"Roger." Mark blinks and pauses, awkwardly, unaccustomed to saying his roommate's name out loud – or talking to him at all.
His face is incredibly close, and he's smirking, and Mark doesn't quite know what's going on, so he just asks, "What are you doing?"
"Mistletoe." Still looking ridiculously smug (that's not unusual), Roger shakes the little plastic red berries over his head again. "It's tradition. Newest roommate gets a kiss from the second newest. No getting out of it."
He says it all very matter-of-factly and that makes it even more confusing. Mark just prods the plastic, biting his lip. "… This is holly, though."
"What?"
Roger's face snaps into a scowl and Mark takes an instinctive step back. Behind him, Collins, Benny and Maureen are snickering to themselves. He would probably be more amused if he weren't afraid he was about to get his face pounded in. Damn it, why do I always have to open my mouth…
"That's holly," he says slowly, almost apologetic, and points again to the berries. "Not mistletoe. Mistletoe has white berries."
"What the fuck – no it doesn't!" Incensed, Roger turns to the others for help but Collins waves him away, choking on his laughter. He turns back, obviously trying not to look doubtful. "It said mistletoe on the package!"
"Didn't you get it from the dollar store?" Maureen calls, grinning, and he flips her off without even looking back.
Mark shifts awkwardly, wondering if he should take this opportunity to dive for his bed – or the door. God knows when Roger set his mind on something he didn't sleep until he got it, and if he was set on kissing Mark, the filmmaker didn't stand a chance.
Not that he'd mind Roger kissing him… but in front of everyone else?
And as a joke.
He shakes his head. No way. He's not going to embarrass himself like that. Roger will just have to kiss someone else.
"You can go ask the florist down the street, if you want… they'd probably know," he offers lamely, taking a careful step back and hoping Roger wouldn't notice. No such luck. His eyes snap to Mark's feet, glowering and freezing him in place.
"You're not getting out of this, Cohen," he threatens, and Mark stumbles a step backwards in a wild attempt to dodge the first grab.
The cat-and-mouse game ends before it can really begin, with both of them toppling to the floor, an ungainly, writhing pile of limbs and Mark's yelps.
"Roger! Roger I said get off!"
"It's a goddamn tradition, Cohen, show some respect!"
"Collins!"
Collins gave a little wave, smirking and perfectly content to keep watching from the sidelines. Mark clawed at the linoleum, trying to break free – but Roger was at least ten pounds heavier than him, mostly because he was taller, damn him, and he had him pinned in seconds, unbearably smug once more.
"You're making this harder than it has to be," he murmurs hotly into the filmmaker's ear, effectively reducing him to a red, stammering puddle.
Oh my God, oh my God, he's on top of me, he's going to kiss me –
Mark is suddenly, obscenely glad for the awkward two weeks he'd spent kissing Nanette Himmelfarb behind the Jewish Community Center in Scarsdale his senior year, because he can't imagine how humiliating this would be if it were his first kiss.
Not that he's probably very good, anyways…
Maureen is still laughing somewhere behind him and he desperately wishes she would just leave so he could at least pretend he wasn't humiliated.
I thought she liked me, he can't help thinking, petulantly. Guess not.
Roger grabs him by the shoulders and tries to wrench him over onto his back, and Mark almost goes willingly before he realizes that he has control of his wrists again and pushes himself up off the floor so suddenly that Roger goes tumbling off him with a loud curse. The laughter gets louder, and Mark scrambles for the partition that marked his bedroom, diving for his bed.
Unfortunately, Roger decides that it would be appropriate to follow him.
He's backed into a corner and he knows it, but at least now there's no one watching them. (No one that he can see, anyways.) He edges warily toward the wall, breathing hard, prepared for anything – a punch to the face, first of all, because Roger is hobbling and he's pretty sure that's his fault.
The faux holly had disappeared beneath the couch during their scuffle, but Roger didn't seem to be deterred by that.
He huffed and stood there at the foot of his bed, hands on his hips, looking almost… petulant. "You're difficult," he accuses, jabbing a finger in his direction. His nails are currently sparkly black and it's making it hard to take him entirely seriously.
Mark nearly swallows his tongue. "I'm sorry, I just – It's not that I don't w- wa-" He cuts himself off, face flaming, but it was too late to keep Roger from understanding and he watched helplessly as understanding flooded the guitarist's eyes, making them gleam.
Uninvited, he crawls up into Mark's bed and straddles his lap, pushing their noses together. Mark's head is swimming. He's afraid to breathe, with Roger close enough to smell his breath. Did I brush my teeth this morning?
"Just between you and me, then," Roger suggests in that low, silky voice he's perfected for the stage, except this time there's no one else to hear it but Mark, just Mark and Roger on top of him, fingers curling around the back of his neck, calloused and strong and warm and oh God, Maureen is probably filming this with his camera –
Roger kisses him very, very softly, and he chokes on the inhale. Smiling against his lips, Roger kisses him again, stroking his hair before letting his fingers trail down to his shoulders… his sides… his waist.
He murmurs, without breaking away, "If you think this is bad, imagine how it was for me. I had Benny."
Mark laughs, then, loud and genuine, and leans forward to kiss Roger soundly. Somehow, that did make him feel a little better, and this was ridiculous. With his anxiety ebbing, it seemed more an opportunity than anything.
And so they kissed, and kissed, and Roger may have slipped a little tongue in there, but it was all in good fun.
After all, it was a tradition. Who was he to break it?