RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Six)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 6/14
Characters/Pairing: Roger/April, Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1446
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger and April are both learning unexpected things about each other.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #19.
Disclaimer: I don't own Roger, Mark, or April (though this version of April is kind of half mine, half starletfallen's).
<< Previous Chapter
Sometimes, on a good night when everything's flowing and the music seems to run through his veins right along with the smack, everything kind of runs together and Roger feels a sort of synaesthesia. Notes and melodies paint colors in the air, images run like watercolors and he can taste them, warm and sweet on his tongue. Tonight, April blends in with all of that, and he can't take his eyes off of her all through the show. When the show's over and he gets off the stage, he seeks her out immediately, and there she is, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him. Ordinarily, he'd back off right then. Ordinarily, the thought that he'd just met this girl, the thought that he doesn't really know her would make him back down. As it is... between the smack, and April's kiss, which is a drug in itself, and missing Mark so much, he doesn't really care that he doesn't know her.
He returns the kiss and then pulls back to smile at her, his eyes bright, expression shining. "Did you like the show?" That question always matters to him, no matter who he's asking, but right now it seems to be of special import, as if what April thinks is of utmost importance.
She doesn't seem to think it is, though - there's a flippancy to the way she grins and pulls him down to her, and murmurs softly, "Of course," before she kisses him. It's a little sloppy, because she's as high as he is, and a little drunk on top of that, he can taste the alcohol in her kiss, but it still sends a pleasant jolt through him as she pulls him closer against her, standing on tiptoe so her hips rock against his, her breasts against his chest. She tugs at his lip lightly with her teeth as she drops back on her heels, and smiles up at him. It's wicked and wild, and he'd never have guessed her capable of such a devilish smile when he first saw her on the subway, but he can't say he minds in the least.
She's got a hand on his waist, and the other hand slips lightly into his, slender and tiny in his palm, and she starts to tug him gently through the club, the noise and heat and crush of bodies, to the door that leads backstage. Roger hesitates, looking back over his shoulder - he ought to help the band break down the equipment and back everything up. But April grins up at him, wickedly as before, and murmurs in a low, honey-sweet tone, "Come on." That decides him - not the words, really, or even the way she says it, but the way it makes his stomach drop, his blood rush in his ears.
He lets her pull him through the door, where there's not even really a room, just a narrow hallway only half-lit, empty, and somewhat comforting in the darkness, and he knows what he's doing now, even if it's been over a month since he's fucked anyone, and that was Mark and he doesn't like to think of what he did with Mark as fucking, that's too cold, too emotionless, too violent. This, though, he doesn't mind calling fucking.
He pulls his hand free of hers and pushes her against the wall, not roughly but far from gentle, and kisses her while he pushes her skirt up a little, and he can feel her smirk against his lips as she winds her arms around his neck.
*
A month or two ago, it might have bothered Roger to wake up in a strange apartment. Now, he's not in the least perturbed by it, perhaps because since he moved in with Hunter he's woken up in a strange apartment every morning, regardless of the fact that he's actually living there now. April's already awake and out of the room, but he can hear her moving around in the other doorway, so he lies there in the empty bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling quietly. He hadn't had the chance to notice last night, but everything in April's apartment is neat and tidy, the sheets clean white, no unnecessary clutter - not so neat that it doesn't seem like a human lives here, but certainly not as wild as he'd expected it to be. He'd expected her apartment to match her wild, dangerous smile.
It takes a while to register sounds beyond those of April - he assumes it's April - in the other room, steps of bare feet on tile and the soft clink of plates or cups, early morning kitchen sounds. Underneath that, though, there's something else, and it takes him a moment or two to recognize the other sound he's hearing, of rain pelting against the window, driven against the glass by the wind. He props himself up on an elbow and twists around to look out the window, watching water sheeting down the glass for a moment before rolling out of the bed and hunting down his clothes to pull them back on. He'll have to take the subway again. He can't risk the rain soaking through his gig bag and getting his guitar wet. He tries to think if he actually has the two dollars for it, and can't remember. It's hard to think past the faint longing for a hit - not desperate, not something he won't survive, but it's distracting, something nagging in the back of his mind.
