A/N: Heeere's chapter four for all of you! I'm really sad because no one reviewed chapter three… :( Make it better and tell me what you thought of this chapter, ne? I need to know if people like this dammit! This will probably be a short one.
Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure, after some extensive research, that RENT doesn't in fact belong to me.
Chapter Four: Tell the Folks at Home
"You REALLY won't go with us?" Maureen pouted. Even through the phone, Mark could see her lower lip jutting out, shoulders slumping. He was also imagining her in a cat suit again, but that was just because Maureen ALWAYS appeared in his head in rubber. It was something to do with the kind of person she was, he expected…
"Mo, you know I don't have much of a tolerance," he sighed for the fortieth time. "No, I don't want to go. You know I don't want to go. We've already ESTABLISHED that I don't, nor can I be forced to, go to the Pyramid Club with you."
"But pookie!" she whined. "You haven't had sex since ME! Don't you want to meet someone?"
"I'm calling my parents tomorrow and telling them," he said abruptly, and then there was a brief silence as Maureen realized the gravity of those words.
"OH… Marky, are you sure? It might help you get your mind off of it," she said softly, more serious now. Mark didn't hesitate to get himself out of this potentially disastrous situation.
"No, really Maureen, it's fine." He replied, smiling wryly. "I'm going to stay in tonight. Collins is dropping by later."
"Do you want me to come over for moral support?"
"It's fine," he repeated. "Just go out with Joanne, you two will have a good time. And try not to make out with anyone else."
"Okay... Bye, Marky. Good luck!"
The filmmaker set the phone down in the receiver at long last, allowing the relief to wash over him.
He didn't know why it was so terrifying- the thought of going out to a gay club, that is. Maybe it was because he was so used to being closeted, or maybe even an irrational fear that someone from his family or from Scarsdale would recognize him there and tell his parent before he could. Of course, that didn't really make any sense- someone from SCARSDALE in the Pyramid Club? If he was there, this faceless man I was imagining, and I was there that would make two of them, and that defied the laws of logic- but then, there was a reason they were called irrational.
Roger strolled into the room, juice box in hand. This week their food supply consisted of Captain Crunch cereal, always a favorite, and Hawaiian punch-flavored juice boxes, which the songwriter had taken a great liking to. It usually made Mark giggle to see his roommate acting like a five-year old with his enthusiasm, but today he was far too anxious.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" the rocker asked, noticing his expression. "Maureen give you a hard time?"
"I'm just nervous," Mark muttered, wishing more than anything as he stared at the white plastic phone in front of him that it would ring again, this time with someone on the other end that would tell him his parents were both out of the country on vacation and couldn't speak to him until thy got back… never.
Sensing his roommate's apprehension as he heaved a sigh and trudged back into his room, presumably to mope, Roger picked up the same phone and dialed in a familiar number.
"Collins?" he asked when it was picked up after the second ring. "You there, man?"
"Yeah, Rog, what's up?" The songwriter grinned at what he had in mind.
"Mark is feeling a little down about telling his parents tomorrow and I thought we should loosen him up…"
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
"Awww, look Marky's drunk," Roger laughed, more than a little tipsy himself. He took a drag from the joint between his thumb and forefinger before passing it back to the anarchist beside him, whose booming laugh echoed through the smoky loft. Said filmmaker made a point to glare at him, but it was hard to take him seriously when he was shirtless and flushed from intoxication.
Sure enough, seconds later he burst into a fit of giggles for no apparent reason and leaned against Roger for support, tears streaming from his eyes. A few hours ago he had been angsting by himself over things he couldn't control, but now…
Roger liked to credit himself with Mark's current state of half-nakedness and inebriation. Although Collins had supplied the booze and the pot, he had been the one to lure the filmmaker out of his room, not to mention the one to, in a momentary lapse of judgment, decide he liked his best friend better when he was less clothed.
"M'not DRUNK," Mark whined, pawing at his friend's side when he had recovered. ""M'just… I just- Wow, your hair is so soft-looking," he said absently, completely losing the thread of the conversation as he reached up with his blue eyes wide to touch the bleach-blonde hair on Roger's head. The rocker laughed again at this, feeling light and free and utterly at peace.
