Yardbirds, Rent, Mark/Roger, PG-13
Title: Yardbirds
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1676
Notes: For letter_love. That's right, I wrote Inmates-verse. You know you love it. Feel better, pookie!
Even with their reconciliation, the morning brings a silence between them that neither of them will break to acknowledge. Mark presses his fingers into his cheek where Rafferty’s bruises have formed over the just-healed ones Roger had left behind. He feels the dull ache and can’t explain why it
makes him sick.
They shuffle along in their line-heads down, hands in pockets, eyes on the feet in front of them-until they reach the mess hall, already filled and echoing with dozens of voices. They find Collins as if on auto-pilot and plop down across from him with their trays.
“How goes the war, gentlemen?” he asks.
Roger glances sideways at Mark with a half-smirk. “All countries involved entered into negotiations after lights out, and a peace treaty has been signed.”
Mark shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Was it really necessary to indulge him in his metaphors?”
The other two grin. “You’re the only fools who do indulge me. And I’m forever grateful. Switzerland is glad to hear that mess is over.”
Yet somehow Mark has the feeling that it isn’t.
***
Sometimes, as they sit on the bleachers in the yard watching the others, they play "When you get out" just like every other person who has spent time in a cell. What will you eat? Where will you go? Who will you fuck? Mark hates it. He insists that it just forces him to recall all the things he can't have while he's here. Collins says it gives a man reason to hope.
"You get lulled into an odd sense of security here. You can get used to it. All this routine will drive you insane for a while, but then you just start to think of it as all there is. If you don't remember that there's another world out there, you forget to want to leave."
Mark leans forward so that he can see Collins beyond Roger. "Are you done channeling Morgan Freeman now? Because I have no interest in buying a boat and fixing it up with you when we're outta here."
Roger chuckles as he leans back, resting his arms on the bench behind them, and squints in the sunlight.
"You should be so lucky, man." Collins grins and shakes his head. "It's true, though. Remembering what's good on the outside will keep you human. Otherwise, it's just you and four walls."
Roger thinks maybe he's right. The problem is that he doesn't have much waiting for him at the end of this stint, not even the money for a cold beer. Friends like his don't keep an empty chair waiting for your return. They move on, fill the chair with some other temporary friend, or more likely still, hock the chair for drug money. He doesn't have a girl waiting for him like Mark does, or a school to return to like Collins. He's on his own and has been for as long as he can remember.
But here, he has friends, or as close to friends as one ever gets in a place like this. Here, friends can sometimes mean anyone who hasn't publicly declared themselves your enemy. People will turn just like that. But he's struck up an understanding with these two men, and they offer a certain sense of security no matter how false it may be.
What Roger really wonders when they play "When you get out" is if they'll stay in touch, this Unholy Trinity of Cellblock 9. Every once in a while, he catches himself using "we" when he refers to some point in the future--"We should go to Santa Fe. I've never been." "We could get a place together in the Village"--and he's making plans he knows he shouldn't and relying on people which, if the past year has taught him anything, he knows can only lead to disappointment.
***
In the machine of oppression, your demons can very easily get the best of you. And while Mark’s always considered himself to be fairly demon-free, he knows that if that were true, he wouldn’t be here. Still, the thought of “when they get out” keeps him up nights despite Roger’s steady breathing beside him, or maybe because of it.
When rec time is over, they begrudgingly rise and line up with the others to return to their cells. The cell always feels double small after spending time in the fresh air, and it's the only time of day when the urge to get out, to go home wherever that may be, becomes unbearable. Roger throws himself down on Mark's bunk, too lazy to climb up into his own.
Mark picks up a deck of cards from the small table they have and begins to shuffle.
"Where do you really think you'll end up?" Mark asks. "When you get out."
Roger's eyes trace the pattern of the underside of the mattress that hangs above him and lies. "Probably back in the city. Maybe I'll go back to my mom's for a while just to get back on my feet. If she'll let me."
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mark dealing out a game of solitaire.
"Why?"
“You know this is fucked up, right?”
For a few moments, the only sound is of the muffled chatter of other inmates and the soft clicking of plastic-coated cards as Mark flips them over. Roger closes his eyes, not sleeping, but allowing himself to drift away, to forget how close the walls are, how little room they have to breathe in this place.
Roger lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”
“I mean, it wouldn’t be like this on the outside. You know that, right?”
Mark watches as Roger sits up, hangs his head, and rubs the back of his neck. “I… I don’t know.”
The clicking of cards has stopped, and he looks over to where Mark sits at the table, cards still in hand, looking at the spread before him, but not really seeing it.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Roger’s head snaps up and his eyes are full of anger, confusion, and something else Mark wouldn’t ever say in this place. “What I mean is if we were never here, in this place, together, would this have happened? No. We’d probably never even have met. But does that mean that when we get out of here that I won’t miss you? That I’ll be able to function without you? No, I can’t guarantee that, Mark.”
Mark leans his elbows against his knees and runs his hands through his hair. “No, see, it can’t be like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t even friendship! This is… this is codependency in its purest form. Symbiosis. You can’t…you can’t build anything from that.”
