As A Star Chapter 3, a rent fanfic

When Collins tells Mark that he's gotten a job at MIT, the breath leaves Mark's body in a swift exhalation. Shit.

"I know how things are with Roger – but this is a great opportunity, Mark. Really good job, influence, really good money." Collins grins. "When I think of the things I can get my hands on …"

"That's great," Mark says flatly, trying not to let any fear or anger or dismay come through in his voice. He is happy for Collins, he is. He's just wondering what's going to happen now.

"Mark, I swear to you if I actually thought I could help him – but he doesn't want it."

But me, Mark says silently. I need you – just to get through.

Mark nods. He knows. And besides, Collins has the right to live his life. An obligation to himself. Mark understands this.

"I know."

"Just this week – how long was it this time – ?"

Life has begun being broken into only chapters of absence and then using. A chapter of the tight-lipped waiting ends and a new chapter of withdrawal begins. Mark is strongly reminded of a carousel.

Round and round and round he goes …

"Almost three weeks. Nineteen days."

Collins shakes his head. "That boy is killing himself."

Mark laughs bitterly, surprising himself. He needs to watch how much he lets out. "No shit."

Collins fixes him with a hard glare. "I need you to tell me if you need me or not, Mark. I need the truth."

"I'll be fine."

"If I find out you're lying to me, I'll kick your sorry pathetic ass all the way back to Scarsdale."

Mark smiles. "Asshole. Go. This will be great for you."

Collins flops down on the couch. "I leave next week."

Mark swallows. "What about Jamie?"

Collins shrugs, face a little closed off. "He wasn't too happy, but he doesn't want to come along, so – "

"Sorry."

Collins waves him off. "Hey, it's not right, it's not right. Someday." He smiles up at the ceiling and then looks back at Mark. "Don't worry – I'll put the fear of God into him before I go."

Mark laughs a little. "You already did long ago."

Collins grins. "He acts like such a fucking badass but I saw his eyes the night we met – and that night I caught him shooting up in the alley after one of his shows. It wasn't even a week after he'd moved in, and he was still scared shitless of me, but he had nowhere else to go." His face darkens suddenly. "Fucking dirty needles. Hauled him up by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him home. Told him right then he had to get clean if he wanted to stay."

They both lapse into silence, and Mark slides onto the table, watching Collins. He doesn't smile.

"Maybe even God can't do it."

Collins looks over at him. "But Roger can."

Mark looks away, lump in his throat. He's not so sure anymore.

- - - - - - - - - - -

"Mark?"

Mark turns at Maureen's hesitant voice, quickly scanning his brain for anything he might have done to make her sound like that, but he can't think of anything. They've settled into a routine of living together and being together, and it's the closest thing to perfect Mark has had in his life in a long time. He hopes he hasn't unknowingly done something to fuck it up.

"What?" He smiles and walks over, standing in front of her, pressing her against the kitchen counter. She smiles back, and he reaches up and tangles his hand in her hair, relieved. She's so fucking beautiful.

"Wanna go dancing tonight?"

Mark thinks. They haven't been dancing since that night he found Roger in the bathroom. His heart clutches a little at the memory, and he knows he doesn't want to go dancing.

"Sure."

She grins, leaning up and kissing him. His stomach drops a little, and god it feels good, losing himself in her just a little bit. It's not just liking having a girlfriend around, though – he genuinely likes this girl who's so spirited and fiery and funny. Every night she comes home smelling of coffee and no matter what's gone on – if Roger has been sick or silent or, god help him, cloudy-eyed and calm – Maureen will climb into bed and wrap herself around him, all soft and sweet and hard and demanding all at once, and for that little while things are okay. Mark still feels a little dizzy when he's around her.

"Thank you, baby," she says and pecks him once again on the mouth, a little too quickly for his tastes, and he grabs her as she starts to walk away, pulling her back against his chest.

"Not so fast," he murmurs into her hair, breathing deep and nuzzling the space where her shoulder meets her neck.

"I've got to get to work," Maureen giggles, and Mark tightens his hold on her, shaking his head.

