Disclaimer: It's all Jonathon Larson's. No one could hope to measure up anyway.

Mark

They didn't manage to finish recording Maureen's protest on Monday, either, because she decided that she wanted to make some costume adjustments, and Roger had to leave partway through to practice with his band. Tuesday Mark ran out of film and no one was motivated enough to go get more right then, and on Wednesday he was called home by his parents, who didn't think that being out after school every day was a good activity for their son.

By the time they finally got around to finishing filming, Mark had adjusted to the routine of Roger hanging around after Government so that the two of them could walk out to meet Maureen. Friday, the day after they'd finally finished, when Mark stood up to leave school, it was a moment before he realized that despite the fact that they had no real plans to go anywhere this time, Roger was still standing there waiting for him. Mark raised his eyebrows, Roger raised his in response, and they both gave little half-shrugs as they walked out of the classroom.

When they approached Maureen, she came running up and announced, "I have a date tonight, see you guys later!" An almost-squeal escaped her full lips as she waved brightly and hurried off.

Mark and Roger looked at one another. "So?" Mark asked, hoping that his association with Roger wasn't about to become a solely in-school one.

"So…ya wanna come over?" Roger replied, pulling on a strand of hair. His other hand dug into his pocket as he added, "You could spend the night, maybe."

"Yeah, sure, I just need to swing by home first and get clothes and stuff…and tell my mom," Mark replied, trying to not show how pleased he was, and knowing that his mother wasn't going to be entirely thrilled with this. He hadn't had a sleepover since he was about seven, and she didn't know Roger at all.

Once Mark had nodded, Roger offered, "I can give you a ride and wait for you, or you can just come back over." He paused and frowned. "Well, maybe not; I don't think you know where I live."

Glad for the excuse, Mark murmured an ascent to that. He would prefer that for now Roger didn't know that he didn't have a driver's license yet. He'd had his permit for about five months, but he hadn't even bothered to start behind-the-wheel training because his parents were terrified to let him into the driver's seat, and he wasn't so crazy about the idea either. Still, it was somewhat embarrassing for senior year of high school.

As they pulled up to Mark's house, he gestured that Roger should stay in the car. "My mom reacts better to impromptu plans if the other person isn't around," he explained, hurrying up to the door before Roger could protest. More like…I can pretend that my mom isn't who she is if no one ever meets her, he thought to himself.

Dropping his backpack in the hall, Mark could almost immediately hear, "Mark? Ma-ark? Is that you? Are you there?"

Of course it's me. Who else would be coming in at this time?, he thought. His older sister, Cindy, was in college a few hours away, and his dad didn't get home until almost seven. Still, he called back, "Yeah, hey Mom."

Turning to head upstairs to pack up some clothes, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Mark looked back to face his mom, fake-looking ginger curls with blond roots piled above wide, dark eyes, and a green apron with flour spotting it reaching nearly to the floor. She pulled him into a dramatic hug, which he returned stiffly as she bestowed kisses upon both his cheeks.

"Mark, dear, I was thinking that today we could shop for some things for Cindy's apartment. She's moving in a week, and we're going to drive up to—"

"Not today, Mom," he interrupted, pulling out of her grip. "Actually, I was wondering if I could go stay at a friend's house tonight."

"You know I don't approve of boys and girls staying together overnight if there's no ring involved, darling."

"Mom! It's not Maureen. Besides, we're just friends anyway. This is a boy—a guy. His name's Roger. He was working with Maureen and I on a prot—project." He could imagine vividly what his mother would have to say if she heard about another one of Maureen's protests, so he rapidly edited his words.

She looked at him skeptically, and then beamed. "I'm so glad to hear that you have friends other than that girl!" she exclaimed, and Mark could feel a blush flooding across his features. Briefly he wondered if his mother derived some sick pleasure in pointing out how rarely he mentioned friends of his, and insulting Maureen in the same sentence. Apparently there was something "just not quite right" about her, according to his parents.

"So can I go, then?" he asked, shifting his weight impatiently, "Roger's waiting outside. He'll give me a ride over, so you don't have to worry about it."

For a moment he thought that she was going to disagree, but then she waved her hands, shooing me, instructing him in her typical overprotective manner, "Have a good time. Call me if you need anything, or you get lonely and want to come home."

