Fic: Take Me Home
I'll bet you were all sitting at home thinking, "Gee, I sure wish I could read a story in which Mark was a whore!" Well, now you can.
Author: Stephanie (Gildedmuse)
Title: Take Me Home
Characters: Mark, Roger
Word Count: 4,640
Rating: R
Summary: From Krissy's Mark-Is-A-Whore universe, a simple and short story of when Mark met Roger.
Author's Note: Another early Christmas gift, for Krissy because you should always have someone willing to Rp anal beads with you. Always.
Take Me Home
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the city,
Every street kid and artist was doing quite shitty.
Mark laughs at his own lame attempt at impromptu poetry. Or laughs as much as he can with a cock shoved in his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” the man Mark is sucking off moans as he rocks up against him harder, until Mark is almost choking around him and barely able to keep from throwing up. He’s getting better at this act, though, and manages to keep it down. The guy’s beefy hands are slick with sweat as they slide through Mark’s hair, yanking him closer and - fuck - that burns. “Oh, take it.” He’s still groaning, never noticing the tears forming in Mark’s eyes. “You like that big cock, don’t you?”
Mark rolls his eyes. He wrote better scripts in seventh grade, for God’s sake, and they were pretty crappy scripts. Trying not to think about it, he goes back to finishing his Christmas poem, but he doesn’t actually know how the original goes so he can’t come up with anything else. The guy grunts, fingers digging into Mark’s scalp. Shit, can’t he lay off a bit, that’s really starting to sting, but Mark lets him hold him still as he slams down into his throat for the sake of some cash. Mark can handle this. He just closes his eyes and tries to think up some distraction from the dick in his mouth.
In his three months thus far in the city, Mark has learned a few good tricks, no pun intended. For instance, a guy will pay money for a blowjob from some cute, underage boy without even needing to be that drunk first. And for these guys, who probably have a family at home they need to get back to before the wife starts asking questions, just opening his mouth is good enough. From there, Mark can just zone out and it doesn’t matter one bit.
His Christmas writing didn’t work, and he doesn’t want to start thinking about where he’s going to be sleeping tonight so that he doesn’t freeze to death, because that will just depress him even more than the fact that he’s kneeling in the back of a dirty alley with garbage piled around him, sucking some guy off so that he can eat tomorrow. No, he isn’t going to think about that. So he fishes around for some sort of distraction, anything will do, and the first thing that he picks up on is the music.
They’re out in the alley of some worn-down club, one that Mark didn’t have to pay admissions for, which is the only thing he can afford, so the music is some small band - probably high schoolers or something - but that doesn’t matter. Mark strains to hear the chords over the guy’s grunting. He’d reach up and smack the asshole to get him to shut up so that he could hear more if he weren’t afraid of ending up with a black eye for it.
So he keeps letting the guy groan as he fucks his mouth and just tries harder to listen for the music. After he manages to block out the annoying grunting, he can start to catch the muffled notes and holds onto them until he’s able to pick them out against all the other sounds of the city. He can even hear more after a while of concentrating hard enough. A voice as soft as the music filtering out to him.
Dark and smooth is how it washes over Mark. He can’t make out the words, but the voice sounds hurt and lost, singing for everyone trapped by the city. Mark doesn’t have to hear what exactly the singer is saying, because the strain and the searching in his voice must mean more than any lyrics could. Whoever is singing, he sounds like he means all of it, all of that emotion he’s pouring out that Mark can hear even over the asshole he’s sucking off.
Mark has become desperate to find someone who means it. Seems like everyone else has given up long before Mark even got here. Whatever happened to the thriving art community he is always hearing about? It’s more like a homeless commune, and there is nothing artistically romantic about freezing to death.
It’s the night before Christmas and this homeless kid
Is giving a blowjob in hopes for some food.
Mark doesn’t have time to prefect the rhyme scheme before the guy comes. Shit. Mark told him to pull out before he did that. Jerking away from him as quick as he can once he realizes what’s going on, Mark coughs up the cum, wiping it off his mouth and chin and spitting up what is left. That fucking shit. He doesn’t even look down when Mark starts hacking, just zips himself up. He didn’t even plan to pull out, did he?
Shaking from being on his knees so long in the cold, feeling frozen in place, Mark grunts as he pushes himself up the icy concrete. He glowers at the guy a bit, but keeps his mouth shut. Even if this guy is wasted and Mark could probably out run him, he doesn’t want to risk anything by being bitchy. The guy doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to beat the shit out of him. He just finishes getting dressed and stumbles away without a word, which is how Mark prefers it. He has never actually had any guy stay and talk, even before this whole for cash part, but it would probably be awkward if they did.
Mark is just brushing himself off when the back door he is standing by swings open and - fuck. He jumps back, praying that this isn’t some asshole who heard the other guy and is coming out to give him shit. Mark has never gotten himself beat up - well, except for a time back in school - but he knows it happens to guys doing what he does. Just knowing that it could happen is enough to make Mark jumpy.
“Oops.” He’s still trying his hardest to stay in the shadows when the guy comes out, having obviously seen him. The guy is staring right at him, after all, a small almost smile pulling at his lips. It’s really kind of cute, Mark thinks before he realizes that the guy looks embarrassed. Wait. About what? “I didn’t hit you with the door, did I?”
