Authors Note: I posted this a while ago over at RENT for Bastards. Yay for cluttering the profile a bit more.
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. Title is from a Portishead song.
Warnings: Mark and Roger use bad words. Mark angsts. Roger is Roger.
Mark stares blankly at the flickering light bulb that hangs unadorned in the bathroom. From his seat on the couch he finds that he can't look away and it seems to him that this light isn't just blinking, it is winking at him. Leaning forward with his elbows digging into his knees and cocking his head slightly, Mark decides that the light is practically leering at him. It's like some kind of sick Chinese water torture that illuminates the darkness and reminds him every second that he is home alone on a Saturday night and his girlfriend is not there. That dangling bulb KNOWS where Maureen is and it's made it his mission to withhold this information from Mark. Mark can't believe he is giving a light bulb not only a personality, but a vengeful one at that. He knows he is a filmmaker who tries to see story and life in everything, but come on... a fucking 50 watt?
After engaging in a battle of wits with the bulb and finding himself losing the staring contest, Mark rubs his eyes and tries to stop seeing stars. Now he knows what Roger must feel like when his fangirls ambush him after shows with cameras that they snap in his face. Shaking his head and sighing exasperatedly, Mark crosses the loft and shuts the bathroom door in an effort to distance himself from the mocking flicker that burns up and then fades away.
Feeling slightly better, even though a sliver of light still silently mocks him from underneath the door, Mark flops back onto the couch and covers his eyes with his arms, pressing himself into the cushion. He is temporarily forced to give up his attempt at respite when the city reminds him that not everyone is as pathetic as he feels, and not everyone's girlfriend avoids spending time with them.
Sitting up and looking over the couch and out the window, Mark sees the crowd of people across the street at the Mars Bar. Mark squints through the darkness, trying to assign a story to the night, hopefully giving it more significance than just a chunk of time that he spent being stood up by Maureen.
Leaning against the couch, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, Mark makes one last attempt at blocking out the world around him before realizing that the pounding in his head is keeping him fixed to reality. He heads to the kitchen, pinching his nose while praying that Collins managed to steal some aspirin, sighing when he finds nothing more than children's tylenol. Despite his annoyance at the lack of relief, Mark can't help but laugh. The idea of Collins "liberating" a bulk pack of baby medicine is infinitely amusing.
Popping a few into his mouth, he searches for a clean cup and has to settle for his hand. Looking into the basin, Mark is less than surprised to see a sink full of dishes. Unable to look away and feeling his obsessive compulsiveness bubbling, Mark applies a generous amount of soap to the sponge and begins scrubbing like a madman possessed.
Most people would notice screeching pipes and would jerk their hands away at the first splash of scalding water. Most wouldn't just continue washing the same chipped plate they have been washing for the past fifteen minutes. Most wouldn't ignore the steam clouding their face or the fact that their fingers have lost feeling and have taken on a vivid flush.
But then again, most people aren't with Maureen. The irony isn't lost on Mark, and he wonders just how many people WERE with his girlfriend tonight. Mark vacillates between feeling aggravated and accepting responsibility for her actions. He never quite lands on disappointed because as much as he hopes for a time when she will settle down, he knows that he'll never be enough of a man to tell her no and force her to stop cheating. Mark can't believe he is with her in the first place.
Mark tries to remove himself from falling far too deep into this train of thought. Usually he would melt into an over analytical puddle of neuroses, but after 5 straight days of Maureen scampering around town dragging some other poor sucker by the arm, Mark can't work up the energy to care.
He can't get past the insane throbbing that is beginning to feel like an earthquake in his head. He looks over at the bathroom and finds that the previously gentle but taunting blinking has practically turned into a strobe light, and the visual of Maureen dancing under it can't help but cross his mind.
Turning off the now tepid stream of water, Mark finds himself feeling a bit dizzy and practically dives face first into the couch. Lifting his head slightly and removing his hands from under himself, Mark wipes his glasses on his faded t-shirt and places them back before deciding that the effort is futile and vision will be forgone for a later time. With nothing but an unclear head and an empty apartment, Mark's eyes flutter a few times before closing gently.
A few hours later (that feel like moments to Mark) he awakes to the completely cramped and uncomfortable feeling that awaits anyone who decides to fall asleep in their jeans. In the summer. In an apartment without air conditioning. Mark decides that feeling fevered and clammy is a fantastic addition to the roaring percussion that have taken up residence in his head. Sitting up slowly, Mark reaches for his glasses and runs a hand through his hair, now damp and askew. He whips around quickly when he feels eyes boring into the back of his head and is met with an obviously dejected Roger. Sitting cross legged on the table with his shoulders slightly rounded and fiddling with the ring on his index finger, Roger finally glances up at Mark fixing him with a brand new look of cold indifference.
