Mugged
Roger lounged on the couch strumming his guitar casually. Every sixty seconds or so, he'd glance at the digital alarm clock on the desk at the far side of the loft. Where was Mark? It's not like him to be out so late. Trying to distract himself, Roger played Muzetta's Waltz nonstop until the loft door slid open.
"Where the hell were you?" he demanded. When he looked up, he found Mark leaning against the doorframe. The filmmaker had a cut above his eye, and was clutching his side. Roger flew across the room, and pulled Mark close to him. "What happened?" he asked through clenched teeth.
"Some punk thought that I had some money, and I got mugged. Didn't get my camera though," Mark said triumphantly as he slid the camera bag strap off his shoulder. The padded bag fell to the floor with a dull thud. Roger pulled Mark to the battered couch gently.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he said. Reluctantly, Mark sat down.
"I'm fine, Rog…really," he insisted. Roger disappeared in the bathroom, and returned a minute later with a damp washcloth.
"The hell you are." He sat down next to Mark, and took his face in his hands. "Now sit still." The rocker gently dabbed the shallow wound on his boyfriend's face. Mark nearly jumped out of this skin.
"Damn Roger, that's burning!" roger swung his right leg over Mark's lap to hold him down.
"Of course it is, now shut-up."
"Yes Dr. Roger." Roger sighed, and stopped what he was doing.
"Stop with the jokes wiseass!" Mark wiggled under Roger's leg some.
"God, you're no fun anymore…oww!"
"This wouldn't hurt as much if you stopped moving, so stop moving!"
"Make me," Mark retorted with a pout.
"What?"
"You heard me." Mark leaned forward, and whispered seductively in Roger's ear, "Make me."
roger dropped the washcloth on the floor, and began to kiss Mark. Mark pushed Roger back on the couch with surprising aggression, and straddled the larger man. The filmmaker carefully unzipped Roger's jeans before climbing off his lover, and walking over to their room.
"Fucking tease," Roger muttered as he rolled of the couch. He ran up behind Mark, wrapped his arms around his small waist, and spun him around.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow," Mark said. With a concerned look, Roger put him down. Carefully, the rocker lifted Mark's shirt, revealing a baseball sized bruise just above his waist.
"Aww shit, Mark, I'm sorry." Mark kissed Roger tenderly.
"It's okay honey, you didn't know." A devilish look flashed across the filmmaker's face. "Now, where were we?" Roger kissed him roughly as the couple tumbled onto their bed.
It was late, but how late, Roger didn't know. He watched the gently rise and fall of Mark's chest. The filmmaker's pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He skin was flawless, save for the bruise on his side. How could someone hurt Mark? Mark was the person who helped you through withdrawal, and not one, but two deaths of lovers. Roger leaned over, and gently removed Mark's glasses. They wouldn't be able to offered a new pair if those delicate frames broke. Mark twitched, and rolled over.
"Go back to sleep," Roger told him.
"No way, I'm ready for another round," Mark replied between yawns. Roger smiled, and pulled the smaller man close. Mark nuzzled his chest affectionately. "I love you, Roger."
"I love you too, Mark." Roger kissed the top of Mark's head, and closed his eyes. Soon, both men were asleep.
The End