Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Half an hour later, Mark sat on the edge of his bed, his hands in his lap and his eyes cast down.

"So who was he, Mark?" Roger's tone held an edge of fury, a potential to harm.

Mark bit his lip. These clothes smelt of clubbing. Mark hated clubbing. He needed to get changed, put on his pajamas, maybe even have a shower. He needed to get that feeling off his skin.

"Mark?"

But Roger needed information, and he wouldn't give up until he got it. "My ex-boyfriend." Roger shouldn't be angry. After all, he had been with others. Surely he knew that Mark had, too.

"And what he said..." Roger struggled over the next few words, "what he said about you," he decided at last. "Was there any truth to it?"

Mark swallowed hard. He would not, honestly, have claimed to love Roger. He didn't. He enjoyed spending time with him, he wanted to make him happy, he felt himself smile when Roger smiled. Mark liked being close to Roger, holding his hand. He always felt something when Roger spoke only to him.

Mark didn't love Roger, but he could, and he wanted to.

"I need you to tell me that everything that was said in that alley was a lie," Roger continued, struggling and failing to keep the anger from his voice. Mark was silent. "Mark?" He said nothing. "Fuck. So you lied to me?" Roger demanded. He shook his head. "And I just swallowed it all, didn't I? Is there anything you said to me that was not complete bullshit? Did you really go to Brown? Can you even read, or are you working in the fucking 7-11 because you're nothing but an illiterate whore?" The last two words were shouted with a steadily increasing volume.

Mark had begun to cry. Hot tears streaked down his face and landed in his lap. His shoulders convulsed. "Please stop…" It wasn't Roger speaking. Mark's failures, his shames, were not being paraded out by Roger, but by Michael Cohen, Mark's father who could never again look his son in the eye.

If he heard the plea, Roger ignored it. "Did you enjoy playing me, Mark? Was that fun, was I just another job to you, just paying yourself with the personal satisfaction of having someone totally under your power?" As he said the words, Roger hated himself-- half for believing Mark, and half for doubting him.

"No!" Mark sobbed.

"Then what? Why did you do it, Mark? Why bother? No," Roger said, shaking his head. "I don't care." Roger headed for the door. "I don't care," he repeated, as though saying it to himself would make it more true. Mark cried harder when he heard the bedroom door slam.

Roger slept fitfully. His muscles held tight against the cold and the anger, and he awoke because he could no longer endure sleep. The room was pitch dark, but he knew without knowing how he knew that someone sat at the foot of his bed. "Mark?" he asked.

Mark's voice came from the darkness, cracked and raw: "Yeah." Both men blinked when Roger flicked on the lamp.

"Well?"

Mark looked at his lap. It was obvious enough now what had to be done—obvious, and he had readied himself beforehand, yet when the time came to speak up Mark found his throat dry and tight.

"Collins isn't my friend," Mark began. It had to be done, or he would lose Roger. "He's my parole officer. When they released me, it was into his custody."

Roger nodded. At least that made sense. He had been in jail once himself and lucky enough to be released on his own resources, but he knew that failing that, Collins was an ideal man to take responsibility.

Admittedly largely because Roger didn't know who else to call.

"What were you doing in prison?" he asked.

"I overdosed and when the hospital released me, it was into police custody. They put me in jail. I was lucky with my lawyer. He got me sent to rehab and released once I was clean, but not on my own resources. He knew Collins, called in a favor." I didn't know anyone, Mark thought. At least, no one who would take me in.

"What did you overdose on?" Roger wanted to know.

He'll know… But, Mark reminded himself, the alternative was losing Roger. The alternative was never having a cuddle again.

"Liquid gold."

Roger hissed. He knew the stuff-- he had had a few lungfuls, and it did feel good until the headache set in. "Why'd you use poppers, anyway?" he asked.

Mark sighed. "When I was with Marcus, I was often, um, unable to, uh, perform." Do you want me now, Roger? Do you want me still knowing I won't please you? But Mark knew one thing for certain, and that was that if Roger didn't get answers, their relationship was over. "He suggested I use the amyl so that I would be able to... accept him."

For the first time, Mark raised his eyes, casting one fearful glance at his maybe-maybe-not boyfriend. Roger nodded to indicate that he knew exactly what Mark meant. "He never forced me," Mark added hastily. "Pressured me, yes, made his opinion clear, certainly, but each time, I made the choice."

Roger nodded. "And… whoring?" he asked. He almost didn't do it, almost could not make himself want to, but the grown-up in Roger knew that he needed to know.

Mark shook his head. "Marcus threw some wild parties, a lot of drugs, a lot of sex. I participated, but I never sold myself. You... could say I was a slut," he admitted, blushing so hard it hurt.

Once more, Roger nodded. His eyes itched, the lids too heavy, and he had trouble thinking a coherent thought. "Mark… I need to sleep," Roger said.

"Okay."

Mark stood to go, but Roger added, "Unless… you'd like to stay?" he asked.

Mark paused. He crawled up to the head of the bed and curled underneath the covers. Roger turned off the lamp. "Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared of the dark."

Roger mumbled discontentedly. He pulled Mark closer to him. "You're safe with me," he murmured. "Go to sleep."

To be continued!

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