Title: The Moments We Live For

Author: Katieelessar

Rating: T

Genre: General

Characters: Mark and Roger

Summary: First Rent fic. Each chapter will be a different scene from Roger's and Mark's life from Roger's withdrawal period to his death. Please read and review!

Note: I haven't decided if there'll be any Mark/Roger later but for now, everything's slash-free.

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns it all. I just play with them to pass the time.


The Moments We Live For

Chapter One: The Same Tale

Time remains inconsistent.

It played a game of its own with ever changing rules.

Mark still could not understand how it could glide by so swiftly in times when he needed it the most.. Playing cards with Roger...drinking at the Life... filming the underbelly of New York... While he lived and breathed and moved through these careless moments, Time whipped by with little more than a tick.

There were minutes that stretched out as slow as dripping honey. His first kiss with Maureen...listening to Roger play his fender...lying next to Roger on the roof to greet the moon... Times sweeter than honey.

Then there were these long moments…. when the next could shake his world, turn it upside with no more than a scant apology. These were the moments he wished would leave quickly and never, ever come back.

Mark sighed and reached out for Roger's pale hand that rested on the white sheet. It was their second trip that month to the hospital for the same reason as the last—alcohol poisoning. Mark never had a problem with Roger getting himself drunk before...before it happened, but now the man was using the substance to escape his pain to the paradise free of all pain.

Yet I have never lost someone like he has... Mark thought, trying to choke back the tears that came to close to spilling.

"Roger," he said brokenly, absorbed by the shallow rise and fall of the unconscious man's chest. He gently ran his hand through the long scraggy hair—a new characteristic he was still trying to get used to. He had always known Roger as the lean, spiked hair, clean-faced rocker.

He had tried so hard to help and yet, here was his latest failure at keeping him friend safe—safe from the alcohol, drugs, violence—and whatever else Roger had done to get himself into this position.

He doesn't know how to control his pains. I don't even know. Mark shook his head in defeat, resting it against the cool bar of the hospital bed, still clutching Roger's hand. He thinks hurting himself will make him feel…alive? Will it make him forget? How could he forget? We can't forget. We have to remember to forget...

"Oh, April," he whispered to himself, trying to remember the sweet, loyal April who had been apart of their lives for the pasttwo years. She was the always the first to stand up and protest (next to Maureen);the first to wear purple lipstick with an orange skirt and yellow heels; the first to show up at Roger's shows and last to leave; the first to start drinking but be the last one standing. April was April,with her unique presence that had graced all of their lives.

Until now…

But then there was always the other side of April. The side she only shared with Roger when they were alone. The side of her that she buried and sought to escape from that only the needle could ease. As long as she had a filled needle and Roger, everything was okay. Until the results came in. There was finally that last blow that came in the form of a small slip of paper with her name and her verdict beneath that could not be quenched by the needle but--

Stop it Cohen, stop it. He felt his forehead break out into a cold sweat, as he couldn't stop himself from recalling those horrible shots on his reel from that day.

"April?"

He started and raised his head. Roger. He was slowly waking—eyes fluttering and Mark loosened his grip on his hand.

"Roger?" He asked slowly and quietly, aware that the other might still have a heavy headache.

"Coh--Mark? Wha—" He began to raise himself up but Mark slowly eased him back into the pillows. He was so pale.

"You're in the hospital," he answered the unspoken question. "You've been out for at least 4 hours since we brought you here."

"How the hell did I get here? How—" the words died on his lips as a coughing fit swamped him for several moments. Mark rubbed the rocker's back until he had relaxed back into his bed. He was too pale and too sweaty when he finally stopped.

"Cohen?" he asked weakly. "What happened?"

Mark bit his lip, afraid to unsettle him anymore than he already was.

"I found you, Roger," he answered, submitting to the confused stare Roger was giving him. "You were on the streets near Avenue B, laying in one of alleys. You…you weren't breathing so..." He took a shuddering breath. "I called the ambulance and they took you here as fast as they could."

Roger nodded wearily, like a five year old who has grown tired of the same bed time story told over and over again. He turned over on his side away from Mark and buried himself into his covers. A dim part of his mind screamed at him, saying he should thank Mark, give him a smile, an embrace, even a mumbled apology but he couldn't muster the care to do so. He just wanted to sleep and forget it all.

