As A Star Chapter 5, a rent fanfic

Sometimes, darkness can be a comfort, Mark knows. You can hide in it and wrap yourself in it and let it keep all your secrets so you can let go of them for just a little while.

But then there are times when the darkness – it's a breathtakingly oppressive spectre whose only purpose, it seems, is to let you know just how alone in the world you really are.

This night, the night Collins leaves, it's that kind of darkness in the bedroom. Mark doesn't care that he finally has his own room, own blankets, own space and privacy and hideaway. He'd give anything right now to be lying on the hard floor of the loft. He'd give up filmmaking and dancing and drinking and Maureen – anything. Anything to have Collins back.

Mark lies there, in that pressing darkness, and he remembers how his father would check for him, when he was very little and he insisted on it, to make sure there was nothing under his bed, nothing waiting for him outside the window. Mark doesn't want to – he doesn't give a shit what that bigoted sonofabitch thinks – but tonight he feels a twinge of pain he refuses to acknowledge. He doesn't care that it's only his mother who ever leaves messages now. He doesn't.

For a while it's possible to lie still, but then he's tossing and turning just a bit. Collins is gone. Fuck. He has no idea how he's gonna handle this. Or, more importantly, how Roger is going to handle it.

10 days. Countdown to takeoff.

Or maybe landing.

Mark still can't believe he's investing himself so completely in these numbers that most likely will just disappear in a little while anyway. But he still counts, and he still holds his breath. Usually change means another dance with the drugs. But maybe this time … maybe ….

He wishes Maureen was here, that she didn't have to work a stupid fucking late shift tonight, of all nights. He wants the softness and comfort of her body pressing up against him. He wants to be able to reach out and hold her.

"Baby, it's just one late shift. I'll be home tomorrow night, and then every night until next week."

Mark had looked at her as if she were crazy, watching her get ready. "Can't you get out of it?"

"No," she says, shaking her head, her hair swinging and somewhat hiding her face. "We need the money."

"You can call in sick," Mark says, feeling a little desperate. He can still see Collins walking out the door. "You must have sick days."

Not meeting his eyes, Maureen walks around the apartment, grabbing keys and sweater and purse. "I'm sorry, baby, there's no one to cover for me. I just can't get out of it."

She straightens and looks at him, for just a moment, and when their eyes meet Mark understands. Collins leaving is too much for her, too. She can't stay in the loft tonight.

And he can't leave it.

This, Mark thinks, remembering how he had turned away and attempted a casual shrug and tone, is why adults give kids stuffed animals. Because when the darkness gets to be too bad and there's no one around, you can hold onto something soft and tell them that things would be okay. Because sometimes when you're desperate for a protection, for safety, to be held … the next best thing is to give that to someone else.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Pacing quietly in the darkness of his room, Roger sometimes hops on the balls of his feet as he turns and runs his hands through his hair without even realizing he's doing it.

There are so many thoughts running through his mind he can barely hold onto their edges but one keeps coming back and back and back again.

Collins had wanted him to hug him goodbye. And he didn't do it. He'd been a bastard instead, and now he would give pretty much anything in the world to have that chance again.

He and Collins – Roger knows they don't have the luxury of angry goodbyes.

He falls onto his bed, almost misjudging the distance, almost hoping he does. Hoping that he'll fall on the floor and crack his fucking head open just to stop all these thoughts.

That panic is rising in his chest again, the kind that makes him tight and coiled and breathless and ready to run. But he forces himself to lay as still as possible, hands on his sweatshirt.

He can't help thinking of April, and with that the panic crescendos like thunder. It's making him frantic, making him scared, making him hurt. He needs to get out of here. For the first time in a long time – he can't even remember the last time – he can feel them coming. Hot wet tears that he doesn't want to give in to. They make everything too here and too now and too real.

Roger buries his head into his pillow, smothering the tears and his breath, trying to get control and forget for just a few minutes. Just enough to get his breath back.

He breathes, the heat returning to his face as he blows it out. He wishes, hard, that he was cold. As cold as he's ever been. That he was shaking and shivering beyond all human control. Because then he could get Mark in here, and despite all the discomfort and uncertainty between them now, he knows Mark would still put his arms around him.

And he really feels like he needs that right now. He wants someone to hold him. Mark. Collins. April.

God, he misses her.

His face is mashed into his pillow, still a little wet and probably tear-streaked, and he's sick and scared and embarrassed, so he doesn't turn around when he hears the barely audible click and senses the dull light spilling into his room. He just lays still and waits, barely breathing.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark stands in front of Roger's room for what must be half an hour, arms crossed and not knowing what to do. He can hear muffled sounds, and he doesn't want to … to intrude on anything. The last thing in the world he wants is to make things worse.

