Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

The club was crowded, the music loud, the dance floor a sea of writhing bodies under strobe lights. Mark inched nearer to Roger. "I don't know that I can dance like that!" he called, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

Roger looped an arm around Mark's waist. "It's fun, I promise!" he shouted back. "Just lose yourself!"

Mark shook his head. He looked up at Roger, pleading. Roger smiled. "All right," he said. "Well, why don't we have a beer and see if you don't relax a little? If you're not feeling better by the end of a cup, I'll take you somewhere else." Mark nodded. That sounded fine. "Find somewhere to sit, okay? I'll join you in a second."

He slipped away, and Mark cast about for a table. There weren't many, and they were artfully designed to look pretty and be thoroughly dysfunctional. Luckily most patrons of the club seemed to be enjoy the mass of dancing, and Mark found a free table easily. He lowered himself onto one of the spindly chairs, praying it would not break.

To Mark, the people were like an orgy, a teenager's fantasy of a drug high. They were shadows, illuminated occasionally and given, for that brief part of a second, life, purpose, identity. But for the most part they were one, each body just the next in a string of vessels to maintain the pulse. Together, they composed something meaningful, something that carried them to a higher level of being.

Alone, they were wackos dancing in the streets.

For that flash of a piece of a second, Mark saw someone he knew. His heart gave a stroke of Haphaestus' hammer against his ribs and fell still, his eyes wide.

No. It was a crowded club, and that was no one but a man, another nameless, faceless body in the crowd. It was Mark's fear that made him look familiar.

Mark looked down at the table, suddenly uninterested in the thriving mass of flesh. He didn't want to be here. As soon as Roger returned, Mark decided, he would ask to leave, and Roger would simply have to respect that. Roger would. He was a sweet man, he liked kissing and cuddling, he would respect Mark's need.

"Mark?"

Oh thank G-d. Mark raised his eyes. "I--" and fell silent. Shit. Not a hallucination after all.

Roger paid for two plastic cups of beer which would, he knew, taste little better than chilled horse's piss, except, of course, for being considerably less pungent. Still, a bit of alcohol eased more than a few things, and surely Mark could overcome his inhibitions with a tiny buzz.

Now where was Mark?

Roger glanced across the room. He saw the dancers, but unless Mark had taken a quick snort of smack Roger seriously doubted he was there. There were the tables, a few of them occupied but none by Mark. Could he be in the bathrooms?

Roger took a step in that direction, but his eyes caught a bit of motion by the door. He looked-- "Hey!"

Of course, across a crowded room with music pounding he went unheard save by the few at the bar, most of whom did not even look up. Roger set down the beers and sprinted across the club towards the exit.

Outside, the cold air smacked him hard across the face. "… didn't know you'd be on parole so early," Roger heard Mark say, but where was Mark? Roger looked around, but couldn't see him. Flakes of snow blew in his face. He batted futilely at them, scanning the scene again.

"Of course mine came up first. After all, you were the little whore."

Roger headed for the alley. He didn't know that voice, but he certainly didn't like it.

"I am not a--"

Roger peered into the alley. Someone a bit smaller than Roger himself had Mark pushed against a wall and was kissing him on the mouth. Mark pushed the guy off. "Fuck off, Marcus!" he snapped.

Marcus sneered. "Well you grew a mouth, didn't you, Markie-boy?" He moved to kiss Mark again, and Mark slapped him. Marcus retorted in kind, causing Mark to cry out and hold the side of his face.

For Roger, it was enough. "Hey!" He strode into the alley. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my boyfriend?" he demanded, shoving Marcus away from Mark. "Don't you ever touch him again!" Roger had lost his temper, and once that was gone he knew no semblance of reason. Heat and adrenaline pumped through his body, decided for him what would be done.

"Your boyfriend?" Marcus asked. He looked from Mark to Roger and laughed. "This the best you could do, Mark?" he asked. "I'll bet he's not half the fuck I am. When he was with me," Marcus told Roger, "he was begging for it."

"That's not true," Mark whimpered quietly. He stood by the wall, still clutching his face.

Roger was torn. His nails bit into his palm. But he was sane enough not to hit. He knew, in the last logical part of his brain, that getting into a fight in a back alley was a really stupid thing to do. But he wanted very much to punch the crap outta this guy.

"Didn't know about me, did you?" Marcus asked. "I guess Mark hasn't told you much. I guess he hasn't told you, either, why he was in jail last year or-- oh. Hasn't Markie-boy told you that he was in jail?" Marcus asked, feigning innocence.

Roger looked to Mark, stunned, but Mark could only shake his head. "Fuck you," Roger spat. "Let's go home, Mark." He held out his hand. When Mark didn't move, Roger said, "Let's just go home. It was wrong to come here. We'll sort this out, just us, okay?" All the while, he didn't take his eyes off Marcus.

Mark took Roger's hand. They managed three steps before Roger heard running footsteps. He tore his hand away from Mark's, turned and smashed his fist against Marcus's head. Marcus crumpled.

"Let's go home," Roger repeated. He took Mark's hand again and tugged him forward. Mark tried to look over his shoulder, but Roger forced him to continue on.

To be continued!

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