Warming the Heart
By: The Versatile Scarf
A/N: When the mood strikes, it strikes. Thank-you Ethiwen for your help on this fic . Pre-RENT.
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"December Thirty-First, eleven thirty-seven P.M., Eastern Standard time. Our first New Year's in our new home, the Big Apple." The smile was evident in the unique voice narrating the humming piece of machinery as the image it was focused on panned in a full circle around the whole of New York city, taking in the twin towers and the Empire State building from the rooftop of the once-industrial loft, transformed into rather pathetic living quarters that had become the haven for two just out of high school young men, searching for their places in the artistic industry of their new surroundings. Quite a change from quiet, small Scarsdale, where the most exciting, gossip-producing events occurred at bar and bat mitzvahs, or weddings, or when a fight between husband and wife was overheard at the supermarket. Oh goodness, would the argument over Miracle Whip or mayonnaise destroy such a loving relationship?
The fact that they'd resolved the situation by buying both was never added into these stories.
"Roger and I have decided that, instead of braving the crowds that have formed while waiting for the ball to drop, we're going to watch from our own private vantage point on the roof of our building."
"Better view anyway." Came the slightly slurred mumble from underneath the camera, or so it sounded. The view slipped downward to to the cameraman's left, where a rather scruffy bleach-blonde man was situated, a half-empty bottle of unidentifiable alcohol in one hand hand, the neck of his guitar in the other, the body resting in his lap. He shot a grin at the camera, accompanying it with a wink, his eyes gleaming with something that eternally read 'come hither' that was glazed over by the influence of alcohol on his blood stream. He seemed entirely unfazed by the fact he was completely and utterly shit-faced, his grin open and revealing.
Mark felt his heart skip a beat.
"So, Roger 'Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll' Davis has something to say?" He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, camera now level with Roger's face. However, the influence of alcohol on his own body caused aforementioned balance to falter, and he found himself falling back with a light 'thump' as his tailbone connected, none too gently, with the ground. The camera was clicked off sometime during his short tumble, so it did not catch the roar of laughter from the musician seated, cross-legged, beside him. "S'not funny."
The childish way in which he defended himself only served in causing the laughter to increase as the one rejoicing in Mark's pain doubled over his guitar, clutching at it with his free hand, all inhibitions about controlling himself having been blown away by the rather large amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Why bother when the only person who would witness it was your best friend, who was just as drunk as you were?
"Hey..." Came the murmur from beside Roger, a slightly hurt tone to it. The other man only continued laughing at the misfortune of his loftmate, his guffaws slowly dissolving into chortles and giggles, even as Mark's pained expression slowly twisted upward into an understanding smile, laughs of his own coming in short bursts at first, as though the sound was foreign to him. He eased himself into amusement, eventually giving up as well, clutching at the musician and his camera as the both of them grew incapacitated by their laughter, just two best friends revelling in pre-New Year's drunkenness.
It was Roger who calmed first, taking a swig of whatever he was holding, before extending the bottle to Mark, who had lifted his glasses and was wiping beneath his eyes.
"Here. You're not drunk enough. I'm telling you, the ball is way better when you're drunk."
"And how would you know this?" Mark inquired, though he took the bottle offered to him nonetheless.
"T.V., Marky-boy. A man's best friend."
"I thought those were dogs.."
"... oh."
A companionable silence followed as they listened to the roar of the crowds below, tourists lining the streets of the city they now inhabited, almost identical, content smiles present as they nursed their respectable drinks. Personal preference. Roger preferred the hard stuff, while Mark went for a more.. fruity, smooth flavor. On occasion they would switch, but they both ended up returning to their surefire sense inhibitors. If they wanted to get drunk fast they'd branch out, but a slow, smooth decline was what they sought tonight.
Twenty minutes passed in this manner. Twice Roger began plucking out songs on his guitar, three times Mark picked up his camera, the urge to film overwhelming but the lack of inspiration shooting him down, and once they erupted into completely random song.
"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a faithful--"
"Fateful."
"--trip, that started on this tropic port aboard this tiny ship. The mate was a mighty sailor man, the skipper brave and..."
A pause.
"Old?" Mark supplied almost hopefully.
"Sure, let's go with that. Skipper brave and old.. How many passengers were there, Mark?"
"Ugh, I'll sing it. Five passengers set sail that day for a three hour tour."
"A three hour toouuur." Roger echoed, a large, cat-like grin engulfing his entire face.
"The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of the fearless crew the Minnow would be lost."
A chord on the guitar, completely off, but aiding nonetheless. "The Minnow would be lost."
"The ship set shore.. uh... blah blah uncharted desert isle. With Gilligan--" Mark struck a pose.
"The skipper too." Now it was Roger's turn to salute the night sky.
"The millionaire and his wife." The natural blonde sidled up beside the taller man, who wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close.
"The movie star." Mark continued.
"She was so hot."
"The professor and Mary-Ann. Here on Gilligan's Isle." He had to smile as the other added in for the last line, harmonizing, albeit badly. Not that the entire thing hadn't been any better than a dying cat, but when notes didn't mix.. Let's just say their headaches wouldn't hurt any less the next day.
No awkwardness passed between them at their current position; Roger's arm about Mark's waist, Mark's head on Roger's shoulder. The bespectacled boy's eyes slowly began sliding to a close as he grew comfortable in the other's embrace before he snapped awake, glancing at his watch. Eleven fifty-eight. Holy crap, just in time.
"Rog... It's eleven fifty-eight." He peered out in the distance, spotting the ball, beautiful and bright from even this distance. There was so much tradition in that ball. People gathered in Times Square to watch it drop, singing, kissing...
