A/N: Guess what! I was on a roll so I decided, why not type this one up too? So you just got two chapters in a really short time. Rejoice, for this is not going to happen all that often. I hope you guys are still reading! Review please! :D

Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine no matter how many times I pray to the God I don't believe in that I'll wake up and it will be… Damn.

Chapter Six: To Faggots, Lezzies, Dykes

Sometimes Mark almost wished that he was HIV positive, if only to understand his friends at Life Support a little bit better. It was a morbid thought, one that he never voiced aloud, knowing how dark it sounded- but if one had spent as many days as Mark with the group, listening to them talk and share those knowing, heartbreaking smiles, they might understand. Although he was always welcome there, he'd never stop feeling as though he was out of place.

He wasn't struggling with that sense of life and death; he wasn't terrified whenever he caught a cold, knowing it could easily kill him; he didn't have that pressure bearing down on him all day every day. And until he did, if he ever did, he wasn't going to feel that sense of camaderie that all of them seemed to share.

This one hadn't been any more special than the ones he'd attended before, but Mark found himself slightly more at ease with Jimmy there as well. The younger man was the only other negative person at the meeting, having come for an unknown reason, and he'd smiled in Mark's direction sympathetically as though he could feel the awkwardness emanating from him. He, at least, understood what Mark was feeling as he gazed upon all of the friends he'd made at Life Support, wondering if they'd all be back for the next meeting and, if they weren't, if they'd still be alive.

That was the scary thing- he couldn't stop thinking about it, even as he walked home by himself with his camera in hand. Sometimes a person would simply stop attending meetings. The rest of them would look around nervously when that happened, no one voicing out loud what was on everybody's mind: had they simply chosen not to come? Were they busy that day? Or had they died? There was no way to tell.

And then, even then, he couldn't stop thinking about Roger and his revelation. Things had become so complicated. Those little gestures he'd always made, or that Roger had always made, had completely different implications- he couldn't stop blushing whenever the songwriter slung an arm around his shoulders now, or when he nuzzled against the filmmaker's neck affectionately, laughing softly into his ear. He couldn't stop feeling guilty whenever he sat too close to Roger on the couch, practically in his lap, or wrestled around with him over stupid things like whether or not Roger's band sounded like shit or whose turn it was to take the hot shower.

It was too stressful to think about. He'd caught Roger giving him weird looks more than once the past week when he shied away or made an excuse and bolted out of the room. Frowning, eyebrows crinkling together in confusion. Mark doesn't want to think about it, though, because when he does his mind whispers to him traitorously just how cute Roger looks like that and he despairs all over again that he'll ever manage to love someone who loves him back.

Sighing, he wound up his camera again, pointing the lens down a shadowy alley and pausing at the mouth of it. He shivered, slightly chilled in the September breeze, and drew his worn plaid jacket around him as he squinted into the darkness. Was that-? Yes, it was. Lying on the ground in a shuddering heap was a man, looking to be about his age.

He hesitated for a moment, knowing that what he was about to do was very, very stupid in a city like New York, especially in the slums- but, fuck, he was Mark. He just wanted to help. Biting his lip, Mark quickly strode into the alley, kneeling on the ground beside the man and gently placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay-?" he started to ask, and very suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his side as he was kicked in the ribs, thrown to the pavement painfully. He curled around his camera instinctively, protecting it even as his glasses were thrown off of his face and his head hit the side of the nearest brick building with a crack.

Two large figures stood over him, and he opened his eyes wide, terrified and unable to make out their distinct features in the darkness. "Hey, you're one of those faggots from the community center," one of them sneered, hunching down and grabbing him by the collar of his sweater, jerking him into a sitting position. "One of the diseased faggots, huh?"

Mark opened his mouth, still dizzy and pain radiating hotly from the back of his head, and tried to speak, but no words came out. He choked on the syllables, frozen as his eyes flickered from one man to the other, and back to the third on the ground who was stirring, sitting up to reveal his split lip and pained expression. It was Jimmy, his headband grimy and speckled with blood, holding his side. Mark vaguely hoped they hadn't hurt him too badly, but his attention was soon forced back to the other men.

"You don't have to answer us… we know. We saw you come out," the other man, slightly taller than the first, snorted. "Little queer, aren't you, you fucking faggot-"

Adrenaline had begun to course through the filmmaker's veins, and he waited a moment until the world stopped spinning to lurch to his feet, grabbing Jimmy's hand and trying to run. It was useless; the Asian man was quick to get up and dart out of the alley, but before Mark could reach the mouth again he was tackled to the ground, landing heavily with a yelp on his hands and knees.

