Fanfic: Against The Wall
Author: Stephanie
Fandom, Characters: Rent. Mark-centric. Roger/Mimi. Collins/Angel.
Prompt: 3. Ends
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,140
Summary: What do you do when you're there for the end? Mark laments on Angel's death,
Against The Wall
On the wall, a picture. Gritty and broken up with flashes of black and white. Mostly dark with pinpricks of lights that are windows and streetlamps. On the wall of the empty, dark loft is New York City, peaceful and silent as only a camera can make it appear. Light snow, not from the bad film but honest snow, falls over the picture. It’s like having a window that looks into the past. Pull back the curtains and you have all of Mark’s memories cut together and voiced over.
The film blacks out for a second and then there is Roger tuning his guitar. The sound is turn off, but Mark can almost hear the sour notes still hanging around the air of the apartment. Not that Roger is actually playing any more. He’s locked away in his room, packing for Santa Fe. He’s guitar is in some shop, traded in for a car that might make it to Boston if he’s lucky. Back to the window against the wall, though, where Roger hasn’t yet resorted to running out on everything and everyone. He looks up, saying something into the camera. It’s been less than a year, but Mark can’t remember what he said.
Pan over to the answering machine, and even without the sound Mark instinctively knows that they must be listening to his mother complaining about him being away for the holidays. His mom is always going on about something, looking for any excuse to call Mark up and baby him. Every other message on their machine is from her, so when Mark got home today to the blinking red light he already know who it would be.
He must have listened to it three hundred times, Collins broken voice over some hospital pay phone. “She’s gone.” Rewind, just to make sure. “She’s gone.” Go back another time, unable to resist hearing how strong, sensible Collins’s is crying into the phone. “She’s gone.”
Repeat until the message is just a bunch of sounds that mean nothing. Repeat until Collins’s voice is just background noise, until it is meaningless and there are no emotions attached to any of it. Play it again and again and again and it looses that impact.
Rewind the film until all the images blur together, and Mark isn’t sure what is his and what is his movie. On the wall, everything looks the same. This person, that person they could be strangers or friends for all the uninformed audiences knows. Rewind until there is no emotion, only a film.
For the hundredth time that night, Angel is standing in front of Mark. Dressed up in her Santa coat and high heel boots, smiling as she waves around her cash. She’s wrapped around Collins, sitting in his lap as she tells them about the Akita. Winking at Mark’s camera while she shows off her drumming talents.
Even with the static and shaky picture and gray wall to ruin the picture, Angel still looks so beautiful. So much more alive then any of them. At group, hugging Sue and telling her it will be all right, on the street carrying her drum and ignoring the nasty looks. At the Life Café, Collins spinning her around and nearly knocking over some unfortunate waiter.
Even if it’s just a memory, just some old film that Mark has lying around his room, Angel can still make him smile. Lifting up her skirt and giving a hip thrust, Mark can’t help but laugh at the expression on Mr. Grey’s face. He wipes some of the tears away, watching Collins and Angel kiss over New Years. Right here, with Collins draped over her and wig crooked as she whispers to Mark’s camera, he knew that his time was short. Here, drumming on the side of the street, he knew that this might very well be his last year. In every picture it is there, that knowledge that Angel knew he… she was dying. Yet she never stopped smiling and laughing and loving.
As the images of Angel start to become fewer, once the wig is gone and the smile is harder to hold, Mark stops the film. For three months, every memory he has of Angel involves a hospital bed. He didn’t need to see it as a framed picture up against his wall. So he rewinds the film again, back to the beginning when he could pretend that Collins and Angel were going to last forever. That finding each other had some how protected them from the virus.
Before he can replay the film, Roger is opening his door, spilling light into his closed off room. He stops the projector, killing off New York City. “The funereal is tomorrow.”
Mark nods, still messing with the film so that he doesn’t have to look at Roger. Love doesn’t solve everything. It doesn’t cure disease. No amount of candles or kisses or promises saved Angel. Mimi and Roger, even if they can find each other again, it’s not some miracle medicine.
“I know,” Mark mutters, running a hand over the hot projector. He’s been playing this film since he heard Collins’s message. What happens if he stops watching Angel? What if she becomes just another death? Just another April who they only talk about when they had to, never really a person so much as this girl they once found in their bathroom.
“I’m leaving,” Roger says, looking at the spot on the wall where the pictures should be. Mark doesn’t want Roger to see the film. It’s like an addiction he doesn’t want others to know about, something he needs to keep to himself. This fear, this hurt, all this emotion. Mark just needs to watch these images, to make it go away. He could be calm. He could be strong. He just needs to stop feeling. “I’m going to Santa Fe. Right after the funereal.”
It would have hurt more if Mark hadn’t seen this coming. It would have hurt less if Mark weren’t so jealous. Roger’s running off, leaving Mark behind to deal, and honestly all Mark wants to do is to chase after him. To be anywhere but here. “What about-“
Roger shakes his head. “It’s over.” He closes the door and leaves Mark to watch Angel as she was and should be.
On the wall of Mark’s dark room, Angel is spinning around; red velvet and white fur a circle around her waist. Collins is clapping his hands in the background, Roger curled up on the table with a hint of a smile on his lips. Ten minutes and he’ll stop. Ten more minutes and he’ll let the film end and reality step in and everything around him fall apart.
Just give him ten minutes, and maybe it will sink in that this isn’t the end. It just feels like it.