He's pulling his shirt over his head as he walks out of the bedroom, and trying to remember where he put his jacket - there it is, on the floor by the couch - and April smiles at him when she looks up at him. She's sitting at her kitchen table, in this too-neat, too-nice apartment on the Upper West Side that she shouldn't be able to afford, someone her age, someone like her, a girl who uses and picks up guys from bands and brings them home... It's odd, an inconsistency, her and this apartment, one he can't quite figure out. He decides not to spend the energy. If it were Mark, he would have, of course - and as soon as he thinks that he scolds himself, he's got to stop thinking about Mark, because every time he does there's that pang in his chest, and the only way to make it go away is to stop. But he doesn't know her, and probably won't ever, once he leaves, so there's no reason to try to figure it out, much as he wants to.
"Hey," she says softly, and he gives her a tight smile in response to her own easy, confident grin.
"Hey." He picks up his jacket and pulls it on, shrugging it onto his shoulders.
"Are you... going home?" she asks, and Roger's not sure if that's a twinge of regret he hears in her voice. Maybe he's imagining it.
"Well... yeah."
"You want a cup of coffee, or just, I don't know, stay until the rain lets up a little?"
He hesitates, as he did the night before, in the club, seized by a sudden fear, sudden reluctance, something in the back of his mind telling him that staying, talking, getting to know her beyond a casual fuck would be just an opportunity for her to hurt him. Like Mark. He has one constant hurt already, one wound that won't quite heal, and he didn't need another. But it is raining out, and there's was that hopeful air to her smile... "Sure."
"Coffee pot's right there," she says, pointing. "Mugs are in the cabinet right above it."
He walks over to where she indicated, pausing as he passes by the fridge to frown at a single Post-It note stuck there, eight lines of a poem. Hold fast to dreams... April notices him looking, and after a moment smiles almost shyly and says, "That's just a... I get poems in my head sometimes. Like people get songs in their heads? I write them down until I can remember where they're from. Once I had this William Blake poem stuck in my head for, like, a month-"
"Langston Hughes."
"What?"
"The poem," he says, gesturing to the Post-It note. "It's by Langston Hughes." He moves on to grab a coffee mug and get himself coffee, but he does notice her smile, quiet, almost charmed, like she's just learned something about him she hadn't expected to find, and he certainly has about her.
Next Chapter >>
Chapter: 6/14
Characters/Pairing: Roger/April, Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1446
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger and April are both learning unexpected things about each other.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #19.
Disclaimer: I don't own Roger, Mark, or April (though this version of April is kind of half mine, half starletfallen's).
<< Previous Chapter
Sometimes, on a good night when everything's flowing and the music seems to run through his veins right along with the smack, everything kind of runs together and Roger feels a sort of synaesthesia. Notes and melodies paint colors in the air, images run like watercolors and he can taste them, warm and sweet on his tongue. Tonight, April blends in with all of that, and he can't take his eyes off of her all through the show. When the show's over and he gets off the stage, he seeks her out immediately, and there she is, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him. Ordinarily, he'd back off right then. Ordinarily, the thought that he'd just met this girl, the thought that he doesn't really know her would make him back down. As it is... between the smack, and April's kiss, which is a drug in itself, and missing Mark so much, he doesn't really care that he doesn't know her.
He returns the kiss and then pulls back to smile at her, his eyes bright, expression shining. "Did you like the show?" That question always matters to him, no matter who he's asking, but right now it seems to be of special import, as if what April thinks is of utmost importance.
She doesn't seem to think it is, though - there's a flippancy to the way she grins and pulls him down to her, and murmurs softly, "Of course," before she kisses him. It's a little sloppy, because she's as high as he is, and a little drunk on top of that, he can taste the alcohol in her kiss, but it still sends a pleasant jolt through him as she pulls him closer against her, standing on tiptoe so her hips rock against his, her breasts against his chest. She tugs at his lip lightly with her teeth as she drops back on her heels, and smiles up at him. It's wicked and wild, and he'd never have guessed her capable of such a devilish smile when he first saw her on the subway, but he can't say he minds in the least.
She's got a hand on his waist, and the other hand slips lightly into his, slender and tiny in his palm, and she starts to tug him gently through the club, the noise and heat and crush of bodies, to the door that leads backstage. Roger hesitates, looking back over his shoulder - he ought to help the band break down the equipment and back everything up. But April grins up at him, wickedly as before, and murmurs in a low, honey-sweet tone, "Come on." That decides him - not the words, really, or even the way she says it, but the way it makes his stomach drop, his blood rush in his ears.
