RENT: The Truth About My Life
Title: The Truth About My Life
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 660
Rating: PG
Summary: Mark attempts to write a song, and Roger decides to help.
Notes: Set in my "Truth" series - sequel to The Truth About the Truth.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny? And yes, I stole lyrics from "Out Damn Spot" by Anthony Rapp - it's a very Markish song. Plus, Evie dared me to.
Roger took the stairs to the loft two at a time as usual, rushed through the door, and stopped as he heard something unfamiliar. Music was normal in the loft, of course-after all, he did live there, and wrote most of his music there-but it was unusual when it wasn't his music. Faltering guitar chords drifted from the bedroom, and underneath the sound of that Roger heard someone singing. It had to be Mark-who else would it be? Roger had been teaching Mark how to play lately, just to make certain someone would be able to use his guitar when he was gone. But… the song he heard now wasn't one Roger had taught Mark, wasn't even a song Roger recognized.
"Mark?"
No response. Roger sighed and slowly made his way towards the bedroom, smiling faintly as Mark's voice got a little clearer over the fumbling notes from the guitar. The filmmaker's voice never had been the best, almost perpetually off-key, but something about it never failed to make Roger smile. He stopped at the open doorway, struck by the odd sight of Mark sitting cross-legged on the bed and bent over the guitar, frowning at the strings as if it were their fault the proper tune wouldn't come out. Was that how he looked when he played? No, Roger decided with a grin as Mark touched the wrong string, setting off an odd note, stopped singing, and sighed in frustration. At least he must look a little more confident than that.
Mark still didn't seem to have noticed Roger was home yet, and, not wanting to interrupt him, Roger leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, simply watching his roommate struggle with the guitar. It was decidedly odd to see Mark's slender fingers on the guitar strings when he was far more used to seeing him cutting film or… something. He watched as Mark faltered over the chords once more, then apparently found the tune he'd been looking for, and picked up singing where he'd left off, his voice still low and soft.
"Where did my friends go? It seems some nights I had so many." Roger grinned as he noticed the faint frown line on Mark's forehead, the look of intense concentration, but still remained silent, listening in interest. "Where did my ends go? It seems I used to make them meet and now I'm so incomplete when the snow turned to sleet. If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a mess, it's a-"
He stopped suddenly as Roger shifted his position slightly and Mark finally noticed him. The filmmaker's head jerked up with a start, and then with an embarrassed little smile he set the guitar aside and jumped to his feet. "I didn't know you'd be home so early. I was… um…"
Roger grinned and pushed himself away from the doorframe, sauntered into the room and flopped down onto the bed after moving the guitar aside. When Mark stayed standing, Roger rolled his eyes, grabbed his hand, and pulled him back down onto the bed beside him. "What was that? I don't think I've ever heard it before."
Mark flushed slightly. "I… um… wrote it. Was trying to write it. I don't know what-"
"Can you play it for me?"
The question seemed to catch Mark off guard, and he blinked at Roger for a moment. "What?"
"Well, I only got to here the last bit of it as I came in, and… I want to hear the whole thing."
Mark fidgeted a little. "I don't know. I mean, it's not done, and I don't think-"
"If you let me hear it I can help you with it," Roger offered. He picked up the guitar, offered it to Mark. The filmmaker hesitated, then took it with another of those sweet, embarrassed little smiles and hesitantly started to play.
"Out, out, damn spot…"
Feedback: Will make me love you muchly.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 660
Rating: PG
Summary: Mark attempts to write a song, and Roger decides to help.
Notes: Set in my "Truth" series - sequel to The Truth About the Truth.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rent, and I'm extremely unlikely ever to. Shiny? And yes, I stole lyrics from "Out Damn Spot" by Anthony Rapp - it's a very Markish song. Plus, Evie dared me to.
Roger took the stairs to the loft two at a time as usual, rushed through the door, and stopped as he heard something unfamiliar. Music was normal in the loft, of course-after all, he did live there, and wrote most of his music there-but it was unusual when it wasn't his music. Faltering guitar chords drifted from the bedroom, and underneath the sound of that Roger heard someone singing. It had to be Mark-who else would it be? Roger had been teaching Mark how to play lately, just to make certain someone would be able to use his guitar when he was gone. But… the song he heard now wasn't one Roger had taught Mark, wasn't even a song Roger recognized.
"Mark?"
No response. Roger sighed and slowly made his way towards the bedroom, smiling faintly as Mark's voice got a little clearer over the fumbling notes from the guitar. The filmmaker's voice never had been the best, almost perpetually off-key, but something about it never failed to make Roger smile. He stopped at the open doorway, struck by the odd sight of Mark sitting cross-legged on the bed and bent over the guitar, frowning at the strings as if it were their fault the proper tune wouldn't come out. Was that how he looked when he played? No, Roger decided with a grin as Mark touched the wrong string, setting off an odd note, stopped singing, and sighed in frustration. At least he must look a little more confident than that.
Mark still didn't seem to have noticed Roger was home yet, and, not wanting to interrupt him, Roger leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, simply watching his roommate struggle with the guitar. It was decidedly odd to see Mark's slender fingers on the guitar strings when he was far more used to seeing him cutting film or… something. He watched as Mark faltered over the chords once more, then apparently found the tune he'd been looking for, and picked up singing where he'd left off, his voice still low and soft.
"Where did my friends go? It seems some nights I had so many." Roger grinned as he noticed the faint frown line on Mark's forehead, the look of intense concentration, but still remained silent, listening in interest. "Where did my ends go? It seems I used to make them meet and now I'm so incomplete when the snow turned to sleet. If you want to know the truth about my life, it's a mess, it's a-"
He stopped suddenly as Roger shifted his position slightly and Mark finally noticed him. The filmmaker's head jerked up with a start, and then with an embarrassed little smile he set the guitar aside and jumped to his feet. "I didn't know you'd be home so early. I was… um…"
Roger grinned and pushed himself away from the doorframe, sauntered into the room and flopped down onto the bed after moving the guitar aside. When Mark stayed standing, Roger rolled his eyes, grabbed his hand, and pulled him back down onto the bed beside him. "What was that? I don't think I've ever heard it before."
Mark flushed slightly. "I… um… wrote it. Was trying to write it. I don't know what-"
"Can you play it for me?"
The question seemed to catch Mark off guard, and he blinked at Roger for a moment. "What?"
"Well, I only got to here the last bit of it as I came in, and… I want to hear the whole thing."
Mark fidgeted a little. "I don't know. I mean, it's not done, and I don't think-"
"If you let me hear it I can help you with it," Roger offered. He picked up the guitar, offered it to Mark. The filmmaker hesitated, then took it with another of those sweet, embarrassed little smiles and hesitantly started to play.
"Out, out, damn spot…"