Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns RENT

Cindy excused herself; "I need to check on Lea."

She left, and Roger's breathing deepened. No one noticed but Mark. What--no, he told himself. Roger wouldn't. Would he? Mark shook his head and absently rolled a mass of chewed potato around in his mouth.

Roger's new song was called "Beautiful Cliché" and was based on a journal entry. Roger had read the entry aloud as Mark rested against him, playfully giving little tugs on Mark's hair as he laughed at his teenage self. "Dear Alex, I love you. I don't want to ruin our friendship because I so rely upon it but, just being around you lifts my soul. I love you. Alex, I'm sorry. This is so lame. It's stupid. All my life I've spurned teenage romance. If I let this go, will it pass? Can I stop feeling this way? I don't know if this is for real, but Alex, it hurts! Love is agony.

"Oh, how truly, disgustingly cliché! I don't know, Alex, if I want to wait and twenty years from now speak of this to you and laugh with you at this silly teenage letter, written in the pouring rain with a fountain pen and butterflies in my gut. If only I could say it aloud! Yet I so fear that you will reply with disgust. I'm scared to lose you as a friend, too scared."

He sang the song and played his guitar. That alone sent girls wild. They loved the person conveyed in the words.

You're my pretty little everything

My bright, inspiring world

And you drop me on my knees

Please, please

Would you be my…

Would you be my…

Would you be…

In the final line, he raised the pitch of his voice and extended the vowel sounds, strumming his guitar to the end and, as the final notes faded concluding, "… mine?"

Roger's eyes returned to Mark as he sang. They returned, yet constantly strayed. Mark felt his heart twist. He shook his head at the silly possessiveness. Roger was playing the crowd. He wanted these girls hot for him, wanted them to buy his albums so the loft would not freeze him in the winter.

Roger's eyes wandered, and Mark sighed. He did not want to share.

Mark had never liked sharing. He had done it, because he was a good boy who obeyed his parents. He shared his sandwich in third grade with Terence, who was a bully and picked especially on Mark. But it was right to share, Mark knew that, so he shared.

Distant relatives made a gesture of sending gender-equal toys at Chanukah. Mark loved when they sent teddy bears, as many of them did, but he hated things like stencils or books, things he always had to ask Cindy's permission to use. He hated sharing with Cindy.

But surely, surely there was no chance that her departure and Roger's ease were connected.

Roger, meanwhile, decided that he definitely liked Passover. Not that Roger was particularly selective--he enjoyed celebrations in general. But any celebration involving masses of food, Mark singing, a good story and four glasses of G-d-awful wine was high on Roger's list. There was conversation, but Roger was generally exempt from it. He sat quietly, ate, and occasionally told Lily how brilliant he thought the food was.

"This is a… laft-kuh?" he asked.

"Latke," Lily told him.

Roger repeated, "Latke. Latke?" She nodded. "Okay, got it. Latke. It's delicious."

Lily smiled. "You've said," she told him, "but thank you. Mark's crazy about them." She gave him a meaningful look. "Or at least he used to be."

"I'm eating!" Mark said. "Look." He speared half a latke and jammed it into his mouth, chewing painstakingly with a huge grin.

Satisfied, Lily explained to Roger, "Latkes are actually a Chanukah tradition, but we haven't had Mark home in so long, I thought maybe his favorite foods would remind him of the things he misses." Mark blushed. "And before I forget, Mark, you've gotten thin, honey."

Mark could not stop blushing. His temperature rose so high he felt woozy, his vision twirling. She meant well, but his mother had humiliated him beyond rationality and was continuing to such a degree that Mark feared he might simply lose consciousness. In fact, perhaps this was not so poor an idea. Perhaps when he awoke it would be over, he would be in the loft in New York, listening to the traffic go by. He would open his eyes and find himself using Roger as a pillow, breathing in his sweat.

Mark had his left hand on his thigh; Roger's hand found his. Mark smiled. He loved Roger's hands. His fingers were soft, up to the smooth calluses capping them. He bit his nails and filed them against his teeth. There was a rough patch of healing scab on his index finger. Mark folded his fingers within Roger's. The burning heat fled him, replaced with a slow, steady pulse of warmth.

A blue napkin hit Mark in the face. For a moment he was thoroughly confused. He looked to Roger, who shook his head. "What?" he asked, perplexed and amused.

Samuel said, "Ma…"

Mark looked to his grandmother, trying to form a question. It was such a strange thing to do, throwing a napkin at someone, almost like asking attention, and Mark was on the verge of laughing at the childish gesture.

"What, Samuel? You're just gonna sit there and let him do that?" she demanded, on "him" jerking her head in Mark's direction.

Samuel took a deep breath. "Mark's just eatin' his latke, Ma."

