Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson; I'm just playing with the characters.
Roger sat on the bleachers, wedged into the footwell with his knees drawn up to his chest, sniffling. His shoulders jumped slightly with each sniffle. Rocks of ice pinged off the seats to his left and right and ricocheted off his skin. His arms shook, and under his wet clothes his skin felt raw and enflamed.
Roger didn't care.
Down in front of the stands, the field had been rained up to a muddy gazpacho. Twelve members of the soccer team pounded laps around the cement that ringed the pitch. The last member of the team couldn't bring himself down from the stands. Because what was the point, really?
"Davis."
Roger raised his eyes and gave a half-hearted grunt of greeting. The coach sat on the lower bleacher and asked, "What's going on?"
Roger shook his head.
"Why don't you head home?"
Again Roger shook his head.
"Hey. We all have our days, Davis. You're not running, go home and get some rest. I'll see you on Monday."
Roger tried to express any semblance of gratitude for his coach's concern, but managed only a squeak and a nod. He forced his cold, stiff joints to move, rubbing his knees to let himself stand.
---
"Roger." There were three knocks on his bedroom door, then another call. "Roger, honey, come on. Stop sulking."
Roger moaned, rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. If I don't answer, she'll go away. If I don't answer, she'll go away. If I don't answer, she'll—
"Roger." The door swung open, and Meredith stepped into the room. She stood beside the bedding, glaring disapprovingly at her son. "Get up, Roger." He made no move. "I'm not putting up with this. Get dressed and come out to dinner with me and your dad."
"He isn't my dad!"
Singing-trained boys could shout more powerfully than average teenagers. Roger was sitting up, fists clenched at his sides, trembling.
Meredith raised a hand to her forehead. "Not this again. It's been four years, Roger. I'm sick of hearing it."
"He isn't," Roger hissed through clenched teeth, "my dad."
"No," Meredith admitted, "he's not. Now are you coming out with us?"
"No."
"Fine! Stay here then. You can feed yourself. And you know what, if that's your attitude, you can wash your own clothes. I'm not going to try so hard if you don't care." She turned and stalked to the door, paused and turned. "Roger," Meredith said, "when the telephone bill comes, if I see that man's number, I'll report him to the police. Consider the penalties of sodomizing a minor."
Roger bit his lip. But I love him. He had noticed that his mother didn't care. "How do you know I was on the bottom?" he sneered.
She slammed his door. Roger sank down beneath the covers, squeezing his eyes shut and hugging himself too hard. He heard his mother's voice, snarky in tone though her words were muffled. Tim's response was quiet, then the door clicked shut.
When Roger closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the breath caught in his throat. He tried to imagine Mark's arms around him, the warm solidity of Mark chest at his back, but nothing he could imagine was nearly as good. Roger tried to feel Mark's breath on the back of his neck and couldn't.
Roger slipped his hand down between his legs and fondled himself, eliciting no response. "Come on," he hissed, stroking. "Come on," but he couldn't.
He hunkered lower under the blankets, hugged himself, and felt cold.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Okay, I know that there are not 13 players per team in each game, but in the teams I was on there were usually a couple kids who didn't get to play per game, which is how Roger's team works.
Please review?