RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Two)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 2/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1995
Rating: R
Summary: Roger's young, but he's not stupid, and Mark still can't admit this might actually be something that matters.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #7.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Roger or Mark. I also don't own any food, so if there's any of that you want to share...
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Roger doesn't say anything about it when they get home. Well, when he gets home. He vanished shortly after the show, and when Mark couldn't find him, he walked home alone. Roger comes in an hour or two later, his head bowed like he's trying not to look at Mark, pale blond hair shielding his eyes, mostly. It's a little eerie, how quiet he is, because Roger's never like this around Mark, there's always a smile and a kiss. This time he simply sets his guitar down just inside the door, shrugs off his leather jacket, and heads directly to their room. Mark watches him go for a second before getting up to follow.
He finds Roger lying on his own bed, for the first time in months. He hasn't even bothered to shed his clothes, though it's been warm enough lately they generally don't wear anything to bed at all. Mark frowns a little when he sees Roger hasn't even bothered to kick off his boots, and is just lying there, face down in his pillow, the very picture of teenage despondency. He looks so terribly young like that, Mark can't decide whether he's more worried or exasperated by it.
Mark walks over and sets his hand on Roger's back - he doesn't move. "Roger," Mark says softly. "What's going on?" Roger mumbles something indistinct and burrowed a little deeper into the blankets and pillows. Mark sighs, and debates just giving up, but... this is probably his fault. He ought to fix it somehow. He doesn't want to sit here and baby Roger, though. He wants to snap at him that he wasn't even doing anything, just talking, but he knows that won't make the situation any better.
Instead, he leans down and brushes his lips over the back of Roger's neck, where there's the soft, short hair right there at the nape of his neck, and is rewarded by a slight shiver from Roger. "Isn't it a little early for bed?" he asks, and Roger just shrugs stubbornly without looking up.
At this point Mark would feel entirely justified giving up, but he decides to give it one more try. He kisses Roger's neck again, nuzzling his face against his hair, and runs his fingers down Roger's back. "You should at least change, if you're going to sleep now."
He sits down on the bed, one leg curled underneath him, and lightly tugs Roger up. This time Roger complies, twisting around and sitting up, but keeping his back to Mark. When he starts to take off his shirt, though, Mark slides a little closer to him on the bed and slips his hands underneath the shirt, palms against Roger's sides. Roger flinches, twisting a bit like he means to pull away, but he doesn't quite get that far. Mark's hands move up, pulling Roger's shirt with them, and after a moment Roger simply complies and lifts his arms so that Mark can remove the shirt, though he's still not said a word.
Mark lets the shirt fall to the side of the bed and lays his hands flat against Roger's back. This time Roger doesn't flinch, but Mark feels, or maybe imagines that he feels, a slight tension as his hands make contact with Roger's bare skin, like there's something uncomfortable and a little painful in the touch, heat lightning passing from his palms into Roger. Slowly, he runs his hands up his back on either side of his spine, keeping his hands flat against him, spanning out over the curves of his shoulder blades when he reaches them. He pauses to massage Roger's shoulders with his thumbs, feeling a tense knot of muscle there, just as he'd expected. Roger's silent for a moment, and then a a soft noise escapes his throat, half-stifled, soft and low and it's enough to send a shiver up Mark's spine as Roger leans back a little, pressing into Mark's hands.
His hands slide back down after a minute, fingertips ghosting over Roger's ribs so that he shudders a little, and Mark smiles faintly. He grips Roger's waist lightly and kisses his back, just above the angle where his shoulder blade sticks out. "You might want to take off your boots."
It's a moment before Roger responds, with a soft, "Hmm?"
Mark laughs softly. "Your boots, Roger." He pulls back a little so that Roger can pull them off. They thunk onto the floor, one after another. Mark takes the opportunity to lean over on the bed to the small bedside table that's between his bed and Roger's, pulling out the bottle of lube they keep in the drawer there; he sets it on the bed, beside his leg, for the moment, in easy reach. Once the boots are off, Mark reaches out to lightly tug on the hem of Roger's pants and, taking the hint, Roger quickly pulls them off and kicks them into the small heap of clothes at the side of the bed. Before he can turn around, Mark grips his waist again and leans forward, lips tracing slowly up Roger's spine once more.
"Hey, Roger?" Mark asks, his mouth on the very top of the spine, at that place it projects just a little before meeting the neck, breath barely moving the tiny hairs there.
Roger drops his head a little, presumably so that Mark can get at his neck a little better. Mark obliges by shifting up onto his knees, his mouth moving up to Roger's neck. "Yeah?" Roger's response is soft, a little hesitant, and a little strained. He's not the best at carrying on conversations when distracted.
