RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Five)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 5/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April, Collins, Benny
Word Count: 1334
Rating: PG
Summary: Mark tries to tell himself it's got nothing to do with Roger, while Roger finds the second-prettiest pair of eyes in the world.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #14.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Neither Benny or Collins says much when Mark told them Roger had said goodbye. Benny nods and says something about how it's too bad, he'd like Roger. Collins is silent on the matter until a couple days later, when Benny's out and it's just him and Mark alone in the loft. It's a simple question, but one that makes Mark look up at him. "So what'd you do?"
Mark stares at him for a second. "What do you mean? I didn't do anything."
"Why did Roger leave, then?"
Mark shrugs. "Hell if I know. I woke up, and he just told me he was going to move in with his friend, some guy from his band..."
"Mark, that boy practically worships the ground you walk on. He wouldn't leave unless you did something to make him." Collins watches him steadily, brown eyes locked with Mark's blue. Mark can find nothing to say to that, and so he's silent until Collins asks again, "What did you do?"
Mark sighs and gets up, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on as he does. He needs to get out of here. Suddenly it's claustrophobic, suddenly he needs to get out in the open air and away from these questions. "Nothing. I told you."
"What didn't you do, then?" Collins asks, his voice still soft.
Mark stops dead and glances back over his shoulder at him for a moment. His face twists into a grimace, and he turns away, shoving the door open and hurrying down the stairs, thinking far more than he would care to about the answer to Collins' question.
*
Roger never used to take the subway. When he and his roommates are more often than not scrambling for money for rent and food, even the small amount of cash for the subway just wasn't worth it. But now, with fall setting in and the weather turning gray and dismal, hell if Roger's going to walk fifty blocks or so in the rain with his guitar in a gig bag. He'll go without dinner tonight if he has to, the subway ride's worth it, just for being dry. He can hardly show up for a show completely drenched.
He flops onto one of the bright orange seats, propping his gig bag up against the seat beside him and keeping one hand on it protectively. Even if he hasn't seen or spoken to Mark for... over a week now, it's a good day. He's got a show tonight, and that always puts him in a good mood. The hurt, that aching spot in the middle of his chest, has faded a bit, and if it's not gone completely... there will be something after the show, some needles, pills, powder, something to numb it enough that it's good as gone. This is, for Roger, a relatively good day since he's left the loft.
He's staring out the windows absently as the train moves, keeping silent track of where they're stopping, though the conductor's announcements go mostly unheard. They go right past him, part of the background noise - "This is Christopher Street. The next stop is 14th Street" repeated four or five times, and then "Please stand clear of the closing doors". Roger's not paying attention to that, and only peripheral attention to the people around him.
He doesn't notice her either, when she first gets on the train, at 28th Street. She sits down in the seat across from his, drops her bag onto the seat beside her, and crosses her legs, one foot bouncing slightly, though whether it's from the movement of the train or from some tiny expression of pent-up energy, it's hard to tell. He doesn't really take notice of her until he realizes she's watching him, and then he looks up, a little startled. She smiles at him when he does look up.
There's no denying that she's pretty. She's wearing a blue shirt that brings out her eyes, short, curly hair dyed a sort of red or strawberry blond, a round face that makes her look sweet and innocent if it weren't for that smile. Roger decides that he likes her smile, that wicked, mischievous light to it. It reminds him of Mark in his best moods, when he's playful and sardonic and brilliant and wonderful...
She gets up, and sits down next to him, on the other side from his guitar. She's still smiling. "Hey."
"Uh... hi." He's a little surprised. Smile or not, he hadn't really expected her to approach him, and now that she has... He didn't want to talk to her. Not really. He's not so great with that anymore, not unless he's drunk or high or both, because otherwise it feels like some sort of obscure betrayal of Mark, not that he can imagine Mark would give a shit either way.
"My name's April."
"Roger. Davis. Hi," he says, and realizes he's already said hi once before. She doesn't seem to notice, or else just brushes over it without much caring. She nods to the guitar case, and her eyes meet his briefly. He'd think they were the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, if only it weren't for the thought of Mark's eyes in the back of his mind.