"Bullshit!" she retorted. David and Ethan looked at one another, giggled, and mimicked their great-grandmother, parroting her obscenity until she glared them to silence. Not only the children were silenced by Rachel's glare. Samuel sighed, but said nothing further. Lily shook her head. Mark froze, moving only to draw his hand from Roger's. His gut tied itself like a shaped balloon. He had not realized she could see.

Rachel demanded, "What's wrong with you, Marcus? You think just 'cause G-d doesn't talk to you directly, G-d doesn't mean you?" Mark said nothing, just looked at his lap. Roger's hand rested on Mark's thigh; Mark nudged him off. His cheeks were burning. "I suppose fucking your way--"

"Rachel, please," Lily interrupted. "The children…"

"You rather they grow up thinkin' this is better?" Rachel asked, indicating Mark. Roger swallowed his fury. He wanted to comfort Mark. He wanted to take him in his arms and kiss his face, cover his ears and tell him not to listen. "It's not, Lily. Samuel. You know that. It's an abomination. This… thing," meaning Mark, "is filth. A disgusting little faigala. You should be ashamed to welcome it--"

"Grandma--" Mark appealed. He had soaked his face with quiet tears. Roger touched Mark's shoulder, his palm gently following the curve.

Samuel smacked the table for attention. "That is enough," he snapped. "You know what, Ma? If Mark wants to be queer, that's okay with me." He gesticulated furiously as he spoke, his hands flying about so quickly they blurred. "'Cause if that's what he really wants… well, maybe it won't please G-d. Maybe it doesn't. But he's my son, Ma. That's all I can see. He's my son and I'm proud of him."

"Then you're just as bad."

"Then I am," Samuel retorted, opening his mouth wide with each word, savoring it.

Rachel stared a long moment at her son, her lips curled into an ugly smile. Then she sniffed, raised her chin and said, "Then I go. Let's go, Joshua."

"Actually…" Joshua pointed at Roger, who noticed that the old man's fingers trembled and had no hair. He was nearing the end of his life. "I think he's a fine boy. Not a bad match for our Mark at all."

"Then I will see you in Boston," Rachel retorted.

"The buses run at this hour?" Joshua asked. Rachel opened her mouth, closed it, made a strangled sound and thumped into her chair.

The meal recommenced in silence. Knives scraped across plates. Glasses thumped to the table. Mark sniffled. Tears slipped neatly out from beneath his glasses and pattered onto his khakis, leaving dark spots. "Mark…" Roger rubbed Mark's shoulder, but Mark shrugged him off.

"I'm okay," he muttered, and reached for his wine.

For two minutes, Mark was given the courtesy of feigned ignorance. Not a word was said concerning his tears as his temperature climbed higher and higher under the imagined weight of their scrutiny. Then Cindy returned to the table. She strode briskly into the room, grinning, then looked at her family, at her brother, and asked, "What happened?"

Something about the question and the tension in the room made them snap. They began to laugh, unable to say at what they were laughing. "All right," Cindy said, feeling this was a joke at her expense. She sat and returned to her meal. "What's wrong with Mark?"

He bit his lip. What's wrong with Mark? like he had done something wrong or been born wrong. But Samuel replied furiously, "Not one thing. Mark, stop crying."

But Mark couldn't. He couldn't help himself. It was all too much. As pleased as he was for his father's acceptance, his grandmother's words stuck in his mind. It, filth, faigala. Thing, shame, abomination. Mark had never considered himself as a gay man. He loved Roger. That was all there was to it. He loved Roger. It was nature, it simply was, not something he made or chose. Mark had never thought about it, never been spoken to so harshly, especially in his own home.

"Sorry," he muttered. His shoulders began to tremble and he sobbed.

Before Roger could touch Mark to comfort him, Samuel stood. "Mark," he said. "Upstairs. Now, please." Mark rose and left the table, watching his feet as they walked from the room. Roger glared daggers at Samuel's retreating back.

In truth, he hated himself in that moment. He had done nothing. This had been Mark's family, Mark's issue, but Mark's pain cut Roger deeper than words ever could and he, the fighter, had done nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED

'faigala' is an extremely rude Yiddish word. The closest equivalent in English is 'fag' but I think 'faigala' is worse.

The Four Questions are, (at least in my haggadah)"Why is this night different from all other nights? On all other nights, we eat leavened bread or matzah, tonight we eat only matzah. Why? On all other nights, we eat any kind of vegetable; tonight we must eat bitter herbs. Why? On all other nights, we do not dip herbs even once; tonight we dip twice. Why? On all other nights we sit up straight or recline on pillows; tonight we must lean on pillows. Why?" I'm the youngest child in my family, so the Four Question are either my part or my mother's, since she's youngest in her generation.

I hope you liked this chapter; reviews would be awesome!