Title: Something About You
Disclaimer: Not my characters. As usual.
Distribution: Fanfiction.net. If you want it for an archive, or just to make fun of endlessly, ask me first. Yeah.
Feedback: If you're so inclined, go ahead. AliQG@aol.com, or that fancy review box on ff.net works too. :-)
Notes: Would ya look at this? Another fic in which the Mark/Roger-ness doesn't progress beyond subtext. I have been displaying considerable restraint lately!
Summary: In which... um... Mark makes a friend. I'm so bad at summarizing.
- - - - - Something About You - - - - -
He was asleep on a bench in Tompkins Square Park when I saw him, huddled against the cold wooden boards in an attempt to trap some semblance of heat in his frigid body. He wore pajama pants, thin flannel ones, with a heavy blue sweatshirt and beaten-up Doc Marten boots. Underneath his head, serving as a makeshift pillow, was a black guitar case, dirty and covered with stickers, lyrics, and notes from friends in White-Out. His hands, large and strong, with calloused fingertips, clutched the case's neck protectively as he slept. A very light layer of freshly fallen snow blanketed his motionless form.
He looked so cold and vulnerable and... alone. A feeling I had known all too well, for about as long as I was able to remember. I stood there for a moment just staring at him, wondering what his circumstances were. Why was he homeless? What stories might he have to tell? Almost unconsciously I turned my camera on and began recording.
The guitarist stirred slightly, and I quickly flipped the power switch back to the off position. People in New York, I reasoned, probably didn't like being filmed without their consent. Luckily, he stayed asleep, shifting onto his back and becoming still again.
This time I kept my camera at my side, but I couldn't help wondering about this mysterious musician. Did he have a family? Friends? Did he need a friend? Everybody needs a friend, I thought to myself.
Including me.
That's when I found myself turning and walking inside a nearby McDonald's. As I approached the counter, I dug through my pocket for change, praying that I had money. My fingers emerged with a crumpled five dollar bill. Score. Distractedly I gave my order to the cashier, glancing out the window as if I was afraid the boy might wake up and leave at any moment. A minute or two -- although it felt more like eternity to me -- passed before I had the bag of food in my hands.
He was still out there.
I jogged out of the restaurant and back to the bench. For a moment I hovered beside him uncertainly. What if he got angry at me? What if he thought I was insulting him? What if he was actually dead, not asleep? What if he didn't even speak English?
My heart caught in my throat as the musician's eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times before noticing me and sitting up. He didn't speak.
I, um... I coughed nervously. Hi. I'm Mark Cohen. I was wondering if--
He shook his head, as if I had asked him a question. I'm not who you're looking for, he muttered, brushing the dust of snow off his sweatshirt.
No, I -- I'm not looking for anyone. I just, I thought... I mean, I saw you sleeping there, and -- well, you looked like you could use something warm, so... I held up the paper bag limply.
He raised an eyebrow. You bought me breakfast?
Was the incredulity in his voice a good sign or a bad one? I continued rapidly, I would've just given you money, but I thought that might be demeaning, and I'd rather eat breakfast with you and have someone to talk to, anyway, I mean, I'm new to the city and I don't know many people--
Have you ever met a homeless person before? he interrupted. His eyes met mine challengingly.
My face flushed scarlet with embarassment. Just because I haven't lived here long, you don't have to assume -- I mean, how should I know? In Scarsdale everyone's rich and there's nobody sleeping on the streets and I just figured--
He interrupted me again, this time sounding vaguely concerned. Hey, calm down. I was just asking. I realized that the earlier look, which I'd mistaken for offense, was actually mere amusement.
I rubbed at my cheek with an oversized sweater sleeve in the hope that it might absorb some of the redness. Oh. Well, no. I -- I guess I haven't.
We were both silent for a moment; he stared intently at my face while I studied the ground with sudden, engrossing interest. The food's gonna get cold if you stand there much longer, he finally pointed out. I smiled and collapsed gratefully on the other side of the bench. What'd you get?
Egg McMuffins and coffee. Hope that's okay.
