Title: Unbreakable
Author: dropsofjupiter
Feedback: yes, please!
Pairing: Mark/Maureen
Word Count: 1619
Rating: T for language
Genre: Drama
Summary: She thought he was unbreakable, so she tried to break him.
Notes: This is my second RENT fanfic. Please check out my first, Fine (Mark angst! Gotta love it!)
Disclaimer: They're all Jon's.
---
Mark turned down sex yesterday.
I break hearts for sport, that's what most people think. Maureen Johnson brings men and women to their knees. She doesn't let herself get hurt. And it shouldn't be this big a deal, shouldn't make me feel so bad about everything, about all this: me, him – us. But there is something about being rejected that succeeds at cutting me down like no other.
I put on such a show for him too, undressing slowly at the foot of the bed and crawling up to kiss him, slow and firm and with a little bit of tongue, because I know it drives him crazy. And when he took my hands from his cock, smiled and said gently, "Not now, Mo," I couldn't believe it.
"What?"
"I'm just a little tired, that's all."
Too tired for sex? I wanted to ask. Mark shrugged apologetically. I rolled off him and lay curled on my side as he turned the light off.
"Night, Maureen." He kissed my temple and settled against me, his arm around my waist, his breathing soft and even. I watched the wall with tears in my eyes.
I hate being weak. Weak people are too easily let down; they wake up in an empty bed that stings of a one-night stand and hurt about it the rest of the day, wondering why I didn't stay. I'd rather be the one to leave in the morning. I don't worry about the guys when I do this. But when a girl brings me home, I know I'm going to make her cry.
I would hate myself for it, except I know that even in life, everyone has a role. That lonely girl, upset because nothing came of a random hookup, is a part I didn't need to play more than once. I'd rather be the seductress, all smiles and sweet touches at the club and orgasmic moaning beneath the sheets. And a clear mind, the next day.
I don't like to get attached, and it almost never happens. I certainly never saw it coming with Mark.
---
He was the only one who wouldn't meet my eye, when we went around the group making introductions.
"Mark, Maureen. Mo, this is Mark."
Maybe that's what started the whole thing. Most guys look at me, they smile, they try to make a connection. Mark didn't. I noticed.
"Nice to meet you." He extended his free hand, the other at his side, clutching an ancient camera.
"Likewise." I looked him up and down. Tall and skinny, messy blonde hair, blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Classic geek. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and I hid a grin at his obvious discomfort. This club didn't exactly look like Mark's scene.
"Coming backstage?" Roger asked. "You can hang out, it's not as crowded. If a guy with a leather jacket offers you a line, just say no."
"Actually, Rog, I'm just going to film from the bar. I think I can get a good shot from there."
"Suit yourself. I'll see you after the show." Roger was strong and confident and unbelievably good-looking, the kind of guy I normally go for. He was also cocky and arrogant and a little bit of a prick, the kind of guy I hate, the kind of guy I usually end up with. He parted the crowd like some sort of rock god, the ice-blonde tips of his hair shining like a white flame, and disappeared at the end of the smoky room.
I don't know why I stayed back. Maybe I didn't want to be a groupie. Maybe I didn't want to spend the next hour turning down drug offers.
Maybe it was because I thought Mark would be an easy catch. I knew he was interested. He kept stealing glances when he thought I wasn't paying attention, looking away when I met his gaze with a flirty smile.
I sat with him at the bar, asked him about his camera, bought him a few drinks. I leaned over his shoulder, "accidentally" brushed against his leg. My lips lingered, inches from his ear. By the end of the band's set, we had a good buzz going and he was finally starting to loosen up.
I was surprised when he reached out and took my hand in his. Guys that have been drinking aren't that old fashioned. They try to score before they even get home – fingers groping my chest, wandering up my thigh. I hadn't held hands with a guy since high school.
"Do you maybe – want to go back to my place?" he whispered.
