Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his

The following morning, clutching the telephone tightly as his breath puffed out in white clouds, Roger was surprised to find himself hoping. He wanted desperately for Mark to be home, to pick up the phone. If he didn't, Roger would probably leave another message… but what did it mean? Did Mark want to end things?

It would hurt, Roger knew. It would hurt more than anything. Still, he wished to know. And to hear Mark's voice again.

Rrrring.

"Roger?"

"Collins!" Not who he was hoping for. Still, Roger breathed a sigh of relief. "How… how are you? How's things? Is Mark okay? Is he there? Is he—"

"Woah. Take a deep breath, Roger. Mark's here, he just doesn't know there's a such thing as five o'clock in the morning. I'll go get him, okay? You try not to have a coronary."

"Okay," Roger said, but Collins was already gone.

A moment later, a frantic, eager voice asked, "Roger?"

"Mark!" Roger began to tremble. "Oh, God, I missed you. Mark, I… I… after what happened with my mother, do you still… want to be with me?" he forced himself to ask. "I understand if—"

"Roger! No, Roger. I missed you, baby." Mark closed his eyes, surprised at a prickling sensation and the overwhelming urge to be there, to hug Roger and touch him and cuddle him until everything bad had gone away. "I want to see you." He had been afraid to call after the incident at the game.

"I want to see you, too, but right now… I don't know. I'm barely allowed out, just school and sports. I'm supposed to be running now, I… Mark… I don't know. I'm afraid she'll kick me out, Mark, and I don't have anywhere else to go."

Roger paused, sniffling, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Mark covered his eyes. Jesus. And he just stood there and listened and did nothing, because he had nothing to do.

"Don't worry. We'll figure this out." Move in with me. "I love you."

"We will." The pronoun comforted him. Roger took a deep breath. It's okay, it'll be okay. "I love you, too. It's so good to hear your voice…. She made me quit the band, Mark, and… How are you? Are you all right?"

"She made you quit? Did she make you quit the team, too?" This wasn't fair to Roger. He was going through hell, and Mark couldn't even hug him. Couldn't even touch his hand.

"No—no, I'm still on the team. I'm supposed to be running now, but… if—"

He was interrupted, not by Mark but by the operator requesting that he please insert another ten cents. Roger dug into his pocket, retrieved a quarter, and dropped I in.

"Roger? Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here, I… I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I want to see you."

"Me, too, baby, but you need to be careful. I don't want things to get worse—"

Roger couldn't help himself: he laughed. "Worse, Mark?" Ask your roommate about worse! "All else she can do is take the guitar." The thought terrified him. "I don't know what I'd do…" And knowing, knowing that Mark could only make it worse, Roger forced himself to say, "I want to write you a song. It's in my head. Would you mind, Mark? If I wrote you a song?"

"A song?" Mark blushed. He had seen Roger's work and found it less than impressive. Still, just the thought… "Yeah, if that's what you want. So… so, maybe I can come and see you in your next game?"

"Oh, yeah… yeah, it's on Saturday, it's a big game, championship." Roger chuckled. "We're really good, Mark," he said. "The game's at noon."

Mark promised, "I'll be there." Then nothing. Silence. He listened and thought he heard breathing. "Roger? You still there?"

"Yeah." Then, "Please talk."

"What should I say?" Mark asked.

"I don't care." Roger sniffled and swiped at his eyes. "Anything, say anything, but talk. Please."

Mark sighed. "Are you crying?" he asked. "Please don't cry, Roger."

"I'm not crying."

This time, when the operator asked Roger to insert another ten cents, he didn't have it. He hurried a declaration of love for Mark, and when the line went dead Roger threw himself into the rain and ran until he could scarcely breathe.

When the water pounding his shoulders buried Roger in a thick steam, he wanted to touch himself. Efforts over the past few weeks had given him tummy aches or made him want to cry. But now he could think of Mark without having his gut wrench. Now Roger could enjoy himself.

He pressed his hands to the shower wall. He could and would have an orgasm, but that orgasm would come from Mark. His eyes closed at the memory. Roger moaned, remembering how hard Mark was, how dominating, Mark's hands on his skin and his fingers in his hair. Roger tried to conjure the memory of Mark's smell, something soapy and clean and human. He heard Mark panting and Moaning.

"Oops."

Once he had finished washing, Roger rinsed the shower wall.

He couldn't stop smiling.

Saturday, he promised.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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