“Umm…” Mark pushes up away from the wall, trying not to look suspicious or pathetic. Probably failing at both pretty miserably. “No… No it’s cool. I was just out… smoking…. A cigarette.” It’s a lame excuse to begin with, and all Mark’s stumbling doesn’t help, but it’s the best he can think up on the spot. Not that it looks like this guy with his cute, embarrassed smile is going to give him shit, but better safe than sorry.
Oh, fuck, he is staring to sound like his mom. That is the last person Mark wants on his mind right now.
“Good,” the guy says, flashing Mark a smile as he steps out into the alley and the bad lighting from the street floods over him. He’s got this messy hair that seems to be glow in the dark yellow and worn down clothes with tears and some obscure band on the shirt. It all matches perfectly with the guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Hey,” Mark mutters as he stares over the guy and right at the guitar. He rubs his palms down his jeans, wiping the sweat away. He’s a little less nervous now and no longer shaking too much. “Was that you playing in there?”
“Uh, yeah,” the guy answers, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to Mark’s habits as he drags two cases out the door behind him before kicking it closed. “Just finished.”
“You sounded good,” Mark pipes up quickly, grabbing his bag with all his stuff and following the singer for a few steps as he lugs the cases out from the alley. He isn’t sure why he’s tagging along after him. Maybe it’s the sole fact that this guy isn’t a total jackass, or at least doesn’t seem like one. It’s been forever since he had a decent conversation with someone, especially if that wasn’t asking for a blowjob or kicking him out of wherever he’d curled up to sleep for the night.
Besides, the singer doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles back at Mark again, not looking dangerous or annoyed. “Thanks,” he says, and he actually seems to mean it. Then he’s turned away from Mark again, pulling the cases along after him.
He should ask if he needs some help, Mark thinks as he watches the guy struggle along. Not because Mark thinks he’ll actually say yes, but because he needs him to. Because he’s the singer he’d heard earlier, and Mark needs someone to connect with, been if it’s only for a short walk back to wherever he lives. “Uh, do you… you know, want help?” Mark asks, offering up his best smile so that the guy doesn’t think he’s some crazed meth kid who is going to stab him the first chance he gets. Or whatever it is most New Yorkers think about strangers that seems to drive them away the second Mark speaks to them.
“Umm…” The guy pauses, looking from the cases to Mark. Okay, well probably Mark wouldn’t trust some random kid stalking the back alley with his equipment, so he doesn’t really expect this guy to. He had to ask, though, just on the hope that maybe he’d have someone to talk to for a little while. He hasn’t been able to talk with someone since… Well, even before he got kicked out.
“Sure.” Mark almost ends up looking more like an idiot than he probably already does to this guy, catching himself just barely in time before he stumbles back and ends up with his ass hitting the concrete. It isn’t his fault. The guy shouldn’t shock people like that. “Just be careful, alright? Jake will kick my ass if any of this stuff gets ruined,” he says, holding out one of the cases. Mark fumbles a bit as he grabs for it, nervous that he’s somehow going to end up dropping it before he’s even touching it and wrapping his fists tight around the handle as the guy hands it off.
The second that the guy lets go and it’s just Mark holding onto the case, he almost falls forward. It’s heavier than he figured it would be, but he manages to hold onto it and stay standing with only a little bit of pathetic teetering. “What’s in here?” He asks, taking a deep breath as he hauls it up and follows along after the singer. He’s still surprised the guy trusts some strange guy he just met with this and isn’t afraid he’ll run off. Not that Mark could make it too far while carrying this.
“A body.” Before it can sink in what the singer means, the guy glances back at Mark and flashes him another cute smile. “Just kidding. It’s our amps.” After a few seconds of Roger just grinning at him, that embarrassed look creeping back up on into his smile, Mark laughs a little, like a girl laughing at some bad joke just because she’s impressed with some guy. That isn’t exactly it. Mark isn’t hoping that this guy asks him to prom or something. But, well, he’s the first person Mark has met who has been decent to him, and that is enough to make Mark laugh, however shoddily and belated, at the guy’s bad jokes.
“So,” the guy says, and he actually does look happy that Mark laughed. It makes him glad that he did. That means that he said it to make Mark laugh, which means he actually kind of cares what Mark thinks of him, not that it probably matters too much but it meant something. It means that he isn’t some heartless asshole, at least, and at this point that is all Mark is asking for. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Mark. Err… Mark.” Mark snaps quickly out of his head when the guy asks him a question, trying not to seem too spacey. “I’m Mark.” He wonders if they guy can hear how nervous he is right now. This is his first conversation in forever, and he isn’t exactly well practiced. He doesn’t want to make a total idiot out of himself.
“Roger,” the guy says, holding a hand back for Mark, who just smiles back at him. Both of his hands are frozen to the metal of the case now. Now that he’s told him his name, yeah, the guy looks like a Roger. Or a Billy. Mostly, he looks like a struggling New York rock star. He looks like an artist, the type that Mark expected to find and had yet to run into. It’s nice to finally meet one, and it helps that Roger seems like a genuinely sweet guy as they walk towards Avenue B, talking about nothing but managing to feel the space.
“I live right up here,” Roger says as they turn onto eleventh street, breaking into what Mark had thought had been a pretty good conversation about jawbreakers. Roger smiles over at Mark who is walking lopsided with the case weighing him down, but he refuses to complain or give it back. It has been a long time since he’s done heavy lifting, but talking with someone who he isn’t afraid is going to beat the shit out of him is worth his chest feeling ready to burst as he sucks in more cold air that is probably crystallizing in his lungs. “Can you make it okay?” Roger asks, and Mark catches what sounds like teasing in his voice. Somehow, that makes him feel better about being a total weakling.
