((Hey there everyone! Here it is, by popular demand -- okay, by Kait's demand, anyway -- the first chapter of my sequel to Anything But Lonely. It doesn't have a title yet but I'll come up with one eventually. It''s from Roger's perspective but the chapters might alternate between his and Mark's POV. I don't know yet. Beware -- it's, with the exception of a few serious parts, happy. Well, this chapter is, anyway. There'll be plenty of seriousness and angstiness in upcoming chapters. Read and enjoy (hopefully) and review! Thanks!!))
Untitled (A Sequel to Anything But Lonely)
Chapter One: Here With Me
I opened my eyes when the first cracks of light seeped in through the window. Normally I'm not a morning person, but this morning was different. This was special.
I looked down at the man still sleeping beside me. Mark. The man I was in love with.
Who would ever have predicted that Roger Davis would fall in love with another man? Nobody in their right mind. And yet, here I was, holding Mark so close I could feel his heartbeat, and nothing had ever felt so right.
I lay as still as possible, not wanting to disturb my filmmaker's rest. Everything about him amazed me, like I was seeing him for the first time: his blonde hair with a slight reddish-orange tint; his pale, smooth skin; his petite body, which fit so perfectly against mine. He looked so peaceful and innocent when he slept. Maybe, if I willed it enough, he would awake retaining that naivete, oblivious to the pain of the world. Like he used to be. The look he had adopted in recent years killed me -- an expression hardened by loss and heartbreak, yet somehow still hopeful. I don't know how, but he never lost that much.
I found it difficult to imagine now, that until a few weeks ago I had refused to admit my love for Mark. And because of that I ran off and almost lost him forever.
But now we were here, we were together. Yesterday, after two months of trying to escape the truth, I came home, ready to open myself up to the unconditional love he ceaselessly offers. We spent the entire night kissing, talking, and laughing, just like old times. (Well, except the kissing part.) Finally around two AM, we fell asleep, curled up together on the couch.
At least an hour must have passed after I woke up before Mark stirred in my arms, mumbling something incoherent. I stroked his arm lightly as his eyelids fluttered open and he squinted in the sunlight.
"Morning, dollface," I teased. "Sleep well?"
He smiled sleepily, that goofy grin I found irresistible. "Great, thanks. Did you just call me dollface?"
I laughed. "No way, you're hearing things. Do you wanna get up?"
"I will. You can sleep some more while I make breakfast."
I leaned over to kiss him but he squirmed away.
"I've been told my morning breath is brutal," he explained, embarassed.
"Who's the bitch who said that?"
"Maureen."
"Figures." I caught him by the waist and planted my lips on his. "I'm man enough to handle it."
"Oh I see, thanks," he laughed, writhing out of my grasp.
I followed him into the kitchen. "Need any help?"
"You can make the coffee."
I wandered over to the counter, where the buttons on the coffee maker stared up at me intimidatingly. "What do I press?" I asked.
"Most people put the coffee and water in first," Mark advised me. He handed me a packet of chocolate pop-tarts. "Here, even you can figure these out." Once I placed them in the toaster, he applauded. "There's hope for you yet, Roge."
"Oh, and I suppose you're the culinary genius of the household?" I challenged. Mark was not exactly famous for his talent in the kitchen; he could operate a coffee machine, a toaster, and a microwave, but he usually didn't venture beyond that.
"At least I can make something," he pointed out with a grin. "Besides, you're the one that eats it, and I never hear a complaint."
"Come here, you," I said, pulling him toward me. He pressed his chest up against mine.
"Yeah?" he whispered in a cheesy seductive voice.
I leaned in so that my lips brushed his ear. "You're an awful chef," I whispered.
Mark pretended to punch me in the stomach. "Am not," he insisted. "Is that true? And before you answer, consider that if you say yes, I'll never kiss you again."
"Then you're the best chef I've ever met," I quickly assured him.
"That's what I thought." He gave me a quick kiss and grabbed two clean-looking bowls from the sink.
