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

Mark

-three weeks later-

"I'm bored."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Roger, you're bored about fifteen hours of the day. The rest of the time you're asleep and don't know the difference."

Giving Mark a look accompanied by with what Mark had to admit was a rather appealing pout, Roger protested, "I am not. I get more sleep than that." Roger wriggled across his bed, which they had been lying on in a vain attempt to start working on homework, and set his head on Mark's side.

Mark was sitting propped up on one elbow, so he flopped down on his back and Roger came to rest on his stomach. Quietly he watched the dark blond head move slowly up and down with his breathing, finally reaching out a hand to stroke Roger's hair.

It amazed Mark how much more comfortable he was becoming with being touched. Never before had he had much use for it, but Roger was just so…touchable. As tough as he always looked, when they were alone, Roger was always cuddling up next to Mark, resting a hand on his leg, or pulling him close into one of those amazingly breathless kisses.

As Mark absently ran his hand through Roger's short spikes of hair he stared at the ceiling, not really concentrating on much. He didn't have any real ideas of anything to do to relieve Roger's boredom, other than making out, but Roger seemed to be in one of his moods where he actually wanted to go and do something, so Mark kept quiet.

About twenty seconds later, Roger popped up and rolled onto his stomach to look Mark in the eye, putting their faces about six inches apart. As always, Mark's breath caught slightly in his throat at the sight of Roger so close.

"I have an idea," Roger announced, smiling wickedly. Involuntarily, Mark's mouth was being drawn into a smile also.

"What is it?" he replied, matching Roger's low volume, as though whatever idea he had was a secret to be shared just between the two of them.

"I think…" There was a pause, suspending a silence between them, making Mark wait in anticipation for whatever grand scheme was being planned this time. "…that we should go ice skating!" Roger finally finished.

Mark gaped for a moment. "Ice skating?" he finally replied, parroting the words in surprise. "But…Rog, I haven't ice-skated since I was like ten…" On a list of things that he had expected to have suggested, ice skating certainly wouldn't have made an appearance.

Mark could see that Roger was already nodding eagerly to himself, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he considered his idea. As he headed to his closest, rummaging through it, he called over his shoulder, "We just need sweatshirts and like five dollars apiece and we'll be set!"

Over the last few months, Mark had found that when Roger got stuck in one of his determined moods, he was impossible to dissuade. It was actually rather attractive anyway, when to see him so set on an idea.

A moment later, a soft, patch-worked jacket was tossed onto the bed next to Mark, and a disheveled-looking Roger fully emerged from the closet, clutching a plain, black, hooded sweatshirt for himself. It crossed Mark's mind that Roger looked particularly sexy like that, with his hair mussed and a little colour in his cheeks from being bent over. It was akin to how he looked after he'd been singing or making out, and Mark wanted to have him come close enough that he could pull Roger back onto the bed and rip away the clothes he was wearing.

Quickly Mark put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it could go any further, but his body was already reacting to the idea. To hide it and distract himself, Mark grabbed the coat that Roger had thrown to him and drew it into his lap, examining it. Roger looked at him apologetically and said, "It's kind of a dorky jacket, but I can't find my other sweatshirt. My grandma gave that to me."

Mark laughed as he imagined Roger wearing something like that. The idea didn't really compute, and he shook his head. "It's fine. I don't mind," he replied truthfully, pulling on the jacket and breathing in the warm, comfortable smell that was Roger.

When he looked back up, Roger was watching him with a strange, dark look. "What?" Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. As Roger wormed his way into his sweatshirt, his answer was muffled by the fabric.

"I think you should keep it, that's all," Roger informed him, once Mark could understand him again. Mark waited questioningly, and Roger shrugged, continuing, "It looks…really good on you."

He approached Mark, the predatory look that often filled his eyes shining there brightly. Mark tried not to quiver as Roger bent close, face only an inch away, hands on Mark's shoulders, and whispered breathily, "Really good."

Then their lips were pressed together, and Roger forced Mark over backwards onto the dark comforter, climbing on top of him and pinning his arms down at the wrists. Mark couldn't move his upper body; Roger was lying on top of him, so instead he wrapped his legs up around Roger's waist. Completely hard now, Mark could tell that Roger was also, so the contact as they both pressed together caused them both to moan slightly.

It felt to Mark like Roger was doing his utmost best to bruise Mark's lips, but he really didn't mind at all. Then Roger was sucking his way along Mark's jaw for just long enough that he could only manage to murmur, "Mmm…yes…ah," or something to that effect before he was being kissed again.

