As A Star Chapter 7, a rent fanfic

Author's Note: Hey! So, this is the last chapter of this story – I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks so much for reading. And especially thank you to everyone who left a review! mwah

I may write a post-RENT sequel to this, I'm still unsure … but I have an outline written, so it just may happen. facepalm Still, I hope this ending works on its own.

I hope you enjoy, and thanks again:)

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark's sitting reading in the main room when the phone rings. He waits, laying his book down beside him, and soon Collins's voice is booming through the loft.

"You fucking fuckers! You fucking answer the phone or I will fucking – "

"Collins!" Mark interrupts him, laughing as he lunges and brings the phone to his ear. "Shut up!"

"That'll teach ya." Mark can almost see Collins grinning on the other end. "How are things?"

"Fine." Mark looks to Roger's closed door. "He stays in his room – well, way too much. But he hasn't used."

"Really?"

"Really." Mark looks away, pleased at the surprised tone in Collins's voice. It's nice to be talking of good news, for once.

"Well, fuck me," Collins says happily. "And how are the lovebirds? You guys whooping it up every weekend?"

Mark's confused for a moment, but then he smiles and puts his head in his hand. "Oh. We're fine. Maureen is …" Mark pauses, and lowers his voice, just in case. Suddenly he realizes that he and Maureen haven't gone out … well, for ages. Ever since that last time – they've gone out for dinner, a few times, always staying within minutes of the loft. And Mark always ends up feeling more worried than happy … "She's so great with this Roger thing. I don't know what I'd do without her. Anyway, how is school?"

Collins snorts. "School. You make me sound like I'm skipping through the doors with a fucking backpack on my shoulder. It's fine. But I'm not calling in to talk about me, I need to find out if I need to hire a goddamn babysitter for you two."

Mark grins. "Asshole. We're good, really."

Collins pauses. "You need some cash? I got paid."

Mark shakes his head quickly, frowning. "No. Benny said he'd come over and … he hasn't, but he will. And remember, we don't have to pay rent. We're fine," he insists, hearing the doubt in Collins' silence.

"Okay," Collins says quietly, and then his voice returns to normal. "I'm still sending you some money. Don't say a word, I know you don't need it, you can fucking well use it for maxipads for Maureen's next act for all I care. But I'm sending it. Now, come on, man, give me some thrills here. Dancing, drinking, fucking." Collins groans. "I have a million idiotic papers in front of me that I'm actually expected to read. I'm depressed. Suicidal. Cheer me up."

Mark laughs. He never mentions that word – he never even thinks it. But somehow when Collins says it it's okay.

"I wasn't lying. I can tell you a bunch of really exciting bullshit, but I'm telling you, I hardly ever leave the loft anymore."

He realizes it's the wrong thing to say the second the words leave his mouth. Collins takes a breath, and Mark can picture the furrowed brow and the lecture face. Fuck. He should have just lied.

"You're kidding me, right?" Collins says finally. "Don't, Mark. Do not tell me that the moment I leave you suddenly join Roger in the fucking Overlook Hotel. That's just – no. No. You can't – "

"I leave sometimes," Mark says hurriedly. "It's just – I feel better staying here. And it's good for me – " Mark glances at the untouched notebook on the table. "I'm writing. You know, I get into it, and …"

"You are such a fucking liar," Collins interrupts tiredly. "What about Maureen?"

"Maureen?" Mark's voice is innocent, but he has another little stab of disquiet. Maureen doesn't ask him to go out dancing anymore. She works, and she buys groceries, and she holds him at night when he needs her. With a feeling of mild horror, Mark realizes that he's been selfish. Completely. He throws his head forward, mouthing a fierce silent curse before returning to the phone. In all his concern for Roger, he's forgotten … in having her, he's forgotten how much he needs her. She's still there, she's wonderful, she's there for him when he needs her … but that wildness he loves. It's not there anymore. And he barely even noticed.

Mark gets a little terrified for a minute. Knowledge has just slithered into his consciousness and he can't get it out. Dammit. Something in Maureen is lacking now, he can see it.

