Warnings: Language

Author's Note: My first RENTfic. Also, excuse the lack of ruler lines, please.

Special Thanks: To my best friend "Roger" for proofreading and checking characterizations.

Disclaimer: I don't own Jonathan Larson's work, Neil Young's or Michael Stipe's lyrics. The only person I own is Jason. And the kid who flips the light switch.

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"March twenty-first, 8:35 AM, Eastern Standard Time. I prepare for my class, Exploring Film and Literature. Jason's coming early, at 9:00, today to talk about his last paper; worried about a B or something. I told the class that we would begin their next project in class today, show film samples and discuss creative writing techniques with which we could further improve the film. They like hands-on stuff. And I, well, I like. . . Narrating to empty classrooms without my camera on. The thirty year old, new professor alone in his classroom—"

I stop narrating, beginning to feel insanely, madly foolish, and start looking through the box I've pulled out. It's been a hard week and I suppose I'm just gonna wing it in class today. Sometimes I think it's great that I can randomly pull out a reel and twist it to fit my agenda, and other days I remember what Roger said and feel kind of sick inside.

These are old reels. Not "old," but still old. They're from the life I had before everything. . . happened. But I can't change that now, can I?

The flash of a distant camera reconnecting thoughts and actions, Fragments of our missing dreams, Pieces from here and there fall in place along the line, disappearing between you and me.

I'm listening to Neil Young today, even though Roger hated Neil Young. I can't remember why. It's just one of his quirks, I guess. He was okay with REM. Not great, but okay, so I'll put that in instead. Yeah, I'll put that in instead.

So the film reels. . . They're in an unlabeled box (unless you count a girlish print across the front that declares "Mark's Love Interest Lives Here") with stains on it, most likely Collins' coffee or Stoli or something. I assume it's from the Boho days, since I don't use dilapidated boxes with friendly taunts scrawled on them so much anymore. The reels are labeled, though. Perfectly cut masking tape pieces scrawled on in my messy handwriting. I reach in and pull out a random reel.

Mimi Teaches the Boho Boys to Cook. Damn, that had been fun. We didn't have enough ingredients (but if you needed off-brand cereal, we had you covered), so there was no way it could even turn out decently. We watered down the milk and then Roger burned the. . . Anyway.

Reel # Two: Why Roger is A Musician and Not a Filmmaker, 7/17/94. Oh, he could handle a camera, sure, but his interview questions. . . Well, he'd scared some poor old man shitless with his absurd inquiries. Maybe I'll show it to the students someday for kicks.

Thursday: Voicemail #7 from Mother. She must have been lonely or something. Hey, kids! Don't let your father disown you, because then you mother won't get off your back. She'll call in the middle of June to say "Happy Hanukah!"

I reach back into the box. Hm, what's this? 3/21/91. Odd, only a date. I don't remember labeling this. I don't remember anything special about this date either. The voice of REM's Michael Stipe cuts through my thoughts.

Sometimes everything is wrong. Now it's time to sing along.When you day is night alone, If you feel like letting go. When you think you've had too much of this life, well hang on.

Everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends. Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand. If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone.

I look down at the reel again and feel an uncharacteristic anger rising. I haven't felt this angry—or this anything, besides lost—in a very long time, even since Roger. . . I recognize the date now. I'd filmed this two weeks before Mimi's death. I practically growl, but decide that throwing the film at the boom box won't solve anything. I roughly feed the film into the projector, vaguely wondering if Stipe had any idea what the hell he was talking about. I guess I'll just have to find out what exactly 3/21/91 is, and hope Jason doesn't show up earlier than he's supposed to.

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"March twenty-first, 9:03PM, Eastern Standard Time. It's game night here in the loft because we have Chinese take-out (thanks to Collins, the Food Emporium ATM, Angel and the code), but mostly because we're freezing our asses off," Mark says, walking closer to the illegal wood-burning stove and the array of bodies and board games strew across the center of the room. He accidentally leaves the projector on, playing a stream of images behind the friends.

