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

Roger

Lying on his bed on a Sunday afternoon, Roger brooded. He was good at it; his mom had always told him that with all of his ability for angst, she sometimes wasn't sure if she had a teenage boy or girl. It was good for his songwriting, too, so his band didn't complain much if Roger was having an off day, because they knew that eventually, he would make it up to them with some song that would knock the audience backwards (if the alcohol and whatever else they got in clubs didn't do that to begin with).

Right now, he was dwelling on thoughts about Mark, which almost guaranteed that he would have more material for music pretty soon. They were graduating in only a few months, and Roger wasn't sure what was going to happen once they were out of high school.

As he sighed and reached for his guitar to give a more melodramatic backdrop for his thoughts, the phone rang, making him jump and grab for the extension in his room.

"Hello?"

Mark's familiar voice rang out from the other end. "Hey Roger, could I come over for awhile? I want to do homework, and Cindy's visiting for the weekend, so every couple minutes someone pops into my room to…"

Though he kept talking, Roger's mind wandered away from what Mark was saying and towards whether or not he actually wanted Mark to come over right now. He wasn't in the best frame of mind, but then again, all Mark wanted was a quiet place to do homework. With that in mind, he let Mark finish prattling on about how irritating it was to have his sister home.

"Yeah, sure, come on over. No one's home, so just let yourself in. I'll be in my room," he responded, and they made their quick goodbyes before he hung up the phone.

Once he was back on his bed, Roger picked up his guitar again and began picking out tunes, simple, familiar ones. He settled into a chord progression that he liked but continuously had trouble with, playing it again and again until he heard the front door crack open. There had been no noise of a car, and Roger felt a brief pang of sympathy, because Mark had obviously walked over.

Gentle footfalls tapped up the stairs and then Mark appeared in the doorway, giving a small wave which Roger responded to with a simple nod. He was stretched out across the bed, and as Mark approached, he bent his knees up so that Mark could sit on the other end.

With a wavering smile, Mark said, "So, what've you been up to today? Not at church, I assume?"

Roger chuckled, but it was a distracted sound, and shook his head, not looking up from his guitar. Apparently Mark took the hint that Roger wasn't in a talking mood, because he started pulling things to work on out of his backpack, and his brow furrowed in concentration.

After a little while, Roger set his guitar back off to the side. He knew that there were certain topics that he and Mark sidestepped gracefully all the time, never talking about. It wasn't because they didn't trust one another—they were just uncomfortable subjects to begin with, like their home lives or their futures. Important subjects that they tried to never touch on in the fear that it would upset their balance somehow, when things went so well for them most of the time.

Normally, the future wasn't something that Roger reflected on too much; it was far easier to force it down in his mind to be dealt with at some later time. Something Maureen had said earlier in the day had brought it surging to the surface of his thoughts, though, and now he couldn't let it go.

"Mark! So? Weren't you supposed to hear from Brown today?"

Roger's ears pricked immediately, though he carefully continued studying the sandwich he was holding. They never talked about college. When he shot a glance at Mark, he could see that the other boy was deliberately not looking at Roger as he answered.

"Yeah…I got my letter in the mail this morning." Quietly, chasing his food about his plate with his fork as if his words were something to be ashamed of rather than proud, he finished, "I got accepted."

Seeming to not see the tension, Maureen leapt to her feet, throwing herself at Mark with a squeal and smothering him in an enthusiastic hug, while Roger reached down to grip the bench he was sitting on until his knuckles turned a bright white.

"Why didn't you tell me you applied to Brown?"

From where he was sitting, cross-legged at the head of Roger's bed with a math book and several papers strewn around him, Mark started slightly and looked up, pushing his glasses up with two fingers at the bridge of his nose. His expression betrayed how startled he was. "You never asked," he replied.

Lying back so he could look straight up, Roger said nothing for awhile, just stared at the ceiling until he could hear Mark's pencil slowly begin scratching on his paper again; clearly Mark had decided that Roger was going to drop the subject. Instead, without looking at Mark, he said, "Were you even going to tell me?"

There was more silence, interrupted only by a shuffling as Mark presumably moved his things out of his lap. It irritated Roger; Mark was obviously preparing for a discussion where he would have to calm Roger down, even though he was acting like he didn't understand why Roger was upset. That was confirmed by his overly soothing tone as he answered, "Of course I was going to tell you."

"Oh yeah, when?" Roger couldn't bring himself to look at Mark yet, hoping that there would be some miraculously right answer.

"I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, I didn't have a time planned out. It's not a big deal."

Roger's hand went to his throat, and he entwined his fingers in his necklace. That hadn't been the response he had wanted, and it was a lie anyway. "So…are you going, then?" he asked in an overly-casual, emotionless voice.

When he chanced a look at Mark, he could see that Mark was determinedly trying to fight back annoyance that to Roger seemed completely unfounded. Mark was the one keeping secrets, not Roger. Mark was the one creating a life that might not have room for the both of them without even thinking to mention it to his lover.

