Roger couldn't take his eyes off of the figure that was curled up next to him in the bed, his head on Roger's shoulder and one hand and arm resting on Roger's bare chest. It was incomprehensible, to him, that this beautiful, sweet, fucking perfect person would want to be with him... but here they were. And Roger couldn't wrap his mind around it.
Sure, they'd been friends since high school, when Roger's family moved from a rather secluded and expensive ski resort town in Colorado to Scarsdale, New York. And Roger's first thought on seeing Mark had been that he was beautiful. Not cute, though he was, and not hot or sexy or anything like that, but beautiful. And once they started talking, it just solidified in Roger's mind. And it had never been a secret that Roger was into guys, or that Mark wasn't entirely sure and could be. But they were Mark and Roger. They were best friends, the only friends either of them had, really. And yeah, they used to screw around a little, and pretty much the entire population of Scarsdale had thought they were together, probably fucking each other, but that was just from one kiss in the hallway at school. They'd suffered through almost two years of torment at the hands of their classmates and teachers, and come out of it still best friends and still whole. They'd come to New York, so Mark could go to college and Roger could try to start his music career. Roger had used, gotten clean, and started using again. They'd made it through over four years of friendship, somehow, despite Roger's ability to fuck things up.
And then a few weeks ago, Mark had been curled in his arms, sobbing and scared and Roger'd made him a promise and held him as if his life depended on it. That's when it started to sink in that Mark meant more to him than anything. And then... Roger had kissed him. And he'd kissed back.
God, he loved having Mark like this. Not sexually, even, because they'd done little more than kissing so far, and Roger was okay with that - but to have him. To be able to hold him, to touch him in little intimate ways that would've been too couple-like even for their friendship.
Mark shifted a little and yawned, blinking sleepily up at Roger. Roger smiled softly and ran his hand through Mark's hair, making the bed-head even worse. "Good morning," he murmured. Mark smiled at him and nuzzled his neck slightly.
"Morning. How long've you been up?" Roger didn't bother look at the clock - he knew already it'd been at least a couple of hours. A couple of hours watching Mark sleep, and he didn't think he could ever get tired of it.
"Not long," he lied easily, because this lie didn't matter, though he flushed a little as he said it.
Mark made a face at him. "Liar," he muttered. "How long've you been--" Mark was cut off, pulled up so Roger could claim his lips, kissing him gently but possessively, and he smiled suddenly against Mark's lips.
"Mine." he growled, and he felt Mark shiver and practically melt against him as he laid his claim to the filmmaker he loved so much.