A/N: GUYS! I'M SO SORRY! D: For real! I didn't mean for that to take so long! I feel soooo guilty… But, well, I'm back and I'll be updating as often as I can! I hope you're all at least enjoying the short journal entries I've been posting from my roleplay on Facebook as Mark. Here you go! The long anticipated next chapter! Enjoy!
P.S. I'm officially obsessed with Chess in Concert, which by the way contains Adam Pascal AND Idina Menzel and of course Josh Groban… Blame TheInksane and Angelic Prophecy. :P BLAME THEM. It's their fault.
Disclaimer: RENT, Marky, Rog and the gang all not mine :/ New York is sort of mine though… I mean… I pay taxes right?
Chapter Five: Levels of Humiliation
"Hi, um…" Mark scratched the back of his head awkwardly, already having forgotten the girl's name. She just giggled, blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders entirely too cheerfully. It grated on his nerves.
"Daisy," she supplied helpfully, beaming. Sickeningly cheerful. It was enough to make Mark want to throw up, or that could be the drink Roger had decided he needed before he left the loft. "For courage!" he'd insisted, sniggering when the bespectacled man nearly choked on the liquor burning the back of his throat.
"Right… I'm- I'm, uh, I'm Mark. Maureen sent me…" He trailed off, unsure of whether or not he should stick out his hand for a handshake.
Another irritating giggle. "To see my brother? Bryce is getting dressed. He'll be right out."
By now, Mark was seriously considering bailing on this date. He wasn't exactly relaxed, but why should he be? Mark Cohen did NOT do blind dates. Yet Maureen had decided to tell him, just this morning, that she'd made one with one of her old "friends". He strongly suspected that this meant he was one of the countless men that she'd cheated on him with while they were together, and that wasn't encouraging.
But he had stopped reeling from the rejection of his parents. It had been a week. He was out, and it was about time he started dating.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself as he rocked back and forth on his heels on his date's doorstep. Still, this could turn out to be a total dud- judging by the guy's sister, who was annoying the fuck out of him (fuck, he was starting to sound like Roger, too, even with the excessive use of the F-word) the brother probably wouldn't be a very pleasant date.
Is any blind date ever pleasant, though? Probably not. At least not for Mark.
Then, Daisy steps back and reveals a tall, tan, bleached-blonde, positively Californian man with a dazzling smile and Mark decides that maybe he'd better rethink that part.
"H-hi, I'm-" he starts to squeak, feeling more timid than he'd ever been in his entire life, but he's already being interrupted.
"Mark! Yeah! I'm Bryce, I'm so glad you decided to go out on a limb with me, Maureen said you'd be reluctant and- bye Daisy- and I know you like the Life Café, or at least she said that was your favorite place to eat and- no we're taking a right here-"
Nevermind. His first assumption was correct. As breathtaking as this man was, he was already jabbering his ear off, and the chances of his good looks winning over their incompatible personalities was growing slimmer by the minute. Sighing, Mark allowed Bryce to put one of those muscled arms around his shoulders as they walked, keeping his head down and trying to smile and nod at all the right places.
It was going to be a long couple of hours.
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The blonde man is fiddling with his camera in his lap as they wait for the bill to arrive at their, feeling more than slightly put out. As amazing as it is, Bryce is still talking, and at this point he's pretty much tuned him out. He didn't eat a whole lot, but he still feels like he should pay for his half since he's going to have to let the guy down as it is.
The problem is, Mark has never been good at breakups. Hell, he'd probably still be with Maureen if she hadn't decided to play for the other team. All he wants to do is please people, and Bryce seems to have taken a liking to him. That, or his amazing ability to listen- or not- for hours without once telling him to shut. Mark's willing to bet his scarf that Bryce gets dumped on his ass a lot for that particular reason. It's gonna sting telling this guy, whose so friendly yet so, so aggravating, that he doesn't want to see him again.
Finally, Jimmy returns with their bill and Mark tips him a few dollars, giving him a mock glare when he winks at the pair of them. "Thanks," he mumbles, glancing up in mild surprise to see that Bryce has stopped talking and is just staring at him dreamily now.