There was probably blood, he knew, because he could feel bits of gravel and broken glass shredding his palms and sinking through the worn fabric of his corduroy pants. Open wounds in a dirty, disgusting alley like this in a city full of disease- just fucking perfect. The pain gave him a clarity he hadn't had before, though, and he choked out a, "JUST GO!" when he saw the young waiter hesitate at the mouth of the alley, looking as though he might try and go back for Mark.

Obediently, Jimmy frowned and ran- one of the men went after him, yelling, the other sending a kick to Mark's side that he didn't see until it was too late and he was crashing to the ground, gasping and already attempting to scramble to his feet. "Fuck-!"

"Ah ah ah, you're not going anywhere," came his smug attacker's gruff voice. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that it was a greasy-haired, light-skinned man, six feet tall and easily stronger than the filmmaker judging by the wiry muscle in his biceps as he pinned Mark's wrists to the wall beside him. His eyes were dark and menacing, a smirk gracing his lips that frightened the smaller man. "I'm not done with you. You got AIDS, faggot?"

Violently shaking his head no, Mark struggled to no avail, kicking desperately out towards where the man's crotch might have been. It was useless; he shifted and stood, dragging Mark up off the ground with him and slamming him against the building, making him wince.

"Get the fuck off!" Mark yelled, striking out with his free hand only to have it pinned once again to the wall along with the other. He glared helplessly, head throbbing, whole body thrumming with panic- Where's Roger when I need him?- and unable to do a thing about it. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any money, I don't- you can't get anything from me!"

"No?" Frowning, the attacker glanced at the camera lying on the ground and Mark's glasses beside them. He must have decided they weren't worth it, because he turned back to Mark with a sneer. Before he could continue, however, the injured blonde viciously kicked out at his knee, causing it to buckle as he howled in pain.

"You little SHIT!" he hissed, tightening his grip on the filmmaker's wrists painfully and causing him to whimper, head swimming. "You think you can do that?" His breath is hot on Mark's ear as he leans in and growls, raising the hairs on the back of Mark's neck. "I think you need to be punished…"

A whole new brand of panic is rising in Mark's chest as he's forced to his knees, wincing at the raw feeling of the hard pavement scraping his skin- yep, he was right, his pants have torn at the knees and they should be cold but instead they're hot, stinging and probably bleeding crimson stains onto the ground. He isn't focused on the pain, though; he's focused on the sound of the man's zipper being pulled down, the button being popped, and oh fuck he hopes he's not really going to do this to him, no, he can't do this to him-!

"I'll bite!" he says, voice high pitched with fear because he can't control it anymore, and he struggles not to raise his eyes to meet his attacker's, struggles not to break down and beg him. Mark is too tired to fight back, bleeding and aching and nearly blind as he is, and even with the renewed surge of adrenaline the idea of being forced to suck on this guy's cock gives him he doesn't think he'll be able to get away without being hurt, or maybe even killed.

"Oh, you won't," says the man, cruel laughter in his voice. Mark feels him shift and suddenly there is something cool and sharp at his throat. "I think this will be a good enough deterrent. Now. Let's get back to business…"

"Mark? MARK? Who- GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM YOU FUCKING BASTARD! NO!"

Roger's angry screaming has never been such a welcome sound, and Mark sobs in relief as his roommate charges and bowls the man above him over, knocking the knife out of his hand. It draws blood as it slides lightly across the skin on his neck anyways, but not enough that Mark is concerned. In fact, Mark is on the move now, shooting up to his feet the moment he can without even thinking about it and backing away, nearly stepping on his own glasses as he keeps his eyes trained on the slightly blurry fight before him.

It's a tangle of limbs and Roger's cursing, the blows he's raining down on the man with his fists practically audible in the cool, still air. Mark scrabbles for his glasses, fingers numb and scraped raw as they brush the ground in search of them, finally finding the thick lenses and jamming them onto his face without cleaning them off, squinting through the smudges. He sees Roger's bleached hair clearly in the darkness, a shock of yellow-white, and his furious green eyes blazing as he snarls and continues to draw his fist back, on top of the other guy, slamming it down again and again.

"Mark come on! Let's go!" He turns in confusion to find Jimmy at the mouth of the alley, beckoning him anxiously, and then casts a glance back to Roger who has finally found resistance in the man beneath him, who is swearing and rolling away on the ground, backing further into the alley. There is no dead end to stop him from getting to his feet the moment he's free of Roger, pelting away as fast as is humanly possible. Mark manages to catch Roger's wrist in both hands before he can go running after his attacker, and although he's in no condition to be holding his enraged roommate back he DOES manage to make Roger turn and look at him in frustration.

