Eh...well, that's the last one. For right now, I mean. Certainly not forever. Perish the thought! But it is two am, and I do have that stupid paper due tomorrow...(hey, I've got my name written! That's something...), so this will definitely be the last one tonight. Damn, I'm good!
Fraulein, I expect some SERIOUS groveling! Look how good I've been with my updates...and look how BAD you've been! Don't you see how much we suffer from the lack of boyporn???? :slaps wrist: BAD author!
Ah, well. Enjoy, children.
To Chelsea, who said on the phone two nights ago, "Why don't you make it two chapters?" To which I responded, "Huh. You think it's long enough?" "Uh, yeah. Look at it!" "Well, if you say so..." "Actually, better make it three." "WHAT?" "Think of how happy your reviewers will be!" "I don't know..."
I do as my lady bids. :blows kiss:
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"SURPRISE!"
Mark nearly dropped his camera in shock, fumbling frantically to get a hold on it. Roger and Collins had obviously been waiting for a long time for him to come home, he realized as he caught sight of a burnt-out candle stub currently residing in a small chocolate cupcake. For some reason, they were both dressed formally, as if for a celebration. "Oh, my God! You guys...you didn't have to do this!"
Roger embraced him tightly, lifting him at least a couple inches off the ground. "Of course we did. Not every day the baby boy turns twenty big ones!"
"Don't call me that."
"Hey," Collins interjected, "Your mother sent you something."
"What?"
Collins pointed to a conveniently opened package on the kitchen table. "Roger opened it," he immediately disavowed.
"Hey! You wanted to know what was in it, too!"
Collins grinned, but it wasn't up to usual. There had been something bothering him lately, Mark had noticed. In an acute role reversal, Mark had questioned him relentlessly, but nothing had come of it. Eventually, he had dropped the subject. Collins would tell them when he was ready.
Mark eyed the remains of a brown paper package surrounding what looked like..."A toaster?"
Roger shrugged. "I guess it's all yours. I mean, of course it's yours, but I don't eat toast."
Collins interrupted, "That's great, Roger, but aren't you forgetting something?"
Roger stared at him blankly for a moment. Collins raised his eyebrows and motioned to Mark, clearing his throat. Roger's face lit up. "Oh, right!"
He produced a somewhat crumpled envelope from the back pocket of his pants, proclaimed, "Happy Birthday, Mark!" and handed it to his friend.
Mark eyed the envelope dubiously for a moment, somewhat disturbed by the excited look on Roger's face.
Eventually he took pity on his friend (he was almost bouncing) and slit open the envelope. Looking down, he could hardly believe his eyes as they fell on--
"No way!"
Collins laughed as Roger shouted, "I told you he'd love 'em!"
"But these are for..."
"Tonight. You'd better get dressed."
"Fuck!" Mark swore, looking down at his sad attire. "I don't think I have anything to wear to the opera."
Roger grinned at him. "Maybe they'll think you're part of the play. One of the starving artists, you know."
Collins laughed. "You can borrow one of my shirts, but I'm pretty sure my pants are way too big. I mean, the shirts are also too big, but at least it won't fall off at an embarrassing time." He retreated to his room.
Mark smiled at him. "Thanks, Collins."
Roger pouted. "Don't I get anything?"
Mark embraced Roger suddenly, tightly. It had been a long time since Roger had been this involved, this alert, and he was touched that Roger had made the effort for his birthday. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"
Roger grinned and ruffled Mark's hair. "What makes you say that?"
Mark shrugged. "I know you. Besides, who else would have thought of tickets to "La Boheme?""
Collins emerged from his room with a clean white button-down shirt, which he handed to Mark. "Get dressed, Birthday Boy. The show starts in less than an hour."
The phone rang.
Roger moved to answer it (old habits die hard), but Mark held him back. "We screen, Roger."
Finally, the machine picked up. All three of the men's voices chorused, "Speak!"