"When do you think we can do this again?" the other man asks, reaching across the table to put his tanned hand on Mark's paler one, making him seem albino in contrast. The filmmaker flinches, pulling away and settling his hand on his camera once more as he hastily stands up.
"I- I gotta- Bryce? I'm sorry, I have to go."
He's never run away from a situation so fast.
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"I take it your little date with Maureen's boy toy didn't go so well?" Roger is smirking at him as he tunes his Fender, perched on their metal table in jeans and his leather jacket. He's getting ready to go to his band practice with The Civilians, a band that's hardly a month old and dependent entirely on Roger at the moment to keep it going.
Swallowing a groan of frustration, the smaller man merely grunts at this, looking down. His cheeks are heating and it's useless to try and stop the blood from rushing there at this point. "… I ran away," he admits after a moment, voice muffled as he presses his face into the couch cushions.
"You what?" The slightly off-key chords streaming from the Fender stop abruptly. Mark can practically feel the mischievous smile spreading across his friends face from where he lays, unable to see him. It doesn't matter. He knows Roger well enough to know what he's doing right now. He's sitting there, grinning and trying to restrain his laughter until Mark repeats himself. He heard him the first time, probably perfectly. Roger has ears like a hawk. But he wants to hear Mark say it again.
"I ran! Happy?" he huffs, sitting up to glare in the rocker's direction. Only Roger is somehow much closer than he thought, and they end up bumping noses painfully. He backpedals, rubbing at his face. "He asked when we could do it again and I up and left."
"Why? I thought he was supposed to be super hot or something. That's what Maureen told m-"
"STOP! Stop mentioning her! I'm going to KILL Mo!" Mark gripes, hands flailing about in those spastic motions of his that Roger secretly thinks are so damn cute. "He was annoying. Nice and all but we… sort of clash. Not that he wasn't hot…" A sigh escapes him, longing evident in his tone. Maybe he should have waited until he fucked the guy to make the final decision- but wait, no, he has morals. "I mean, I didn't want to lead him on! We weren't going anywhere! I couldn't even get a word in edgewise, he's SUCH a god damn chatterbox-!"
This is the part where Mark ceases to use actual words and submits to the urge to simply growl in frustration, waving his hands about to emphasize his point. Roger simply watches this for a few moments, amused, before he interrupts.
"You wanna come to practice with me?"
"… Why?" Mark doesn't bother asking where that came from. Roger Davis has been an unpredictable character since he met him; he might know him well, but not enough to get in his head.
"Partly because you had a shitty date, partly because you look bored and partly because I think you might be into one of my drummers. He likes the submissive type." He smirks, and then he's turning towards his guitar again, starting to pack things up. Before Mark can even object to his previous implication, Roger has looked him straight in the eye and asked, "Well? Interested? I'm leaving now. Follow me if you're coming."
And against his better judgment, Mark is scurrying after him out the door and down the stairs, yelling at him to let him catch up. And Roger is laughing all the way there, because he knew that if anything would make his friend come it was the promise of sex.
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"You're Mark?"
Mark already doesn't like the way this guy is eying him already, and he's only been here for an hour. Travis, the drummer Roger had been talking about earlier, is not what he expected. He's average height and stocky, with a muscular build and track-mark free arms, unlike Roger's and most of the people he's played with in any band before. Cautiously, he begins to hope that this stubbly-chinned man with the disconcerting gaze might be worth getting to know.
"Yeah. Hey," he said, smiling and shoving his hands in his pockets. His cheeks are starting to feel hot again as he remember what Roger said about him: "he likes the submissive type". Was that why he was staring so blatantly at the filmmaker now? Was he imagining him in unspeakable positions, tied down and begging and cheeks hollowed ou-
Woah there. Mark blinked and forced the images out of his mind, shaking his head slightly. "I'm, uh, I'm Mark," he continued, sticking out a hand tentatively. "Roger's roommate?"
"Yeah, he talks about you all the time." There is a predatory glint in Travis' dark eyes now, he's positive of it, and he swallows hard as the other man takes his hand in a firm grip, caressing the back with his thumb. "I'm Travis." He glances back, dark hair rippling as he turns to look over his shoulder at the band starting to set up behind him. Roger looks impatient. "Hey, we can finish this after practice, right?"
