A/N: People wanted more of this so I decided to give them more instead of studying for AP World. (Clearly this is more important :P) Anyways, HERE YOU GO! This chapter actually moves the plot AND leads into the fun chapter! Yeah, be excited. Review, guys! I love to see those reviews! P.S. I'm sorry this is so late… I've been swamped. And there's been drama. Not even going to bother explaining *sighs* Grrr…
Disclaimer: J-Lar owns RENT. (and tick, tick… BOOM!, the soundtrack of which I recently discovered!)
Chapter Nine: Only Thing to Do
Wrinkling his nose, Mark leaned away from the acrid smell of nail polish with limited success, turning his face. He had a feeling that he might have had an easier time if the nails being painted weren't attached to him. "Mimi, how long is it going to take?" he whined. "I take it back. I don't want my nails painted… You can stop now."
The Spanish girl rolled her eyes and continued as though he hadn't even spoken, brushing the ebony polish carefully onto each cuticle and admiring the way that it sparkled in the candlelight. Another thing that Mark didn't understand. What was it with this chick and fire? He'd told her to plug in a lamp or something but NO. "It's Halloween!" she'd shrieked, and no one had dared cross her. So here they were in the dark, Mimi painting his nails and Maureen sitting on the other side of the bed giggling with the two of them with a beer tipped perilously in her hand.
Mark continued his grumbling, hands itching for the familiar weight of his camera. He hated it when one of his friends yanked the contraption out of his hands, telling him that he had an unhealthy attachment to the thing and he needed to live in the moment for once. It made him far too nervous- which, obviously, only proved their point. Tension was coiled in his gut now though, apprehension about the upcoming party and the task he'd been given, and it only made the compulsion to hide behind the lens that much stronger.
Joanne bustled in, Collins at her side. The two entered the room laughing raucously, and Mark looked up just in time to catch the can of beer thrown at him before it hit his face. "Hey!" he gasped, echoed by Mimi who grabbed his hand frantically to make sure he hadn't ruined his nails. The can was taken from him and cracked open by Maureen, her slender fingers gently holding it up to Mark's face. He leaned away, getting a strong whiff of the stuff and feeling almost as though he was already drunk. "Woah, that's strong..."
"That's the point! Can't be letting you go kiss your future boytoy without some liquid courage," Collins grinned, withdrawing the hand that had tossed the offending can. "How's he holding up?" he asked the abnormally quiet Maureen. Her eyes were trained on Joanne, though, lit up with a wide smile, and without much more warning than that she launched herself at the caramel-skinned woman with a scream of, "POOKIE!" Mark caught the beer she had carelessly dropped just in time, watching the scene with amusement.
Joanne caught her girlfriend with a surprised laugh as the air rushed out of her, hugging her around the waist. "Honeybear," she replied warmly, rubbing their noses together. Mark fake gagged in their direction, earning himself an absent bird flipped in his direction. Mimi scowled at him, inspecting his nails once more for damage, smacking him lightly upside the head as she yanked one of his hands back and started to brush carefully over the nails again, adding another coat to make them darker.
Collins looked at Mark with a reproachful scowl, carefully put in place. He had a plan. Everyone had been supportive of Mark's endeavor with Roger, everyone they'd told anyway- them being the currently smooching lesbian couple to his left- but the philosopher knew that the filmmaker would be a stuttering mess by the time he got anywhere near Roger. He'd overthink it and lose his cool and then they'd never get anywhere.
No, Mark quite literally needed a little liquid luck to make this work. That's what Collins was for.
"Drink that," he demanded, watching as Mark obediently tilted the can against his lips, wincing as the alcohol burned a trail down his throat. Damn. Maybe this was a little stronger than regular old beer after all. Before he could ask, though, Collins had already thrust another two at him and given him instructions to drink them as well before sweeping out the door, leaving Mark to Mimi's womanly wrath and the makeout session that was now commencing in the corner.
Mark just blinked after him, uncomprehending. Running a hand through his hair nervously, he took another sip of the strong drink and made a face. If Collins wasn't watching, why was he even bothering with this?
As Mimi swatted at him once again, swearing in Spanish and rolling her eyes, he took yet another sip and sighed.
Collins always gave him the best advice. He'd just have to trust him.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
Collins swept out of Mark's bedroom and right into Roger's one room over, another three cans still in the case he'd brought. Time for part two of his simple yet brilliant plan.
The philosopher wasn't stupid. He knew that Roger was, if not completely aware of it, crushing hard on his best friend- slash- roommate and he had been for years. Mark and Roger's friendship was more than close. It was bordering on a relationship, teetering on the frail line between the two, and all it needed was one good shove in either direction to be decided.