"Not yet," he tells her, bringing up one hand to brush her hair away from her neck and caressing her stomach with the other. He leans down, kissing her shoulder, letting himself be lost in the taste of her skin. These are the moments he lives for. "Not just yet."

- - - - - - - - - -

Mark really wanted to enjoy tonight, he did. He was ready for it and told himself over and over again that he couldn't be expected to stay with Roger in the loft every single moment of every fucking day. It's an impossibility.

But here he is, dancing with Maureen, their arms around each other, and bright lights flashing around them. No matter where you glance there's something to look at but all Mark can see is Roger and a bathtub.

Finally he has to pull himself from Maureen's embrace. "Fuck," he whispers to himself. He can already feel the coolness building up between them, and he hasn't even said anything yet.

"Mark? Baby?"

He leans in close and calls that he has to go home. He's sorry, he's so sorry, but he's worried.

She looks at him, and to him she looks wounded, turning away from him.

"I'm going to stay and dance."

He nods eagerly and leans down to kiss her soundly. Anything for her to be happy. Anything for her to not leave, take her light away from his dark.

"Have fun," he calls, and then hesitates, looking around before leaning in quickly again, near her ear and feeling her damp hair slide against his cheek. "I love you."

He rears back, sees her slightly stunned look, and gives an almost sheepish grin before giving a little wave and jogging away. The smile doesn't leave his face as he walks through the still-cold streets – early spring now is really just an extension of late winter. Looking up at the streetlights, his feet hurrying, Mark shivers a little.

"Hey, buddy, got a light?"

Mark looks over to the origin of the voice and quickly shakes his head, avoiding eye contact and hurrying on. Two guys, skinnier than him and with the look of Roger. They're sick and sick is never good when you're hurrying down a New York street alone.

It's barely a second before he feels the leg connecting with his ankle and he's flying forward only to hit the cement, teeth clacking painfully. Mark tastes the warm copperyness in his mouth and braces himself, but no more blows come. Hands digging in the pockets of his jacket. Mark manages a bitterly amused grimace. Go on, look for money. Maybe they'd end up lending him a couple bucks.

Good fucking luck, you fucking junkie assholes.

There's an explosion against his ribs and Mark instinctively curls inwards. But he realizes how lucky he is when the two guys just take off. It had just been a perfunctory kick, just one last burst of machismo so the dickheads wouldn't feel they'd completely wasted their energy.

Slowly getting to his feet, Mark shakes his head and carefully rests a hand on his side, wincing a little at the slight burn. He could go back to the club – he hasn't gotten that far from it. Surely after this Maureen would come with him. Or he could simply continue on his way home to check on Roger.

With a nagging voice in the back of his head asking why he was making this decision, Mark continues towards the loft and all the darkness and sickness it holds. He just needs to check on Roger, that's all.

That was more important than what Mark wanted right now. And he did want to go to the club and find Maureen. Of course he did.

- - - - - - - - -

Roger lays in bed, physically still but mind racing. He holds his hands over his chest, every so often clenching them in the soft material of his sweatshirt. It feels somewhat grounding; just as he starts to feel his mind sliding back into bad times, into his fears and his heart, he tightens his fingers around the fabric and is able to breathe again.

He's determined to make it this time. He's alone, and he can do this. He needs to do this. If only to prove that nothing has that much of a hold on him – that he is free and unfettered and in control.

Roger takes a deep breath. It isn't true. He's not in control, at all, he's holding on by the very ends of his goddamn fingertips.

Things are starting to come back to him. Not just the bad memories, though sometimes now he wakes with a start, already breathless and sweating. There are so many things he doesn't want to think about – that he doesn't want to exist. His life is a trap now and he's struggling as best as he can to not fall in.

Anger is still elusive, and it still surprises him, in that mild way he feels everything these days when he isn't high. He wonders if that's keeping him longing for the drugs – not just for the calm but for enough of a shield so that he can start to safely feel things again.

Roger groans, grasping at his shirt and turning over in bed sharply. He just wants things to be calm and easy and unhurting. He wants to be able to pick up his fucking guitar again. That can't be too much to ask. It's not that his skin is crawling – it's that everything his skin is holding in wants to get out.

