Pairing:
MarkRoger, preRENT (but postApril)
Summary: Based
on Dane Cook's "The Nothing Fight". Kinda mellow. Rated T for
language. Very short oneshot.
Notes: I know
Dane Cook is freaking hilarious, but I made this a little bit more
less humorous. Though it has its funny parts.
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"I don't care."
Roger shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and sighed raggedly. "Mark..."
"I don't care, really, I don't care...I just..." Mark paced around, the sad tile floor staring up at him indignantly. Bottles of ketchup and packets of dry Ramen noodles loomed ahead, providing the drab grocery store with a sprinkle of color. Even the Kool-Aid punch bowl smiled at him in annoyance, dancing across the pastel bags.
"Mark..." Roger was swiping a hand through his locks, "do you want jelly?"
"Jelly?" Mark looked up to find Roger pawing at the many jars of jams and jellies, each a different brand and a different shade. There were strawberries and grapes, blackberries, apricots, peaches, apples...as far as he was concerned, jelly was jelly. No one really cared what kind as long as it was sweet and smooth, spreading across toast and mixing warmly with melted butter. It made Mark's stomach twist; jelly never settled well with him. Most of it was full of preservatives and sugar which tore his insides to shreds. A strict childhood diet had made him a picky eater and too many cavities had curbed him from sugar.
"Yes, jelly! Do we have any in the loft?"
"I don't know -"
"Yes or no, Mark. Last time you said we had jelly and we didn't..."
"Well, I'm allowed a pass here and there, Rog..."
"Mark, we can't afford these trips back and forth. Do we have jelly or not?"
"Roger," Mark sighed, exasperated, "you don't need sugar...it's another addiction..."
"What are you, my mother?" Roger clenched his teeth and ran his fingers again through the greasy clumps of bleached hair, the chains on his jackets clanking. He hadn't touched a razor in days and when they kissed, Mark's chin was rubbed raw by the coarse bristles.
"Roger, you don't need any more sugar."
"Do we have any fucking jelly, Mark? Is it really that hard to answer this god damn question?" Roger wouldn't budge. He wanted his jelly.
"I don't even like jelly," Mark stomped his foot, vibrating the rows of jars, "I don't like jelly. I mean, I get hives if I even see jelly. Wha – What is jelly? I don't even know what jelly is..."
"Oh god damn it Mark!" Roger's explosion was now drawing spectators, men and women poking their heads around the cookies and mops, trying to get a glimpse of the arguing lovers.
"Roger, calm down!"
Roger turned around, a bony finger pointed at Mark's pale face and hissing through his teeth, "I want jelly tonight. Pronto. Stat." He stormed away and Mark looked back at the lonely shelf.
Blackberry. Roger would like that. He and Mark always picked baskets full of blackberries at Roger's grandmother's farm in Tennessee, watching the elderly woman mash them and then jar them, walking down the street to distribute them to neighbors and friends. He missed those days. Now, Roger was a recovering addict and positive for HIV.
As blackberries were blooming, Roger was slowly dying.
Mark plucked the largest jar from the shelf and made his way to the checkout, where he saw Roger outside, huffing and puffing on a cigarette. Mark smiled to himself.
Roger would get his jelly.
"You got jelly?" Roger's eyes were wide with anticipation and Mark grinned like a fool.
Another day and as long as Roger lived, there would be jelly.
And there would be Mark.
