Disclaimer: Totally don't own RENT
Connection – Chapter Two
Mark didn't know exactly what prompted him to actually speak to his photo subject. One moment he'd only been innocently snapping a few pictures of the sad boy, engrossed in his defeated posture, his sore, red eyes, the small little frown crossing his handsome face. For a moment Mark's eyes couldn't look past the tight jeans, the new leather jacket, perfectly faded shirt beneath. One moment he was wondering whether or not that was eyeliner and the next he was beside the other, strangely tempted to reach out and touch the mess of bleached blond hair.
The sore, red eyes fixed on his own and an odd expression floated inside them. He blinked a few times, sniffed and then grinned.
"Hey…" he managed, before the façade crumbled and he sighed and looked away. Mark realized after a long silence that reaching out might have been the right thing to do. So he did. He dropped his bag on the ground and sat on the bench beside the other boy, almost missing the small smile that for a moment replaced the frown. There was still silence between them, each one willing the other to speak first, but neither really minded when the only sound remained the city around them.
"What's the camera for?" Roger's voice came hoarse and tired. His sidelong glance was met halfway by Mark, who took a moment to force a smile.
"I was just, taking some pictures. I like to do that, take pictures, I mean." In comparison to Roger's throaty whisper, Mark's voice came forward and high. He shrugged after his statement, turning the camera over in his hands. "I took your picture a few times."
Maybe Roger felt that Mark was embarrassed at being caught, or he might have thought he was wasting Mark's time since he had decided to sit on the bench. Either way, Roger muttered an apology laced with reassurance. The words jumbled together, but Mark had understood the meaning and shrugged in response. Somehow this worked as a valid method of communication.
"Don't you…" Roger was sure he'd seen this boy before.
Mark nodded. "Same high school."
There was a moment where Roger appeared to look guilty, which he recovered from by letting an honest smile stretch across his face.
"Why aren't you, I don't know, somewhere right now?" The sarcastic edge that had unintentionally creeped into his own voice made Mark frown.
In response, Roger surprised both of them by laughing. He looked down at his shoes, ran a hand back through his hair.
"They don't," he sighed. "They don't get it." Roger muttered. "But you… I think you just get it."
He could have been home practicing. In fact, he should have been.
He could have been doing homework. In fact, he should have been.
But Roger had found something that he wanted to do, instead of feeling obligated to be doing.
In thirty minutes they had hardly spoken to each other. In an hour they were exchanging glances and grinning like children. In two hours they'd shared a cheap cup of coffee and now, well into their third hour, Roger and Mark were old friends.
Life stories didn't need to be exchanged, memories weren't begging to be built. Small talk had never been an issue and awkward pauses in conversation were covered by their need for each other's company. Roger might have mentioned the drugs. Mark might have mentioned the girlfriend.
Roger did talk about his music. He gestured for Mark, explaining the want and the need to be doing what he loved more than waking up every morning. He would sigh and smile and grin and pout and beg to be understood when he said that he loved it too much for it to be taking him this direction. He was hindered by the pressure of pleasing everyone around him. Roger confessed that he didn't want to be a rock star. He just wanted to play his guitar and write love songs.
"Who are you writing love songs for?" Mark teased him, slipping coins in the vending machine for a couple of Cokes.
Roger slumped against the wall and closed his eyes. He mumbled something under his breath and then shrugged, accepting the can when it was held out to him, the blue eyes behind it still taunting him carefully. He snapped open the can with a grin in response to the prodding.
"I'll write a song for you." Roger offered. "Only for you and no one else could ever hear it."
Their usual silence reigned, dappled with nudges and smiles and physical teasing. Roger was almost pulled off balance when Mark grabbed him around the shoulders and held up his camera, positioning them correctly while they both shared a mutually gratified grin.
"You can have this roll of film." Mark offered in return, making sure to meet Roger's eyes so that he would catch the significance of this.
The action wasn't necessarily wasted, but Roger had already known.