“Yeah,” Mark mutters even as he is grunting and wheezing, struggling to pick the case up off the ground again. “I’m great.” Roger laughs a little but doesn’t try to take the case away. He can manage a few flights of stairs, Mark figures as they head into the building. Well, that is before he finds out that Roger lives on the very top fucking floor of this place and by the time they get there, breathing starts to get pretty painful.
“Here we are,” Roger announces, wiping some sweat from his forehead, so at least Mark isn’t the only one suffering. The sweat just goes with Roger, though, and on Mark probably looks a lot less rock star under the blinding lights of a stage and more like a kid who almost failed that stupid weights training course they required in high school.
“Come on,” Roger says, motioning Mark inside and Mark gratefully follows. The place is a total mess with clothes and beer bottles and dishes everywhere. It smells like sex and a bar and dirty alleyways. It is the exact opposite of his home back in Scarsdale with the Sears catalogue furniture sets and looks more like someone rummaged through the dump to get what they could into the place, and didn’t even bother to wipe off the trash afterwards.
It’s also inside from the wind, and it looks like an artist loft with its painted-over and postered-up walls, making a weird collage of bands and graffiti and personal notes. Mark fucking loves it.
“Home sweet home,” Roger says, putting the case down by the door as he walks in, leaving Mark standing there staring. “You can set that down right there.” Snapping out of the trance, probably brought on by being warm for the first time in months, Mark carefully sets his case down next to Roger’s. He starts cracking his fingers, trying to get some feeling back in them. Oh, shit that hurts. Not exactly the smartest plan. The first feeling that comes back is pinpricks of pain.
“So…” Mark looks back to Roger, who is standing there with his hands in his pockets, head cocked to the side as he stares down at Mark. Oh, yeah. He probably expects Mark to leave now. Mark smiles weakly as he backs up towards the door. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”
And once again Mark is left feeling ready to stumble back, too thrown off to really manage much of an answer. “Err….”
“Hey, I know what you were doing behind the club,” Roger explains, and… Fuck. So that is what all this is about. Shit, he should have known and not been such a fucking idiot. “Better here than there, right?”
And, fuck, now this is more like the life that Mark is used to. Roger isn’t some noble rock star who just wants to talk - actually, God, Mark is an idiot for even thinking that. It doesn’t even make sense. No, he’s just another asshole who wants quick and easy sex. He should have been expecting this. Really, it’s no big deal. Mark has been able to talk himself into believing that with every other guy when the feeling of self-disgust hits, and he can believe it with Roger. At least this one is willing to take him in for the night. One more day of trying to find abandon building or doorways to sleep in and he wouldn’t be waking up in the morning. On a night like this it’s easy to imagine just freezing over in his sleep. So, hey, of course he’s willing to sleep with some guy in order to save himself from that.
“Yeah,” Mark mutters, frowning as he kicks at the floor instead of looking up at Roger. “Yeah, cool…” It could be worse, he tells himself. He could be out on the streets for Christmas. And at least Roger is pretty hot. It’s a shallow thought, but after sucking off short, fat, bald drunks, someone who Mark can actually be attracted to is a pretty nice change. Hey, he’ll take whatever he can.
“Great,” Roger says with that stupid smile of his as he turns and heads back into a bedroom, leaving Mark a few seconds to calm himself down after getting all those fucked up notions in his head. When Roger comes back out with a bundle of blankets in his arms Mark is ready for this. He grabs him without warning, eager to get this over with, and slams their lips together as he pushes himself onto the other guy.
Roger doesn’t linger with the kiss. He doesn’t kiss back, either. In fact, the second he can wiggle out of Mark’s hands he pulls back looking… like he has no idea what the fuck is going on. “Er…” Mark watches as Roger leans down, picking up the blankets he had dropped and pushing them into Mark’s arms. “Um, I know the couch looks like shit, but it’s probably better than sleeping in the alley so…” The couch. He’s putting Mark on the couch because it’s better than sleeping in the alley and…
Oh. Oh shit. Mark closes his eyes, and if he were next to a wall he’d probably be banging his head against it. Fuck, he’s an idiot.
“So,” Roger mutters, still looking utterly confused. Mark can’t blame him. Being suddenly attacked by the kid he brought back to give him a place to sleep for the night probably isn’t what he’d been expecting. “I’m, uh…”
“I’m exhausted,” Mark announces, maybe a little louder than he should but he doesn’t want Roger asking. “I’m going to sleep. Uh… Thanks. For, you know, the couch.”
“No problem,” Roger says, and Mark heads over to the couch, turning his back on him and hoping that will be enough to deter him from asking what the fuck Mark had been thinking. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Roger takes the cases and his guitar into his room. He can’t blame him. He did just act like a total nut case. “Night,” he adds quickly before shutting the door, the sound of a lock following.
“Night,” Mark says back before he collapses onto the couch. Oh, God, Roger had just been trying to be nice and Mark had made an ass out of himself. Way to go. Probably, Mark could let what he did haunt him all night but this is the first time in a long time that he’s been warm, and even if Roger says the couch is complete shit it’s better than anything Mark’s had to sleep on in a while. Using his bag as a pillow, Mark manages to curse at himself one last time before he passes out.
*
What’s that? Mark isn’t quite awake yet, but even in a state of half consciousness he knows something is off. To begin with, he’s warm. Nice and cozy warm, with blankets tucked in around him. Second, it doesn’t smell like urine. At least not too much. Mostly, it smells like coffee. That can’t be right. It’s been forever since Mark woke up to the smell of coffee.
