RENT: Not Afraid to Love You
Title: Not Afraid to Love You
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Maureen/Joanne (just a bit)
Word Count: 1751
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A series of drabbles through Mark and Roger's relationship.
Notes: Cuddleverse. Written for seriouslyrent's fanmix challenge (you can get the fanmix here). This is your warning for character death. If you can't deal with that... you're really best off not reading.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
download full mix, including art
When Mark and Benny finally found roommates to share their apartment, Mark hadn't been entirely sure he really liked either of them. With Collins, he supposes, it was just that he was intimidating - quite a bit older, and brilliant, and Mark had been a little afraid to say something stupid around him. He got over it before long, about the first time he saw Collins high. Not that he was any less brilliant then, but certainly less intimidating, and Mark figured out that dignity was unnecessary with him.
With the other roommate... Mark's sitting on the couch reading when Roger all but tackles him from behind, arms around his shoulders, chin resting on the top of his head. He's not even sure how this started, but somehow, after a couple months of living with him, Roger's decided that the best greeting with Mark is pouncing on him without warning. "Hi, Roger."
Roger clambers over the back of the couch and pulls Mark into a hug, half on his lap. "Hey, baby boy."
"I'm older than you," Mark points out, sounding more irritated than he really is. With Roger there was no specific incident Mark can pinpoint that made him like him - it was more the gradual realization that he couldn't not like someone like Roger, with bright, charming smiles and overexcitable bounciness and the completely nonsensical nickname for him of "baby boy".
Roger doesn't touch Mark for almost a year after April. Mark lets it go at first - Roger's scared and lost and grieving, things are bound to change, he's bound to change. But it's so different from how they'd been before, hugs and cuddling on the couch and Roger nuzzling playfully at his neck. Now Roger jerks away at the slightest touch, an accidental brush against his skin, Mark's hand on his shoulder...
Mark finally asks, and after snapping and drawing into himself and avoiding the question, Roger finally murmurs softly, "I don't want... to get anyone else sick," and a few moments later, half a whisper, "I'm scared."
Roger's half-curled up on the couch, and Mark leans down a little, tilting his head to the side to try to catch his eye. "Roger, you're not gonna get me sick just by touching me..."
Roger finally meets his eye and that's all it takes, he flings his arms around Mark, nuzzles his face against his neck, and Mark clings back, wondering how he'd gone without this for so long.
It's not like Mark was completely alone when Roger was in Santa Fe. Collins was there, Maureen and Joanne were there, Benny had stopped being such an ass and there were people around, but without Roger he might as well have been alone, because there were no reassuring touches, no kisses on his cheek or Roger nuzzling his neck even when Mark protested that he was ticklish, no "hey, baby boy."
So when Roger comes back, there's the expected clinging, and apologies, and Mark lightly punching him in the arm and warning him to never do that again before hugging him once more, and Roger promises. Mark doesn't know if Roger realizes how serious he is, and couldn't begin to tell him, that he'd be utterly lost if he ever found himself that alone again.
Roger's playing something, mouthing the words under his breath, and Mark frowns a little, listening to him. He recognizes that tune - it's been ages since Roger's played it, but he does recognize it. It never had words before.
"I haven't heard that one in a while," he comments at length.
"Yeah." Roger shrugs. "I just... haven't felt like playing it lately."
"Sing it for me?" Mark asks, and Roger freezes, but after a moment or two he ducks his head, focuses on his guitar, and complies.
When he finishes the song, they're both silent for a minute or two. "Roger?" Mark asks softly.
"Yeah?"
"Was that... was that about me?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He hesitates, and then gets to his feet, grabbing his camera off the table and starting toward his room. "I'm gonna... um... go fix my... the focus is sticking on my camera, I have to..." He ducks into his room, and pretends he doesn't notice Roger muttering to himself under his breath, "Stupid, stupid, stupid..."
It's not unusual for them to find themselves like this, Mark sitting on the couch, Roger lying sprawled across it with his head on Mark's lap. It's just what Roger does, Roger needs that constant reassurance of touch, and Mark certainly doesn't mind.