Before he turned Mark over to the most emotional of the bohemians by far, he should get him nice and mellowed out. The guitarist looked up from his guitar, looking annoyed.
"Hey. What's eatin' ya?" He tossed a can at him the same way he had to Mark, snorting at the similar fumble as Roger tried not to drop his guitar in the process of catching it.
"Cherry." He didn't snap, which was an improvement Collins supposed. Last time he'd asked that question had been the last time Roger's alarm clock had been seen alive. It's remains were probably still shattered in the corner of his room.
"What about her?" he asked seemingly casually. Internally he was documenting every one of the moody guitarist's moves, his gestures, his facial expressions. Right now he was scowling, looking more irritated than he had in a long time, and the philosopher felt a ray of hope shining in Mark's direction. If this was about Cherry, he could smell the impending breakup on the wind.
"I don't think we're going to last much longer," Roger shrugged, not looking all that sad about the fact. He paused before adding, "She's sleeping around. I don't want to get some funky disease. I already have one of those, thanks." His voice dropped to a mutter, one that Collins probably wasn't supposed to hear, as he cracked the tab on his beer and took a long swig. "Fucking whore..."
"That's a little harsh," he pointed out, not wanting his friend to abuse the girl too much. From what he knew of her, she'd been pretty chill. "What'd she do to deserve THAT?"
"She's not even coming up for the fucking party. She's got 'work'," Roger grumbled, clutching the can in both hands and glaring down at the mattress broodingly. He set it down and picked up his guitar, strumming a few tuneless chords before setting it back down in frustration.
Yep. Mark had this in the bag.
MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR
The door closed behind the last of the partygoers, and Mimi's muffled giggles slowly faded away as the other two women supported her down the stairs. Collins had left half an hour ago, giving only a vague explanation that they were sure would become a spectacular story the next time they heard from him. The loft was trashed, bottles and empty chip bags strewn everywhere, crumbs and spills everywhere. It would be a bitch to clean up in the morning, but that was what Mark was for. He was the anal retentive one.
Roger sighed, running a hand over his face and sitting quietly for a moment. It's easy for him to forget sometimes that Mimi is the youngest of all of them by far; while five years didn't sound like a huge difference, it was when it came to experience in all areas of life- especially alcohol. And while Mimi knew a lot about sex and needles, her tolerance was little to nothing.
A hush fell over the loft. Mark watched his friend curiously, still feeling warm and giggly from the alcohol he'd reluctantly, foolishly partaken in. While Roger was feeling only slightly unsteady, Mark wasn't even sure he could walk a straight line without toppling over and passing out. He'd never really liked the idea of giving up his precious control for the sake of a few hours of "fun" that he doesn't even remember clearly and wakes up from aching. But this was a special occasion, and the buzz was a good ally when it came to the idea of... well... doing what he was about to do.
"Rog?" he asked eventually, draping his arms over the other man's shoulders and pressing his cheek to his neck form behind. "D'you like me? I like you," he giggled, slurring just slightly.
Roger struggled not to laugh, wondering if Mark even realized how drunk he sounded. "'Course I like you, Marky," he assured him, twisting around and holding Mark away by the shoulders to peer at him in amusement. He was blinking at him with those wide blue eyes, pupils dilated, looking up through white blonde lashes shyly with a goofy grin plastered on his face. Blink. Blink. Blink. It was positively adorable. He was almost like a little boy, so innocent...
Until, of course, he lunged forward and mashed their lips together awkwardly. Then the innocence became null and void.
"Woah! Slow down!" Roger spluttered, jerking away in alarm. The guitarist rubbed his calloused fingertips over his lips in slight disbelief, heart skipping a beat. Did Mark just...? MARK kissed HIM? Mark NEVER kissed him. Never. He must have been really fucking smashed. "What are you-"
Not to be deterred, Mark leaned in again and forcefully pressed his lips to Roger's again, tongue clumsily tracing over the lower one. The sensation shot straight through Roger's admittedly muddled brain to his cock, stirring it to half-hardness. Oh, shit. Not this again.
This was Mark, not his boy toy. He had a girlfriend for this... sort of... If Cherry even counted as a girlfriend. From what he could tell, she was sleeping with two other guys at least, and it was starting to get on his nerves. Roger had never been someone who liked to share, and that applied to any relationship he had. She hadn't even consulted him about it... What if she got some sleazy disease and passed it to him? He growled internally. He'd have to talk to her about that soon. Their flame was dying, he thought, and surprisingly he wasn't the least bit sad.
