A/N: Wow, it's been a month and a half already? Guys, I'm sorry! Life continues to get in the way of my fanfiction. I haven't had time to write a proper chapter in so long... I'm grounded for life, you see. But disregarding that, my muse has been hard at work and I really hope you enjoy the chapter that's been churning around in my head for the longest time now. :D Here goes! I know it's short but I think it's supposed to be.

Disclaimer: RENT is most definitely not mine, seeing as I am musically ungifted and unable to rhyme. Nope. It definitely belongs to J-Lar.

About Last Night..

"Please don't stop..."

Roger blinks groggily, head pounding, and makes a very short-lived attempt to sit up. Ugh. His mouth is dry and tastes like stale beer and he's afraid to open it for fear of the awful morning breath he probably has. Beside him, a smaller shape is cuddled to his side under the blankets and his first thought is of Mimi, always so tiny and delicate and looking out of place in his bed. Frowning, he reaches to shake her shoulder and the shape moves and he can see her- his- face.

There is a frozen moment, when he first absorbs the fact that Mark is sleeping in his bed. With him. He blinks rapidly, the throbbing between his eyes intensifying, and tries to rationalize it. This wouldn't have been the first time that he and Mark got drunk together and ended up sleeping in the same bed. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd gotten fed up with the cold and done the same, either, but it's not honestly that cold in the loft for once because it's only October and he's pretty sure he's naked- Wait.

Green eyes quickly scanneed the room, horror dawning in them slowly but surely as they flickered over the slowly mounting pile of evidence.

Clothes strewn all about, not all of them his.

Foil wrapper lying innocently by the trash bin.

Used condom tossed carelessly on the floor by his lazy, content post-sex self-

"Mmm... Roger."

His gaze snapped back to Mark, feeling queasy and pale now as the monumental implications bombarded his mind. - The other man was flushed, glasses slipping down to the very tip of his nose, mumbling in his sleep as he was apt to do-- and Roger felt his stomach heave as he heard his name on those lips, the ones he'd been admiring so long- -

Fuck.

He'd slept with Mark.

Unable to hold it back any longer, Roger ripped the covers off of him and nearly fell right out of the bed, staggering out of the bedroom and down the short stretch of hall. He barely made it into the bathroom before he was dropping to his knees and vomiting, copiously, into the porcelain toilet bowl. It was debatable, he thought as the acid-y gunk poured from his lips, whether this was the result of his own self-loathing or the alcohol. Groaning and spitting out questionable chunks from his mouth, panting and dry heaving several times, he finally laid his forehead on the toilet seat and wrapped his arms around his middle, mind racing.

What had he done? How had he allowed this to happen? This wasn't some groupie or a girl downstairs with a candle, this was Mark Cohen. His best friend. His- his reason for carrying on. Without Mark, Roger doubted that he'd even be here. Would he have found the strength to quit H without Mark to pin him down while he sobbed and screamed hateful words and pleaded for one more hit all in the same breath? Would he have survived April's death, his own diagnosis, without Mark to hold him while he shook and stared blankly at the wall for hours and days at a time, contemplating the different ways he could follow her and just end it all? No. He had to face it. Mark meant too much to him to fuck up. And apparently, one too many drinks had caused him to do just that. Literally.

"Roger?" He weakly lifted his head from the seat to swivel towards the figure in the doorway. Mark was way too fucking adorable. It couldn't even be legal. His hair was mussed, sticking up on the side, eyes bleary and pilowmarks covered one side of his face as he stared down at the rocker in confusion. "You'kay?" A yawn slurred the word, but he didn't bother to correct himself.

There were no words. No way to say "I'm sorry" without hating himself even more. Roger only stared back at him, silent and terrified and guts twisted up in guilty knots. The longer he stared the more Mark fidgeted, nervous, and he eventually broke the gaze for the sake of his roommate's- bedmate's- comfort.

"Fine." He hadn't planned his response, and he frowned as it slipped out- his body seemed to be on autopilot as it jerked to it's feet and, without bothering to flush the vomit in the toilet, bumped past Mark as it left the room.

Roger was numb. He was used to a torrent of emotions, constant stimulation, inspiration for his music and crazy ups and downs. It defined him, the emotional musician, and yet now the hellish mantra was the only thing he could hear, see, roaring in his ears like rushing water or a blazing wildfire, uncontrollable, unstoppable-

-

He pulled his clothes on mechanically, oblivious to Mark's pale, worried face as he got dressed, unaware of the concerned words spilling past his lips, asking him over and over, "Where are you going? What are you doing? Roger- Roger please don't-"

But he's already out the door.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Shakily, Mark stares at the metal door Roger had slammed behind him nearly an entire minute before.