Oh, fuck. He’s dead. That is the only real explanation.
With a moan, Mark opens his eyes, blinking as his vision clears and looking around the dirty loft. Unless God keeps his socks lying around, this probably isn’t Gehenna or… or, whatever it is and, shit, he should have listened more in Hebrew school. Not that it matters. He’s pretty sure he isn’t dead.
Just in case, he struggles out from under the covers, groaning again as the cold air hits his nose and asks, “Am I dead?”
“Um…” It’s a nice, dark voice that reminds Mark of music. He yawns and wipes at his eyes as he feels the couch dipping with weight, and finally manages to sit himself up. “No. I don’t think so. Are you?”
“Well,” Mark mutters as he squints from the light flittering in from the skylight to see Roger sitting at the foot of the couch. He’s got this messy hair that makes Mark really want to run his hands through it and pull a bit. “Are you God?”
Roger laughs, and Mark smiles because he made him laugh. “I’d like to think so,” he says, flashing Mark a bright grin. “Here. I made coffee.”
So there really is coffee. Mark takes the hot cup, moaning as his fingers wrap around the side and he can feel the heat leaking into his skin. Fuck, it’s nice to be warm again. And have something to eat or drink or whatever. At least it’s something, and Mark starts drinking it as quickly as he can, loving how it burns his throat.
Roger is sipping at his own coffee, not looking up at Mark even when he throws the newspaper at him. “Oh. Happy Christmas, by the way.”
Mark frowns, looking down at the newspaper in his lap. It’s wrapped around something, like a gift, he realizes and - did Roger get him a Christmas present? Roger doesn’t even know him. “I… Uh,” he mutters, not entirely sure what to say. It’s just one of those situations where it doesn’t feel like words are going to cut it. “I’m Jewish.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Roger says, shrugging and still not looking up at Mark. “Christmas isn’t religious, it’s about getting shit. Now just open the damn thing.”
Mark laughs a little nervously as he starts to rip open the newspaper. He isn’t sure what he expects, but just about anything would be more than he expected. He’s never really gotten a Christmas gift in his life, so whatever Roger got him, it’s going to beat out every other year. “It’s a…” He holds it up, letting the fabric unravel into a long trail of blue and white. “A scarf.”
Roger shrugs again, finally turning to look at Mark. “It’s my old scarf, but I don’t really wear it and it looks like you need it more.”
It’s a ratty old thing that smells like it’s been stuffed away in a drawer for years, but Mark smiles and wraps it around his neck quickly. “It’s great,” he says, beaming at the guy. “I love it.”
“It’s just a scarf,” Roger says, and he has that same smile from last night where Mark can tell he’s embarrassed him. “But, hey, I figured something was better than nothing.”
“Well, thanks,” he mutters, pulling the scarf up around his nose, and it does help with the chill. “I mean, really, thanks.”
“It’s no big deal,” Roger repeats as he sets the mug down on the coffee table with a bunch of other cups scattered over the top. “You looked like you were freezing last night, and I don’t use it anymore so someone should put it to use.”
“I was,” Mark admits, frowning behind the scarf. Not just last night, but every night for the last three months. Of course, with December it’s just getting worse. “Pretty cold, I mean. Thanks for, you know, the scarf, and letting me spend the night.”
“Well, you didn’t steal anything,” Roger says, smiling over at Mark, and he smiles back even if Roger can’t see it. “So if you ever need a place to stay…”
“I do!” Mark pipes up a little too quickly, probably, and he smiles apologetically behind the blue fabric wrapped around his mouth, helping to keep him warm. He wants to soak in it while he can. “I mean, thanks again,” he mutters, but Roger is already laughing at him. How many times is Mark going to make a fool of himself in front of this guy?
When Roger stops laughing, he turns a bit and grins brightly as Mark. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He has to ask, because he knows he must have missed that. No way Roger could mean okay as in it’s okay for Mark to stay. He hardly knows him, just found him in a back alley and then had Mark jump him the second they were inside. That is not good roommate etiquette.
“Okay,” Roger says again, chuckling under his breath, probably at how surprised Mark looks. “I mean, I have a roommate and I’ll have to ask her but, yeah, okay.”
“Okay,” Mark says again, a little breathless maybe but this is the first - no, third - good thing to happen to him since he came to New York, and they all have to do with Roger. “Okay,” he repeats again, because it still hasn’t really sunk in that someone would just take him off the street like that without even wanting anything from him.
“Okay.” Roger laughs again, ruffling up Mark’s hair and Mark doesn’t even mind. At least not for this time and maybe next time he’ll pull away or swat at Roger but for now everything is about as good as it can get. “Okay. Drink up, huh? It doesn’t stay warm forever.”
Mark smiles and does as he is told, finishing off his coffee. “Thanks,” he mutters again, smiling at Roger from other the side of the mug and holding the scarf tight in his hand. “Thanks again. This is… Just, thanks.” He sounds like a babbling idiot, and he doesn’t even worry about it.
“No big deal, it’s just a run down old building,” Roger points out, but he’s smiling as Mark thanks him obsessively. “I mean, it’s not even that warm and we don’t always have power, just so you’re-“
“It’s perfect,” Mark says quickly, beaming back at Roger. “I mean, this place is perfect. Just where an artist should live, you know?”
