"Never Is A Promise Kept"

[emilystarr1]

Title: "Never Is A Promise Kept"
Word Count: 4,038
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: Ahem. Mark/Roger
Genre: Romance/Wee bit of angst
Summary: Roger wants to try to cross that barrier ... but he knows better. Post-RENT.
Warnings: Wee bit of angst. Because it's Roger. :P
Disclaimer: I don't own RENT, or the characters.

Notes: I wrote this for the prompt to write a fic inspired by Fiona Apple's song "Never Is A Promise". But I was too late to post it here - however, _chibidragon_ has given me permission to post it now ... it was done by that Monday night, though, so perhaps it still counts? ^^ Thanks for letting me post it. :) (Heh. And if I misunderstood, let me know and I'll take it down ASAP. :P) Crossposted to fuckingartists.



Fingers scratching against the strings of the guitar - it would be nice if they were flying, or even just dancing, but they’re not - coaxing out little melodic sounds that strike Roger as almost familiar. Almost right. But they’re not, the notes are off just enough to make it all wrong; snow in the summertime.

It’s too easy to look up and watch Mark reading, so he keeps his head down and his fingers on the strings. He’s going to finish this - his lips quirk wryly - he’s going to finish this tonight if he dies trying. It doesn’t matter that it’s after midnight. He’s not going to look at Mark, he’s not going to stand and go sit out on the balcony, enjoying the light coolness of early fall nighttime, he’s not going to go to bed. And he’s not going to think about Mark’s jacket, the softness of it, how it felt to be -

Roger shakes his head, plays a sour note, can sense Mark looking up curiously. But he doesn’t look up at his friend. His friend that, at this point, he would kill for. It’s only recently he’s realized this, so it’s not like he’s ever said it to Mark. Roger hopes, really, that Mark doesn’t have one little iota of an inkling of the things that have been going on in Roger’s mind lately.

He doesn’t want Mark to know - but for some reason he wants Mark to feel it, a little. Transmit some of this, let Mark feel the importance and safety that Roger wants to give him. So he’s writing a song. No words - it’s the only way Roger has ever really felt comfortable communicating, music that is easy and mathematical, predictable and safe. Music can give you the right feelings without ever making you suspect the true reasons behind them. It gives just enough.

Music is the only way Roger can see that these kinds of things, these deep unspeakable emotions, can ever really be transferred for someone else to feel. Anything else can be misunderstood, misinterpreted. Anything else seems like it could never be enough.

Roger shakes his head, his fingers slipping into playing a song so familiar the notes are grooved into the pattern of his brain, so familiar he’s not even aware he’s playing them. He’s such a coward. He looks up briefly, sneaking a quick glance at Mark. He doesn’t know how he does it. They’ve shared absolutely everything in their lives for as long as Roger can remember - and that includes every loss. He doesn’t know how Mark has kept it together like he has.

Roger’s fingers slip again. He feels terrified and incapable of everything in his life. The thought of losing any one else, of life changing, even of growing older - it all scares him. He looks up again, watches as Mark’s brow furrows in concentration over the book he’s reading. Roger smiles. Mark is strong, and beautiful, and somehow he’s managed to survive in a way Roger can never imagine doing. So much of the time Roger feels the edge of a crumbling cliff, that without the reaching hands of Mimi and Mark he’d never make it through everything they’ve shared. They’ve shared everything ….

Roger swallows. Almost everything.

“It’s just between friends, right?” Mimi had whispered that night. For so long, ever since they’d both just looked at each other and known the fighting was too much, that neither of them wanted to waste this time Angel had given her with all this stupid pettiness, they had managed to keep sex out of it. There had been no coolness - Mimi wouldn’t let there be any coolness or strangeness between them.

But one night Roger had woken up to her climbing into his bed, the first night she climbed into his bed as a friend instead of a lover. She’d had tears streaking down her face, and somehow they had still ended up in each other’s arms, somehow they woke up naked next to each other and somehow they had still stayed only friends. Even when she started seeing someone else and she only occasionally came to him for a night of now-chaste sleeping in his arms.