But then his hand seems to move forward almost of its own volition and he slowly opens Roger's door. He stands there, undecided again, sure that he's wrong, he's stupid, he's going to have to pretend he was sleepwalking, god he's an idiot …

After a while, Mark finally walks in, stepping hesitatingly. "Roger? I … I thought I heard …" He stops. "I thought maybe you were cold."

Roger doesn't turn over, but Mark can see him nodding in the darkness.

Mark shuffles a little bit, scared, still unsure if he should be doing this now. "Do you want …"

Roger nods again, silent, and Mark goes over and climbs into bed, sliding over to Roger and putting his arms around him, feeling that knot in his chest finally start to loosen. He takes a deep breath and tightens his hold, clinging to Roger in a way he hasn't let himself before. Mark feels his heart swelling in his chest, and for the first time he realizes how much these moments give him, as well. He lets himself realize it.

Mark lets his head fall forward, the side of his face sinking into the pillow. After a moment he nuzzles a bit into Roger's shoulder, chest feeling warm. He can feel the wetness.

And just before he drifts off to sleep, he can feel one of Roger's hands sliding over one of his.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The loft is comfortably warm, just warm enough to bring on a nice sleepiness. Mark is sitting on the couch, the line of his back pressed softly into the cushions and his head resting against its top. Maureen's head is in his lap, and he's slowly petting her as he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, a gentle half-smile on his face. He's so glad that she had a night off, and that she chose to spend it at home. With him.

And Roger hasn't used in nineteen days. Mark tries to not think about it too much, even as he unconsciously counts. Roger is still staying in his room all the time, barely ever wants to talk, and Mark has taken the chance and he and Maureen sleep together in Collins's bed. Their bed.

Sometimes he wonders, but every day he brings in Roger's AZT and every time – there's no sign of the drugs. Roger's quiet and silent and not who he used to be –

But it looks like he isn't using. Nineteen days again. Mark's not crazy enough to breathe a sigh of relief. But he does give himself a little more breathing room.

This delicious peace that Mark's just beginning to appreciate as he pets Maureen is shattered by the ringing of the phone. He groans when Maureen sits up and takes her warmth and softness from his lap. She throws him a quick grin and then bounds toward the phone.

"Stop!" Mark says, and her hand hovers just over the receiver. "See who it is first."

She makes a face at him. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I have a sense of adventure," he argues, the phone still ringing annoyingly. "It just doesn't show itself for something so unadventurous as a phone call. Especially one from my mother."

Maureen rolls her eyes and grins, picking up the phone as she stares at Mark.

"Hello?"

Her face breaks into a wicked grin. "Well, hi, honey! How the hell are you doing?"

Mark watches, amused at the overenthusiastic voice, wondering who it is. If it's his mother he's gonna have hell to pay.

Maureen rolls her eyes at Mark again. "No, sweetheart, I keep this particular decibel only for you."

Mark laughs, then grabs the phone that Maureen hands to him. "Benny."

Mark brings the phone to his ear, shaking his head, and somehow Benny knows that he's there before he speaks.

"That woman thinks the whole fucking world is her personal stage," he complains. "Tell her there aren't enough people coming to her so-called 'protests' yet for her to start giving out autographs."

"Benny."

He sighs. "Okay. Sorry. So, listen, I'm calling to ask – "

Mark swallows. Shit. He completely forgot.

"The wedding is in two weeks – can – would you be my best man?"

Mark turns from Maureen, grimacing. Shit! "Benny, I'm flattered, really, it means a lot to me, but …" Fuck. "With Collins gone, I just – I just don't wanna leave Roger alone like that. Even for something like this," he hurries to add, to show Benny he realizes the significance. He wonders if Benny knows.

I really don't want to be a witness to this – this fucking sham wedding to some stuck-up bitch who won't even come to the loft. Who are you?

Benny sighs. "I understand."

Mark decides to give Benny a little test. A chance. "But maybe you could bring – um – "

"Allison," Benny supplies.

"Right, sorry, Allison. Maybe you could bring her by the loft sometime, let us all meet this chick you've been hiding from us."

Benny laughs, and Mark could be wrong, but to him Benny sounds uneasy. "I don't know, man … things are so crazy with the wedding …"

"Of course they are," Mark answers, pinching his nose.

"Listen," Benny says after a pause. "I got my paycheck today, I'll come by this week and write you guys a check – it's not much right now, but should do you for some food and shit."

Mark swallows. Just when he writes him off … "Thanks, Benny. Really."

"It's no problem. Now, look, I should go, Allison will want to know and find a replacement …"

"I'm sorry, Ben."