Then the delicious warmth that had been shooting through him was gone as Roger rolled to one side and sat up, lips curled in what looked like a cross between satisfaction and disappointment. It was a strange duel look. Sitting up much more slowly, eyes wide in protest at the loss of contact, Mark choked out, "What…? Why'd you stop?"

Roger offered him a hand up and matter-of-factly stated, "We're supposed to be going ice-skating."

Mark hated that Roger had so much sway over him sometimes.

Well, he didn't really mind that much, but it seemed like it could be dangerous. He pretty much followed Roger's every whim and wish, because he was absolutely crazy for him, and wanted to do anything he could to please him. Roger was completely in control, but that was fine, because they were young and had all the time in the world to do anything and everything that they both wanted.

Once in the car, Mark scooted as close to Roger as he could without sitting on top of the gear shift. It was a chilly day, and the heat in Roger's car was very temperamental. Today it was taking a particularly long time to respond, but with Roger's arm around him, Mark didn't care all that much.

It was only a ten minute drive to the ice-skating rink anyway, and they parked close to the building, jogging up to door and slipping inside. They handed over their money and picked up skates, going to benches near the actual rink to lace them up.

Mark sat down, and then jumped up with a small yelp a moment later, rubbing at his backside, where an icy pool of water that had been residing on the bench was now soaking into his pants and, ultimately, underwear. Roger took one look and burst out laughing, hard enough that it was a full minute before he could go back to lacing his skates.

Glaring indignantly, Mark finished with his own and stood, walking down to the tiny entrance. He stepped gingerly onto the ice, ankles wobbling against the leather that had undoubtedly once been stiff, years before, but was now cracking and not doing nearly enough to support him. Tightly he gripped the cool wall of the arena, cheeks flushed from the cold and the irrational feeling that everyone was watching him. Roger squeezed past him and onto the slick ice with an almost boneless grace, taking off before Mark had the chance to protest.

In barely any time at all, Roger had completed a cycle and was back, spinning so that he stood backwards in front of Mark. He grinned and gestured with a gloved hand, encouraging brightly, "C'mon, Marky. Skate with me!"

Mark scowled at Roger's use of Maureen's favourite nickname and told him moodily, "I can't. I'm going to kill myself."

This assertion was met with, "Well, just try. We didn't pay for you to just stand here." In actuality, Mark had only come because he wanted to be with Roger, but that was an undisputable point that he acknowledged with a grim nod. Keeping a death grip on the wall, he pushed a few feet forward.

Roger's smile split his thin face, and he slowly skated backwards, keeping in front of Mark all the time. "Let go of the wall," Roger commanded, holding out both hands and wiggling his fingers. Mark stopped skating for a moment and looked nervously at that beaming grin that Roger still wore, then around the rest of the ice rink.

If they held hands, Mark knew perfectly well that people would stare—they'd give those looks. He hated being looked at like that. His whole life was about analyzing other people, watching them from the safe and unsurpassable distance that his camera afforded him. Being looked haughtily down upon was what he was constantly trying to avoid.

Roger was still standing there waiting, his smile beginning to droop downwards slightly as Mark stayed unresponsive. That got to him, just like every time, and he sighed inwardly as he took the proffered hands, praying that no one nearby would notice or care, because obviously Roger didn't care if they did or not. Pretending that it was okay, for Roger's sake.

Roger's gloved hands closed over Mark's bare ones, and he could feel where there was a hole in the ball of Roger left glove thumb, because his warm skin rubbed against Mark's. Then he started skating, dragging Mark with him. Mark concentrated determinedly on Roger's eyes, which he kept darting around to make sure they weren't about to bowl down any small children, but which he ultimately returned to Mark every time. That made him smile…in the end, he was always the focus for Roger.

Roger picked up speed slightly, and they glided around and around the rink. "How'd you get so good at skating, anyway?" Mark asked at one point, and Roger frowned slightly.

"My mom used to teach here, part time, before she went back to school. I got to take classes for free." He shrugged a little and pushed a little faster, and Mark dropped the subject. He still didn't know a whole lot about Roger's family life, but he'd gotten enough to figure out that Roger's dad wasn't around and his mom was a secretary and hated her job, which left her little time for her son.

As Mark mulled over thoughts about Roger's dysfunctional family, and his own less-than-perfect home life also, the back of Roger's skate caught in a groove in the ice. To Mark, his friend looked comical, mouth dropping open and eyes going amazingly wide as his arms wind-milled crazily for a moment. The next thing he knew, they were both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and clothes on the surface of the rink, with Mark's head in Roger's lap and Roger shaking with laughter.

