Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

One thing Mark had always been able to say for storms: he hated them. He hated them, plain and simple; he always had and he always would. And as rain pounded outside and cold and damp crept into the loft, that hatred was not at all diminished. Mark huddled under his blankets and squeezed his eyes shut.

Back home... the warm quilt. Mom making us cocoa before bed. The-- NO! He squeezed back tears. Maybe thinking about home was not so wise. Maybe thinking about home was, in fact, idiotic, because he was too big a fuckup to ever go home again. This could be home now.

The prospect sank like a lead disk in Mark's gut.

Thunder snarled, and he shrieked in a girlish high pitch. Dammit.

---

Roger shoved back the covers. He never could sleep through the rain-- it energized him. Something in that damp, fresh smell made him feel as though he had slept for hours. He wandered out of the room, stretching. The sheets just itched him.

Floorboards whined, cold against Roger's bare feet. He yawned and headed for the 'kitchen', where he gulped milk from the carton. Roger wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and replaced the milk. It was still good. Damn. Maybe working, even little as he did, was worth it.

Just as Roger considered going back to his room to toss in discomfort, he heard a girlie shriek from the spare room. "Huh? Who the fu-- Oh, yeah..." Collins' new boy. Well, not Collins' boy. That boy Collins brought home. Whatever. Roger couldn't think of a way to phrase it without making it sound like Collins was having sex with Mark.

"Collins needs to have sex," Roger mumbled. "Make him happier."

He wandered into the spare room, which, he supposed, was not so spare anymore. "Hey," Roger said. Squinting into the darkness, he could just make out the form of Mark... what was his last name? Uh.. Cohn. No. No, that was that lawyer. Cohen. "Mark?" Roger asked. He scratched at the back of his neck and flicked on the light. No Mark, just a trembling lump under the blankets. "Mark... you okay, man?"

"Um... y-yes," Mark stammered. He forced himself to emerge from beneath the covers, suddenly feeling foolish in the judgmental brightness. "I--" Another clap of thunder earned another shriek. "I don't like thunder," Mark mumbled angrily.

"Yeah... kinda happens. You want me to sit with you a while?"

Mark paused. "Did Collins tell you why I'm here?" he asked.

"Yeah. You're his friend, needed a place to crash. It's cool. Thought you might like some company."

Mark swallowed. Noo... He felt an uncomfortable stirring in his groin as he stared at the lanky, boyish creature lounging in the doorway. Roger. His name is Roger. Who cared about his name? How about the amount of skin showing through his undershirt? His bare arms, long and very strong-looking indeed. His worn plaid flannel pants favored him, making his long legs appear longer and failing to maintain a cover over Roger's hips.

Roger wasn't scared by the storm, that was certain. Nor was Roger aroused by Mark. That was certain, too. He didn't even appear cold.

Mark jumped at a thunderclap, relieved, at least, that his eyes had torn away from Roger's crotch.

Roger took this as an invitation. He closed the door quietly-- Mark's heart thumped-- and sat on Mark's mattress. "You don't like storms, huh?" he asked quietly. His voice soothed Mark's racing pulse.

"No," Mark replied, feeling short. Just who did this fellow think he was, anyway, coming in uninvited? Now that he was calm, the fact that someone had seen him quivering like a baby ate at his gut.

Roger nodded. "First time in the city?" he asked.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Look," he said, "just because I was born in Sca'sdale--" He clapped a hand to his mouth. That accent! Trust it to flare at just the wrong moment.

Roger chuckled. "Okay," he said. "So how long you been here?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably. This was really not a conversation he wanted to have at the moment. "A couple of years. You?"

Roger opened his mouth to respond, but a shriek and thunder interrupted him. He smiled. "We need to do something about that." He crawled up beside Mark and leaned back, half-sitting up. "Lie down," he said.

"Wh-what?"

"Lie down," Roger repeated. "No? Okay, you know what? Let's have a fort. Okay? Hang on. Stay here." And with that, Roger hopped off the bed and left the room.

Mark sighed. So much for company. He lay down and pulled the blankets up over his head. Great. It was too fucking bright. The inconsiderate ass had gone and left the light on. Now Mark had a light on and a hard on.

He pulled the covers up over his head and curled into a loose ball. Light filtered in, enough to keep off the darkness but not enough to scare away sleep. Mark attended to his needs first, having a brief and quiet (as possible) hand party, then waited patiently for his heart to slow to a normal rate.

Just as Mark was beginning to feel slightly at peace, Roger returned. He poked Mark through the blankets. "Hey," he said. "Come on. We're having a party."

"What?" Mark asked. He pulled the covers down and saw that Roger truly meant it. There was a handful of chocolate and two glasses of milk on the table by the bed. "Are you serious?"

"Deathly." Roger flopped down on the bed and began unwrapping a candy bar. "If I don't have some chocolate soon, I'll die." He took a bite of Mars bar, then offered it to Mark.

Mark recoiled slightly. "No... thank you," he stammered.

Roger shrugged. "Your loss." Mark took a sip of milk as Roger polished off his candy and gulped down some milk. "So, tell me about yourself, Mark-from-Scarsdale."

Mark sighed. "There's not much to tell. I was born in Scarsdale. Now I'm here. I'm... well... I'm Mark."

Roger chuckled. "Damn, any friendlier and I'll have to kick you out." And Mark began to whimper. They couldn't kick him out. He didn't have anywhere else to go! "Hey." Roger sat up. "I was just foolin' with you, Mark. It's cool. I wouldn't kick you out."

"I-- it's not…" Mark knew Roger wouldn't kick him out, because he knew that Roger couldn't kick him out.

Roger frowned. Poor kid. Just moved in, probably scared off his head. Thunder growled, and Mark shuddered. "Hey, c'mere." He pulled Mark close and cradled him against his chest. Mark allowed this, just as he allowed Roger to wrap his arms around him, pet him and rock him.

Slowly, the tension in Mark's muscles began to ease. At the next growl of thunder, he did not whimper, though he shuddered. "It's okay," Roger muttered quickly. "It's okay, I'm here."

And though the presence of a stranger should have meant nothing to Mark, it soothed him. The warm solidity of Roger's body against his shook away the cold and the fear. Mark struggled to maintain wariness as consciousness slipped away. He was asleep in moments.

To be continued!

Review? Pretty please?

Oh, and just for the record, five-two was Roger's approximation, Mark's probably a bit taller than that... though it is possible. Tom Cruise is five-two (according to my sister... guess how tall she is...)