But it's different now, looking down at him, running his fingers through Roger's curly hair, Roger's eyes closed in catlike bliss, and there's this nervous twisting in the pit of his stomach that's... wholly unusual when it comes to Roger. Mark runs his fingers down Roger's cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone, and without opening his eyes Roger turns his head a little to lean in to the touch.
Deliberately, Mark tilts Roger's chin up with his fingers, leans down and kisses him, and there's no time for fear or hesitation or regret now, because Roger's kissing back, and it feels so much more perfect than it has any right to.
Every time Roger says "I love you", Mark doesn't exactly pull away, but he tenses, gets quiet. He can't even explain it to himself, but every time that word's said, something in his heart freezes up, sudden fear washing over him. If the word is never said, he can't help but think that maybe it'll hurt less when he loses him. Maybe it will feel like less of a loss, whatever else logic tells him.
"Why the fuck are you so scared of someone loving you?" Roger asks, hands on Mark's shoulders.
"I'm not scared," Mark mutters, and pulls away a little, ducking his head so he won't have to look at him.
"Okay, then what is it?"
"It's nothing..." Mark murmurs, and turns away.
"It's not fucking nothing!" Roger shouts, and there's a loud sound of impact - Mark turns around to see Roger cradling his hand, and a slight dent in the wall; he'd punched it. With a sigh, Mark goes to the freezer to get some ice, wraps it in a dishtowel to put it on Roger's hand. And Roger lets him, but as he does he looks up into Mark's eyes, and his voice is soft and surprisingly gentle when he asks, "Why won't you let me love you?"
He's admitted it to himself now. He loves him, and the word love is a poor substitute for what he feels, doesn't begin to cover it (adoration, friendship, need, camaraderie, a million other emotions so intense they hurt), but it's the only word he can think of to use, and it's a word Roger would understand from him, the one word Roger most wants from him.
He can't say it. He wants to, God, he wants to, but with Roger standing there in front of him, it somehow freezes on his tongue, refuses to pass his lips, so he settles for kissing him and praying he'll understand.
He's watching Roger intently, sitting on his lap, fighting to get the damn words out, and Roger raises his eyebrows, asking softly, "What?"
"Nothing, I just -" Mark begins, and cuts off in the middle of his sentence, shakes his head. Just say it. "I love you."
Roger's smile is worth it, every bit of it.
Mark's starting to feel safe. Yes, Roger's sick, but Mark's begun to believe he'll be fine, it won't ever really end. And just as soon as he believes that, there's a cough Roger can't shake, tearing at his throat and rattling in his chest, there's blood in tissues that Roger tries to hide, and there's a far too long subway ride to the hospital, with Roger staring blankly out the darkened windows and clinging desperately to Mark's hand.
They're lying together on the tiny hospital bed, and a few nurses keep giving Mark irritated looks as they pass by the room. He couldn't care less, combing his fingers through Roger's hair, the other arm around his too-thin waist.
Roger starts talking while they're there, about music and film, about home, about love, and they both know that it doesn't matter what he actually says, just that as long as he's talking he's still there. And Mark listens, and tries to memorize every word, until Roger falls asleep and Mark's left sitting there, still running his fingers through Roger's hair and listening intently to his every breath.
Maureen gets a call at three in the morning, the voice on the other end oddly devoid of emotion. Joanne comes with her to the hospital, because she refuses to let Maureen ride the subway alone this early, but she stays in the waiting room while Maureen convinces the nurses to let her go to Roger's room.
The bed's empty when she gets there, and Mark's in a chair in the corner, staring at nothing. His face is tear-streaked, but he's not crying now. She'd feel better if he were.
"Mark?" she asks from the doorway, and he doesn't say a word, just stands up and walks to the doorway to meet her, looking tired, and old, and hollow.
Maureen and Joanne take him home, and Maureen insists on staying. He's too tired to argue, and tired past the point of sleep, so he spends the hours until dawn staring at the wall, his mind on Roger, or his absence. The absence of the weight of his arm on Mark's waist, his warmth at his back, his breath against the back of his neck.
He falls a sleep a few hours after sunrise, and dreams of Roger, his eyes and his face and smile so perfectly clear, not even half a day gone. He wakes up with his voice in his ear, the taste of his kiss on his tongue, only to find the bed as empty as ever before.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Maureen/Joanne (just a bit)
Word Count: 1751
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A series of drabbles through Mark and Roger's relationship.
