Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.
No rain fell. The sun burned the clouds off, pitching an endless blue sky.
Roger watched the ground as he jogged off the field with his team, midnight blue shorts swishing around his knees. His top was the same blue, with a blazing gold strip running from his left shoulder to his right hip, and when yearbook photos were taken Roger always felt hideous and washed-out in the uniform.
At that moment, he didn't care. He was soaked with sweat and grinning like a moron.
"All right, guys, we're doing great."
Roger tuned out the coach's pep talk. They were doing well, Roger didn't doubt that: the game was one-zip in their favor.
At half-past five the sun was near enough to the western lip of the world, but the sky yet light in some places. Roger looked at the manifold colours of the sky. It looked, he thought, like those ballet skirts five-year-olds wear, that airy fabric in light blue piled up and up forever.
"Davis! Are you listening to me?"
"Yes," Roger answered, returning his attention to the coach.
His expression stated that he knew Roger had not been listening, but apparently he decided it wasn't worth the fight. "You'd better be," he said. "I want you to pay attention to the game, Davis. You're playing center forward second half."
When Roger jogged back onto the field with his team, he couldn't help but grin. He scanned the benches, hoping Mark was there, but all the squinting in the world could not drown the sunlight. Then the whistle blew, and Roger couldn't think to look anymore. He dashed down the field, rallying the ball in front of him.
Watch, Mark. Watch me.
"Mark!"
Roger pounced, still sweaty and hot and high from the game. He wrapped his arms around Mark's neck and kissed him.
"Hey."
Mark hugged Roger, tasting secondhand Kool-Aid in his mouth. "You jock."
"Did you see me score?" Roger asked.
Mark grinned. "Oh," he said. "If you think that was scoring…" He ran his finger up through Roger's damp hair and kissed him again.
Roger laughed. "Just let me grab my stuff and we can take off--"
A shrill voice interrupted them: "Roger!"
Roger froze. He knew that voice all too well. Mark, not knowing, stiffened slightly, worried by Roger's worry. "What's wrong, baby?" he asked quietly, just before Roger was pulled into a hug and squashed against a rather prominent bosom.
"H-hey, Mama," Roger stammered.
She squeezed him once, a bit too tightly, before releasing him. "Hi, honey!" she cried, too enthusiastic.
"I didn't know you were coming," Roger begged Mark to believe. Mark looked half-uncomfortable and half like a deer in the headlights. Roger was more like a rabbit smelling a fox.
"I wouldn't miss it. So--" to Mark "--you're a teammate?"
"Um… well, no," Mark admitted. "I'm just… I'm a friend of Roger's."
Roger nodded. "A friend," he echoed.
"So you came with the school?"
"Not exactly," Mark admitted.
Roger's mother nodded. "You came," she said, almost speaking to herself, "just to see him play. Oh. Boy." She chuckled, but her voice was solid ice. "Then I insist you come out to dinner with us."
Mark all but choked. "Mama," Roger protested, "you never take me out."
She petted his arm. "Don't be ridiculous, honey! You played so well tonight, how can we not celebrate with your… friend?"
Roger gave Mark the strongest apologetic look he could manage.
--
"So." Meredith Davis sat between Mark and her son, half-sunk in the sticky vinyl of the booth. She kept one hand resting a little less than gently on Roger's arm, asserting her ownership. "Mark. You are… I admit I'm somewhat baffled. You're not a teammate, you aren't in Roger's classes… how did you two meet?"
"I saw his band play."
They had ordered food because Meredith insisted, because she laughed a plastic laugh and said Roger must be hungry and ordered a cheeseburger for him. Mark had ordered a salad and not eaten a bite of it.
"And how long ago was this?" Meredith asked. She took a bite of her dinner. "Roger, eat," she said, squeezing his arm.
Mark squashed the desire to tell her, he'll eat when he's hungry. Leave him alone. "Probably four months ago," he said, glancing at Roger and seeing only the top of his head. Roger had reduced his cheeseburger to cud. He was crimson and rigid, each rotation of his jaw completed with massive force.
"And you two…" Meredith sighed. "You're dating him, aren't you, Mark?"
"Yes," Mark told Roger. "Yes, I am."
"You are aware of his age?"
"Yes. Seventeen," Mark added, to prove his knowledge. "I know."
"And what is your age, Mark?" Meredith wanted to know.
"I'm twenty-one."
"And your job?"
The same ball of food was in Roger's mouth, rotating. A sheen of drool covered his lips, and Mark noticed that when Roger wiped away the spit the bolus shot out into the napkin. "I," he said, "um, I'm between jobs jobs."
"Are you in college?"
Are you watching your son cry? "No." Mark's jaw stiffened slightly, determinedly unashamed. "No, I was in college but I appealed for a year off." And I'm not going back, ever.
"Have you… consummated your relationship?" Meredith asked.
"Mama," Roger said. Mark choked. That was answer enough.
TO BE CONTINUED!
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