"Hello, this message is for Mr. Thomas B. Collins. Mr. Collins, this is Nancy from the--"
In a flash, Collins had bolted to pick up the phone and turn off the machine. "Hello, this is Thomas Collins." He headed immediately for his room as Roger and Mark shared a what-was-that-about? glance. A moment later, Collins came out, looking much more sober. "Uh, I can't come tonight."
Mark looked at him, concerned. "Why not?"
"I've got an appointment. You two go without me, I'll see you later." He grabbed his coat, heading out of the apartment. On the way, he squeezed Mark's shoulder briefly. "Happy birthday, Mark. Sorry about this."
"No, it's okay."
As the door closed, Roger turned to Mark and said, "Well, I guess it's just you and me, then, huh?"
Mark smiled. "Yeah, I guess so." He'd been dying to have some time alone with Roger lately. "Hey, I should take a quick shower before we go, okay?"
Roger playfully shoved him. "Finally!"
Mark gasped as the cold water hit his hot skin, nicely cancelling out the July heat that had been accumulating all day. Oh, that feels so good...
He could feel the stress he'd been carrying lately rinse away, down the drain. And tonight, he thought, he would have Roger all to himself. It wasn't that he didn't like April; she had actually helped his relationship with Roger a great deal. Things relaxed when she was around. Roger no longer acted defensive, Mark no longer felt he was obligated to watch Roger every minute.
He didn't delude himself into thinking she was a good influence on Roger, though, or that she was the same girl he had gone home with nearly half a year earlier. She was using too—he had seen the marks on her arms often enough when she would wear short sleeves (it was summertime, after all). He didn't know if she'd been using before she wound up with Roger or not, but it didn't really matter in the end.
He really liked her; not romantically, that was over. He wasn't even attracted to her anymore, not really. She was a different person. But he liked having her around, most of the time. The only problem was that she was at the loft all the time. She wasn't living with them, per se, but she might as well have been. She spent most nights there, leaving Mark on the couch (or on some occasions, Collins would notify him that the other room would be free). Where his and Roger's conversations had been stilted before she had arrived, they had now mostly stopped.
He finished his shower, drying off vigorously and putting on his regular jeans with Collins's shirt. It looked nearly ridiculous, but Mark decided it was better to look silly in a clean white shirt than to look like a bum at the opera on his birthday.
The theater was just darkening as they slipped into their seats, attempting to stifle their laughter and garnering dirty looks from whitehaired patrons. Roger had climbed into the taxi, pulling Mark after him, and ordered in a pompous British tone, "To the opera, my good man!" The cabbie had only rolled his eyes, but Mark had cracked up, causing Roger to stare down his nose primly, sending Mark into another fit. They had passed the entire ride doing strange accents, made funnier by the fact that Mark couldn't do an accent to save his life. It was the kind of easy rapport they hadn't had for a long time, and Mark wondered how things ever got so bad between them that they had lost times like these.
The music was just beginning as someone else pushed their way past the indignant theatergoers in their row. Mark looked up from his program, and his heart sank. He whispered to Roger, more harshly than he had intended, "What is she doing here?"
Roger looked at him, puzzled. "We had an extra ticket. I called her when you were in the shower. What's wrong?" He turned his head to kiss April as she slid into the seat next to him.
"Nothing," Mark muttered. "Nothing." He turned his attention back to the stage, trying very hard to ignore his jealousy.
The opera was wonderful, and Mark found himself sucked into the story even as he smouldered with resentment at the attention Roger paid to April all through the evening, ignoring Mark completely. But he also managed to focus on the entertainment; sometimes too much so. They were nearly asked to leave as Roger shouted, "I love this song!" in the middle of Musetta's Waltz. Mark was pretty sure they'd gotten dirty looks from even the actress herself. He had elbowed Roger sharply, and the ushers showed signs of heading over, but Roger had quieted down. He had even gotten somewhat teary in the end, but of course would have rabidly denied doing any such thing.
They had been the first to stand during the ovation, and Roger had even wanted to wait by the stage door to meet the actors. They had made a rapid exit, however, as Musetta caught sight of Roger and started shrieking in Italian. They bolted for the nearest taxi, laughing hysterically, but Mark had quickly ceased to be amused as Roger and April spent the entire ride back to the loft necking. The irony of the situation failed even to bring a small smile to his face.
