A/N: This took a really long time to write seeing as I had a little Rent break between a while ago and now. It's also late so I'm out of it. Written for a live journal prompt on RentforBastards. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. 'Cept some of the words. Hah.
Mark's never believed in soul mates. Sure, people fall in love, people get married, people spend their lives together, but he doesn't think there's some cosmic force, matching people up before they even meet. You have to work at love. You have to be patient. And that's a lesson Mark knows all too well.
Mark believes that if you're patient enough, maybe you'll find the right person. After all of the shit that comes along with dating and searching for the person you really love, there will be somewhat of a light at the end of the tunnel. The problem is, Mark can be too patient.
The music blares, neon lights shining from every corner of the stage. Mark is unsure of where the loud noise is coming from, but he can't avoid it no matter where he's filming. He can't wait for Roger to come out, after a straight half an hour of watching his band mates set up. Drums and sound checks are only interesting for a little while. The camera around his neck hangs solemnly, yearning for that shit faced grin, spiked hair and throaty singing voice to emerge onstage. Mark is a little too giddy tonight, his stomach fluttering at the thought of Roger standing up there with a guitar in his hands.
"Hey!" Aaron yells at Mark, cupping his palm in front of his mouth. Mark squints from the unnecessary volume of the shriek, then shrugs confusedly at the bass player.
"What? I can hear you!" Mark screams back, cracking a small smile that Aaron returns with a chuckle.
"Roger wants to see you backstage after the show!" Aaron informs him, and with that, steps behind the curtain. All Mark can do is stand and nod. What could Roger want to talk about so quickly after the show? He can't just wait until they are walking home, with a little too much time on their hands? Maybe he wants to discuss what happened. Where they are going now. What they are going to do. Mark's mind runs with questions about that night, that…event. And even though he denies it, Mark knows that what happened that night is the reason he's so eager about Roger coming out on stage.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Two days ago
Mark and Roger sit tiredly in the kitchen, watching as Benny creates a late lunch for three out of a single tomato, some stale bread and a few pieces of very questionable ham. All of the bread is stuffed into the toaster that Mark was almost positive had broken, after Roger's latest one nightstand had tried to scramble eggs in it. But after a rough bang of Benny's fist, it seemed good as new. That was until he used one single slot to toast three pieces of bread at once. But that's nothing another open fisted punch couldn't fix, according to Benny.
Ten painful minutes of constantly insisting they could scrounge up enough money to go to a tiny bar and eat later, Mark and Roger were treated to two slightly burnt grilled ham and tomato sandwiches.
"Thanks…Benny. Who knew such a good meal was lurking in our kitchen?" Mark comments sarcastically, lifting up a piece of scorched bread to gander at a thin and sad slice of very ripe tomato.
"Well since we haven't really eaten anything decent lately, I figured I would treat you guys to some actual food." He smiles, proud of what's he's accomplished. Even if Mark and Roger are a little more than hesitant to eat it.
"So…you going to a job interview or something? Blind date?" Roger keeps talking while he eyes his sandwich, debating whether he should really eat this, or just dump it in the garbage when Benny isn't looking. After all…he hasn't eaten in a while, and this doesn't look that bad.
"I got a date. With a nice girl I met at that club a few nights ago. I don't know if it's gonna work…she seems like one of those girls who carries their dog in their purse." Benny flashes the boys an arrogant grin before chugging down the rest of the liquid in his cup and chucking it into the moldy sink.
"Good luck." Mark smiles, finally taking a bite of the food sitting in front of him, and subtly giving Roger the permission to eat his.
"Yeah, thanks, man. See you guys later." The new cook saunters out with a few shuffles of his feet, leaving Roger and Mark alone at the counter.
"This isn't so bad." Mark mumbles to the rock star next to him, who proceeds to glare at his roommate then offer a light chuckle. Roger can't believe that no matter how shitty Benny's cooking is, Mark is filled with enough pity to compliment him.
"I'd like to see you eat it all then." Roger pushes the plate closer to the other man, who cringes at the prospect of actually eating the mess in front of him.
"Why don't you?" Mark pushes it away from himself, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I'm not the one who looks like a skeleton." Roger lifts an eyebrow as Mark examines his skinny features. Surely he's not that skinny…
"I do not." Before Mark can continue, a very determined and partially curious Roger is lifting his shirt, as if it's a common lunchtime practice.
"What the fuck!?" Mark screeches as his pale and bare abdomen is exposed, Roger's fingertips lightly making contact to prove that it's possible to feel his ribs.