But he has no idea what the fuck to do about it.

"Mark?"

Mark whirls, hearing both voices at once. Shit. He has to resist the urge to cover his beating heart with his hand.

"Yeah," he says into the phone to Collins, and nods at Roger's questioning look and mouthing of "Collins?"

Suddenly Roger strides over and stands beside him, holding his face impossibly close to Mark's and speaking with their mouths almost touching.

"Collins, man, you blown up the place yet?"

"Roger!"

His voice is more distant now as Mark makes room for Roger, but he can still tell how thrilled Collins is. As thrilled as Mark is. Roger sounds like his old self, if only for a moment. And the side of his forehead is warm against Mark's.

"Yeah, who'd you expect, Billy Idol?"

Collins laughs. "Maybe this surprises me more. How're you doing?"

Roger pauses. "I'm fine," he says, and Mark has to bite back a smile, because it seems like Roger might actually mean it.

"Good," Collins' voice comes out between them. "With me in this hellhole, I need you guys taking care of each other, okay?"

Mark slides his eyes towards Roger, and his breath catches a bit when he sees that Roger is looking at him, too.

Roger nods, not looking away. "Yeah, I know."

There's a pause, and Mark knows he and Collins are feeling the same right now. "Well. Good to hear."

Roger laughs a little at the biting tone of his friend's voice, and Mark grins at him.

"Listen," Roger says after a moment of smiling silence. "Collins, I – " He stops, closes his eyes, then opens them to catch Mark's unwavering gaze again. "I love you."

Mark nearly drops the phone when Roger abruptly turns, and in less than a moment has disappeared back into his room. He catches himself, tightens his grip on the phone, and shares in the stunned silence coming from the receiver.

"Well. Fuck me," Collins says finally, and Mark has to laugh. "He's gone, right?"

Mark nods. "Yeah. He – he just walked away."

"Still." Mark can hear the smile. It's good. "That sort of made up for everything, right there."

They talk for a little while longer, light and laughing.

Mark knows exactly how Collins feels.

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

The next night Mark tells Roger he's going out; he gets as dressed up as he can and then walks to the café where Maureen is working.

"Baby!" She looks up, shocked, and then her face breaks into a grin. "What are you doing here?"

Mark shrugs out of his jacket, watching her stand there with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, holding a tray of empty glasses and looking almost otherworldly, she's so beautiful. He grins at her.

"I'm kidnapping you," he answers, sitting at the closest empty table.

Maureen looks toward the back of the restaurant, and then back at him, smiling. "You know, I'd be more than happy to be kidnapped. And you're the only person I'd ever say that to."

"I'm honoured." Mark laughs.

Maureen's smile widens. "But I can't – I'll get fired."

Mark leans back in his chair, never taking his eyes off her. He wants to reach up and slide out the pencil holding her hair together, wants to watch it tumbling to her shoulders, lit by the yellow lights of the café. "Your boss wouldn't let you go?"

She bites her lip and looks back again, then shakes her head. "We're short tonight."

Mark smiles. "Then the kidnapping can wait. For now, though, I think I'll spend the evening here. Think we can afford a chocolate milk?"

Maureen laughs loudly, and a few customers look over at them. "Very grown-up choice, sir," she teases him. "Right away."

Soon she's back, handing him a large glass of chocolate milk and sitting down across from him.

"I'm taking a break," she explains, watching him drink. He puts his glass down and she giggles. "You've got a mustache now."

"The only one I'll ever have," he grumbles, holding back a smile. He starts to swipe at his face, but Maureen pushes herself up and leans across the table, kissing him.

He grins when she sits back in her seat, licking her lips, and he swipes the milk away, and he ends up staying there for her whole shift. And she comes to kiss him between every customer.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Roger's alone in his room, thinking.

He doesn't know why it pisses him off that Mark left. It's normal, he wants to get out, and god knows he's done enough for Roger. Too much. Roger knows this.