“You’re crazy,” Roger says, laughing and standing up, brushing himself off and going to grab another cup of coffee. “I’m glad I brought you home.”
Author: Stephanie (Gildedmuse)
Title: Take Me Home
Characters: Mark, Roger
Word Count: 4,640
Rating: R
Summary: From Krissy's Mark-Is-A-Whore universe, a simple and short story of when Mark met Roger.
Author's Note: Another early Christmas gift, for Krissy because you should always have someone willing to Rp anal beads with you. Always.
Take Me Home
‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the city,
Every street kid and artist was doing quite shitty.
Mark laughs at his own lame attempt at impromptu poetry. Or laughs as much as he can with a cock shoved in his mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” the man Mark is sucking off moans as he rocks up against him harder, until Mark is almost choking around him and barely able to keep from throwing up. He’s getting better at this act, though, and manages to keep it down. The guy’s beefy hands are slick with sweat as they slide through Mark’s hair, yanking him closer and - fuck - that burns. “Oh, take it.” He’s still groaning, never noticing the tears forming in Mark’s eyes. “You like that big cock, don’t you?”
Mark rolls his eyes. He wrote better scripts in seventh grade, for God’s sake, and they were pretty crappy scripts. Trying not to think about it, he goes back to finishing his Christmas poem, but he doesn’t actually know how the original goes so he can’t come up with anything else. The guy grunts, fingers digging into Mark’s scalp. Shit, can’t he lay off a bit, that’s really starting to sting, but Mark lets him hold him still as he slams down into his throat for the sake of some cash. Mark can handle this. He just closes his eyes and tries to think up some distraction from the dick in his mouth.
In his three months thus far in the city, Mark has learned a few good tricks, no pun intended. For instance, a guy will pay money for a blowjob from some cute, underage boy without even needing to be that drunk first. And for these guys, who probably have a family at home they need to get back to before the wife starts asking questions, just opening his mouth is good enough. From there, Mark can just zone out and it doesn’t matter one bit.
His Christmas writing didn’t work, and he doesn’t want to start thinking about where he’s going to be sleeping tonight so that he doesn’t freeze to death, because that will just depress him even more than the fact that he’s kneeling in the back of a dirty alley with garbage piled around him, sucking some guy off so that he can eat tomorrow. No, he isn’t going to think about that. So he fishes around for some sort of distraction, anything will do, and the first thing that he picks up on is the music.
They’re out in the alley of some worn-down club, one that Mark didn’t have to pay admissions for, which is the only thing he can afford, so the music is some small band - probably high schoolers or something - but that doesn’t matter. Mark strains to hear the chords over the guy’s grunting. He’d reach up and smack the asshole to get him to shut up so that he could hear more if he weren’t afraid of ending up with a black eye for it.
So he keeps letting the guy groan as he fucks his mouth and just tries harder to listen for the music. After he manages to block out the annoying grunting, he can start to catch the muffled notes and holds onto them until he’s able to pick them out against all the other sounds of the city. He can even hear more after a while of concentrating hard enough. A voice as soft as the music filtering out to him.
Dark and smooth is how it washes over Mark. He can’t make out the words, but the voice sounds hurt and lost, singing for everyone trapped by the city. Mark doesn’t have to hear what exactly the singer is saying, because the strain and the searching in his voice must mean more than any lyrics could. Whoever is singing, he sounds like he means all of it, all of that emotion he’s pouring out that Mark can hear even over the asshole he’s sucking off.
Mark has become desperate to find someone who means it. Seems like everyone else has given up long before Mark even got here. Whatever happened to the thriving art community he is always hearing about? It’s more like a homeless commune, and there is nothing artistically romantic about freezing to death.
It’s the night before Christmas and this homeless kid
Is giving a blowjob in hopes for some food.
Mark doesn’t have time to prefect the rhyme scheme before the guy comes. Shit. Mark told him to pull out before he did that. Jerking away from him as quick as he can once he realizes what’s going on, Mark coughs up the cum, wiping it off his mouth and chin and spitting up what is left. That fucking shit. He doesn’t even look down when Mark starts hacking, just zips himself up. He didn’t even plan to pull out, did he?
Shaking from being on his knees so long in the cold, feeling frozen in place, Mark grunts as he pushes himself up the icy concrete. He glowers at the guy a bit, but keeps his mouth shut. Even if this guy is wasted and Mark could probably out run him, he doesn’t want to risk anything by being bitchy. The guy doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to beat the shit out of him. He just finishes getting dressed and stumbles away without a word, which is how Mark prefers it. He has never actually had any guy stay and talk, even before this whole for cash part, but it would probably be awkward if they did.
Mark is just brushing himself off when the back door he is standing by swings open and - fuck. He jumps back, praying that this isn’t some asshole who heard the other guy and is coming out to give him shit. Mark has never gotten himself beat up - well, except for a time back in school - but he knows it happens to guys doing what he does. Just knowing that it could happen is enough to make Mark jumpy.
“Oops.” He’s still trying his hardest to stay in the shadows when the guy comes out, having obviously seen him. The guy is staring right at him, after all, a small almost smile pulling at his lips. It’s really kind of cute, Mark thinks before he realizes that the guy looks embarrassed. Wait. About what? “I didn’t hit you with the door, did I?”
“Umm…” Mark pushes up away from the wall, trying not to look suspicious or pathetic. Probably failing at both pretty miserably. “No… No it’s cool. I was just out… smoking…. A cigarette.” It’s a lame excuse to begin with, and all Mark’s stumbling doesn’t help, but it’s the best he can think up on the spot. Not that it looks like this guy with his cute, embarrassed smile is going to give him shit, but better safe than sorry.