"Now, now, boys, don't be getting it on while I'm in the room," Collins said, chuckling at the odd embrace the two were sharing. He'd had his suspicions that Mark had been in love with Roger for a long time, and vice versa, but the only time he'd ever voiced it to Roger before they'd both been sober and Roger had run off to get drunk after a long shouting match, diving happily into denial.
Sometimes, the anarchist mused, Roger was more dramatic than Maureen.
Nevertheless, as he watched the guitarist leaned down, green eyes falling closed, to touch his lips to Mark's briefly. The smaller man arched up into it eagerly, hands halfway up to Roger's face before the guitarist pulled away and flashed a lazy grin at his tall, black friend.
"What are you talking about, Collinsssss?" he drawled, and Mark giggled, resting his head in Roger's lap. "Me and Mark aren't doin' anything…"
Collins raised his eyebrows, wondering if Roger was really so high that he didn't even notice that he was contradicting himself, but decided to let it slide. He took a final swig of his bottle and set it down, empty, on the floor. "Let's play truth or dare," he suggested, well aware that Mark had left his camera rolling on the floor not two feet away. In the morning he would see this footage and probably question Collins about it, but he would deal with that later.
"That's for teenaged girls!" the bespectacled man protested. " An' I'm a chickenshit, anyways…"
Roger stuck out his tongue at Mark, grinning mischievously. The resulting expression was rather obnoxious. Collins fought the urge to point this out. Neither of these boys had any tolerance… He sighed. "I'll go first," he offered, to which neither replied. They were too absorbed in their staring contest. "Mark. Truth or dare?"
"Oh. Uhhh… Truth." The blonde said after a long pause, screwing up his face in concentration. He was just too damn cute, like an innocent little puppy, and sometimes Collins had a hard time he'd ever dated Maureen and come out unscathed.
"Who you been lusting after lately?" the professor asked, feeling triumphant. There wasn't really any way he could get out of answering a question that direct, was there?
"Uhh. Um…" the filmmaker stumbled over his words, suddenly blushing so hard that Collins could almost feel the heat radiating off of his red cheeks. Roger was staring at him avidly now, awaiting his answer. "I guess… No one in particular."
"You're such a LIAR," Roger said, narrowing his eyes. "Like I haven't noticed you've been taking long ass showers for the past week and a half… There has to be SOMEONE."
"No, there's not," Mark said again, apparently determined to stick to his blatant lie. When his roommate suddenly grabbed at his sides and started tickling them, eliciting a squeal and a bout of raucous, uncontrolled laughter, Collins' hopes that he might get something out of Mark- namely something to confirm his suspicions about the two- plummeted.
However, a moment later when Mark lunged up and brought the other man's face to his near violently in a kiss, Collins thought that there might be some hope after all.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
The phone was ringing.
That was Mark's first thought when he woke on the couch in Roger's arms, eyes barely cracked open- why was it so BRIGHT? Ugh- and mouth tasting absolutely horrid. His tongue felt fuzzy. Grimacing, the filmmaker attempted to sit up only to yelp at the sharp pain in his temples and crumple back to the scratchy surface of the couch, cheek pressed to Roger's chest.
"Mmmm… Marky?" Roger mumbled, green eyes merely slits. He made no attempt to sit up, clearly smarter than the filmmaker squashed against him. In the background, the shrill ringing continued until the voice mail message started playing.
"SPEEEEEEEEEEAK."
Both of them winced as Mark's mother's high-pitched voice rang throughout the quiet loft. "Mark? It's mom. I thought you were calling today, but it's one and I haven't heard from you- I'm worried. Mark? Are you there?"
Swearing, Mark stumbled out of bed and ran for the phone, picking it up and still wincing at the headache making his vision swim. "Hey, mom," he croaked, trying not to sound as hungover as he really was. "Sorry, you woke me up…"
"Mark? Why are you sleeping in until one in the afternoon?" she asked, voice grating on his fried nerves. He knew that she was only concerned, but after a night that long and that much alcohol, he couldn't help being irritated. "Is that addict roommate of yours-"
"He's CLEAN, mom, I told you that!" he snapped at the mention of Roger. Mark sighed after a pause, voice softening. "Anyways. I had a late night with my roommates and I guess I just lost track of time. I'm glad you called, though, I had something to tell you today…"
"What is it? Did you test positive for that awful disease?" she asked frantically. Mark fought the urge to scream. Since he'd let it slip that April had killed herself because she and Roger had HIV his mother had been distinctly disapproving of his best friend, blaming him for everything that went wrong in Mark's life even when it had nothing to do with him. "Oh, Mark, I told you to be careful sweetie-"
"Mom, I'm gay!" he shouted, sick of her overbearingness.