Mark.

Mark is a very dangerous-feeling thought these days. Roger can't really pinpoint when it happened, but suddenly he finds that he wants Mark in his room instead of wishing he would just leave him alone.

Roger hadn't really wanted anyone around him for a long time. They were there, they were people, they were keeping him in the loft. But then Collins became Collins again and Mark became …

Not Mark. Not like he used to be, anyway. Now …

Now Mark is starting to feel a little bit like a longing. Like seeing his face is a good thing and feeling him in his bed at night –

Roger turns again, banging his head into his pillow and wishing it were a wall. Everything is overpoweringly frightening. He's not sure why but he damn well feels it.

Ever since that night – ever since seeing April that way and ever since his life had cleanly been sliced into a before and an after – he hasn't been feeling. Hasn't been thinking. Something in him had curled in on itself and let him just be nothing for a while.

But now when he sees Mark he feels things stirring in him. And he hasn't felt anything – really felt – since April. And every time something like that rises up in him he feels a little bit of her, captures another sliver of memory. Maybe he shouldn't be feeling this way – he never thought he would again. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he can't. Maybe it will just hurt too much and burn too much and be too much.

Roger feels close enough to the edge already – close enough to snapping and just losing everything. And every time he looks at Mark now it's like laying his palm on burning metal.

Yes, feelings are coming back. For so long life, himself, it was all just – a mess. A fucking catatonic mess – surrounded by a cloud he couldn't and didn't have to see through. But now it's starting again –

And if he was that much of a fucking mess when he was closed off, Roger wonders, how bad is it going to be when he starts letting everything in again?

- - - - - - - - -

By the time Mark enters the loft he's burning. An absolutely uncontrollable fury is consuming him even as he throws off his jacket and stalks into the loft, not even sure if Roger is home and now barely caring.

It's too much. It's all too fucking much. He's hurting and he has no money and no job and no ideas and Maureen is back at the club and Collins is leaving and Benny is gone and Roger is probably out shooting up –

Mark growls, spinning in place, so fucking angry and so fucking helpless he just wants to rip at his own skin. He walks over to the window, looking out at New York, where there are so many people and not one he can talk to or be with or have to understand him. Not one.

Another wave of fury hits him and he has to get it out somehow so he just lunges forward and rams his fist into the large wooden sill. There's a slow blossoming of pain through his hand, heat and hurt that make him think that if he brings his hand to his eyes it will be covered in blood.

"Fuck," he whispers, staring at his hand, unbleeding but throbbing. He wonders if he's broken it.

"Fuck," he says, turning in a slow circle. "Fuck!" He kicks at the sofa, kicks it again when it doesn't hurt. "Fuck!"

"Mark?"

Mark whirls to see Roger standing in the doorway of his room, looking at him seriously.

"You okay?"

Mark laughs bitterly and Roger quickly comes forward. "Your lip is bleeding. What happened?"

Mark tries to take a deep breath, count to ten, but it doesn't work. "Some dickless assholes tried to mug me but, surprise! No fucking money." He reaches his hand to his face, touches his lip, calming a little as he feels the slightly crusty blood. "Shit. They fucked me up a little more than I thought."

There's a pause as they stare at each other. A ghost of a smile skirts across Roger's face. "Well, finishing the job yourself isn't helping anyone. Come on."

Still pissed, still feeling petulant and childish and embarrassed, Mark follows Roger, only feeling a little bit of wonder and curiosity at this sudden reversal. He raises his eyebrows when Roger leads him into the bathroom.

"Sit," he says, nodding at the toilet seat. Mark sits, quietly staring as Roger turns on the water in the sink and grabs a washcloth. He turns to Mark, still looking serious, and crouches in front of him.

"Does it hurt?"

Mark shakes his head, and Roger carefully leans forward, gently running the cloth over Mark's mouth. Their eyes meet a moment and Mark can feel his heartbeat, is incredibly aware of the blood pulsing through him, and Roger smiles a little – that tiny smile that still seems new – and turns back to the sink to rinse out the cloth.

