RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Eleven)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 11/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April, Benny
Word Count: 1926
Rating: PG-13
Summary: April's lost her chance and her nerve, and Mark has a slip of the tongue that's not a slip at all.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #31.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
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Benny is almost always the first one awake in the mornings. It's not really by choice, and he doesn't really need to be awake then, it's just that the alarm in the room he shares with Tom goes off at 6 AM every morning, and they've had the stupid thing forever, and neither of them can figure out how to make it stop going off at 6 AM, or change the time it goes off at. Tom always just rolls over, throws his pillow at the alarm clock, and goes back to sleep. Benny gets up, because he knows that if someone doesn't, no one in the loft is ever going to be awake before noon.
Every morning he gets up, makes coffee, tries to make as little noise as possible until someone else wakes up because he knows they'll all yell at him if he's the one to wake them up, and usually he's by himself until nine or ten in the morning when finally Tom or Mark gets up as well. It's routine.
Which is exactly why he's surprised when he comes out of his bedroom and realizes that, for once, someone woke up before him.
Roger's sitting there, on the couch, in the dark with his shoulders hunched, head bowed slightly, and in the quiet of the loft this early in the morning, Benny can hear his breathing, even across the room - it's rough-edged and slightly halting, like... like he's crying. Benny walks over and turns on a lamp, and Roger jumps when the light comes on, like he hadn't noticed Benny until just then.
"Roger?" His voice is kept low out of habit, more than anything else - Tom and Mark are still sleeping, and will still yell at him if they get woken up.
Roger looks down and rubs at his cheeks awkwardly with the back of his hand, sniffling a little and trying to hide it - yeah, he's been crying. "Hey," he says softly, and gives Benny a watery sort of smile, putting on his best pretense of being okay. "Morning."
Benny lets out a breath, and he knows he's going to regret the question, but he asks anyway. "Are you alright?"
Benny never can forget how much younger Roger is than all the rest of them. It's in everything about him, the slight uncertainty in every movement and word, like he's still unsure of himself, hasn't quite grown into himself yet. There's that uncertainty plainly visible as Roger opens his mouth like he's going to say one thing, then stops himself, looks down, and is silent for a while before he says anything. "I think I have to leave."
"What, again? You just moved back in." Benny moves around the couch to sit down, still with a safe distance between him and Roger. He's not good at comfort, he knows that, and Roger's the type that reaches out for comfort wherever he thinks he can find it. He figures with that gap between them, it'll keep him from doing that, though he's not all that sure. He can see the tears still wet on Roger's cheeks.
"No, I don't mean..." He shakes his head almost violently, and the movement throws his hair into his face, shielding his eyes. "I'm staying here. I promised I would."
"So, what-" Benny stops, and draws a slow, hissing breath. "Oh."
He thinks he sees a bit of a sardonic smile on Roger's lips, and there's a soft, watery chuckle. "Yeah. Oh." He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and shakes his head, more slowly than before. "Not right away, but I just... I know I can't do this much longer."
Benny gets up slowly. "You want some coffee?" he asks lamely, simply because he can't think of anything else to say, and is relieved when Roger nods.
"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
So Benny goes to start making coffee, and tries to ignore the boy still sitting on the couch, leaning forward, forearms resting on his legs and hands folded in front of him, and he almost looks like he's praying, a little kid asking God for heaven knows what.
*
April's finding it a little hard to breathe in the club, and it's a little hard to decide whether it's just the atmosphere of the club, the smoke and the crush of people, the dim light and the pounding of the music in her ears that's starting to give her a headache, or if that feeling of not being able to breathe is something else altogether. She's inclined to think the latter, if only because every time she looks over at Roger, up on stage, something in her chest clenches, and her breath is stolen away once again. It hurts, and it doesn't help that she fucking needs a hit, and knows she can't get one, not now, now that she knows that she's...
Roger doesn't know she's here yet. She'd meant to be here before the show to talk to him, but she couldn't get up the nerve - anyway, she wouldn't want him distracted on stage... She's sitting at the bar with two glasses in front of her, one full of water that she keeps sipping nervously, because her mouth keeps inexplicably drying out, and another full of beer that she hasn't touched.
She taps her fingers on the counter, looks uncertainly back to Roger, and God, he's so beautiful. Shining under the lights like an angel, or some ancient god, slender and graceful and looking almost like he's made out of pure light himself. She wants to reach out and touch him, take that light into herself, but instead she turns away again, blinking back the tears in her eyes. God, she can't tell him, she can't. He's still too innocent, still too young. She can't just go up and turn his world upside down by telling him she's pregnant.