I sat down at the table and within a few minutes Mark placed our breakfast on the table: Captain Crunch with soy milk (which I think tastes gross, but I deal because Mark's lactose-intolerant), pop-tarts, orange juice, and coffee.
"This is great," I said. "This is, like, the first actual meal I've had in two months."
"I'm scared to hear what you've been eating lately, if you call this an actual meal."
"Let's just say, I learned real quick to avoid the cops in Santa Fe, who hate street beggars."
"Christ, Roger. . ." Mark murmured, sending me a look of pure concern and sympathy. "And you still saved everything you had to buy me a camera?"
I shrugged modestly. I didn't want him to think that I was trying to make myself look like a hero. That wasn't my intention at all. I had just done what I had to do. Mark didn't deserve anything less. In fact, he deserved a hell of a lot more. He certainly deserved way better than me.
No, I had to stop thinking destructive things like that. It would only serve me to scare me away again. And I couldn't abandon Mark, not when he needed me so much. Hell, who was I kidding? Not when I needed him so much.
"Roger?" Mark's softly inquisitive voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Huh?"
"I asked what you want to do today."
"Oh, sorry. Daydreaming again."
"Anything to do with me?" he asked hopefully.
I smiled. "Maybe just a little." His face lit up with an adorable, excited grin. "I don't know, what do you wanna do?"
"I don't know either. We could just walk around until we find something."
"Okay," I agreed. Then I lifted up my sleeve and sniffed it. Yuck. "But I think I'm gonna take a shower first."
Mark smirked. "Good idea. Me, too. I'll be ready in ten."
"I'll be ready in five."
"Is that a challenge?"
"Readysetgo!" I blurted, jumping up and running off before he could realize what was going on.
"Hey, no fair! You got a head start!" I glanced back to see Mark hastily stand and race to his room.
About five minutes later, I threw on a clean pair of pants and my favorite green sweater then burst into the living room triumphantly. My pride was shattered, however, when I discovered Mark sitting calmly on the couch.
"Looks like I beat ya, Roge," he bragged.
"What the --" I stammered, "How did you. . . I mean, I always -- but you never --"
"Win? I know." He grinned ecstatically, obviously enjoying this greatly.
"Oh, stop gloating," I muttered, only pretending to be angry, as he got up and grabbed his camera. We left the building and started wandering down Avenue B.
As we passed the Life Cafe on 10th Street, I sensed Mark move in closer to me. His hand casually brushed against mine, until he finally got the nerve to hold it.
Shit. What if we saw someone we knew? What would our friends say? Was I ready for people to think I was gay? I had seen first-hand the crappy way homosexuals, even good people like Collins and Angel, were often treated. This could ruin my rock star image. If people knew I was with Mark, the only gigs I'd get would be at trashy gay bars. My career would be D.O.A.
But at the same time, I couldn't pull my hand away. He'd think I hate him and don't want to be with him, which of course I do.
Unconsciously my body stiffened -- just enough (unfortunately) for Mark's astute filmmaker's senses to notice. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," I answered way too quickly. Real smooth, loser. He'll believe that.
"Seriously, Roge, what's the matter? You can tell me."
"It's just. . ." I began, unsure. "No, you know what? It's nothing. I'm fine." I smiled and tried to relax.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Really. Don't worry, Mark." I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I would tell you if something was wrong."
Thankfully he didn't press the issue further. "Well. . . if you insist." We continued walking, turning a few corners until we ended up in front of Maureen and Joanne's apartment building. "Wanna go visit?"
"Are you crazy? It's eight o'clock in the morning, they won't even be awake yet."
"Oh. Oops. Guess I should buy a watch." Mark laughed at himself.
I had lied. It was actually past nine-thirty and Joanne had probably forced Maureen out of bed close to an hour ago. But I knew Mark would want to tell them about "us," and I just wasn't ready to have our friends know.
"So what is there to do at eight in the morning?" he wondered.
"I don't know. . ." Our conversation lulled as we both tried to think of ideas.
"Hey, I got it!" he said suddenly. "We could go to the park."