"See? You're way too fucking skinny. You need to build some muscle…or at least gorge so you get a beer belly." With that, Roger lets go of his hold on the filmmaker, and Mark breathes a sigh of relief.
"I eat as much as I can. I don't think we could afford for me to be obese like you want."
"I don't want you obese, I just want you healthy." Roger's eyes droop, but connect directly with Mark's. He's actually being serious? Mark was convinced this was all just because the group was trying to nag him or pick on him, but maybe they're genuinely worried.
"I'm fine. If it makes you feel better I'll stuff my face from now on." Mark picks up the sandwich, opening his mouth for a whopping bite, but halting in the middle. "You know…you're looking a little famished yourself,"
"What?" Revenge imprinted in his mind, Mark reaches towards the other man, lifting his t-shirt like was just done to him. But this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Roger doesn't resist, but simply allows his stomach to be shown to the world. Or, a curious filmmaker. And he's got no reason to hide.
"You have like…" Mark mumbles as he unintentionally admires Roger's six-pack. Sure, they're a little shabby, as if Roger hasn't paid them much attention, but that's probably due to the recent lack of food and money. A bronze tan rests on his skin, remaining from the day Collins and the rock star spontaneously skinny dipped in a fountain, only to find out it was private property by a security guard ten minutes into their adventure.
"What?" Roger looks down, as if he doesn't know what shape he's in.
"Y…nothing." Mark immediately drops the rocker's shirt, returning to stare at his sandwich. New thoughts run through his mind. Why has he never noticed Roger's body before? Sure he's seen him shirtless dozens of times, but he was never really looking. Now Mark has definitely looked, and thinks it was better before he did.
"Mark?" Roger taps him on the shoulder, throwing the filmmaker out of his thought process and slight shock.
"Hmm?"
"You okay?" Mark nods at his question, but refuses to look Roger directly in the eye. If he does…
"I mean, I know that my body can catapult anyone into a drooling state, but I never thought you would become that vulnerable," Roger's hand remains resting on Mark's shoulder, something that Mark is very aware of, and Roger doesn't even realize. "Mark?"
"No…I just…I never noticed how…never mind." Now Roger's hand is circling, rubbing slowly, comforting yet confusing.
"How hot I am? You seriously never noticed? Jesus Mark, here I am thinking you are smarter than me all this time." Mark offers a pity chuckle for his cocky roommate, but continues to contemplate what the fuck he is feeling right now. It's…heat.
"I guess I just never looked that way before." Their eyes connect, and suddenly Mark is not the only one feeling this heat. Roger becomes aware of his hand that is carefully traveling down Mark's chest, eventually landing on his thigh.
"What the hell…" Someone murmurs, before both of them lean into a slightly unprompted, slightly uncomfortable, slightly romantic kiss.
At first their lips clench, something that years of being friends will do to a first kiss. But after both boys take a breath, they relax. Roger's hands roam around Mark's neck, discovering the feel of his pale white skin. Mark's fingertips concentrate on the other man's arms, running up and down, up and down, up and down until he's memorized the curve of every muscle.
Neither of them have felt each other, or even thought of each other in this way before. But now, they are both wondering why it took them so long to. The mumbled moans, the curious hands, the rasping breaths and the needing mouths. All of it seems so familiar, yet so foreign.
Roger is first to stop them, looking into the other man's eyes, unable to join words into a sentence. But he's not sure that's even what he's trying to do. He just wants to stare. Stare at Mark, in this moment, and try to remember every second, every touch, every noise, and every inch of Mark's body. Who knows if this will become something, or it's just fucking around. But for now, Roger just wants to soak it all in.
"Is it…are we okay?" Mark mumbles, his words askew and slurred. But Roger doesn't answer. All he offers is his hand, which he tangles against Mark's, then pulls his roommate over to the couch. He goes slowly, taking his time and making sure they don't miss a beat. He leads Mark to sit down so that they are facing each other, rubbing his thumb along the pale five o'clock shadow that rests on the filmmaker's chin.
"You need to shave. It's only two and you already have stubble." Roger chuckles, as Mark grips at his face.
"Yeah well…I just didn't have…" Roger collides their mouths forcefully, fitting his top lip in between Mark's light pink ones and grasping harshly to the side of his face. Mark gasps lightly, but relaxes to Roger's touch once the other man lets him lean against the side of the couch, lying himself across the filmmaker. Mark's arms drape across Roger's back, his hands reluctantly making contact with the rim of the rocker's jeans as he contemplates if he wants to reach further. He decides that for now, his hands will stay put at the edge.