Joanne looks up toward Mark from her comfortable position beside—no, on top of—Maureen. "You know, I told you guys you were free to crash at our place for a while until it warms up or the heat kicks back on. Now that Dad knows precisely where I am, he'll pay for anything." She winks.

"Distraction works just as well as heat and comfort, Jo," Collins says, raising a glass of Absolut toward the camera, rolling a die, and whooping in triumph. "And if we look at this from a philosophical standpoint, we're set."

"What? Trust, love, true devotion? Friendship?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

He laughs, pouring himself another shot, "No, my dear lawyer, good vodka."

Mimi giggles, pulling the blanket higher up her chest, Roger tucking it under her chin and wrapping his arms tighter around her weak body. Roger scowls and nods at Mark, saying, with a little more that a tint of humor in his voice, "Zoom in on the one and only Marky of Suburbia, who won't put down that damn camera to play a damn board game and who insisted on listening to stupid Neil Young tonight."

"Ha," Mark manages dryly. "Here, I'll put it on the tripod and hop onto Collins' team of one."

The picture shifts wildly as Mark affixes the camera to its stand, the Neil Young tape coming to an end with a jarring click. Plaid-coated, striped-scarved Mark appears in the frame, hopping over Collins to the tape player, which sits outside of the circle of heat and bad food, and flips the tape.

Mark seats himself by Collins, who wears the same coat he has possessed for years, but this time with the word "Angel" lovingly sewn into the collar, worth twice its value, but not due to the fact that he has paid for it twice. Collins throws a friendly arm around Mark and says smugly, "We're winning, man. Those bitches," he says, dropping his voice conspiratorially, "are going down. Hard."

Mark laughs. Roger smiles half-heartedly. Mimi yawns. Maureen watches, clutching a bottle of cheap beer. Joanne's cell phone rings. She walks into Mark's bedroom to answer it.

The bridge of a Neil Young song wails, breaking a sleepy silence. "At least he can play, Marky. I'll give you that. Even though all his intros sound the same." They mumble in agreement and Roger dodges Mark's swat at his head.

"Don't call me that, man. Just don't." Roger punches him in the arm.

Joanne's voice sounds from the direction of Mark's room. "I've got to go, guys. Steve's said there's been some kind of break through in the Montclair case. See you tomorrow." There is a chorus of byes and the sound of the loft door closing, then Joanne's voice again. "Mark, your reel's still playing. Don't waste a light bulb." The door slams.

In the frame, Mark stands, casting a shadow onto the projector screen, blocking out Mimi and Roger's film selves.

Maureen latches onto Mark's leg as he ambles past, shaking her off his leg as he steps out of the shot. "You're drunk, Maureen. Go to bed so you don't do anything. . . regrettable."

"Pookie," she slurs, "You sound just like Joanne when she has an early meeting and doesn't want to make l—"

The sound of plastic hitting wood floor reverberates throughout the loft. Mark appears in the picture, blushing, and picks up the empty film reel he has dropped. Collins picks Maureen up and lays her on the couch. Roger glances down at Mimi and shifts her so he can hold her sleeping form in his lap.

"She's just tired, a lot," he says, fingering her hair worriedly.

The other boys nod.

"Finally! New song!" Roger exclaims, face lighting up. "The Police after this one, Mark. It's only fair," he winks at Mark. "We can have a rockin'-out boys night-in."

Collins smiles. "How juvenile."

"Whatever."

Mark fumbles with his projector again. Mimi and Roger are on the screen again, before the makeshift projector screen turns black. "Fuck!" He throws his scarf on the ground angrily. "The bulb blew," he explains quietly, sidling back into the frame and collapsing besides Collins, directly across from Mimi and Roger . "Can't afford a new one for a while now, but I'll make do."

"Right."

"You doing okay, bro?" Collins asks.

"Yeah, I just, y'know, think a lot and it doesn't always. . ." He trails off.

