Fic: On The Friendship & Sex... (Chapter 4: Jealousy & Drinks)
Author: Mina (Gildedmuse)
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: Four: Jealousy & Drinks
Pairings: Mark/Roger, Mark/Roger/OMC
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 12,260 (no... seriously)
Warnings: Look, just.... don't read this if you don't know what anal beads are, Okay?
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that. Final chapter in the four part Sex Life of Mark and Roger series.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First Times & Blow Jobs, Two: Fucking & Fucking Up, Three: Scripts & Sickness, Four: Jealousy & Drinks, Five: Blindness & Bondage
Crossposted: fuckingartists,rentcubed,below14thstreet,2leather2dildos
On Reflection of the Friendship and Sex (but mainly sex) of Mark and Roger
Chapter Four: Jealousy, BDSM, and Utter Stupidity
Mark forgot how loud these places could get.
Don't be an ass, he thinks to himself as he hides out in the back of the dark club, scrunched up against a wall to keep safe from the crowd. He's here for Roger, not because of some driving need to lose his hearing. He shouldn't be acting like such an asshole, almost forcing Maureen to drag him out of the loft in the first place. Shouldn't it be Roger being forced out of the loft kicking and screaming? When did Mark become the recluse? Well, the loft recluse, anyway, disregarding any time spent behind his camera.
This is important to Roger. This means so much to Roger. This is Roger's gift to Mimi, what he promised he'd give her. This is somewhere Mark really doesn't want to be, standing in the back of a small local bar that smells like pot and beer, watching Roger set his guitar up on stage. No band to back him up, just a lonely front man and his fender.
It isn't exactly the best image, seeing your friend up on stage alone, spot light concentrating fully on him as he tunes and plugs everything into place, the crowd gathered at the stage, drinking and laughing and waiting. It seems wrong, to see him alone so quickly, but Mark knows that isn't quite true. He's singing for Mimi, about Mimi, thinking of her and still has her in some ways. Like Collins still has Angel, still visits her and talks with her and gets this look on his face when he remembers her. She is still there for him, like Mimi is still with Roger. It's just as real as Joanne and Maureen, holding each other at the bar as they order their drinks. Mark doesn't think he can take it.
Don't be an asshole, he thinks again, taking a deep breath as he goes to get a drink. Because alcohol will go so well with his current mood.
It isn't that he isn't happy for Roger. Fuck, it's his friend's first show onstage in... God, it feels like forever. Since before April's death, which seems to Mark to be where this whole mess began, and he can hardly even think of a time before that. Mark wants to be here for Roger and watch him perform again and it's worth more now than it ever was before when the money went to heroin. This show is purer. This show is for Mimi, and Roger needs this or else he might crash again. Like he did after he lost April.
Still... Mark looks down at his beer, frowning at it like somehow it can answer why he's in such a bad mood. Why he doesn't want to be here, out with his friends and the people that mean more to him than, well, than his own family. Looking for answers in alcoholic drinks is never a good idea. Mark should know better, but instead he just finishes the beer as quickly as he can.
"He looks hot like that," Maureen says next to him, snuggling into Joanne's arms as they watch Roger set up. Mark looks up at stage and Roger as he flutters around. He's got this wide-eyed look, brushing too much at his hair and jumping over wires. He's nervous. Mark's known him for years, and he can tell when he's nervous.
Not just because this is his first gig in a while, but because this is his first show in forever where he hadn't shot up before he'd gone on. Mark knows, because he watched him all day yesterday. Maybe he should feel bad about that, having to keep an eye on his friend because he didn't trust him enough not to slip back into old habits, but after Mimi's death, Roger seemed unpredictable and on edge. He'd go from his usual moodiness, sitting in his room staring at the wall without a word to radically excited about this show, unable to say anything that didn't relate to music or getting this gig so that he could sing for Mimi. Mark just had to be sure.
"I hope you mean because of the lights," Joanne says, smiling at Maureen as she gives her a gentle nudge, and Maureen laughs, leaning back into Joanne. They're like one fucking body with two heads and four arms and, well, one giant glob of girl.
