Disclaimer: Don't own RENT.


Connection – Chapter Four

High school stretched on, most days blurring easily into the weeks, time passing without a second thought. Mark bought himself a new camera, an 8mm nightmare of an antique that he began carrying around as an extension of himself. His first film subject was a cold, hungry and tired Roger who had wandered over to his house at nearly midnight after a show. They slipped past Mark's parents, mumbling an apology and barricaded themselves in his bedroom upstairs. After leaning his guitar against a wall, Roger dropped onto Mark's bed and closed his eyes for over an hour. Instead of mentioning the little bag of powder that had fallen out of Roger's guitar case, staring up at him accusingly from the floor, Mark made Roger a sandwich for when he woke up.

The mess Roger could make simply by laying down was unreal. Hair gel was staining Mark's pillow, wet and dirty boots dripped mud onto his bed and floor. Roger smelled like the clubs, the strong scent of cigarettes and cheap beer drenching the sheets beneath him. Mark didn't really mind, but he did turn his new camera on his friend. Not entirely sure what he was doing, Mark whispered a feeble commentary of the situation, smiling absently through the pauses. Roger's eyeliner was running down his face from the rain outside while he snored lightly, his mouth half open and his eyebrows knit together. Roger was never really fully content.

"I wrote you your song," Roger mumbled before opening his eyes. "You have to hear it and tell me if you like it."

Mark didn't need to hear it to like it, but he filmed Roger's slender fingers shifting over the neck of the guitar, bending and pulling and pressing hard enough to turn his nails white. His left hand was shaking enough to miss a note or two. A ballad as opposed to a recycled rock anthem for the generation, a reserved and cautious mellow voice, not his deafening rock scream.

The words sounded awkward for him, Roger wasn't practiced at writing love songs. Grey-green eyes were surprisingly shy and hidden beneath the crop of white blond mess.

"No one else." Roger muttered, hugging Mark lazily with one arm and eating his sandwich with the other.


Mark spent the weekend in a constant state of mental combat. For an action that seemed so absolutely appropriate at the time, that neither seemed to question, he was getting a good deal of emotional mileage out of it now.

Secrets were beginning to surface. Mark was a singer, albeit a terrible one, anytime he was alone. He drank cheap tea and read his mother's romance novels if he was sick, skimming the pages for the intimate, romantic and amazing sex the covers promised that was never delivered.

"They fell together upon the sheets"… end chapter.

Mark thought girls who smoked were beautiful, and wanted to date a girl who wore skirts. He didn't know, honestly, if it was because they looked classier or if there were dirtier implications associated.

Mark liked girls who kissed on the first date. He imagined he'd like girls who moved even faster. He hadn't met one yet.

Roger had an impressive collection of pornography, but he thought all of the girls looked cheap. Roger liked nice girls who wore clothes that covered them and smelled pretty. He liked girls who smiled shyly before they touched and who would giggle at lame jokes. Roger had yet to find a girl like this who liked him back.

Roger didn't think he was attractive. He bleached his hair because his band told him to, he grinned because it was part of the act. He chased the girls who chased him because he wanted one to fall in love with him. He liked attention because it made him feel good, and Roger liked to feel good.

Roger had lost his virginity at the first party Mark rescued him from. He had saved the experience he was sure would be the best to increase the payoff, but the whole ordeal was over in under five minutes and left him unable to deal with the disappointment. So he tried it some more and let sex become his new addiction, never admitting to anyone but Mark that it was his least favourite.

But Roger never admitted to Mark that he looked forward to afterwards when he could call Mark, begging to be rescued and Mark would never refuse.

Mark never admitted that what he really felt when Roger came stumbling over to his car, smelling of girl and sex was jealousy.

Roger tried to pretend that he wasn't hurt when Mark got back together with Nanette for a week. Faking sorrow at their final breakup proved difficult.

For as long as they could, they pretended to forget that Roger had broken the wall of friendship and kissed Mark. His hands grabbing two fistfuls of shirt and pulling the other boy against him, suffocating him with smells of cigarette smoke and sex, hair gel and beer. Hips pressed together, hands where they shouldn't be on a friend and deep, heavy breathing shared in the space between them when they broke apart. It was just another night of after-sex comfort for Roger. Just a kiss for someone he cared about instead of someone who wanted him. They were teenage boys, normal for them to respond to someone touching them, even if it happened to be a best friend instead of a pretty girl. Roger must have been drunk, after all. Mark was probably just tired. Roger passed out on the floor and was gone in the morning. Mark had to pretend he had something else to think about all weekend.