"Right," they say, laughing.

They sit in an unusual silence, listening to the song pushing its way into the foreground of the scene.

I caught you knocking at my cellar door, I love you, baby, can I have some more, Oh, the damage done.

I hit the city and I lost my band, I watched a needle take another man, Gone, gone, the damage done.

I sing the song because I love The Man, I know that some of you don't understand, Milk blood, to keep from running out.

I've seen the needle and the damage done, A little part of it in everyone, But every junkie's like the setting sun.

Seen the needle and the damage done, A little part of it in everyone, And every junkie's like the setting sun.

Final notes fade, leaving the loft completely silent. Collins rises and stops the tape. Mark's attention is on Roger and Mimi, but his eyes remain slightly unfocused. Roger pulls Mimi closer to him, running a hand through her hair, caressing her hand lovingly. Collins' seats himself again.

Two beepers sound. Mark shakes his head and gets up, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with two glasses of water. He hands them to Roger. "Take your AZT, Rog. Make sure Mimi does, too. Wake her up if you have to. Remember yours, too, Col." He disappears from sight, reappearing with his scarf around his neck and a dirty toboggan with Brown printed on the front of it. "I'm going out to film. See you guys later."

The loft door opens and shuts, a light thump is heard from outside the door, a muttered curse, and then someone stumbling down the stairs.

Roger takes the sleeping Mimi to his bedroom. Collins sighs, leaning his head back against a chair, apparently thinking.

"I guess game night is over, huh?" Roger says, returning and throwing an arm around Collins.

"Yeah, guess it is, man. Guess it is." He returns the embrace

"Fuck Mark and his hidden sentimentality."

"Hm."

Roger hears the video camera whirring on the tripod in front of them. "Mark forgot his camera."

"Mark never forgets his camera. He's just become preoccupied and he'll be back in five—"

"—four, three," they say together, "two, one."

Mark stumbles in. "Forgot my camera," he mutters, not meeting there eyes, and popping the camera off the tripod.

"Have fun," Roger murmurs, standing and engulfing Mark's small body in a hug. The view darkens as bodies are pressed against each other.

"Thanks," Mark says, as they break apart, rubbing his small shoulders stiffly. There's a flash of Mark as he stretches his arms to the sides. With a small, timid wave, and an even smaller, watery smile, he exits the loft.

Mark's feet pound down the stairs and he runs into the street, shoes blurring on the screen. He stumbles into an alley way a block from the loft, and sits on a crate.

"Zoom in on The Man," he says quietly, panning left out of the alleyway towards a heavily coated man chatting up a young, distraught-looking woman, persuading her to "C'mon, just one hit, baby, and you'll feel like you're in heaven."

He turns the camera on himself "Close on Mark," He says, messy blond hair peeking from beneath a hat, and glasses, reflecting light from a streetlamp, hiding wet eyes, "Who lets his own emotional problems get the best of him, just when he thinks he can handle anything. Roger's been right all along. Mark does detach from feeling alive, but he knows it's so much easier that way." He looks straight into the camera, a single tear falling from one eye, before the screen goes black.

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I stay completely still, remembering. It seems so odd that I could have forgotten that. I wonder how many memories are archived somewhere in my mind, too long ago to be remembered. The tears are running down my face, partly in humor at my own naïveté and partly from just pure remembering. It hurts so much sometimes, but I'm finally learning to feel.

Damn, Jason's here. I stand up quickly, calling for him to come in and hurriedly wipe the tears from my face, trying to dry my cheeks on my shirt—one of the striped sweaters I've had since I moved in with Roger a little over ten years ago. I stumble over a rug as I rush to my desk, throwing my scarf (yes, the same one I've had since Brown) around my neck, and turning to face my eager student.

"Hey," I hear myself say, straightening my sweater, "What'd you want to talk about, Jason?"

He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses nervously. I laugh internally; it must be a tick all eyeglass-wearing filmmakers share. "Well, I needed to talk about my last paper. I had a few questions. I mean, if you don't mind, Dr. Cohen." He tightens his grip on his digital video camera.

