Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

Mark

Over the course of the next few days, Mark learned just how difficult it was to avoid Roger. It was really all that he wanted to do after his comment to Roger following his concert. The words had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, and as true as they were, it wasn't exactly a sentiment that he wanted to share with Roger.

Even if Roger obviously already knew it.

For Mark to say that he wasn't sure when the thought had first occurred to him would be a complete and total lie. They'd been watching a movie together at Roger's house about a week before, and his mom had come by and teasingly smacked the back of Roger's head. He'd immediately put up a show of being desperately hurt, falling over sideways so that his head landed in Mark's lap, finally breaking down and grinning up at his mom and Mark both.

Something had fluttered deep in Mark's stomach and, as he damned his hormones, most of the blood rushed out of his face and dropped straight downwards so quickly that he all but shoved Roger out of his lap.

Since then it had been nagging at him. He'd never had a really close guy friend before—there was only Maureen and the couple girls that she brought around. Oh, and Nanette, but she'd moved away after ninth grade, so that hardly counted. Way back in elementary school there were some guys that he had been somewhat close friends with, but they had drifted apart since then.

He spent more time that he really thought he should have assuring himself that that was probably all that it was. He decided that he was misinterpreting something new—being friends with a guy. After all, surely all guys (especially horny teenaged ones) noticed when other guys were attractive. They had to—they couldn't be that blind. It was just that no one ever talked about it, because then they were labeled a faggot, or some equally awful term that Mark had, in fact, been called in the past.

Mark really began to get concerned with when, the day after Roger had smiled with that dizzying grin that he had, slightly pointed incisors giving him the look of some dangerous predator that had been tamed enough to be lying back in Mark's lap, he went home and tried to get himself off.

That much was normal enough; Mark was a young guy that needed some release now and then. The part that worried him was that he couldn't get that smile out of his mind, and he started imagining quite a bit more that his mouth could be doing.

Mark didn't masturbate after that. It had been a week, but he didn't want to chance another slip like that—the thought of Roger's tight pants stretched tighter, and—well, in all honesty he was still thinking about it, just in more uncomfortable circumstances.

That all added up to why he really didn't want to face Roger after the concert. Onstage, as frontman, Roger had looked so impassioned, and when he turned to look at Mark while beginning the one song, the whole rest of the club had disappeared. There was only Roger singing his lungs out, and Mark holding up his camera so that he could keep the moment for all of eternity. He really wanted to be the microphone in Roger's hands—fingers wrapped tight around it and mouth nearly touching it.

Knowing that he shouldn't be thinking that only drove his mind to it more determinedly. That's why Mark had decided that the best thing to do was to just not be around Roger, so that Roger didn't have to be polluted by the sick fantasies that wouldn't leave Mark's mind.

Roger was nearly impossible to avoid. Mark didn't know how he did it. Whereas before they had only really seen each other in Government, at lunch, and after school, suddenly Roger seemed to be popping up everywhere. It might have just been an overly active imagination, but it was as if any hallway that Mark traversed, they passed by one another.

To make things all that much worse, every time Roger went by he'd nudge Mark's shoulder, or touch him lightly and smile. At the best, he'd wave, eyes trained on Mark and Mark alone, but that was bad enough. It wasn't like he could stop hanging out with Roger, either, because then it would be even more obvious that something was wrong, and Mark really couldn't explain what his sudden problem was.

Despite his best efforts, it was clear that Mark really didn't cover up the fact that something was amiss as well as he'd hoped, however, because it wasn't long before Roger confronted him about it. They had just gotten out of Government and Mark was all ready to make an excuse for why he couldn't go hang out with Roger, but before the words could leave his mouth, Roger grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around the building.

No one ever hung out back there, mainly because the history building backed up to a swampy area with reeds and grasses that reached almost to Mark's waist. Normally he would've protested the treatment that his shoes were getting, but Roger really didn't look in the mood to put up with whining, so Mark kept his mouth shut.

