I don't know, I'm in a one shot mood again.

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. Thank you, Jonathan Larson.

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"Mark…Mark, please…" whimpered Roger, extending his arm out.

"No…you need to stop," Mark said firmly, stuffing the stash in his jacket pocket. "This is what killed April, and I'm not letting it kill you."

Mark knew April had been an "off-limits" conversation, but he needed to convince Roger to stop using somehow.

Normally, Mark thought, Roger would've lunged at him for mentioning April, especially because he was still high from a few hours ago. But all he did was whimper more, and he looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Mark…please, just one more time. I need it! It's all I have left, Mark!"

Mark couldn't help but feel a bit hurt. What about me? he thought. Don't you still have me? What about Collins? And Maureen?

He decided to push his feelings aside, and direct his attention back to Roger. "You say that everyday. Just one more time. Just one more time. Well, last time was your last time."

Mark turned his back to Roger, looking for somewhere to discard the heroin. He knew if he threw it out the window, Roger would go look for it. So, he walked over to their makeshift furnace, a trashcan in which they burned flyers and such.

Roger snapped. "NO!" He threw himself at Mark, and easily, the strong rocker pinned him to the floor. They struggled for a bit, Roger trying to pry the stash out of Mark's hand. Finally, Mark was able to break free for a second, in which he sprinted over to the trashcan and threw the stash into the flames.

Roger stood there, quaking with rage. His eyes flamed. "You…you bastard! You fucking bastard!"

Again, Roger threw himself at Mark and pinned him. He began punch Mark repeatedly, injuring Mark harshly with each punch. Mark begged for him to stop, afraid if this continued, he would black out eventually.

Mark managed to push Roger off of him for a second, but that only let Roger notice the knife lying on the counter beside them. He grabbed the knife, and raised it, ready to stab.

"Roger, please! It's me! It's Mark!" Mark cried. "It's Mark! Your best friend. It's your best friend, Roger…"

Roger's hand hovered for a moment, his eyes still ablaze. Then he realized what he was doing, and his face crumpled. The knife dropped to the ground.

Roger collapsed on the side of the counter, leaning heavily against it. Mark didn't move at all.

Then finally Roger spoke. "I'm so sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry…"

Roger broke down into sobs. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to wipe the hot, wet tears from his face, but they never stopped.

Mark sat up carefully, obviously bruised. Then he crawled over to where Roger was sitting. And he wrapped his arms around his best friend, crying with him.

Mark didn't say a word for the rest of the night. He didn't need to.

They both knew they were going to be okay.

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Another on-a-whim oneshot.

Review! Review! Review!

Most of my one shots have been angst and such, so maybe I'll write a comedy one next :D.