But Roger knows, with a frustrated kind of certainty, that these things are not just between friends - if they were -

If they were he would look up at Mark right now, catch his glance before dropping his guitar to walk over there and yank Mark up off the couch and into his body, and hold onto him for dear life.

Roger slips out of the familiar and plays a quick progression, a small crescendo that almost gets it. He would never let him go.

It’s between death, it’s between illness and insecurity and fear. And Mark has it a little - especially if he loves Roger, if he feels this way at all - but he can never quite know, and Roger doesn’t want him to know. Smiling, Roger looks to the ceiling. He would kill to keep Mark from ever knowing.

And it does kill, a little, keeping this from him, going through the routines of their days and nights and never saying it, never giving in to this impulse to touch or speak. It’s easier when he’s writing or playing with the band or alone in the loft while Mark is at work or locked in his room to write.

But times like this - being silent together -

Roger knows he’s wasting his time. But even as it builds to almost being unbearable, at times, he knows it’s worth it. For Mark to never know.

“Roger?”

His head jerks up, startled, looking at Mark with wide eyes. “Yeah?”

That little furrow of concentration is for him now. “You okay?”

Roger pauses, his hand tightening around the neck of the guitar. “Yeah. Why?”

Mark smiles, bright. Roger thinks he looks like a flame, with his light hair and that smile. “You were staring at me.”

He can feel himself blushing and can only hope that Mark doesn’t see it. “…I was?”

Mark chuckles, shaking his head and returning to his book. “I should have known better. You’re always in about fifty other worlds when you’re writing.”

Roger can pinpoint when it happened, to the second. Just like that moment when he saw April at the bar at one of his first gigs, just like the moment Mimi first surprised him with her lips on his. He gets sick like anyone else - he gets annoying colds and fevers and he’s miserable and it’s normal.

But that time a few months ago - he’d been lying in the dark, alone and a little scared. The very aloneness of it, of the room and not really being with Mimi anymore and the fever … it made him worry. Just a little - just enough to make his chest tight.

And as if Mark knew, that very moment, he softly opened Roger’s door and walked in quietly, a gray dishtowel dripping in his hands. He leaned over the bed, and Roger looked up at him, and he could see the concern in Mark’s eyes. Could see that Mark’s chest was a little tight, too.

“Do you have a fever?” His voice was low, quiet, soothing to the aching head. Roger looked at him, just looked, and nodded slightly, careful of the pain pounding at the sides of his face. And Mark leaned over and pressed that cloth to Roger’s forehead, gently patting, almost petting, and the cloth smelled funny, like it had been wet for far too long, but it was cool and Mark’s hand, the very end of his palm that brushed against the side of Roger’s eye -

It was a fevered knowledge, but one that Roger never questioned afterwards. He needed those nights with Mimi even more then, because he couldn’t have, in the darkness of his room, his arms wrapped around who he really wanted.

Of course, there was no way to know. Roger couldn’t be sure. But he had a good idea that Mark felt the same.

He had until the girl came along. The redhead that, actually, reminds Roger a little of April, makes him understand, when he sees it, why Mark seemed so nervous about introducing her to Roger. He can feel it building in his chest, feels it when he catches Mark holding her on the couch. Roger purposefully tries to not remember her name, but there is no way he could forget. He just tries to keep it out of his mind. Mark is laughing a little more and Roger locks himself in his room a little more often. And plays his guitar a lot less.

He’s not sure if Mark has noticed any of this or not.

Suddenly Roger’s hand falls from the guitar and he quietly places it on the table beside him. Swallowing, he runs his palms over his thighs, the stiff denim of his jeans. Roger knows better than this. He wants Mark to be with this girl - wants him to laugh more. He’s not that stupid, to say anything to Mark.

He looks up. “Mark? Do you ever think about Angel?”

His voice rings out into the silence that had fallen in the loft like a shot, and Mark looks at him like he’s crazy. Roger doesn’t blame him. It’s not as if he doesn’t know the answer already. Roger doesn’t even know himself why he asked the question.