Fandom, Characters: Rent. Mark-centric. Roger/Mimi. Collins/Angel.
Prompt: 3. Ends
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,140
Summary: What do you do when you're there for the end? Mark laments on Angel's death,
Against The Wall
On the wall, a picture. Gritty and broken up with flashes of black and white. Mostly dark with pinpricks of lights that are windows and streetlamps. On the wall of the empty, dark loft is New York City, peaceful and silent as only a camera can make it appear. Light snow, not from the bad film but honest snow, falls over the picture. It’s like having a window that looks into the past. Pull back the curtains and you have all of Mark’s memories cut together and voiced over.
The film blacks out for a second and then there is Roger tuning his guitar. The sound is turn off, but Mark can almost hear the sour notes still hanging around the air of the apartment. Not that Roger is actually playing any more. He’s locked away in his room, packing for Santa Fe. He’s guitar is in some shop, traded in for a car that might make it to Boston if he’s lucky. Back to the window against the wall, though, where Roger hasn’t yet resorted to running out on everything and everyone. He looks up, saying something into the camera. It’s been less than a year, but Mark can’t remember what he said.
Pan over to the answering machine, and even without the sound Mark instinctively knows that they must be listening to his mother complaining about him being away for the holidays. His mom is always going on about something, looking for any excuse to call Mark up and baby him. Every other message on their machine is from her, so when Mark got home today to the blinking red light he already know who it would be.
He must have listened to it three hundred times, Collins broken voice over some hospital pay phone. “She’s gone.” Rewind, just to make sure. “She’s gone.” Go back another time, unable to resist hearing how strong, sensible Collins’s is crying into the phone. “She’s gone.”
Repeat until the message is just a bunch of sounds that mean nothing. Repeat until Collins’s voice is just background noise, until it is meaningless and there are no emotions attached to any of it. Play it again and again and again and it looses that impact.
Rewind the film until all the images blur together, and Mark isn’t sure what is his and what is his movie. On the wall, everything looks the same. This person, that person they could be strangers or friends for all the uninformed audiences knows. Rewind until there is no emotion, only a film.
For the hundredth time that night, Angel is standing in front of Mark. Dressed up in her Santa coat and high heel boots, smiling as she waves around her cash. She’s wrapped around Collins, sitting in his lap as she tells them about the Akita. Winking at Mark’s camera while she shows off her drumming talents.
Even with the static and shaky picture and gray wall to ruin the picture, Angel still looks so beautiful. So much more alive then any of them. At group, hugging Sue and telling her it will be all right, on the street carrying her drum and ignoring the nasty looks. At the Life Café, Collins spinning her around and nearly knocking over some unfortunate waiter.
Even if it’s just a memory, just some old film that Mark has lying around his room, Angel can still make him smile. Lifting up her skirt and giving a hip thrust, Mark can’t help but laugh at the expression on Mr. Grey’s face. He wipes some of the tears away, watching Collins and Angel kiss over New Years. Right here, with Collins draped over her and wig crooked as she whispers to Mark’s camera, he knew that his time was short. Here, drumming on the side of the street, he knew that this might very well be his last year. In every picture it is there, that knowledge that Angel knew he… she was dying. Yet she never stopped smiling and laughing and loving.
As the images of Angel start to become fewer, once the wig is gone and the smile is harder to hold, Mark stops the film. For three months, every memory he has of Angel involves a hospital bed. He didn’t need to see it as a framed picture up against his wall. So he rewinds the film again, back to the beginning when he could pretend that Collins and Angel were going to last forever. That finding each other had some how protected them from the virus.
Before he can replay the film, Roger is opening his door, spilling light into his closed off room. He stops the projector, killing off New York City. “The funereal is tomorrow.”
Mark nods, still messing with the film so that he doesn’t have to look at Roger. Love doesn’t solve everything. It doesn’t cure disease. No amount of candles or kisses or promises saved Angel. Mimi and Roger, even if they can find each other again, it’s not some miracle medicine.
“I know,” Mark mutters, running a hand over the hot projector. He’s been playing this film since he heard Collins’s message. What happens if he stops watching Angel? What if she becomes just another death? Just another April who they only talk about when they had to, never really a person so much as this girl they once found in their bathroom.
“I’m leaving,” Roger says, looking at the spot on the wall where the pictures should be. Mark doesn’t want Roger to see the film. It’s like an addiction he doesn’t want others to know about, something he needs to keep to himself. This fear, this hurt, all this emotion. Mark just needs to watch these images, to make it go away. He could be calm. He could be strong. He just needs to stop feeling. “I’m going to Santa Fe. Right after the funereal.”
It would have hurt more if Mark hadn’t seen this coming. It would have hurt less if Mark weren’t so jealous. Roger’s running off, leaving Mark behind to deal, and honestly all Mark wants to do is to chase after him. To be anywhere but here. “What about-“
Roger shakes his head. “It’s over.” He closes the door and leaves Mark to watch Angel as she was and should be.
On the wall of Mark’s dark room, Angel is spinning around; red velvet and white fur a circle around her waist. Collins is clapping his hands in the background, Roger curled up on the table with a hint of a smile on his lips. Ten minutes and he’ll stop. Ten more minutes and he’ll let the film end and reality step in and everything around him fall apart.
Just give him ten minutes, and maybe it will sink in that this isn’t the end. It just feels like it.