This story was actually written as a round robin by a group of RENT fic authors. Each person was only allowed to write one sentence before passing it on, and seeing as how most RENT fic authors aren't known for their brevity, many found...erm...creative ways to push the one sentence limit. This is Mark/Roger, because about ¼ of the way through, Alison (BabyCaramel) and I (rookie2k/Kait) basically hijacked the story. A good 85-90% of it was written by us, because we have no lives ^_^
The idea, however, is totally credited to Sandy (linnell) (who did more than her share of sentances along the way as well!) because she came up with the idea, started it, and finished it ^_^ Yaaaaaayyyy Sandy!
[note from brian: I took the title from sandy, I think, because even though kait hates puns, I thought it was really cute!]Anyway, Enjoy the story!
By Sandy (linnell), Kait (rookie2k), Alison (BabyCaramel), Madison (Astrid), Emily (AlterMe01), and bri (Penumbri)
Mark held his camera up to his face, as he peered out the window of the loft. The lights from the city below flickered before his eyes, causing him to think of the events from the past year. They were gone again, of course; they were always gone, it seemed. He didn't know where his friends were; they always used to tell him where they were going, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore.
He backed away from the window, catching his own reflection with the camera, trying to ignore his loneliness. It was hard, but it was also something he was used to, bottling it up, storing it away inside himself, keeping it from the prying eyes, inquiring minds, greedy hands of the world. It would come out sometimes, a burst of rage here, an angry curse word there, but never in full. Whenever that happened, they would all laugh and tell him to relax.
He tried, of course, tried and tried and tried; tried screaming it out when they weren't around, yelling breaking smashing raging cryingcryingcrying it out of his fragile body. None of it worked, none of it ever worked, none of it would ever work; it was something he was resigned to believing. But there was a certain glory in being the quiet, shelled, reserved person he was; there was a certain charm in being alone that he reveled in and soaked up and immortalized on film.
He knew, if they watched his films carefully, they could see the real Mark; but no one ever watched carefully. He wanted them to, he wanted *him* to, he wanted _anyone_ to, but mostly those wants, those desires and pangs fears hopes longings musings...mostly they fell on deaf ears. There were the lusty, repressed, even dirty wanting feelings for Maureen, the desire to be strong like Roger, the want for the success of Joanne, the envy of Collins' intelligence, the coveting of Angel's happy-go-lucky attitude and even Benny's wealth.
And so he sat, alone; waiting for the phone to ring, the door to open, for someone to reach out. He tried not to mind it, tried to get by on the passing glances hurried greetings shallow welcomes silent goodbyes--*yes mark, of course mark, we'll see you later mark, g'night mark*--but it was all starting to drone on into one endless monotone existence, an existence which he longed to break free of. He would try to think of new ways to avoid those little convenient lies, like not answering the phone even though he wanted to talk, not going out with friends when he wanted fun because he knew it would just end in "Goodnight, Mark" and nothing more, and then sometimes he would contemplate picking up a complete stranger, a barfly, a random woman just for a sense of connection. But they wouldn't want him, no one wanted him, he didn't even want himself.
It was on one of those nights, those cold, empty nights, that he first found it. A small bottle shoved in the back of the fridge, a bottle that he feared more than anything, a bottle that had sparked arguments with his father and bruises and pain and tears, a bottle that he wanted to drink from, and wasn't sure why. He would have too; There was no doubt in his mind that he would have done, not even an inkling of a lie, a lie of morals, a frightened lie rushed out to himself to protect from the heartbreak of calculating his own demise, he knew that given the chance...he would have done it.
A quick glance at the scar on his right arm let him know that if he *had* done it, there would have been no turning back; that things like this were hereditary and he would turn into the person he feared most in the world, the person he never wanted to become.
The sound of the locks on the door, magically turning, awoke him from his daze. It was all in a stomach churning slow motion, the door opening, his musician, his Roger, his best friend, walking into the room, the surprised gasp, the shaking hands, the bottle shattering onto the floor...all of is churned around him, inched slowly by, mocking his inability to stop it. He watched as if through a haze, watched with horror as Roger's expression shifted from confusion to shock to anger, watched like it was not real life but some film on a screen, which Mark had no role in and no control over.
"Roger, I can explain!" he whispered, the words bubbling up from nowhere, pouring out despite the fact that they were lies, that he couldn't really explain, that he didn't really understand it himself.
The songwriter stormed towards him, bending down to pick up a piece of broken glass with a label still attached, he stared at it for moment and then looked up at the trembling figure before him, "Ok then, explain."
"I...I...I..." he sputtered as his brain rushed and spun with excuses and lies and explanations, his whole head spinning, his musician swaying before him, his whole life seemingly slipping and -- "I just want to feel, Roger!"
"You want to feel?" He laughed bitterly, "You want to feel, so you decide to do something you always swore you wouldn't?"
Mark shook and sweated under Roger's gaze, flinching back from the first burning in his eyes, trying to shield himself as he screamed out the reply at the top of his lungs, "I've tried everything else for the past 26 god forsaken years and it never works, no one ever cares, no one ever notices, no one ever helps, YOU never help!"
"How can I, Mark?" Roger replied, his own voice rising almost involuntarily, "How the hell can I when you shut yourself off from me and everyone else?"
"I...I...I don't know...I don't know how...I want to try and...I love...Roger, I..." Mark sunk to the floor, his back to the wall, his eyes overflowing with tears.
"What is it?" Roger asked, his emotions softening slightly as he looked at his helpless filmmaker; he wanted to rescue him, wanted to do things right, but he never knew what he was supposed to do, what was right.
"Everything," Mark whispered, staring at the floor. "Everything is wrong, Roger..."
"And you expect this to solve it?" Roger glanced down at the piece of broken glass still in his hand, running his fingers across its smooth surface.