"The park?" I repeated. "Cute, Mark, real cute. How old are we again? Twelve?"
"Behave, Roger. It'll be fun." He headed in the direction of the neighborhood park, if you could call it that. In the East Village, the closest thing we had to a park was a fenced-in urban playground with basketball courts and benches housing homeless people.
Much to my surprise, I did have a good time at the park. Mark and I were the only people there, so we had it all to ourselves. First we played a few games of one-on-one (until he realized that he was losing miserably every time and decided to quit) then chased each other around the playground for a while. It was the first time in a while that I've really let loose and just acted like a kid again. The carefree feeling was almost addictive.
Once we were both exhausted, Mark collapsed on a swing and I pushed him back and forth leisurely. "Admit it," he said between pushes.
"Admit what?"
"This was fun. Mark came up with a good idea."
"Yeah, okay. . . just don't let it go to your head." Instead of pushing him, I grabbed the swing and stopped it, wrapping my arms around him from behind.
Mark leaned back against me and glanced down at my watch. "Wow, it's almost twelve already. That was quick."
My face grew red and hot with shame. Why the hell did I have to lie to him? "Well, time flies when you're having fun."
"Yeah, I guess it does." He sighed contentedly. "What do you say we go back home, get some lunch, and just relax for a while?"
"Sounds good to me," I replied. I felt much more comfortable in the privacy of the loft anyway. Not that I was uncomfortable with Mark; that wasn't the case at all. I just thought for sure that everyone was giving us weird looks for holding hands. My rational side told me it was probably all in my head -- but since when did I listen to my rational side anyway? At least at home I didn't have to worry about what other people thought.
After a lunch of turkey sandwiches and Doritos, I sprawled out on the couch. Meanwhile Mark selected a movie from his collection of artsy, independent (read: boring) films. Then he came over and gently laid himself on top of me, resting his head on my chest, and suddenly I didn't mind that he'd chosen my least favorite movie. Hell, we probably wouldn't do much watching anyway.
- - - - -
((Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, ladies, he's talking about kissing! You don't think they'd move that fast, do you? Well, let me know what you think so far. I hope I didn't make Roger too out of character. He is so freaking hard to write! Anyway, I'm working on the rest of this story and I'll hopefully have the more posted within a few days.))
Untitled (A Sequel to Anything But Lonely)
Chapter One: Here With Me
I opened my eyes when the first cracks of light seeped in through the window. Normally I'm not a morning person, but this morning was different. This was special.
I looked down at the man still sleeping beside me. Mark. The man I was in love with.
Who would ever have predicted that Roger Davis would fall in love with another man? Nobody in their right mind. And yet, here I was, holding Mark so close I could feel his heartbeat, and nothing had ever felt so right.
I lay as still as possible, not wanting to disturb my filmmaker's rest. Everything about him amazed me, like I was seeing him for the first time: his blonde hair with a slight reddish-orange tint; his pale, smooth skin; his petite body, which fit so perfectly against mine. He looked so peaceful and innocent when he slept. Maybe, if I willed it enough, he would awake retaining that naivete, oblivious to the pain of the world. Like he used to be. The look he had adopted in recent years killed me -- an expression hardened by loss and heartbreak, yet somehow still hopeful. I don't know how, but he never lost that much.
I found it difficult to imagine now, that until a few weeks ago I had refused to admit my love for Mark. And because of that I ran off and almost lost him forever.
But now we were here, we were together. Yesterday, after two months of trying to escape the truth, I came home, ready to open myself up to the unconditional love he ceaselessly offers. We spent the entire night kissing, talking, and laughing, just like old times. (Well, except the kissing part.) Finally around two AM, we fell asleep, curled up together on the couch.
At least an hour must have passed after I woke up before Mark stirred in my arms, mumbling something incoherent. I stroked his arm lightly as his eyelids fluttered open and he squinted in the sunlight.
"Morning, dollface," I teased. "Sleep well?"
He smiled sleepily, that goofy grin I found irresistible. "Great, thanks. Did you just call me dollface?"