And fuck that Maureen bitch for ever insinuating that he wouldn't be there for Mark. If Mark were going through something like this … Roger would be there for him. He knows he would.

Tonight the loft seems so quiet. Quieter than it's ever been. Roger has, for a long time, had a vague idea that he couldn't feel anything anymore. Even when he gets in the grips of anything, anger or fear or sadness, it's gone so quickly he can almost make himself believe he's only imagined it.

But tonight he's lonely, and there's no getting away from it. Maybe it's the increasing warmth of the loft, the knowledge of changing seasons, something indefinable that maybe someday he'll remember. He doesn't know, but it's there.

It never crosses his mind that he's lonely for Mark. It really doesn't.

All the same, he's thinking of him, even as the sharp agony of missing April is washing through his chest.

He lies in his bed, thinking about April, missing her, missing the feel of her, and he's barely aware of his hand trailing down his chest, his stomach …

He can see April's face, how it was, laughing and bright. He can feel his lips on Mark's.

And he can hear the quiet.

And suddenly – he has no idea why, he was starting to think he was better, starting to even wonder if he was cured of this – but suddenly the quiet is more than he can bear.

- - - - - - - - - - -

When Mark checks on Roger that night, before going to bed, he almost doesn't realize that Roger is awake. But then he sees the small glint of the whites of his eyes shining in the darkness.

"…Roger?"

He doesn't answer, and Mark walks over. And Mark can swear that he smells it before he ever notices the cloudiness in Roger's eyes.

"Fuck." He says it more in wonder than anything else, and in that moment he understands that he'd been letting himself believe more than he'd thought he was. "…Fuck."

Roger looks at him, slowly. "It was quiet."

Mark wants to cry. He takes a deep breath, holding his arms tightly at his sides, squeezing his own ribs. Suddenly he sits on Roger's bed, grabbing his arm and hauling him up.

He wants to yell, wants to swear and scream, but he doesn't. He can only hope that somehow Roger connects right now.

"Roger," he says, and he's surprised at how steady his voice is. "I thought you were doing better. I thought …" he trails off, speaking more to himself now.

"Me, too," Roger says lightly, eyelids looking heavy, and Mark snaps back.

"Do you know what this means?" His voice starts getting harsher than he wants it to be. "You're going to get sick. You're going to get sick and cold and … and you're going to do it again and again."

Roger starts to shake his head, but Mark just keeps going.

"And I – I would keep riding this out with you," Mark says, bitterly, surprising himself again. "But what I really need – you need help. Do you know what I can do, Roger?"

Roger looks up at Mark's voice, the dangerous quality that seems to suddenly be running through it.

"I can call an ambulance. They'll take you away."

Roger looks up sharply, almost angry, and Mark shakes his head.

"You're high. That shit is running through your veins, and they'd know it. There's nothing you could do."

Mark's voice is quiet, final, and he feels tired. So tired. He looks at Roger, his decision made for him by that dazed quality in Roger's eyes. But for a moment – less than a moment, but enough – they connect. Mark and Roger – they're together, and Mark sees, for the first time in a long time, genuine emotion in Roger's face. Fear. Mark can see it there, Roger's face is naked with it, and it's the one thing Mark feels he really can't take.

He waits a moment before speaking. "Do you understand?"

"Don't."

One word. One word, just like all the others Mark's believed over the past months. But that fear – Roger's eyes suddenly clearing – it makes Mark want to give him one more chance. Collins' voice is echoing through his brain, distorted and far away, but Mark remembers the words.

But Roger can.

"Please. Mark, I – "

Mark looks at him, can see Roger visibly relax. "One more time. You know now. One more time, and I – "

"I know." Roger lays back down, head sinking into his pillow. "I know."

"Good."

Mark stands, fighting down the oppressive tightness of his chest to breathe. Part of him – a ridiculous part, the part that probably controls his dreams at night – wants to fling himself at Roger, wants to lie in his bed and fall asleep next to him. Almost, he wants their places to be reversed. He wants to be sick and strung out and cold and shivering, and he wants for Roger to creep into his room.

