A/N:
This fic takes place about a month pre-Rent. There are four crucial, but obvious, things you, the reader, must keep in mind while reading this:
-Mark and Maureen have broken up.
-Maureen is already with Joanne.
-April has already committed suicide.
-Mimi has still not come into Roger's life.
ATTENTION:
This fic is rated M for a potentially upsetting sequence. You have been warned.
Truth or Dare
Mark awoke to the sound of rain—everywhere. Rain against the thin walls, rain streaming down the glass of the window, rain falling against hollow metal somewhere below the bedroom loft.
He drew himself slowly upward, his body still weighty with sleep, and stole a glance at his watch. 8:48.
Roger was up before 10:00? This was new.
Curious, he dressed and followed the sound of the rain against the metal to its source in the main area of the apartment.
The sight was comical. The thought of Roger running around with their never-used cooking pots was ridiculous enough, but Roger tossing these pots onto every available surface to protect their meager possessions was lunacy itself. The songwriter's white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants were splotched with rain; the thin shirt had plastered itself to his body.
"I was going to ask why you were up, but I guess I understand." Mark leaned in the doorway and was rewarded with a large, cold droplet of water striking his forehead.
Roger dropped a pan down emphatically and then sat on the ground against the counter, looking pathetic. "Thought I might as well do something useful, seeing as I was already up since like five."
"Why so early?" asked Mark, sinking to the ground beside his roommate. The moisture on the floor and the counter soaked easily through his clothes.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Just couldn't sleep?"
"Did you know you talk in your sleep?"
"Do not!"
"How would you know? You were asleep!"
"'eh. Point."
"What were you—" But just then, another leak opened just over Roger's head. He squeaked, distracted from the question.
Mark handed him a frying pan to catch the water. He was all too thankful that he didn't have to recount the dream's events to Roger.
The morning passed, taken up by their attempts to keep the apartment reasonably dry. The storm, however, continued into the afternoon.
They sat on the ledge beneath the window, watching the steady sheet of rain stretching endlessly beyond the glass.
"Did you have anything to do today?" asked Mark.
"Nope. You?"
"Nah. Anyone call?"
"All busy. Don't ask me how, with this storm."
"I am so. Fucking. Bored."
"We could get drunk."
Mark shrugged. "Why not?"
It was vodka, cheap and sharp. It burned at the back of Mark's throat with a fire that could be quenched only by more drinks. Roger's eyes, he noticed, had a sharp gleam beneath the dull haze brought about by the liquid.
It didn't take long for them to reach the teetering border between tipsy and drunk.
When they did, Roger, as usual, offered a brilliant plan to occupy them.
"Let's play truth or dare," he said.
"Isn't that a little too middle-school-girl-sleepover-ish for us?"
"Vodka amps it up."
"Touché. Ok, shoot."
"Truth or dare?"
"Dare."
Roger scowled, thinking. Finally, he chuckled, having come up with something suitably humiliating. "Go call Maureen and tell her that because of her, you're gay."
Mark stared open-mouthed for a moment. "No!" he finally shouted, a look on his face that made Roger double over with laughter.
"Can't refuse! Can't refuse!" Roger managed.
The filmmaker glared and stuttered for a few moments more. Then he shut his gaping mouth. "Fine," he said curtly. Roger's laughter followed him as he strode to the phone, red cheeks blazing.
It rang three times.
"Hey baby!"
Shit.
"Um, hey, Maureen..."
Roger was on the ground, laughing so hard that sound had stopped coming from his mouth.
"So, uh, I've got something to tell you…"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah…look. It's your fault."
"What is?"
"It's your fault that I'm gay."
"WHAT?!?"
"Well, you know, it just sort of happened. I was feeling lonely, and Roger kept making all these advances…and the first time he kissed me was like…wow…"
Roger leapt up. "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!"
But it was too late. Maureen was already crooning on the other end. "Oh, honey! But of course, I already knew. That pretty boy thing hidden under the rock star exterior…"
"Mark! YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
Maureen kept going. "I'm so happy for you two!"
That was too much for Roger. He grabbed the phone from Mark and screamed into the receiver as loud as he could. "WE'RE NOT GAY! MARK IS FUCKING HAMMERED!"
With that, he slammed the phone down and turned on Mark with murderous eyes.
Now it was Mark's turn to laugh to the brink of vomiting. In between his fits of laughter and evading Roger's fists, he managed, "Your turn! Your turn!"
"Fuck you."
"Your turn! Truth or dare!"
"After that?!? Dare."
Mark's answer was instantaneous. "Go to the old lady next door and ask for an ice cube. Naked."
"You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, Mr. Raging Homosexual?"
Mark smirked. "Strip."
Grumbling, Roger tugged off his pants and shirt. "Turn around."
The reply he received was a shriek of laughter. "You'll go show your crown jewels to an old woman, but your best friend has to turn around?"
"After today, you might not be my best friend for much longer."
"Just your lover."