He could still hear him clanging down the metal steps but he knew it was no use going after him. He knew Roger better than anyone, his moods and his thought processes and his muse. This was panicked!Roger. He'd remembered what they'd done and he regretted it.

Licking his lips, Mark miserably sank to the ground, holding his pounding head in his hand. A whimper, small and pathetic, escaped him.

He was alone. Roger was off somewhere forgetting about him- whether through booze or women or (hopefully not) smack, it didn't matter.

Well. Fuck.

That could have gone better.

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

Said Roger Davis was pacing down the street in a murky haze of confusion and horror. It was almost enough to make him forget about the hangover that was sure to return with a vengeance as soon as he calmed down.

He couldn't grasp the concept. All around him, the sounds of the city twisted and morphed and made it scary, made the world sharp and dangerous. Everything was dangerous now. Any false move. He'd already fucked it all up, though, so there wasn't any point in being careful. Besides, Roger might be skinny but he had some muscle on him and he knew his way around the streets here. If anyone tried to give him trouble, he was confident that he would be the one coming out of the scrap with bloody knuckles and a victorious sneer.

But none of that was on Roger's mind. Only Mark, Mark with his big blue eyes and crooked smile and the innocence about him that Roger liked to think that he still had, although in truth most of it had disappeared years ago. Mark, Mark, Mark- the only person he loved unconditionally in the world and he'd killed him.

His heart lurched painfully in his chest at the thought. Killed Mark? Mark? What the fuck was wrong with him! Didn't he have any sense, or had the bleach finally killed off the last of his brain cells?

Sick. He felt absolutely sick and there was no other word for it. Sick to his stomach. Was this what murderers felt like? Or did they just not give a shit? But Roger could believe that not all homicides were just crimes, that some might be like his- untouchable by law, the unintentional transfer of a deadly disease, but nevertheless he knew it was his fault. HE knew, and therefore…

It was true. He'd killed Mark Cohen and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Roger shuddered, deeply ashamed, and increased his pace. He rounded a corner and grunted in apology as he nearly knocked over a homeless man that he hadn't seen in his way, too self-absorbed at the moment to care.

Someone who killed their best friend… They didn't deserve to live. HE didn't deserve to live. Roger had always known that his life was useless, useless the moment that that test had come back positive. But he had managed to hang on. For Mark.

So that he could kill Mark.

Fuck.

Running a shaky hand through his messy hair, he tried desperately to keep his roaring flood of emotion in check. It felt as though a million pairs of narrowed eyes were watching him, suspicious and judging, and although in reality he was almost alone on this dingy street in the broad daylight everything was bleak and dark in his mind.

If he was a moral human being, he would off himself now and get it over with. April had had the right idea, he realized- kill the ones you love and then, in return, kill yourself. It had taken this to let him see it but perhaps there was a lesson to be learned after all. He swallowed hard, daring for the first time to think about the possibility…

But no. Wait. What about Mark? What was he going to do, give him AIDS and then leave- just like that? Walk out again. Santa Fe in a nutshell. Roger had hated every second he'd spent in Santa Fe anyways. Hated himself for leaving, for leaving Mimi AND Mark, who was probably at home right now realizing all of the implications that Roger had already realized.

He'd have to get him tested…

Finally running out of nervous energy, Roger's steps faltered. He looked around quickly and, the weight of the world crashing down on him, slumped against the nearest brick wall with his head in his hands.

"Fuck…"

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

It took Roger six hours and seventeen minutes to return to the loft.

That was exactly it. Mark had made sure. Once he had pulled himself together- Get a grip, Cohen, get your head outta your ass and DO something- he had had nothing to do but stare at the wall. And then at the clock.

He didn't creep back in like a meek and wounded dog, guilty and looking around as though he expected to get slapped across the face. He didn't drop to his knees and cry and beg for Mark's forgiveness for the act that the filmmaker didn't even blame him for. He simply strode inside, the door crashing open almost violently, and right past the cross-legged figure nursing his camera on the floor. Past him and down the hall, hanging a right into his room.

Mark stared after him in a mixture of dread and incredulity. Roger wasn't one to have a firm grip on his emotions- he'd expected more. And yet the rocker was holed up in his room, quiet as a mouse. Nothing shattered or crashed. No strains of guitar reached his ears. No terribly guilty apologies…

The ache that had set into his chest cavity earlier in the day panged again, reminding him that he cared. Mark closed his eyes and cursed himself.

So this was it. Roger didn't even want to talk about it.

As usual.

Biting back the pathetic, hurt noise he wanted to make, Mark wobbled to his feet and padded softly down the hall to his own room. He closed the door quietly behind him and allowed a tear to trail down his cheek.

And so began the newest chapter in his miserable life.