Disclaimer: It's not mine. Thank you Jonathan Larson.
Play Me Some Sinatra
Author's Note: I cannot even begin to tell you how much Mark is based off of me…
There was nothing Mark liked more than being alone, the time set aside to just let loose and not care about other people's opinions. It was something he had always taken for granted at home before he came to the city, those hours set aside every day for him to enjoy isolation back in Scarsdale. He would sit alone and read without interruption, listen to his music without complaint or work on yet another potential screenplay, all in the solace of his own company. But that came to an end when Mark decided to move to New York.
By the end of his first week he had learned all about how sharing a tiny apartment with three other people dissipates any and all privacy. The closest he could come to solitude were the 15 minute increments when he locked himself inside the bathroom for a piss and a shower. Mark was able to accept the sexual freedom, the complete disregard for authority, the total allegiance to creativity, individuality and all that, as part of the Bohemian lifestyle. But he would never get used to the complete lack of privacy. He was lucky the bathroom even had a door, all of the other rooms were separated by stained table cloths that they had found in dumpsters behind restaurants.
Mark was clinging to his sanity, which had all but completely slipped through his desperate grasp. People were always there, hounding him, watching him, studying him. He could feel the six eyes following him when he crossed the room into his bedroom for more film or whatever. They were still evaluating him, determining whether he could hack it here in the winter when they were freezing and starving. Mark wasn't used to the constant scrutiny.
Those glorious, days when Collins was away, Benny was at work and Roger was spending all of his money out in the city were the only things keeping him from diving over the edge. They were incredibly precious and had to be taken advantage of because they came around less often than Christmas.
Nothing compared to being by himself, especially now that it was such a rare occurrence. When he was alone, Mark could just unwind and let go. There was no one around to pass judgment on him. He could do whatever he wanted and no one would be the wiser. If Mark wanted to walk around naked, he would. If he wanted to play the Beatles with the volume cranked up as high as it would go, he could. Roger wasn't around to harass him for his taste in music while he plugged in his guitar to drown out the whining harmonies of Hey Jude. Solitude allowed him to experience the true freedom he came to the city for
"Alone time," as Mark liked to call it, was so scarce largely in part due to Roger, who would never leave the loft unless he had a pocket or two full of cash, the equivalent of wealth in Bohemia. Those pockets of bills were usually only enough to last him less than a few hours. Rich or poor, Roger was physically incapable of holding onto his money. He acted as if he would get a rash from holding onto it for too long and at the same time required it for everything he did that took place outside of the apartment. Even if he was just going to visit Collins at work or something, he needed at least twenty bucks. Why? Only he knows.
Coming from a traditional Jewish household, Mark couldn't understand how someone could be so careless with his money. But at the same time he was constantly debating whether or not it would be worth it to loan Roger some money to just get out.
Roger hadn't left the apartment in several weeks and had taken to constantly taunting Mark when they were alone together. He had attached himself to his hip and refused to even go into a separate room.
Mark was a ticking bomb of insanity and Roger was the spark that would ignite his fuse. He knew that privacy was going to be an issue when he came to the city, but he hadn't expected a roommate with a complex about being left alone–the complete opposite of Mark.
"So what's going on today?" Roger asked, throwing himself onto the couch, causing a little puff of dust to rise up from the stained material.
"I'm going to work on this screenplay," Mark said looking up from his makeshift desk that was held together by rubber bands and duct tape. "You're on your own today,"
"You always say that,"
"Well you're 19, you should be able to occupy yourself by now," Mark replied, concentrating on his work.
"Christ Mark, you need to lighten up. You sound just like my Dad when you say shit like that,"
Mark sighed and turned back to his work, namely staring at the blank notebook, waiting for the next great American film to appear. He couldn't concentrate–he wasn't allowed to concentrate. Mark needed music to focus, a special kind of music, Frank Sinatra's music, not Roger's obnoxious random guitar plucking.