Roger couldn't retort. He just stood there, glaring in his boxers, as Mark turned. The songwriter barely stopped his friend in time—Mark had been slyly reaching for his camera, which lay on the couch.
"Don't. You. Dare."
"Excuse me, but naked means all naked. Continue, please."
Roger held the camera protectively, clutching it as though it could preserve some shred of his waning dignity. Once he was satisfied that Mark wasn't going to turn back around, he dropped the last bit of his modesty and strode quickly out the door, plaid sweats in hand. The camera was left unceremoniously on the floor.
He stood a few minutes in front of the old lady's door. No courage surfaced, however. He could only knock and pray she wasn't home.
Yeah, right. This is a lady who can hardly walk.
Sure enough, he heard her slow, shuffling footsteps beyond the door. It soon opened, and Roger felt his heart race as his body burned with embarrassment.
"Oh my…!!!"
Her eyes, deep-set beneath a forest of wrinkles, were wide with shock and horror.
"Hi. Do you, um…do you have an ice cube?"
She gaped for a moment before finding her quavering voice. "I-I most certainly do not, young man! And I do NOT want to know what is happening here! The landlord will hear about this, you two!"
Roger froze.
"Two?"
Her eyes focused on the hall behind him.
Roger looked down and casually tugged on his sweats. "Let me guess. He's behind me with a camera, isn't he."
Her response was to slam the door in his face.
Roger sighed and spoke without turning, hands on hips, his voice quiet and low.
"You had better run fast."
Mark was thoroughly incapacitated. His camera lens wildly filmed the floor as he convulsed in seizures of laughter.
"I swear to God, Mark! You're gonna get it!" Roger wasn't ripped, but when he pulled himself up to his full height and stood, unshaven and shirtless, he could be quite imposing.
Mark probably would've run if he hadn't been too drunk to do so. Instead, he stumbled his way back to the loft.
Roger caught up a few minutes later—he hadn't been in any state to run, either. When he entered their apartment, he stayed for a while in the doorframe, leaning against it. "Truth or dare, Mark?" His voice had an edge to it that was only sharpened by the shot of vodka he swallowed. "Hurry up."
Mark laid his camera on a dry corner of the counter. "Oh, God. That was priceless." He slumped down on the window ledge, content.
Roger walked over shakily, bottle in hand. He sat opposite Mark and looked out the window, where the last dregs of rain were starting to yield to patches of sunlight. "Hurry," he repeated.
Mark caught the gleam in Roger's eye and watched more of the crystalline liquid pour down his best friend's throat. More vodka and a thirst for revenge could lead to one hell of a dare. The filmmaker decided not to chance it. "Truth. Unless we find a way to make that hilarious and degrading too."
A short pause. No eye contact.
"Who abused you?"
Mark looked up sharply. "What?" he whispered.
"Who hurt you?"
Everything inside of Mark went numb.
Their eyes locked—one gaze full of fear, the other of compassion.
It had only taken a second for everything to change. They came to a bridge of silence, and Mark drew his knees to his chest. Years of pain and heartbreak raced through his mind; flashes of memory haunted him, wild eyes and dark corners. Last night's nightmare became a hideous reality again, and he could feel all of his fear mounting.
Fear of the past; fear of letting it go.
"How did you know?" Mark asked quietly.
Roger took another sip off the bottle. "You don't just talk in your sleep—you scream."
Mark choked on the silence. It was too hot suddenly, and his spine stiffened as a sensation he had not felt for many years swelled in the back of his throat: helpless terror. Slowly, he rocked back and forth, trying to swallow. It felt as though his throat had closed over.
Roger spoke gently and hesitantly. "Mark?"
"NO!" Mark snapped. He pushed himself up from the ledge. Agony froze his heart like ice, driving him to fiery anger just so he might feel again.
Distantly, Mark felt strong arms close on his shoulders. The vodka made his vision swim—he'd always been a lightweight. Fighting for focus, he at last saw the image of Roger solidify before him.
He was at Roger's mercy now. It was a familiar feeling, to be at someone's mercy. Shrinking into helplessness, Mark relaxed into Roger's grip.
"Mark," Roger coaxed, fear putting a slight tremor into his voice. "What happened to you?"
"I don't talk about it. Never have. Don't want to."
"You've never had a best friend before, have you?"
Mark wanted to cry, to let go and let the strength in Roger's arms be his only support. But he couldn't let go. If he let himself go, he wouldn't be able to speak. It was as though the idea of talking about it, of whispering even a word of what had happened, might…might…Roger might…
He didn't know. God, he didn't know.
"It was my dad.
"It didn't just start. It always happened. Sometimes he was drunk; that would really get him going, you know? It would really get him mad, mad over any little thing. But sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes, he knew exactly what he was doing. That's what hurt the most.
"My mom's always been the kind to look the other way. She never reported anything, I guess because he hit her too, even though it wasn't the same. The fact that she never said anything made me think that I shouldn't say anything. But it wasn't normal, Roger—it wasn't like doing something wrong and getting slapped for it. If anything bad happened to him, he beat me…always me. Sometimes it was just a beating. Other times, if he was feeling particularly creative, he would choke me to the brink of passing out, or use his belt.