"I-I don't...I don't know anymore...I don't know what to do...I don't want to do anything...I can't handle it, I don't..." he trailed over, studying his hands, the floor, his shoes...anything that kept him from looking at Roger. The songwriter knelt down beside his best friend and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what to say or do or even think. Mark timidly leaned into Roger's touch, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands in a feeble attempt to conceal his falling tears.
"It's okay," Roger whispered and put both his arms around Mark's shaking frame, wishing he knew if he was speaking the truth, just now realizing that, for having known each other so long, he hardly knew Mark at all.
"God, I hope so, Roger...please let it be okay..." he whispered dully, slipping his arms around Roger and burying his face in his musician's shoulder.
"Mark, I... I..." Roger wanted to say he'd always be there, he'd never let Mark hurt again, but the only words he could find were, "What can I do to help you?"
Mark looked up, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes as he muttered, "In a second I might say something really stupid and selfish...please don't let me..."
"What?" Roger murmured, aware that he wasn't exactly doing what Mark had asked, but he needed to hear whatever it was; even if it was stupid or selfish, even if he would regret asking, right now he needed to know what Mark was thinking.
"I...I...Roger, I can't...I will but...I'm afraid you'll...you'll..." Mark was unaware that he was trembling again, shaking with pain and fear and utter anxiety under Roger's caring gaze.
"Just... just, whatever it is, you can say it," Roger tightened his arms around Mark in a worried attempt to stop his trembling.
Mark ran his fingers lightly over the pattern on the front of Roger's t-shirt, keeping his eyes away from those of his musician until he could evade the question no longer, "Roger...I...I think and I'm...that you...I think I've...fallen in love...with you."
"I... I... oh God..." Roger stared at Mark, his muscles stiffening, his stomach turning, his throat tightening, as the room suddenly became unbearably tiny and burning burning hot and he had to get out but couldn't move.
"I told you! I told you not to make me say it!" Mark wailed, tears burning beneath his eyes, tears he couldn't show, couldn't expose, couldn't surrender too, no, not now, not now that he had frightened his musician that he had scared him away, that he was already babbling an apology--"..sorry, I told you, I told you you'd hate me, told you it was wrong, I'm sorry..."--already trying to take it all back. Everything tore at Roger's insides, he wanted to wipe Mark's tears, wanted to jump up and run as fast as he could, wanted to console the crying filmmaker, wanted to vomit, wanted to shout, wanted to hold him tight, wanted to push him violently away, wanted to kiss him -- where the fuck had that come from, no no he had to get away –
"I... I've gotta go," he mumbled hoarsely, stumbling backwards.
Mark collapsed to the ground sobbing hysterically, "Don't go!! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I told you Roger, I'll never say it again, just please don't leave me here, please don't leave me by myself...I'll never do it again, I promise, if you'll just...stay with me...please..."; his throat burned, his mind taunted him, berated him for saying such things, things that he knew would drive Roger away, leave him alone again.
"Why... why..." Roger stuttered as he tried to flee but found himself glued to the ground, it seemed; he wished he could ask the question that plagued his mind -- why would Mark choose him, why would he choose someone that he knew he would never have, someone who evidently brought him nothing but misery -- "why me?"
"Because you take care of me," Mark whispered meekly, cautiously raising his eyes to meet those of his musician, "because you watch out for me and you make sure I'm okay, and you try to help, try to listen...because you understand me, just a little bit, and you try not to judge and you don't preach and you tell me stories when I'm sick and you let me take care of you even though you want to be tough and stubborn, and you listen and you laugh and you love me, even if it's not...even if it's not the same way I love you." As hard as he tried, Roger couldn't look away from Mark's eyes, couldn't run from the loft, couldn't shake the strange feeling -- no, this was wrong, it just couldn't be, he loved Mark as a friend and nothing more -- couldn't command the emotions battling in his head to stopstopstop even though he wanted to... he could only inch closer to his best friend, halting just out of reach.
Mark's fingers began to inch closer and closer across the floor, sliding towards Roger, but stopping just millimeters away as he started to speak again, "I know you don't care about me this way, and it's okay, I told you that, I told you it was stupid and I was stupid for saying it and that you shouldn't make me, that you wouldn't want to hear it...but..."--couldn'tcryagainnotnownotnownonononono--"...I can't do this anymore...I need someone...I just need someone to tell me that there's something worth...worth living for!"
There was no way Roger could leave now, God only knew what Mark might do if he was alone -- "Mark... please, please, don't..." -- why couldn't he form sentences, or thoughts for that matter, he wondered, dropping to the floor, his fingertips momentarily brushing against Mark's.
Mark's eyes lingered on Roger's hand as he fought for breath, whispering, "I need you, Roger, and it's horrible and it's selfish, and it's painful, but I can't keep doing this, I can't keep putting up this front, it hurts me and I hurt inside and I don't want to hurt anymore...I just...I don't want to hurt anymore..."
"I... I don't want you to hurt either," Roger whispered, "I don't want to hurt you... you know I never mean to..." but somehow I always do, he continued in his head, shifting closer to Mark against all the warnings blaring through his mind.
Mark glanced up, startled to find that he was almost close enough to Roger to feel his musician's breath on his cheek, so close that he could watch the emotion spill and flicker in his eyes, he murmured, "Roger...I...I...."--whatdoisaywhatdoisaywhatdoido-- "...I...I don't know...what to do..."--kisshimyouknowyouwantto-- shutUP!--doit--NO!--"...I..." he trailed off weakly, tears brimming again.