Roger opens his mouth to say something, but they’ve both figured out that there’s no amount of words that can make them understand this. So Roger shakes his head and climbs into his own bunk, and Mark deals another game.
***
“We can’t sleep alone anymore,” Mark confesses to Collins at dinner, being sure to lower his voice so that only Collins can hear, Roger still making his way through the line after being pulled aside and momentarily detained for some reason the guards surely made up. “That’s what it’s come to now. I can’t sleep without knowing he’s right there. That’s messed up.”
“Listen to me.” Collins looks around, checks over his shoulder, then gauges how long he has before Roger joins them again. “You’ve got something here. And whatever the reason it started, whatever the reason it continued, when you leave here, you’re gonna have something that most of these guys won’t despite what we’ve all been promised: a chance for a new life. And don’t give me that bullshit about how you two don’t know if you’re gonna keep in touch once you get out.”
“But who knows what-”
“You know, man. And so does he. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”
“This isn’t real, Collins.”
“Says who?”
But Roger appears and sets down his tray, cursing out the guards under his breath, and the conversation is forgotten.
***
They’re sitting, avoiding each other, avoiding speaking, as much as they can in the tiny space when the lights go out for the night. Mark stands up from the table, and Roger jumps down from his perch on his bed and grabs hold of his face. And Mark freezes, not sure what to expect, but it surely it isn’t Roger’s lips against his ear and a harsh low whisper.
“Look, I don’t know what this is. But the fact is that I might be just a little bit in love with you at the moment. And if you think that’s scary to hear in a place like this, believe me it’s a hundred times worse to say it. So you’re either going to have to accept that, or give me some time to get the fuck over it. All right?”
And Roger shoves him away hard enough to make Mark stumble, and their eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet. Mark can’t read a face he can’t see, and he can’t see his own hands shaking. But somehow in the dark, his hands find Roger and pull him close.
“All right,” he whispers, and he wraps his arms around Roger’s shoulders, and he feels them lose a tension he hadn’t known they’d been holding. Mark isn’t sure exactly what he’s just agreed to, but somehow it’s easier to breathe having said it, having made peace with the two options before him. Roger leans his forehead against Mark’s shoulder and breathes deep, his hands coming up to hold on to Mark.
Mark thinks about what Collins said, about the importance of having someone who is prepared to forgive or ignore your flaws. And in the absolute dark, he can’t see the bars or the walls, the guards or the other inmates. They could be anywhere. And somehow, it still feels right.
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1676
Notes: For letter_love. That's right, I wrote Inmates-verse. You know you love it. Feel better, pookie!
Even with their reconciliation, the morning brings a silence between them that neither of them will break to acknowledge. Mark presses his fingers into his cheek where Rafferty’s bruises have formed over the just-healed ones Roger had left behind. He feels the dull ache and can’t explain why it
makes him sick.
They shuffle along in their line-heads down, hands in pockets, eyes on the feet in front of them-until they reach the mess hall, already filled and echoing with dozens of voices. They find Collins as if on auto-pilot and plop down across from him with their trays.
“How goes the war, gentlemen?” he asks.
Roger glances sideways at Mark with a half-smirk. “All countries involved entered into negotiations after lights out, and a peace treaty has been signed.”
Mark shakes his head and mutters under his breath, “Was it really necessary to indulge him in his metaphors?”
The other two grin. “You’re the only fools who do indulge me. And I’m forever grateful. Switzerland is glad to hear that mess is over.”
Yet somehow Mark has the feeling that it isn’t.
***
Sometimes, as they sit on the bleachers in the yard watching the others, they play "When you get out" just like every other person who has spent time in a cell. What will you eat? Where will you go? Who will you fuck? Mark hates it. He insists that it just forces him to recall all the things he can't have while he's here. Collins says it gives a man reason to hope.
"You get lulled into an odd sense of security here. You can get used to it. All this routine will drive you insane for a while, but then you just start to think of it as all there is. If you don't remember that there's another world out there, you forget to want to leave."
Mark leans forward so that he can see Collins beyond Roger. "Are you done channeling Morgan Freeman now? Because I have no interest in buying a boat and fixing it up with you when we're outta here."
Roger chuckles as he leans back, resting his arms on the bench behind them, and squints in the sunlight.
"You should be so lucky, man." Collins grins and shakes his head. "It's true, though. Remembering what's good on the outside will keep you human. Otherwise, it's just you and four walls."
Roger thinks maybe he's right. The problem is that he doesn't have much waiting for him at the end of this stint, not even the money for a cold beer. Friends like his don't keep an empty chair waiting for your return. They move on, fill the chair with some other temporary friend, or more likely still, hock the chair for drug money. He doesn't have a girl waiting for him like Mark does, or a school to return to like Collins. He's on his own and has been for as long as he can remember.
But here, he has friends, or as close to friends as one ever gets in a place like this. Here, friends can sometimes mean anyone who hasn't publicly declared themselves your enemy. People will turn just like that. But he's struck up an understanding with these two men, and they offer a certain sense of security no matter how false it may be.
