Eh, I don't know. It's kind of rough, but I wanted to go ahead and put it up anyway. Frankly, I'm starved for reviews, I had forgotten how much fun they are. :) And for some reason I've been finding a lot of time to write lately. I'll probably have the next chapter up in a couple of days.
They're still not mine...
**
"What time is it?" Mark said, leaning toward Maureen in hopes that she would be able to hear him over the din of the crowded bar.
"What?" she returned loudly, cupping a hand around her ears.
"Nothing," Mark said. She gestured toward him confused, and he waved his hands in the air. "Nothing," he repeated. She nodded, sipping at her drink.
Mark turned back to his glass of water, feeling less and less supportive about this whole gig thing. He could practically feel the room shrinking, pushing all of it's crowded, drunk, smoky inhabitants closer toward him. He wondered if maybe he had social anxiety disorder or something. He wondered if he should be on some kind of medication. Christ, he wondered if everyone was as neurotic as him and just hid it better.
He was about to stand to go wait outside when Roger walked out on stage. The musician threw a casual smile into the crowd as he sat with his guitar, adjusting the microphones around him. It always amazed Mark how comfortable Roger seemed to be in front of so many people, how naturally it came to him. Roger plucked at the guitar strings for a moment, making sure it was tuned properly - Mark could tell from past hours of listening that it was - and then introduced himself briefly to the crowd. He squinted past the lights for a moment and seemed to spot Maureen and Mark by the bar, a small smile just for them lighting on his face. Then he began to sing, and the rest of the smoky room disappeared for Mark entirely.
"I can feel your eyes upon my face
all the way over here..."
There was something about Roger when he sang, something that made it impossible to look away from him. There was a sort of honesty that came out of his hypnotic voice, and Mark was powerless against it. That sort of honesty was what Mark tried to bring out in his films, but he was never able to refine it the way that Roger could with his music. That voice is what had brought them together as friends in the first place, when Mark used to have a job setting up sound equipment for local bars and cafés. He had always stayed to watch Roger's gigs; that was how they had met. Roger's solo material had always been softer and almost sadder than the music his band played, and Mark had always lingered by his equipment when this charismatic, intense sort of man got a regular gig at the bar up the street.
The red and blue lights of the club were dim and subdued on Roger, casting color to his face and hands as they moved lightly, reverently over the strings of his guitar. All of the pain and anger that had been etched into the lines of his face seemed to be gone. Mark wished passionately for the Nikon he had pawned almost a year ago. This is the way he wanted to remember Roger, the way he had looked before. When she was still here.
"I know I've seemed so far away
the past couple of days, what can I do?
It's kind of nice, in a way
but I'm just sorry that it has to hurt you..."
Maureen casually glanced over at Mark as Roger was playing, but once she noticed the look in his eyes she couldn't turn away. He was so intent on his musician, rivetted and focused in a way that was usually reserved strictly for his films. All of her suspicions came flooding back to her, and she didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry.
"I don't know what's kept my silent somehow.
It seems my heart wants to say something that my lips won't allow..."
Maureen's attention flew back to Roger, the words of the song infultrating her ears. Jesus, was Mark even listening? He couldn't be. He wouldn't be able to look as calm and dreamy as he did if he was hearing these words come out of Roger's mouth. Christ, it sounded like Mark wrote them! But she figured it was just as well. Mark might actually believe that Roger was singing about him, and she didn't know if she could bare to watch that.
"But my heart can't hear the singing,
or maybe it just doesn't like the song.
Although it's heard it all along..."
To Mark's mind, those might sound like the words of a confession, a scared and reluctant confession. But Roger was undoubtedly and unequivocally straight. He was probably singing about April, completely unaware that his best friend had toppled stupidly in love with him.
And Maureen would have continued to have believed that, except for at that moment Roger looked up, staring straight at Mark.
"So I lay low for now, for tonight.
I lay low my sweetheart now tonight."
*
In between songs, Mark turned to where Maureen should have been sitting only to find her gone. Her purse was still beside him; she must have slipped to the restroom while he was watching Roger. He didn't think anything of it, and Roger began playing moments after, turning his attention back to his friend on stage. He recognized the opening notes to a song Roger had written months and months before during a blizard that had kept them basically trapped in their loft. Mark could probably still recite the words in his sleep, though he hadn't heard it since April died.
"Roger! Please! Must we listen to this song over and over?" April demanded, throwing a couch cushion at him.
"Yes," Roger replied with a smile, parrying the cushion with ease. "The only way I can fix it is to work on it." He began to strum the same chords.
"So help me God Roger, I will throw the guitar out the window if you don't play something different!"
Mark laughed softly from where he was sitting, crosslegged on the kitchen counter, reading. He didn't even have to look up to be able to see the entire scene perfectly in his head. April was half reclining on the couch, trying to write a letter to her sister, and Roger was leaning up against the table with his guitar in his arms. She was biting her lip the way she did when she got frustrated, and he was trying to hide his smile from her as he continued to play. She would soon abandon her letter and get up to try to make him stop.
"Give me that pick!" she cried at that moment, laughing as she flung herself across the room. "I swear Roger, it's gone! It's out the window!"
But Roger was too quick for her. As Mark looked up, he stashed the pick in his pocket and caught her around the waist, pulling her into a kiss. The moment their lips parted, April's eyes flew to Mark. She saw the expression in his face and sent him her most comforting look.
"I love you," she mouthed as Roger returned to his song.
Mark smiled sadly. "I love you too."
That night he woke up as she slipped into bed beside him.
"How are you?" she asked softly, curling up against him.
"Okay," he sighed. "It's just so hard. I don't know how much longer I can hide this."
"I know."
