A/N: Yeah...school sucks...just because over spring break I was on a writing high and now that school's back...um...I've got nothing. But I need to post something before I go crazy. So, let's give this a try, shall we?

A/N2: Little random, but I'm excited about it. I'm doing my first musical over the summer. Hooray! Now...I'm more into more adult musicals...and my high school is doing Seussical (don't say anything lol)...but hey, should be fun, right? I know, every time my choir director talks about it, someone says, "My God, of all the musicals and he picks this one..."

A/N3: This story's a little more depressing than my past ones have been. But not all fan fics can have happy endings.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything RENT related. That disclaimer gets really old after a while...

He looked down at his hands a lot. Whenever he felt guilty, his hands were there. Those same hands he had used to pluck his guitar strings and grab the microphone violently and hold the faces of so many girls that he had claimed he loved. His long fingers ran over the back of his other hand while his face contorted into one of sheer pain.

How could he tell his roommate, the one person that had always been there, that he simply couldn't do it anymore?

Picturing Mark's reaction, he dug his fingernails deep into his skin. Deep enough to burn; not deep enough to bleed. He wanted to bleed. But his fingernails, due to the constant cutting he had to do if he wanted to continue playing guitar, were too short to cause any damage.

Then he walked in.

What killed Roger most was the smile on his face. The taunting smile. It soon disappeared when he caught Roger's expression and the tears dwelling in his sea green eyes.

"Roger...what's wrong, what's the matter?" Mark asked quickly, rushing over to his roommate. Roger didn't want to break down and tried with all his strength to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall, but he wasn't strong enough. As Mark brushed away his tears with his soft thumbs, Roger knew this was going to be harder than he had imagined.

"Mark...I can't do this anymore. I have to go. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where, I don't understand." Mark backed up from the musician, trying to take him all in. Maybe if he could see more of him, he could comprehend what he was saying better.

But deep down, he knew that nothing Roger would say would ever make sense.

"I can't stay with you anymore."

"What did I do? Where is this coming from?" Mark felt his throat closing up on him.

"It's not what you did. Believe me, it's not you." He heard the loft door slide open and a familiar voice.

"Hey, baby!" Maureen stopped when she saw the looks on their faces. "What's going on? What did I interrupt?"

Roger shook his head. "Nothing. I was just leaving." He turned to Mark. "I'll come back for my things."

He walked across the room, his shoes heavy and loud against the hard wooden floors. Sliding the loft door closed behind him, he leaned against it and sighed, holding his head in his hands.

Always finding comfort in his hands.

Mark, as long as you're with Maureen, as long as it's not me you hold every night, this can't work.

He walked down the spiral staircase, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he went. He didn't want to see his hands.

If he and Mark were going to be separate, nothing could comfort him. So he dug deeper, hiding his comfort beneathhis thick denim jeans.