All Mark can do is nod, still red in the face, and he must be wearing one of those goofy smiles Roger's always making fun of because the guitarist is laughing silently at him over Travis' shoulder and Travis is staring at him in a way that makes Mark think he's being mentally undressed.
The filmmaker runs a hand through his blonde hair and bites his lip, a mixture of anticipation and slight fear running through him. It's not as though he has any experience with men, and form the way Travis is looking at him he might be saying differently by tomorrow. Wondering if he's ready, then feeling like a teenaged girl for thinking that way, Mark finds a seat and makes himself comfortable.
And they play.
The Civilians aren't half bad, but it's clear that the only one who knows what the hell he's doing is Roger, who Mark can't help but notice looks as sexy on stage as he always has. He should probably feel awkward thinking that way, but he can't deny the truth of the matter. Roger has that edgy rockstar look, with the bleached hair and the tattoos and the studs in his ears and the eyeliner smudged around his smoky green eyes, making them stand out in his face. Mark can't help it if he looks good enough to eat in all of that. It's not his fault his libido is so out of control.
By the time they've finished, Mark is fiddling with his camera, polishing the lens over and over with the hem of his red and blue sweater. Listening to Roger play is a soothing experience after years of living with him and having to deal with the sound of his guitar at the oddest times of day, from three in the morning to eleven at night. Mark hardly notices Travis approaching him until he's rested a large hand on his thigh, making the smaller man jump.
"Holy-! Oh, hey," he splutters, recovering quickly and thanking every deity he could think of that he hadn't dropped his camera. "I- I thought practice went well…"
Travis snorts, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "Well, at the very least Alex didn't kiss Roger's ass the WHOLE time. That's an improvement. But I don't want to talk about practice…" He sidles closer, that hand on Mark's thigh moving a bit higher and causing him to shiver. "What do you say you come back to my place…?"
Mark simply nods, afraid of what might come out of his mouth if he opens it. He casts a nervous glance back at his roommate, who watches with an unreadable expression as he's dragged eagerly out the door of the community center by the wrist. Roger doesn't look entirely happy about this development- but Mark shakes his head again. If Roger didn't like the idea of him having sex with his drummer, he wouldn't have dragged Mark to practice in the first place.
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"Calm down! This one is going to go well I PROMISE."
"Mimi! You can't promise me that!" Mark is feeling slightly hysterical. He doesn't fucking WANT another blind date! Not again! Not after Maureen, and Roger's horrible suggestion.
"It's not my fault you decided that you weren't going to screw that Trevor guy-"
"Travis!" he snaps, looking down in shame.
"Whatever. Jason is a great guy, Mark, I promise. He's not just looking for a quick fuck. He's really sweet, and cute, and- hell, I'd date him if he wasn't gay!" The Latina is pleading, smiling at Mark as if her full, pouty lips are really going to convince him. The problem is that Mimi has always been irresistible, and as Mark knows, he's a pushover.
"M'still nervous…" After Travis, Mark doubts he's ever going to feel safe with men he's never met before again. He can still remember the other man's incredulity, scrawled clearly across his face, when Mark jerked away the moment he reached down to cup the filmmaker through his pants.
"What? I'm getting you off." His tone is almost condescending.
"I just- aren't we going a little fast?" Mark asks skittishly, leaning away. He knows this is a lame excuse, as Travis had made his intentions obvious from the start and he had already accepted his offer- but the implications hadn't fully hit him until well into their make out session against the door, until he was already groaning, until Travis had tried to take it to the next level.
"I'm not looking for a boyfriend," the other man says drily, pressing his lips back to Mark's neck JUST THERE, and Mark has trouble remembering how to breathe without squeaking. "Are we doing this or what?"
"M-may… Maybe…" he says reluctantly, but as the taller man moves to spread Mark's legs and slip one of his own in between, kneeing the bulge there lightly, he yelps and backs away. Shit. Shit, he IS a teenaged girl and he is so not ready for this. For some reason Roger's face flashes through his mind, that raised eyebrow and unreadable frown as he left the community center, and he's stammering apologies as he picks up his camera and throws his scarf around his neck hastily, leaving Travis staring after him with eyes even darker with frustration.