Mark looks back to the new beer in his hand. He isn't that drunk, is he? That he just thought that?
Shaking his head, he starts on the next drink. This just seems like the obvious, easy thing to do. "I didn't mean like that," Maureen says, voice somehow clearer to Mark than everyone else around them. He is pretty sure that is more of an effect of being pathetic even two years after she broke up with him than the alcohol. "I mean, look at him. He looks good onstage."
Mark almost chokes on his beer, raising and eyebrow as he looks back to Maureen. Isn't she supposed to be a lesbian? And, yeah, Roger does look natural with a guitar in his hand and that worried smile on his face that makes you want to jump him, but Mark gets that feeling a lot anyway. The point is, isn't the whole her being gay thing why she left him? And now she is saying that Roger looks hot? He keeps staring, but she doesn't see him, too busy playing around with Joanne to notice him. Then it hits him, why he's in such a bad mood even when he should be supportive for his best friend, whose life is falling apart and who needs him right now when all Mark can do is be a brat and sulk in the background.
Mark is jealous.
He doesn't think this is a beer-induced serendipity, but in case it is he grabs another one. He doesn't want to lose the thought, and if it's right than he's probably going to need a few strong drinks. It makes sense though, that Mark is jealous. Not just of Roger, who seems to have found this great muse in Mimi that he can hold onto even now. Not just of Maureen, who finally found someone she can stay with, someone who pointedly isn't Mark. Just of everyone. Of all his friends, everyone who has someone to love and someone who stays around no matter what.
Fuck, he's even jealous of Benny and Muffy.
When did this get so bad? When did Mark seriously start to notice that he has no one? Not like Collins and Roger and Maureen and Benny have someone. Mark is just alone, slumped over the bar with a beer in hand. Or, more commonly, tracking through the streets with his camera, capturing everyone else's life as they spend it together.
Beer must make him especially morose and poetic, Mark thinks as these thoughts all flitter through his mind. So he downs another one, because, yeah, that will really help.
He's jolted out of all those thoughts when Maureen reaches over to tug at his shirt. "You coming?" She asks, and Mark just notices now that Roger is standing up at the microphone, and Maureen and Joanne seem to be walking up front to get a better look at him.
Mark glances to Roger, then back to his drink. "Yeah, in a second," he promises. Maureen actually looks worried, and maybe Mark should take that as a sign that he is in serious trouble, that Maureen can sincerely look worried about him. She doesn't say anything to him, and that should really tip him off. But he just keeps sulking over his beer as Maureen nods and walks away to join Joanne.
Just this one more, he thinks, and then he'll go up with Joanne and Maureen. He'll watch his best friend play and he'll cheer him on, and when he comes off stage Mark will tell him how Mimi would have loved it. He just needs one last beer, and he'll be able to pull that one off.
Roger's voice, dark and soft as it flows through the club, starts in over the static. Mark doesn't look over at him, keeping his eyes down on the bottle in his hand. It just seems like the easiest place to look as Roger pours his heart out. It's an over-used phrase, but it's the only way to describe what he's doing. Songs that he wrote for Mimi. Songs about her and love and sickness and all those things that compose his life. What else can you call that, but pouring your heart out?
Even though Roger tried to keep the songs from everyone until today, Mark already knows the damn lyrics. He had been there, taping the story. Of course he knows it when he hears it. About Mimi and the drugs, all the things Roger fought against to be with her. Yeah, he's already got that on film. He doesn't need Roger's voice to remind him what they've been through. Maybe it would make a nice soundtrack though, for the movie.
That last thought... That is what really tips Mark off that he's been drinking way too much.
Well, that and the sudden feeling that he's going to puke.
"Fuck." Pushing away from the bar, Mark stumbles out of his seat and rushes for the door. Or at least tries to, but everything is blurred around the edges and moving around way too much. Mark hasn't ever been much of a drinker, and lately it isn't like they could afford it. So maybe blowing some of Collins' money on five beers right in a row had been a shit plan.