"Mark I'm not just letting him get away with that- oh SHIT you're bleeding!" Roger's face goes white as he jerks his hand away, wiping it off on his jeans and inspecting it frantically for open wounds. When he doesn't find any, he exhales the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and stands, pulling Mark into a fierce hug. "God, I can't believe this- that ASSHOLE, I'm not letting him get away with it, Mark, I'm going to find him! I'll kill him!"

"Roger just calm down…" he replies exhaustedly, licking his lips and tasting blood. Fuck. "Can we just… just go home…?"

"God. Yeah… I need to- Let's get you cleaned up," the guitarist says, wringing his hands and eyeing the wounds covering his friend warily. He'll have to be careful around so much blood, of course, but if anyone else tries to wrap Mark up in bandages he might go rabid. Roger doesn't trust anyone else to take care of his friend, and now, after what he's just witnessed, he probably won't be letting Mark out of his sight for the next month.

Tentatively, he wraps an arm around Mark's waist- even now, hurting and ready to pass out, Mark can't help but lean into that touch and feel guilty for doing it- and takes slow, short strides out of the alley, supporting him. Mark can't believe how shaky he is. Is it just him, or is the whole world tilting on its axis, fading to grey and then back again? He groans, resting his head on Roger's shoulder, feeling sharp pain shoot from the lump on the back of it. "Fucking hell…"

"You're gonna be okay," Roger mutters, alarmed at the way Mark is practically a dead weight against his side as he tries to walk. There is a sticky liquid seeping through his shirt on the shoulder Mark's head is resting on, but he tries not to think about it. "It's gonna be fine, we just need to wash you off and… Mark?"

"Should just go back to being straight," Mark is saying under his breath, laughing slightly hysterically. "So much easier…"

As they reach the young Asian man still waiting, watching with large, fearful eyes, Roger allows him to slide up to Mark's other side and help him carry him. "Mark, don't say that. It's gonna be fine. You are who you are! And they can fucking deal with it!"

But the filmmaker isn't listening. In fact, after several more of these dark mutterings and the torturous trip up the stairs to the loft, he's passed out on the couch. Roger dismisses Jimmy when he's sure that Mark isn't about to bleed to death, and he holds the filmmaker's head in his lap, his own head in his hands. He has a fantastic headache brewing.

If something had happened to his Mark, what would he do? Something COULD have happened tonight, if he hadn't gotten there quick enough. If Jimmy hadn't come for him, he would have been clueless. Mark could have been killed, could have been raped, and Roger would have done nothing to stop it.

And that's the scary part.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Mark is less than eager to go to the Life the next morning, but Mimi sounded so excited on the phone that he can't help but give in. He touches his fingers lightly to the black eye he's sporting, ignoring the sting of his cut fingertips, and walks with Roger through the glass doors. His roommate has been watching him like a hawk all morning and although it's somewhat irritating- he's not a CHILD, he can take care of himself- he's sort of touched that Roger cares so much about his well-being.

Stop it! He chides himself. You're not helping yourself by hoping. He's just being a good friend. Roger's always been overprotective like this.

Mimi is grinning widely as they enter, hand clasped tightly in none other than Jason's, but it slides off of her face as she spots Mark. "Oh my God! Mark! Are you- what happened?" She looks like Roger had when he'd found him, ready to spit fire, and the filmmaker is reminded of why he never wants to get on the Latina's bad side.

"It's nothing- Roger'll fill you in," he stutters, looking down at the rich red of the carpet between his feet. The thing is, Mark doesn't like to think about what had almost happened too much- not only was it a horrifying experience, but he realizes now how helpless he had been. It's not like he hasn't always known how weak he is: the bohemians all have their hungry days, when their art comes before their own health, and he doesn't ever regret it. He loves it here in the city with Roger and Collins and Maureen and Mimi and Joanne. He doesn't have any desire to leave, settle down with a family or some bullshit like that. But…

Mark is ashamed. That's what it comes down to. And he's not about to relive the experience for his friends, watching their faces contort in rage and sympathy and fear for poor Mark. No. He won't do it, can't do it- and Roger seems to understand that, because he sighs and releases Mark to gather the rest of the bohemians and Jason around him, huddling close and murmuring through gritted teeth the events of the night before.