Roger had chased a giggling April up the stairs, then into "their" room as Mark sat down heavily on the couch. Collins' door was closed, so he supposed he was spending the night out here again. Swell. The perfect ending to the perfect day.
What was terrible, though, is that it had been a wonderful day...until she had shown up. Mark lay back on the couch, closing his eyes tightly, when he heard noises coming from the bedroom.
Creak.
Giggle.
Gasp.
Groan.
"Roger!"
Fuck! Mark grabbed a pillow, pulling it over his head, but the noises kept coming. He swallowed, feeling himself growing aroused. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image out of his head of Roger, naked and sweating, as the moans increased in volume.
Wait a second. Why am I thinking about Roger? Shouldn't I be thinking about April?
Roger, moaning and panting.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Roger, face flushed.
This isn't normal!
Roger, strong arms braced on the bed.
A feminine cry split the air, causing Mark to grit his teeth. Get off him, bitch, he's mine.
His eyes snapped open in surprise, and he sat up, alarmed. Roger...his? What was he thinking? He tried to shut out the sound of Roger's last loud groan, but it was as impossible a task as banishing Roger's image from his mind, where it seemed to be permanently etched. Desperately, he pictured Nannete Himmelfarb, his first girlfriend, but she quickly turned into Roger in his mind's eye. He ran through the catalogue of every girl he'd ever dated, but none of them held a candle to his brooding, fun-loving roommate. He tried recalling Roger at his worst;the time Roger had fallen down drunk into a trash can outside their building, the time he'd gotten into a fight with his backup guitarist and gotten an enormous black eye, the time he'd fallen flat on his face in a mud puddle. The time Mark had found him in the bathroom, incoherent with bad smack. Nothing worked. Nothing could make Mark stop caring before, why should it now? Every bad image, every reason to avoid him, melted into his eyes, his voice, his infectious smile, his graceful musicians' hands, his strong arms...wrapped around him, holding him.
Does this mean I'm in love with him? Does that mean I'm gay?
His initial reaction was to brush off the idea, much as he always had in the past when the subject had come up; a taunt from a classmate, the occasional invitation to dinner. He had never really entertained the notion, mostly because he really enjoyed sex with women. But he couldn't deny the fact that the image of Roger did more for him than any of the women he'd ever slept with.
Shit! he thought violently, repressing the urge to pull a Roger and throw something at the wall. It wouldn't do any good, and it wouldn't change things at all. The idea made sense, he admitted. Roger was the one person who had ever understood him, the person that saved his life but desperately needed saving of his own. Roger was strength, warmth, home.
Not to mention that he was fucking gorgeous.
Fine. I'm in love with Roger. What the hell does that mean?
Roger, Mark told himself, was an idiot, had very little concept of fidelity or commitment. Relationships with him were bad ideas. He changed girlfriends as often as he changed chords on his guitar. Not lately, a little voice nagged him. He had never cheated on April, to the best of Mark's knowledge. And he had never exactly technically cheated on his past girlfriends, either; they just hadn't been exclusive. The girls hadn't wanted love from Roger, they'd wanted a good fuck. And that's what they'd gotten.
Well, Mark continued, trying to convince himself to fall out of love, Roger was a drug addict. That wasn't something that would go away. But I could help him through that! He'd stop if he were with me, I know he would. And even if he didn't...he's so fucking worth it. Telling himself anything else would be a lie, and he knew it. With a groan, he flopped backwards onto the couch.
Well, what now?
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Author's Note: IS EVERYONE HAPPY NOW?????
I got "David Searching" in the mail halfway through completing this chapter (die, writer's block, die!!!!!!), so it was rather beyond me to write Anthony Rapp as straight. And yes, Mark will always be Anthony in my mind. So sue me; but again, be aware that all I own is the pomegranate.
Plus, the slashy muses were getting really angry! They must be appeased!!!
Heh. Mark thinks life's bad now...just wait, sweetie. Just wait.