I laughed. "No way, you're hearing things. Do you wanna get up?"
"I will. You can sleep some more while I make breakfast."
I leaned over to kiss him but he squirmed away.
"I've been told my morning breath is brutal," he explained, embarassed.
"Who's the bitch who said that?"
"Maureen."
"Figures." I caught him by the waist and planted my lips on his. "I'm man enough to handle it."
"Oh I see, thanks," he laughed, writhing out of my grasp.
I followed him into the kitchen. "Need any help?"
"You can make the coffee."
I wandered over to the counter, where the buttons on the coffee maker stared up at me intimidatingly. "What do I press?" I asked.
"Most people put the coffee and water in first," Mark advised me. He handed me a packet of chocolate pop-tarts. "Here, even you can figure these out." Once I placed them in the toaster, he applauded. "There's hope for you yet, Roge."
"Oh, and I suppose you're the culinary genius of the household?" I challenged. Mark was not exactly famous for his talent in the kitchen; he could operate a coffee machine, a toaster, and a microwave, but he usually didn't venture beyond that.
"At least I can make something," he pointed out with a grin. "Besides, you're the one that eats it, and I never hear a complaint."
"Come here, you," I said, pulling him toward me. He pressed his chest up against mine.
"Yeah?" he whispered in a cheesy seductive voice.
I leaned in so that my lips brushed his ear. "You're an awful chef," I whispered.
Mark pretended to punch me in the stomach. "Am not," he insisted. "Is that true? And before you answer, consider that if you say yes, I'll never kiss you again."
"Then you're the best chef I've ever met," I quickly assured him.
"That's what I thought." He gave me a quick kiss and grabbed two clean-looking bowls from the sink.
I sat down at the table and within a few minutes Mark placed our breakfast on the table: Captain Crunch with soy milk (which I think tastes gross, but I deal because Mark's lactose-intolerant), pop-tarts, orange juice, and coffee.
"This is great," I said. "This is, like, the first actual meal I've had in two months."
"I'm scared to hear what you've been eating lately, if you call this an actual meal."
"Let's just say, I learned real quick to avoid the cops in Santa Fe, who hate street beggars."
"Christ, Roger. . ." Mark murmured, sending me a look of pure concern and sympathy. "And you still saved everything you had to buy me a camera?"
I shrugged modestly. I didn't want him to think that I was trying to make myself look like a hero. That wasn't my intention at all. I had just done what I had to do. Mark didn't deserve anything less. In fact, he deserved a hell of a lot more. He certainly deserved way better than me.
No, I had to stop thinking destructive things like that. It would only serve me to scare me away again. And I couldn't abandon Mark, not when he needed me so much. Hell, who was I kidding? Not when I needed him so much.
"Roger?" Mark's softly inquisitive voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Huh?"
"I asked what you want to do today."
"Oh, sorry. Daydreaming again."
"Anything to do with me?" he asked hopefully.
I smiled. "Maybe just a little." His face lit up with an adorable, excited grin. "I don't know, what do you wanna do?"
"I don't know either. We could just walk around until we find something."
"Okay," I agreed. Then I lifted up my sleeve and sniffed it. Yuck. "But I think I'm gonna take a shower first."
Mark smirked. "Good idea. Me, too. I'll be ready in ten."
"I'll be ready in five."
"Is that a challenge?"
"Readysetgo!" I blurted, jumping up and running off before he could realize what was going on.
"Hey, no fair! You got a head start!" I glanced back to see Mark hastily stand and race to his room.
About five minutes later, I threw on a clean pair of pants and my favorite green sweater then burst into the living room triumphantly. My pride was shattered, however, when I discovered Mark sitting calmly on the couch.
"Looks like I beat ya, Roge," he bragged.
"What the --" I stammered, "How did you. . . I mean, I always -- but you never --"
"Win? I know." He grinned ecstatically, obviously enjoying this greatly.
"Oh, stop gloating," I muttered, only pretending to be angry, as he got up and grabbed his camera. We left the building and started wandering down Avenue B.