Notes: Cuddleverse. Written for seriouslyrent's fanmix challenge (you can get the fanmix here). This is your warning for character death. If you can't deal with that... you're really best off not reading.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
download full mix, including art
When Mark and Benny finally found roommates to share their apartment, Mark hadn't been entirely sure he really liked either of them. With Collins, he supposes, it was just that he was intimidating - quite a bit older, and brilliant, and Mark had been a little afraid to say something stupid around him. He got over it before long, about the first time he saw Collins high. Not that he was any less brilliant then, but certainly less intimidating, and Mark figured out that dignity was unnecessary with him.
With the other roommate... Mark's sitting on the couch reading when Roger all but tackles him from behind, arms around his shoulders, chin resting on the top of his head. He's not even sure how this started, but somehow, after a couple months of living with him, Roger's decided that the best greeting with Mark is pouncing on him without warning. "Hi, Roger."
Roger clambers over the back of the couch and pulls Mark into a hug, half on his lap. "Hey, baby boy."
"I'm older than you," Mark points out, sounding more irritated than he really is. With Roger there was no specific incident Mark can pinpoint that made him like him - it was more the gradual realization that he couldn't not like someone like Roger, with bright, charming smiles and overexcitable bounciness and the completely nonsensical nickname for him of "baby boy".
Roger doesn't touch Mark for almost a year after April. Mark lets it go at first - Roger's scared and lost and grieving, things are bound to change, he's bound to change. But it's so different from how they'd been before, hugs and cuddling on the couch and Roger nuzzling playfully at his neck. Now Roger jerks away at the slightest touch, an accidental brush against his skin, Mark's hand on his shoulder...
Mark finally asks, and after snapping and drawing into himself and avoiding the question, Roger finally murmurs softly, "I don't want... to get anyone else sick," and a few moments later, half a whisper, "I'm scared."
Roger's half-curled up on the couch, and Mark leans down a little, tilting his head to the side to try to catch his eye. "Roger, you're not gonna get me sick just by touching me..."
Roger finally meets his eye and that's all it takes, he flings his arms around Mark, nuzzles his face against his neck, and Mark clings back, wondering how he'd gone without this for so long.
It's not like Mark was completely alone when Roger was in Santa Fe. Collins was there, Maureen and Joanne were there, Benny had stopped being such an ass and there were people around, but without Roger he might as well have been alone, because there were no reassuring touches, no kisses on his cheek or Roger nuzzling his neck even when Mark protested that he was ticklish, no "hey, baby boy."
So when Roger comes back, there's the expected clinging, and apologies, and Mark lightly punching him in the arm and warning him to never do that again before hugging him once more, and Roger promises. Mark doesn't know if Roger realizes how serious he is, and couldn't begin to tell him, that he'd be utterly lost if he ever found himself that alone again.
Roger's playing something, mouthing the words under his breath, and Mark frowns a little, listening to him. He recognizes that tune - it's been ages since Roger's played it, but he does recognize it. It never had words before.
"I haven't heard that one in a while," he comments at length.
"Yeah." Roger shrugs. "I just... haven't felt like playing it lately."
"Sing it for me?" Mark asks, and Roger freezes, but after a moment or two he ducks his head, focuses on his guitar, and complies.
When he finishes the song, they're both silent for a minute or two. "Roger?" Mark asks softly.
"Yeah?"
"Was that... was that about me?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He hesitates, and then gets to his feet, grabbing his camera off the table and starting toward his room. "I'm gonna... um... go fix my... the focus is sticking on my camera, I have to..." He ducks into his room, and pretends he doesn't notice Roger muttering to himself under his breath, "Stupid, stupid, stupid..."
It's not unusual for them to find themselves like this, Mark sitting on the couch, Roger lying sprawled across it with his head on Mark's lap. It's just what Roger does, Roger needs that constant reassurance of touch, and Mark certainly doesn't mind.
