RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his characters.
Roger didn't get much sleep that night. He pulled the covers up to his chin and stared at the darkness. Above the window, forms had been painted in glow paint, stenciled stars and galaxies winking weakly.
Through the window the city even seemed to sleep. Sometimes he heard voices at night, and sometimes he heard cars, but tonight there was nothing. Tonight even the weather silenced itself, cloud storing up their rain, storing up their snow, leaving Roger in the dark and quiet.
He pulled the covers in tighter and cold bit his toes.
Roger shivered and tucked his legs up. Damn quilt…
In the kitchen, the sink dripped and the refrigerator whirred. Roger closed his eyes, and the sound hurt his ears. He began to rise, then stopped, his heart racing.
At seventeen, Roger no longer believed in monsters under the bed. He no longer believed in them, but still, habitually, he feared them. He pushed his feet out and pulled them back.
Roger thought of walking down the hall. The carpet felt nubbly under his feet, and he was cold. The linoleum kitchen floor made him shiver. By now, Roger's testicles were clinging so close against his body he needed very badly to pee. He leaned over and twist off the dripping sink.
Roger blinked. He was lying in bed. His fantasy of the journey down the hall had been just that, a fantasy. The dripping sounded louder than ever, each thud resonating through his body, and especially through his throbbing bladder.
He jumped out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.
If you shake it more than twice, Mark would say, one hand on Roger's thigh keeping him pinned, you're playing with it. Mark nipped his ear. Don't shake it more than twice, he warned, squeezing Roger's thigh. Roger shivered.
Stumbling down the hall back to his room, Roger was half asleep already. He fell into bed and curled up under the covers, murmuring discontentedly to himself. The quilt rustled up and settled heavily over his shoulders.
Roger sighed.
The sink dripped.
---
He had barely been asleep two hours, but it felt like the blink of an eye, when he was shaken awake.
"Get up." Meredith stood by her son's bed long enough for him to catch a bleary glimpse of her disapproving face before she said, "Come into the kitchen," and left. The door hung open, spilling light into the blue-dark room.
Roger moaned. He pushed back the quilt and threw his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment he sat, waiting to orient himself, waiting for his mind to wake up and his vision to clear. Then Roger walked into the kitchen.
He noticed Tim standing by the counter, watching him expressionlessly. Roger stumbled over to the refrigerator, drawn by its quiet-loud hum, and pulled out a can of soda.
"Sit down, Roger."
His mother was clearly displeased with him. Roger thumped down at the table. The chair felt clinging and cold under his bare thighs. Roger hadn't thought to dress, but sitting in front of his mother in a T-shirt and underpants, both items ratty and threadbare and riddled with holes, did not bother him.
Roger popped the Coke open. It was Diet Coke, he noticed, but it tasted all right sliding down his throat. Roger chugged a quarter of the can. He paused, watched the floor, then belched, clearing his throat.
Meredith made a small, displeased sound. "There will be changes around here, Roger," she announced. "Every day, you will be home by dark." Roger took another sip of Coke. It was just warming enough to taste like anything. He looked at Tim, who watched the floor.
"You'll call," Meredith continued, "wherever you go. You can keep your guitar, but I want you out of that band."
Roger nodded. He could live with that. The Well Hungarians? Roger didn't give a shit. They fucking sucked. "Games?" he asked. His team, on the other hand… "It's almost end of the season."
Already Meredith's head was bobbing. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's fine. Honey, you know I support that."
"What about Mark?"
Tim started. He looked up, opened his mouth, then looked at the floor again. Meredith pursed her lips. "I don't want you seeing that man anymore," she decreed.
Roger shook his head. He couldn't live without Mark—no, he knew that was untrue. He could live without Mark, if Mark left him or he left Mark, if they chose to part ways or the worst should occur, but knowing that Mark was just a few trains away, out there and loving him, Roger could not live with that.
"But Mark is the best part of my life," he said.
"Well, then, I think there may be something wrong with your life."
The sink dripped a drop of water onto a dirty knife. The puddle on the blade shone. Roger blinked. No. It had been ages…
"I love Mark," Roger insisted. Don't make me leave him.
"We can get you involved in—"
"I," Roger interrupted, "love Mark."
"Honey, he's bewildered you. You'll see."
"Whatever." Roger forced himself to stand. "I'm goin' out," he said.
"What did I just say?"
"That I can stay on the team! I need to practice. I'm going running."
Roger stayed long enough to pull on his sweats, then left in a heavy sulk and slammed the door behind him.
He ran until he could no longer think. He ran until the blood pounded the sound out of his ears and sweat blinded him, though he saw nothing anyway. Roger had run the same route time and again, to the point that it was a comfortable run without thought, without anything but consciousness of his body.
His nose and throat felt raw when he stumbled back into the apartment. Roger spoke to no one, and if anyone spoke to him, he didn't care. He wandered into the bathroom and let burning water pour over him.
After a while his muscles began to melt. Roger sank onto the floor. He lay in fetal position under a jet of water and tried to think things through.
No more Mark. No more Mark. No more early mornings of cold floors and bitter black coffee in the loft. No more philosophy with Collins. No more Mark…
The water began to hurt against his skin. Roger shut it off. He dried himself off, fighting the leaden feeling in his muscles. Roger left the bathroom with a towel clutched around his waist.
His parents had gone out.
"Oh."
Staring into the sink, dribbling onto the linoleum, Roger realized that it was Saturday. He stared at the beads of water that collected and fell, collapsing under their own weight, into the basin.
Roger cut himself on his hip. It bled but didn't hurt enough. Something was missing. Something did not remain when the sting had ebbed.
Roger emptied a Tupperware into a pot and heated through some soup. He watched bubbles pop and grow. "Fucking soccer." Roger swiped at tears gathering in his eyes.
"Soccer!"
He checked the calendar on the refrigerator. Two weeks. He had a game in two weeks.
Roger smiled.
Maybe Mark would see him play.
TO BE CONTINUED!
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