... oh fuck.
".. Roger, kiss me."
"... what now?" Mark felt the arm around his waist loosen just slightly, but it didn't fall away entirely.
"It's tradition. On New Year's Ever you kiss someone. I've kissed someone every year until this year." It didn't matter that that person was most often his mother, aunt, or other female family member, and it didn't matter that the kiss was on the cheek of aforementioned woman. They had -still- been kisses, and he would feel absolutely horrible if he didn't continue the tradition. Apparently, Roger did not have that tradition in his family, because he was staring at him as though he'd just sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead and his glasses had expanded to accomodate it. "Oh, c'mon Roger... It's just a little kiss.." He pouted. "It's tradition."
The aquamarine eyes narrowed, indecision and an inner-struggle visible in them. Now, he'd never been the homophobic one--his father claimed that title--but it was his best friend that was asking him to do this. And apparently he wasn't drunk enough to have completely disregarded that fact just yet. However, Mark's needling was doing him in...
No. If Roger were to remember this night and look back on it later, he would have to say that it was the pout that did him in. The way that Mark's pale eyebrows drew up together in the middle, the way those occasionally cold blue eyes opened up entirely for him, and the way that his lips curled downward, complete dejection written all over his face. He would deny it up and down, saying instead that he had just grown tired of the nagging and given in, but that would be false.
"Alright, fine. A kiss at midnight, happy?"
"Yup." And Mark strained upward to catch the other's lips in his own, just as the yelling from the crowd below intensified, but also quieted. It seemed that the many couples down there were mirroring the actions of the now oblivious boys settled atop the roof of an industrial loft in the middle of scuzzy New York city, locked in an embrace as the two of them fell back so that they were lying on their sides, facing each other, eyes closed, shyness forgotten.
It was at least five minutes later that they gathered up their empty bottles and staggered toward the stairway, Mark in the lead, his steps sometimes straight on, though usually he deviated a bit too far to the right and had to catch himself, while Roger just took slow, measured steps in order to keep on track all the while, his head down.
"Oh fuck."
Roger's head snapped up, and it was then he realized that he was about three yards to the right of the doorway hiding the stairs leading down to their loft and thus their nice, soft beds.
"What is it, Mark?"
".. We're locked out."
A pause.
"... No, really, what is it?"
"Roger, I swear to god, we're locked out." The blonde rattled the doorknob, growing increasingly worried with each passing moment, his eyes narrowing, lines appearing on his pale forehead.
"Here, you're a wimp, let me try."
And yet, while Mark's 'wimpyness' may have been fact, Roger was unable to open the door as well, even after nearly using his guitar to break it open. He'd thought better of that before destroying his beloved acoustic, thank goodness, but three bottles had lost their lives to the barrier between them and comfort.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.."
The mantra continued as Mark again moved toward the door, careful of the shattered glass littering the floor in front of it. They were locked out. That was a definite. They were about five stories between them and the ground, and while they just might get lucky and break their fall with tourists, it was probably better not to risk a broken neck.
".. I guess we'll be sleeping up here tonight. Someone will be up tomorrow, and not drunk. They'll hear us then." A shiver. Alcohol delivered a false warmth, and already the biting cold of New York at night in the middle of winter was slipping past it, chilling the two terribly. It was so fucking cold.. Turning away from the door, Mark shuffled back to where they had been sitting previous, his camera under his arm, leaning against a crate that had been placed there. No blankets. At least they were dressed warmly, hm? It sure as hell wouldn't do to be clothed in something they'd wear in summer. Hell, they wouldn't survive if that were the case. He plopped down, gently setting the camera beside himself, and closing his eyes. Maybe if he pretended he was in the tropics he'd forget the chilled feeling in the tips of his fingers.
With his eyes closed he felt more than saw Roger sit next to him, reeking of alcohol that Mark couldn't smell over his own breath, legs stretched out before him.
"... what if we freeze to death?"
"Shut up, Roger."
"No, I mean really. What if we freeze to death up here, and then in three weeks, when someone finally notices the cloud of maggots and they see our frozen, decayed remains--"
"There wouldn't be decayed remains if we're frozen, and then there would be no maggots. We'd just be dead."
A long pause.
"... I don't want to die, Mark."
The way his voice sounded, so small and afraid, caused the filmmaker to finally turn his head and focus on him, surprise evident in his blue eyes. Rarely did Roger talk about death, and usually he spoke as though unafraid of it. But this. This was new. This was a vulnerable side of the rockstar he'd never seen before, and it was.. worrying.
"We won't die, Rog.
"But what if we do?"
Mark didn't know how to respond to the child breaking through Roger's cool, sometimes gruff demeanor. It was so.. vulnerable. It frightened the blonde, badly. He didn't know just how to respond to it, but he knew he had to do something to calm the rockstar's nerves.
After a moment, his arms opened wide, and his head tilted. No, Mark. You will not take advantage of this situation. You will not take advantage of your drunk , scared, cold best friend. You will not. .. so he wouldn't. He'd be good, really. ... not that he hadn't already taken advantage of
That didn't stop him from revelling in Roger inching closer, leaning into the offered embrace.
"I'll keep you warm, Roger."
"Thank-you, Marky.." Was the response he received as the musician cuddled up to him, arms wrapping about his waist as Mark adjusted himself against the crate, watching Roger closely, a strangely warm, content feeling sprouting in the pit of his stomach and blossoming at the back of his head.
"G.. Good night, Rog."
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Well, this will probably be multi-chapter.. We'll have to see.