As we passed the Life Cafe on 10th Street, I sensed Mark move in closer to me. His hand casually brushed against mine, until he finally got the nerve to hold it.
Shit. What if we saw someone we knew? What would our friends say? Was I ready for people to think I was gay? I had seen first-hand the crappy way homosexuals, even good people like Collins and Angel, were often treated. This could ruin my rock star image. If people knew I was with Mark, the only gigs I'd get would be at trashy gay bars. My career would be D.O.A.
But at the same time, I couldn't pull my hand away. He'd think I hate him and don't want to be with him, which of course I do.
Unconsciously my body stiffened -- just enough (unfortunately) for Mark's astute filmmaker's senses to notice. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," I answered way too quickly. Real smooth, loser. He'll believe that.
"Seriously, Roge, what's the matter? You can tell me."
"It's just. . ." I began, unsure. "No, you know what? It's nothing. I'm fine." I smiled and tried to relax.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Really. Don't worry, Mark." I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I would tell you if something was wrong."
Thankfully he didn't press the issue further. "Well. . . if you insist." We continued walking, turning a few corners until we ended up in front of Maureen and Joanne's apartment building. "Wanna go visit?"
"Are you crazy? It's eight o'clock in the morning, they won't even be awake yet."
"Oh. Oops. Guess I should buy a watch." Mark laughed at himself.
I had lied. It was actually past nine-thirty and Joanne had probably forced Maureen out of bed close to an hour ago. But I knew Mark would want to tell them about "us," and I just wasn't ready to have our friends know.
"So what is there to do at eight in the morning?" he wondered.
"I don't know. . ." Our conversation lulled as we both tried to think of ideas.
"Hey, I got it!" he said suddenly. "We could go to the park."
"The park?" I repeated. "Cute, Mark, real cute. How old are we again? Twelve?"
"Behave, Roger. It'll be fun." He headed in the direction of the neighborhood park, if you could call it that. In the East Village, the closest thing we had to a park was a fenced-in urban playground with basketball courts and benches housing homeless people.
Much to my surprise, I did have a good time at the park. Mark and I were the only people there, so we had it all to ourselves. First we played a few games of one-on-one (until he realized that he was losing miserably every time and decided to quit) then chased each other around the playground for a while. It was the first time in a while that I've really let loose and just acted like a kid again. The carefree feeling was almost addictive.
Once we were both exhausted, Mark collapsed on a swing and I pushed him back and forth leisurely. "Admit it," he said between pushes.
"Admit what?"
"This was fun. Mark came up with a good idea."
"Yeah, okay. . . just don't let it go to your head." Instead of pushing him, I grabbed the swing and stopped it, wrapping my arms around him from behind.
Mark leaned back against me and glanced down at my watch. "Wow, it's almost twelve already. That was quick."
My face grew red and hot with shame. Why the hell did I have to lie to him? "Well, time flies when you're having fun."
"Yeah, I guess it does." He sighed contentedly. "What do you say we go back home, get some lunch, and just relax for a while?"
"Sounds good to me," I replied. I felt much more comfortable in the privacy of the loft anyway. Not that I was uncomfortable with Mark; that wasn't the case at all. I just thought for sure that everyone was giving us weird looks for holding hands. My rational side told me it was probably all in my head -- but since when did I listen to my rational side anyway? At least at home I didn't have to worry about what other people thought.
After a lunch of turkey sandwiches and Doritos, I sprawled out on the couch. Meanwhile Mark selected a movie from his collection of artsy, independent (read: boring) films. Then he came over and gently laid himself on top of me, resting his head on my chest, and suddenly I didn't mind that he'd chosen my least favorite movie. Hell, we probably wouldn't do much watching anyway.
- - - - -
((Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, ladies, he's talking about kissing! You don't think they'd move that fast, do you? Well, let me know what you think so far. I hope I didn't make Roger too out of character. He is so freaking hard to write! Anyway, I'm working on the rest of this story and I'll hopefully have the more posted within a few days.))