Mark bites the scruff of his neck and there's another of those soft noises from Roger, not quite a whimper, not quite a moan. Mark's fingertips trace over the small of his back, down to the place where his spine curves in just a little and the slight ridge of his tailbone. "You know I wasn't doing anything,right? At the club?"
There's no immediate answer. Mark doesn't like that silence. Finally, Roger says in a slightly halting voice, "That girl was all over you. Her hand was..." He trails off and starts to turn to look at Mark. Mark doesn't let him turn all the way, just wraps an arm around him snugly and catches Roger's mouth with his. Roger quickly gives up trying to argue.
It's not until later that Mark remembers seeing the dark line on Roger's arm, just inside the curve of his elbow, and wonders about it, but he doesn't own Roger, and decides it's not his place to ask.
*
Roger steals a glance at Mark across the room, just out of the corner of his eye. He can look at Mark straight on some of the time, when they're joking around, bullshitting to pass the time, when Mark's got that faintly mocking smile that assures him nothing that passes between them need be taken seriously. But at moments like this, when everything's quiet and that soft, unspoken something between them seems to grow and fill the room, Roger's almost afraid to look straight at Mark - it's too much like staring at the sun, he's afraid it will leave some part of him burned, scorched and hollowed out. He's afraid Mark will catch him looking, and give him one of those profoundly unsettled looks, refuse to really meet his eye.
Mark's lounging on the couch and reading, flat on his back and twisted into an odd position so that his head's propped up against the arm of the couch and his feet are on the back of the couch. It looks like it ought to be uncomfortable, but he seems perfectly content like that, and entirely unaware of Roger looking at him. Roger wants to set down his guitar, go over and lie down next to Mark, rest his head on Mark's stomach and just stay there, for no other reason than to be close to him. Instead, he looks back down at his guitar and plays a few chords, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn't disturb Mark's reading. Mark doesn't take much notice of him anyway. Roger hadn't expected him to.
He plays for a few minutes, but his mind isn't on the music. It keeps circling relentlessly around Mark, his eyes and smile and the sincerity of either, the girl in the club that night and Mark's promises it was only talk, the sex that night and Mark's refusal to acknowledge he'd done anything to hurt him. Mark's refusal to care. Roger is young, but he's not stupid, and it hasn't escaped his notice that Mark's not once said the word "love", even after so long.
"You think I'm really stupid, don't you?" he mutters bitterly under his breath, still staring at his guitar. Mark glances up.
"Huh?"
Roger shakes his head shortly, without looking up. "Nothing. Never mind."
*
Much as Mark tries not to care too much, he's not blind. As careful as Roger is to hide some things, Mark still sees. Roger never comes home when he's high, never lets Mark come with him anymore when he's with his band after shows, an though he doesn't often wear long-sleeved shirts to cover his arms, he tries to hold them so Mark won't notice, when he remembers to do so, or he keeps his jacket on even when it's unnecessary. But he can't cover and avoid all the time, an Mark can't help but notice that the track marks are accumulating on Roger's arms, one slender, dark line after another, like an ugly bruise or a blood blister, only seen in the dark.
Roger's hand is pressed to Mark's bare chest, spread out flat like he's trying to find his heartbeat, fingers spanning over the skin. For some reason, Mark's more focused on the hand than he is on Roger's kiss, and after a moment he breaks the kiss and grips Roger's wrist lightly, turning his hand over and tracing the lines of his palm with a thumb. It always surprises him, how big Roger's hands are, broad and a little rough. It seems they ought to be more slender, delicate, and Mark isn't sure why he thinks that, but it catches him by surprise every time.
Mark dips his head to place a kiss in the center of his palm, along the curve of one of the more prominent lines of his hand, while Roger watches him, bemused. There's a faint smile up at Roger, and Mark kisses his wrist, right at the pulse point where several blue veins intersect underneath the white skin. He can feel Roger's pulse under his lips, surprisingly fast. Still a nervous kid, whatever else he tries to pretend.
Roger lets him for a moment, and then yanks his arm away suddenly, like Mark's touch burns him, and he shifts his arm a little, not quite putting it behind his back, but far enough back that Mark can't easily grab it, and twisted so he can't see the track marks. Like Mark didn't know they were there...
"Roger," he sighs, not sure what else to say. Roger doesn't let him get any further anyway, but leans forward and kisses him, doubtless to cut off further conversation. Mark notes wryly that Roger learned that trick from him, and with a frustrated growl he pushes Roger back on the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him a little too hard while he grabs Roger's hands, pins him by the wrists with his arms above his head. The track marks are clearly visible that way, but Roger seems to have forgotten about them now, with Mark's tongue tracing over his nipple, light and teasing. Mark figures that if he keeps this up, if he keeps his mind on this, he'll forget about the marks too.
