If You Only Knew, 1/1
Title: If You Only Knew
Fandom: RENT
Characters: Mark, Roger, Collins
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: What Roger doesn't know won't hurt him, right?
I
"I'm Mark, and this is Roger."
"Glad to meet you. Well, I'm Collins - I'm the sorry son of a bitch you talked to over the phone…and this is the loft."
"Cool."
"You guys can choose from the two empty bedrooms. It's up to you who sleeps where."
"Roger?"
"I don't care."
- - -
Somebody was calling Mark's name in a high-pitched scream, like a child's, disturbing his slumber.
"MARK!"
He was wide awake in a nanosecond. "Fuck," he exclaimed, grabbing his glasses.
Roger.
"MARK!"
Fuckfuckfuck.
He should've expected it to happen, he realized as he tiptoed across the cold, squeaky, wooden floor of the loft in only his boxers. After all, they were in a new place…
But he had hoped so hard that maybe the change of scenery…
"MARK!"
He reached Roger's room and quietly slipped inside. There, his best friend sat, curled up in his thin sheets, sniffling as tears streamed down his young face. His stomach contracted in pity.
"It's okay. I'm here," he whispered comfortingly.
Sad, green eyes met his own sleepy, blue orbs.
"I couldn't see you," he half-whispered, half-sobbed.
The icy talons of hopelessness gripped Mark's heart not for the first time as he crawled into Roger's bed and held him like a mother holds her child. "I know. I'm sorry," he cooed. "Did you have a bad dream?"
He could only nod his bleach-blonde head in reply as he tried to overcome whatever he had just experienced. As he held him and tried to lull him back to sleep, Mark, on the other hand, was strongly reconsidering their move to New York.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't help Roger at all. Maybe it would only hurt him…
If you only knew…
II
Roger stumbled out of his room yawning, clad only in his "I love rock 'n' roll" boxers covered in miniature guitars - Fenders, even.
He smiled briefly at his friend's appearance. Roger had never been one for class. "'Morning."
The aspiring rock god, not at all a morning person (though 12:11 p.m. couldn't really be considered morning), grumbled his reply and headed straight for the coffee.
Good thing Mark had had the sense to start a fresh pot…something that he had learned through many years of friendship. Roger was cranky if he didn't have caffeine in his system.
"How'd you sleep?"
Mark froze - icy tendrils of panic wound their ways up his spine as he unnoticeably gulped, trying to keep a nonchalant expression on his face. "F-fine. You?"
"Slept like a baby all night."
If you only knew…
III
Mark returned home from filming to a very peculiar sight. Roger sat in the fetal position in the corner of the room, tears pouring from his eyes like Niagara Falls and screaming for Mark. Thomas B. Collins stood over him, completely at loss for words, eyes wide in surprise and utter confusion.
One word ran through Mark's mind: Fuck.
He was across the room in an instant - his arms around Roger in two. "Christ, Collins, what the fuck did you do to him?" he screamed at him over Roger's wailing, anger spurting out like bursts of lava from a volcano. He couldn't even leave him alone for an hour without something happening.
"Nothing…" his new roommate replied quietly.
Impatience grew inside him. He needed to know exactly what happened, and he needed to know now. "Collins, what did you say? What did you do? Something…I need something!"
"I…I just…"
It was a very strange day when Tom Collins was speechless, and, indeed, it was a very strange day. To make matters worse, at that moment a beautiful brunette walked in, her stilettos clopping on the floor, her face contorted in pain.
"What the hell is that racket?"
If you only knew...
IV
"So he's…"
"Yes."
"How?"
"The file said he was abused as a child. It's common for abused children to do things like that to cope."
"The file?"
"At the Foster Care Agency. He's my foster-brother."
"How long?"
"Since he was fifteen."
"And that whole time…he's been…two people?"
"Yeah. Roger Davis is the host personality - the real one basically. But certain events, certain looks, certain people…turn him into Harley Cohen…a scared five-year-old persona who thinks I'm his older brother."
"And Roger doesn't know…?"
"…No. He just…blacks out."
If you only knew…
V
Mark angrily thrust a small baggie full of white powder in his friend's face. "What the hell is this?"
"What the fuck do you think it is?"
"How could you be so irresponsible?"
"Back off, chickenfucker. You're NOT my mother!"
No, but I'm damn close, he wanted to reply, but didn't. He had to be careful what he said. Anything too stern or confrontational could set off Harley.
"Fine. Throw your life away. I hope you and April have fun dying at twenty-four."
"Fuck off, Cohen."
"Where the hell are you going?"
"FUCK OFF!"