"It got worse as I got older. I never fought back, but I got in the bad habit of being headstrong, of talking back to him. God, he hated that. I guess I thought it made me brave; it was my way of standing up to him, since I was always too small to actually stand up for myself."
Roger toyed absently with the vodka bottle, his gaze arrested on Mark. "But you left. You dropped out of school and left."
"Yeah. That wasn't easy, but it had to happen. There were a lot of reasons I did it, of course—my art, my dreams. But it was also the breaking point. I was sixteen, and he sent me to the hospital.
"I had mentioned that I was thinking about dropping school and pursuing filmmaking to my mom. Unfortunately, she let it leak to him. Fuck her. That's one of those things I had a real hard time forgiving her for.
"That night was hell. It started off as a conversation, and then we started yelling…then, he had me against the wall. He took my camera and used it to beat me, using all of his strength to hit me everywhere. Finally, the camera broke—along with a few of my ribs, fingers, my nose, and my dignity. I had hairline fractures on other limbs…there was blood all over the place. When it was clear that I was really badly hurt this time, they took me to the hospital. We pretended it was a mugging; a night crime, and I was too 'disoriented' to identify the assailant. I hated him for it, but I still covered for him. I don't know why. I left soon after that.
"I guess that's what you do, right? You endure because part of you still loves someone, even if you hate what they've become. You cover their back, even if they'd rather see yours covered with scars."
The rain had stopped. Droplets glistened on the glass. Roger didn't say anything; he didn't need to.
"Truth or dare?" whispered Mark.
Roger raised an eyebrow. "I think the game's over, man."
"No, no, go ahead. I don't want it to end yet."
"I'm not in the mood for any of that crazy shit anymore."
"Truth or dare, Roger?'
The songwriter sighed. "Fine," he said. "That was tough; I'm proud of you. So I guess I owe you now. Truth."
"Who abused you?"
Roger's eyes went wide with understanding and disbelief. "Wait…what?"
"Takes one to know one, Rog."
"I don't know if I could compare what happened to me with what happened to you," Roger whispered, staring out into the dreary afternoon.
Mark touched Roger's shoulder. "Whatever happened, it's different—not better, maybe worse. Don't let that stop you, please."
"I was twelve.
"I guess it started before then. I'd always been told I was shit. Mom always said she should've aborted me; that way, she wouldn't have had to put up with such a worthless son. My mom was pretty, no doubt. Not only did she resent me for 'stealing' her youthful beauty, but also for not being an attractive child.
"My dad was smart. Mr. Med School Graduate, Mr. Old Family Money. I wasn't what he wanted either. I wasn't smart. I loved music too much, something he'd never understand.
"I was such a disappointment, they said. I would never amount to anything. I'd end up poor and alone; a dead-beat living on borrowed time.
"Huh. Guess they were right.
"But I was twelve when it happened. He was eighteen, my cousin, and big. He played football for his high school.
"My parents had left me with him. They went to a party at my dad's practice. Mostly, my cousin left me to play video games while he went into the kitchen and drank dad's brandy. I remember the smell of marijuana, remember realizing even before it happened…"
Roger's voice jerked, as if he was trying not to cry. "I've never told anyone this in years. I learned to shut down. Learned to keep quiet."
"What did he do, Roger?"
"He came in and told me to stop playing; said that he had a better game, one we could play together. He told me to strip and then kneel down and stand like a dog. I…I did.
"He raped me, Mark.
"I screamed and screamed. Finally, he passed out from the alcohol, leaving me there to bleed. God, I thought I'd die. I didn't understand it.
"When my mom came home, I told her, but she…"
"She didn't believe you," said Mark.
"No, she didn't. She told me I was a 'fucking liar'. I…God, Mark. I started to believe her. Thought maybe I had just invented it, that I was the stupid son of a bitch she kept saying I was. Mark, I believed her…he raped me and I believed that I was in the wrong!"
His tears consumed his voice and he fell into Mark's trusting arms.
"That's the worst part," said Mark quietly, understanding perfectly. "When someone sees pain and doesn't do anything. When they turn away from the ugly things and leave you thinking you deserved it."
Roger nodded into Mark's shoulder in agreement.
They stayed that way for a while, their bodies shaking with silent tears, the stale odor of vodka hanging dormant in the air around them. The sun had emerged fully now; the light fell heavily against them, bringing a touch of warmth to their skin.
Finally, they pulled away.
Mark laughed softly through a steady fall of tears. "Some game, huh?"
Roger returned the laughter, choked slightly as he gasped for breath. "Yeah. Some game."
That numbing, painful subject—abuse—didn't come up again. It was all let out, memories drifting through empty spaces in reality. Mark and Roger lapsed into a comfortable silence. All that needed to be said had been said, and now they could sit back and breathe.
Their eyes dried slowly as they watched the last rain clouds shrink into the distance.
THE END