"Don't be," Mimi reprimands, straightening his jacket. She insisted on forcing him into something other than just an old sweater and corduroys for this date, saying something about how Jason deserved better than a half-assed wardrobe on the guy he'd agreed to meet for dinner. "You'll be fine. I think you two'll have a lot in common!"
"I wouldn't bet on that," Mark says, frowning. "How many awkward, weird gingery-blonde filmmakers can possibly live in one city?"
The younger girl just laughs and runs her hands down his chest, smoothing out wrinkles in the dark blue sweater he's chosen to wear anyways under his jacket. "Just trust me."
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Jason Rivera is perfect, or so Mark is convinced.
This is very possibly the best date Mark has ever been on. That isn't saying much, seeing as most of his dates were with Maureen back when he was twenty and in denial about his sexuality at skeevy bars and strip clubs. In fact, he's never had a REAL dinner date at a REAL restaurant before. Every so often he looks around, hardly believing he's here.
The walls are papered with pattern of thorny wild roses on a near-golden background, the lighting- from a couple of large crystal chandeliers- dim and the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable. All around him other people, couples or friends or businesspeople in suits, suitcases resting on the floor by their feet, were dining at identical tables, talking and laughing quietly over their food. A single candle, unscented, sits on the table between them and before him is a classic spaghetti and meatball dinner date meal, smelling delectable and making his mouth water.
Mark is pretty sure he hasn't had food this good since he moved out of his parent's house the moment he turned eighteen, but he's finding it hard to concentrate on the food when he's so fascinated with Jason. The man before him is as Hispanic as Mimi, a light Spanish accent on all of his words, and his speech flows almost musically because of it. There's another thing Mark never knew about himself, but he sure as hell does now- guys speaking Spanish make him hard. He's lucky his lap is under the table, because the erection straining at his zipper is probably obvious.
"I've had such a good time tonight," Jason says, smiling, and Mark can almost forget that same undecipherable look that Roger threw his way as Mimi dragged him out of the loft for this date. "But, Mark? I just wanted to tell you something."
"Yeah, I'm having a good time too, surprisingly. I haven't had much luck with the whole blind date thing," Mark says, smiling back. He twirls his fork in the spaghetti, taking a small bite. For some ridiculous reason, he feels self-conscious eating in front of this man. Almost as if it might disgust him, make him run away, if he did it the wrong way somehow. "What is it?"
"I… Look, I know I agreed to come on this date with you and all but… I'm not actually gay." Jason has the sense to look slightly guilty at this, bowing his head, ebony locks shimmering in the dim light. His expression is apologetic as he looks up from under his long, long eyelashes at Mark, whose fork is halfway to his mouth and not looking like it's about to get any farther.
He freezes, eyes widening. "… So…" What else can he say in this situation? Jason was a photographer, a technical genius and the only man Mark had felt connected to since this fiasco began. For once, he'd thought that maybe he'd get lucky. But apparently not.
"I'm sorry!" The other man grasps at his hand across the table. "I know, I shouldn't have- Well, I didn't exactly lie. I'm bisexual," he clarifies, practically begging Mark to look at him with those large brown eyes. "I told Mimi that I was gay because… I wasn't ready for a relationship with a woman after my last breakup, and I didn't have an explanation when she asked me why I was always hanging around the Cat Scratch Club. I didn't want her to think I was being a horny guy."
"But you were being one," Mark pointed out somewhat dazedly. He can feel the disappointment barreling towards him, the despair. He really wasn't ever going to find the right guy, was he? No, of course not. He's Mark. He's always alone. For now, though, he was simply surprised. "Do you- You like Mimi?"
He nods, averting his eyes, and Mark sighs and sucks up his hurt like he always does, biting it down until later. "I think you should ask her on a date," he says quietly after a moment. "She's… I think she'll say yes. It's worth a try."
It takes him a few tries to give Jason a smile that doesn't look forced, but he manages it and they finish their meal in a more solemn manner, conversation stilted with awkwardness.
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It's becoming a common occurrence these days for Mark to find himself laying out on the couch with his head in Roger's lap, eyes closed as the guitarist runs his fingers through his short hair and just listens. Normally Mark is a quiet person, but the past few weeks have been hectic and he needs to get it all out before he explodes. At least Roger says so, and sometimes he thinks he can literally feel the pressure building up inside him in preparation for some kind of explosion.