Their bodies are almost frozen in time, slight movements like the smack of their lips or the entwining of their fingers making appearances, but at the moment, both men are reluctant to make any huge shifts. Their mouths move around each other, exploring tastes, tongues, and teeth, and only breaking for air subtly when it seems like both of them would have already suffocated.
Mark is surprised how natural this all is. There's no awkwardness, no rigidity, and after they got to the couch, not a second of hesitation. Unlike his usual behavior, the filmmaker is finding himself relatively calm. Maybe it's because it's Roger he's kissing, Roger who's lying on top of him, and Roger's hands all over his body. The Roger who he's lived with for almost a year. The Roger who he's stayed up with late at night just to talk about absolutely nothing. The Roger who tried pot with him for the first time, even though Mark refused to touch it again while Roger does it to this day. But now, he's the Roger whose body is pressed tightly against his, while their mouths fuse together.
Mark's hands fumble lightly when he begins to lift Roger's shirt, but Roger doesn't think twice. He sits up, separating their mouths and pulls his shirt quickly over his head before leaning back down to Mark's lips.
Neither of them expected such great kissing. Roger has kissed his share of girls, and a few guys who flirted a little too much with him after a set with the band, but nothing has been quite like kissing Mark. Something about it is more than just animal attraction, or needing to touch more skin, needing to get closer. It's something more intimate, that both men would rather not admit to. For now, all they can tell themselves, is that they need sex.
"Take off your shirt." Roger says as he sits up, straddling Mark's thighs, one knee placed on the outside of each leg.
"Wha…oh..okay…" Mark stutters, lifting his shirt over his head and throwing it down beside the couch. This time, Roger's mouth doesn't gravitate to Mark's. Instead, he buries his face into Mark's neck, biting and licking while the filmmaker's hands explore the feel of Roger's back. His fingers run over each curve, each dip, and each bump, admiring everything there is to admire about a person's back.
"Is it okay?" Roger questions as he reaches the zipper to Mark's corduroys, and he takes a deep breath before answering.
"I think it's safe to say we've already crossed the line between friends and more than friends." Mark laughs breathlessly, recovering from having his mouth devoured only seconds ago. Sure enough, Roger wastes no time in undoing the pants beneath him and standing up so he can fully remove his own.
Even though it had a sense of comfort to it, only one thing ran through Mark's mind the entire time.
Holy Shit.
Three Hours Later
The moonlight is blinding to Mark's sleep cloaked eyes, shining through the window just enough to wake him. The bed smells like sweat and sex, something that he was never really fond of, but currently finds a tiny bit intriguing. He rolls over slowly, hearing a light crunch as he hits Roger's pillow. Mark thrusts his head up to eye the piece of paper that is placed there, a small note from Roger scribbled most likely as an afterthought.
"Gone to the show, come if you want, Roger." It seems empty. Hollow and apathetic. Mark didn't expect a love note, but at least some acknowledgement of what had just happened. It's not like they have sex everyday. Well, with each other at least.
Mark climbs back to his pillow, shutting his fatigued eyes and thinking over his afternoon. He considers getting up to go to the show, but lacks the motivation to actually climb out of bed. Roger will forgive him. He'd better, at least. He finally gathers the energy to open his eyes, if only to take a gander at the time and notice that the moon happens to be right outside the window. Great, he thinks. The one night he could actually sleep well.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
Mark felt bad that he missed Roger's show that night, after promising he would attend weeks in advance. But Roger didn't seem to mind all that much when he got home. He said the show was good, everything went as planned, but it was nothing special. Nothing that Mark hadn't seen before. But when Roger got back, it was as if nothing had happened. They went back to talking like friends, laughing like friends, touching and hugging like friends, without questions. Apparently after the show, Roger had erased the memory of that night from his mind.
Maybe it was just a weak moment, Mark thinks, as he tells himself over and over again that it doesn't matter. It didn't mean much to him either. But there will always be that voice at the back of his mind, telling him that it did matter. And he knows that that voice is telling the truth.
The last member of the audience cheers and a random whistle is heard as Roger's band clears the stage, after a semi-conscious audience responded rather well to their blend of punk rock and random acoustic songs. Mark shuts off his camera just in time for a couple of the club employees to begin cleaning off the stage, wiping up after Aaron's knocked over scotch that he stupidly placed on an amp. His camera whips across his chest as Mark hops up onto the stage, heading for behind the curtain, just as instructed. He's giddier than he should be; he doesn't want to seem too excited to see Roger, especially since the rocker has been playing it cool ever since they slept together. But then again, he thinks, Roger was the one who asked to see him backstage after the show. So maybe his pessimism is just paranoia.