Of course, he could never publicly profess his love for Frank, Roger would laugh him right out onto the street. Theirs had to be a secret affair. Mark had an image, a pathetic image, but an image nonetheless. Everyone saw him as the "classic rock" type, a broad, meaningless genre that people identified with just to say they weren't really fans of big band or show tunes or something like that, which Mark really was.
For some reason, Frank got him to that special place in his mind where his creativity was waiting to be released. But Roger was sprawled out across the apartment for who knows how long and would make a huge deal about his choice of music. Roger was a musician so of course he knew good music. Anything he didn't like was shit, and Mark couldn't picture him a fan of Sinatra. If Roger found out about his music preference there wasn't a doubt in his mind that his life would become even more hellish.
So Mark had to wait until he was alone to unleash his flood of creativity, and that wouldn't happen unless Roger got the fuck out. The longer he sat there doing absolutely nothing, the more angry Mark became. He couldn't help it. Roger had been mind fucking him for the past month with his constant whiny, stalker attitude.
"Are you really just going to sit there and stare a blank sheet of paper all day?"
"Yes," Mark said through gritted teeth, his response angry enough to burn.
"What for? You're not getting anything done,"
"Maybe if you would just shut the fuck up I would be able to concentrate," Mark yelled, dropping his hand to the table hard enough to spill the plastic cup filled with pens and the razor blades he used to edit old film.
"I pay just as much rent as you do asshole so don't tell me to shut up in my own place,"
"You know what…" Mark hesitated, trying to think of some response that would put Roger in his place.
"What?" he stood up, rising to the challenge.
"Fuck you…" was all he could come up with.
Roger's gruff laugh was enough of a response. Mark was pathetic and they both knew it.
"I'm going out," Roger said throwing his arms through the sleeves of his crisp new leather jacket and stomping down the stairs. Mark listened to the fading footsteps wishing that he could enjoy his victory.
The guilt of chasing Roger out of the apartment disappeared as quickly as the musky scent of cigarettes and cheap beer while Mark dug out his Frank Sinatra cassettes from deep inside his nightstand. He was desperate to get somewhere on his latest project.
He found their "stereo" in Collins' room and brought it out to the desk. Any music that didn't come from Roger had to come from a smiling tape player Collins' bought awhile ago, complete with big, colorful, plastic buttons and a toy microphone for singing along. It was actually perfect for their lifestyle. Cheap and battery powered.
Mark popped in the Sinatra cassette and let the silky smooth music fill the room. He closed his eyes and smiled, allowing his problems to be washed away by the melodies. There was just something about Frank that he loved. The smooth, perfect voice, the suave, sophisticated attitude, the pure confidence; he was everything Mark wasn't. Everything was okay when Frank's music was playing.
The first few notes of Fly Me to the Moon began and he was pulled into the music. Mark had every intention of working on his screenplay but the lyrics and the melody had taken control of his arm and raised the toy microphone to his lips. Halfway through the first verse Mark began to sing along, attempting to mimic the sounds of Sinatra.
With his eyes held tightly shut, he lifted the plastic boombox by its convenient handle and began moving through the apartment, navigating the maze of furniture and garbage as if it were a stage and he was entertaining an audience that didn't exist. All thoughts of progress on his screenplay were set aside for this temporary escape. It felt so fucking good to be alone.
Mark was being swept further and further into his strange little fantasy, almost believing that he was Sinatra himself, the man with self esteem of steel, perfection with a penis. He kept his eyes closed still, refusing to allow reality to destroy his false perceptions.
Love and Marriage had just begun to play when a soft snort from the other side of the room shattered his dragging him back towards reality. Mark's eyes shot open, wide with terror. Alone time was done.
Roger was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and wearing an amused smirk that made his eyes crinkle. When he saw Mark's expression his smile spread further and his arm moved into a patronizing wave. Any offense he had taken earlier had disappeared, replaced by the amusement of catching Mark in such a compromising situation.