Fuck, where the hell do they keep the exit and who put this fucking club on spin?
This isn't good, Mark's head is telling him and, yeah, that should be obvious by the way he can't quite step straight. He manages to get out of the club, though, stumbling out the door and heading straight into the alley. Despite the fact that he's in a dark alley, fingers scratching against the wall as he leans up, alcohol pushing back up from his stomach, he doesn't immediately think of how dangerous this is or how stupid he is for drinking so much. Enough that he's barely able to stand and is shaking as he throws up in a back alley. Hardly the signs of a good decision.
He thinks, fuck, he used all his money on beer. He can't afford to get back in the club to see Roger's last bit of the show. His roommate is going to kill him.
"Fuck!" That isn't for missing the show. That's for the knee that hits him in the back, sending Mark straight into the wall and shit. Someone is behind him, rifling through his pockets and saying... something. Mark can't hear. His vision blanks out for a moment and all the noise of New York fades to a dull thud.
That's his heart, beating in his ears. Vomit trickles down his chin and something else. Something warmer. Blood.
"... Money..." The words flitter in somehow, and Mark isn't even quite sure he's heard it. He's still pressed to the cold bricks, dizzy and trembling, unsure how he's keeping himself up except the guy that is holding him in place. Hand meant to hurt as they plunder through. "...fag... give..." Mark closes his eyes, trying to put it together. Blood loss and alcohol aren't helping.
"...fuck..." Blood in his mouth, down to his shirt. Still shaking, can't feel the hand the guy has pinned back, twisting his wrist hard. Then, again, he's slammed into the wall, and Mark breaks the haze that has settled over him as he screams out.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Do something. Fight back. Get in a punch at least. The knee moves away from his back and Mark falls straight to the ground. Hands still grope at his pockets, searching for a wallet that Mark knows he won't find. He's going to die, that flashes through his brain. He wants to hit back, only he can hardly move at all.
The world keeps spinning and going to black and over him the guy is growling, saying something that Mark can't hear. He opens his mouth and blood pours in and he starts to choke, body still rejecting the pure alcoholic contents in his stomach. Another punch to the gut and the blood spews everywhere as Mark coughs, rolls onto his side to get away. Fuck, he's broke. He wants to tell the guy but he can't move at all. He can't see, can't get his arms to work.
Fade to black, and the last thought Mark manages to have around the pain and panic is that, fuck, his mom was right about New York. It really would end up killing him.
*
"Are you sure?"
He has fingers. That's good. He can feel them twitching. For whatever reason, Mark thinks that this is a definite good thing. That he has fingers. That he can sort of twitch them. Just sort of.
"For the last time, I'm sure. He doesn't need a fucking doctor."
His hand. He can feel his whole hand. A kind of tingling, vague sort of ache and twisting pain, almost, but he can feel it at least. That is still good though, right? Right. It's better than not feeling it at all, which is something Mark vaguely remembers as being bad. So, good that he can feel it even if it hurts a little.
"Roger, think about this for a second. We don't even know what happened."
Voices. Talking about... Well, he doesn't know that yet and it doesn't seem as important as being able to feel his hand. But, he can hear them and if he listens close enough - Fuck, that stings like all fucking hell. Oh, shit, that needs to stop. God, what the hell is that and why is it doing that to his skull? Is that his head? Oh, God. It's his head. Fuck, make that stop. Nothing should feel that bad. It feels like his brain is trying to break out of his eyes. Why the hell does it hurt like that? Fuck. Is he dying? He better not be dying.
"He got mugged. It happens. We can take care of it."
Roger is going to be so pissed if he is dying.
"Rog, maybe if you-"
Roger. That's... Not Roger, but he's here. That makes Mark feel better some how, because he'd been worried about... Missing Roger? Missing his show, right? Why are his thoughts all jumbled like that? Fuck. Okay. Name? Mark. Age? 24. How many fingers? He's not holding up fingers. Well, maybe that's a good thing. How many beers did he have last night?