"Look, Roger," Mark said, as if Roger was overreacting, making Roger feel decidedly patronized, "I don't know yet. I haven't made any decisions yet. I don't know what would be best for—what would work out the best, yet."

"I just thought it'd be nice to know if my boyfriend—if that's how you think of us—is going to be leaving. But I guess that was too much to ask."

"What? I'm not—look, just because we haven't talked about college yet—I don't know what you're doing after high school either. Do you know what you're doing?"

Roger was on his feet now. "What I'm not doing is college, and don't pretend, you already fucking knew that."

"Just because you're not going anywhere doesn't mean that I'm going to put everything I've worked towards on hold until you figure it out."

Glad that his mom wasn't home, because his detached composure had given way to almost shouting, and Mark was red in the face and talking heatedly as well, Roger spat back, "At least I'm making an effort for us. There are different ways to view success, and what's worth your time."

He'd been getting closer to Mark until he was right in front of him, and now Mark stood as well, forcing Roger to take a step backwards. Glowering, Mark said, "Why does it always have to be about you? And what did you mean before, about us being boyfriends, 'or however I think of us?'"

"Gee, I don't know Mark. How about the fact that I can hardly touch you in public without you checking to make sure no one's around? Or the fact that I've known you, been with you for months, and I've been inside your house for maybe a total of a half hour? I haven't even met your parents! My mom knows you, loves you, and she sure as hell knows about us. But you're too ashamed of me to let anyone know other than fucking Maureen know!"

Mark seemed to shrink before his eyes, deflating a little before the onslaught of Roger's pent up fury. "Don't bring Maureen into it," he defended, and Roger rolled his eyes. Mark might be his, but Maureen would always have her talons sunk in.

Continuing, Mark said, "And…is that what you think? That I'm ashamed of you? I'm not—never. I'm just scared. There's a reason I don't introduce you to my parents—they're elitist, conformist Fundamentalists. They would make life a living hell.

"And Roger…if you want to be with me…come with me. Come to Brown with me. I have to be in the dorms the first year, but we could both work and pool money for rent so that you could live in Providence. I'd move in with you the next year. And we'd be out of this tiny, conservative hole, and you could figure out what you wanted to do, and we'd…we'd be together."

As he wound down, his hands were held out in supplication, and some of Roger's anger and hurt had begun to abate. Despite that, his breathing hadn't calmed, and he bit one lip and looked to the side, not saying anything.

Mark's feet scraped a little on the carpet as he took a chance and stepped forward, touching Roger's shoulder with one hand, and then cupping his cheek with the other. Flinching, Roger pushed away the gentle hands and half-turned, gripping the back of his desk chair. Inwardly he willed Mark to make another overture, to step forward and pull Roger back towards him again, even though he knew Mark wasn't going to.

Finally he was able to face Mark again, heaving a sigh. "You want me to come with you? To Providence?"

Mark's voice was so quiet that Roger had to strain to hear it. Apparently all the energy expended in the yelling match had left him as well. "I just thought that maybe you'd want to come, so we could stay together."

Roger knew what Mark wanted to hear, wanted him to say, and so he finally nodded. "Of course I want to stay with you. God, Mark, don't think I don't…"

In a moment he'd pulled Mark into his arms, backing them up so that they crumpled onto the bed and lay there tangled up in each other. He couldn't quite bring himself to say what he actually meant, that he thought that as much as Mark needed him, he might need Mark more, so he tried to show Mark instead, pressing soft kisses around his face.

A picture was forming in his mind, of his own little apartment where he could write songs and sing them to Mark, who was sprawled across his bed in the mental photograph, head bent over his homework and occasionally looking up to smile at Roger. Roger knew, vaguely, that he was over at the apartment most of the time after classes, and that the only reason he wasn't living there yet was because his parents had insisted that he stay in the dorms for the first year.

Roger would get a job working…oh, somewhere, he'd find somewhere until he could get a band together—a band that was better and going further than Incendiary was. He'd play at clubs, and then go home to Mark in their little apartment, where he wouldn't need anything else. Just his music and his Mark.

The ideas were comforting, and Roger immersed himself in them as he held the Mark of reality, a solid weight in his arms. That was easier, concentrating on that idea of a perfect future. He carefully edited out Mark's parents and their influence on him, edited out the work involved in finding a job and a band for someone as young as he was in a place like Providence, Rhode Island.

"Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"It'll be perfect. We'll be perfect."

Rather than answering, because Mark sounded so optimistic and Roger couldn't bring himself to ruin that, he swung a leg over Mark to straddle him, letting Mark believe that the world fit the ideal that he wanted it to.

They had months to figure it out, and after all, what else could they possibly need?

OOC: I'm interested to see what you all think of this. It was nice--albeit emotional--to write part that wasn't all happy-fluffy like the next chapter. From now on there won't be much happy-fluffy for awhile, probably. At least, not without dark undertones as well. I'm glad of it.