"So this is what you do when you're alone,"
"Um, I was just uh…" Mark stammered, Frank still wailing along, completely unaware of the disruption. "What are you doing here? You just left,"
"I forgot I had no money," the grin never left Roger's face.
"Yeah I was just working on my screenplay-"
"No you weren't,"
"Yeah I was," Mark tried to hide the crimson shame that was rising in his cheeks. "I'm thinking about doing something about a musician and was just seeing-"
"A musician huh?"
"Yeah," he nodded, swallowing the excess spit that tended to gather in his mouth whenever he was nervous.
"Well you know, technically I'm a musician, you could have just asked me or, hell, even come to one of my gigs instead of dancing around here and making an asshole out of yourself,"
Mark shrugged, "I could've, I guess,"
"I know a lot of other guys in the business too you could talk to," Roger went on, knowing full well that Mark's story was complete bull shit. He was pretending that he was Frank Sinatra, no one could explain that away.
Mark knew that keeping up the story was pointless and sighed, accepting defeat, there was no point denying what was so blatantly obvious. "Fine, so I like Sinatra," he stopped the blaring music that had lost most of its appeal, bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of harassment that he deserved.
"Aw, don't stop now," Roger whined when the music stopped. The awkward silence lying beneath it beat down heavily on both of them.
"Look Roger, I'm sorry I was a dick to you before and I know you're dying to be an asshole about this, but I would really appreciate it if you would just forget you saw anything-"
"No Mark, I'm not kidding. Put it back, I liked that song,"
"Come on… just drop it,"
Before the movement even registered, Roger had crossed the room and stolen the kiddie recorder from Mark's clammy palms. Seconds later the second verse from Love and Marriage was once again floating through the hollow spaces in the apartment.
"I love Frank,"
Mark stared at his roommate open mouthed as he stopped the music once again, and rewound the tape back to the first song. When the familiar big band music started up for the second time, Roger began crooning into the toy microphone, mimicking Sinatra's angelic voice with his own gruff instrument.
It was kind of sexy in a way. Roger had captured the same confidence and charm that made Frank appealing. He was the bohemian Sinatra.
The longer he watched Roger sing, the more uncomfortable Mark became. He was moving with the music, swaying his plaid hips in hypnotizing circles, not once removing his gaze from Mark's confused expression face. Their eye contact was broken only by the occasional blink. As much as Mark wanted to, he couldn't look away.
A few minutes later Roger set the microphone down and turned towards Mark, his hand outstretched.
"Dance with me," It wasn't a question.
"What? No,"
"Come on Mark, dance with me," he whined. "You were doing it when you were by yourself,"
"Yeah, when I was alone," Mark emphasized the last word.
"So, what's the difference if you do it with me?"
Mark hesitated, concerned that he found himself actually wanting to dance with Roger. Until now, he had only thought of his roommate as a nuisance, a pest with a vendetta. Then he had to go and sing Sinatra…
Instead of waiting for a response, Roger just walked over to Mark and pulled him into his arms. There was an arm pressed against his lower back, pinning them together, while his right hand was caught in Roger's left.
"Dance with me," he repeated, whispering in Mark's ear.
It took a few seconds for Mark to realize just how awkward this was. He was stiff against Roger, rocking from foot to foot, rigid as a board. Cigarette smoke and leather mixed together, swirling inside his lungs each time he inhaled. Roger's breath was whispering across his cheek as Mark peered over his shoulder wishing that Frank would just finish the fucking song already.
"You need to relax," Roger said about a halfway through the My Kind of Town.
"Why?" Mark turned his head, attempting to make his evil glare more effective.
"Because you're not enjoying this,"
"And you are?" he retorted.
"Yeah actually," he smirked again.
Mark turned away when he felt his heart begin to race and his stomach lurch the instant Roger smiled.
"Relax," he repeated after Frank broke for the few seconds of silence between songs. Mark didn't know why he hadn't taken the opportunity to disentangle himself.
"I'm trying,"
"You're still moving like a fucking robot,"
"No I'm not," he argued, his voice rising into a flirtatious whine.