If you only knew…
VI
"Marky, why's everyone so sad?"
Mark slowly turned his head from staring at the rolls of film in his hands to staring into innocent, green eyes…which were so unlike how they had been merely hours ago.
Had it really only been hours?
"Huh, Harley?"
"Ma'reen won't stop cryin', and Collins and Benny are real sad…like they losed their fav'rite toys. What's wrong?"
He silently cursed whatever omnipotent being existed in the heavens. How the hell was he supposed to explain to him that his girlfriend had committed suicide only a few hours ago? How was he supposed to explain that she killed herself because they had been careless when they shared needles? How was he supposed to explain that he had AIDS - that he was dying?
How was he supposed to explain this to Harley, who had no idea what suicide, AIDS, or drugs were? Who couldn't even possibly fathom what dying meant? Who didn't even know that April existed - had existed?
"One of our friends moved away. We miss her very much."
"Ohhh… Why don't y'call'r on the tel'phone?"
Mark shook his head sadly, trying with all his might to simply detach and explain the morning's events without having to remember it. "She doesn't have a phone where she lives now."
"Oh. So you can't talk to her?"
"No," Mark whispered. "We can't."
"That's why you're sad?"
"Yes." One of the reasons, he mentally added.
"That makes me sad too."
If you only knew…
VII
"MARK! GODDAMNIT! LET ME OUT, YOU FUCKER! LET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
Something crashed against the paper-thin door from the inside of Roger's room. Mark sighed heavily and rubbed his temple. He had a headache…not that that was an uncommon experience these days. He always had a headache now…
"You gotta let me outta here, Mark. I hurt so fucking bad. It's like I'm dying! Fuck, I am dying. Please Mark, just one more hit. One little syringe…and then, I promise…I promise, I'll quit… I won't use anymore…ever. Just one little fix…"
By this time, he was pleading in a desperate whisper. Mark could imagine him leaning against his door, sweat rolling down his face, his body twitching in pain. It was enough to make him sick.
"I can't, Roger…"
"FUCK 'YOU CAN'T'!" the once-rocker suddenly roared, sending Mark leaping in surprise. "Who says you can't? Collins? He's a fucker! You don't have to listen to anybody, Mark. You don't have to do anything they say. Just let me have one more, Mark…"
He was struck by the irony of the statement and shook his head. "I can't, Roger. I won't." Fuck, he was so tired. He was always tired now. Every moment of his life was either taken up by trying to figure how to pay for Roger's AZT or trying to keep said HIV-positive friend from running back to his beloved smack. Collins and Benny helped, as did Maureen if the boys thought Roger was subdued enough that he wouldn't hurt her (though that was always a gamble; Roger could be fine one minute and then violent the next…no one was safe from his wrath), but sometimes it just wasn't enough. He still managed to get out sometimes…thank god they had caught him before he had reached The Man. But it had still been close…too close for Mark's liking.
"Marky," a small voice called to him from behind the door. He practically groaned aloud. Not this, not now…
"What, Harley?"
"I hurt real bad. I feel so sick, Marky…"
"I know."
"Make it better. Make it go away…"
"I can't. I don't know how."
"Mommy gives me med'cine when I'm sick. It always makes me better."
Damnit…
"I don't have any medicine, Harley."
Another crash. Roger was back. "You stupid fucker! Let me out NOW! You can't keep me here forever!"
Before Mark could reply, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Collins's sad face giving him silent permission to escape for a few hours.
Mark did exactly that.
If you only knew…
VIII
"I don't wanna take 'em! They're big and icky! Mommy wouldn't make me!"
Mark pushed the pill in his mouth. He didn't have time to fuck around. If he missed a single dose, his viral count would soar. "You're sick, Harley. You have to take medicine to get better."
He spit the pill out onto the floor. "I don't feel sick!"
Just breathe… "Trust me. You'll feel a lot better once you take this."
"I'm not takin' it!"
"You are."
"Am not!"
"Put it in your mouth right now."
"Can't make me!" And with that, he clamped his jaw shut and started humming loudly. Mark's teeth gritted together as he tried to control himself.
Detach, detach, detach.
Breathe.
Don't yell.
Don't feel.
Don't… This is too much. Fuck it.
For the first time in his life, Mark's dam broke and everything that had been welling up inside him sprang forth. "GODDAMNIT, ROGER! YOU'RE DYING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! TAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING PILLS!"
Several things happened at once: Maureen, who had been walking out of the bathroom after her shower, stopped and stared at Mark in shock; Collins, who had been sitting on the couch watching the whole episode and had been about to intervene, stopped short and stared at Mark in shock; Benny, who had been on the phone with Muffy, stopped talking and stared at Mark in shock; Roger whimpered then started bawling.
