Untitled
by Lady Pyrefly
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You can't be in love with your best friend. It just doesn't work that way.
Bit stupid, really, the way he's feeling. Not stupid like the dumb-ass fuck decision of shooting up or the mind-numbing idiocy to crowd-surf at a show, just that simply stupid of love.
Except for it's not love, because you can't love your best friend.
Well, you can, but not like this. You love them like a brother, you love them because you're friends. You love them, but you're not in love with them. At least, you're not supposed to be.
He is, though. Roger. In love with Mark. Yep. Stupid.
It's not his eyes, because, really, you can't hardly ever see Mark's eyes. They're usually hidden behind a camera lens, or glasses. It's not his smile because Mark's smile isn't really that wonderful, it's toothy and childish and huge. So that automatically rules out both things that made Mimi and April goddesses in his life.
Mark's out right now, filming the happy couples in Central Park. Well, maybe not so much happy couples as rabid homeless men. Details, details.
But if Mark was here right now, he'd be screwing around with the camera, holding up to look thought it at Roger, sprawled out on the couch with his guitar, letting his fingers twitch out some kind of melody on it's lazy strings. Mark'd say, "March 16, 8:27 pm EST. Roger Davis is exhausted after a show just hours before, although apparently the music has not left him. Tell us, Mr. Davis, what you're playing, the world needs to know."
Roger would've thrown a pillow or something at him, and they'd laugh. Or really, Roger would laugh and Mark would complain about damage to expensive equipment and whatnot.
He plays properly on the guitar now, sitting up and leaning over it, a small smile on his face. He always smiles when he's playing well. Playing inspired. Excited, Roger licks his lips and opens his notebook, scribbles a moment, then plays it all together. It works, he thinks. It really works.
The door opens. Mark comes in, camera still rolling. "March 16, 8:27 pm EST. Roger Davis is exhausted after a show just hours before, although apparently the music has not left him. Tell us, Mr. Davis, what you're playing, the world needs to know."
Roger looks up. Mark has switched off the camera and is watching him. "I knew you would say that. Not much, Marky, just something that came to me. Untitled."
Mark snorts and sets his camera down. "I always fucking hated songs without a title."
He shakes the hair out of his eyes and walks around to the sink to get a drink of water. There's some odd, half-formed thoughts running through his head, but he tries not to listen to them. Could be dangerous, you know? Roger's trying hard not to be stupid. "No, Untitled is the title." He pauses. "The title is untitled?" That doesn't seem right either. "The title of the title is…untitled?"
Mark's laughing at him. Laughing at him with the same squinty eyes and toothy smile that he's always had. The stupid thoughts in Roger's head just kind of take over.
You can't be in love with your best friend.
With a start, Mark pulls away. The stupid thoughts in Roger's head fade, and he realizes that he probably just did one of the most simply stupid things he could. Because you can't be in love with your best friend. For a moment there, he hadn't even realized they'd been kissing.
But Mark's pulled away and Roger feels…well, he doesn't feel. Everything's gone rather numb from some kind of emotion. Mark's looking at him skeptically, scanning his face with those hidden blue eyes to see if Roger's joking or making fun of him. He's breathing kind of oddly, because he'd been kissing him back.
"Ma-" Roger tries to say, to apologize, to excuse, but is cut off when Mark presses his lips on his.
So maybe you can be in love with your best friend.