"You really liked him, huh?" Roger asks sympathetically, rubbing the smaller man's temples. For once in his life he's restraining his insane urge to laugh at Mark's misfortune, and it's harder than it looks. He knows, though, that Mark needs this. He never vents, and if he's going to let Roger and only Roger listen to him ramble on about his problems, then so be it.
He's always fancied himself a therapist anyways. Fuck it if Maureen always said his advice was horrible- he was the first to tell Mark that he though Maureen was into chicks, and he should dump her on her ass. Mark hadn't listened and he'd ended up being dumped for a woman, something he was quick to point out when the blue-eyed man seemed skeptical about one of his quirkier suggestions. It usually earned him a punch on the arm, but it was worth it.
"I know it's stupid…"Mark sighs, tapping his fingers on the fabric of the couch and leaning his head further into Roger's touch. "I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. He just seemed so- PERFECT, I mean fuck, he was attractive AND smart and he showed me his camera- I'm an idiot."
"How does it make YOU stupid if HE was the one who lied and said he was gay in the first place?" the songwriter asks, frowning. Mark's logic has never made a lot of sense to him, but this takes the cake.
"I'm not cut out to have a love life," he shrugs, sounding hopeless. "I'm going to be alone with my camera forever. Fuck this. I'm so humiliated…"
"Don't be a drama queen. You just haven't found the right person. Or maybe you have and you just haven't realized they're there yet," Roger says sagely. He pinches Mark's cheek, teasing. "God, I forgot how dramatic you can be. Maureen's rubbed off on you."
The wheels have started to turn in Mark's head at the first part of his sentence, though, and he misses the second part as he starts to think about it. Someone right in front of me… Haven't realized it yet… He remembers the way he felt when Roger's lips pressed against his own, the way he felt when the guitarist wrapped his arms around him and comforted him, the way he protected him and the mischievous grin he couldn't help but love on his roommate's face. He thought of the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest now as Roger's fingers danced over his head and soothed his brewing headache.
"Fuck!"
"What?" Roger asks, raising an eyebrow in confusion as he stares down at Mark with those gorgeous green eyes. Fuck fuck fuck double FUCK, not Roger! Anyone but Roger!
"Maybe I'm just not good jack off material…" he says, trying to make a joke just to distract himself. His voice sounds a little off, but he can't bring himself to care. No, God, he can't be- even in his head he can't say it. No. Not Roger. Fuck.
To his surprise, Roger instantly launches into a protest. "Mark! Yes you are!" And he doesn't know what to say to that kind of statement. They lapse into an awkward silence, his eyes slowly opening to look at Roger cautiously. His face is as red as Mark's feels, but he stares back unblinking.
"What… do you…?" he chokes out, and Roger looks away at last as he mumbles an answer.
"I… sort of… When- you remember when you came to the city? Then. At first, I mean, not- not recently! God! Nevermind! The point is, you're attractive, Mark, you just have shitty luck," he says, regaining his composure and looking at Mark seriously. The filmmaker nods, lips twitching up. He almost wants to pursue the subject, heart hammering, but Roger interrupts his thoughts.
"Do you want to hear something I'm writing? It's not done, but I like what I have so far…" Roger trails off uncertainly, something that's almost as rare as his offer. Mark sits up and widens his eyes in shock. It's well known that Roger doesn't let anyone hear his songs before they're absolutely perfect, which he can't really understand since he can usually hear the strains through the thin walls as he's writing and throwing his notebook around in frustration, cursing as Roger is apt to do.
The point is, this is a privilege and he'd better grab onto it while he can. "Oh- oh, sure! Go ahead, I'd love to hear it," he says, beaming as Roger gently pushes him off of his lap and goes to pick up his acoustic from its stand in the corner, strumming it once in a warmup.
The rest of the night is spent listening to Roger play, slowly fading into talking and eventually a wrestling match that leaves them both laughing and sweaty. And Mark can already tell that this is going to be a problem later; for now, though, he'll let it go. He can always deal with it in the morning.
He's been right fucking in front of me, this WHOLE fucking time- how didn't I see it before?
Fuck.