Mark nearly puts his head in his hands. He is such a sick fuck. What the hell is wrong with him, that he would want that, even for that brief moment it flashed through his head?

He's so lost in thought he doesn't really hear Roger, doesn't register the softly spoken apology until he's out in the hall and he's closed Roger's door behind him.

- - - - - - - - - - -

It's late, and Mark is lying in bed, mind stewing in all the writing he hasn't been doing. There have been no ideas. He's trying to force them out of his brain, he knows that they're in there somewhere – it's an exercise in frustration, he knows his concentration is absolutely fucking shot, but it's a lot easier to be frustrated over his lack of ideas and work and talent than to think about Roger, or to count the short amount of days since the last sickness. The last, last …

Mark wishes Maureen were home, and briefly wonders if he should have gone to work with her instead of staying home and trying to write. It would be – nice – to have her here.

Mark groans, putting a hand over his forehead and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. Today has felt so wrong, has felt so confusing –

Mark chuckles quietly, a little bitterly, admitting to himself what has made everything wrong. Goddamn Roger, that's what's wrong.

Mark doesn't know how long he stares up at his ceiling after letting his arm fall to his side again, feeling his eyelids getting heavy and sleep finally beginning to steal over him. Has no idea how much time has passed between his acknowledgment of what the problem is and that problem quietly stepping into his room.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Roger knows he's fucked up. Big time. That he's pushing Mark to his breaking point. That Mark is all he really has.

And lying in his room, just like a few nights ago, he gets another wave of homesickness for April. This sudden longing that hits him, to be held, kissed, to feel warm wet lips trailing down his neck … these familiar and comforting sensations he remembers and that he's almost horrified that he still craves – when April isn't here.

He knows he loves Mark, that part is simple. But figuring out how he loves him, that's a different story. And especially after last time, the thought of touching anyone brings a sharp pierce of fear. He's still afraid to touch. Roger wonders if that's why he refused to hug Collins goodbye. A protection he still needs, for whatever reason.

Roger shakes his head impatiently. It's not fair. None of it. And especially this stupid self-protection that keeps him from reaching out, from getting the one thing he really wants …

Or at least a reasonable replacement.

But, Roger thinks, Mark isn't a replacement. Mark is, well, Mark.

And tonight, that seems like enough. It seems like something he could want … that he does want. That would be safe.

Roger sighs. He is sick of all this lying around and fucking thinking. Enough.

He gets up, walking quietly but purposefully, and goes into Mark's room without knocking, and Mark had obviously been sleeping, but he sits up quick and tries to seem awake even as he slurs his words.

"Roger? You okay?"

And Roger, closing his mind, not letting himself think, heads over to him and leans down quickly, kissing Mark. He can feel him stiffen, freeze, but he keeps kissing him and soon he can feel Mark kissing back.

When he opens his mouth, feels Mark's tongue against his, Roger lowers himself onto the bed beside Mark, pushing him down onto the mattress. He can feel Mark's heat and rolls on top of him to get closer to it, feeling Mark and tasting him and all of it is, god, so good.

Sliding his tongue around the inside of Mark's mouth, bodies pressed together, Roger reaches a hand between them and strokes at Mark through his boxers, and Mark gasps, and that's good, too. Roger almost smiles; almost loses himself in this moment, instead of any from the past.

But Mark arches up, pushing their hips together over Roger's hand, and the sensation explodes through Roger and he has to leap up, panting.

He stands there, over Mark's bed, meeting those confused eyes. God, he looks hurt, he didn't want to hurt Mark, didn't want any of this, he just wanted it to be easy to touch again, wanted to be normal again –

Roger doesn't apologize this time. He just turns away and goes out the door when the sight of Mark becomes too much.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is flopped out on his bed, breathing hard, hurt, horny. Fuck, now he wishes more than ever that Maureen was here. His fucking girlfriend –

Yeah. Remember her, asshole?