Oh, fuck, he is staring to sound like his mom. That is the last person Mark wants on his mind right now.
“Good,” the guy says, flashing Mark a smile as he steps out into the alley and the bad lighting from the street floods over him. He’s got this messy hair that seems to be glow in the dark yellow and worn down clothes with tears and some obscure band on the shirt. It all matches perfectly with the guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Hey,” Mark mutters as he stares over the guy and right at the guitar. He rubs his palms down his jeans, wiping the sweat away. He’s a little less nervous now and no longer shaking too much. “Was that you playing in there?”
“Uh, yeah,” the guy answers, but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to Mark’s habits as he drags two cases out the door behind him before kicking it closed. “Just finished.”
“You sounded good,” Mark pipes up quickly, grabbing his bag with all his stuff and following the singer for a few steps as he lugs the cases out from the alley. He isn’t sure why he’s tagging along after him. Maybe it’s the sole fact that this guy isn’t a total jackass, or at least doesn’t seem like one. It’s been forever since he had a decent conversation with someone, especially if that wasn’t asking for a blowjob or kicking him out of wherever he’d curled up to sleep for the night.
Besides, the singer doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles back at Mark again, not looking dangerous or annoyed. “Thanks,” he says, and he actually seems to mean it. Then he’s turned away from Mark again, pulling the cases along after him.
He should ask if he needs some help, Mark thinks as he watches the guy struggle along. Not because Mark thinks he’ll actually say yes, but because he needs him to. Because he’s the singer he’d heard earlier, and Mark needs someone to connect with, been if it’s only for a short walk back to wherever he lives. “Uh, do you… you know, want help?” Mark asks, offering up his best smile so that the guy doesn’t think he’s some crazed meth kid who is going to stab him the first chance he gets. Or whatever it is most New Yorkers think about strangers that seems to drive them away the second Mark speaks to them.
“Umm…” The guy pauses, looking from the cases to Mark. Okay, well probably Mark wouldn’t trust some random kid stalking the back alley with his equipment, so he doesn’t really expect this guy to. He had to ask, though, just on the hope that maybe he’d have someone to talk to for a little while. He hasn’t been able to talk with someone since… Well, even before he got kicked out.
“Sure.” Mark almost ends up looking more like an idiot than he probably already does to this guy, catching himself just barely in time before he stumbles back and ends up with his ass hitting the concrete. It isn’t his fault. The guy shouldn’t shock people like that. “Just be careful, alright? Jake will kick my ass if any of this stuff gets ruined,” he says, holding out one of the cases. Mark fumbles a bit as he grabs for it, nervous that he’s somehow going to end up dropping it before he’s even touching it and wrapping his fists tight around the handle as the guy hands it off.
The second that the guy lets go and it’s just Mark holding onto the case, he almost falls forward. It’s heavier than he figured it would be, but he manages to hold onto it and stay standing with only a little bit of pathetic teetering. “What’s in here?” He asks, taking a deep breath as he hauls it up and follows along after the singer. He’s still surprised the guy trusts some strange guy he just met with this and isn’t afraid he’ll run off. Not that Mark could make it too far while carrying this.
“A body.” Before it can sink in what the singer means, the guy glances back at Mark and flashes him another cute smile. “Just kidding. It’s our amps.” After a few seconds of Roger just grinning at him, that embarrassed look creeping back up on into his smile, Mark laughs a little, like a girl laughing at some bad joke just because she’s impressed with some guy. That isn’t exactly it. Mark isn’t hoping that this guy asks him to prom or something. But, well, he’s the first person Mark has met who has been decent to him, and that is enough to make Mark laugh, however shoddily and belated, at the guy’s bad jokes.
“So,” the guy says, and he actually does look happy that Mark laughed. It makes him glad that he did. That means that he said it to make Mark laugh, which means he actually kind of cares what Mark thinks of him, not that it probably matters too much but it meant something. It means that he isn’t some heartless asshole, at least, and at this point that is all Mark is asking for. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Mark. Err… Mark.” Mark snaps quickly out of his head when the guy asks him a question, trying not to seem too spacey. “I’m Mark.” He wonders if they guy can hear how nervous he is right now. This is his first conversation in forever, and he isn’t exactly well practiced. He doesn’t want to make a total idiot out of himself.
“Roger,” the guy says, holding a hand back for Mark, who just smiles back at him. Both of his hands are frozen to the metal of the case now. Now that he’s told him his name, yeah, the guy looks like a Roger. Or a Billy. Mostly, he looks like a struggling New York rock star. He looks like an artist, the type that Mark expected to find and had yet to run into. It’s nice to finally meet one, and it helps that Roger seems like a genuinely sweet guy as they walk towards Avenue B, talking about nothing but managing to feel the space.
“I live right up here,” Roger says as they turn onto eleventh street, breaking into what Mark had thought had been a pretty good conversation about jawbreakers. Roger smiles over at Mark who is walking lopsided with the case weighing him down, but he refuses to complain or give it back. It has been a long time since he’s done heavy lifting, but talking with someone who he isn’t afraid is going to beat the shit out of him is worth his chest feeling ready to burst as he sucks in more cold air that is probably crystallizing in his lungs. “Can you make it okay?” Roger asks, and Mark catches what sounds like teasing in his voice. Somehow, that makes him feel better about being a total weakling.