"Shh," Roger found himself murmuring, found himself leaning ever so slowly in toward his filmmaker, his filmmaker who was so fragile, so vulnerable and yet so beautiful -- he had to stop, was he insane, what the hell was he thinking, or was he even thinking at all -- he wasn't so sure anymore, wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Mark was frozen as Roger approached, his eyes widening at first, but slowly closing as Roger got closer and closer to him; it was surreal, it wasn't happening, no, it couldn't happen, it was sympathy it was pity it was anything but what he really wanted it to be, anything but the real love that he felt, anything but--...he froze as their lips met... Roger trembled, pressing his lips feather-light against Mark's, afraid of what he was doing, yet unable, unwilling, to pull away -- he couldn't do this it wasn't right, wasn't right, wasn't right -- he repeated the thought over and over again in the hope that he could make himself believe it fully, while another thought -- you love him, Roger, you love him and not just as a friend -- struggled to prevail. It was dreamlike and misty, fogged, his mind was, that is, until Roger's kiss careened like wildfire through his aching skull; it was gentle, but it blew him away just the same, leaving his head spinning, his heart soaring, his mind racing--helovesyouhelovesyou-- nohedoesn't--yeshedoes!--he'susingme--he'slovingyou--with a million thoughts, as his hand lightly, tentatively touched Roger's cheek. The touch jolted through his skin and Roger brought his own hand up to meet the one on his cheek, trying to make some sense of the thoughts careening around inside -- do i love him of course i love him but i can't love him it's wrong i'm not gay am i gay why am i so scared why am i still kissing him -- he pulled away, frightened and confused, and looked at Mark, wishing and praying and hoping that he could somehow provide all the answers.
Mark's eyes snapped open as soon as Roger pulled away from him, his heart racing so fast he had to press his free hand to it; the other hand was still interlocked very lightly with his musician's, the fizzle of electricity still passing between them as Mark whispered, "God, Roger, I'm...I'm sorry..."
Roger immediately wished he could have the kiss back, somehow travel through time and live the moment again; he glanced down at their hands and back up to Mark's face, as he spoke -- "Mark, don't... just... Christ, Mark, you're always apologizing!" -- he laughed randomly, aware that he sounded like he'd just gone insane... he was beginning to wonder if he had...
"It's just I know that you didn't...that you don't...that I...and you...and you're not...and I'm...the kiss, I should have..." Mark whispered, smiling weakly; he wanted more than anything to escape this awkward situation by kissing Roger again, by throwing his arms around his musician and--no...no, that wouldn't happen, not again...but their hands...their hands were still interlocked and the warmth coming off of Roger...he wanted more than anything to be a part of that warmth again, and his free hand hovered near Roger's cheek, barely touching it, as if trying to achieve that goal.
Roger resisted the urge to kiss Mark again, it wouldn't solve anything, wouldn't answer all the questions he had, even though he wanted to, God he wanted to... "I don't... I mean, I can't... can I?... Mark, I want to, I really..." he sighed, frustrated by his incoherence, and shut his eyes, feeling Mark's hand brush faintly against his face.
Mark's eyes widened, his mind trying to comprehend what Roger was attempting to say, to ask, to...--ishereally?--itoldyou!--ohmygod...-- "Roger...I...I mean, I know that I can...but...it's...it's up to you," he murmured, his heart fluttering, his head pounding, his fingers clinging to Roger's cheek, "you're the only person who can decide if you can..." and he was *not* leaning over to kiss Roger again, nononono...he couldn't stop himself, he *had* to stop himself he... Roger opened his eyes in time to see Mark lean in, and he responded as if by reflex, bringing his lips, desperate and frantic, to meet those of his filmmaker; he didn't know what to say or think or decide or do, all he knew was that he wanted this kiss to last forever... if it was wrong, such a bad idea and you can't do this Roger you can't... then why did it feel so right? This wasn't fair; it wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to Mark; Roger knew he shouldn't be doing this, that Mark needed something more, that this wasn't going to solve Mark's problems, but he ignored his rational side and lost himself in the kiss.
It was, Mark decided, vaguely like floating, in that everything seemed to lose it's weight, his problems, his pain, his fear, his hopelessness...it was all gone as he wrapped his arms around his Roger and squeezed his eyes shut. After clinging to his filmmaker for what felt like an eternity, Roger gently pulled away, his rational side attempting to kick back in; it ordered him to get up, to run away, to ignore his emotions -- they don't know anything, they're misleading, wrong, they must be... but Roger disobeyed it, listening instead to the other voice, the mysterious one he didn't fully understand, the one that told him to stay, to hold Mark and never ever ever let him go.
Mark's eyes slowly opened, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, shame, as he opened them; their bodies were so close together, their arms still wrapped around each other...oh god..."Roger, I..." he stuttered before he realized he had no idea what to say.
Roger searched Mark's eyes for reassurance, for answers; "I... Mark, I, I don't... is this -- is this right?" he asked quietly... please, please say it is, tell me everything is okay, please help I need to be strong but I can't.
Mark bit his lip, trembling once again; "I want it to be right, Roger," he whispered, "it feels right...and...and, god, I want it to be right..."--more than anything, more than anything it has to be right, because I don't know what I'll do if he takes it away...oh god... Roger heard the doorknob turn, and dropped his arms away from Mark, the door opened and in walked Mimi; beautiful, sexy, fun, full of life Mimi.
"Mimi!" Roger exclaimed, his voice a little too loud, his enthusiasm too forced... oh god oh god what happens now what am i doing... he glanced back and forth helplessly between the frail, frightened man crouched beside him and the exuberant woman who had just entered.
Mark froze as Roger turned away, froze and tried to keep himself from shaking as Roger eyes fell on Mimi and Mimi's questioning eyes fell on him; "I-I'm sorry, Roger...I mean, just because I want it to be....because that's the way it feels..."-- lookatthewayhelooksatherhe'llneverlookatyoulikethatyoucreep-- "...that...you...I'm sorry again..." he muttered helplessly as he tried in vain to pick himself off the floor and walk away.
Roger felt his arm reach out and rest gently but firmly on his filmmaker's shoulder, watched his body waver with indecision at who to turn to, heard his voice stutter "Mark, don't... please, I... Mimi, it's... umm..."
Mark tried his hardest to force a smile, croaking, "No...it's okay...it was...it was probably very silly of me...I'm sorry...I...I thought it was...it felt so....I'll...I'll go...if you want"; his mind begged Roger not to go, begged Mimi to smile and shrug and tell Roger she'll see him later, silently begged himself to be the better man and walk away from this, even though he knew it was much too late for that.