Once they were out of sight of anyone else, Roger all-but shoved Mark backwards against the bricks, and stood in front of him, one arm up to the side. Mark really didn't like the dangerous glint in his eyes, which were deeper green than he'd seen before. In fact, Roger's whole posture looked almost terrifying, as he leaned over Mark, staring right at him. That was something Mark still hadn't gotten used to yet—the way Roger constantly kept eye contact. His own eyes fidgeted everywhere, and he fervently wished for a camera to hide behind.

There was a very long moment of silence before Mark finally broke down. "Roger? Um…are you…okay?" The words came out pathetically quiet, but he couldn't make them more convincing with those eyes trained on him.

For a moment Mark thought that Roger was going to hit him, but instead, in a steely voice, he scoffed, "Oh yes, I'm always just wonderful when my best friend starts all-but hiding from me."

By then, Mark was honestly wishing that the wall would swallow him from behind. "Me? Hiding from you?"

That was the wrong thing to say, and Roger exploded. "Yes, Mark, hiding from me. As in avoiding me! Running away anytime I try to approach you! Don't play like you don't know what I'm talking about. I may not get top-notch grades like you, but I'm not stupid. There's something up, and I want to know what the hell it is. What the fuck did I do, Mark? Can't you even tell me?" His voice sounded on the verge of breaking at the last sentence, and when Mark chanced a glance at him, Roger's eyes were a mixture of pain and anger.

"I'm…you didn't…I'm not…" There were a few false starts before Mark could figure out anything to say. "You didn't do anything, Roger. It's just…me."

Now Roger looked confused, on top of the other emotions, and impatient. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "Well, then what aren't you telling me about? Can't you trust me?"

"It's…I don't think I should. It'd cause…problems."

Roger was yelling now, breathing hard and glaring. "Well, guess the fuck what, Mark? It's already causing problems!"

Mark didn't have a response to that, because although it was true, that didn't make it any easier to know what to say. Roger, I think I might have a crush on you, but it might just be that you're the first guy that I've been close to since puberty, so maybe not. How about, Roger, I can't jerk off anymore because all I think about as what your hands would feel like, and what color of green your eyes would turn if you were turned on. Yeah. Those were both wonderful options to confide to your best same-gendered friend. Mark tried to face the fact that he was just a screwed up kid and Roger was going to hate him.

There was another long moment of silence before Roger shrugged in what Mark supposed he was trying to make into an uncaring manner. It just came off as him looking more upset, which Mark assumed was the case. "You know what? Just…fuck it all. If you can't fucking tell me and don't want to be around me, then I don't see why I'm bothering to stick around."

Shit. Fuck. No, that's not what's supposed to happen.

He turned, making as if he was going to leave, and Mark finally managed to squeak out, "Rog…wait."

He half-turned back, lips pressed tightly together, probably to keep from yelling again. "What?" The word was spat out with enough venom that Mark shrunk down a little further. He'd never seen Roger angry like this before.

"I…uh…" There really wasn't any graceful way to go about it. "It's just that…I've been having a lot of thoughts lately that are really…weird."

Finally Roger looked at him, really looked, not just glaring, and some of the anger was gone from his gaze, though the pain still remained in full force. "Okay…" he said, his voice softer now, waiting for a further explanation.

A silent sight escaped Mark's lips. This was it. He was about to lose himself the friend that mattered the most to him other than Maureen, all because of some stupid teenaged hormonal shit that he was obviously doing a really poor job of controlling. "I…um..." This seemed to be a new favorite starting phrase. "I've been feeling stuff about—it's stupid, I mean, I don't think I'm—it's just that you're—well, we've gotten close and you're—it's probably nothing."

The way he'd worded his confession might have been lacking in eloquence because he couldn't get himself to say it straight-out, but it seemed to get the point across. A blush had stolen its way quite conspicuously across his cheeks, ears, and neck, and he was looking anywhere he could other than at Roger, tossing tiny peeks at his friend from time to time to see how he was taking it.

Roger looked stunned, and Mark really didn't blame him. At least some of the hurt had lifted from his expression. Mark bit one lip nervously, chewing on it and trying his best to disappear. "Um…Roger, sorry, I shouldn't—"

Roger cut off the apology as he took a few steps closer so that the two boys were only about six inches apart, and Mark forgot what he was trying to say. Standing there, he couldn't imagine wanting anything more than Roger with his dark blond hair and rough skin, confusion and uncertainly roiling through his eyes, and hands tucked into his back pockets.