Several more things happened at once: Benny dropped the phone; Maureen flew in and hugged Roger, shushing him in a motherly way; Mark stumbled in shock of what he had just done, staring at Roger like he was a foreign substance; Collins grabbed Mark by the arm and dragged him into the stairwell to recover.
One thought ran through Mark's head: I can't do this anymore.
Mark collapsed on the stairs in a heap of distress, his body dead weight on Collins's legs, almost sending them tumbling to the bottom.
He had fucked up this time. Fucked up big. It wasn't Roger's fault he didn't understand. It wasn't his fault. He shouldn't have yelled. He shouldn't have yelled. He shouldn't have yelled.
All the rage, sorrow, and helplessness that had been building up since April's death suddenly burst through the dam Mark had placed around his emotions. He hit and cried and screamed until his throat became hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. Then he wept again. Collins kept a gentle hand on his back as he convulsed and writhed and cursed and sobbed and grieved…
It felt like they stayed out there for hours, but eventually, his eyes did dry, and he was left with only a few hiccups as evidence of his breakdown. Nevertheless, they still did not return to the loft.
What was he supposed to say to Roger? Mark had taken great care throughout the years to not yell at him. After all, that was part of what had caused Harley to first appear.
But now, with his fuckup, he'd be surprised if he would still look at him. He had betrayed his trust. How was he supposed to get that back?
You screwed up, Cohen.
Gently, Collins helped him up (all of his crying had made him weak) and over to the door. His stomach clenched. He didn't want to face the occupants of the other side. It only promised pain. But he did manage to slowly open it; it squeaked against the rusty metal like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Roger sat on the couch, staring at him with eyes that looked so lost and full of pain.
I did that, Mark reminded himself.
In several choppy movements, he walked over to the couch and enveloped Roger in a hug. His friend did not react at all to his touch, but continued to stare at the wall as if Mark wasn't there. He knew he deserved such treatment, but he held onto him anyway and said in a quiet voice, "I'm so sorry, Harley."
Roger's bleach-blonde head swung around to face the filmmaker, a quizzical expression on his young face.
"Harley?"
If you only knew…
Fandom: RENT
Characters: Mark, Roger, Collins
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Thank you, Jonathan Larson.
Summary: What Roger doesn't know won't hurt him, right?
I
"I'm Mark, and this is Roger."
"Glad to meet you. Well, I'm Collins - I'm the sorry son of a bitch you talked to over the phone…and this is the loft."
"Cool."
"You guys can choose from the two empty bedrooms. It's up to you who sleeps where."
"Roger?"
"I don't care."
- - -
Somebody was calling Mark's name in a high-pitched scream, like a child's, disturbing his slumber.
"MARK!"
He was wide awake in a nanosecond. "Fuck," he exclaimed, grabbing his glasses.
Roger.
"MARK!"
Fuckfuckfuck.
He should've expected it to happen, he realized as he tiptoed across the cold, squeaky, wooden floor of the loft in only his boxers. After all, they were in a new place…
But he had hoped so hard that maybe the change of scenery…
"MARK!"
He reached Roger's room and quietly slipped inside. There, his best friend sat, curled up in his thin sheets, sniffling as tears streamed down his young face. His stomach contracted in pity.
"It's okay. I'm here," he whispered comfortingly.
Sad, green eyes met his own sleepy, blue orbs.
"I couldn't see you," he half-whispered, half-sobbed.
The icy talons of hopelessness gripped Mark's heart not for the first time as he crawled into Roger's bed and held him like a mother holds her child. "I know. I'm sorry," he cooed. "Did you have a bad dream?"
He could only nod his bleach-blonde head in reply as he tried to overcome whatever he had just experienced. As he held him and tried to lull him back to sleep, Mark, on the other hand, was strongly reconsidering their move to New York.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wouldn't help Roger at all. Maybe it would only hurt him…
If you only knew…
II
Roger stumbled out of his room yawning, clad only in his "I love rock 'n' roll" boxers covered in miniature guitars - Fenders, even.
He smiled briefly at his friend's appearance. Roger had never been one for class. "'Morning."
The aspiring rock god, not at all a morning person (though 12:11 p.m. couldn't really be considered morning), grumbled his reply and headed straight for the coffee.
Good thing Mark had had the sense to start a fresh pot…something that he had learned through many years of friendship. Roger was cranky if he didn't have caffeine in his system.
"How'd you sleep?"