They could be together. She could take his thoughts away for a while. She could make him forget.

Not to mention, if Maureen were here, that whole little confusing scene would have never happened.

Turning over restlessly, Mark hears something. He stills, listening, waiting for the sound to come by his door instead of going in the other direction. The telltale shuffle of secretive footsteps. Moving away from him.

Goddammit!

He jumps up and hurries out just in time to see Roger shrugging into his jacket. He must hear him, because Roger's movements suddenly get a lot slower, and after a beat of time he turns around.

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

"Hey, Mark," he says.

"Fuck you," Mark answers, hurrying to put his body between Roger and the loft door. "You can fuck right off. You're not doing this." Mark's voice shakes. "Go back to your room."

Roger sneers to cover the sharp pang of anxiety, the fear and the need. "You're not my mommy. Now get the fuck out of my way."

"Make me."

"I will."

Mark narrows his eyes. "Over my dead fucking body."

And suddenly the anger Roger hasn't been feeling so much – the anger he's wondered about, has asked himself when it's going to show up – it's bubbling up uncontrollably. He is suddenly so fucking pissed at Mark for saying that, for even hinting it, when this is what April – her – and it is the worst – the worst thing anyone has ever done to him. Leaving him like that. How could she do it? How could he say that?

- - - - - - - - - - -

Both boys are astonished when Roger suddenly lunges towards Mark; and he's not trying to get past him but is shoving him, shoving him so hard that when Mark's back hits the door of the loft he loses his breath for a moment and his teeth rattle.

"You shut up," Roger yells, and it's hoarse, barely even a yell, but it gets its point and power across anyway. "Now let me go. Let me go."

Mark's not ready for speech yet. He just simply shakes his head. Roger looks at him a moment, and Mark can see the fire in his eyes, can feel the drop in his stomach, and he knows that this isn't going to be good.

Roger slowly walks forward, keeping eye contact with Mark the whole time. "Why are you keeping me here, Mark?" he asks quietly, getting closer. "What is the good, anyway? I'm already dead." Mark opens his mouth to protest, but Roger doesn't let him. "No. I can't do drugs. I can't write, I can't play." Roger's so close now their faces are almost touching. When he speaks, Mark can feel his breath washing over his mouth. "I can't fuck."

Roger pauses, letting that hang in the air a moment before backing off and turning away, losing a little of his fierceness. "I can't even touch anyone. There's nothing I can do about the last ones. But the drugs – those I can get." He looks hard at Mark. "They make me feel better. And it's not like I'm staying alive for anything, anyway. So why don't you just let me go?"

Mark steps closer and reaches forward, trying to touch Roger, still wanting to communicate what he's been trying to say for ages now. He doesn't want to just leave it at this, have Roger think this way. But Roger shies away from his hand, backing up and pulling away. His face looks pained, and Mark steps back again.

He stares at Roger a moment, feeling slightly stunned before he swallows and speaks. "Because I love you."

They stare at each other a moment. That's the first time either of them have ever actually said this. Mark's eyes are burning, intense, hurting.

"You fucking idiot," he mutters, chuckling darkly as he drops his head. He's not sure if he means Roger or himself. "I love you. And I can't let you keep doing this to yourself."

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark lifts his head, looks straight into Roger's eyes. "And you know what else? You know the other reason, Roger?" Now Mark is stepping forward, looking dangerous, and Roger is the one backing up. "You owe me." Roger's eyes widen, staring at his friend, who for the first time seems mad at him. Roger doesn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

"You owe me," Mark says again, speaking quietly. "Because I have stuck with you. Through all the drugs and the crying and the fucking drama – for all the blood and vomit and shit I have cleaned up – you fucking owe me." Mark takes a deep breath, giving Roger a moment to let this sink in before speaking again.

Still with that quiet calmness that's making Roger's heart beat faster than if he was screaming, "And do you know what I want?" Roger gives no sign he's even heard, but Mark continues. "I want you clean. And alive. And here." Mark shrugs, staring hard at Roger, and raises his arms in a sharp submission.