"Yeah, no problem, Jason," I walk towards the chairs arranged around the discussion table. "And, you can call me Mark. My father's a doctor, not me. I'm a filmmaker."

He smiles at me, "Thank you, Mark." He sighs, staring out the window.

I know I'm frowning. And I know I look silly when I frown too hard. Mimi and Angel always told me that, and now Maureen reminds me for them. "Anything else you need to talk about?"

Jason turns toward me, "Oh, no, of course not."

I raise my eyebrows, something Joanne picks on me for.

"Ah, no, it's just my parents and art school and photography supplies and my friend's in the hospital with pneumonia and dru— Well, yeah," He exhales deeply, raising his eyes shyly, realizing what he's just said.

"So, nothing's wrong, then?" I smirk. He's really a decent person. "Why don't you stay after class and we'll talk a bit."

He nods.

I stand up, moving towards the projector to set it up again, carefully turning the power off first so as not to shake the bulb too violently. "So, how about that paper?"

He smiles, walking up to me. "Well," he begins. The end of the film flicks me in the nose and he suppresses his amusement and continues as I blink rapidly. Ouch. "Well, you see, Mark, I. . ."

I listen and nod and kindly critique. I realize how very much nineteen-year-old Jason is like me, as seventeen-year-old Mark, during my first year at college. All he needs is a little encouragement, a lot of confidence, good friends, and he could make it in the world. Or at least be happy, maybe not prosper, but be happy. I smile fondly.

One by one, the rest of the class wanders in and take seats around the table, organizing supplies, straightening papers. I clap Jason on the shoulder as he walks to a chair. I turn around to grab my camera and am faced with that damn boom box. I give it a kick, not hard enough to break it (since I still can't comfortably afford to buy a new one) but enough to satiate my returning bad mood.

I grab my camera, turn it on and mutter, "March twenty-first, 9:17 AM, Eastern Standard Time. The class is here and we're ready to roll. Time to face my own insecurities in front of a full classroom. No problem, right?" I turn the camera on myself and smile. "Right." I turn the power off so I won't waste the juice in my battery.

I roll the projector to the front of the room and pull the decent screen down in front of the blackboard. Feeding the film back into the projector. I turn toward the expectant class and smile widely.

"Right. Today we're going to watch clips. Any random clip you have with you. Edited, unedited, anything. After each viewing, we'll offer the person advice on how to improve the film and on how to write a descriptive essay or an emotional passage to accompany it. This is a time to delve into your own emotions." I look at the class, gauging their reactions. They look fairly excited. We haven't done anything this impromptu since the first day of class. That's a long story. . . "Well, we'll start with me. I just found this reel this morning. I shot it exactly seven years ago and hadn't watched it until a few minutes ago. So, here goes."

I turn on the projector and a kid near the wall flips the light switch. My voice fills the room and my friends fill the screen, and it feels so right to be showing them this, right here and right now. All the emotions precariously stacked behind the events of the week start to waver unsteadily, and I open the window, letting the abnormally cold March air rush in and hit me in the face. It shocks me into myself. I blink. I let out a single, solitary, wailing sob, grabbing my coffee cup and raising it into the air outside the window. "To Roger!" I yell out the window, dropping the mug, satisfied by the resounding crack as it hits the pavement below.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I turn back towards the class; they're still engrossed in my new-found reel and haven't even notice my small breakdown. Except for Jason. He's watching me. I smile at him and gesture toward the projector. He redirects his attention. Great, now I have a lot of explaining to do. I dry my tears again for the second time that morning. I rewrap my scarf, adjust my glasses, grab a yellow legal pad, my grade book, and the camera. Everything's back to normal. I settle down with my students, still not quite prepared for a day of self-exploration, and hope everything will work out in the end.

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A/N: Comments, Questions, Constructive Criticism? Feel free to leave a review.