Roger just laughed. "Yeah Mark, you are. Here,"
He moved his hands down to Mark's hips and began swaying his body back and forth in time with the music, just like he had been doing by himself earlier. When Roger didn't move his hands, Mark's heart began to race and sweat started to leak from his pores. This wasn't helping him relax.
Yet, Mark's body quickly began to obey what his hands were trying to teach him. He was guided through the entire song by Roger's steady pressure. His mind was still trying to resist the uncomfortable allure of Roger's proximity. It felt good, but at the same time also like he was making a mistake.
He could feel his face become splotchy shades of crimson when a pair of green eyes locked onto his face and wouldn't let go. Mark just kept staring over Roger's shoulder, determined not to give in and reciprocate the eye contact.
When The Best Is Yet to Come started playing Mark found himself relaxing even further. He even caught himself smiling. Mark was actually enjoying dancing with Roger. The idea wasn't as shocking as it would have been a half hour ago when they were jumping down each other's throats.
Up until now, the pair hadn't really moved much. "Dancing" pretty much meant turning in a slow circle in the middle of the room with their arms around each other. The music began to swell and, suddenly, Roger jerked his arm, catching Mark by surprise. He found himself twirling out of control, stopping only when he reached the end of Roger's hand. Another jerk and Mark was spinning in the other direction, back into Roger, only this time his back was pressed against his chest. Two leather clad arms quickly descended around him, pinning him there. Before realizing it, Mark had already leaned into the embrace. He couldn't help thinking how much more enjoyable Frank's music was when you had someone to listen to it with.
Mark could feel Roger's heart pounding into him like a gentle jack hammer. His stomach lurched harder this time. They continued rocking in this position, Roger's lips dangerously close to his ear. Mark had to smile when he heard him humming along to the music. He laughed softly to himself, still slightly taken aback by Roger's unexpected fondness for Frank.
"What?"
"Nothing," Mark replied. "Just think it's funny that you're a Sinatra fan,"
"Why is that so funny?" Roger sounded offended.
"I don't I know, I guess I didn't know you were into that kind of music,"
"Well there's a lot you don't know about me," he twirled him again.
"I guess so,"
The music played on and they both became a little more daring with their dancing. They were spinning, and swaying and dipping all over the apartment. Mark had completely fallen into the experience and allowed himself to have fun without fear of future regret. Depressing thoughts of lost alone time were replaced by happier memories of the previous song. He learned to love the little jumps his heart gave whenever Roger said his name, shifted his hands, or just smiled in his direction.
"How long are we going to keep doing this?" Mark asked out of breath. They had stopped dancing long enough for Roger to flip the tape in the recorder giving birth to an entirely new set of Sinatra favorites.
"Do you want to stop?" Roger asked, his finger hovering over the bright green play button.
"No,"
He grinned again, causing Mark's heart to melt a little more. "Good,"
Once the music started up again, they continued their shameless parade around the cluttered space, giggling each time one of them bumped into something. Mark's face was red now only from exertion. Frank's singing coupled with their shared dancing had dissipated all traces of shame and embarrassment. Neither of them really knew what they were doing at this point, it was just fun and it felt good, so they didn't stop.
When New York, New York began to play both Mark and Roger were too exhausted to continue, so they settled for collapsing on the couch, panting heavily. Neither one of them said anything, they just let the lyrics immerse them both with their melody.
A sheen of sweat glossed over Roger's skin, creating the illusion that he was glowing, Mark couldn't help but stare. He was sprawled out on the couch, his arms and legs splayed in every direction and he still looked absolutely perfect. The exercise had brought out a healthy flush in his cheeks and a more mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Without thinking Mark dropped his hand onto Roger's thigh.
"Thanks,"
Roger's gaze fell onto the hand clutching his leg before lifting towards Mark, his expression completely unreadable. "For what?"
He shrugged. "For not being an asshole,"
A warmth suddenly enveloped Mark's cold, sweaty fingers as he looked down to discover that Roger had covered them with his own.