"So do whatever the fuck you have to do. I'll be in my room."

And Mark disappears, leaving Roger to stand there, silent, for a very long time.

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

Mark goes into his room and sits on the side of his bed, putting his head in his hands. He doesn't emerge from his room for hours, sleepless, unsure if Roger has stayed or gone, if he'll find him angry and closed off or blank and cloudy. He's sure it will be one or the other, and he doesn't particularly relish either option.

When he finally cautiously gets up and approaches the main room, Mark is surprised to see Roger standing by the phone, talking quietly and wiping at his face. Mark stays long enough to hear Roger's quiet choked voice, to hear the word 'mom'.

Mark backs up, keeps enough out of sight to not intrude. He closes his ears, doesn't listen, just stands there fighting a small smile. He's still scared to smile. He's not sure what makes him suddenly listen, but he can hear Roger thanking her and telling her that he loves her. Mark steps out into the room in time to watch Roger slowly hang up the phone and collapse exhaustedly onto the couch.

Roger looks up at him. "She cried."

Mark smiles, just a little. "Are you surprised?"

Roger shakes his head, not looking up at Mark and twining his fingers together. "No. I just wish – "

Mark knows Roger doesn't want to articulate what he wishes, and he knows why. So he interrupts. "I know."

They're silent for a moment, and then Mark finally dares to step over and lower himself onto the couch beside Roger. As soon as he sits, he stiffens, tense with his surprise as Roger suddenly leans over and against him, dropping his head onto Mark's shoulder. Warmth spreads through Mark as he reaches up to put an arm around Roger, pulling him slightly closer. Not a lot; but enough.

Mark looks down at the messy head resting on him. "What did she say?"

Roger takes a shaky breath. "That she'll pay. She wasn't mad, she said … she said she loved me. But she'll never forgive me if I keep this kind of shit from her again." Roger laughs. "I love my mom. Anyway, she said I'll go to the hospital for a week. And then there's some kind of fucking counsellor I have to see for a month, if I stay clean."

Mark chuckles, hearing the scowl in Roger's voice at the thought of that counsellor. "Seems like she was pretty calm."

Roger snorts. "Yeah, well, your kid gets positive status, I guess you don't bank on his drug of choice being caffeine. I think she knew."

Mark nods. After a few minutes just sitting like that, his arm around Roger, he can feel the other boy look up.

"You promise?" Roger asks suddenly, his voice hoarse, and Mark smiles. He knows exactly what Roger is asking. And he still means what he says.

"I promise."

Roger takes a breath, his side collapsing and then expanding against Mark's chest. "What if what I need … what if I need to push you away?"

Mark reflects on what will need to be done, on how the next few months will play out, not knowing if Roger will crumble again and again or if this strength will continue. He's content, for once, with not being able to see into the future. He knows it's up to Roger now, instead of resting on his shoulders. He's content to let go a little.

And it probably is for the best that he can't see everything around the corner. Doesn't have an inkling about Maureen leaving him, about Roger being so strong but weak enough to still need the loft, or how Roger will need something to live again, one last push that Mark can never give him, no matter how much he wants to be able to. Can't see the flickering light of a candle, or the comet ready to flash through all their lives.

It's a good thing, really, that he can't see it all. The dancer downstairs who will give Roger what he needs. The jacket he'll be handing to Roger – when all he really wants to do is grab Roger and run as far as he can. Mark doesn't know any of this; so he just hands Roger another jacket.

"Well, the promise only goes so far," Mark chuckles lightly. He looks down at Roger, who's staring searchingly up into his face. "You can push me away. Whatever it takes to get you better." He pauses. "But I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

Roger nods, not saying anything as he leans into Mark again. Mark tightens his hold on Roger infinitesimally, surprised anew at the wave of love that can suddenly roll right over him around Roger. He still doesn't understand why Roger has this effect on him.

But he knows he'll keep his promise. And for the first time, he believes that Roger is going to keep his promises, too.