But she knows she won't be able to lie to him either.
She pushes it out of her mind for a while, listening to the music, songs she always wishes were written for her but knows weren't, glancing back to Roger occasionally, every look driving another painful sliver of doubt into her heart. It's some obscure form of masochism, she realizes, and finds that odd, because she'd never thought herself the masochistic type. Clearly, she was wrong.
She's been watching Roger for a minute or two when she feels a touch on her shoulder, and she jumps enough to nearly fall out of her chair, whirling around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man who gives her a quick smile, holding up his hands in reassurance. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you or anything..." He slips into the chair beside her while he's talking, glancing over to the stage briefly, and then back to her.
April forces a tight smile, reaches for her water again to take a sip, and realizes it's gone, there's only ice left in the bottom now. She sets the glass down again, taking a breath. She's not in the mood to be flirted with by some guy in a club. There are days she wouldn't care, days she might even go along with it, but this isn't one of them. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I really don't-"
"Do you like them?"
"What?"
He smiles at her, and he really does have a nice smile - he's cute, a little boyish, but there's a maturity around his eyes that keeps him from seeming innocent, like Roger. "The band."
"Oh," she says softly. "Oh, um, yes. I- I know the singer..."
The smile disappears from his face with startling suddenness. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"
"April," she says, feeling something in her stomach drop a bit. She knows she doesn't want to be having this conversation, not now - she isn't sure why, but there's that very definite feeling - but there's no graceful way to get out of it. So she sits there, and asks in a conversational tone, like none of this matters though she knows, somehow, that it does, "And you?"
"Mark Cohen." There's a pause, like he's debating with himself, and then he says firmly, "His boyfriend."
April's silent for a moment, and she'd thought she couldn't breathe before, but it's nothing to what she's feeling now. Now, it's like she's been punched in the stomach, like all air's been suddenly sucked out of the room and she's left in a vacuum, except that even in that vacuum she can still hear Roger's music pulsing in her ears - or maybe that's just her own heartbeat. Searching for words, she can only come up with, "Oh," and "I should go," and "Tell him I said hello," and then she's picking up her purse, rising to her feet, walking for the door.
She knows as she leaves that she's lost all chance of ever telling Roger what she came here to tell him, all her nerve, and that Roger still didn't even notice she was here.
*
Mark's been drinking quite a bit by the time Roger gets off stage, trying to forget that one slip of the tongue. Boyfriend? What the hell had he been thinking? At least he hadn't said it to Roger, but... That was April. The April. The April that's Roger's girlfriend, and Mark would be kidding himself if he thought what he said wouldn't eventually get back to Roger... Fuck it.
And the worst part of it all is that it hadn't been a slip of the tongue at all. It had been deliberate, he'd actually thought about it before he said it... Mark slams his hand down onto the counter with a soft growl.
"...Mark?" comes Roger's startled voice from behind him, and Mark takes a breath, turning around to face him.
"Hey," he says, the word a soft exhalation.
"Are you... okay?" Roger asks, sounding uncertain. Mark isn't paying quite as much attention to the way Roger sounds as to the hand Roger's placed on his shoulder, his slightly concerned expression... He smiles at him and nods.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You ready to go home?"
"Um, yeah, just..." Roger pauses and shifts his gig bag a little higher onto his shoulder, glancing around the club. "I saw you talking to a girl during the show..."
Mark freezes. "Yeah?"
"Was that April, or was I just...?"
Mark resists the urge to turn and bang his forehead against the wall, or scream in frustration, and simply says evenly, "Yeah. It was." Before Roger can asks if she's still around, he adds in a flat tone, "She left."
"Oh. Alright. Thanks."
Mark's chest hurts a little at the dejected look on Roger's face, but at the same time there's this twinge of triumph, and he leans in to grip the front of Roger's shirt in his hand and kiss him, nipping lightly at his lip before letting go. Roger's expression shifts, from dejected to a faint, hesitant, hopelessly pleased smile,and now Mark knows why he'd said what he had to April, because he gets Roger here, to himself, and he can't imagine that April could ever make Roger look like he does right now.
Mark almost thinks that he'd say anything to make Roger look that happy. Almost.