After that mishap, they didn't end up skating for much longer. It was probably only forty five minutes or so before they were ushered off with everyone else so the zamboni could be brought forward. Mark gave a private sigh of relief—as much as he liked an excuse to clutch Roger's hands, feeling like he was on the verge of icy death while doing so wasn't the kind of exhilaration that he preferred.

As they stepped off the ice, Mark gave Roger a pleading look. "If we don't have to do that again, I'll buy you hot chocolate," he offered. Roger dissolved into laughter, and Mark could feel a blush creeping over his features. Actually, he'd mainly gotten used to having Roger laughing at him, and in a way, he liked it.

It gave him a sense of approval and acceptance, which he craved more than he liked to admit. Everyone craved approval from Roger. He was so self-assured that it was inevitable. Most of Mark's time was spent trying to provoke his smiles.

Right now it was easy. Roger was in a good mood, silly and grinning as they dropped off their skates and wandered into the small café that adjoined the ice rink. Mark let himself be pushed into a booth and smiled as Roger slipped in across from him, stretching his long legs out to put them on Mark's lap.

"Asshole," he snapped fondly, reaching down to shove Roger away.

"Not yet," Roger smirked in reply with a wink. A slight cough caught the boys' attention, and they looked up to see a matronly woman watching us with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. Once they had turned towards her, she asked stiffly, "Are you…boys…ready?"

Roger was starting to get that look on his face—the dangerous one that said that he was about to say something particularly obnoxious, possibly something that would get them thrown out—so Mark hurriedly replied, "Two hot chocolates. Please."

The waitress smiled tightly, jotted something on her pad, and had begun to turn away before Roger threw in his two cents' worth. "Actually," he stated seriously, "I'd also like a banana split. For us to share. With a good. Big. Banana. Because those are our favourite."

He emphasized his words without cracking a smile, just speaking very exaggeratedly. Mark was torn between horror and hilarious laughter as the woman nodded curtly and hurried off. "You're horrible!" he told Roger, who flicked his tongue a few times.

"A good, big one," Roger repeated, and they both burst out laughing.

The first thing Roger did when they got back to his house was pull Mark into a lazy kiss. His large hands came to rest on Mark's shoulders, and Mark moaned lightly against his lips. That was all the encouragement he needed, and suddenly Mark found himself pushed back against the wall next to the door, with Roger hungrily delving his tongue into his mouth.

Mark pushed back, wanting to feel weight against him, and suddenly Roger's hands were in between them as he fumbled at the button of Mark's jeans. Little electric shocks shot through him, from commingled desire and uncertainty.

The uncertainty was all but washed away once Roger had gotten the button and zipper undone and wasted no time at all in wrapping his hand around Mark's cock and squeezing. They'd never gone this far before—up until now it had only been heavy making out and rubbing against each other through our jeans, with the awkwardness inherent to teenagers who don't know what exactly is going on.

Roger's hand jerked up and down arrhythmically; he wasn't quite sure what the hell he was doing, but Mark was too turned on and it felt too good for that to matter. He was having a hard time keeping their mouths connected as he gasped and gripped Roger's shoulders. It was really only the wall behind him and the knee Roger had pushed between his legs keeping Mark upright. He sunk a little so that he was riding Roger's leg, and they both moaned.

Roger sped up his hand slightly, finding the rhythm to match Mark's increasingly hard thrusts, and much too soon he came, spilling into Roger's hand and across the front of both of their pants. That brought a tinge of redness to his face, and he mumbled, "Sorry, I…" but was cut off as Roger caught him in another hard kiss.

When Roger finally pulled back again, eyes dark with lust, he purred, "I can think of a good way for you to make it up to me." Mark blushed hotly, but reached out and unzipped Roger's tight jeans. With the spontaneity ended, they both looked awkwardly at one another, but then Mark reached out a tentative hand to grasp Roger.

"Oh fuckkkk," the guitarist moaned, shoving him back against the wall. He figured that meant that he was doing something right, so he continued with quick strokes. "Harder," Roger breathed, thrusting against Mark. His voice, low and thick, emboldened Mark, and he did as he was asked, speeding up and going harder.

Roger held out longer than Mark had, but not by a whole lot, which made him feel somewhat better about himself. Sometimes he thought that Roger seemed so much older, and so much more mature and experienced, but despite that, with both of their sweaty, oversexed bodies pressed together, Mark figured that whatever they had, it was working.

OOC: So...finally I'm done posting the portions that I was rewriting. From here on in, it'll be new material. Also, this was finally the first chapter that actually meritted the M rating.