*
Maureen savagely ripped a paper towel from the dispenser in the ladies room. Mark hadn't even noticed that she'd left; he was so tightly wrapped in his little dream world. And it was a dream world, she was certain of that. So what if Roger had looked at Mark while he was singing? It was a perfectly natural thing to do, look for a familiar face in the crowd. He probably hadn't been able to see anything with all of those lights in his eyes anyway. It meant nothing.
But Maureen was still trembling with hurt and anger. Regardless of the fact that it was hopeless, Mark wanted someone else. Her shy, scared, loving little Mark wanted someone else.
Well, he wasn't the only one.
She involuntarily looked up to meet the eyes of a pretty young redhead in the mirror. Her gaze lingered on the girl's full lips, and Maureen nearly laughed out loud at the hysterical irony of her first thought.
*
Twenty minutes later, Roger's set was over, and Mark was formulating an excuse to leave. Whatever appeal the bar might have once had had quickly evaporated. Maureen had returned and was on her third drink, and Roger had been downing shots consistently since he had come to sit with them. It made Mark almost irrationally angry to watch his friend set himself to the task of getting drunk, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that this would be one of those nights where he helped Roger stumble into bed or waited up all hours because he never came home at all. He supposed he knew why Roger was doing it, but he could never bring himself to understand it.
Mark rested his hand lightly on the small of Maureen's back, and she turned to look at him. God, she was beautiful. Even with that touch of boredom and aversion in her eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever see. He wanted to kiss her, but he feared that she would pull away.
"I need to go," he said. "I completely forgot, I have to pick up a piece of equipment, and the place closes soon."
She frowned. "Do you have to do that now? Can't it wait?"
"No," Mark lied, actually feeling touched by her annoyance. "I need it for shooting tomorrow, and I'm really behind. I shouldn't be long, but if I don't make it back here before you guys leave, I guess I'll just see you at home?"
She nodded. "Sure."
He kissed her forehead and turned to leave when she grabbed his hand, pulling him back to her.
"Tell me you love me Mark," Maureen said, her eyes serious. She stood and wound his arms around her waist, her gaze never leaving his.
Mark was baffled, but he complied.
"I love you Maureen," he said, his brows furrowed and his confusion over her sudden mood change apparent.
"Do you really?" she asked evaluatingly.
"Of course I love you," he said softly, pulling her closer. He wanted to know why she was asking him this, why she had been so cold lately, but he knew it wasn't the time for it. She kissed him goodnight, and he began to walk toward the door.
He was halfway there when Roger, returning from the bar, stepped in front of him and blocked his way.
"You leaving?" he asked, his voice calm from the alcohol in his system.
"Yeah," Mark replied. "I have to go pick up--"
"That new piece for your camera?" Roger interupted, a kind of amused challenge in his eyes.
Shit. He knows.
Mark smiled tightly, upest that Roger had seen through him so easily. "Yeah."
"I figured you could go about a day without filming anything," he replied, taking a long drink from the beer in his hand. "See you later."
Mark paused for a moment before laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You were great tonight Roger."
"Yeah," Roger replied flatly. "I guess."
Mark would have argued with his self-depreciating tone, but he gave it up as useless and headed out into the cold.
*
"Where is Mark?" Maureen snapped, slightly drunk and more inclined to be irritable for it.
"Mark?" Roger laughed, turning to look at her. "Mark is gone."
"But he said he was..."
"Jesus Maureen, did you really believe he was coming back? You know he hates these kinds of places," Roger answered.
"But he came here for you," she muttered, catching the eye of the bartender. She smiled slowly in a way that had never failed her before. The bartender smiled back and slid her another drink.
Roger watched the entire scene, shaking his head. "You certainly seem heartbroken that he's gone."
"Fuck you Roger."
"You know, it's good thing I never really liked you that much, or that might have hurt my feelings."
"Why don't you like me?" she asked seriously, turning to look at him. He was drunk too, she could tell by the far-off look in his eyes.
Roger leaned in close to her. She could feel his breath against her face as he spoke. "Because I know you're going to hurt him."
"What makes you so damn sure?"
He laughed. "I'm not stupid Maureen. I can see what's going on."
Oh really? I bet you're not as perceptive as you think!
"Mark can take care of himself," she said.
"Not when it comes to you," Roger replied, moving closer to her. Maureen noticed, not for the first time, just how good looking he really was. "Listen, I know your type but he doesn't. He actually believes you love him."
"Who's to say I don't?" she asked with an infuriating smile.
"Would you be here now if you did?" Roger demanded. "Look, whatever. I don't care Maureen. I just want you to know that I don't buy the act."
"Point noted," Maureen replied. "You sure are an asshole when you're drunk. I thought it might loosen you up a little, but you're always the brooding musician aren't you?"
Roger smiled. "It's part of my rock-star image."
"He smiles! Un-fucking-believable."
An hour later Maureen and Roger stumbled back toward the loft. Through a series of drinks they had reconciled their differences and become friends, and Roger's mood had shifted dramatically. They were giggling as they tromped up the stairs.
"Mark's not home," Roger mumbled, finding the door locked. He dug into his pockets until he unearthed his keys. As he turned to unlock the door, Maureen stumbled and fell against him. They fell into a sloppy kind of laughter as Maureen fought to regain her balance, Roger holding up until she was standing on her own again.
Neither of them was really sure how it happened. They were standing so close to each other, it was impossible to know who leaned in and made the contact first, but before either of them knew it they were kissing. They stumbled in through the door, wrapped in a hot, feral kind of embrace. Maureen grabbed at Roger's clothing, impatient, and he wound his fingers into her hair. Somehow they had both known that this was how the night was going to end up from the moment that Mark had walked out of that bar.