"Why am I always the one getting mugged?" Mark grumbles, eyes cast down in an effort to calm himself.

Roger chuckles lightly, and it really is a beautiful sound. Mark is shocked at how much lighter it makes him feel.

"Because you're pale and skinny and you wear corduroy, for god's sake. Next time you go out you should wear my leather," Roger says, gently pressing the cool dampness of the cloth to Mark's mouth again. "At least try to look like a badass." He quirks a little grin. "Then the little pricks might think twice about messing with you."

Mark smiles a little, and then meets Roger's gaze again. This moment of caretaking is making it seem a little like old times, like there is safety and fun and friendship here.

But other things have popped up this past while and Mark suddenly feels heat flooding his body. He's not wishing Maureen was here, even though he knows he loves her. This moment is Roger and this moment is perfect.

Mark breaks the eye contact and swallows, and Roger must sense something of what he's feeling and thinking because he pulls the cloth away and looks awkward.

"I don't have any cuts," he says defensively, and Mark smiles a little, shaking his head.

"That wasn't what I was thinking."

"Oh." Roger resumes wiping gently at his face. Mark resists the urge to reach up and grab Roger's arm. He doesn't know if it's because he wants Roger to stop or if what he wants is for Roger to keep doing it forever.

"There," Roger says softly, straightening and tossing the washcloth back onto the sink. Mark stands up, bringing a hand to his mouth and running his tongue over the split in his lip.

"Thanks," he says, not looking at Roger, feeling a little afraid to. Feeling like Roger could tell just by looking at him what he's feeling and thinking. It's not like he hasn't before.

There's a silence, and Mark can't help looking up. Roger is staring at him intently, and Mark fidgets a little before lowering his head again and trying to silently brush past his friend and out of the bathroom.

Roger reaches out a hand and grasps Mark's arm. Mark looks up, nervous suddenly, uneasy. Roger's smile is gone, seriousness taking over his face again.

"It's nothing," he says quietly, and Mark thinks it's probably his imagination but it seems like Roger is leaning a little closer, his head dipping lower, closer to Mark's. He searches Roger's face for any sign of – anything. Any clue to what's going on here. Any clue to help Mark figure out what he's feeling.

Roger's eyes are looking a little wild and frightened, he's looking too serious and Mark's starting to feel a little scared.

"Roger?"

"Sorry," Roger whispers, and then he leans down a little more and his lips are on Mark's.

Mark's eyes widen and he freezes up as he feels Roger's lips move over his. He can't let this happen. He can't kiss Roger when it could change everything and change is the last thing either of them needs. He can't give in to these feelings, to the dropping of his stomach when Roger so suddenly closed the distance between them. It would be wrong, so wrong.

But Roger's lips are on his. And Mark can't help but feel. Can't help but notice all this want he didn't even know he had rising up in him. And when he feels Roger pull back, just for an instant, he feels the fear.

So when Roger's lips return to his, he can't help but kiss back.

For a few moments, everything is right like it's never been before. They're breathing each other's air when they think to breathe at all and Roger's arms are around Mark, clinging to him, and Mark is holding Roger's face in his hands as they open up to each other.

But one of Mark's hands slide back, running through Roger's soft hair, and Roger gasps and pulls back.

"Roger?"

He's looking panicked again, stricken, and he pulls away, pushing Mark back into the bathroom and shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, and he whirls and within seconds the door to his bedroom is slammed shut.

Shaken, cold, and having trouble breathing, Mark stumbles backwards until his legs bang into the toilet and he falls down onto it again, legs weak and hands trembling and this whole other world he never really expected now opened up before him.

He leans forward and drops his head into his hands, and sits that way for a long time.

- - - - - - - -

Roger stands in his room against his door, resting his forehead on the cool wood.

Oh, god.

Why did he do it? Why? Mark was … Mark was the only steady strong thing in his life since … since he could remember. And he'd fucked it up.

Roger knocked his head against the door and then walked over to his bed, head throbbing. Shit. His heart was still pounding and his fingertips were tingling in that way that made him feel like his whole body was about to just implode. Why had he done it? Why had he risked the only person who had stuck by him?