Mark knew it was the lasting effects of Roger's last shots that were doing this but he still felt hurt that Roger would forget him…again.

They did not speak for a long time—so long, Mark was dozing off when Roger's voice finally revealed a deeper concern.

"Where's my stash?"

Mark's head immediately shot up, weariness aside. Shit, why did Roger have to think of that now? Of all times?

"It's somewhere… safe," he replied carefully. Safe from your grasp, he wanted to answer aloud. "How do you feel, Rog?"

"I need it now, Cohen," Roger snapped. It hurt Mark how Roger was so…distant from him that he no longer even called him by his first name.

It's the drugs, he consoled himself. The drugs…and I'm doing the right thing to keep them away so they couldn't hurt Roger or me or anybody else anymore.

Even with this steadfast resolve, his stomach churned in apprehension. Roger was weak right now but he had his voice and he could throw whatever filthy words or accusations he had brewing in him. These were worse to Mark. A black eye would heal in a few weeks given time and care. The other wounds—the sharp and cruel words—crushed his heart raw.

"You don't need it right now. Just take a deep breath." Good. The first thing he could do was to remain calm. Keep talking so he can't. "The doctors think that you'll be able to get out here within two days. I—"

"Two fuckin' more days? No way in hell am I staying in this hole for two more days! God dammit, Cohen. I know what you're doing. You're avoiding the damn question. Well guess what? You were always a bad liar and always will be so face the fuckin' truth and give me my god damn stash before I have to take it from you!"

Mark remained as still as his quivering hands would allow him. Don't flinch. Don't show him that that hurt.

"No, Roger. No."

"Cohen… The shit's mine anyways."

"No, it's not. It's just more of your pain and I am not going to allow my friend to hurt himself anymore than he's hurt right now," he paused as he saw thecolor rise inRoger's face. "Look at you, Roger! You were half dead when I found you! You could have died if I hadn't ridden my bike down that alley. I would've never found you, or anyone until…I don't know!"

"Stop saying such shit, Cohen. So what if I had been drinking a little too much and getting a high a little more? It's not your fuckin' business anyways. It's my body; I can do whatever the hell I want with it." Mark began to speak but Roger put up a hand. "Shut it! I don't want to hear you saying, 'Oh, Roger, it'll be okay. We can forget all about April and be the happy little fuckers we always were without a care in the world.' Dammit! I thought you were my friend! I thought you would support me--"

"I will support you," Mark answered, raising his voice slightly. "But not with this. Not with the drugs or the drinking or the fighting. I will help you come back to yourself, Roger. I promise, I promise I will but I need you to want that too."

"Well maybe I don't want it! Maybe I want to forget. Maybe..."

Mark let Roger talk by himself for a while, allowing the harsh words and insults to wash over him but not penetrate. They had had such fights like this so many times in the pastsix weeks. So many and not an inch closer to healing. He rubbed his temples, already beginning to feel the edges of despair creep around him even but he refused to back down. Once he lost hope, Roger had no one.

Gradually, he brought himself out of his reflection and back to Roger who still stared at him coldly. Mark matched the gaze.

"Are you done, Roger?"

Silence.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Nothing. Mark wondered--

"I hate you."

He blinked but replied quickly, "That's okay."

"I hate you. I hate you. Don't you hear me? I HATE you!" Roger sat up in a struggle, trying to grope Mark's neck but he was too far away. He reached as far as his tired body would allow him before collasping back into the bed, sobbing openly and shaking from head to toe.

"I hate you..." he whispered as sweat broke out over his body, mixing with his stinging tears. "I hate you...Oh God...Mark, I'm so sorry." He rubbed his face, palms muffling his agonized voice. "I just miss her. Oh God, I miss her so much...why? Why? I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

Slowly, Mark reached out and placed a soft hand on the soaked shoulder, rubbing soothing circles around the sobbing man's back while murmuring soft words of consolation.

"I'm here, Roger. Hush, I'm here."

And there they remained for the rest of the night; the flimmaker guiding the way to his vision while the musician sang the words of a griever.

The End


The end of the first chapter anyways. I hope you enjoyed. Any typos, grammar mistakes or bad characterizations are my fault. No flames as always.