RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Thirteen)
Title: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 13/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April
Word Count: 1201
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger has a sense for endings, and he can hear the chords of this one drawing to a close.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge #49.
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.
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"Home already?" Mark asks mildly when Roger comes through the door, and Roger can't ignore the bite just underneath that innocent tone.
"Fuck off," Roger growls, slamming the door behind him and starting toward his room, fighting not to meet Mark's eyes so he won't see the smug mockery in his gaze.
"Where'd you go?" Mark asks, too innocent, too sweet, and it makes Roger want to strangle him. He stands in the doorway of his room, knowing that if he goes in Mark will just follow him, fingertips pressing hard against the wood of the door frame and leaning on it heavily, reminding himself to breathe...
When he doesn't answer, Mark gets to his feet off the couch - Roger doesn't turn to look, but he can hear it, and tenses as Mark walks up behind him. He can feel the warmth of him on his back, he's standing so close, and he hates him, hates that he loves him... "She sent you home, didn't you?"
Roger clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on the door frame until his knuckles whiten. "She was on her way out of the house. I wasn't going to bother her."
"Some girlfriend."
Mark's already started to turn away when Roger whirls around, grabs his arm and shoves him against the wall with a thump. Mark winces but doesn't push him away. "Shut up," Roger growls. "Shut up right now."
"Fine. Serves me right for making conversation."
Roger's fingers tighten around his arms. He wants to bruise him. He wants to shove him again, make him bleed. He wants to kiss him, press himself against him and never move away... He pries his hands away and jerks back, hands raised as if in surrender. "Never mind." He steps around him, starts back into his room, but stops when Mark calls after him.
"Hey! Is this how it's going to be? I piss you off so you go running to her to make it better?" Roger can see him out of the corner of his eye, rubbing his shoulder like he'd really hurt something. Roger's not sure whether he's glad, or whether he wants to turn back and make sure he's okay.
"...Yes," he says firmly, at last, and then, without looking back, adds, "I don't love you." The lie burns like bile in his throat, but he won't take it back, and there's a dull, aching sort of satisfaction as he slams the bedroom door shut behind him.
*
Mark slips into bed some time after Roger's asleep. Roger wakes up in the middle of the night with Mark curled against his side, and it takes him a moment to remember he hadn't been there when he fell asleep. Mark isn't sleeping.
"I'm sorry," he says, as soon as he notices Roger's awake and watching him, and that's surprise enough, though Roger suspects it's partially because he doesn't want Roger to shove him out of bed, make him sleep on the couch. "I didn't mean to..."
"Bullshit." Despite the words, Roger can't manage any sort of rancor. He just sounds tired. "You meant it."
"Then I'm sorry for meaning it," Mark says without missing a beat, and shifts to prop himself up on one arm, looking down at him, studying, and he looks so fucking sincere and Roger hates him for it. Nevertheless, he lifts his head to kiss him, one hand reaching up to pull him down on top of him.
He doesn't even pull back from the kiss before speaking, his lips still brushing Mark's. "Okay." His hand runs down from Mark's neck, over his shoulder, down his arm, and he pauses. "I didn't hurt you before, did I?"
Mark rolls his shoulder cautiously, grimacing a bit. "It's kind of sore," he admits.
"Good," Roger says, almost a growl, and kisses him again, harder, before he can say anything. If he says one more thing, Roger knows he's going to want to beat the crap out of him, but thankfully, Mark seems to give up on speaking after that. His hands are running down Roger's sides, over his bare chest...
Roger's heart hurts, and he doesn't want to examine too closely just why, because he knows already. He has a sense for endings, and he can hear the chords of this one starting to draw it to a close. He ignores it, and pulls Mark tighter to him, and digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise, bites his lip hard enough to bleed, and fuck the ending, because Mark is his, now, even if it's for the last time.
*
April's door is unlocked when Roger tries it, and he frowns a little. She had told him the other day that he could just come over, because she didn't have the time to talk when they met out in the hallway, but he's here a little early, she ought to be at work now, and April... April may be a junkie, a party girl, but Roger knows her. She doesn't skip work for no reason.
He nudges open the door cautiously and leans in, calling softly, "April?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, he hears something dripping, somewhere in the apartment, and that gives him pause as well. In April's apartment, things don't drip. Nothing leaks, nothing is left running when it should not be. April's apartment is immaculate, white counters and walls and tile, everything where and as it should be, and he's never once heard a faucet running when it wasn't being used. He steps inside, closes the door behind him cautiously, careful to make as little sound as possible with it. It seems that any unnecessary noise might disturb something here, and he doesn't know what it is that would be disturbed, but he's fairly certain he doesn't want to.
"Baby? Are you here?"
Of course she's here, because the door is unlocked, but... Maybe she's napping, maybe she's home because she's sick, maybe she's...
The light is on in the bathroom, the door cracked partially open. Roger stops, and then walks toward the open door, his footsteps too loud in the silent apartment.
He stops again in the doorway. It occurs to him, abstractly, that this is the most color he's ever seen in April's apartment. It's always bone white or washed out shades, down to April's fair skin and blond hair. Roger used to think sometimes, in a wry, not entirely serious way, that April had fallen for him because he matched the color scheme of her apartment so well. Now... Red fills the tub, tints her hair a sort of strawberry blond, is splashed on the floor here and there, and in a lipstick message on the mirror.
His mind is moving too fast, and he can't slow it down. It's moving too fast to notice what's actually written on the mirror, other than that the note's there, too fast to read the words scrawled there (We've got AIDS, in April's too-neat hand). All he can think about is what he was going to say to her - I left Mark, I love you, please forgive me.