But it's different now, looking down at him, running his fingers through Roger's curly hair, Roger's eyes closed in catlike bliss, and there's this nervous twisting in the pit of his stomach that's... wholly unusual when it comes to Roger. Mark runs his fingers down Roger's cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone, and without opening his eyes Roger turns his head a little to lean in to the touch.
Deliberately, Mark tilts Roger's chin up with his fingers, leans down and kisses him, and there's no time for fear or hesitation or regret now, because Roger's kissing back, and it feels so much more perfect than it has any right to.
Every time Roger says "I love you", Mark doesn't exactly pull away, but he tenses, gets quiet. He can't even explain it to himself, but every time that word's said, something in his heart freezes up, sudden fear washing over him. If the word is never said, he can't help but think that maybe it'll hurt less when he loses him. Maybe it will feel like less of a loss, whatever else logic tells him.
"Why the fuck are you so scared of someone loving you?" Roger asks, hands on Mark's shoulders.
"I'm not scared," Mark mutters, and pulls away a little, ducking his head so he won't have to look at him.
"Okay, then what is it?"
"It's nothing..." Mark murmurs, and turns away.
"It's not fucking nothing!" Roger shouts, and there's a loud sound of impact - Mark turns around to see Roger cradling his hand, and a slight dent in the wall; he'd punched it. With a sigh, Mark goes to the freezer to get some ice, wraps it in a dishtowel to put it on Roger's hand. And Roger lets him, but as he does he looks up into Mark's eyes, and his voice is soft and surprisingly gentle when he asks, "Why won't you let me love you?"
He's admitted it to himself now. He loves him, and the word love is a poor substitute for what he feels, doesn't begin to cover it (adoration, friendship, need, camaraderie, a million other emotions so intense they hurt), but it's the only word he can think of to use, and it's a word Roger would understand from him, the one word Roger most wants from him.
He can't say it. He wants to, God, he wants to, but with Roger standing there in front of him, it somehow freezes on his tongue, refuses to pass his lips, so he settles for kissing him and praying he'll understand.
He's watching Roger intently, sitting on his lap, fighting to get the damn words out, and Roger raises his eyebrows, asking softly, "What?"
"Nothing, I just -" Mark begins, and cuts off in the middle of his sentence, shakes his head. Just say it. "I love you."
Roger's smile is worth it, every bit of it.
Mark's starting to feel safe. Yes, Roger's sick, but Mark's begun to believe he'll be fine, it won't ever really end. And just as soon as he believes that, there's a cough Roger can't shake, tearing at his throat and rattling in his chest, there's blood in tissues that Roger tries to hide, and there's a far too long subway ride to the hospital, with Roger staring blankly out the darkened windows and clinging desperately to Mark's hand.
They're lying together on the tiny hospital bed, and a few nurses keep giving Mark irritated looks as they pass by the room. He couldn't care less, combing his fingers through Roger's hair, the other arm around his too-thin waist.
Roger starts talking while they're there, about music and film, about home, about love, and they both know that it doesn't matter what he actually says, just that as long as he's talking he's still there. And Mark listens, and tries to memorize every word, until Roger falls asleep and Mark's left sitting there, still running his fingers through Roger's hair and listening intently to his every breath.
Maureen gets a call at three in the morning, the voice on the other end oddly devoid of emotion. Joanne comes with her to the hospital, because she refuses to let Maureen ride the subway alone this early, but she stays in the waiting room while Maureen convinces the nurses to let her go to Roger's room.
The bed's empty when she gets there, and Mark's in a chair in the corner, staring at nothing. His face is tear-streaked, but he's not crying now. She'd feel better if he were.
"Mark?" she asks from the doorway, and he doesn't say a word, just stands up and walks to the doorway to meet her, looking tired, and old, and hollow.
Maureen and Joanne take him home, and Maureen insists on staying. He's too tired to argue, and tired past the point of sleep, so he spends the hours until dawn staring at the wall, his mind on Roger, or his absence. The absence of the weight of his arm on Mark's waist, his warmth at his back, his breath against the back of his neck.
He falls a sleep a few hours after sunrise, and dreams of Roger, his eyes and his face and smile so perfectly clear, not even half a day gone. He wakes up with his voice in his ear, the taste of his kiss on his tongue, only to find the bed as empty as ever before.