Chapter Two: Old, New, Borrowed, Blue.
Notes and Disclaimer: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, both for this and for But He Won't Let Me. It's awesome, getting e-mails with positive feedback.
In other news, I'm trying this from a point of view I don't normally take, so we'll see how it goes.
I still don't own anything.
April
"So?"
I bite my lip in a sorry attempt to keep a straight face. Roger, who's standing behind me with his arms around my stomach and his chin on my shoulder, snorts obnoxiously, and I slap his leg playfully, which only spurs him on.
"You're his friend, you ass," I hiss into his ear. "You're supposed to support him."
"Not when he looks like a clown." He thinks that kissing my neck is going to get him off the hook for that one. He's wrong.
"Roger!" I swat him again, harder this time, but he goes unfazed. "You help him, then."
"Fine. Mark!" he calls, straightening up and disentangling himself from me just so that he can stroke what's left of his goatee and assume a mock-thoughtful position before his usual smirk reclaims his expression. "Yeah. You look like a clown."
I can see Mark's shoulders sag and his eyes go to his shoes, tattered sneakers that, even to Roger's normally nonchalant judgment, really don't belong with the rest of his... costume.
From the top, it really doesn't look that bad. His hair is the gravity-defying blonde fluff that it always is, but we've just come to live with that; Mark's hair will never lay neat. In going through his tiny wardrobe, -which, just to give you an idea, he keeps folded under two milk crates near his bed- he's found a black dress shirt that fits him well enough and manages to make him look not quite as scrawny as he really is. He's wearing this tie, though, and not a not a goofy, conversation-piece tie that I would expect him to own; it's a dressy tie that I'm sure he bought just for the occasion. Paisley and red and boring, tied with a neat knot so tight that I'm afraid the color in his face is going to go from pink to blue pretty damn soon.
After that, it's just funny, despite my attempts to bite back my laughter. I guess that either Mark couldn't find anything immaculately clean under his milk crates or the only pants he owns are made of denim or corduroy, because the dark slacks he's got on definitely don't belong to him. They're much too big, both around the waist and down, and he's got them held with a belt -a brown belt, which I know is wrong- and cuffed multiple times at the ankles. Then there are the shoes, ratty old All Stars that have holes at the anklebones and are threadbare everywhere else.
I smile sympathetically and walk to where he's leaning on one of the ladders, throwing my arm around his neck just to get at Roger, who shoots me a dumb little look before moving towards us.
"Cheer up, Mark," I try. "It's just not right for this, but you'd make a very beautiful bride." He turns his head towards me a raises an eyebrow, obviously not catching on. "You've got everything a bride needs: something old-" The shoes. "-Something new." The tie. "-Something borrowed..." Because I recognize the pants as belonging to Collins; they go unworn unless he's out lecturing at some big, fancy university. "-And something blue."
He looks down to check himself out, seeing if he had maybe tucked his shirt into his boxers instead of his pants.
"Your eyes."
He smiles ruefully and nods his head noncommittally. "I guess so."
"Mark, if you go into this bar looking like that, you're going to get your ass kicked." And Roger reenters the conversation with this encouraging news. What an ass. "You look like you're going to a chess match, not an East Village bar."
"You do look sort of morbid, Mark. Like you're going to a funeral."
"Or you're reliving your Bar-Mitzvah."
"No offense, but you're too pasty to wear all black, hon. It makes you look sort of dead."
"This girl's going to take one look at you, laugh, and go find a guy who doesn't look fourteen. Who's in jeans and leather and-"
"Gee. Thanks, guys."
I can tell by the 'help me' look on his face and the slumping posture that we're working wonders for Mark's already low self-confidence.
"Chin up, Mark," I say as I place two of my fingers under his chin and tip his head back. "Just try something else. I'm sure Roger will help you."
"Yeah right, April," my peevish Roger spits back. "I'm not his personal fashion.. guy. Whatever you call it. Or his mother. Mark's a big boy; he can get dressed by-"
But the look from me that clearly reads, 'Roger Davis, if you don't get your ass upstairs and give your friend a hand right now, you'll be the one sleeping with him tonight,' makes him scowl and bite his tongue damn fast.
"You're pathetic, Mark. Go upstairs and take those dumb pants off."
Believe me when I say that the look on Benny's face when he walks in to that is absolutely priceless, even if Roger's middle finger doesn't agree. I laugh and seat myself on the couch while Mark trudges up to our room and Roger turns into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and following behind him.
The next five or six minutes are filled with exclamations from the loft rooms, of "Damnit, Roger!'s" and "Well, hold still, then's," and "That hurts!'"that have Benny and me in tears with laughter. I'm almost sad when the clamoring dies down and the veil of makeshift curtains parts at the top of the ladder, revealing Roger first, with Mark's loosened tie hanging around his neck.
"I hope you're happy," he growls, flopping down on the couch next to me just as Mark's feet appear on the top rung. "He's harder to get dressed than I am." Coming from the man who would gladly spend the mornings naked, save for a sheet, this means something.
"So?" Mark repeats the question he first asked a while ago, but is met without the humiliating laughter this time around. His slacks are blue jeans now, broken in without being riddled with holes, and the tie is no more. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned at the cuffs and collar, then again so that his collarbone just visible. That probably took some convincing. The ratty sneakers are still there, but I guess there's no helping that, as they're the only shoes Mark owns.
The best part about all of this is his hair. The glass of water that Roger filled is empty, and Mark's shoulders are wet, leaving no doubt in my mind as to how Roger groomed him. His fluffy blonde hair is darker now, wet with water and gel, and spiked up as much as it could be without looking too obnoxious.
While Mark isn't quite built to rock the whole look like Roger would be, it's definitely an improvement over the funeral wear of earlier, and the proud claps and whistles from Benny and me, the smirk from Roger earn a grin from our little guinea pig.
When we're done ushering him through the door and down to the street, promising that he'll be fine, that he won't choke, that he will get laid -that's Roger- and that we'll wait up for him with wine and condoms, we head back upstairs and share a laugh over our little Mark, Roger and I curled up on the couch and smiling like the proud parents we are. I break one of our more passionate moments with a sly smile and a question:
"Do you really think he'll get laid tonight?"
Roger chuckles and shrugs his shoulders, sliding me off his lap and standing to his feet. "You want to find out?"
"Roger! That's.. don't go after him. He'd die."
"No, seriously!" he protests, slipping into his jacket and handing me mine as he approaches the door to the stairs. "If things are going well for him, we're staying out of the house. The thought of trying to sleep while Mark loses his virginity in such close quarters is enough to make me lose my sex drive."
He could have left it at that.
The high-pitched squealing and moaning was a little unnecessary.
Notes: So? What'd you think?
I still don't know how far to take this. I think I'm biting off more than I can chew. But we'll see.