“Of course I do,” Mark answers, not bothering to hide his surprise or confusion. “Why? Roger - ”

Roger swallows again. “Do … do you think Collins ever … do think he ever wishes he never met her?”

Mark barks a sharp, incredulous laugh. It’s another question Roger knows the answer to, and he licks his lips nervously, still not completely sure why he’s asking Mark these terrible things. Mark, who looks as if, if it weren’t for the sensitive history, he’d like to ask Roger if he was high right now.

Mark speaks slowly, eyes cast to the window overlooking the fire escape. “I can’t imagine that he would.”

They fall into silence again for a moment, and when Mark looks like he’s about to return to his book Roger blurts out another question against his own will. “Do you want Collins to find someone else?”

“Of course,” Mark answers, eyebrows raised, the hand holding his book falling back down to his side, and Roger has to fight down this sickening sense of disappointment that he’s completely ashamed of.

“You do?”

Roger could kick himself for saying it, can’t believe he doesn’t just shut up already. Mark looks at him sharply, then pauses. Roger can see his face gradually soften.

“You know,” Mark says, looking at his lap in concentration, “Selfish as it is, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him to. I - ” Mark sighs, closing his eyes before looking up again and continuing. “There’s part of me that wants to believe that after having something that special, someone as special as Angel - that there’s no going back. I know Collins would never forget her, or stop loving her,” he hurries to add, misinterpreting the look that must have passed over Roger’s face. “I just - love like that …” Mark laughs, a tiny little laugh that sounds choked. “I guess I just want to believe that love like that would see you through for the rest of your life.”

He stares at Roger a moment, meeting his eyes, then looks down and shrugs.

Roger knows better than this.

But maybe music isn’t the only way a person can transfer feelings.

Roger picks up his guitar again, but he doesn’t put his fingers on the strings, just holds it loosely in his lap.

“She’s nice.”

Roger can tell from the intent look on his face that Mark hasn’t stopped looking at him. “Angel?”

Roger wonders if Mark is asking questions he already knows the answer to himself. “No.” Roger can’t bring himself to say the name. Even if he wants Mark to be with her. “… Katherine.”

Mark leans back into the couch, eyes never leaving Roger. When he leans back, the yellow light of the lamp beside him glances off of his glasses. Roger doesn’t know if it’s his imagination that makes him think that it lights up Mark’s eyes, too.

“Yeah. Kat’s great.”

Roger nods. He looks up and grins, forces a light tone, sounds like he’s joking. “You gonna marry her?”

Mark laughs right out. “Roger. We’ve only been dating for, what, a week?”

It’s an exaggeration, but Roger gets the point. Still -

“Sure,” Roger says, still in that joking tone, but looking at the guitar in his lap. He can’t bear to look up and catch Mark’s reaction. “I know you. You’re ass backwards for this chick. Soon you’ll be married and she’ll be popping out kids like clockwork.” Roger looks up quickly, not really looking at Mark, and laughs. “I should be jealous - you leaving me for her.”

Roger knows he’s pulled it off successfully, the light teasing tone. There’s a painful silence that seems to last too long, and Roger still can’t look up. He knows he can’t be any more obvious - he can’t bring this past joking. Suddenly Mark’s voice rings clearly through the loft again, making Roger wonder if he saw more than he should have.

“I’m never leaving this loft,” he says casually, and Roger is finally able to look up after forcing a swallow down his throat, seeing Mark lifting his book to his face again.

“Never say never.”

Mark smiles at him, cocking an eyebrow and again letting the book fall. “Never.” He chuckles. “Asshole.”

Suddenly Roger can’t stand it. Everything that’s been building in him since catching that cold from Mimi is rising to the surface. Everything he’s never been able to say or even think and everything they’ve never said. Before he can think he’s striding purposefully towards Mark and grabbing his shoulders, shaking him gently.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Roger says, surprised that his voice isn’t harsh and rough but gentle and calm. Mark’s eyes widen a little, looking impossibly big behind his glasses. The book clatters to the floor, and they both ignore it.