The filmmaker clutches his camera tightly, hanging onto it as though it will disappear if he loosens his grip the tiniest bit. His eyes roam the room, catching several curious stares and scowling at them before they quickly turned away, flushing in embarrassment. He's aware that he looks like a mess, thank you, and he doesn't need this reminder. But it can't be helped…

Out of nowhere, he is nearly thrown backwards by the force of somebody's hug. His arms snap around the waiter's skinny frame immediately as the breath is knocked out of him. "Jimmy? Hey…" He laughs, unable to contain his amusement at the young man's relief.

"You're okay? Thank God." Jimmy sighs, pulling back and surveying the paler man's wounds, looking him up and down. "I was worried."

"Thanks," he says sincerely, because it has been a long time since somebody who wasn't his close friend or a member of Life Support worried about him. "Fucking homophobes."

There is a quiet snort from somewhere beside him, and the other waiter- a short man with a sneer on his face, probably new because Mark has certainly never seen him before- mutters under his breath, "faggots". Mark frowns, blushes and returns his gaze to the ground. He's angry, of course, but he doesn't want to start anything, and even if he did he's in no condition to come out on the winning side.

A hush descends over the nearby customers, and Mark almost doesn't realize why until Roger's hand, easily identified by the tattoo on his forearm, flies out and catches the disgusted waiter by his collar. A woman stifles a gasp behind them. "WHAT did you just say?"

"Faggots," the man clarifies, sneer increasing as he glares up at Roger. There is a hint of fear in his eyes, but he's containing it well. Roger's expression is a scary one, and Mark feels the need to step in now before his roommate does something drastic.

"Roger, just let it go," he pleads, grabbing at Roger's arm, but the guitarist shakes him off, keeping his darkening green eyes trained on the face of his captive. "Roger!"

"Mark shut up. This guy's being an asshole to you and you already had a shitty night," he growls, tightening his vice grip on the guy's collar. "Apologize. NOW. Or I'm going to have to kick your ass!"

"We'll report you to the manager!" Mimi adds, handing Jason her purse and crossing her arms, blue-painted nails tapping against her arms impatiently. Collins, beside her, is the only one that looks calm; he doesn't stop to wonder why Maureen and Joanne haven't come to this meeting, because his mind is already racing with dread of what his friends might do to the man.

"I don't approve of your lifestyle," the waiter says, gritting his teeth. Jimmy frowns and slowly backs away from the situation, muttering about orders he had to fill, obviously just as angry as the rest of them. "I won't apologize for my opinion."

Roger practically hisses at him, shoulders tensing. "Say it again, I dare you," he breathes. This is one of those times where Mark gets flashbacks of the withdrawal days, when Roger was unpredictable and violent and as likely to punch him as he was to hug him and sob against his shoulder. Roger is a person ruled by his emotions, and right now he's fuming. "Say it the fuck again. See what happens."

Frowning, more than a little fear flashing across his face, the disapproving waiter backs down. "Fine. I'm SORRY," he mutters, glancing at Mark with a glare that shouldn't make him feel so self-conscious. "Let me go." He shifts his glare to Roger, who, upon seeing the pleading look on his roommate's face, reluctantly lets him go. He scurries away quickly, flustered, and leaves the bohemians behind him. Roger sends a scathing look after him.

"You didn't have to do that," Mark says as they all sit down, turning their attention to the new couple- Mimi's smile has returned as Jason presses a kiss to her neck, and she's giggling in a way Mark hasn't seen since she was with Roger- but he knows that he's smiling despite himself. Because Roger means more to him than he should, and the fact that he was prepared to throw down for the sake of his emotional well-being twice in less than twenty four hours is making him glow inside, warm and happy. He hopes it doesn't show on his face.

"Wanted to," Roger shrugs, resting his arm around Mark's shoulders again, and yep, those are butterflies in his stomach.

"I owe you one," he insists.

"One what? A blowjob? Because I wouldn't say no to one of those," Roger laughs, a wicked smirk on his face, and Mark is spluttering in embarrassment even as he turns away and tries to disguise the tent forming in his pants by shoving his camera into his lap. The butterflies are fluttering madly in his stomach and lower now, the tingling spreading-

Oh, fuck.

Roger doesn't even know what he's doing to him. Mark closes his eyes, choking back a whimper as dirty images pollute his mind. FUCK.

Mimi and Jason are raising their glasses, toasting their new relationship, and Mark thrusts his own glass into the air almost too enthusiastically. Anything, anything at all to get his mind off of the feeling of Roger's cock heavy against his tongue…

Vaguely, he wonders how he's ever going to keep himself from jumping his roommate.

And Roger just keeps that shit-eating grin on his face.