"No," Roger blurted compulsively... this was stupid, crazy, he couldn't do this, he couldn't -- he wanted Mimi, he wanted Mark, God, he didn't know what he wanted... "Please don't go."
Mark remained motionless where he sat, motionless save for the shaking in his hands arms chest, breaking in his heart, whirring in his mind...it was stupid, so stupid, how could Roger want something like him when he had someone as gorgeous and vivacious as Mimi was, someone who was so obviously his type, why in the world would he go for the frail, pale filmmaker...; "I...Roger if you're..."--deepbreath--"...okay..."
Mimi watched the scene unfolding before her, trying to stay calm, trying to comprehend their stuttering speech, as she said, "Would one of you care to explain what's going on here?"
Mark looked slowly back and forth between Mimi and Roger, taking in their expressions, their postures...the look in Mimi's eyes, the accusations and--"Mimi, I...I..." he said frantically, before bursting into tears.
Mark's tears ignited a flame of rage within Roger, and for the first time he was able to form complete thoughts, thoughts that boiled up from inside him to shout at Mimi, "I'm trying to help him, Mimi, can't you see that, can't you see he's hurting and I need to take care of him?" Mimi was taken aback, literally reeled on her feet as Roger shouted at her, watching through wide eyes as Roger crept forward and wrapped Mark in his arms, murmuring to him very gently; she didn't know what was going on, only that Roger's touch was soothing the tears from Mark's eyes and the two of them seemed to be completely separate from the rest of the world. Roger wondered if he was dreaming, wondered how he could have yelled at her like that, why wasn't he apologizing, why was he wrapping his arms around Mark and not Mimi; he wondered vaguely what the consequences would be, but it didn't seem to matter, all that mattered was putting an end to the tears hurt pain that wracked through his filmmaker's feeble body.
Mark choked, but held onto Roger tightly, praying that this meant that his musician had chosen him, had sat between him and Mimi and ran to him, not her, chosen him over her...Roger was whispering to him, telling him he'd be okay, and he actually...believed it; "I...Roger...I'm sorry..." he murmured, as Mimi stomped out of the room.
Roger leaned against Mark, his heart pounding and his lungs tight... he had lost her, he knew it, lost her but he still had Mark... he couldn't have both, not now, not after what he'd done; "Please, Mark, I need -- help, you, I'm so..." he trailed off, his ability to speak intelligibly vanished yet again.
Mark looked up, ignoring the tears that were still pooled around his red-rimmed eyes, looked up into Roger's eyes, and with the last of his courage whispered, "You can still...still get up and go aback to...to Mimi..." ...if you don't love me...he wanted to add, but his mouth refused to continue working.
Roger tried to shake his head from the haze it had entered, not sure why he was doing this, if he was making the right decision, if he would wake up the next morning and regret everything... "No, I... I don't want to," he whispered. Mark's breath caught in his throat and he tried to catch Roger's eyes, tried to affirm that there was truth in them; there was...there was some truth, some doubt anxiety fear concern sympathy...but mostly...mostly there was love...
"Roger...I...love you....but if you don't...think of me in that....that way...then you...I..."
Roger squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard... his brain kept pounding, insisting -- don't do it roger don't do it it's wrong it can't be right you're not gay you're not don't do it -- but the voice was drowned out by his heart, his heart shouting at him -- you love him you know you do and you have to tell him he has to know it -- until he couldn't stand it anymore and it spilled out, "Mark, I love you, I... oh God, Mark..."
"Ssssh...it's okay, Roger..." Mark whispered, surprised to find himself comforting his panicking musician, surprised to find it wasn't the other way around....he slipped his arms around Roger again, pulling him closer and burning his face in Roger's shoulder.
Roger looked up, and their eyes met, for a split second, everything in the world made sense, he understood everything there was to know, and he found all this knowledge in the two eyes that looked back at him. Mark shuddered under the ferocity of Roger's gaze, not an angry fierceness, no, but a streak of loyalty that ran so deep...he froze and shivered, letting Roger pull him closer as he murmured, "Do you know now...know if this is right?"
Roger nodded, afraid to speak, afraid he would say the wrong thing, which he often did, afraid to ruin this perfect moment. That was all the encouragement Mark needed, as he leaned in to kiss Roger once again. Roger pressed himself against Mark and deepened the kiss, feeling his fears slowly trickle away... he was safe, as long as he was in Mark's arms he was safe. Mark let himself be swept away by Roger, letting his musician take the lead, go at his own pace...he was frightened enough as it was, it was much easier letting someone else take the lead.
Roger leaned until his back was on the floor, pull Mark down with him. Mark's heart almost stopped, literally, as it raced up into his throat, his mind still telling him over and over again that it was all a dream...that he'd make up in a few moments, alone in his bed with an empty bottle beside him. Roger didn't know what he was doing, didn't know but at the same time couldn't stop as he slipped a hand underneath Mark's shirt, letting his fingertips softly graze Mark's back. Mark arched his back and pulled back slightly, startled by the direct contact; he immediately regretted it as a look of hurt confusion melted across Roger's face...he flushed deeply whispered a half-coherent apology, all the while cursing himself for interrupting something he was enjoying so much.
Roger quickly withdrew his hand, ashamed and confused by the reaction; "I, I'm sorry, Mark," he murmured, feeling his face grow hot.
Mark bent his head to hide his blush, muttering, "No...no, it's okay, I just didn't expect it...I didn't mean to...I didn't want you to...stop..."; his pale face burned almost purple as he raised his face just far enough to get a good look at Roger's, while still hiding his own from sight.
"Then... I, I won't..." Roger carefully, hesitantly placed his hand on Mark's back again as the other hand trailed up to his cheek; "God, Mark, you're burning up..." he whispered, barely audible.
That threw him off slightly, and Mark wasn't exactly sure how to react...burning up...like he was... "Wh-what do you mean?" he stammered, placing a hand on Roger's chest to steady himself.