“I’m not.”

Roger shakes him again, still gentle, fingers curling around the softness of Mark’s shirt and shoulders. He looks confused, his skin pale and flawless and his mouth dropped open slightly in his surprise. Roger wants to lean forward, press his lips to that mouth, so he shakes Mark again in the hopes it will shake him out of this. “You are! You can’t keep this up - I know you can’t. And - and I won’t let you.”

And Roger can see the change come over Mark’s face; sees the realization dawn that this is not some light teasing about moving in with a girl. Mark’s eyes look away, uncertainty stealing over every feature. “Roger?”

Roger can feel himself collapsing from the inside. His organs are melting and melding and soon he’ll be nothing but a misshapen accordion of bone and gore. He’ll be nothing, and somehow - somehow that’s better than anything else that he can imagine coming from this. He feels his control slipping, his breath quickening, and his arms move of their own volition, pulling Mark up, pulling him close and wrapping tightly around his body. Maybe if they both lose their breath they’ll be on more equal footing and all this won’t seem so bad.

Mark obviously has enough breath to speak. “Roger? … I … I have no plans to leave, you know that, right? I’m not going anywhere.”

Roger closes his eyes, takes a shuddery little breath. “I’m being stupid. But … you need to, I know that.” He breathes again. “We both do.”

Mark finally seems to be regaining his footing, raising his arms to wrap around Roger, who has to fight to not tighten his grip. He can’t. He doesn’t want to.

Mark makes a breathless little sound that could be a laugh. “At least you admit you’re being stupid.” He pulls away, as much as he can, and tries to look in Roger’s face, but Roger turns it away. “Come on, Roger. What’s going on?”

Roger doesn’t answer, and Mark sighs. Roger can feel Mark’s chin drop to rest on his shoulder, swears he can see Mark’s eyes darting around the loft as he tries to think. But Roger has been wanting this and denying it for too long, and he knows that this moment will be over all too soon. He just keeps holding on.

After a few moments of silence, Mark tightens the embrace, one hand resting in the small of Roger’s back. “Roger … I meant what I said. I’m never leaving this loft.” His voice is quiet, but Roger is so close he doesn’t need to strain to hear. It almost feels as if Mark’s voice is in his own chest. “I’m staying.”

Roger shakes his head violently, tries to pull away, but now it’s Mark holding on. “No. I don’t want you to.”

There’s another pause, more of the absence of sound that is Mark thinking. “Well, that’s too bad,” he says finally. Then he stops again, and Roger realizes he can feel him breathe. His chest and stomach rise, expand. Kind of quickly, it seems. “…How can I,” Mark continues after a while, almost under his voice, as if he’s talking to himself. “How can I not, when it means … when I know - how easy it could be - ”

He stops, but Roger can’t let him stop now. Even if his brain is screaming at him to do just that. “What?”

There’s another loaded pause, a moment when Roger can hear the light sound of traffic from far away.

“To lose you,” Mark finally finishes, simply and quietly. Roger’s arms loosen, and Mark lets go, starting to turn away.

Roger doesn’t often let himself dream of a life without this shadow hovering menacingly over him. The waking up is too hard. But right now he dreams of it, thinks of how things could be if life were simple, instead of the godforsaken mess it is. The best thing to do right now - for both of them - would be to turn around and go to his room. Let Mark go, and tomorrow he could work on another song, and by the next night everything could be the same again.

The words burst out of him beyond his control; his traitor of a hand falls onto Mark’s arm. “I don’t want you to be tied down to me. I want you to leave. I want you to be with her. I want you happy, I don’t want you to - ”

Mark turns back, the look that’s always able to shut Roger up on his face. “I’d rather be tied to you than lose you, you fucking idiot,” he says roughly, looking disgusted, looking as if he’s about to tear himself out from under the hand grasping his arm.

It’s then that Roger kisses him.

