Juvenile, Rent, Mark/Roger, PG-12
Title: Juvenile
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 433
Notes: Sneakily for letter_love because I wrote it just to play with prompts from daily15 (and therefore, yes, was written in 15 minutes. Word 74 if you're interested). Fluff for my Leeface because she's been having a rough time of it this weekend.
Roger's not really sure where Mark find them, but that can be said for most anything in the loft. They own an incredible amount of shit considering neither of them has had disposable income in ages; most of it is nicked from street corners on trash days: a book here, a picture of a sailboat there.
"You never know when we might need a picture of a sailboat," Mark told him as he picked up the awkward print.
So when Mark starts giggling in a corner, Roger can only imagine what he's unearthed in his quest for a dictionary so that he can complete the morning's crossword puzzle. Mark turns, a pink bottle in his hand, and a yellow bubble wand between his fingers, and before Roger can get out the "What the fuck?" waiting on his tongue, Mark purses his lips and sends a stream of bubbles floating across the loft in Roger's direction.
Mark laughs again, his eyes scrunched up to slits. "Look! Bubbles!"
"Why the hell do you have bubbles?"
"They were probably Maureen's or something. Or maybe one of Cindy's kids had them last time they visited. Who cares?" He dips the wand into the bottle and sets to work trying to blow a bubble that ends up larger than his head.
"You're nuts," Roger says from his perch on the couch. "If you get that shit on Louise, I'm gonna be pissed. Just giving you fair warning."
Mark marches over to him, pulls the guitar from his hands, and places it in the far corner. "There. Louise is safe. Stop being an ass and have fun."
"It's fucking bubbles, Mark," he says, but a smile is already stretching his lips as Mark reaches into the air and pops a slow-mover that spots his glasses as it bursts.
"They're funny, Roger," Mark says, matching his tone. "Didn't you ever play with them as a kid?"
"Well, sure. But that was twenty years ago."
Mark's eyes watch the latest collection of bubbles drift across the room, and Roger's grin grows wider. Roger stands and moves behind him, resting his hands on Mark's waist and his chin on his shoulder, trying to see them as Mark does.
"No one's watching but me, Roger. You can act like an idiot once in a while. I swear I won't tell."
Roger reaches out his hand, extends one finger, and pops a bubble floating over their heads.
"There. Happy?"
Mark turns in his arms and beams before leaning in and kissing him, and just as quickly as they were discovered, the bubbles are forgotten.
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 433
Notes: Sneakily for letter_love because I wrote it just to play with prompts from daily15 (and therefore, yes, was written in 15 minutes. Word 74 if you're interested). Fluff for my Leeface because she's been having a rough time of it this weekend.
Roger's not really sure where Mark find them, but that can be said for most anything in the loft. They own an incredible amount of shit considering neither of them has had disposable income in ages; most of it is nicked from street corners on trash days: a book here, a picture of a sailboat there.
"You never know when we might need a picture of a sailboat," Mark told him as he picked up the awkward print.
So when Mark starts giggling in a corner, Roger can only imagine what he's unearthed in his quest for a dictionary so that he can complete the morning's crossword puzzle. Mark turns, a pink bottle in his hand, and a yellow bubble wand between his fingers, and before Roger can get out the "What the fuck?" waiting on his tongue, Mark purses his lips and sends a stream of bubbles floating across the loft in Roger's direction.
Mark laughs again, his eyes scrunched up to slits. "Look! Bubbles!"
"Why the hell do you have bubbles?"
"They were probably Maureen's or something. Or maybe one of Cindy's kids had them last time they visited. Who cares?" He dips the wand into the bottle and sets to work trying to blow a bubble that ends up larger than his head.
"You're nuts," Roger says from his perch on the couch. "If you get that shit on Louise, I'm gonna be pissed. Just giving you fair warning."
Mark marches over to him, pulls the guitar from his hands, and places it in the far corner. "There. Louise is safe. Stop being an ass and have fun."
"It's fucking bubbles, Mark," he says, but a smile is already stretching his lips as Mark reaches into the air and pops a slow-mover that spots his glasses as it bursts.
"They're funny, Roger," Mark says, matching his tone. "Didn't you ever play with them as a kid?"
"Well, sure. But that was twenty years ago."
Mark's eyes watch the latest collection of bubbles drift across the room, and Roger's grin grows wider. Roger stands and moves behind him, resting his hands on Mark's waist and his chin on his shoulder, trying to see them as Mark does.
"No one's watching but me, Roger. You can act like an idiot once in a while. I swear I won't tell."
Roger reaches out his hand, extends one finger, and pops a bubble floating over their heads.
"There. Happy?"
Mark turns in his arms and beams before leaning in and kissing him, and just as quickly as they were discovered, the bubbles are forgotten.