What Roger really wonders when they play "When you get out" is if they'll stay in touch, this Unholy Trinity of Cellblock 9. Every once in a while, he catches himself using "we" when he refers to some point in the future--"We should go to Santa Fe. I've never been." "We could get a place together in the Village"--and he's making plans he knows he shouldn't and relying on people which, if the past year has taught him anything, he knows can only lead to disappointment.
***
In the machine of oppression, your demons can very easily get the best of you. And while Mark’s always considered himself to be fairly demon-free, he knows that if that were true, he wouldn’t be here. Still, the thought of “when they get out” keeps him up nights despite Roger’s steady breathing beside him, or maybe because of it.
When rec time is over, they begrudgingly rise and line up with the others to return to their cells. The cell always feels double small after spending time in the fresh air, and it's the only time of day when the urge to get out, to go home wherever that may be, becomes unbearable. Roger throws himself down on Mark's bunk, too lazy to climb up into his own.
Mark picks up a deck of cards from the small table they have and begins to shuffle.
"Where do you really think you'll end up?" Mark asks. "When you get out."
Roger's eyes trace the pattern of the underside of the mattress that hangs above him and lies. "Probably back in the city. Maybe I'll go back to my mom's for a while just to get back on my feet. If she'll let me."
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mark dealing out a game of solitaire.
"Why?"
“You know this is fucked up, right?”
For a few moments, the only sound is of the muffled chatter of other inmates and the soft clicking of plastic-coated cards as Mark flips them over. Roger closes his eyes, not sleeping, but allowing himself to drift away, to forget how close the walls are, how little room they have to breathe in this place.
Roger lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”
“I mean, it wouldn’t be like this on the outside. You know that, right?”
Mark watches as Roger sits up, hangs his head, and rubs the back of his neck. “I… I don’t know.”
The clicking of cards has stopped, and he looks over to where Mark sits at the table, cards still in hand, looking at the spread before him, but not really seeing it.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Roger’s head snaps up and his eyes are full of anger, confusion, and something else Mark wouldn’t ever say in this place. “What I mean is if we were never here, in this place, together, would this have happened? No. We’d probably never even have met. But does that mean that when we get out of here that I won’t miss you? That I’ll be able to function without you? No, I can’t guarantee that, Mark.”
Mark leans his elbows against his knees and runs his hands through his hair. “No, see, it can’t be like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this isn’t even friendship! This is… this is codependency in its purest form. Symbiosis. You can’t…you can’t build anything from that.”
Roger opens his mouth to say something, but they’ve both figured out that there’s no amount of words that can make them understand this. So Roger shakes his head and climbs into his own bunk, and Mark deals another game.
***
“We can’t sleep alone anymore,” Mark confesses to Collins at dinner, being sure to lower his voice so that only Collins can hear, Roger still making his way through the line after being pulled aside and momentarily detained for some reason the guards surely made up. “That’s what it’s come to now. I can’t sleep without knowing he’s right there. That’s messed up.”
“Listen to me.” Collins looks around, checks over his shoulder, then gauges how long he has before Roger joins them again. “You’ve got something here. And whatever the reason it started, whatever the reason it continued, when you leave here, you’re gonna have something that most of these guys won’t despite what we’ve all been promised: a chance for a new life. And don’t give me that bullshit about how you two don’t know if you’re gonna keep in touch once you get out.”
“But who knows what-”
“You know, man. And so does he. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”
“This isn’t real, Collins.”
“Says who?”
But Roger appears and sets down his tray, cursing out the guards under his breath, and the conversation is forgotten.
***
They’re sitting, avoiding each other, avoiding speaking, as much as they can in the tiny space when the lights go out for the night. Mark stands up from the table, and Roger jumps down from his perch on his bed and grabs hold of his face. And Mark freezes, not sure what to expect, but it surely it isn’t Roger’s lips against his ear and a harsh low whisper.
“Look, I don’t know what this is. But the fact is that I might be just a little bit in love with you at the moment. And if you think that’s scary to hear in a place like this, believe me it’s a hundred times worse to say it. So you’re either going to have to accept that, or give me some time to get the fuck over it. All right?”
And Roger shoves him away hard enough to make Mark stumble, and their eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark yet. Mark can’t read a face he can’t see, and he can’t see his own hands shaking. But somehow in the dark, his hands find Roger and pull him close.
“All right,” he whispers, and he wraps his arms around Roger’s shoulders, and he feels them lose a tension he hadn’t known they’d been holding. Mark isn’t sure exactly what he’s just agreed to, but somehow it’s easier to breathe having said it, having made peace with the two options before him. Roger leans his forehead against Mark’s shoulder and breathes deep, his hands coming up to hold on to Mark.
Mark thinks about what Collins said, about the importance of having someone who is prepared to forgive or ignore your flaws. And in the absolute dark, he can’t see the bars or the walls, the guards or the other inmates. They could be anywhere. And somehow, it still feels right.