He pulls Mark against him quickly, makes sure his arms are around him so he can’t run away, and their bodies crash together a split second before their lips do. Roger doesn’t know what’s come over him - he knows better than this, this isn’t what he wanted, he can’t let this happen -

He blames the way Mark’s eyes were lit by the lamp earlier. His bright smile. The way his lips feel against his …

It’s all Mark’s fault, really.

After what seems like only a split second, much too fast, there wasn’t nearly enough time in that kiss, at all, Mark is pulling away. Roger’s stomach drops before he sees the smile on Mark’s face.

“And that was?” He asks, eyes dancing, and Roger wants to punch him. Doesn’t he have any idea how hard all of this has been on him?

“It was a kiss,” Roger answers resentfully, looking away. Mark laughs, and Roger feels that urge to lash out with a fist again.

“Well,” Mark says, and Roger looks down in surprise when he realizes that Mark is taking his hand and pulling him out of the room. “Well, at least now I know why you were acting like such an idiot.” He voice takes on a mocking note. “Oh, gee, Mark, I wasn’t staring at you. What are you talking about?”

Roger stops walking. He’s astounded. This cannot be happening.

“…What?”

Mark stops with him, and his face gets serious again. “You could have just told me, you know.”

Roger’s searching his face, trying to get a sense of what all this means - what Mark is meaning. “I - I couldn’t - I didn’t want to be - and - and Kat - ”

Mark shakes his head impatiently. “Roger. She’s nice. She’s great. We’ve been dating a week.”

“But - ”

And suddenly Mark has shut him up again, because now it’s Mark lunging forward and kissing him firmly, putting his arms around him, both a warm reassuring pressure and Roger thinks he doesn’t deserve this.

Mark pulls away again, and even through his surprised haze Roger can see that his eyes are glowing again. There’s no lamp this time, though.

“Look,” Mark says. “It’s late. Do you …” For the first time Mark seems to stumble, seems to be feeling a little of this utter confusion and uncertainty that’s currently taking Roger over. “You can sleep in my room, if you want.”

Roger looks at Mark, and Mark looks at him unflinchingly, but he can see a little fear in Mark’s eyes. Roger can feel his face heating up slightly.

“That would be … nice,” he mumbles, his body suddenly flooded with heat and a lightness in his chest that hasn’t been there for a long time. He lets himself be led into Mark’s room, following him until they reach the doorway, Mark dropping his hand as he walks in.

They’re both in sweats, clothes comfortable enough to sleep in, and Roger doesn’t know if he’s glad for this or not. Mark leans over in front of him, pulling back the covers, and Roger smirks for what is probably the millionth time to think that Mark actually covers his bed after sleeping in it. Mark turns and catches his look, and grins.

“Come on,” he says, giving Roger a look - a look that Roger can’t really describe. It’s enough to make Roger reach out for Mark though, taking his hand and pulling him closer, leaning in to kiss him again, making Roger marvel again that this is happening even as he touches his tongue to Mark’s lips to deepen the kiss. He fights off the small disquieting sense that he shouldn’t be doing this. Mark’s a big boy and can make his own choices.

And Roger feels for the first time in quite a while that he isn’t wasting time.

This time Roger is the one to pull back, and he’s smiling as Mark climbs into bed and looks back to watch Roger follow him. They lay in silence for a while, each on their own side. Roger can feel himself starting to drift off when he remembers he never finished his song. So he slides over and tentatively curls himself around Mark.

After waiting another long moment and swallowing a few times, Roger starts to ask another question. “This - are you sure this is - ”

“I told you,” Mark interrupts sleepily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Roger swallows dryly again. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this still, but he has to or he’ll never sleep. “But - shouldn’t you call - ”

Mark snorts. “A week, Roger. One week. Neither one of us thought anything was serious yet. Quit it.”

Two weeks, Roger wants to correct him, but decides not to. He burrows into the blankets, closer to Mark, and can hear the other man make a contented, sleepy sound. Roger’s face lightens, clears, and his worry starts to dissipate, replaced by an almost frightening sense of happiness. He pulls Mark a little closer, holding him as tight as he can without making either of them uncomfortable.

And he’s never letting him go. Never.