Cheeks positively aflame now, Mark took off up the stairs, racing up them two at a time to his room. The first impression that most people had upon entering it was that of pictures. Photos in frames, tacked up on bulletin boards, resting on his windowsill, in albums set neatly into my bookcase. Pictures were everywhere, but set into some kind of general order to keep his parents happy. If they'd ever walked in to find his room in disarray, their ire would've flared instantly.

Mark upended his backpack, which he'd surreptitiously grabbed just before he ran upstairs, next to his bed, nudging the contents underneath his bed with the toe of his sneaker. Then he hurriedly grabbed clean clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a T-shirt to sleep in just in case Roger would be uncomfortable with his normal habit of sleeping in just boxers. Camera under one arm and backpack gripped in his other hand, he hurried back downstairs, called goodbye to his mom, and was out the door before she could stop him with anything else.

-----------------

When Roger pulled up to his house, Mark hopped out and followed him up the front walkway. He lived in a modest two-story job, with white-washed outside walls and a grey slate roof. It had a meager lawn in a small square in the front, and Mark was immediately embarrassed, thinking back on his own rather expansive property, and what Roger must have thought of it.

The taller boy clicked the door open with one of the three or four keys on his keychain, shoved it back into his pocket, and led Mark upstairs. The house was very quiet, but it had a comfortable atmosphere about it. It reminded Mark of the week before, when he and Maureen and Roger were all sitting around in the parking lot—quiet, but companionable. He liked it immediately.

Roger dropped his backpack to the floor just inside the door, not bothering to straighten it as it slumped over and took up half of the front entrance. For a moment, Mark was slightly jealous—if he'd left his stuff just lying around, his mother's Jewish roots would have had an apoplectic fit.

They headed up the short set of stairs into Roger's room, but about halfway there he paused. "Want anything to drink?" he offered, sounding like he really wasn't used to playing "good host," but thought that maybe he should.

Mark nodded. "Sure. Pop, if you've got it."

Not sure if he was supposed to wait or not, he opted for proceeding up the stairs to wait for Roger in his bedroom, listening to his fading footsteps.

Roger's bedroom looked nothing like Mark's. His walls were almost impossible to see beneath posters of various bands, singers, and models. His bed was unmade, the covers falling off, and a combination of clothes, CDs, and even some vinyls was strewn across the floor. A tower of CDs on his desk looked like it was on the verge of crashing over, and there was a little guitar shrine with amp, guitar stand, and myriad fliers advertising Roger's current band, Incendiary, and another that Mark assumed to be some former band of his. Mark couldn't imagine a way for the room to be more perfect.

After a minute or two, the back of his neck began to prickle with that feeling that tells you that someone's eyes are on you, and indeed, when he turned he found Roger watching him, as though waiting for his opinion. "It's not much, but it's mine," he explained.

Suddenly it dawned on Mark not only was Roger waiting for his opinion, but that he was concerned about it. Almost as if Roger needed approval just as much as Mark did. Suddenly a fresh layer of the seemingly flawless rocker was peeled back for consideration.

It was consideration for a later time, though, so Mark just grinned, dropping his backpack to the floor and setting his camera carefully on Roger's desk. "It's very….you." It was a pretty lame way to end a sentence, but that was the best way to describe it. The whole room just screamed Roger.

This seemed to put Roger at ease, because his uncaring face returned, and he shrugged and handed Mark a Coke, flicking his own open. When Roger brought the can to his mouth, he chugged about a third of it before setting it on the nightstand next to his bed and flopping down. Mark took a seat at the other end of the bed, trying to decide what to do.

As usual, it was Roger who broke the silence, which had become awkward. "Any chance that you've ever come to hear my band?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he took another drink, this one significantly smaller, from the red can beside him.

Regretfully Mark shook his head. "I've…um…I haven't exactly been to a concert before," he explained, tipping his own Coke up to his face to avoid Roger's eyes. His friend really did have nice eyes—piercing, but gentle when he was happy, and full of energy when he was interested in something. They were a really interesting shade of green, too. Mark's brow furrowed, and he banished the assessment of Roger's features before he ended up blushing, or something, and Roger started to wonder.