"Your skin... it feels like it's on fire... are you okay?" Roger asked worriedly.
"I....I...I think so..." he whispered, keeping the fact that suddenly there seemed to be two Roger's in front of him, and just as suddenly there was only one again; he unconsciously tightened his grip on Roger's shirt.
"Are you sure, Mark, what... what's wrong?" Roger asked, his thoughts short and hurried-- please, Mark, don't -- don't what? -- I don't know -- he's not okay, oh God what did I do?
Mark smiled weakly, hoping it reached his eyes, hoping that Roger would accept it as truth and return to the kissing and caressing that was erasing this from his mind; "I'm...I'm good...really..." he said softly, neglecting to remind Roger of previous night's walk in the chilly rain...not that Roger had even noticed that he was missing for two hours in the first place...
Roger didn't want to believe him, didn't want to stop worrying about his filmmaker, but the kisses, the gentle touches... made it hard to think of anything except holding him and kissing him back. Mark smiled to himself, a real smile, as he pressed his forehead to Roger's and kissed him again and again, forgetting about the nagging voice in the back of his mind that was warning him against doing anything that would spread his sickly feelings. With each kiss Roger's fears and worries dissipated until all that remained was a fleeting thought tucked in the back of his head; he ran his hand over the warm flesh of Mark's back, drawing their bodies closer together. It was as if they were both under some sort of spell, the problems of the day, Roger's sickness, Mark's fears were lost and forgotten, as long as they didn't let each other go. Mark's hand drifted gently into Roger's hair, his other wound tightly around his musician's waist as the kisses deepened, evolved, and intensified; it was magical, almost...something terribly cheesy to think, but true all the same...it was a completely magical experience.
Roger could hardly believe this was happening, in a way was afraid of believing it, afraid of making it too real and losing the magic... reality meant pain and confusion and disease, but this -- this was so perfect, so right, so wonderful.
Mark rolled onto his side and brought Roger with him, stopping when they faced each other and pulling away slightly, just looking at his musician; "This doesn't feel real, Roger," he pleaded, "tell me that it is, please?"
"No... this isn't real... this is perfect... this doesn't exist in real life," he traced his finger over Mark's lips. Mark shuddered at the touch, as Roger's finger traced down the side of his face to his throat; this was completely unreal... Roger closed his eyes then hastily reopened them, for some reason afraid that if he shut them too long he would awake to find that it really was a dream, that this never took place, and as unreal as the situation was, he couldn't stand the thought of losing it. Mark felt the callouses on Roger's fingers gently rub the spot where his neck and shoulders met, gently and soothingly, pushing every negative thought from his mind; Mimi, his father, his isolation, his sickness, his musician's sickness...all of it melted into oblivion as he hesitantly captured Roger's mouth again.
Roger shivered, his breath catching in his throat; each kiss was like the first, caused the same burst of emotion, that exploding overwhelming feeling of I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-but-it-feels-so- right.
Mark pulled away again and giggled; "You do realize we're lying on the floor...maybe we should sit on the couch..." he murmured, smiling a little and brushing his hair from his eyes.
"Hmm... the couch... I guess you're right," Roger said softly, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips as he sat up and pulled Mark with him. Mark leaned heavily on Roger as they sort of wobbled towards the couch; his legs...his whole body, actually, felt like lead...the only parts spared the heavy, dull ache were the parts pressed up to Roger, the reason he was trying to cling as much as possible to his musician.
They collapsed in a sort of tangled heap on the couch, and Roger smiled; "Better?" he asked, his arms encircling Mark's waist.
Mark smiled slightly, looping his arms around Roger's neck; "It is," he whispered, "it's much better..." was all he was allowed before Roger kissed him again. Roger leaned back until he was lying down with Mark's body resting on top of his; as they kissed he ran his hands softly along his filmmaker's back. Mark shivered again, trying to convince himself that it was a shiver of delight, not a shiver from lack of heat, but it was hard to deny that as a stronger one wracked his small body.
Roger felt Mark tremble beneath his fingertips... "Are you sure you're okay?" he whispered -- please say yes please be okay -- there was something, something not right about this...
"I...of course...I...." he shook and shook and shook and--"God! Roger, I--" the blackness pressed up against him further and further and--"I'm not okay I'm not okay I'm not--" he let the blackness win...
"Mark... oh, God, Mark..." Roger murmured, sliding carefully off the couch and staring at the limp figure that remained on it -- what happened is he okay are you stupid of course he's not okay he's -- Roger tried to clear his head, tried to think back to a first aid class he took in high school, but his mind was a haze of worry and fear -- please Mark please wake up! Mark's body was unmoving however, motionless and obviously fevered. Roger's heart sank and he stumbled to the kitchen, soaked a towel in cold water, then ran back to Mark and placed it on his flushed face; he didn't know what to do, should he call 911, perform CPR -- like he even knew CPR -- what was he supposed to do?
Mark moaned and stirred, rolling onto his side slightly, his eyelids flickering; everything around him swirled and flipped before his eyes, patterns dancing on the back of his too-heavy eyelids.
Roger jumped when he saw Mark move; "Mark, please... wake up, you have to... please, for me, Mark?" he begged the nearly-motionless man, reaching out to touch his cheek lightly.
He heard Roger's voice from a million miles away and tried to respond...tried to hard to move, to cry out, to sit up...but it was hard, he couldn't, he couldn't fight off the darkness, it was suffocating him and Roger couldn't save him, couldn't cut through it; he tried to scream, but all that escaped what a dry moan.
"Mark... oh God, Mark," Roger half-sobbed, half-choked; he took Mark's hand and grasped it tightly in his as if he thought he could pull Mark back into consciousness. Mark felt the fingers brushing his and tried to cry out again, but not even a moan escaped his lips this time; -- nononowhat'shappeningwhycan'tisayanythingwhycan'tigotohimwhat'sgoingon --You're unconscious--ineedtogettohimneedtotalktohimneedtomakehimhappy--you're out cold...it's not happening...
