A Tiny Spark

It was a cold night, cold meaning New York City in December at 10pm. The train from Scarsdale had just arrived in New York City. A young man in his early twenties stepped out through the door. As he exited the platform and stood outside the Grand Central Station, he had absolutely no idea where to go. His golden hair glowed in the moonlight as the scrawny Jewish boy sat on a bench, wondering what the hell he was doing here. Mark Cohen unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket, quietly stamping the address of his sister Cindy in his mind. But he was broke. And he had no idea how to get to Greenwich Village. Mark opened his olive green messenger bag and brought out his black camcorder and a screenplay he had written before leaving for New York. He unwound the camera and just began to film the scenery around him. But then he paused, realizing he was making a complete fool of himself. There was nothing to film.

"Fuck it," Mark muttered under his breath, returning his camera and screenplay into his bag. Out of nowhere, a young man carrying a guitar case stood right front of him, blocking his view of anything that wasn't in his peripheral vision.

"Excuse me, but I think you're sitting on my baggage." The man said. Mark stood up quickly to find a black duffel resting on where his butt used to be just a few seconds ago. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

"I'm sorry," Mark said quickly, handing the bag over to the larger man. "I'm Mark."

"Roger," the other man introduced himself hastily. He stretched out his hand and Mark shook it politely in return. "You new here in New York?"

"Yeah. Actually, I just arrived a few minutes ago. It…it's my first time."

"A virgin," Roger teased. "Well I just got here from the West Coast a few minutes ago, too. But I live in the East Village with my friend Tom."

There was something about Roger made a spark in Mark's head. Those electric blue eyes, the short, spiky bond hair, the toned arms… Roger's black leather jacket glimmered in the moonlight. His plaid pants were slightly odd, but something Mark found them rather fascinating. Roger Davis…Roger Davis… bloody hell, he was damn gorgeous. Suddenly Mark snapped out of that thought. What the hell was he doing? Better yet, what was he even thinking?

"Oh, well, um," Mark began to sputter awkwardly. "I'm… do you know how I can get to Greenwich Village?"

"I'm not too sure," Roger replied. "I've never been there. But if you want, you can stay at my place for now and maybe I can help you look for Greenwich Village tomorrow."

There was an uneasy pause. Suddenly the voice of Mark's mother began to ring in his head irritably.

"A city of sin!" Her shrill Wicked-Witch-of-the-West voice yelled in his mind before it began to soften. "Just make sure you get to your sister safely, and then you can stay there until you can find a place of your own now, dear."

"Mark?" Roger's voice said softly, touching the young man's skinny shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Mark's mouth moved as if about to reply, but he couldn't. He just kept on hearing his mother's voice in his ear, like when he was just a little boy who hadn't even been Bar Mitzvah-ed yet. "Never talk to strangers, Marky. Never!" the voice went from his mother's normal voice to this witchy, frighteningly harsh yelling that began to drive Mark crazy. Mark held his hands to his ears and slid away from Roger crazily.

"I… I… I can't… Stop it!" Mark panted repetitively like a lunatic. It took a while before he was finally able to get a grip of himself. It took quite a while before the voice had faded, since by the time Mark had realized how bizarre he just was, at least twenty pairs of eyes were glaring at him, including Roger. They all gave him a this-man-must-be-mental ­look. Mark shrugged, and walked back towards Roger nervously, grabbing his moss-green satchel. "I'm sorry about that. I have to get to my sister's house tonight. I should just get a cab, I guess… thanks anyway."

Mark began to walk away. He was a foot away from the edge of the sidewalk when he turned back towards Roger with one foot, a skill that was usually found in dancers, and began to walk back towards Roger, embarrassed.

"You're broke, aren't you?" Roger smirked.

Mark sighed heavily. "Would you mind if I…"

"It was my offer, so I don't mind a bit." Roger's voice was friendly, and it somehow soothed Mark. "Come on." Roger grabbed his duffel and walked Mark to the East Village. It was a bit longer than a stroll in the park, but Mark considered it exercise, something that he believed he actually lacked.

Mark had a mix of various emotions and thoughts when he saw Alphabet City for the first time. It was the first time he had ever been to such place. Compared to his house in Scarsdale, this was…how should he put it? Sickening? Dreadful? A shithole? But he was among people who - according to Roger while they walked here - share the same sort of passion as him, even though that meant struggling through poverty and all that shit.

"Here we go," Roger stopped in front of a beaten-down old music publishing building covered in graffiti. Mark hesitated, but this was way better than freezing in the snow. Mark followed Roger up the stairs to the top floor. When they got there, Mark leaned on the sliding door to their loft. He was so damn exhausted, but Roger didn't even seem like he broke a single sweat. That thought made Mark more interested in the other man.

"Mark?" Roger's voice was soft, angelic. "Mark."

Mark shook. "What?"

"You're kinda blocking the door, man."

"Oh. Sorry." Mark moved away from the door as Roger slid it open.

"This is it," Roger said humbly. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks," was all Mark said in reply. It was such an awkward moment for him, being alone with this other character. This certain Roger Davis character that he was strangely attracted to. "Where can I sleep?"

Trying to be nice, Roger politely replied, "You can take my bed. I'll just sleep on the couch tonight."