When he got around to looking at Roger again, the musician was reaching for the guitar by his bed, and plugging it into the amp on the floor. "Could I play something? I mean, you know, for feedback from someone that isn't going to say, 'OH MY GAWD, THAT WAS AMAZING, LET ME SLEEP WITH YOU NOW!'" As he mimicked the last part, he fluttered his hands around his face and batted his eyelashes.

The tension (that Mark figured Roger probably hadn't noticed anyway) had dissipated, and Mark nodded, so Roger leaned up against his headboard, pick in one hand, and started playing.

The song that poured forth wasn't something popular, or that Mark recognized at all. From Roger's smile—slight, and betraying some nerves—just before he began to play, Mark guessed that it was something that Roger had written himself.

He was good—really good. His voice was slightly higher than Mark had expected, but still had a wide range. He sang clearly, though with a rough edge, and Mark could understand why people threw themselves at his feet if he always sounded like that. He watched Roger's hands, mesmerized by the long fingers as he played. From the moment he began to play he was obviously in his element, eyes shut, head tilted back, and voice filling up the room.

When he'd finished, he blinked his eyes open and smiled, a little of the apprehension returning to his face. "What did you think?" he asked, searching Mark's face.

"OH MY GAWD, THAT WAS AMAZING, LET ME SLEEP WITH YOU NOW!" Mark yelled, the temptation too much to resist, and Roger reached over and punched him in the arm.

"Hey!" he yelped, sticking out a hand to swat Roger's head, but he ducked away too quickly, setting his guitar back on its stand and then jumping back on the bed to punch Mark lightly in the stomach. The smaller boy reached out again, and this time smacked Roger's shoulder before he grabbed Mark's arm and twisted it down behind him, then snatched the other and pinned him on his back too quickly for him to fight back.

It didn't come as a surprise; Mark had known Roger had height, weight, and speed on him, so he didn't really mind losing the impromptu battle.

"Heyyyyy, Rogerrrr, let me up!" he whined instead, as Roger grinned triumphantly down at him. Roger shook his head.

"You were asking for that one, Markyyyyy." He drew out the "y" so that it was long, making it almost sound like he was singing again. Mark made a face, sticking out his tongue, and Roger laughed, rolling to let him go free again.

Rubbing his arm, Mark sat up, and Roger gave him that little smirk that Mark had already come to associate with only him. It fit his features perfectly. Leaning back against the wall Mark told him, "Really, you were really good. If the rest of your band has your talent, then I think you guys have really got something."

Immediately, Roger assumed a crushed expression. "You think that other people can match my talent?"

Mark snorted. "Well, at least you don't have a problem with self-image."

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As he slowly rejoined the conscious world, Mark came to the increasing awareness that there was something touching him. With blurred vision, and in the room that was dark from having the blinds drawn, for a moment he wasn't sure where he was. Then he remembered—the trundle bed that pulled out from underneath Roger's.

They'd watched a couple movies the previous night, stopping to order a pizza and greet Roger's mom. Mrs. Davis looked like a female version of Roger, with shoulder-length, wavy blondish-brown hair and bright green eyes. She was completely the anti-Mrs. Cohen if there ever was one, lax, joking, easy to get along with.

At about two in the morning, they had dragged themselves back upstairs, stripped down to boxers (which Mark was relieved to find that Roger seemed to see as completely normal for them to both sleep in), and fell asleep on their respective beds.

Now Mark felt around on the floor next to him, retrieving my glasses as quietly as possible and rolling over. Roger was sprawled halfway between the two beds, facedown, with one arm encircling Mark's waist. He felt warm, and before Mark had gotten a chance to process much more than that, Roger jerked, mumbling something that sounded a lot like, "Mmmmkktik," and turning his head to face Mark.

A couple blinks later, he shot upright. "Shit, I'm sorry, man," he explained, sleep still thick in his voice. "I mean, I didn't…"

"It's okay, I know," Mark reassured him. It hadn't really struck him as being that strange, which was odd in itself. Normally Mark hated having people touch him, but with Roger, it just seemed normal. "I don't care."

Roger looked relieved, yawned so loudly that his jaw cracked, and flopped back down to sleep.