The Road Not Taken

Title: The Road Not Taken

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters belongs to the genial Jonathan Larson, only the story is mine ;D.

Warning/Spoiler: implied character death, the ‘real’ Benny

~ The Road Not Taken… ~ (1)

So it had happened. At last – not that it hadn’t been imminent that day at Angel’s funeral. Mimi had died, and he was standing at her grave. He didn’t cry, unlike Maureen who was sobbing theatrically into Joanne’s shoulder. The lawyer was grim-faced, strong and, if anyone wanted his opinion, the anti-thesis of all he thought a woman should be. But then, she was a lesbian.

He didn’t really think much of her sexuality – he had lived with Collins, had been exposed to ‘alternative lifestyles’ for too long to be offended by something as trivial. It was merely his belief that any behaviour that was ‘out of the ordinary’ was a waste of energy and time. You had to fight for recognition and acceptance, seize a place somewhere along the line, and, for the most part, remained alone.

That was something he’d sworn would never happen to him. He had been the stereotypical nerd – top of his class in school, finished college with good grades, graduated from university. Going to live in New York had been his choice, since he hadn’t wanted to be stuck with his father’s rental car business.

And then he had met them – the ‘bohemians’ as he had dubbed them. Even from the start, he had known that Roger was his rival. Not in terms of education, after all the musician hadn’t even made it past college, but when it came to women and to the hunger for success.

Collins hadn’t had any ambitions apart from his motto of living his life to the fullest, none of them had ever fitted in there as more than ‘friends’ that waited for him to tell of his exploits. A rebel removed from his base, a lone ranger intent on following his own star and finding his personal windmills to chase.

Much like Roger, only that the boy had insisted on trying it in the big apple where there was little room for artists. He’d always admired persistence, of course, especially when it meant trying for the unattainable. And it was so very clear from the start that Roger didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mark for that matter, that was probably the reason why he’d made friends with the musician.

A quiet, loyal background supporter, the sarcastic, brilliant side-kick. No future for him, and yet a steadfast belief that all would be better one day. Dreamers, both of them. He was realistic to a fault, he knew how the world was run, and he wasn’t above using this knowledge for his own gains.

It was amusing that Roger would always insist he had once had a heart. Amusing because he’d never lost his feelings or emotions, he just didn’t allow himself to be led on a wild goose chase by them. He trusted his head. And if his head told him not to get too much involved in the bohemians’ business, than that was what he did. It was a difficult to distance himself at first, but then again, it was a way of survival. His way.

He could have flirted with April, seduced her even, or so he liked to think. He hadn’t tried it – not for Roger’s sake (the two of them had vied for women before, had even dated the same alternatively in their days), but rather because he was focusing his interests elsewhere. On Alison Gray, a woman who was uncomplicated, easy to be with and, another point in her favour, rich.

Bohemian – an honourable past-time to be sure; for those people who put their ideals before their needs. He wasn’t one of them. Much as he liked the arts, he wasn’t stupid enough to work all his life in the feeble hope of getting his chance one day. Because it would never come. Life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t about talent, it was about connections and unscrupulousness.

He had wooed Alison for precisely that reason – she was just the woman to offer himself to, having no money or family to speak for him. He never doubted that she was too good for him, of course. She accepted him fully, unquestioningly, she loved him. And he was a bastard for betraying her.

Though he hadn’t planned to fall for Mimi. She was a liability of sorts, jeopardizing his marriage, the exact opposite of Alison in her bourgeois clothes and manner. Not that he meant to hurt his wife – he liked her, she was his life-line, and his best investment. It sounded harsh, but then it was business. Love was an ideal, just like art; ideals were dreams, reality was immediate, calculating.

He knew he should have protected Alison from the danger inherent in HIV, but he had been too comfortable. He used condoms when sleeping with Mimi and none when having sex with his wife. The way it was supposed to be. After all, he didn’t want his little dancing baby to get pregnant. No complications from a little fling. Mimi wasn’t his, not truly, she was too hopeful, too much of a dreamer, and too obstinate.

She was for Roger, that much was clear the moment he saw them together. It hurt – not unpleasantly, for it sparked the fight in him, wanting to best the musician yet again. There was no particular reason, especially not since he had achieved most of the goals he’d set for himself. And he was married.

Still, he was a man, and he liked the girl. She was sexy and fun, never mind their affair was over. It was just too good an opportunity to meddle. Unfair, perhaps, but then it was true he could offer Mimi so much more. Speaking in terms of money, of course, since he would never marry her. Not that Roger would. He wasn’t the settling-down kind either, Mark was.

The incarnation of a friend who never got a moment’s chance for living properly. A disillusioned filmmaker who threw caution to the wind and spent months doing nothing but baby-sit a drug addict, accepting threats, abuse and pain in order to make sure he was clean.

It was the kind of loyalty only passionate people could inspire, passionate like Roger, or Collins. Angel, or…Mimi. He was envious of so much emotion, he’d always wanted to have this unconditional love Mark gave away so freely, but he wasn’t worth it. He couldn’t ever hope to give back anything.

Not like Roger who was hugging the filmmaker close as they cried together, camera and guitar lying side by side beside the open grave. Collins standing guard over all of them, piercing the few people assembled with his looks, questioning their right to be there and say goodbye to Mimi. He was one of those unworthy ones. Yet again. As he had wanted it.

The bohemians had been a family, a close-knit group of friends who were there for each other. He had never fitted, though he had been offered every chance, for all his short-comings. He looked at his watch. He had an appointment at the hospital, with Alison. She had told him they were to test for HIV, both of them.

He had suspected before that Collins had told her about Mimi, now he knew. How else could she have known that the girl had had AIDS? He sure as hell hadn’t mentioned it. Still, his wife had proved herself to be a better partner than he deserved. She hadn’t divorced him, hadn’t even been angry.

But then again, she was a pragmatist, a realist, so much like him that it seemed as if they were only two parts of one person. And that was probably why he needed her. And the reason why he would turn around now, turn away from the coffin and the small group of people he had come to know so well and walk out of their lives.

It was time to face what he’d always seen before him – he couldn’t be an artist because he lacked the strength to believe in ideals and dreams…

Finis.

(1) "The Road Not Taken", poem by Robert Frost