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Chapter: 11/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April, Benny
Word Count: 1926
Rating: PG-13
Summary: April's lost her chance and her nerve, and Mark has a slip of the tongue that's not a slip at all.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #31.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
<< Previous Chapter
Benny is almost always the first one awake in the mornings. It's not really by choice, and he doesn't really need to be awake then, it's just that the alarm in the room he shares with Tom goes off at 6 AM every morning, and they've had the stupid thing forever, and neither of them can figure out how to make it stop going off at 6 AM, or change the time it goes off at. Tom always just rolls over, throws his pillow at the alarm clock, and goes back to sleep. Benny gets up, because he knows that if someone doesn't, no one in the loft is ever going to be awake before noon.
Every morning he gets up, makes coffee, tries to make as little noise as possible until someone else wakes up because he knows they'll all yell at him if he's the one to wake them up, and usually he's by himself until nine or ten in the morning when finally Tom or Mark gets up as well. It's routine.
Which is exactly why he's surprised when he comes out of his bedroom and realizes that, for once, someone woke up before him.
Roger's sitting there, on the couch, in the dark with his shoulders hunched, head bowed slightly, and in the quiet of the loft this early in the morning, Benny can hear his breathing, even across the room - it's rough-edged and slightly halting, like... like he's crying. Benny walks over and turns on a lamp, and Roger jumps when the light comes on, like he hadn't noticed Benny until just then.
"Roger?" His voice is kept low out of habit, more than anything else - Tom and Mark are still sleeping, and will still yell at him if they get woken up.
Roger looks down and rubs at his cheeks awkwardly with the back of his hand, sniffling a little and trying to hide it - yeah, he's been crying. "Hey," he says softly, and gives Benny a watery sort of smile, putting on his best pretense of being okay. "Morning."
Benny lets out a breath, and he knows he's going to regret the question, but he asks anyway. "Are you alright?"
Benny never can forget how much younger Roger is than all the rest of them. It's in everything about him, the slight uncertainty in every movement and word, like he's still unsure of himself, hasn't quite grown into himself yet. There's that uncertainty plainly visible as Roger opens his mouth like he's going to say one thing, then stops himself, looks down, and is silent for a while before he says anything. "I think I have to leave."
"What, again? You just moved back in." Benny moves around the couch to sit down, still with a safe distance between him and Roger. He's not good at comfort, he knows that, and Roger's the type that reaches out for comfort wherever he thinks he can find it. He figures with that gap between them, it'll keep him from doing that, though he's not all that sure. He can see the tears still wet on Roger's cheeks.
"No, I don't mean..." He shakes his head almost violently, and the movement throws his hair into his face, shielding his eyes. "I'm staying here. I promised I would."
"So, what-" Benny stops, and draws a slow, hissing breath. "Oh."
He thinks he sees a bit of a sardonic smile on Roger's lips, and there's a soft, watery chuckle. "Yeah. Oh." He wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and shakes his head, more slowly than before. "Not right away, but I just... I know I can't do this much longer."
Benny gets up slowly. "You want some coffee?" he asks lamely, simply because he can't think of anything else to say, and is relieved when Roger nods.
"Yeah. Sure. Thanks."
So Benny goes to start making coffee, and tries to ignore the boy still sitting on the couch, leaning forward, forearms resting on his legs and hands folded in front of him, and he almost looks like he's praying, a little kid asking God for heaven knows what.
*
April's finding it a little hard to breathe in the club, and it's a little hard to decide whether it's just the atmosphere of the club, the smoke and the crush of people, the dim light and the pounding of the music in her ears that's starting to give her a headache, or if that feeling of not being able to breathe is something else altogether. She's inclined to think the latter, if only because every time she looks over at Roger, up on stage, something in her chest clenches, and her breath is stolen away once again. It hurts, and it doesn't help that she fucking needs a hit, and knows she can't get one, not now, now that she knows that she's...
Roger doesn't know she's here yet. She'd meant to be here before the show to talk to him, but she couldn't get up the nerve - anyway, she wouldn't want him distracted on stage... She's sitting at the bar with two glasses in front of her, one full of water that she keeps sipping nervously, because her mouth keeps inexplicably drying out, and another full of beer that she hasn't touched.
She taps her fingers on the counter, looks uncertainly back to Roger, and God, he's so beautiful. Shining under the lights like an angel, or some ancient god, slender and graceful and looking almost like he's made out of pure light himself. She wants to reach out and touch him, take that light into herself, but instead she turns away again, blinking back the tears in her eyes. God, she can't tell him, she can't. He's still too innocent, still too young. She can't just go up and turn his world upside down by telling him she's pregnant.
