, it was Mark's turn to do the same. There was a long silence before he heard Roger pad across the small room and unlock the door. Taking a deep breath Mark pushed the door open, closing it behind himself—he allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkened room for a moment.
His musician lay on the bed, curled around a pillow, tears covering his red, blotchy and puffy face. His hair stuck up in all directions, his blood shot eyes met Mark's. "I have HIV," came the quiet murmur from the lonely figure.
Mark slipped his shoes off and climbed onto the bed, "Yes you do." It was a simple reply. Mark didn't need to say more, his voice spoke volumes.
"Why?" Roger's faced crumbled at his question, "What now?"
Mark gently removed the pillow from Roger's grasp and scooted closer to the distraught man. Reaching out, Mark brushed a damp, blonde strand from the sweat caked forehead. "We get you clean—no more heroine. You begin treatment for your HIV, and you do your best to move on."
Roger shook his head, curling into Mark's safe arms, leaning against his chest; he let out a gut wrenching sob. The filmmaker calmly held the man, rubbing his shaking back and shoulders. "Please," sobbed Roger, "Please stay and help me!"
"No need to ask. I'm not going anywhere Roger—never." Without another word, he allowed Roger to cry over HIV, April and the pain he would soon be facing from detox. Mark just held him, knowing Roger would do the same for him.
o0o
We can't go on
Thinking it's wrong to speak our minds
I've got to let out what's inside...
Is there love, tonight
When everyone's dreaming
Can we get it right?
Yeah, can we get it right?...
Roger sat on the edge of the windowsill, a hot mug of coffee in hand as he watched the summer thunder storm rule the sky. There was something magical and amazingly peaceful about them. Although, Roger knew his dear friend and roommate tended to disagree. Upon thought—said roommate stumbled out of his bedroom, in shorts and a sweatshirt. His hair sticking in odd directions, eyes filled with sleep. Roger chuckled as Mark practically collapsed across from him on the window. Glaring at the sky in contempt as though it was the cause of his wakefulness at this hour; leading to Roger's soft chuckle.
"You want any coffee?"
"Do I look like I need to stay awake?" grumbled Mark.
Roger grinned at the sarcasm, "Cranky—okay, how about water?"
Mark shook his head, "No thanks—you okay?"
The musician simply shrugged, "Getting there, how about you?"
"I'm not the one whose father just died—"
"Step-dad; and it's not like we were all that close. I'm worried about ma though."
"You're mother's a tough bird, she'll be fine."
Roger smirked, "Thanks for all your support these past few days—I know we haven't exactly been friendly lately."
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"So you wanna talk about the whole Maureen thing?" Roger approached the unspeakable topic carefully. He watched Mark's eyes for any sign of reproach.
Mark's lips twitched in a short frown, "She dumped me—what's there to talk about?"
"Uh, how about the whole lesbian lawyer thing?"
"You know the worst part? I've forgiven her—she treated me like a piece of fuckin' shit and I let it go, just like that, "Mark said snapping his fingers to elicit his point.
"You're a good man Charlie Brown," smirked Roger.
"Shove it."
"Seriously Mark, that's part of who you are, wouldn't be my Marky any other way."
"I hate that name," mumbled Mark as he looked back up at the sky.
"Sour puss, tonight aren't we."
"I'm a failure—"
"Whoa!" Roger's sudden response surprised the younger filmmaker, "Listen to me Marcus Jeremiah Cohen—you are not a failure! You're a survivor, don't ever say that!"
"It's true—I haven't made a film, no job, no girl, no education—just like my father—"
Roger suddenly grabbed Mark's chin, "Stop right there! Just because you aren't perfect in your hypocritical father's eyes doesn't mean you're a failure! You've survived here for nearly three years. You have a girl who you loved—it's in no way your fault that she just happened to be a bit of a whack job. You're a loyal, trusting and loving friend. You've made friends here rapidly and you're living more of a life than any of your family ever will. So don't ever say Mark Cohen is a failure, because it's a down right lie and no one lies about Mark without going through me first."
Another crack of thunder broke the uncomfortable silence, both azure and jade eyes watched as the bolt lit up the night sky. "You saved my life that day, you know," whispered Mark.