And there was silence.
And Mark realized the mistake he'd made. Shit.
"Mom?" he murmured, hoping to God he hadn't made her faint. But no, there was a choked noise- shit. Crying. Oh, fuck. "Mom, I'm sorry I yelled, I just… I really needed to tell you-"
"Honey, no, this can't… we brought you up so well! You were always such a nice, sweet boy! You can't be… You dated Maureen! You still love her, I know it," she said desperately, hanging on to this last shred of hope that her son wasn't what she'd always called an abomination. "You've always loved Maureen. Since you were six years old."
"I'm sorry, Mom, but… I don't love Maureen. I never loved her," he said tiredly. He could feel Roger's gaze fixed on him intently as he talked, waiting to jump in if he sounded like he needed him. "I… I'm just… I'm gay," he said lamely, not really sure what else he COULD say in this situation and feeling like his head was about to split open.
His mother's sniffling became sobbing and suddenly it sounded farther away, a booming male voice taking its place. "MARK!" his father roared. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! "Do you hear what you've done? Your mother is in hysterics! Come home THIS INSTANT and apologize for your little joke!"
Despite the fact that, as always, his body had frozen in terror at the sound of his father's voice, Mark knew he had to defend his claim. "Dad… It's not a joke! I'm g-g-gay!" He winced at the return of his stutter.
"No son of mine is a faggot," Mr. Cohen growled menacingly. "You're going to come home and apologize to your mother and go back to Brown and study to be a lawyer. You're going to marry a nice Jewish girl and have some grandchildren for us. And you're NOT going to continue staying in that… that poisonous environment with that junkie faggot roommate of yours-"
He slammed the phone down on the receiver, sweating and trembling and amazed at himself. He'd just… Hung up on his dad. His dad, who was probably going to physically come down here and bang down the door of the loft and give Mark a bloody nose before twisting his arm behind his back and dragging him back home, exactly where he didn't want to be.
Oh, shit. He'd better call Cindy before his father got to her.
"Hiiiiiii! You've reached Cindy and Doug! Leave a message at the beep and we'll get back to you ASAP!" He could almost hear her cheery smile as she said the words. As much as he and his sister didn't see eye to eye, he'd always been able to trust her to look out of him as her little brother, and if anyone would protect him from his father's wrath and calm their mother down it was Cindy.
"Listen, Cindy," he said frantically when the beep sounded, speaking fast. "It's Mark. Dad's furious and Mom is in hysterics because I told her I was gay- please, for God's sake, believe me when I say I wasn't trying to upset her- and don't let Dad come after me wielding a torch, he knows where I live. I love you." And the final beep sounded.
"Mark?" Roger asked groggily, full of concern for his friend. "Didn't go well, huh?"
"No…" he said, voice choking at the end of the word. Overwhelmed by this onslaught of emotion and his parent's rejection of him and his terrible hangover, he took a few shaky steps towards Roger, who was now standing not two feet away from him and slumped against his friend.
The rocker wrapped his arms around the filmmaker, sighing and mentally glaring daggers at the people responsible for Mark's miniature breakdown. "Shhhh," he murmured, hugging him close and gently stroking his hair. Sweater-clad arms threw themselves around his neck as Mark hugged him back, sobbing into his chest. "They're just… they're idiots, Mark. You're amazing. You don't need them."
A couple of tear-garbled words made it past Mark's lips as he cried before he managed to clear his throat. "Roger they hate me! Because I'm a fucking faggot and my dad's going to make me go home with him if he finds me and I don't want to leave! I just want to stay here with-" With you.
"It's going to be okay, Marky," he soothed, pressing a kiss to his distraught friends temple in an attempt to calm him down. "I'm right here, I won't let him take you away…"
From the hallway, Collins watched the exchange with more than a hint of a smile on his face.