There were too many feelings, too many burnings, just like he'd feared. His chest was too full, there was too much pain, too much pleasure, too much, too soon, he can't have touches, he can't have that light feeling in his chest or it all comes back to him, right from the beginning, right up to the end. His heart and body aren't big enough for it anymore.

Roger flops onto his bed, clutching at his head and roughly rubbing his face. He wants Mark to come in and lay beside him – even if it might be weird now. Part of him even wants to fake that he's cold to get Mark in here.

But it doesn't seem like it's a good idea. It seems much too frightening, all of a sudden. Besides, he thinks. He doesn't deserve to have that feeling after all he's done.

Everything is too overwhelming and now, thanks to him, everything is questions. Soon it's all too much for him and he has to go out looking for the only answer he knows.

- - - - - - - - -

Two nights later Mark is on the floor with Maureen, lights from the city spilling in through the window behind him. Collins had gone to bed not long after Maureen got home from work, and then they'd made love – after which Maureen had cuddled into his body and almost immediately fallen asleep. And then the sounds had started.

His stomach clenching, Mark stays where he is. Roger's been sick before. And he fucking well brought it on himself. He can deal with it – maybe if he suffers a little bit he won't be so anxious next time to get to the drugs.

Mark bites his lip. God, that was a terrible thing to think. Obviously Roger has had enough suffering. Mark drills it into his brain: That's not what this is about. That's not what this is about.

But he's still pissed.

So he doesn't pull away from the warmth of Maureen's body and he tries to close out the sounds coming from the bathroom, alternating between feeling guilty and a drunken kind of anger, slipping and again chanting that Roger's done this to himself.

He went into Roger's room yesterday, bringing in Roger's pills, and there were the cloudy eyes again. Mark, feeling confused and hurt and still with that want that Roger had awakened, had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. Words or fists, it wouldn't have mattered. Either would have satisfied and either could be disastrous.

"Fucking hell," Mark mutters through clenched teeth. "When, Roger? When did you even fucking manage to get out?"

Roger just looks at him, kind of dazedly, and then turns away. And Mark suddenly has an image of the fire escape in his mind. The fucking fire escape. He's always listening for the scrape of the loft's door but the window opens with hardly a squeak.

"Shit," Mark breathes, knowing now he's going to have to hone his listening skills. He grabs at Roger, pulls him up and shoves the pills in Roger's face.

"Here," Mark growls, and then tries to regulate his voice. "Take your fucking AZT."

Mark rails at himself a little while Roger clumsily and slowly brings his hand up, takes the pills, and pops them into his mouth. He takes a drink from the glass Mark has brought in, swallowing, and Mark wonders why he always calls it AZT. He can never just say that they're pills. He has to constantly remind them both of exactly what's going on here.

It's like a punishment.

Mark turns slightly now, nestling a little closer to Maureen and throwing an arm over her stomach. Why? Why does Roger keep doing it? It's so stupid, every time there's even a day when Roger doesn't use Mark feels hope rising within him. But it keeps crashing down around him and he doesn't know why he bothers.

Although it feels like if he ever stopped hoping the world would somehow end.

Mark shakes his head, trying to lose his thoughts, trying to be sleepy, trying not to think of the other night and Roger and the bathroom and –

Mark's eyes widen and he whispers a quick curse. Fuck. That's it. It was a test. And Mark has no idea what it is he's failed at, but he knows. That's what it was. And Roger couldn't handle … whatever had went on. Whatever that was that happened between them – it was too much for him. Fuck, it was too much for Mark to handle. And Roger had gone for the drugs.

Mark winces, pain in his chest. Roger's coughing now, a distant echoing burst of misery and now all of Mark's anger is gone as if it never existed in the first place. Mark slides away from Maureen a bit, leans forward and swallows as he gently kisses her shoulder. He can't handle this. He can't. All this pain and anger and fear and fucking love – it's too goddamned much.

Mark slowly stands, stretches, and then quietly heads toward the light coming from underneath the bathroom door.