Mark looks him right in the eye, taking in Roger's glowing skin and his mess of spikes that lay flattened with sweat. He hears Roger rhythmically tapping his fingers against the table but he doesn't break his stare. Mark really isn't in the mood for any more of Roger's teasing about him being home all alone and how Maureen is out fucking half of the East Village.
"Can you possibly stop doing that? I have enough drumming in my head, I don't need any more." Mark spits through gritted teeth before putting on the fakest smile he can muster and turning to leave.
Hopping off the table, Roger strides over to Mark and whips him back around and is met with crossed arms and burning eyes warning him to just let him be. Roger can't believe that Mark is giving him attitude. Roger changes his approach, stepping back a few steps and leaning in slightly, voice syrupy sweet.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Poor baby, did you have a bad night?" Mark looks over Roger's shoulder and laughs bitterly when he is once again faced with that derisive flicker. He feels his anger building as the light eggs him on. Turning his attention back, trying to stifle the burning that is slowly overtaking his mind, Mark again tries to retreat before he hears Roger begin to speak.
"Well I had a fantastic night Mark, thanks for asking! Zach and Matty were really on tonight and the crowd at the Mars Bar fucking loved us..." A click of recognition snaps in Mark, but it is quickly absorbed by the thunder clouds rolling through his skull. The illusion of civility and playfulness is washed away as Roger's voice begins strengthening, one hand holding Mark by the jaw, the other firmly grasping to his arm and keeping their eyes locked.
"Where the hell were you tonight?" Mark tries to twist away, smacking at Roger's hand and pushing back on his shoulder. Roger tightens his hold on Mark's arm, shaking him slightly and leaning in closer.
"I waited outside for you and you never showed up. What happened? You've known about this gig for weeks! You couldn't have gotten lost, it's right across the street. I really can't see any reason why you weren't there. So tell me Mark, where the hell were you?" At this Mark feels a sharp pang in his stomach, followed all too quickly by another piercing stab in his head. His eyes connect with Roger's, finding his roommate awaiting his answer, and knowing that he isn't going to get out of this with a placating response. He knows that he should feel bad about how he is treating his best friend but a week's worth of alone time has temporarily taken away his sympathy and the pressure inside him is rising and threatening to boil over.
"Something came up, Roger." Mark can feel the heat rushing to his face, his stomach tightening and his fists clenching at his sides. Pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain effort to release some of the tension behind his eyes, Mark feels his fury waning and being replaced with pure frustration.
"Listen, can we please not do this right now? I have a killer fucking headache and Maureen still isn't home. I don't really need this shit from you."
"Whoa, why are you pissed at me? I'm the one who is allowed to be angry here, not you. I wasn't the one who abandoned my best friend to apparently sit in the loft the whole night feeling fucking sorry for himself. I didn't skip out on you for no fucking reason. Christ Mark, when IS Maureen home?"
Upon hearing her name spat from his best friend's lips, all the aggravation that has been ebbing and flowing through Mark's veins is released with a hard punch to Roger's gut. Roger launches back a few steps before looking at Mark, eyes wide and filled with shock and caution. Reaching forward, grabbing Mark by the wrists, Roger leads him over to the couch and pushes down on his shoulders. Acting like a petulant child, Mark glares up at Roger, lips pursed and body rigid. When Roger releases his shoulders, Mark stands to leave before he is pushed down again. Softening his stare into a searching gaze, Roger looks down at Mark for a moment before sitting down on the couch next to him, throwing his head back and sighing loudly.
"Mark, I'm sorry I said that about Maureen. And I'm sorry that you're mad at me for...whatever the fuck you're mad at me for. That is exactly why you should have come to my show, release that crazy tension that is inside of you. Have a little fun, have a few drinks, see your best friend kicking ass..." Roger waits for a moment for a laugh or a smile from his best friend, continuing when silence fills the air.
"Look, I'm going to bed, are we okay?" Mark absently nods as Roger walks back to his room, shooting him one last look, before closing his door. Leaning forward with his head in his hands, Mark's eyes land heavily on Roger's door before trudging to his own room and trying to forget about Maureen, about Roger, and about that damn taunting bulb.