Project Tango:ROGER
By: Subarashi Kage
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't bother me.
Summary: Not the kind of dancing he had in mind.
Author's Notes: Inspired by a close friend of mine. Utterly pointless, and completely short. One-shot. Not in any particular universe. Mark and Roger are.. together, you might say.
Warnings: Cursing, Allusions to things not so nice.
x-x-x-x-x
The guitar had a missing string, and yet he continued to insist on playing Musetta's Waltz, those same chords over and over again. Had not he worn it out by now? The broken string gave testament to the guitar's frustration at playing that stupid song over and over and over again. It echoed Mark's feelings very well, as well as his camera. A new crack had appeared in the lens just today, and he had done -nothing- to it. NOTHING. He hadn't touched it once! And it had a crack in it!
Upon finding the crack he had made inhuman, squawking sounds, at which Roger paused his playing, before simply resuming it once again, looking angsty, as he usually did. Roger was the epitome of angst. This had been a fact accepted between the two loft-mates long ago. The guitarist was allowed to angst if Mark was allowed to get in his face with the camera as he bitched and moaned about that red-headed crackwhore April.
Mark had never liked April, but damnit if she didn't make for some emotional material for the two of them to work with.
"But Mark, I'm happy."
"April."
The
musician immediately burst into emo tears and the filmmaker revelled
in his pain, turning it into 'art' that would remain shelved or under
a box until somebody else died, in response to which he would make an
artistic movie that crackled and popped every other frame but damnit
would it make people cry!
The playing stopped, and a heavy, emotional sigh filled the silence that followed.
Mark knew something extraordinary was about to happen. He -felt- it. Holding his breath, he slowly looked over at Roger, who, in the span of three seconds or so, had gone from nearing tears to grinning ferally.
"... Marky. I'm bored."
Silence from the cameraman. The tension in the air was nearly tangible.
The guitarist got to his feet, that grin still in place, though it had now spread to his eyes, which were locked on the possibly frightened or comatose blonde.
"Marky." He repeated, putting a definite whining tone underneath it, nearly batting his eyelashes. "Teach me... to dance."
The underlying meaning was obvious.
"... Okay Roger. I'll teach you to dance."
x-x-x-x-x
The disappointment was evident as he sat, arms crossed, on the tattered couch in the main room of the loft.
"... that wasn't the kind of dancing I had in mind."
Confusion, then hurt.
"... but Roger.. I don't know how to waltz."
Roger cursed the other's naivety and returned to his guitar.
Those three hours spent -tangoing-, and he could have been doing something productive.
Shit.
x-x-x-x-x
Ridiculous.