But she knows she won't be able to lie to him either.
She pushes it out of her mind for a while, listening to the music, songs she always wishes were written for her but knows weren't, glancing back to Roger occasionally, every look driving another painful sliver of doubt into her heart. It's some obscure form of masochism, she realizes, and finds that odd, because she'd never thought herself the masochistic type. Clearly, she was wrong.
She's been watching Roger for a minute or two when she feels a touch on her shoulder, and she jumps enough to nearly fall out of her chair, whirling around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man who gives her a quick smile, holding up his hands in reassurance. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you or anything..." He slips into the chair beside her while he's talking, glancing over to the stage briefly, and then back to her.
April forces a tight smile, reaches for her water again to take a sip, and realizes it's gone, there's only ice left in the bottom now. She sets the glass down again, taking a breath. She's not in the mood to be flirted with by some guy in a club. There are days she wouldn't care, days she might even go along with it, but this isn't one of them. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I really don't-"
"Do you like them?"
"What?"
He smiles at her, and he really does have a nice smile - he's cute, a little boyish, but there's a maturity around his eyes that keeps him from seeming innocent, like Roger. "The band."
"Oh," she says softly. "Oh, um, yes. I- I know the singer..."
The smile disappears from his face with startling suddenness. "I'm sorry, what's your name?"
"April," she says, feeling something in her stomach drop a bit. She knows she doesn't want to be having this conversation, not now - she isn't sure why, but there's that very definite feeling - but there's no graceful way to get out of it. So she sits there, and asks in a conversational tone, like none of this matters though she knows, somehow, that it does, "And you?"
"Mark Cohen." There's a pause, like he's debating with himself, and then he says firmly, "His boyfriend."
April's silent for a moment, and she'd thought she couldn't breathe before, but it's nothing to what she's feeling now. Now, it's like she's been punched in the stomach, like all air's been suddenly sucked out of the room and she's left in a vacuum, except that even in that vacuum she can still hear Roger's music pulsing in her ears - or maybe that's just her own heartbeat. Searching for words, she can only come up with, "Oh," and "I should go," and "Tell him I said hello," and then she's picking up her purse, rising to her feet, walking for the door.
She knows as she leaves that she's lost all chance of ever telling Roger what she came here to tell him, all her nerve, and that Roger still didn't even notice she was here.
*
Mark's been drinking quite a bit by the time Roger gets off stage, trying to forget that one slip of the tongue. Boyfriend? What the hell had he been thinking? At least he hadn't said it to Roger, but... That was April. The April. The April that's Roger's girlfriend, and Mark would be kidding himself if he thought what he said wouldn't eventually get back to Roger... Fuck it.
And the worst part of it all is that it hadn't been a slip of the tongue at all. It had been deliberate, he'd actually thought about it before he said it... Mark slams his hand down onto the counter with a soft growl.
"...Mark?" comes Roger's startled voice from behind him, and Mark takes a breath, turning around to face him.
"Hey," he says, the word a soft exhalation.
"Are you... okay?" Roger asks, sounding uncertain. Mark isn't paying quite as much attention to the way Roger sounds as to the hand Roger's placed on his shoulder, his slightly concerned expression... He smiles at him and nods.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You ready to go home?"
"Um, yeah, just..." Roger pauses and shifts his gig bag a little higher onto his shoulder, glancing around the club. "I saw you talking to a girl during the show..."
Mark freezes. "Yeah?"
"Was that April, or was I just...?"
Mark resists the urge to turn and bang his forehead against the wall, or scream in frustration, and simply says evenly, "Yeah. It was." Before Roger can asks if she's still around, he adds in a flat tone, "She left."
"Oh. Alright. Thanks."
Mark's chest hurts a little at the dejected look on Roger's face, but at the same time there's this twinge of triumph, and he leans in to grip the front of Roger's shirt in his hand and kiss him, nipping lightly at his lip before letting go. Roger's expression shifts, from dejected to a faint, hesitant, hopelessly pleased smile,and now Mark knows why he'd said what he had to April, because he gets Roger here, to himself, and he can't imagine that April could ever make Roger look like he does right now.
Mark almost thinks that he'd say anything to make Roger look that happy. Almost.
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