Wow. Just, wow. Fanfiction. I haven't written one of these in…man, I don't even know how long. I had an epic Doctor Who one going…but I'm kind of ashamed of that now :/ Anyone think I should finish it? That was ages ago. Well, I hope I haven't lost my touch ;) Enjoy!
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He didn't smoke, but it hardly mattered. When you spend most of your days trudging around the soiled streets of New York City, scraping a living from bits of muddy film, inhaling copious amounts of smoke is inevitable. Mark knew he would probably die of lung cancer and malaria and herpes and everything else on the goddamn planet someday, but right now, he wouldn't worry about that.
Today was hardly different from yesterday, or next Thursday, or half a week past last Monday's fortnight. Today was another butter slice of time and space, another thread that Mark could immortalize in something that might last beyond its own memory. Or at least, that's what he told himself. He had almost no doubt in his mind that this life would amount to hardly more than nothing once all was said and done. This half-assed Bohemian existence would come back to bite him in the end. All the alcohol and apathy would still sting in his veins even if he lived to be one hundred. Still, he gently coaxed it into his camera, so that his prodigy (if he had any) would be able to know what killed their father.
A breeze blew as he cruised along on his third or fourth-hand bike, something unwelcome in mid-November New York. Mark squinted as it dipped under his glasses and made his eyes water. He felt his gold squash hair ruffle up and around, but he'd been told it looked good on him, so he let it style itself. A small girl with junkie circles under her eyes passed and smiled, and he inwardly blushed. Maybe they'd been right…
A small bolt of inspiration hit, and he leapt of the bike; he caught it before the bag corded to the back hit the ground. Fumbling with the cold, he shook his camera from the khaki depths and smushed in the power button. He cradled the device and captured the image of the girl walking away, nearly lonely on the salty sidewalk, looking so small in her long black coat. Maybe it was symbolism: maybe it was just lust. Mark sighed and let the camera slide back inside its bag.
"Hey! Hold up a sec!"
Mark had just swung his leg around the bike when he awkwardly twisted around to see what the commotion was. To his surprise, a young man was hurtling directly towards him, the guitar case on his back bouncing wildly and occasionally smacking the owner in the back of the head.
"Hey, pumpkinhead!" He skidded to a halt in front of Mark and doubled over, leaning on his knees as he gasped for breath. "I know this is weird and all but…god, they're gonna kill me if I don't show. Shit…"
"Um…" Mark stammered, not quite sure what a good response would be. "What's the problem?"
The man donned plaid maroon pants and a tight black t-shirt that hugged his chest and abdomen; Mark could make out traces of three delicate circles through the fabric. His face, bony and pale, curled into a small cleft out which dusty brown stubble poked. Dark roots clashed sharply with the pale sand color his spiked hair had been dyed. His eyes, a deep blue that was much richer and much more captivating than Mark's own, seemed to have a soul all on their own. Two silver hoops sprouted from each lobe. His arms were thin, but not too thin; the lean rather than drug-addicted build. Then again, it was hard to tell these days.
"Listen, man…I'm in a band, see, and we're rehearsing right now for this important gig, and I'm already a half hour late, and if I don't get there….well, first of all, I'll get kicked out. I don't even want to know what else they'll do to me." His words tumbled out in an almost inaudible mess. "Could I maybe borrow your bike?"
Mark stared stupidly at the man as if he couldn't believe he was there. Which we couldn't. "So…you want me to lend you my bike?"
The musician tried to hold back a look of exasperation, but Mark caught it anyway. "Yeah. I'll bring it back and everything! I just…if I don't use it, I'll never get there in time. It's like twenty blocks away." He bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet and glanced over Mark's shoulder. "Please?"
Expressionlessly, Mark eased his leg back over the seat and pushed the bike towards him. "Here."
With a look of pure ecstasy, the other man grabbed it and looked back at Mark. "Seriously?" Receiving a nod, he cried, "Thanks! Aw, man, this is great. Look, after rehearsal, I'll bring it back. Code of honor and shit. Where do you live?"
"You know that old recording studio on Avenue B?"
"Yeah, sure."
"There. Loft."
The guitarist chuckled, and Mark tried to suppress the blood rushing to his face. "Really? Wow, you got it rough. Ok, I'll be there at, say, midnight? Maybe later. See you, man!" He leapt dexterously onto the rusty bike and pushed off. "I'm Roger, by the way!" he shouted over his shoulder.
"I – I'm Mark! I'm…Mark…." But Roger was already too far away to hear. "And…that's my bag…on the back…of the bike…my bag…you're riding away…oh, shit."
Mark stood there for a long time staring after the guy who now held about 75% of his worldly possessions. He hadn't just done that. He hadn't just unquestioningly handed over his bicycle to a complete stranger. That just wasn't something Mark did. Ever. Ever. Without a thought, he'd just…what the fuck?! And he'd forgotten to take his bag! What was he going to do without it? Mark had no doubt he would never see either, bike or bag, ever again. Why had he done it? As he dragged his feet the few blocks back to the loft, the question rolled around unchecked. Once there, it dawned on him, carrying with it a shitload of embarrassment and a few more deep blushes. He wouldn't have done it if…well, if…if Roger hadn't been so…so…well, so…pretty.
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Not much, I know, but a start! A leap back into the Fanfiction world! Trust me, it will get better and hotter as time goes on :) Please review! Even if you have only one word!