"You know I don't have a dick, right?" Mark doesn't know how to say it and he's been agonizing over it for months now, so he sort of just - does.
Roger just stares at him. Blinks. Lifts his beer to his lips.
"You know I don't actually give a shit, right?" he mocks, and takes a swig. Mark wrinkles his nose instinctively. Rolling Rock, who the hell drinks that shit? Who bothers with beer at all? As far as Mark is concerned, if you're not a misogynistic wolf-whistling frat boy, there really wasn't any point. It all tasted nasty to him.
Roger was hardly the classiest guy he'd ever met, though.
His cheeks are mottled pink - he rubs at them furiously, glaring. "Well I thought I should ask. Since, you know…"
They've only been sleeping in the same bed for three nights. It's a little early to make assumptions, but Mark can't help it. They'd kissed, and Roger had tasted so much better than his nightly green tea, and…
He just. He didn't want to find out later that this wasn't what he'd had in mind.
That he wasn't what he had in mind…
Roger wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, swallowing, beckoning impatiently with one hand. Mark approaches him cautiously, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.
Calloused fingers close around his jaw and yank him into a close, rough kiss, stubble scraping his smooth cheeks - Mark squeaks and grabs fistfuls of his shirt, his head spinning.
He's still not over the whole "kissing Roger" thing. Even though he's done it a dozen times now.
But this is softer, less sexual. Roger doesn't fuck his mouth with his tongue, just kisses him, closedmouthed, again and again and again until he's dizzy, he can't breathe. He shudders and melts against him, imagines himself disappearing right there, so happy he could die.
God, how had he ever wanted to go back to Scarsdale…
Roger pulls away suddenly and presses their foreheads together. He half-smiles, licking his lip. "Doesn't make you less of a man, Mark," he tells him, firmly, and Mark feels his gut tighten with sickening gratefulness. His eyes well up a little, but he blinks the tears away furiously, nodding.
Roger pecks him on the lips again and then on the nose, pulling back to lift his beer to his lips again.
"Thank you," Mark whispers, staring at him. Transfixed. As if Roger could get more perfect, or at least, perfect for him.
"Don't fucking thank me, Jesus. Just promise you won't rule out anal."
Mark felt a smirk start to lift the corners of his lips, looking him up and down. Roger was the kind of guy who would look so fucking pretty with a cock in his ass - rubber or not.
"I think I can do that."
