Disclaimer: We all know who RENT belongs to... not me. Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his characters.

He counted the Aspirin. He counted the Tylenol (extra strength, the only thing Roger's migraines would listen to). There were a few Prednisone tablets which they really should not have had, he counted those. He even counted the Midol from the dusty bottle.

One-hundred twenty-seven.

Two days ago it had been one-hundred twenty-nine, but he remembered now seeing Roger swallow a couple of Tylenol with a glass of water. One-hundred twenty-seven, it felt so small, but Mark knew it was enough for when he needed it.

"Mark?"

And the knowledge eased a pain in his chest. He pushed the bottles into the cabinet and stood so quickly his head spun. "Yeah, Rog?"

"Just making sure you were okay," Roger said. He stood in the doorway, watching his friend awkwardly, unable to find the proper words.

Mark helped him. "Did they say when the babies could come home?" To Mark, it was a dreaded date, since afterwards it would be filled with high screams in the night, with bottles and diapers, until either the babies died-- and Mark knew a part of Roger would die with them, and likely all of Mimi. And who would pick up the pieces again?

Mark. Mark stood to face the old Roger, the abusive, sulking, self-centered bastard who needed him. Without that, he might have flinched to consider the deaths of two infants. Without that, he never would have caught himself secretly hoping. It was a wretched thing to hope. It was disgusting.

But it was human and it was true, and for that it was beautiful.

Of course, the alternative, healthy babies, Mark preferred not to consider. That was a forever thing-- at least until he died, or Roger and Mimi did. Then the babies would have to go to Maureen and Joanne, or into foster care. Or perhaps they had family? Roger had a mother somewhere, Mark knew.

"Probably in about a month," Roger said. "They're… they're, you know, keeping them for a little while…"

Mark nodded. "What did you call the boy, again?" he asked. He had been told before, but not remembered.

"Gabriel Alejandro." The Spanish name twisted Roger's tongue, making his skin seem a shade paler. The "a" in Gabriel arched up instead of ducking low.

Names.

He had thought of everything about Roger, tried to commit it all to memory and film, watched him write and play and sulk… What about speech? Mark had never considered the inflections Roger placed on names. He had never before noticed them.

Not many ways to mispronounce "Mark".

No, it was just "Mark"-- same as "Roger", actually, though Roger had given an affectionate lilt to "Maureen". Did he choose their names for that? To give them something special, a pronunciation they'll never hear when he's gone, something to remember, even vaguely, about their daddy?

What do I have?

Mark knew. Nothing. Film, falsity. Nothingness.

Why can't he do anything like everyone else? Why must he be so fucking special? Or… why can't he be with someone who appreciates him?

Mark sighed and shook his head. "Good name," he said.

Roger frowned. He reached towards Mark, then faltered. "Um…" Mark felt his heart take a little dive. I don't bite… "Mark, listen, I--"

"You want me to move out," Mark interrupted. He took a deep breath. He had known it was coming, had waited ages to hear it. Of course, now that Roger had his children, his proper family, why should he want Mark around? He sighed. He had known it was coming, and it didn't hurt nearly as much as he had expected.

Roger was staring. Well, of course I knew, Mark thought tiredly. "Okay," he said. "Give me a couple of days to find a place--"

"Mark--"

"I'm sure Maureen and Joanne can put me up if you want me out sooner--"

"Mark--"

"Or Collins." Actually, that might be better, Mark realized. Living with his lesbian ex-girlfriend and her (female) lover, even just for a few days, would be considerably worse than awkward. "Hell, he has fucking university housing, he--"

"Shut up!" Roger grabbed Mark and pulled him into a hug so quickly Mark's eyes barely had the chance to widen in surprise. Roger had latched onto him, one arm firmly across Mark's back, fingers digging into his sweater, his other hand cradling the back of Mark's head.

"Shut up," Roger repeated. "Shut up, just shut the fuck up," he hissed, struggling to speak and clench his jaw at once. His hand left Mark's head to swipe at his eyes.

"Rog…" Mark said. Are you crying? "It's okay. Roger, it's okay." He could barely manage the words. Since when did Roger need him? And it was just that, need, in the clinging embrace just a bit too tight.

Roger pulled away. "What the hell is okay?" he demanded. "You… you can't… bloody hell, Mark! Asking you to move out, how… would I…" He shook his head, unable to decide which incredulous question to throw out. "Don't ever say shit like that to me again!"

"Okay." Mark didn't know what else to do but agree, try to placate Roger until he had caught hold of his temper once more.

"Ever!"

"Okay, Roger. Okay."

"'Cause it's not funny, Mark."

"Yeah. Where would I go, anyway?" Mark asked. He scoffed. "Living with Maureen. Been there, no thanks!" They laughed. It occurred to Mark that they were still standing in the middle of the bathroom, that neither of them had moved and Roger still had the look of a terrified rabbit somewhere in his eye.

"You okay?" Roger asked. Mark flinched when Roger rubbed his cheek with one thickly callused thumb. "You don't look like you're sleeping."

"I'm fine."

"Okay. Well, you can let me know if there's something--"

Mark smirked. "Practicing for teenagers?" he asked.

Roger blushed. "I should check on Mimi." And he hurried away.

When Mark peeked into the bedroom, he saw a woman not as healthfully glowing as someone out of a Lifetime film. In fact, Mimi looked altogether too thin. Her hair bounced and fizzed as it always had, and there was as much happiness in her smile as there ever had been. But her fingers lingered a bit too long over her belly, thin again, and when her eyes looked into Roger's she didn't really seem to be looking at him at all.

Mark had expected some quietude: readjustment to life together, the parents wondering about their children and concerned for their own well-being. He had expected hushed conversations as they tried, fruitlessly, to staple heavy meaning to small words and found always that the words were not enough.

Mark had expected low conversations, each word weighted. He had not expected the springs to squeak on Mimi's first night home.

"Roger… Roger… Roger…"

Mark rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. The high squeaking of the springs and Mimi's moans ripped through fabric for the sole purpose of torturing him.

"R-Roger! There, that's-- that's it--!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

Mark struggled out of bed. In the bathroom he twisted the knob for cold water, letting it spit and sputter, drowning the sound of Mimi's orgasm. Briefly he wondered if Roger was having one, too, then pulled out his razor.

Mark didn't like razor. He didn't like how they seemed to catch and tear his flesh rather than cutting it properly. He didn't like the torture they forced him to endure before bringing the release from the pain.

He didn't like it, but he liked how it made him feel, if only for a little while.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Xochitl: "So-chee"

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