"Are you a musician?"
"Um... yeah, actually. I'm... I've got a show in a little bit. That's where I'm... going to. Right now." He scratches the back of his neck uncertainly, not entirely sure he's comfortable with the way she's looking at him, but on the other hand he wants her to keep looking at him like that. Want overpowers discomfort, before too long, and he adds a little haltingly, "You could... come if you want."
*
Mark hadn't thought he'd miss Roger as much as he does. He'd thought that once he got past the irritation of missing the sex, missing the comfort of someone beside him at night, he'd be fine. Sure, he likes Roger, he'll even say he's friends with him, but he'd never considered the possibility that maybe it might be more than that.
But like doesn't quite explain the twinge of regret when he walks into the bedroom and sees not one thing of Roger's in there, or the sense of emptiness when he's sitting in the loft and doesn't hear music drifting through the air as Roger plays something to himself, trying to work out some melody. Like doesn't quite apply when Mark's got this voice in the back of his head telling him to find Roger, apologize, ask him to move back in because damn it, this is stupid and he wants him back. Like doesn't quite cover that, but Mark doesn't want to think about what else it might be, doesn't want to think that without Roger around the world's just a little duller, a little quieter, looking a little less like the place he wants to be.
So he doesn't think about it. He films things on the street, figuring he can cut it into some film later, he can always use good stock footage, but that's not quite enough to occupy his mind. He writes scripts and screenplays, but somehow the same words end up in every one of them ("I have to leave"), and he ends up balling them up and throwing them in the trash. Neither Collins or Benny comments on the growing mountain of balled-up papers in the trash can, and they don't comment when Mark ends up giving up and tossing his notebook across the room, watching silently as it hits a wall and falls to the floor.
It's got nothing to do with Roger, and it's got nothing to do with love, Mark tells himself. But of all the fucking times for him to hit this block in his writing, this has got to be the worst.
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Chapter: 5/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April, Collins, Benny
Word Count: 1334
Rating: PG
Summary: Mark tries to tell himself it's got nothing to do with Roger, while Roger finds the second-prettiest pair of eyes in the world.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge speed challenge #14.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
<< Previous Chapter
Neither Benny or Collins says much when Mark told them Roger had said goodbye. Benny nods and says something about how it's too bad, he'd like Roger. Collins is silent on the matter until a couple days later, when Benny's out and it's just him and Mark alone in the loft. It's a simple question, but one that makes Mark look up at him. "So what'd you do?"
Mark stares at him for a second. "What do you mean? I didn't do anything."
"Why did Roger leave, then?"
Mark shrugs. "Hell if I know. I woke up, and he just told me he was going to move in with his friend, some guy from his band..."
"Mark, that boy practically worships the ground you walk on. He wouldn't leave unless you did something to make him." Collins watches him steadily, brown eyes locked with Mark's blue. Mark can find nothing to say to that, and so he's silent until Collins asks again, "What did you do?"
Mark sighs and gets up, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on as he does. He needs to get out of here. Suddenly it's claustrophobic, suddenly he needs to get out in the open air and away from these questions. "Nothing. I told you."
"What didn't you do, then?" Collins asks, his voice still soft.
Mark stops dead and glances back over his shoulder at him for a moment. His face twists into a grimace, and he turns away, shoving the door open and hurrying down the stairs, thinking far more than he would care to about the answer to Collins' question.
*
Roger never used to take the subway. When he and his roommates are more often than not scrambling for money for rent and food, even the small amount of cash for the subway just wasn't worth it. But now, with fall setting in and the weather turning gray and dismal, hell if Roger's going to walk fifty blocks or so in the rain with his guitar in a gig bag. He'll go without dinner tonight if he has to, the subway ride's worth it, just for being dry. He can hardly show up for a show completely drenched.