He lets her pull him through the door, where there's not even really a room, just a narrow hallway only half-lit, empty, and somewhat comforting in the darkness, and he knows what he's doing now, even if it's been over a month since he's fucked anyone, and that was Mark and he doesn't like to think of what he did with Mark as fucking, that's too cold, too emotionless, too violent. This, though, he doesn't mind calling fucking.
He pulls his hand free of hers and pushes her against the wall, not roughly but far from gentle, and kisses her while he pushes her skirt up a little, and he can feel her smirk against his lips as she winds her arms around his neck.
*
A month or two ago, it might have bothered Roger to wake up in a strange apartment. Now, he's not in the least perturbed by it, perhaps because since he moved in with Hunter he's woken up in a strange apartment every morning, regardless of the fact that he's actually living there now. April's already awake and out of the room, but he can hear her moving around in the other doorway, so he lies there in the empty bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling quietly. He hadn't had the chance to notice last night, but everything in April's apartment is neat and tidy, the sheets clean white, no unnecessary clutter - not so neat that it doesn't seem like a human lives here, but certainly not as wild as he'd expected it to be. He'd expected her apartment to match her wild, dangerous smile.
It takes a while to register sounds beyond those of April - he assumes it's April - in the other room, steps of bare feet on tile and the soft clink of plates or cups, early morning kitchen sounds. Underneath that, though, there's something else, and it takes him a moment or two to recognize the other sound he's hearing, of rain pelting against the window, driven against the glass by the wind. He props himself up on an elbow and twists around to look out the window, watching water sheeting down the glass for a moment before rolling out of the bed and hunting down his clothes to pull them back on. He'll have to take the subway again. He can't risk the rain soaking through his gig bag and getting his guitar wet. He tries to think if he actually has the two dollars for it, and can't remember. It's hard to think past the faint longing for a hit - not desperate, not something he won't survive, but it's distracting, something nagging in the back of his mind.
He's pulling his shirt over his head as he walks out of the bedroom, and trying to remember where he put his jacket - there it is, on the floor by the couch - and April smiles at him when she looks up at him. She's sitting at her kitchen table, in this too-neat, too-nice apartment on the Upper West Side that she shouldn't be able to afford, someone her age, someone like her, a girl who uses and picks up guys from bands and brings them home... It's odd, an inconsistency, her and this apartment, one he can't quite figure out. He decides not to spend the energy. If it were Mark, he would have, of course - and as soon as he thinks that he scolds himself, he's got to stop thinking about Mark, because every time he does there's that pang in his chest, and the only way to make it go away is to stop. But he doesn't know her, and probably won't ever, once he leaves, so there's no reason to try to figure it out, much as he wants to.
"Hey," she says softly, and he gives her a tight smile in response to her own easy, confident grin.
"Hey." He picks up his jacket and pulls it on, shrugging it onto his shoulders.
"Are you... going home?" she asks, and Roger's not sure if that's a twinge of regret he hears in her voice. Maybe he's imagining it.
"Well... yeah."
"You want a cup of coffee, or just, I don't know, stay until the rain lets up a little?"
He hesitates, as he did the night before, in the club, seized by a sudden fear, sudden reluctance, something in the back of his mind telling him that staying, talking, getting to know her beyond a casual fuck would be just an opportunity for her to hurt him. Like Mark. He has one constant hurt already, one wound that won't quite heal, and he didn't need another. But it is raining out, and there's was that hopeful air to her smile... "Sure."
"Coffee pot's right there," she says, pointing. "Mugs are in the cabinet right above it."
He walks over to where she indicated, pausing as he passes by the fridge to frown at a single Post-It note stuck there, eight lines of a poem. Hold fast to dreams... April notices him looking, and after a moment smiles almost shyly and says, "That's just a... I get poems in my head sometimes. Like people get songs in their heads? I write them down until I can remember where they're from. Once I had this William Blake poem stuck in my head for, like, a month-"
"Langston Hughes."
"What?"
"The poem," he says, gesturing to the Post-It note. "It's by Langston Hughes." He moves on to grab a coffee mug and get himself coffee, but he does notice her smile, quiet, almost charmed, like she's just learned something about him she hadn't expected to find, and he certainly has about her.
Next Chapter >>