Mark froze - icy tendrils of panic wound their ways up his spine as he unnoticeably gulped, trying to keep a nonchalant expression on his face. "F-fine. You?"
"Slept like a baby all night."
If you only knew…
III
Mark returned home from filming to a very peculiar sight. Roger sat in the fetal position in the corner of the room, tears pouring from his eyes like Niagara Falls and screaming for Mark. Thomas B. Collins stood over him, completely at loss for words, eyes wide in surprise and utter confusion.
One word ran through Mark's mind: Fuck.
He was across the room in an instant - his arms around Roger in two. "Christ, Collins, what the fuck did you do to him?" he screamed at him over Roger's wailing, anger spurting out like bursts of lava from a volcano. He couldn't even leave him alone for an hour without something happening.
"Nothing…" his new roommate replied quietly.
Impatience grew inside him. He needed to know exactly what happened, and he needed to know now. "Collins, what did you say? What did you do? Something…I need something!"
"I…I just…"
It was a very strange day when Tom Collins was speechless, and, indeed, it was a very strange day. To make matters worse, at that moment a beautiful brunette walked in, her stilettos clopping on the floor, her face contorted in pain.
"What the hell is that racket?"
If you only knew...
IV
"So he's…"
"Yes."
"How?"
"The file said he was abused as a child. It's common for abused children to do things like that to cope."
"The file?"
"At the Foster Care Agency. He's my foster-brother."
"How long?"
"Since he was fifteen."
"And that whole time…he's been…two people?"
"Yeah. Roger Davis is the host personality - the real one basically. But certain events, certain looks, certain people…turn him into Harley Cohen…a scared five-year-old persona who thinks I'm his older brother."
"And Roger doesn't know…?"
"…No. He just…blacks out."
If you only knew…
V
Mark angrily thrust a small baggie full of white powder in his friend's face. "What the hell is this?"
"What the fuck do you think it is?"
"How could you be so irresponsible?"
"Back off, chickenfucker. You're NOT my mother!"
No, but I'm damn close, he wanted to reply, but didn't. He had to be careful what he said. Anything too stern or confrontational could set off Harley.
"Fine. Throw your life away. I hope you and April have fun dying at twenty-four."
"Fuck off, Cohen."
"Where the hell are you going?"
"FUCK OFF!"
If you only knew…
VI
"Marky, why's everyone so sad?"
Mark slowly turned his head from staring at the rolls of film in his hands to staring into innocent, green eyes…which were so unlike how they had been merely hours ago.
Had it really only been hours?
"Huh, Harley?"
"Ma'reen won't stop cryin', and Collins and Benny are real sad…like they losed their fav'rite toys. What's wrong?"
He silently cursed whatever omnipotent being existed in the heavens. How the hell was he supposed to explain to him that his girlfriend had committed suicide only a few hours ago? How was he supposed to explain that she killed herself because they had been careless when they shared needles? How was he supposed to explain that he had AIDS - that he was dying?
How was he supposed to explain this to Harley, who had no idea what suicide, AIDS, or drugs were? Who couldn't even possibly fathom what dying meant? Who didn't even know that April existed - had existed?
"One of our friends moved away. We miss her very much."
"Ohhh… Why don't y'call'r on the tel'phone?"
Mark shook his head sadly, trying with all his might to simply detach and explain the morning's events without having to remember it. "She doesn't have a phone where she lives now."
"Oh. So you can't talk to her?"
"No," Mark whispered. "We can't."
"That's why you're sad?"
"Yes." One of the reasons, he mentally added.
"That makes me sad too."
If you only knew…
VII
"MARK! GODDAMNIT! LET ME OUT, YOU FUCKER! LET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
Something crashed against the paper-thin door from the inside of Roger's room. Mark sighed heavily and rubbed his temple. He had a headache…not that that was an uncommon experience these days. He always had a headache now…
"You gotta let me outta here, Mark. I hurt so fucking bad. It's like I'm dying! Fuck, I am dying. Please Mark, just one more hit. One little syringe…and then, I promise…I promise, I'll quit… I won't use anymore…ever. Just one little fix…"
By this time, he was pleading in a desperate whisper. Mark could imagine him leaning against his door, sweat rolling down his face, his body twitching in pain. It was enough to make him sick.