Mark grasps the lens of his camera as he peeks behind the curtain, gazing into the darkness ahead of him. He can finally make out the form of a person, and once he spots the spiked hair, he safely assumes its Roger. Once his eyes adjust to the lack of light, he can make out someone else pressed closely to his roommate; a girl. She sports a thigh-length skirt, as well as a ragged pair of leggings and shoes. Roger's leather jacket is affectionately draped over her, and her bony fingers are barely visible as they grip tightly to the collar to secure it around her. Her hair is messy in that nonchalant sort of way, as if she's not trying all that hard but still seeking attention in some way.
Before Mark can turn away to face the audience, the girl pushes herself up on her scrappy shoes to connect her mouth with Roger's, a kiss that he accepts immediately with an uncommon passion that is all too familiar to Mark. Roger's arm wrap around her almost non-existent waist as he deepens the kiss, and Mark decides he's seen enough. Why the fuck would Roger want to see him if this was all he was planning on doing? Making out with some random fan? Right the fuck in front of his best friend? And right after they fucking slept together. Obviously the moldy bread and ripe tomatoes got to Roger's head.
Mark wonders if they've ever connected memory loss to mold before in a scientific experiment.
Before he is able to recognize how ridiculous that thought is, he feels someone tap his shoulder. His heart beats loudly in his ears and he reluctantly turns around to face that shit faced grin he'd been so eager to see only hours earlier. But now it's standing beside another grin, this one cloaked with innocence and not a touch of guilt. But why should she be guilty? She has no idea what's going on. She's just there to get her ten minutes with a rock star before she hesitantly leaves in the middle of the night to gossip to all of her poseur friends that not only is he hot, but not a bad fuck. Mark offers a smile anyways. If only to pretend that she looks nice with Roger's favorite jacket pressed against her bony frame.
"You enjoy the show?" Roger asks, rubbing his hand casually over the girl's back as he stares Mark directly in the eye. Mark pivots on his foot before awkwardly glancing down at his camera with a false smirk.
"Yeah, it was great," he looks to the girl, intentionally asking to be introduced even though he's positive she's not important enough to get introduced. But sure enough, Roger tips his head down to exchange their names.
"Mark, this is April. We met last night at the show you missed," he plants a small kiss on April's cheek and she opens her mouth with a wide smile in Mark's direction. Mark smiles back, his heart silently breaking beneath it. As if the i name /i wasn't enough, he had to add the kiss. And of course, there was a nice touch of guilt at the end of the sentence. As if he could have stopped this chance meeting by attending the show last night instead of lying in bed and repeating every movement of the afternoon before in his head.
"Nice to meet you. Look, I think I'm going to head home, I didn't get much sleep last night." Mark adds suspiciously, hoping that Roger will get the hint. It seems as though he does, as he nods solemnly and proceeds to stare at his feet as Mark walks away. But in a last second attempt, Roger runs after the filmmaker, grabbing his arm firmly to stop him.
"Mark, wait. I really like her. And I wasn't sure if what happened was something that was," he stops mid-sentence, gathering his thoughts to give it another try. "I didn't know if it was a big thing or just us messing around." His eyes sparkle, catching Mark's attention under the multi-colored lights that surround them in the club.
"I guess it was nothing. Just go back to April and I'll see you at home." Mark turns around again to leave, when he hears Roger pathetically call after him,
"You'll like her, Mark, I promise."
But he never does like her. Sure, he pretends to have fun with her while he becomes the third wheel to their sudden state of love. He pretends not to notice as Roger slowly forgets him and spends every waking second with this girl who Mark once thought was a random fan.
But he can't forget when she finally leaves Roger all alone, and Mark to pick up the shattered pieces of what was once his best friend. For some reason he thinks he could have prevented all the pain that came with the next year, the drugs, the depression, the suicide attempts and rehab. And even when Roger assures him that it would have happened anyway, he can't help but think that if he would have attended that one show. That one show, out of all of the shitty clubs and deteriorating bars they have played. If he would have dragged his lazy ass out of bed to see Roger play the same set of songs while his drunk guitarist made a fool out of himself as usual, it all would have been different.
But maybe one day he'll have his chance. He'll just have to be patient.