"I know," Benny says softly. "It's okay. I really do understand."

"Okay. Well, I mean, god, good luck."

Benny laughs. "Thanks. I'll see you – maybe Wednesday?"

"Okay," Mark agrees, and hangs up before turning to Maureen, who's sitting on the couch now and reading.

"That man," she says, casually turning a page, "Is enough to make a girl bat for the other team."

Mark laughs and lightly hops over the side of the couch, landing sloppily on top of Maureen. He kisses her even as she's giggling.

"Maybe I can make up for him."

She smiles up at him, eyes shining, and Mark wonders if he sees a little shadow pass over her face before she pulls him in for a longer kiss.

"Maybe you can," she says.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is walking back into the kitchen after checking on Roger, quietly glancing into the room to see the other boy asleep, blankets kicked down around his feet. Emotion fills Mark, just for a moment, and then is gone. But it leaves something behind.

Okay, he thinks, leaning over the counter and looking unseeingly over the loft. Obviously, he loves Roger. In a lot of different ways. And this is why this is all so hard, and scary. Roger has spent almost six months locked up in the loft now. He hasn't used for twenty-one days. Mark's not sure what this math adds up to, but suddenly the need for difference overwhelms him, a kind of franticness abruptly running through his veins. He needs to do something. Things need to change.

"We have to fucking slap him across the face to wake him up," was what Collins had said when Mark told him about Roger slamming the door in his face that day.

And thank you for visiting Roger's den of death.

"He's so close, I think, but there's something … I told him if he didn't stop with this shit, you'd be out the door."

"Collins." Mark doesn't look at him, afraid his eyes will show the anger he feels. He doesn't want Roger to think that way. He wants him to have one secure thing. One thing to give him a little safety.

But his voice must give him away. "I'm telling you, Mark, we've gotta kill to be kind." His voice drops as he looks towards Roger's door. "Nothing is gonna happen while he's locked up in here. All he's got is memories or the drugs."

Mark swallows, not wanting to think of this, inexplicably wishing for things to just stay the same, just have no more change, just let it be. He runs a hand over his face.

"So what do you suggest?"

Collins looks at him, and the almost lost look in his eyes scares the hell out of Mark. "I don't know. I don't know how to make him see, I don't know what he cares about enough now to make him …" Collins hesitates, looking unsure.

"Want to live," Mark eventually finishes quietly, his eyes being drawn to the same door Collins is looking at. He senses more than sees Collins turn to look at him. After a moment, an hour, a year, he speaks again.

"Yeah," he says tiredly, and Mark closes his eyes. He'd wanted an argument so badly.

Now Mark straightens, stretching out tired and aching muscles, and goes to stand outside Roger's door. He still has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do. Something.

After a few minutes standing there in silence, worrying at his bottom lip, Mark slowly reaches forward, opening the door. He still doesn't know what he's going to say when he enters Roger's room.

Roger looks over for a moment, awake now, but doesn't greet him. Mark sighs inwardly when Roger turns back to the wall. He runs over the Rules in his mind. Don't talk about April. Don't talk about Maureen, or Roger's mother, or about leaving the loft. For the love of god, don't mention drugs, or dying. None of this. And don't touch him. Unexpected touches always end up in backing away and frightened eyes. Not even a hand on the shoulder or he's scrambling away.

Mark steps closer to Roger's bed, breathing evenly.

"You know she wouldn't have wanted you to do this."

He can see Roger's muscles contracting, tightening, can feel the pain and rage emanating from the bed. But he doesn't back down.

"This would have killed her, Roger."

Roger doesn't look at him, voice tight. "It doesn't matter. Something else did."

"And it doesn't have to be the same for you."

There's a pause, heavy silence in the room. Roger still doesn't look at him.

"You better not be saying what I think you're saying."

Mark takes a deep breath. "I'm saying you're strong, Rog, and you can do this. I don't think you believe that right now – " And neither can I – "But you are. You can beat this, you can – "

"Do what April couldn't?"

Mark almost flinches at the harsh tone, almost steps forward to put a hand on Roger. He waits a moment, weighing his options and his words. He deflates a little when he speaks, deciding to take the challenge.

"Yes. You can do what April couldn't."

He knows Roger wants to hit him right now. Probably wants that even more than he wants the drugs. "Fuck. That."

"It's true."

Roger looks at him now. "It's such bullshit, you don't even know."

Mark shakes his head slowly, purposefully. "It's not – and I'm sorry she couldn't do it, Roger – but she just didn't have it in her." Mark stops, swallows. "It wasn't her fault. She just didn't have it in her," he says again, softly. "But whatever it was she needed – you have it. I see it in you. I know it."