"When?"
"First day of choir class—had it all planned out; I was going to down a bottle of my mom's sleeping pills that night. But then you invited me over, we watched movies all night. I found a reason to survive. I'm so glad I met you," blue eyes turned from the sky to the musician.
Roger smiled sadly, "I'm glad you decided I was worth keeping. I've got several regrets in my life—but the last ten years—getting up and talking to you that day, has been the one constant thing I've always been grateful for. So believe me when I say you saved my life just as much, and the feeling is completely equal."
Mark smiled and turned back towards the black sky, suddenly realizing their relationship was very similar to the thunder storm. Lots of hot and cold moments, loud, but awesome and powerful; it was full of strength and beauty.
The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, they didn't always need words, as long as they had each other, all their other problems seem insignificant.
o0o
Cause these are the days worth living
These are the years we're given
And these are the moments
These are the times
Let's make the best out of our lives...
If anyone asked at a later date- Mark would have placed full blame on Roger, the musician had; after all; initiated the first joke. The day just spiraled out of control from there. He'd sauntered out of his room that morning, unaware of the date and Roger's evil smirk he hid behind the coffee cup. Green eyes watched intently as Mark poured coffee into his own mug, followed by some sugar.
Mark took the first sip and sprayed it all over the floor. Roger's cackle permeated the entire loft as Mark glared at him, wiping his chin, "What the fuck!"
The wicked grin took over the musician's handsome face, "Happy April fools day Marky!"
"You are so damn immature!" growled Mark, already contemplating revenge against the rocker.
It was ten by the time Roger felt the beginning affects of Mark's payback. It began as an annoying itch, and rapidly became a full blown-rake-your-skin-off-scratching at his lower regions. He heard the filmmaker's hardy laugh "What's wrong Roggy?" he taunted as he held up a bottle of soap flakes, "Something in your shorts?"
"Oh you skunk!" Growled Roger, still scratching, "This means war!"
"Bring it on Hair boy!" the geek challenged.
Mark spent the next two hours glancing over his shoulder; Roger had taken a shower and just stepped into his room to change when he heard the after effects of his little scheme.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO ME!" echoed throughout the entire loft.
Roger snorted as he turned to meet Mark's azure eyes, "Why, whatever do you mean Marcus?"
"You turned my fucking piss blue!" that's when Roger lost it, nearly dropping his towel that covered his waist; the look combined with his words just caused Roger to lose all control as he howled with laughter.
"It'll wear off in a few hours," Roger gasped between laughs.
Mark disappeared for the next three hours; when Roger discovered Mark's next retaliation. Sitting on a stool in their kitchen he grabbed an apple and took a bite from it. It wasn't until he almost took the second bite that he came face to—well face, with a worm—"AH!" he shrieked throwing the apple as he stumbled backwards off the stool hitting the floor with a resounding thump. Spitting as he went down.
Glaring at the offensive piece of fruit he grimaced as he stood. Quickly throwing the apple away he looked around the apartment for another means of revenge.
Mark was making his way up the side walk—not paying attention, when he felt the splat and a rush of cold ice water drench him from head to toe. Turning his head up to the sky, he saw Roger grinning like a fool from their balcony, right before the rocker dropped another balloon hitting Mark directly in the face.
Mark ascended the stairs rapidly, gun drawn at his side; he cautiously pulled the door openly to shut it again as a yellow balloon exploded near his head. Slipping in, Mark took aim.
Roger let out a surprised yelp as cold water hit his own face. He glared playfully at Mark, before launching another balloon in the filmmaker's direction.
And that's how Collins, Angel, Maureen, Joanne and Mimi found the two men on the water logged floor, soaked to the bone, laughing hysterically as they pillowed one another's head on the opposite man's water logged chest.
"Should we ask?" Collins spoke up.
"No," both man chorused before slipping into playful giggles.
And even if hope was shattered
I know it wouldn't matter
Cause these are the moments
These are the times
Let's make the best out of our lives...
Oh, yeah, let's make the best out of our lives...
Oh, yeah, let's make the best out of our lives...
The End