Roger looked around, forgetting in his frenzy where they kept the phone -- should I call 911, will they come and take my Mark away from me, will they ignore us because we have no money is he gonna die lord don't let him die no no no -- he reached for the phone and forced his shaking fingers to dial the numbers.
"Hello, 911," a brisk operator answered, "Please state your emergency."
"I... passed out... I mean, my roommate... he passed out, we need help," Roger said, unintentionally shouting.
"Can you give me specifics, what he was doing, what's wrong with him, his name, your address...keep talking to me, sir..." The operator said soothingly.
Roger quickly rattled off the details she had asked for, name and address... "I don't know what's wrong with him, he was... um, we were sitting on the couch and he was all red and his skin was burning up and suddenly he just, he just started shaking and then passed out," he said, finally pausing for a breath.
"Okay...we're sending an ambulance over right now, just stay where you are...it sounds like he just has a flu or fever, and he should be fine, but stay on the line with me just in case, okay?"
"Okay... please, please hurry..." Roger stared at his filmmaker, silently begging him to wake up and be alright.
Mark tried moving, tried as hard as he could to make some movement, no matter how vague, no matter how miniscule...he needed Roger to know he was there, he was alive...he couldn't abandon him now...god, he was so cold, he needed a blanket, a sweater, Roger's arms around him again....; he very weakly whimpered and moved his hand, groping for Roger's.
Oh, God, he was moving... "I'm here, Mark, I'm here," Roger whispered, pulling off his sweater and laying it on top of Mark's body -- "You're gonna be okay, please stay with me..." Roger held Mark's hands tightly.
He moaned again; with each movement it got easier, easier to shrug off the darkness and embrace the light, the warmth...he felt something settle on him...like a blanket only...only it smelled of Roger, it smelled of his musician, of musk and night and love and lavender and stale clubs and beautiful music and...light, it was his Roger's smell and it was enveloping him.
Roger hardly noticed when the phone slipped out of his hand and he wrapped his arms around Mark's shoulder, all he could do was hope and pray that Mark was okay; "You can't leave me, Mark, you can't I love you too much..."
Mark moaned again, clawing against the darkness, fighting for freedom, to open his eyes and see his Roger and...and...be held, he wanted to be held again, it made him feel safe, it made him feel like he could beat this; his fingers groped for Roger...Roger who loved him, who was trying to hold him...
Roger closed his eyes and leaned his head against Mark's chest, looking up at his face for signs of consciousness... he had to be okay, he just had to, he had to wake up and smile and hold him and kiss him and make everything right again..
His eyelids flickered as he fended off the darkness, it was pressuring him, putting pressure all around him and swallowing him whole, but he needed Roger, he needed him he needed him, he...he cried out vaguely, his arm twitching as he wrestled for the strength to pull open his leaden (is that a word?) eyelids.
"Please," Roger murmured softly, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could wipe it away, embarrassed -- please come back i'm so scared don't do this to me please anything i'll do anything if you just wake up -- "Come on, Mark, hang in there..."
He felt Roger on his chest, felt the weight, but didn't mind it at all--it was Roger, what was there to mind?--and reached blindly towards it as he weakly blinked, gasping at the brightness of the room around him and closing his eyes hurriedly, despite his desire to see his Roger again.
Roger's heart leapt into his chest -- had he just opened his eyes? -- and he found himself repeating Mark's name over and over again, strangely comforted by the sound -- please please please open your eyes again...
The sirens seemed so very distant and separate from Mark as he lay on the couch, easing his immobile limbs into warmth and life; he heard his name...that was what was front and center in his mind, his name being repeated over and over again by Roger, Roger's fingers brushing over his shoulders and face as he struggled to open his eyes again...slowly...very very slowly to allow them to adjust to the light...so slowly...
Oh god oh god he's opening his eyes, Roger thought, still speaking Mark's name; somewhere outside a siren sounded faintly, but Roger's attention was focused on his Mark, his beautiful Mark who had to wake up had to get better.
There...right there in front of him...blurry, blurry, of course, because who knew where his glasses were, but...it was him, it was Roger, Roger was right there, right there waiting for him, whispering his name; he tried to smile, but it came out as a pained grimace as his head throbbed and his brain turned inside out, the aches echoing in every corner of his body.
Roger winced at the expression on Mark's face; "Don't move Mark, don't hurt yourself... oh, Mark..." he breathed, unimaginably relieved that his filmmaker was at least awake now.
Mark grabbed Roger's hand and squeezed it tightly, holding on for dear life as he struggled to keep his eyes open; he groped for a voice, for a way to speak to Roger, to assure him that he was okay...that he was there and that he wouldn't even dream of ever leaving him.
"I love you, Mark," Roger whispered, intertwining his fingers with Mark's, "I love you and I'm not gonna leave you or hurt you this time, oh God I swear it... but you've gotta do me a favor and get better..."
Mark tried to nod, but moving his head took up so much strength...he heard sirens, sirens that sounded as if they were right outside....or maybe that was just the ringing in his ears, he couldn't tell anymore; he squeezed Roger's hand with everything left inside of him, clinging desperately--getmethroughthisgetmethroughthisforhimpleasegod--trying to convey the emotions he was unable to speak.
Roger heard the ambulance draw nearer and hoped that the door downstairs was unlocked -- he refused to leave Mark's side even for a minute to go down and open it, he was too scared that if he did, Mark would slip back into unconsciousness.
He need to see, now that his eyes were open he needed to see his surroundings...his Roger...clearly; he took a deep breath, inflated his lungs all the way before attempting to speak: "R-roger...gla- asses...I...I..."
"Shh, don't talk if it's too hard," he said, spotting the glasses on the floor nearby; Roger grabbed them and slipped them gently onto Mark's face.