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Chapter: 13/14
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger, Roger/April
Word Count: 1201
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger has a sense for endings, and he can hear the chords of this one drawing to a close.
Notes: Written for rentchallenge #49.
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
"Home already?" Mark asks mildly when Roger comes through the door, and Roger can't ignore the bite just underneath that innocent tone.
"Fuck off," Roger growls, slamming the door behind him and starting toward his room, fighting not to meet Mark's eyes so he won't see the smug mockery in his gaze.
"Where'd you go?" Mark asks, too innocent, too sweet, and it makes Roger want to strangle him. He stands in the doorway of his room, knowing that if he goes in Mark will just follow him, fingertips pressing hard against the wood of the door frame and leaning on it heavily, reminding himself to breathe...
When he doesn't answer, Mark gets to his feet off the couch - Roger doesn't turn to look, but he can hear it, and tenses as Mark walks up behind him. He can feel the warmth of him on his back, he's standing so close, and he hates him, hates that he loves him... "She sent you home, didn't you?"
Roger clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on the door frame until his knuckles whiten. "She was on her way out of the house. I wasn't going to bother her."
"Some girlfriend."
Mark's already started to turn away when Roger whirls around, grabs his arm and shoves him against the wall with a thump. Mark winces but doesn't push him away. "Shut up," Roger growls. "Shut up right now."
"Fine. Serves me right for making conversation."
Roger's fingers tighten around his arms. He wants to bruise him. He wants to shove him again, make him bleed. He wants to kiss him, press himself against him and never move away... He pries his hands away and jerks back, hands raised as if in surrender. "Never mind." He steps around him, starts back into his room, but stops when Mark calls after him.
"Hey! Is this how it's going to be? I piss you off so you go running to her to make it better?" Roger can see him out of the corner of his eye, rubbing his shoulder like he'd really hurt something. Roger's not sure whether he's glad, or whether he wants to turn back and make sure he's okay.
"...Yes," he says firmly, at last, and then, without looking back, adds, "I don't love you." The lie burns like bile in his throat, but he won't take it back, and there's a dull, aching sort of satisfaction as he slams the bedroom door shut behind him.
*
Mark slips into bed some time after Roger's asleep. Roger wakes up in the middle of the night with Mark curled against his side, and it takes him a moment to remember he hadn't been there when he fell asleep. Mark isn't sleeping.
"I'm sorry," he says, as soon as he notices Roger's awake and watching him, and that's surprise enough, though Roger suspects it's partially because he doesn't want Roger to shove him out of bed, make him sleep on the couch. "I didn't mean to..."
"Bullshit." Despite the words, Roger can't manage any sort of rancor. He just sounds tired. "You meant it."
"Then I'm sorry for meaning it," Mark says without missing a beat, and shifts to prop himself up on one arm, looking down at him, studying, and he looks so fucking sincere and Roger hates him for it. Nevertheless, he lifts his head to kiss him, one hand reaching up to pull him down on top of him.
He doesn't even pull back from the kiss before speaking, his lips still brushing Mark's. "Okay." His hand runs down from Mark's neck, over his shoulder, down his arm, and he pauses. "I didn't hurt you before, did I?"
Mark rolls his shoulder cautiously, grimacing a bit. "It's kind of sore," he admits.
"Good," Roger says, almost a growl, and kisses him again, harder, before he can say anything. If he says one more thing, Roger knows he's going to want to beat the crap out of him, but thankfully, Mark seems to give up on speaking after that. His hands are running down Roger's sides, over his bare chest...
Roger's heart hurts, and he doesn't want to examine too closely just why, because he knows already. He has a sense for endings, and he can hear the chords of this one starting to draw it to a close. He ignores it, and pulls Mark tighter to him, and digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise, bites his lip hard enough to bleed, and fuck the ending, because Mark is his, now, even if it's for the last time.
*
April's door is unlocked when Roger tries it, and he frowns a little. She had told him the other day that he could just come over, because she didn't have the time to talk when they met out in the hallway, but he's here a little early, she ought to be at work now, and April... April may be a junkie, a party girl, but Roger knows her. She doesn't skip work for no reason.
He nudges open the door cautiously and leans in, calling softly, "April?"
She doesn't answer. Instead, he hears something dripping, somewhere in the apartment, and that gives him pause as well. In April's apartment, things don't drip. Nothing leaks, nothing is left running when it should not be. April's apartment is immaculate, white counters and walls and tile, everything where and as it should be, and he's never once heard a faucet running when it wasn't being used. He steps inside, closes the door behind him cautiously, careful to make as little sound as possible with it. It seems that any unnecessary noise might disturb something here, and he doesn't know what it is that would be disturbed, but he's fairly certain he doesn't want to.
"Baby? Are you here?"
Of course she's here, because the door is unlocked, but... Maybe she's napping, maybe she's home because she's sick, maybe she's...
The light is on in the bathroom, the door cracked partially open. Roger stops, and then walks toward the open door, his footsteps too loud in the silent apartment.
He stops again in the doorway. It occurs to him, abstractly, that this is the most color he's ever seen in April's apartment. It's always bone white or washed out shades, down to April's fair skin and blond hair. Roger used to think sometimes, in a wry, not entirely serious way, that April had fallen for him because he matched the color scheme of her apartment so well. Now... Red fills the tub, tints her hair a sort of strawberry blond, is splashed on the floor here and there, and in a lipstick message on the mirror.
His mind is moving too fast, and he can't slow it down. It's moving too fast to notice what's actually written on the mirror, other than that the note's there, too fast to read the words scrawled there (We've got AIDS, in April's too-neat hand). All he can think about is what he was going to say to her - I left Mark, I love you, please forgive me.
Next Chapter >>