Are you kidding? At this point McDonald's sounds like a delicacy. All I've eaten since last week is Ramen noodles. He gladly accepted the wrapped-up sandwich and styrofoam coffee cup.
I used to eat those a lot too, in college, I said with a shrug. Cheap. They aren't so bad.
I have to eat them dry because I have no heat to boil water with.
An involuntary laugh escaped my lips before I could stifle it, and he scowled at me. Immediately I felt bad. I'm sorry,it's just... the idea of you sitting on a sidewalk, snacking on a freeze-dried block of noodles...
His lips twitched upward into something resembling a smile. It's not that funny...
I grinned. Is too... you know you want to laugh.
Ah, shut up. He stuck his tongue out and shoved me slightly. Another silence, much more comfortable this time, fell over us as our laughter died down and we started in on our breakfasts. You know, I'm not really that homeless, he said at last.
That homeless? What, like there are degrees of homelessness?
You're a real smartass, aren't you? he teased. I was staying with a friend -- bandmate actually -- until last week. He kicked me out.
What for?
I slept with one of his sisters.
That's not... so terrible, I guess.
And when I say one, I mean both. Not at the same time of course.
I could feel my face heating up again. Um, well, I guess I can see where he--
And when I say sisters, I mean sister and brother.
I blinked. If it was possible for my cheeks to get any brighter, I was certain they were doing so right now. Suddenly my throat was constricted and dry. Well. Guess your bandmate wasn't too gay-friendly, then.
He chuckled. At least the rest of the band took my side. Of course, we're now short a bassist, but we'll find someone. He cocked his head to the side and peered up at me, as if seeing me for the first time. So what's your deal?
My... deal? I repeated blankly.
Sure. Your story. Your dream. Everybody has one... it's why we come to this godforsaken city, isn't it?
I shrugged. I really only came because Benny -- he was my roommate at Brown -- wanted me to move here with him.
Oh yeah? He didn't look convinced by my half-explanation. What's the camera for?
I glanced down at my 16 millimeter, running my fingers over it in an almost loving gesture that had become second nature whenever anybody mentioned my work. I make films, documentaries mostly, in my spare time. Which is kind of all the time right now.
A degree from Brown and you can't even get a decent job?
Well, I didn't exactly graduate. I was studying law, but I hated it, and Benny convinced me we'd both be happier in the city. So we dropped out, and... here I am.
The musician -- I realized he still hadn't told me his name -- nodded, like he'd been expecting that answer all along. Gonna be the next Rob Epstein, kid?
Normally I would have been defensive over being called -- hell, I was probably older than him -- but something in the way he spoke made me not mind at all. I think I even sort of liked it.
Besides. He knew who Rob Epstein was, something that automatically boosted him way up in my regards. We'll see about that, I guess. If I don't find money soon I'll have to sell my camera to pay the damn rent. I clutched the camera's handle a little tighter. Suddenly, as those kinds of things are inclined to do, an idea struck me. Hey, I just thought, maybe -- if you need a place to stay, there's room in our loft. I'm sure Benny wouldn't mind. And we could share the rent.
He looked flattered. Really? I mean, I'd hate to put you out or anything, you don't even know me--
No, I -- I'd like it. I smiled, a little shocked at having said that aloud. Benny's great and all, but it'd be nice to have someone else around.
Dude... thanks. I mean that. The gratitude in his eyes, coupled with the awkwardness of his speech, suggested that those weren't words he said often.
It's no problem. Really. And without reason or warning, a blush began creeping up the sides of my cheeks again. I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name, and if we're going to be living together, I should probably know it...
He grinned -- his smile seemed to light up the foggy gray morning -- and thrust a hand toward me. I'm Roger.
I grasped his hand warmly, relieved to finally put a name to his face. Mark. Nice to meet you. We glanced upward at the same time. Hey, it's beginning to snow.
A short pause ensued, broken by identical laughs as we realized we'd spoken in unison. I looked at our hands, still holding tightly to each other. The blush on my face deepened.
His smile grew wider. I wondered if the snow had disappeared as quickly as it had begun, for everything inside me suddenly felt like summer.