“Yeah,” Mark mutters even as he is grunting and wheezing, struggling to pick the case up off the ground again. “I’m great.” Roger laughs a little but doesn’t try to take the case away. He can manage a few flights of stairs, Mark figures as they head into the building. Well, that is before he finds out that Roger lives on the very top fucking floor of this place and by the time they get there, breathing starts to get pretty painful.
“Here we are,” Roger announces, wiping some sweat from his forehead, so at least Mark isn’t the only one suffering. The sweat just goes with Roger, though, and on Mark probably looks a lot less rock star under the blinding lights of a stage and more like a kid who almost failed that stupid weights training course they required in high school.
“Come on,” Roger says, motioning Mark inside and Mark gratefully follows. The place is a total mess with clothes and beer bottles and dishes everywhere. It smells like sex and a bar and dirty alleyways. It is the exact opposite of his home back in Scarsdale with the Sears catalogue furniture sets and looks more like someone rummaged through the dump to get what they could into the place, and didn’t even bother to wipe off the trash afterwards.
It’s also inside from the wind, and it looks like an artist loft with its painted-over and postered-up walls, making a weird collage of bands and graffiti and personal notes. Mark fucking loves it.
“Home sweet home,” Roger says, putting the case down by the door as he walks in, leaving Mark standing there staring. “You can set that down right there.” Snapping out of the trance, probably brought on by being warm for the first time in months, Mark carefully sets his case down next to Roger’s. He starts cracking his fingers, trying to get some feeling back in them. Oh, shit that hurts. Not exactly the smartest plan. The first feeling that comes back is pinpricks of pain.
“So…” Mark looks back to Roger, who is standing there with his hands in his pockets, head cocked to the side as he stares down at Mark. Oh, yeah. He probably expects Mark to leave now. Mark smiles weakly as he backs up towards the door. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”
And once again Mark is left feeling ready to stumble back, too thrown off to really manage much of an answer. “Err….”
“Hey, I know what you were doing behind the club,” Roger explains, and… Fuck. So that is what all this is about. Shit, he should have known and not been such a fucking idiot. “Better here than there, right?”
And, fuck, now this is more like the life that Mark is used to. Roger isn’t some noble rock star who just wants to talk - actually, God, Mark is an idiot for even thinking that. It doesn’t even make sense. No, he’s just another asshole who wants quick and easy sex. He should have been expecting this. Really, it’s no big deal. Mark has been able to talk himself into believing that with every other guy when the feeling of self-disgust hits, and he can believe it with Roger. At least this one is willing to take him in for the night. One more day of trying to find abandon building or doorways to sleep in and he wouldn’t be waking up in the morning. On a night like this it’s easy to imagine just freezing over in his sleep. So, hey, of course he’s willing to sleep with some guy in order to save himself from that.
“Yeah,” Mark mutters, frowning as he kicks at the floor instead of looking up at Roger. “Yeah, cool…” It could be worse, he tells himself. He could be out on the streets for Christmas. And at least Roger is pretty hot. It’s a shallow thought, but after sucking off short, fat, bald drunks, someone who Mark can actually be attracted to is a pretty nice change. Hey, he’ll take whatever he can.
“Great,” Roger says with that stupid smile of his as he turns and heads back into a bedroom, leaving Mark a few seconds to calm himself down after getting all those fucked up notions in his head. When Roger comes back out with a bundle of blankets in his arms Mark is ready for this. He grabs him without warning, eager to get this over with, and slams their lips together as he pushes himself onto the other guy.
Roger doesn’t linger with the kiss. He doesn’t kiss back, either. In fact, the second he can wiggle out of Mark’s hands he pulls back looking… like he has no idea what the fuck is going on. “Er…” Mark watches as Roger leans down, picking up the blankets he had dropped and pushing them into Mark’s arms. “Um, I know the couch looks like shit, but it’s probably better than sleeping in the alley so…” The couch. He’s putting Mark on the couch because it’s better than sleeping in the alley and…
Oh. Oh shit. Mark closes his eyes, and if he were next to a wall he’d probably be banging his head against it. Fuck, he’s an idiot.
“So,” Roger mutters, still looking utterly confused. Mark can’t blame him. Being suddenly attacked by the kid he brought back to give him a place to sleep for the night probably isn’t what he’d been expecting. “I’m, uh…”
“I’m exhausted,” Mark announces, maybe a little louder than he should but he doesn’t want Roger asking. “I’m going to sleep. Uh… Thanks. For, you know, the couch.”
“No problem,” Roger says, and Mark heads over to the couch, turning his back on him and hoping that will be enough to deter him from asking what the fuck Mark had been thinking. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Roger takes the cases and his guitar into his room. He can’t blame him. He did just act like a total nut case. “Night,” he adds quickly before shutting the door, the sound of a lock following.
“Night,” Mark says back before he collapses onto the couch. Oh, God, Roger had just been trying to be nice and Mark had made an ass out of himself. Way to go. Probably, Mark could let what he did haunt him all night but this is the first time in a long time that he’s been warm, and even if Roger says the couch is complete shit it’s better than anything Mark’s had to sleep on in a while. Using his bag as a pillow, Mark manages to curse at himself one last time before he passes out.
*
What’s that? Mark isn’t quite awake yet, but even in a state of half consciousness he knows something is off. To begin with, he’s warm. Nice and cozy warm, with blankets tucked in around him. Second, it doesn’t smell like urine. At least not too much. Mostly, it smells like coffee. That can’t be right. It’s been forever since Mark woke up to the smell of coffee.
