Ready for You

By The Versatile Scarf

Chapter Ten

A/N: That last chapter did NOT turn out how I wanted it to. Oh well. No. Mark's not all better. Just somewhat better. Yes. I am answering my own question.

I'm pretty much finishing this story just to get it done. My RENT muse has since gone into.. hibernation.

D: -sads-

This is pretty much a filler chapter. Obviously this is turning slashy. Sorry to all of those who aren't happy about that. xD

Song: It's a War in There by Dar Williams

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you're helping me move from the inside to the outside

Roger was gone. He'd expressed his unending hatred and slammed the door shut. The sounds of angry footsteps echoed down the rickety staircase. It was faint, but stopped entirely when the musician reached Mimi's floor.. or so Mark assumed, for when they resumed the sound continued to fade, continued until it was nothing more than a memory. Close on the door. It wouldn't be opening again. Pan one hundred and eight degrees to Mark's fa--

He awoke with a jerk, a twitch, and a silent yelp all at once.

Roger was not gone. Roger was leaning over him, expression hard.

Now he remembered. They'd sat in silence, on opposite ends of the couch, for what seemed like hours. Probably was, judging by the dimming of the light outside of the window. ... It was dark now, he realized, and the nagging feeling in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he'd not actually eaten in... well, Mark couldn't remember yesterday. Mark couldn't remember the day before. Mark remembered hearing that Collins had died, and that was the end of it. Apparently, though, plenty of time had passed between then and now. He reached up a hand to rub lightly at his face, expression twisting as he felt the more-than-stubble there.

How much time had he lost?

"... Good morning?" He questioned, inconspicuously eyeing the wound and bruising on Roger's jawline. He knew it wasn't morning--the light that illuminated the both of them was coming from the lamp beside the couch. Which was where they were presently...

Wait. When had he curled up? For he was most definitely parallel to the floor now. ... And if he wasn't perpendicular to the couch but Roger was and was looking down on him..

"Get the fuck off of my lap."

Right. That was a good plan of action. Sitting up so quickly he nearly smacked their heads together, but felt all of the blood rush out of his nonetheless, the filmmaker scooted quickly to his own end of the couch, looking away, embarrassed. Just how long had he been asleep for? How long had Roger been glaring at him? And just what had woken him up?

"... Fell asleep."

"You were dreaming."

Hesitance. "Yeah, I was."

He glanced toward the musician, only to find that Roger was looking away.

"What about?"

"... don't remember."

"Bullshit."

Nothing more was said, however. That short conversation was the first they'd had since Roger had had his mini breakdown, laughing and raving about some.. 'rubber shackles'. Mark didn't understand that. In fact, he was slightly perturbed by it. And slightly perturbed that his first thought had been about Mimi.

The silence had descended. The awkward, oppressive lack of sound had returned, enveloping them in a mock embrace. Mark reached a hand up to his neck, rubbing away the imagined tendrils wrapping around it, cutting off his air supply. He'd rather not be suffocated by his own imagination. But now he was searching. Searching for something to break the silence. He didn't want to start up conversation--it would only end badly. He wanted to ask if Collins was really gone. What had happened to Benny. Where Maureen and Joanne were. What Roger had meant by saying rubber shackles. But he couldn't, and he didn't want to admit that he was afraid.

So he simply stood and walked to the bathroom. It was a plausible excuse, right? Closing the door, he stared at it for a good long while. ... what would end this cold war? Was there any hope of it ever ceasing? Would they part on such terms as they had last time? .. Mark didn't want that. He had fled last time. Taking Roger's advice, perhaps. But he'd come back. Perhaps he'd waited too long. Perhaps if he had returned within a few months the hostility wouldn't have been so great.

Shuffling to the toilet, he simply reached out and flushed it, placing the lid down and taking a seat, rubbing his cheek once more. Shit, he really needed a shave. Vaguely recalling that Roger looked very clean-shaven, he stood and opened one of the cupboards. A package of disposable razors... and raspberry vanilla bodywash.

Mark said nothing, merely plucking one of the razors from its packing and straightening.

His appearance startled him.

He was pale, which was a surprise, considering he'd lived on the west coast for quite a while. His eyes looked.. haunted. His lip seemed to have been split, but had healed over, badly. And his hair.. well, Mark's hair was mussed. He'd fallen asleep on his right side, so that looked sleep-messed, but the left side.. it looked as though someone had deliberately run their fingers through it, just to make it look bad.

He must have done it without thinking about it.

So, with those thoughts out of his mind, he set about ridding his face of the unsightly hair, allowing his mind to simply stop for a few minutes.

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Roger stared at his hands.

He wasn't certain what had possessed him to do it.

He wasn't certain why he'd run his fingers through Mark's hair instead of shoving the blonde off.

It couldn't be relief, of course. He wasn't relieved that he'd not lost another friend, after losing so many. That was ridiculous.

Roger inhaled shakily.

... his hair had been unusually soft, even after not having been properly taken care of in quite a while.

The water turned on in the bathroom, drawing his gaze, and he released the breath he'd been holding.

Fuck.

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