"I can't, Roger…"
"FUCK 'YOU CAN'T'!" the once-rocker suddenly roared, sending Mark leaping in surprise. "Who says you can't? Collins? He's a fucker! You don't have to listen to anybody, Mark. You don't have to do anything they say. Just let me have one more, Mark…"
He was struck by the irony of the statement and shook his head. "I can't, Roger. I won't." Fuck, he was so tired. He was always tired now. Every moment of his life was either taken up by trying to figure how to pay for Roger's AZT or trying to keep said HIV-positive friend from running back to his beloved smack. Collins and Benny helped, as did Maureen if the boys thought Roger was subdued enough that he wouldn't hurt her (though that was always a gamble; Roger could be fine one minute and then violent the next…no one was safe from his wrath), but sometimes it just wasn't enough. He still managed to get out sometimes…thank god they had caught him before he had reached The Man. But it had still been close…too close for Mark's liking.
"Marky," a small voice called to him from behind the door. He practically groaned aloud. Not this, not now…
"What, Harley?"
"I hurt real bad. I feel so sick, Marky…"
"I know."
"Make it better. Make it go away…"
"I can't. I don't know how."
"Mommy gives me med'cine when I'm sick. It always makes me better."
Damnit…
"I don't have any medicine, Harley."
Another crash. Roger was back. "You stupid fucker! Let me out NOW! You can't keep me here forever!"
Before Mark could reply, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Collins's sad face giving him silent permission to escape for a few hours.
Mark did exactly that.
If you only knew…
VIII
"I don't wanna take 'em! They're big and icky! Mommy wouldn't make me!"
Mark pushed the pill in his mouth. He didn't have time to fuck around. If he missed a single dose, his viral count would soar. "You're sick, Harley. You have to take medicine to get better."
He spit the pill out onto the floor. "I don't feel sick!"
Just breathe… "Trust me. You'll feel a lot better once you take this."
"I'm not takin' it!"
"You are."
"Am not!"
"Put it in your mouth right now."
"Can't make me!" And with that, he clamped his jaw shut and started humming loudly. Mark's teeth gritted together as he tried to control himself.
Detach, detach, detach.
Breathe.
Don't yell.
Don't feel.
Don't… This is too much. Fuck it.
For the first time in his life, Mark's dam broke and everything that had been welling up inside him sprang forth. "GODDAMNIT, ROGER! YOU'RE DYING FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! TAKE THE MOTHERFUCKING PILLS!"
Several things happened at once: Maureen, who had been walking out of the bathroom after her shower, stopped and stared at Mark in shock; Collins, who had been sitting on the couch watching the whole episode and had been about to intervene, stopped short and stared at Mark in shock; Benny, who had been on the phone with Muffy, stopped talking and stared at Mark in shock; Roger whimpered then started bawling.
Several more things happened at once: Benny dropped the phone; Maureen flew in and hugged Roger, shushing him in a motherly way; Mark stumbled in shock of what he had just done, staring at Roger like he was a foreign substance; Collins grabbed Mark by the arm and dragged him into the stairwell to recover.
One thought ran through Mark's head: I can't do this anymore.
Mark collapsed on the stairs in a heap of distress, his body dead weight on Collins's legs, almost sending them tumbling to the bottom.
He had fucked up this time. Fucked up big. It wasn't Roger's fault he didn't understand. It wasn't his fault. He shouldn't have yelled. He shouldn't have yelled. He shouldn't have yelled.
All the rage, sorrow, and helplessness that had been building up since April's death suddenly burst through the dam Mark had placed around his emotions. He hit and cried and screamed until his throat became hoarse and his eyes bloodshot. Then he wept again. Collins kept a gentle hand on his back as he convulsed and writhed and cursed and sobbed and grieved…
It felt like they stayed out there for hours, but eventually, his eyes did dry, and he was left with only a few hiccups as evidence of his breakdown. Nevertheless, they still did not return to the loft.
What was he supposed to say to Roger? Mark had taken great care throughout the years to not yell at him. After all, that was part of what had caused Harley to first appear.
But now, with his fuckup, he'd be surprised if he would still look at him. He had betrayed his trust. How was he supposed to get that back?
You screwed up, Cohen.
Gently, Collins helped him up (all of his crying had made him weak) and over to the door. His stomach clenched. He didn't want to face the occupants of the other side. It only promised pain. But he did manage to slowly open it; it squeaked against the rusty metal like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Roger sat on the couch, staring at him with eyes that looked so lost and full of pain.
I did that, Mark reminded himself.
In several choppy movements, he walked over to the couch and enveloped Roger in a hug. His friend did not react at all to his touch, but continued to stare at the wall as if Mark wasn't there. He knew he deserved such treatment, but he held onto him anyway and said in a quiet voice, "I'm so sorry, Harley."
Roger's bleach-blonde head swung around to face the filmmaker, a quizzical expression on his young face.
"Harley?"
If you only knew…