Streetlights and Starlight
by alwaysflying
Disclaimer: No, I still don't own RENT. Isn't that funny?
Author's Notes: And ta-da! Here's this chapter. If it's not as good (or as long) as previous ones, forgive me, please. After all, tomorrow morning will be a very special occasion of mine (on which I shall have the opportunity to wear a very special white dress).
When Mark returns, his hair is swept back and his cheeks, flushed, shine even in the dark loft. "Hey, Benny, Collins," he grunts towards his friends, completely ignoring Roger, who is perhaps in the plainest view of all three. Collins, Roger, and Benny are sitting at the table, sipping some warm beverage and playing what appears to be their infamous favorite card game, B.S.
"Hey, Mark," Collins and Benny chorus, not looking up from their hands. Roger crosses his arms over his chest. With a clear view of Mark, he can see every line of the blonde's face
"Who'd you fuck?" he demands crudely. At this, Benny and Collins do glance upward, and seeing the thoroughly ravished appearance of Mark, Collins whistles. Benny snickers and watches the game, slamming his hand down on Roger's as the musician attempts to sneak a card into the deck. ("Sor-ry," Roger sneers.)
Mark does not answer. He does, however, glance over at Benny's cards and murmur tips for strategizing. Scowling, Roger peeks at Collins's cards, who in turn glances at Roger's. "Sucks, man," Roger tells Collins empathetically. Collins frowns.
Roger ignores him.
Equally drunk on untained loathing, Roger and Mark barely recognize their surroundings for a moment. The problem lies in that Roger, in addition to his glare, sports an erection caused by the object of his hatred. Collins, with his Homosexual Radar, somehow manages to detect this, and winks unsubtly at Roger.
"What, is he jerking off under the table or something?" Mark sneers.
Roger kicks him.
What follows is a brawl that is so utterly pathetic and lacking in credible violence that Collins does not even bother to look up from his hand of cards. "Bullshit," he tells Benny dryly as play proceeds, despite the grunts and groans coming from Roger and Mark's display of homoerotic sadomasochisic violence. "You think they're having sex?" Collins adds as Benny, grumbling, picks up the pile of cards from the center.
"Hard to tell," Benny says, craning his neck over to watch as Mark and Roger proceed to give one another bruises, cuts, and other forms of irritation. "I dunno. Roger, you'n Mark having sex yet?"
Roger and Mark pause in their violence for both young men to raise their left hands (one finger in particular) and shoot Benny identically obscene gestures. Immediately afterward, they return to their pummeling, or at least, they continue until Roger somehow manages to position himself over Mark, one arm holding the other man to the ground.
"Um, Roger, I think you've got something in your pocket," Collins tells Roger amusedly, hearing Mark's squeaks and deducing what must obviously be pressing into Mark's thigh.
"Shut the fuck up, Thomas," Roger grumbles, and rolls off Mark, eyes flaming. "I'm going out," he declares, and just as he throws on his coat, a bizarre force throws itself at Roger out of nowhere, and Roger is knocked against the wall as a pair of brusing lips thrust themselves against Roger's mouth.
Collins cackles wickedly; Benny watches in horror; Roger and Mark refuse to release one another until Mark hisses, "Bedroom. Now." With those words, Roger obediently follows Mark into Benny and Collins's bedroom. The lock clicks shut behind them, and the loft's other residents wince as a series of very passionate-sounding grunts become audible through the steel door.
"Strip the sheets tonight," Benny mutters, followed by "Three eights," as he places three cards down in the deck.
Collins smiles pityingly at his loftmate. "I know you're lying," he tells him. "I'd call you on it, but there's no need. Two nines." With that, he places his two remaining cards in the middle of the table and grins. "Sorry, buddy."
"Why are you so good at this game?" Benny demands as he stacks the cards up and places them back in the box. "It isn't fair."
"Ah, Benjamin," Collins sighs. "Were life fair, man would have naught to live for, and naught to which to aspire."
Benny cocks his head. "Is that a famous quote?" he asks.
Collins shakes his head. "Not yet," he tells his friend, and takes a long sip of vodka before placing it back in the fridge. "To the fags in our bedroom," he says, and swishes the liquid around in his mouth before taking a long gulp and swallowing it.
"May they continue their sadomaschoism," Benny adds.
And so they do.