He flops onto one of the bright orange seats, propping his gig bag up against the seat beside him and keeping one hand on it protectively. Even if he hasn't seen or spoken to Mark for... over a week now, it's a good day. He's got a show tonight, and that always puts him in a good mood. The hurt, that aching spot in the middle of his chest, has faded a bit, and if it's not gone completely... there will be something after the show, some needles, pills, powder, something to numb it enough that it's good as gone. This is, for Roger, a relatively good day since he's left the loft.
He's staring out the windows absently as the train moves, keeping silent track of where they're stopping, though the conductor's announcements go mostly unheard. They go right past him, part of the background noise - "This is Christopher Street. The next stop is 14th Street" repeated four or five times, and then "Please stand clear of the closing doors". Roger's not paying attention to that, and only peripheral attention to the people around him.
He doesn't notice her either, when she first gets on the train, at 28th Street. She sits down in the seat across from his, drops her bag onto the seat beside her, and crosses her legs, one foot bouncing slightly, though whether it's from the movement of the train or from some tiny expression of pent-up energy, it's hard to tell. He doesn't really take notice of her until he realizes she's watching him, and then he looks up, a little startled. She smiles at him when he does look up.
There's no denying that she's pretty. She's wearing a blue shirt that brings out her eyes, short, curly hair dyed a sort of red or strawberry blond, a round face that makes her look sweet and innocent if it weren't for that smile. Roger decides that he likes her smile, that wicked, mischievous light to it. It reminds him of Mark in his best moods, when he's playful and sardonic and brilliant and wonderful...
She gets up, and sits down next to him, on the other side from his guitar. She's still smiling. "Hey."
"Uh... hi." He's a little surprised. Smile or not, he hadn't really expected her to approach him, and now that she has... He didn't want to talk to her. Not really. He's not so great with that anymore, not unless he's drunk or high or both, because otherwise it feels like some sort of obscure betrayal of Mark, not that he can imagine Mark would give a shit either way.
"My name's April."
"Roger. Davis. Hi," he says, and realizes he's already said hi once before. She doesn't seem to notice, or else just brushes over it without much caring. She nods to the guitar case, and her eyes meet his briefly. He'd think they were the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen, if only it weren't for the thought of Mark's eyes in the back of his mind.
"Are you a musician?"
"Um... yeah, actually. I'm... I've got a show in a little bit. That's where I'm... going to. Right now." He scratches the back of his neck uncertainly, not entirely sure he's comfortable with the way she's looking at him, but on the other hand he wants her to keep looking at him like that. Want overpowers discomfort, before too long, and he adds a little haltingly, "You could... come if you want."
*
Mark hadn't thought he'd miss Roger as much as he does. He'd thought that once he got past the irritation of missing the sex, missing the comfort of someone beside him at night, he'd be fine. Sure, he likes Roger, he'll even say he's friends with him, but he'd never considered the possibility that maybe it might be more than that.
But like doesn't quite explain the twinge of regret when he walks into the bedroom and sees not one thing of Roger's in there, or the sense of emptiness when he's sitting in the loft and doesn't hear music drifting through the air as Roger plays something to himself, trying to work out some melody. Like doesn't quite apply when Mark's got this voice in the back of his head telling him to find Roger, apologize, ask him to move back in because damn it, this is stupid and he wants him back. Like doesn't quite cover that, but Mark doesn't want to think about what else it might be, doesn't want to think that without Roger around the world's just a little duller, a little quieter, looking a little less like the place he wants to be.
So he doesn't think about it. He films things on the street, figuring he can cut it into some film later, he can always use good stock footage, but that's not quite enough to occupy his mind. He writes scripts and screenplays, but somehow the same words end up in every one of them ("I have to leave"), and he ends up balling them up and throwing them in the trash. Neither Collins or Benny comments on the growing mountain of balled-up papers in the trash can, and they don't comment when Mark ends up giving up and tossing his notebook across the room, watching silently as it hits a wall and falls to the floor.
It's got nothing to do with Roger, and it's got nothing to do with love, Mark tells himself. But of all the fucking times for him to hit this block in his writing, this has got to be the worst.
Next Chapter >>