Mark wasn't like any other guy I'd been with. Maybe this is why, looking back, I did everything wrong. That night had all the makings of a casual fling, except I didn't leave the next morning. I stayed and watched him sleep and watched him wake.
I stayed because, if we had been at my apartment, I'm very sure he would have done the same thing.
---
I love Mark, because he's a good person. He's generous and kind. He's extremely smart. He's never forgotten an important occasion: a birthday, an anniversary. He cares about me.
I hate Mark because next to him, all my faults seem magnified. I'm wild and overdramatic and selfish. I can be cruel, sometimes. I need attention, always. Mark will tell me it's not true, but even then I know he's lying behind that half-smile of his, just to save me.
Does Mark even have a flaw? Probably. If he does, I've never seen it. Always patient, always in control. It's not an act. No normal person can keep that façade without ever slipping, not once. It's the way he is.
Sometimes I wish he'd get really angry – yell in my face and throw things. But we've never had an argument. We don't fight. I fight. I needle and nag and try to provoke him. I scream every obscenity I know. I slam the bedroom door so hard, the walls in the loft shake.
And he sits on the couch, and takes it. I can't stand it. I'm imperfect; why can't he be, too?
---
Maybe I'm destructive by nature. Maybe I can't be in a wonderfully functional, normal relationship without messing it up. I guess it was only a matter of time.
I slept around. He didn't deserve it. I danced with strangers in dim, smoky clubs. I went home with them after, searching for something in caresses and thrusts and tangled sheets. I wanted them to need me like I thought Mark didn't. I never found what I was looking for.
In the morning, I slip into bed smelling like another man's cologne. I know Mark's only pretending to be asleep.
"Where do you go at night?" he asks, finally, over breakfast.
"Out. Walking around."
"That's it?"
Finally, some semblance of the reaction I've wanted all this time, and I can't think of anything to say.
"Yeah."
Mark sits across from me, clutching his mug of coffee so hard his knuckles turn white with the effort. He looks at me a long time.
"Okay," he says finally, quietly. That's how it's going to end, I know. "Just –"
"What?"
"Be careful." He goes to the couch, leaving me alone at the table, and I can't believe he just said that.
"What?"
Mark is sweet and gentle, and an unbelievable coward.
"I cheated on you, Mark!"
Words that put any couple on the brink of an epic battle. I want to have this fight, but Mark won't cooperate. He stares at the ground even after I pull him to his feet.
"I kissed other guys! I fucked them! Don't you give a shit?"
"You –"
Maybe he's going to call me something. You… bitch? Slut? Or something completely original. Mark can be creative with his words.
Finally, he looks at me. For one gripping moment there's a glint of anger in his eyes, but then it fades. And he just looks sad.
"You cheated on me."
Anything I want to say dies on my lips as he retreats to his room and shuts the door behind him.
---
"Why the fuck! Fucking whore!"
I deserve that, and so I let him say it.
"How could you do that? To Mark!"
Who knows why we do the things we do? I want to ask Roger. Why do you come home high at night? Don't pretend that doesn't kill him, either. But I don't say it. Roger and I have always gotten along, mostly because he likes Mark and Mark likes me. I don't want to throw his weaknesses in his face.
Roger looks disgusted at my silence. "You know, just because Mark doesn't show his pain as much as you, or me, doesn't mean he can't feel it." His hands are shaking and he's irritable. He needs a fix. He turns to leave the loft.
"Roger." I wait until he's looking at me, framed in the doorway. "I didn't mean to hurt him."
"I don't believe you," he says.
---
Mark emerges from his room after three days, ready to forgive and forget. "I'm sorry," he tells me earnestly, taking my hand. "I just – needed some time. I'm better, now."
Oh Mark, I want to say. Oh, sweetie, you hurt behind closed doors, where no one can see you. You pretend to be okay so that I won't have to feel guilty for what I've done. Mark, I thought you were unbreakable, so I tried to break you. I'm sorry, too.
I don't tell him any of this. Maybe we all have things we need to hide.