As he watched Roger's gentle face comforting him, easing him on, he was glad that he was too exhausted and pained to cry anymore; he had made a large enough fool out of himself already, he didn't need to fall to pieces over a little bit of kindness...he instead nodded to Roger and tugged on his hand, trying to pull him closer.
Roger exhaled deeply, letting his stress and fear flow out as well; he softly wiped a sweaty strand of hair from Mark's face and kissed his cheek... he didn't know what to say, but then, speaking didn't really seem necessary at the moment.
"I love you," Mark squeaked, the tone of his voice almost comical, *surely* comical if the situation had been less frightening; he offered Roger another strained smile as he heard people clomping up the stairs towards the loft, the ambulance people coming, the paramedics who would force them apart and badger him with questions when all he really wanted to do was curl up with Roger and sleep.
"I love you too," Roger said with a slight, relieved smile -- I don't think I've ever said that phrase so many times in one day, he thought -- he rested his head on Mark's chest again and waited for the dreaded paramedics to come; he wondered if he could just tell them everything was fine now, would they leave?
"Mmmhmm..." Mark murmured closing his eyes briefly as the door to the loft flew open and two men with a portable stretcher ran in; he tightened his grip on Roger's hand as they approached them, rapidly firing off questions.
"I... I... he's okay now, please don't take him," Roger pleaded, placing an arm across Mark's chest in an attempt to "protect" him -- they couldn't take him away, he wouldn't let them.
The head paramedic looked vaguely annoyed and sighed, "Sir, we have to take him, he's ill...while you're welcome to come with us, I don't know you're in any position to tell us not to help someone who can't even speak for himself!"; Mark whimpered, tried to think of something to say...tried to say anything at all...
"I know what he wants and he doesn't want to leave!" Roger shouted -- why are you getting so angry stop it roger they're here to help -- "He's fine now, he doesn't need to go anywhere!"
"I'd like to hear that from his lips!" one of the other EMTs muttered sharply; Mark gathered all his stamina, sucking everything from every inch of his body and forcing out, in barely a whisper,
"I...I want to stay w-w-with R-roger..."
"See?" Roger exclaimed, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face, "He wants to be here with me."
Mark found a small smile spreading across his face; the EMT sighed heavily, proclaiming, "Would you at LEAST let us check him up to make sure he's not going to collapse again?"
Well, Roger certainly didn't want that to happen... "Yeah, go ahead," he mumbled, moving over slightly but keeping his hand interlocked with Mark's. The exam was quick and basic...the flu...the said, lots of liquids, bed rest, attentive care...he'd be fine; Mark watched them head out of the loft, one after the other, the stretcher between them, and glanced up at Roger, a smile dancing in his eyes.
"How do you feel?" Roger asked softly, his fingertips tracing patterns on Mark's hand.
"Like shit," Mark whispered, trying to sound at least slightly amused, but coming off more pathetic; he burrowed into the couch, pulling Roger's sweater closer around his shoulders and requesting a blanket or pillow.
Roger nodded and slipped into his bedroom to grab both; when he came back out, he propped the pillow underneath Mark's head and, crawling onto the couch beside Mark, placed the blanket over both of them.
"I'm going to make you sick..." Mark protested weakly, touching Roger's cheek with one hand and covering his mouth with the other; "Christ, Roger, you can't get sick and...and..." he coughed into his hand and frowned at his musician, who's arms were settling around his waist.
Shit, he hadn't thought about that, hadn't remembered... "Well... it's too late now," he said, a small laugh escaping his lips despite the fact that it wasn't really funny at all.
Mark felt tears welling in his eyes and willed them to go away, almost willed the mind-numbing ache that had filled him until the EMTs have given him a shot of a muscle relaxant to return to him, if only to keep these tears from spilling in front of Roger; he took a deep breath and bit his lip, "I'll never forgive myself...Roger I'll kill myself if you're...if you're..."
"Mark, it's okay... I'm gonna be fine, I can survive a little cold..." he said, hoping desperately that it was true.
"I'm so stupid..." he murmured... "So, so stupid...what if you...what if...oh god, Roger, I can't believe I--" he cut himself off abruptly and rested his head on Roger's chest, just barely holding back his tears.
"Don't worry, I'll be ok, I'll even take an extra dose of Vitamin C, today," he pressed Mark's face into his chest and held him while he wept, "you need to relax and rest..."
He felt silly, so stupidly silly as Roger held him; he had been a mess all day, crying for no reason, at the slightest thing and he *never* cried, never in front of people....Roger must think he was such a nuscience...
Roger lightly stroked his back and hair, as we whispered sweet "shhs.." and "calm down..." he just wanted Mark to rest. He forced himself to push his own worries of sickness aside, afraid that Mark would sense his fear and become more upset, and that wasn't what he needed -- he needed to calm down and rest and be healthy... one of them had to be healthy...
Mark's fists clenched at his sides as he attempted to press the urge to sob further and further back into his mind; it was numb now, like the rest of the ache in his body, the muscle relaxant finally taking effect as Roger tried to soothe him, calm him down...he wanted to be calm...he really did, he didn't want to make a fuss, especially in front of Roger of all people.
Roger ran his fingertips down Marks arms, settling gently over the tightened fists; "It's okay, Mark, it'll be okay, I promise -- you should get some sleep..."
Mark finally turned his head, gazing up at Roger and biting his lip; "Roger...I'm...I'll..." he sighed, unclenching his fists and snatching Roger's fingers in his own.
Roger lifted their interlocked hands to his lips and kissed Mark's fingers, whispering words of comfort as he rested his head on his filmmaker's chest.
The Latino's voice could be heard outside of the door, "Now, Roger, I know you didn't want me to bother you but I wanted to know what's with..." she stopped when she saw Mark and Roger on the couch with Roger kissing Mark's hands, "Roger?"
Roger dropped Mark's hands and looked up at Mimi, "I... I can explain... he's... he's sick," now he was the one sweating. Mark struggled to look up, to see Mimi's face, to see if she was angry...bitter...ashamed; Roger was blocking his view, however, and he struggled to keep himself from crying-- you'resoweaksoineptsuchafuckingcoward--all over again.