"Oh…okay. Thanks, then." Mark hesitantly said in return.

XX

Cold. That is all that Mark feels at the moment, despite the fact that he is wrapped in three layers of blankets. His whole body is shivering, every inch of his skin quivering in the billion-below-zero temperature. How could this place not have heat? Mark cusses under his breath. He couldn't even reach for his glasses and walk to the kitchen. His scrawny body is curled up into a ball and he is practically immobile because of the goddamn cold. He was freezing to death here, and there was nothing he could do about. He wanted to call Roger for some reason. Then what, to keep him warm?

Fuck, Mark, stop acting like such a baby, Mark thinks to himself.

The door swings open. Mark doesn't dare to look at it anymore. Heck, he could barely move his neck, in fear that it would allow some of his body heat to escape. He couldn't risk it. It was probably just the wind. The wind that didn't even fucking exist.

Suddenly, Mark feels warmth. He feels pressure on the bed, and soon senses the presence of a warm body next to him. Comfortable. Snug. Mark uncoils his slender body and begins to relax. He feels better. He feels an arm snake its way around his stomach, pulling him closer. Mark smells a familiar scent that he clearly remembers from the man he had met a few hours ago. Mark feels warmth. Mark finds his arms wrapping around the larger man's body as well, as he takes in the rocker's sweet scent. He buries his face in Roger's hair, feeling the spiked tendrils against his skin. He may not see the other man clearly, but he knows who it is.

The two bodies sit up in a flash. Mark realizes what he had just been doing, and is confused. But he knew what he was doing. He was barely sure about whether or not he should do it, but Mark just gave in. In the morning he would go to his sister's place and never see Roger again. So Mark doesn't see anything wrong with the fact that his face is moving closer to Roger's. Mark leans in closer, and is the one who presses their lips together. For him it was awkward. Mark had never kissed another man before. But he suddenly feels Roger's fingers running through his hair. Roger returns Mark's kiss, parting his lips open. Mark places both arms around Roger and pulls Roger on top of him. He feels Roger's tongue licking the moist caverns of his mouth.

"Mark…" Roger mutters between kisses as Mark takes off his shirt, revealing Roger's toned upper body. Everything around them was freezing in the cold, but not Roger and Mark. Not anymore.

The kiss is broken for a moment, until both men are finally shirtless. Then Roger smashes his lips against Mark's. Their kiss is so aggressive that it causes Mark to gasp for air. He could barely breathe, not with Roger's heavy body pressed on top of his. Something is definitely not right, Mark thinks to himself. He pushes the musician away with as much force as he could at the moment. Not that he was that strong. But it caused Roger to pull away.

"Is something wrong?" Roger asks.

"We can't…" is all Mark can say in return. He is beginning to feel the cold creep into his system again.

"We don't have to if you don't want to…" Roger pouts, quickly pulling his shirt back on. He lies next to Mark and wraps himself in blankets. Mark puts his own shirt back on as well and does the same thing next to Roger. But as the cold takes over, Mark senses his arms moving towards Roger. It was his instinct. But as much as he wants to just let go of Roger, Mark…doesn't.

Roger's eyes flip open. Mark sees Roger's piercing eyes glaring at him. "Roger…" Mark whispers. Mark seems to be unaware that he is climbing on top of Roger's warm body. He plants a soft kiss on Roger, this time just giving in to whatever is about to happen. Once again, Mark parts his lips and allows Roger's tongue delve into his mouth. Mark feels Roger's rough fingers slip under his shirt and graze his bare back. Mark bites Roger's lower lip, hard, so that blood oozes out from it. Mark gently licks Roger's lips while tracing around them with his fingers. Roger whimpers for a moment before crashing his lips back into Mark's. Then Roger's lips trail downwards, planting gentle kisses on the filmmaker's neck, sucking on his pale skin until he leaves a bruise. His hands take hold of the garter of Mark's pants, but then Mark swats Roger's hands away.

"I need to get some sleep," Mark whispers with an uncomfortable look.

-

Mark awoke in an empty bed, hoping that whatever happened last night was only a dream. He lazily walked out of Roger's bedroom to see Roger drinking coffee on the battered couch and reading an old copy of The Village Voice.

"Morning," the two men greet each other in unison. Roger takes another sip of his coffee. He offers some to Mark, who claims to drink tea and not coffee during the mornings.

Mark scratches his head and runs his hands through his hair. Roger can't help but stare because Mark just looked so fucking beautiful. Roger does the same thing minus scratching. He runs his hands through his own spikes, but more with the intention of flirting. And like a magnet, he attracts Mark's attention. Mark doesn't get the point at first, but what he does notice is an awkward silence. Always count on Mark to break such moments.

"Thanks for letting me sleep over," Mark says. Roger stops playing with his hair since Mark didn't seem to understand. He doesn't reply, but instead Roger winks at him.

"You… you offered to help me look for my sister's place in… in Greenwich Village." Mark reminds Roger. Not that Roger forgot. He just wanted to ignore the young filmmaker, reluctant to allow the smaller man to just leave him. To Roger, whatever happened last night meant something. Roger felt a strong connection between the two of them. He felt a spark between himself and Mark. And it only takes a tiny spark to create a flickering flame.

Or a mean blaze.