Notes: I lied. Here's St. Patrick's Day. It's so late because my computer had a virus. Roger's birthday soon. And I don't own Rent.


Mark was never one to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. He wasn't Irish and he couldn't hold his liquor, so why should he pay it any mind. Sure, he would wear a green shirt in holiday spirit, but nothing more. Somehow, he knew this year would be different. Having a girlfriend with a name like Maureen, a fiery temper, and an enthusiasm for any holiday, why would it be like any other year?

He entered the loft in the green sweater he wore every March seventeenth, he saw Roger and April sitting on the couch. April was decked out in all green and one of those crazy headbands with bobbing shamrocks. She liked to flaunt her Irish heritage, as if her flaming red hair wasn't enough proof.

"Happy St. Patty's day Marky!" she cried, giving him a hug.

"You too."

"I'm glad you're wearing at least some green," she said. "Roger's half Irish and he won't change out of that stupid red sweatshirt.

"I look sexy in red," Roger grinned from the couch. "My red shirt is almost as sexy as your red hair."

April, always one to thrive on compliments, grinned wildly, flopping back onto the couch to plant a kiss in Roger's cheek.

"Maureen's looking for you," Roger added. "She said she has a surprise." He grinned wickedly and nodded towards the bedroom door.

Mark nodded and headed for his room. "Maureen?" He pushed open the door to find his girlfriend in even more Irish green than April. "Happy St. Patrick's day," he kissed her on the cheek.

"Marky, I have a special outfit for you!" she squealed.

"Nah, I just wear green, I'm not Irish," he said. "You don't have to—what is that?" His eyes widened as he saw Maureen's surprise laid out on the bed.

"It's your outfit!"

"I am not wearing that," he crossed his arms. "No."

"But Pookie…" she pouted, grabbing his arm. "Please baby…"

"No," he replied adamantly. "Is that lederhosen?"

"Yeah!" she brightened. "You'll look just like an adorable little leprechaun!"

"Maureen, lederhosen isn't even Irish clothing," he informed. "It's German."

"You're German, Pookie!"

Mark rolled his eyes. Maureen had learned of Mark's heritage at their first trip to Scarsdale when Mr. Cohen talked nonstop about how Great-Great-Great Uncle Abraham 'kicked some Nazi ass' at a concentration camp during World War Two. Sometimes, he hated when his dad told stories. "Maureen, I'll look like an idiot. Can't I just wear green?"

Her face fell as she collapsed onto the bed in a dramatic fit of fake tears. "Marky I thought you loved me!" she wailed.

"Sweetie," he sat down next to the lederhosen and gently rubbed her back. "I do love you. I just don't like wearing lederhosen. It's uncomfortable."

She sat up; wiping away the fake tears she had whipped up. "You've worn it before?"

He cringed, realizing what he had said. "I was ten, my aunt gave it to me, and my mom made me wear it. Please don't do this to me." He looked into her big brown eyes pleadingly.

"Okay," she gave in. "You don't have to wear the lederhosen."

"Thank you," he kissed her and smiled.

"Under one condition," she grinned.

"Fine."

"You go out to the bar with me, Roger, and April."

"Okay."

"And you get you drunk off your ass and Irish dance with me!"

"Maureen, I don't know how to Irish dance."

She giggled like a little girl and kissed him again. Looking into his soft blue eyes, she answered with, "Me neither."