Belatedly realizing that Mark was still attempting to molest him, Roger pushed him gently away. The filmmaker was flushed and panting and- yeah, he was hard. But he was also avoiding Roger's gaze, and the rocker's eyes widened as he realized what was wrong. He was embarrassed, wearing that hangdog look of rejection that made Roger just want to scoop him up in his arms and ruffle his hair, telling him everything would be okay. "Hey. What is it?" he asked gently, eyes softening as he reached out and tilted Mark's chin, forcing him to look at him. "Tell me what the hell is wrong." He demanded.
"I- I like you," Mark mumbled, blue eyes ashamed as they reluctantly looked up into his. His hands twisted together anxiously; he looked like he was ready to dart right out of the room, but Roger's hands on him kept him rooted to the couch. He struggled to think through the alcoholic haze that had settled over his mind, making him stutter clumsily over his words. "I just- I like you," he finished lamely.
It took a moment for this to really sink in. Roger stared at him for a long minute, eyes widening fractionally as his heartbeat became erratic and he understood that Mark was serious. He meant it. He WANTED this-
And there he was leaning in again, lips touching Roger's tentatively, his hands clutching at his friend's sides. Roger's mind took note absently of the fact that he'd painted his nails black for the occasion, but he was too caught up in the extreme effort it took him not to push Mark back into the couch and molest him.
God, what was wrong with him? All of the repressed feelings he'd been having for months were rushing to the surface, igniting his skin, and every place Mark's pale skin touched his felt like it was on fire. His cock, already half hard, was rapidly swelling to its full length and he whimpered, unable to stop himself from deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into the hot, moist cavern of Mark's mouth. The filmmaker shifted until he was straddling the rocker beneath him, breath coming in pants and whines as he leaned eagerly into the kiss, his hands finding there way into Roger's messy bleached hair to tug insistently, pressing closer.
Dizzily, Roger was slowly becoming lost to the world, mind quickly filling up with images of what he'd like to do with the hot eager body of the man currently thrusting down against his hip, tangling their tongues together. He reached up to push Mark off of him halfheartedly, and at the filmmaker's hurt expression he just smiled and suddenly their position had changed. Now it was Roger, all sexual energy and smoky green eyes staring Mark down as he climbed on top of him, popping the button on his pants- his morals have flown out the door now, and how was he supposed to hold onto them anyways with Mark moaning into his mouth and looking so damn corruptible and God, he could teach him SO many things with his hands and his teeth and his tongue and other parts of him...
"God, Mark, so fucking hot," he hissed, internally delighting at the whimper he received in return.
Neither of them, in their tipsy states, can see a good enough reason to stop. Mark can't help staring as Roger peels off his shirt, removing his pants in one swift movement and hooking his thumbs in his waistband, starting to pull off his boxers. He scrambles to follow the other man's lead, getting momentarily stuck in his sweater as he tugs it over his head and squirming out of his corduroys. He's not nearly as graceful as his counterpart, but that's only natural. It's a well known fact- Roger is suave, sexy; Mark was awkward. That was how it was, and that was how it would probably stay.
When Roger's lips crashed back into his, it was with an entirely new brand of hunger. It was quickly becoming apparent how this was going to happen. Roger wanted to dominate him, throw him down and take him with enough force that he wouldn't be able to walk properly the next day. And he was going to let him.
Mark shivered at the thought, so hard he could cum already, but he didn't want to just yet. Not when the look in Roger's eyes promised so much more. Abruptly, a thought floated through his head and he frowned as he blurted it out. "Wait- Roger- Cherry?"
Shrugging, Roger moved his mouth down to his neck and sucked, leaving behind a wet trail of bruises to his ear where he whispered in that rough stage voice, "We're over. Do you want me to fuck you or not?"
An embarrassingly desperate groan left him, and his face heated up when he heard it. But Roger had pulled away, smirking and awaiting his response, and all he could do was nod jerkily and reach for him again, wanting, needing more contact. Roughly, the other man grasped his wrists and dragged him, stumbling and surprised, towards the bedroom.
"I have some ideas.." He was muttering, glancing down at the scarf he'd snatched off of the ground in his free hand, and Mark nearly passed out. No sooner than he'd entered the room than he was tackled onto Roger's mattress, gasping and arching his back as Roger nipped and sucked viciously at his neck. He hardly noticed what Roger was doing to his hands until they were already bound together over his head. Above him, Roger was wearing the most provocative grin he'd ever seen. A whimper was torn from his throat as a hand brushed lightly over the tent in the front of his boxers.
Let the games begin.