RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Twelve)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 12/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April
Word Count: 1303
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Everyone's scared of something, everyone cares just a little too much, and no one wants to face it.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #42.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
<< Previous Chapter
April stares at the phone, holding her breath as it rings, and not even realizing that she had been until finally it stops ringing and she lets out the breath. The machine beeps once, and Roger's voice comes on the answering machine, with what sounds like a muttered curse and then a soft, "Okay, April, please pick up the phone. I know you're there... You've got nowhere else to be right now. Just... please, baby, talk to me? You could at least let me know what I did, because you just disappeared the other night and you haven't called me since and I'm starting to get a little worried... Just call me back, okay? I- Bye."
She shivers a little as she hears the click of him hanging up the phone, and with a sigh drops her head to her knees, curling into a tighter ball on the couch and choking back tears by sheer force of will. He would have to sound so sweet and concerned, wouldn't he? So dejected, so it makes her want to hug him and smooth his hair from his face and assure him he's done nothing wrong... Except lie to her, except not tell her about his goddamn boyfriend - and how long has he been keeping that a secret? - except be too damn sweet and innocent to be really angry with, even now.
She runs her fingers over his guitar pick, smooth plastic underneath her fingertips, and draws a slow breath. She can't avoid him forever. The red beeping light on her answering machine is proof enough of that. But she can avoid him for a few days longer, until she can figure out what the hell she's doing. Until she can get her head and her heart under control, if that's ever going to happen when it comes to Roger. She has her doubts.
*
Roger hisses as he slides the needle into his forearm, into the vividly blue vein all too visible on his pale skin, despite the collection of track marks and scars there in the crook of his arm. No matter how many times he does this, it still hurts - he'd used to think it might go away after a while. Now he's merely resigned himself to it, and gotten used to waiting for the rush to overtake the pain.
He's barely slid the needle out of his arm when the bedroom door swings open. Roger looks up sharply and there's Mark in the doorway, frozen, one hand on the knob - and Roger is sitting cross-legged on the bed with a tourniquet around his bicep and a used syringe in his hand. Their eyes lock, and they're silent for long moments, Roger's heart in his throat. It's not that Mark doesn't know - he has to, by now - but he's never been forced to know before. It's different.
Mark takes a step back, murmurs a barely audible "Sorry," and starts to back out of the room, starts to close the door. Maybe it's the smack or maybe it's something else, but Roger is suddenly angry, furious, and in an instant he drops the needle, lunges off the bed, and crosses the room with a couple steps. He wrenches the door out of Mark's hand, and Mark jumps as the door slams back against the wall with a crash, or maybe the jumping is because Roger's grabbed his arm, fingers tight enough to bruise.
"Say something," he growls, his voice harsh and grating in his own ears and it doesn't really sound like him. "Fucking say something, don't just pretend it's not there."
Mark tries not to pull away, but Roger tightens his grip even more, and Mark's eyes widen. Roger's never been this rough with him, and never outside of sex, and it's obvious Mark doesn't quite know what to make of it. Roger doesn't either. "Roger, I don't know what the hell you want me to say."
"Care! I want you to care." He steps forward, and Mark takes a step back, as much as he can with Roger still holding his arm. He looks like he's scared, like he doesn't recognize Roger, but then, Roger doesn't quite recognize himself. "I want you to act like we're more than strangers who live together and sometimes sleep together."
Mark doesn't answer, just watches him with his mouth slightly open, and it's the most uncertain Roger's ever seen him look. After a moment, it becomes obvious Mark's not going to say anything, and so Roger shoves him away roughly. Mark stumbles into the wall; Roger stalks past him, toward the door, and leaves without a word. Mark still doesn't say anything to stop him.
*
Roger doesn't mean to end up at April's apartment. It's hard to end up in a place that far from home on accident, but the subway ride passes in a mechanical daze he travels more out of habit than conscious thought, gets out a block from April's building, walks in and is ignored by the security guard, who recognizes him. He stops at April's door, barely remembering how he got here, to the third floor, to this part of town at all... but here he is, standing in the hall, staring at her closed door. He should knock, but she'd left so suddenly the last time he saw her, at his last gig, and she hasn't picked up the phone since then, like she's refusing to speak to him. God, if he's lost April like he's lost Mark... Well, no. He never lost Mark, because he never had him to start with. But if he knocks and April turns him away...
He takes a few steps back until his back hits the wall, his eyes still locked on the door. As soon as he reaches the wall, his legs buckle under him, all the strength going out of them. Abruptly he is sitting on the floor, not really sure how he got there, and not particularly caring. He could knock. Maybe should. Instead he's just sitting here, across from April's door, not even sure if she's home or not...
His eyes slide closed almost of their own accord, he leans his head back against the wall, lets out a slow breath. He's fine sitting here. He's... safe here. He doesn't have to worry about Mark and the fact that he doesn't give a shit about him, he doesn't have to face April, he can just sit here and... be. That's all he wants for now. Not having to think, for just a little while.
A little while turns out to be longer than he'd expected. He hears a door open, a footstep, and considers opening his eyes, but they're so heavy, he's so tired it doesn't seem worth the effort, and if he just sits here with his eyes closed there's a chance whoever it is will just walk by him and ignore him, let him be. He just wants to sit here a little while longer, until he gets up the courage to knock on April's door. That's not too much to ask, is it?
"Roger?"
Roger opens his eyes and sees April standing in the doorway directly across the hall, staring at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He used to think they were the second most beautiful eyes in the city, after Mark's. Now, he can't think of anything more lovely. He stares at her, blue eyes and a red dress that clings to her hips and breasts and every curve, and finds he can barely breathe.
"Hey, baby," he whispers in a rough, ragged voice that still doesn't really sound like it belongs to him. "Can I come in?"