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Chapter: 2/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1995
Rating: R
Summary: Roger's young, but he's not stupid, and Mark still can't admit this might actually be something that matters.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #7.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Roger or Mark. I also don't own any food, so if there's any of that you want to share...
<< Previous Chapter
Roger doesn't say anything about it when they get home. Well, when he gets home. He vanished shortly after the show, and when Mark couldn't find him, he walked home alone. Roger comes in an hour or two later, his head bowed like he's trying not to look at Mark, pale blond hair shielding his eyes, mostly. It's a little eerie, how quiet he is, because Roger's never like this around Mark, there's always a smile and a kiss. This time he simply sets his guitar down just inside the door, shrugs off his leather jacket, and heads directly to their room. Mark watches him go for a second before getting up to follow.
He finds Roger lying on his own bed, for the first time in months. He hasn't even bothered to shed his clothes, though it's been warm enough lately they generally don't wear anything to bed at all. Mark frowns a little when he sees Roger hasn't even bothered to kick off his boots, and is just lying there, face down in his pillow, the very picture of teenage despondency. He looks so terribly young like that, Mark can't decide whether he's more worried or exasperated by it.
Mark walks over and sets his hand on Roger's back - he doesn't move. "Roger," Mark says softly. "What's going on?" Roger mumbles something indistinct and burrowed a little deeper into the blankets and pillows. Mark sighs, and debates just giving up, but... this is probably his fault. He ought to fix it somehow. He doesn't want to sit here and baby Roger, though. He wants to snap at him that he wasn't even doing anything, just talking, but he knows that won't make the situation any better.
Instead, he leans down and brushes his lips over the back of Roger's neck, where there's the soft, short hair right there at the nape of his neck, and is rewarded by a slight shiver from Roger. "Isn't it a little early for bed?" he asks, and Roger just shrugs stubbornly without looking up.
At this point Mark would feel entirely justified giving up, but he decides to give it one more try. He kisses Roger's neck again, nuzzling his face against his hair, and runs his fingers down Roger's back. "You should at least change, if you're going to sleep now."
He sits down on the bed, one leg curled underneath him, and lightly tugs Roger up. This time Roger complies, twisting around and sitting up, but keeping his back to Mark. When he starts to take off his shirt, though, Mark slides a little closer to him on the bed and slips his hands underneath the shirt, palms against Roger's sides. Roger flinches, twisting a bit like he means to pull away, but he doesn't quite get that far. Mark's hands move up, pulling Roger's shirt with them, and after a moment Roger simply complies and lifts his arms so that Mark can remove the shirt, though he's still not said a word.
Mark lets the shirt fall to the side of the bed and lays his hands flat against Roger's back. This time Roger doesn't flinch, but Mark feels, or maybe imagines that he feels, a slight tension as his hands make contact with Roger's bare skin, like there's something uncomfortable and a little painful in the touch, heat lightning passing from his palms into Roger. Slowly, he runs his hands up his back on either side of his spine, keeping his hands flat against him, spanning out over the curves of his shoulder blades when he reaches them. He pauses to massage Roger's shoulders with his thumbs, feeling a tense knot of muscle there, just as he'd expected. Roger's silent for a moment, and then a a soft noise escapes his throat, half-stifled, soft and low and it's enough to send a shiver up Mark's spine as Roger leans back a little, pressing into Mark's hands.
His hands slide back down after a minute, fingertips ghosting over Roger's ribs so that he shudders a little, and Mark smiles faintly. He grips Roger's waist lightly and kisses his back, just above the angle where his shoulder blade sticks out. "You might want to take off your boots."
It's a moment before Roger responds, with a soft, "Hmm?"
Mark laughs softly. "Your boots, Roger." He pulls back a little so that Roger can pull them off. They thunk onto the floor, one after another. Mark takes the opportunity to lean over on the bed to the small bedside table that's between his bed and Roger's, pulling out the bottle of lube they keep in the drawer there; he sets it on the bed, beside his leg, for the moment, in easy reach. Once the boots are off, Mark reaches out to lightly tug on the hem of Roger's pants and, taking the hint, Roger quickly pulls them off and kicks them into the small heap of clothes at the side of the bed. Before he can turn around, Mark grips his waist again and leans forward, lips tracing slowly up Roger's spine once more.
"Hey, Roger?" Mark asks, his mouth on the very top of the spine, at that place it projects just a little before meeting the neck, breath barely moving the tiny hairs there.
Roger drops his head a little, presumably so that Mark can get at his neck a little better. Mark obliges by shifting up onto his knees, his mouth moving up to Roger's neck. "Yeah?" Roger's response is soft, a little hesitant, and a little strained. He's not the best at carrying on conversations when distracted.