"You're welcome,"
Roger patted his hand and made as if he were standing up before quickly swinging his body back towards Mark's much like they did a few minutes ago when they were dancing, only this time he didn't stop until their lips had crashed together.
And suddenly Mark was drunk. The world was spinning around them, only he and Roger were the only stationary objects.
He had never consciously felt any kind of attraction towards Roger before today. Jealousy maybe, a little fear and awe, but never any attraction. Mark had never even looked at another guy before. It was just something that hadn't occurred to him over the years. And here he was with Roger's mouth devouring his own, his mind screaming that it was nothing more than a big mistake. Mark kissed him back anyway.
If he hadn't been a participant, Mark could have sworn that literal sparks flew when they made contact. After a few seconds, he threw his arms around Roger's neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.
The sensation of chapped, rough lips against his own managed to slow his palpitating heart and an innate feeling of shared peace swept over both of them. Roger was hovering over Mark on the couch, bleached hair long enough to caress both of their faces, as their lips lazily mashed up against each other. It didn't take long for Mark to sink down into the lumpy cushions beneath the increasing pressure of Roger's lips.
When tongues got involved Mark almost lost consciousness. He attacked Roger's mouth with a greedy hunger, as if he had been starving for this moment his entire life. Their lips and tongues continued the dance that their bodies had stopped, keeping time with the music that was still blaring in the background loud enough for the entire building to hear.
Everything about this felt right. There was no questioning, no hesitation, no regret. Mark wondered why he hadn't recognized this connection before now. What about Roger, had he sensed anything? Was that why he was so eager to dance?
And then he realized that it didn't matter.
Right now, the only thing he cared about was making sure Roger's mouth remained on his forever. He would sacrifice every future "alone time" opportunity, if this kiss could just keep going. Mark was more than happy to give up his freedom, so long as he would always be chained to Roger.
When the song came to an end a few short minutes later, the magic of the moment began to slip and they finally broke apart, breathing much heavier than before, Mark's lips aching from the sheer force of the kiss and from the desire for more.
"So… do you really like Frank or was that all just bullshit?" as much as he wanted it, Mark wasn't ready for another kiss. His head was still swimming from the confusion and the pleasure.
"Honestly?"
"Yeah," Mark pulled himself up, trying to regain at least some composure.
Roger raised his arms up into the air and pulled back into a powerful stretch. "No," he grunted. "I can't stand him," he returned to his original, sprawled position on the couch, that same smirk on his now swollen lips.
"Oh," Mark's face fell, he couldn't help feeling a little bit betrayed. "So what was that then… revenge for pissing you off or something?"
"No," his fingers were drumming the frame of the couch, matching the beat to Almost Like Being In Love. Mark sat waiting for the response that Roger wasn't going to give.
"Well then… what was it?"
"Does it even matter?"
"Yes it mat-"
"Did you have fun?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Do you still hate me?"
"No, but-"
"Do you want to do it again?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Then shut up and forget about it," Roger leaned in once again. A smile lit up Mark's face as they immersed themselves in another kiss, each of them fighting for control this time.
Mark grabbed onto the lapels of Roger's jacket and tried to push him down on the cushions, still trying to keep their mouths attached. He wanted more control. They both wanted more control. Long fingers framed Mark's face as Roger fought to maintain his dominance.
They struggled back and forth, breathing heavily, their mouths never breaking away from each other. Flames had replaced the blood in Mark's veins, he was on fire. Roger spread through him faster than anything he could have imagined. He had never wanted anything, or anyone, so badly before.
He could be safe and push Roger away, choosing solitude and isolation over the connection he had just created. Mark could walk away right now and force things to go back to the way they were an hour ago. But he didn't. He knew that Roger was going to cause him pain one day, but still he rubbed their lips together with a big brass band playing in the background.
This was a mistake, he knew it was going to be something he would regret someday, but right now, it just felt so… perfect.
Fin