Oh, fuck. He’s dead. That is the only real explanation.
With a moan, Mark opens his eyes, blinking as his vision clears and looking around the dirty loft. Unless God keeps his socks lying around, this probably isn’t Gehenna or… or, whatever it is and, shit, he should have listened more in Hebrew school. Not that it matters. He’s pretty sure he isn’t dead.
Just in case, he struggles out from under the covers, groaning again as the cold air hits his nose and asks, “Am I dead?”
“Um…” It’s a nice, dark voice that reminds Mark of music. He yawns and wipes at his eyes as he feels the couch dipping with weight, and finally manages to sit himself up. “No. I don’t think so. Are you?”
“Well,” Mark mutters as he squints from the light flittering in from the skylight to see Roger sitting at the foot of the couch. He’s got this messy hair that makes Mark really want to run his hands through it and pull a bit. “Are you God?”
Roger laughs, and Mark smiles because he made him laugh. “I’d like to think so,” he says, flashing Mark a bright grin. “Here. I made coffee.”
So there really is coffee. Mark takes the hot cup, moaning as his fingers wrap around the side and he can feel the heat leaking into his skin. Fuck, it’s nice to be warm again. And have something to eat or drink or whatever. At least it’s something, and Mark starts drinking it as quickly as he can, loving how it burns his throat.
Roger is sipping at his own coffee, not looking up at Mark even when he throws the newspaper at him. “Oh. Happy Christmas, by the way.”
Mark frowns, looking down at the newspaper in his lap. It’s wrapped around something, like a gift, he realizes and - did Roger get him a Christmas present? Roger doesn’t even know him. “I… Uh,” he mutters, not entirely sure what to say. It’s just one of those situations where it doesn’t feel like words are going to cut it. “I’m Jewish.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Roger says, shrugging and still not looking up at Mark. “Christmas isn’t religious, it’s about getting shit. Now just open the damn thing.”
Mark laughs a little nervously as he starts to rip open the newspaper. He isn’t sure what he expects, but just about anything would be more than he expected. He’s never really gotten a Christmas gift in his life, so whatever Roger got him, it’s going to beat out every other year. “It’s a…” He holds it up, letting the fabric unravel into a long trail of blue and white. “A scarf.”
Roger shrugs again, finally turning to look at Mark. “It’s my old scarf, but I don’t really wear it and it looks like you need it more.”
It’s a ratty old thing that smells like it’s been stuffed away in a drawer for years, but Mark smiles and wraps it around his neck quickly. “It’s great,” he says, beaming at the guy. “I love it.”
“It’s just a scarf,” Roger says, and he has that same smile from last night where Mark can tell he’s embarrassed him. “But, hey, I figured something was better than nothing.”
“Well, thanks,” he mutters, pulling the scarf up around his nose, and it does help with the chill. “I mean, really, thanks.”
“It’s no big deal,” Roger repeats as he sets the mug down on the coffee table with a bunch of other cups scattered over the top. “You looked like you were freezing last night, and I don’t use it anymore so someone should put it to use.”
“I was,” Mark admits, frowning behind the scarf. Not just last night, but every night for the last three months. Of course, with December it’s just getting worse. “Pretty cold, I mean. Thanks for, you know, the scarf, and letting me spend the night.”
“Well, you didn’t steal anything,” Roger says, smiling over at Mark, and he smiles back even if Roger can’t see it. “So if you ever need a place to stay…”
“I do!” Mark pipes up a little too quickly, probably, and he smiles apologetically behind the blue fabric wrapped around his mouth, helping to keep him warm. He wants to soak in it while he can. “I mean, thanks again,” he mutters, but Roger is already laughing at him. How many times is Mark going to make a fool of himself in front of this guy?
When Roger stops laughing, he turns a bit and grins brightly as Mark. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He has to ask, because he knows he must have missed that. No way Roger could mean okay as in it’s okay for Mark to stay. He hardly knows him, just found him in a back alley and then had Mark jump him the second they were inside. That is not good roommate etiquette.
“Okay,” Roger says again, chuckling under his breath, probably at how surprised Mark looks. “I mean, I have a roommate and I’ll have to ask her but, yeah, okay.”
“Okay,” Mark says again, a little breathless maybe but this is the first - no, third - good thing to happen to him since he came to New York, and they all have to do with Roger. “Okay,” he repeats again, because it still hasn’t really sunk in that someone would just take him off the street like that without even wanting anything from him.
“Okay.” Roger laughs again, ruffling up Mark’s hair and Mark doesn’t even mind. At least not for this time and maybe next time he’ll pull away or swat at Roger but for now everything is about as good as it can get. “Okay. Drink up, huh? It doesn’t stay warm forever.”
Mark smiles and does as he is told, finishing off his coffee. “Thanks,” he mutters again, smiling at Roger from other the side of the mug and holding the scarf tight in his hand. “Thanks again. This is… Just, thanks.” He sounds like a babbling idiot, and he doesn’t even worry about it.
“No big deal, it’s just a run down old building,” Roger points out, but he’s smiling as Mark thanks him obsessively. “I mean, it’s not even that warm and we don’t always have power, just so you’re-“
“It’s perfect,” Mark says quickly, beaming back at Roger. “I mean, this place is perfect. Just where an artist should live, you know?”
“You’re crazy,” Roger says, laughing and standing up, brushing himself off and going to grab another cup of coffee. “I’m glad I brought you home.”