Mark bites the scruff of his neck and there's another of those soft noises from Roger, not quite a whimper, not quite a moan. Mark's fingertips trace over the small of his back, down to the place where his spine curves in just a little and the slight ridge of his tailbone. "You know I wasn't doing anything,right? At the club?"
There's no immediate answer. Mark doesn't like that silence. Finally, Roger says in a slightly halting voice, "That girl was all over you. Her hand was..." He trails off and starts to turn to look at Mark. Mark doesn't let him turn all the way, just wraps an arm around him snugly and catches Roger's mouth with his. Roger quickly gives up trying to argue.
It's not until later that Mark remembers seeing the dark line on Roger's arm, just inside the curve of his elbow, and wonders about it, but he doesn't own Roger, and decides it's not his place to ask.
*
Roger steals a glance at Mark across the room, just out of the corner of his eye. He can look at Mark straight on some of the time, when they're joking around, bullshitting to pass the time, when Mark's got that faintly mocking smile that assures him nothing that passes between them need be taken seriously. But at moments like this, when everything's quiet and that soft, unspoken something between them seems to grow and fill the room, Roger's almost afraid to look straight at Mark - it's too much like staring at the sun, he's afraid it will leave some part of him burned, scorched and hollowed out. He's afraid Mark will catch him looking, and give him one of those profoundly unsettled looks, refuse to really meet his eye.
Mark's lounging on the couch and reading, flat on his back and twisted into an odd position so that his head's propped up against the arm of the couch and his feet are on the back of the couch. It looks like it ought to be uncomfortable, but he seems perfectly content like that, and entirely unaware of Roger looking at him. Roger wants to set down his guitar, go over and lie down next to Mark, rest his head on Mark's stomach and just stay there, for no other reason than to be close to him. Instead, he looks back down at his guitar and plays a few chords, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn't disturb Mark's reading. Mark doesn't take much notice of him anyway. Roger hadn't expected him to.
He plays for a few minutes, but his mind isn't on the music. It keeps circling relentlessly around Mark, his eyes and smile and the sincerity of either, the girl in the club that night and Mark's promises it was only talk, the sex that night and Mark's refusal to acknowledge he'd done anything to hurt him. Mark's refusal to care. Roger is young, but he's not stupid, and it hasn't escaped his notice that Mark's not once said the word "love", even after so long.
"You think I'm really stupid, don't you?" he mutters bitterly under his breath, still staring at his guitar. Mark glances up.
"Huh?"
Roger shakes his head shortly, without looking up. "Nothing. Never mind."
*
Much as Mark tries not to care too much, he's not blind. As careful as Roger is to hide some things, Mark still sees. Roger never comes home when he's high, never lets Mark come with him anymore when he's with his band after shows, an though he doesn't often wear long-sleeved shirts to cover his arms, he tries to hold them so Mark won't notice, when he remembers to do so, or he keeps his jacket on even when it's unnecessary. But he can't cover and avoid all the time, an Mark can't help but notice that the track marks are accumulating on Roger's arms, one slender, dark line after another, like an ugly bruise or a blood blister, only seen in the dark.
Roger's hand is pressed to Mark's bare chest, spread out flat like he's trying to find his heartbeat, fingers spanning over the skin. For some reason, Mark's more focused on the hand than he is on Roger's kiss, and after a moment he breaks the kiss and grips Roger's wrist lightly, turning his hand over and tracing the lines of his palm with a thumb. It always surprises him, how big Roger's hands are, broad and a little rough. It seems they ought to be more slender, delicate, and Mark isn't sure why he thinks that, but it catches him by surprise every time.
Mark dips his head to place a kiss in the center of his palm, along the curve of one of the more prominent lines of his hand, while Roger watches him, bemused. There's a faint smile up at Roger, and Mark kisses his wrist, right at the pulse point where several blue veins intersect underneath the white skin. He can feel Roger's pulse under his lips, surprisingly fast. Still a nervous kid, whatever else he tries to pretend.
Roger lets him for a moment, and then yanks his arm away suddenly, like Mark's touch burns him, and he shifts his arm a little, not quite putting it behind his back, but far enough back that Mark can't easily grab it, and twisted so he can't see the track marks. Like Mark didn't know they were there...
"Roger," he sighs, not sure what else to say. Roger doesn't let him get any further anyway, but leans forward and kisses him, doubtless to cut off further conversation. Mark notes wryly that Roger learned that trick from him, and with a frustrated growl he pushes Roger back on the bed, straddling his hips and kissing him a little too hard while he grabs Roger's hands, pins him by the wrists with his arms above his head. The track marks are clearly visible that way, but Roger seems to have forgotten about them now, with Mark's tongue tracing over his nipple, light and teasing. Mark figures that if he keeps this up, if he keeps his mind on this, he'll forget about the marks too.
Next Chapter >>