"You're goddamned right it wasn't her fault." Roger spits out bitterly. "And April – April had the guts to do what I never could."

Mark reels back as if he's been hit. Not true. It's so not true.

He thinks this even as his mind whispers that it is.

"Roger – "

Roger turns away, and Mark's mind is working a mile a minute. "Just leave, Mark, okay?"

Mark stays exactly where he is. "What did you mean?"

"That I'd like you to please get the fuck out of – "

"No," Mark interrupts. "That it wasn't her fault. What did you mean?" He doesn't answer, and Mark steps closer. "Roger?"

"Fuck, would you just give up already?" Roger asks, voice tired and cutting. "Goddammit, Mark. Fine. I did it all. And I deserve everything I've fucking gotten. I got her into the drugs, she was – " He stops, breathing.

"She was this fucking kid when I met her. And then she got into the scene, and I didn't stop her." Roger's voice reaches a new level of bitterness, and Mark can't help but wince. "I even shared my fucking needles. I – I wasn't there that night, I didn't stop her, and I fucked all those people, I didn't know, but still I was so fucking stupid, and now she's …"

Roger stops again, staring at the wall as if he's not even talking at all.

"Gone. I infected her, you know I did, and it scared the shit out of her, and now she's gone."

Mark just stands there, stunned. He'd had no idea. He should have.

"Roger," he says gently, stepping over to be close, even if he doesn't dare touch him yet. "Roger, no. We don't know." Roger shakes his head, and Mark hurries to continue. "We can't know. And April – " He swallows, feels cool soft lips on his cheek. "She made choices. They weren't – they weren't the best choices, but it was the best she could do."

Roger's still shaking his head, looking down now. "No."

"Yes." And Mark reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, reaches for the right words, and Roger just looks up at him. "If you were such a terrible – if you deserved this – I wouldn't be hanging around. I promise you."

Roger searches his face a moment, still looking pinched and angry. But Mark feels a little bit of a difference. He feels enough to lean over and kiss Roger on the head, just for a second, then rears back and gently brushes back Roger's hair. It's a mothery gesture that makes Mark feel silly, but somehow it feels right. "She loved you. Anyone could see it. And April – you loved each other. There was no infecting, no doing anything to hurt each other – you just loved each other."

Roger stares up at him, and Mark feels that this is enough. For now. He lets his hand slide off Roger's arm and walks out of the room.

As soon as he closes the door, Mark slumps against it, legs weak and breathing hard. This is the first time either of them have really talked about April. Mark's a little surprised he's still alive.

But he knows what this means. He knows that tomorrow will bring another ride on the merry-go-round. But maybe, he thinks, Roger needs one step back before taking his steps forward.

Mark lets himself feel a little hope right then.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is amazed.

Roger hasn't left his room. Collins is gone, and that talk in Roger's room – really, it's been the most emotional confrontation they've had. They spoke about the unspeakable.

And now it's the next morning. Afternoon. Night. Week.

And Roger hasn't run.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"It's been a month," Mark whispers in the darkness, facing the wall, Maureen's body wrapped around him from behind. He feels her kiss his shoulder.

"That's good."

"Yeah." Mark speaks reluctantly, still feeling that tightness in his chest. Every day is still a new waiting game. He's scared to let himself relax now, even a little. "I just – I feel like if I breathe the wrong way, he'll go. He'll leave and get the drugs and it will all start all over again …"

"Shhh," Maureen says quietly, and he can feel her pulling her body closer to his.

"I should be happy, I should be relieved," Mark chuckles softly. "It's been so long, he always stays in his room, I know where he is every minute, I don't need to listen anymore for any little sound he makes …"

Maureen tightens her arms around him, kisses at his hair, whispers endearments.

Mark sighs, even as he basks in her warmth and attention. "I just wish I knew. What was right and wrong to do. What's going to happen – "

Maureen kisses his ear, talks quietly, close to him. "You can't control it, baby. For your sake, I wish you could, but you can't."

"I know," Mark says miserably, leaning back into her. But it seems like he should be able to.

"You just have to trust him as best you can. And like you say, he's been staying in his room, and he's not using then."

"I know." Mark pushes the side of his face down into the pillow. "But – he can't just stay in the loft forever, either." Mark feels a familiar little stab of fear. "He needs to get out of here, live again."

He feels Maureen's warm mouth on his neck, can't help but smile.

"He'll be fine," she says softly in his ear, tickling him. "And so will you. I promise."

He turns to look at her, and she's smiling, so sweet, so perfect, and he wraps his arms around her and succumbs again to her magic. Maureen's the only one who makes him forget.