Mimi's eyes begged for an explanation and with a voice calmer than most in the situation she was in, she asked...no demanded, "Any other explanations, Roger?"
This was his chance, his chance to come clean, he opened his mouth, but he couldn't get the words out, he couldn't admit what he was feeling because it was so wrong; no matter how much Mark and he convinced themselves, he knew it was wrong.
She couldn't help herself, Mimi started crying, and quietly she said, "I thought you told me love wasn't a three way street"
"I did... and it's not..." He looked over at Mark, shivering next to him, "Mimi, he's sick, that's all."
"I'm not an idiot, Roger" Mimi's voice still had her calm, quiet tone, "He's sick so you're kissing him?"
Mark couldn't let Roger take this, couldn't let him put up with all of this on his own, it wasn't fair, it wasn't right...but...what Roger had said...that was all, Roger said that he was sick and that was all and...he gently let go of Roger's hand and took a deep breath; "Apparently I'm just sick, Mimi," he said in what he hoped was a calm voice, "So apparently there is nothing to worry about."
Roger couldn't let that tone pass by, as he looked between the two people he loved, "I'm sorry..." he didn't know who he was saying it to, perhaps both.
"Get away from me," Mark whispered-- ohgodnoiknewitwasn'tiknewitiknewhedidn't--"Please...just...I thought you...I told you I and you said...you said that you...please go away."
"No, Mark... I didn't..." He hid his face in his hands and looked up at Mimi, "Can we talk tomorrow?"
"Roger..." Mark whispered, running his fingers over the blanket covering the two of them, "I don't want to play this game...I went through everything for you over and over again and...and I'm sick of this and I thought...I thought that you...you *said* that you..." he trailed off dully, holding back tears and fighting for the strength to see this through to the end instead of giving into his body and passing out again.
Mimi stood over the two men, her hands on her waist, the realization sinking in, they were in love, and she wanted to hate them for it, but she couldn't.
"Tomorrow?" she said finally, dully, trying not to move - if she opened her mouth more than she had to, blinked one second more than was necessary, she felt like the puppet-strings that held her together would be cut away - "Don't bother. No day but today, remember?" - she turned away, walked sedately to the door, each footstep another nail in the proverbial coffin; a movie-star exit, a thousand final door slams.
Mark bit back his tears and put his hand on Roger's shoulder; he needed a sign, he needed to know if this was for real.
Roger watched Mimi leave, he thought she was the love of his life, but tonight everything changed; he touched Mark's chin lightly lifting it up, "I'm sorry..."
*I'm sorry....god....he doesn't love me, he's leaving me oh god he's leaving me no no no it's not fair it's not fair oh god why...* "I guess I'll see you later," he whispered.
"No... no... that's not what I meant," he leaned in and brushed his lips softly against Mark's, "I just meant, I'm sorry I couldn't tell her about us..."
Mark blinked several times as Roger gently kissed him-- thisisn'trealitisn'titisn'titisn't--before pressing back softly; he allowed himself to smile slightly as he pulled away.
"I couldn't hurt her... I didn't want to... she will always hold a place in my heart, you know that right?" he pushed Mark's bangs away from his eyes.
"I know that," Mark whispered, "I know that...I know you love her, and I'd never tell you to stop or that I'm jealous or anything like that..."; he took Roger's hand tightly between both of his, smiling slightly.
Roger took his free hand and placed it behind Mark's neck, "I love you."
"I know that Roger, and I love you and let's not even think about all these problems at all for the rest of the night...okay?" Mark murmured, wrapping his arms around Roger's neck.
With a soft sigh of relief, Roger replied, "Yeah, you -- we -- need to get some sleep," resting his head on Mark's chest again.
Mark smiled sleepily, running his fingers through Roger's hair; "Okay..." he murmured, "that's the best thing I've heard all day...well, the second best."
Roger's lips spread into a smile and he wrapped his arms tightly around his filmmaker; there was no longer a sliver of doubt in his mind whether he had made the right decision -- this was where he was meant to be, right here in the arms of the person who loved him more than anyone else, loved him so truly, so purely, and so unconditionally.
"How will we tell everyone?" Mark asked, his brow creased slightly at the dilemma; Collins would accept it...Joanne...Maureen and Mimi were another story.
Roger bit his lip, his smile fading into a thoughtful frown; after a moment he chuckled a little -- "Maureen's never gonna let you live this down" -- then quickly remembered the seriousness of the situation.
"No," Mark said softly, "and Mimi won't take too kindly to it either...God, Roger, I'm so sorry about that..."; he closed his eyes and just concentrated on the way Roger was holding him, the way his musician moved with every breath that the filmmaker took...if he could concentrate on that...revel in that...they could be okay.
"Mark, really, it's ok... please, don't think everything is your fault... remember, I kissed you, I yelled at Mimi, and I told her to leave because I wanted to be with you," Roger said, quietly yet firmly emphasizing each "I."
"Yeah...you did..." Mark said, wonder creeping into his voice; Roger was the one who gave up everything everyone career rep life self to be with him, and he wasn't worried....so why should Mark worry either?
"So don't blame yourself for anything that happens.. we'll get through it together," Roger said then brushed his lips softly against Mark's collarbone; he knew he might lose everything because of this, but he was steadily becoming more accepting that it didn't matter -- just having Mark was all he needed and more, so much more... more than he deserved, really.
"Together," Mark muttered sleepily, "...okay...as long as we're together that's okay, right?"; he sounded groggy, unsure of himself as he closed his eyes and leaned against Roger, giving into the numbing effect of the drugs mixed with the ache and stress and emotion and intensity.
Roger managed a small smile on his exhausted face, his eyelids slowly fluttering shut as he whispered, "Of course it is... it'll all be okay..." He held Mark securely in his arms and both men drifted off into the most content sleep they had ever had.
The End!