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Chapter: 12/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April
Word Count: 1303
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Everyone's scared of something, everyone cares just a little too much, and no one wants to face it.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #42.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
<< Previous Chapter
April stares at the phone, holding her breath as it rings, and not even realizing that she had been until finally it stops ringing and she lets out the breath. The machine beeps once, and Roger's voice comes on the answering machine, with what sounds like a muttered curse and then a soft, "Okay, April, please pick up the phone. I know you're there... You've got nowhere else to be right now. Just... please, baby, talk to me? You could at least let me know what I did, because you just disappeared the other night and you haven't called me since and I'm starting to get a little worried... Just call me back, okay? I- Bye."
She shivers a little as she hears the click of him hanging up the phone, and with a sigh drops her head to her knees, curling into a tighter ball on the couch and choking back tears by sheer force of will. He would have to sound so sweet and concerned, wouldn't he? So dejected, so it makes her want to hug him and smooth his hair from his face and assure him he's done nothing wrong... Except lie to her, except not tell her about his goddamn boyfriend - and how long has he been keeping that a secret? - except be too damn sweet and innocent to be really angry with, even now.
She runs her fingers over his guitar pick, smooth plastic underneath her fingertips, and draws a slow breath. She can't avoid him forever. The red beeping light on her answering machine is proof enough of that. But she can avoid him for a few days longer, until she can figure out what the hell she's doing. Until she can get her head and her heart under control, if that's ever going to happen when it comes to Roger. She has her doubts.
*
Roger hisses as he slides the needle into his forearm, into the vividly blue vein all too visible on his pale skin, despite the collection of track marks and scars there in the crook of his arm. No matter how many times he does this, it still hurts - he'd used to think it might go away after a while. Now he's merely resigned himself to it, and gotten used to waiting for the rush to overtake the pain.
He's barely slid the needle out of his arm when the bedroom door swings open. Roger looks up sharply and there's Mark in the doorway, frozen, one hand on the knob - and Roger is sitting cross-legged on the bed with a tourniquet around his bicep and a used syringe in his hand. Their eyes lock, and they're silent for long moments, Roger's heart in his throat. It's not that Mark doesn't know - he has to, by now - but he's never been forced to know before. It's different.
Mark takes a step back, murmurs a barely audible "Sorry," and starts to back out of the room, starts to close the door. Maybe it's the smack or maybe it's something else, but Roger is suddenly angry, furious, and in an instant he drops the needle, lunges off the bed, and crosses the room with a couple steps. He wrenches the door out of Mark's hand, and Mark jumps as the door slams back against the wall with a crash, or maybe the jumping is because Roger's grabbed his arm, fingers tight enough to bruise.
"Say something," he growls, his voice harsh and grating in his own ears and it doesn't really sound like him. "Fucking say something, don't just pretend it's not there."
Mark tries not to pull away, but Roger tightens his grip even more, and Mark's eyes widen. Roger's never been this rough with him, and never outside of sex, and it's obvious Mark doesn't quite know what to make of it. Roger doesn't either. "Roger, I don't know what the hell you want me to say."
"Care! I want you to care." He steps forward, and Mark takes a step back, as much as he can with Roger still holding his arm. He looks like he's scared, like he doesn't recognize Roger, but then, Roger doesn't quite recognize himself. "I want you to act like we're more than strangers who live together and sometimes sleep together."
Mark doesn't answer, just watches him with his mouth slightly open, and it's the most uncertain Roger's ever seen him look. After a moment, it becomes obvious Mark's not going to say anything, and so Roger shoves him away roughly. Mark stumbles into the wall; Roger stalks past him, toward the door, and leaves without a word. Mark still doesn't say anything to stop him.
*
Roger doesn't mean to end up at April's apartment. It's hard to end up in a place that far from home on accident, but the subway ride passes in a mechanical daze he travels more out of habit than conscious thought, gets out a block from April's building, walks in and is ignored by the security guard, who recognizes him. He stops at April's door, barely remembering how he got here, to the third floor, to this part of town at all... but here he is, standing in the hall, staring at her closed door. He should knock, but she'd left so suddenly the last time he saw her, at his last gig, and she hasn't picked up the phone since then, like she's refusing to speak to him. God, if he's lost April like he's lost Mark... Well, no. He never lost Mark, because he never had him to start with. But if he knocks and April turns him away...
He takes a few steps back until his back hits the wall, his eyes still locked on the door. As soon as he reaches the wall, his legs buckle under him, all the strength going out of them. Abruptly he is sitting on the floor, not really sure how he got there, and not particularly caring. He could knock. Maybe should. Instead he's just sitting here, across from April's door, not even sure if she's home or not...
His eyes slide closed almost of their own accord, he leans his head back against the wall, lets out a slow breath. He's fine sitting here. He's... safe here. He doesn't have to worry about Mark and the fact that he doesn't give a shit about him, he doesn't have to face April, he can just sit here and... be. That's all he wants for now. Not having to think, for just a little while.
A little while turns out to be longer than he'd expected. He hears a door open, a footstep, and considers opening his eyes, but they're so heavy, he's so tired it doesn't seem worth the effort, and if he just sits here with his eyes closed there's a chance whoever it is will just walk by him and ignore him, let him be. He just wants to sit here a little while longer, until he gets up the courage to knock on April's door. That's not too much to ask, is it?
"Roger?"
Roger opens his eyes and sees April standing in the doorway directly across the hall, staring at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He used to think they were the second most beautiful eyes in the city, after Mark's. Now, he can't think of anything more lovely. He stares at her, blue eyes and a red dress that clings to her hips and breasts and every curve, and finds he can barely breathe.
"Hey, baby," he whispers in a rough, ragged voice that still doesn't really sound like it belongs to him. "Can I come in?"
Next Chapter >>