Mark knew that if he looked at Roger now, he was either going to do something incredibly stupid, or else stare until Roger was freaked out enough to actually walk away for real, this time, so he tried to focus on his shoes instead. There was a splotch of mud on the toe of one, and he needed to make sure to get it off before his mom saw.

The rough voice was considerably brighter this time, when Roger spoke. "Do you really think I'm sexy?"

"I—what?" Roger, please don't play games with me.

"I asked if you really think that—"

Mark's voice went up about an octave at that point. "Are you going to just make fun of me? Because if so, tell me, and I'll just walk away and you can go—"

"Look, Mark, sorry that you think I'm messing with you; I'm not. It's just the only way I can think of to bring it up."

"Bring what up, Roger?" Mark could feel every brick pressed into his back as Roger leaned forward slightly, smelling like aftershave and hair gel, firmly holding Mark's eyes with just his gaze.

"That I'd really like for you to think that." Roger, the rock-star sex-god, was actually blushing slightly, pink tingeing his cheekbones ever-so-slightly. Mark was pretty much forgetting how to breathe, so he inwardly coached himself in…out…in…out. That might have worked better if it didn't bring something else to mind as well.

"Uhhhhh." Mark thought that Roger had to have been amazingly impressed by his brilliant syntax today. He was glad Roger hadn't commented yet.

Instead, one arm snaked out and his thumb, calloused like all of his fingertips from guitar, rubbed across Mark's forehead near his hairline as the hand curved around the side of his head. Mark wanted to melt into the touch, and he bit back a sigh at how good the gentle hand felt.

Another inch and their faces would be touching. "I'd really like to know what else you've been thinking about me, also," Roger purred, looking much more like the self-confident, unfaltering Roger that Mark knew, now. Mark's face flamed even more hotly, particularly because it wasn't the only part of him that was reacting to his friend's closeness and sensuous speech.

"Roger…what are you?…I mean…" Mark couldn't form coherent sentences at all anymore, and he vaguely wondered how long it had been since anything that he'd said had made sense. Roger, thankfully, seemed to know implicitly what he meant.

"Who knows?" he remarked, and closed the rest of the distance between them.

Mark had been kissed before—once by Maureen after her first drama production that he showed up at with roses, but that hadn't meant anything. There was one time that he and Nanette, in an act of young rebellion, had kissed, too—they had tried to make out, but her lip had gotten caught on his braces and started to bleed, so that had signaled the end of that endeavor.

Kissing Roger was completely different. He was so warm that Mark was afraid of being burned, and not submissive like Nanette had been. It was only a moment before Roger's tongue was at Mark's lips, pushing inside and exploring his mouth, turning his legs to jelly. He was afraid he was going to fall, and even slid down the wall an inch or two, but Roger stopped his progress with a very well-placed knee between his legs. Mark moaned against him, and Roger's hands gripped his shoulders, hanging on as if letting go would herald the Apocalypse.

Then it was over and Roger was drawing back, both of them shaking slightly. With a dry tongue, Mark licked his lips, and Roger mimicked the action, remarking, "You taste good." Mark blinked at him, his brain still trying to catch up with his senses.

The first thing that he managed to blurt out, to his immediate embarrassment, was, "I didn't know you liked guys."

Roger raised an eyebrow (and God, Mark wanted a picture of him looking exactly like that), and replied, "Yeah, I didn't know I did either."

Glad that he wasn't offended, Mark timidly but boldly ventured, "Maybe we should try that again…just to make sure."

Immediately Roger was kissing him again, and this time, he was able to kiss back with just as much ardor, only parting when they were both gasping for breath. He looked at Roger, whose lips were slightly parted, and shivered at the appearance.

Silence stretched between them, until Roger finally spoke. "I have practice. You know, for the band," he mumbled uncertainly, and Mark nodded, dazed and unsure of what that was supposed to mean.

"Okay…um…see ya later, Roger."

He waved, and then he was gone, leaving Mark desperately praying that he would, indeed, be seeing him later.