Oh, shit. Last night. The show and drinking and alleyway with the vomit and blood, unable to move or feel his hand and now he's... Back in bed?
"Shut up, Maureen. He doesn't need a goddamn doctor."
Mark is sick of lying back, listening to Roger, Joanne, and Maureen talk about someone he is pretty sure is him. He plans on sitting up, telling them all to shut the fuck up at least until the beating in his head goes down. Only when he starts to push himself up he realizes how fucked up his body feels at the moment.
He manages maybe an inch before groaning and falling back onto the bed. That is all it takes to get everyone's attention.
"Mark!" Mark can feel Maureen's hand across his forehead, her nails barely brushing at the skin and that always perfectly dramatic tone of hers. So even though he can't see her, he knows she is there, stroking his hair. "Mark, baby, are you okay?"
As far as stupid questions go, that one is up there. He feels like he's about to die from the way his brain is beating at his skull, and she goes and asks him that? "I have a headache," he explains, moaning again when his voice scratches at his throat. Fuck, even talking sort of hurts.
"Well," she says, tapping against his head. Why the fuck would she do that? "You did drink a whole lot."
He could always count on her, at least, to state the absolute obvious. "Also, I think I might be blind."
"You're not blind, you just have a hangover," Maureen says, and she still sounds like she's arguing with Roger. She shouldn't be screaming like that. Or maybe she isn't screaming, but it certainly rings out in Mark's head. "Can you go blind from drinking?" she asks Joanne, and Mark is pretty sure she's attempting a whisper but he can hear every little cell pulsing in his head, so he hears her loud and, well, as close to clear as anything can get right now.
"I said blind," he corrects, hand rubbing at his temple as he tries to open his eyes. Fuck, way too bright to do that. He hardly cracks them open and it's like the sun is burning out his pupils. "Not deaf, Maureen."
"You can't go blind from drinking," Joanne says, and at least she sounds sensible if not just as loud as everyone else. Do they have to shout like that? Mark is in pain and couldn't they shut the hell up for a while? "He hasn't opened his eyes yet."
"Tried that," Mark explains in as soft a tone as he can so he doesn't upset his head more. Honestly, it just sounds pathetic. "Didn't work."
He can feel Joanne and Maureen sitting beside him, but he can't find Roger. Not with his eyes closed, at least, and that is how he plans on staying for at least a while longer. Mark knows he is there, but he certainly isn't that close.
"What the hell was that?"
Okay, there he is and, fuck, could he try not yelling when Mark is in this much pain? The way his head is aching right now, Roger's low growl might as well be a blow horn in his ear. With a sort of groan-grunt mix, Mark pushes himself onto his elbows and - shit, fucking hell that burns - opens his eyes to look at Roger. He has to squint to try and fight back the light, and mostly Roger is just a blur, but he can almost sort of see him, pacing at the foot of the bed like mad.
"What?" Mark grumbles, voice sounding dangerously scratched up. It hurts, too, like the fucking light that is burning through his eyes. Fuck, that drinking thing had been a really nasty idea. Being thrown into a wall and beaten up probably hadn't helped.
"What the fuck were-"
"Leave him alone, Roger." That is Joanne, using her toughest lawyer voice and Mark imagines he can see her - that if he could see more than colors and hazy shapes - glaring at Roger. With his current vision, it's hard to tell. He does watch Roger stop pacing, though, standing still for a few seconds before marching back out of the room.
Maureen sighs, her hand stroking his hair as she pushes him back in bed. He's in enough pain that he doesn't try to argue, just lets her tuck him back in. "Ignore him, pookie. He's being an asshole."
Mark has the feeling he missed something while he was out, but neither Maureen nor Joanne seems apt to tell him, and Mark doesn't want to fuss about shit like that right now. He just wants to carve a hole in his skull and hope that helps. But because it's his best friend, Mark feels required to at least ask, "What's going on with Roger?"
"Oh, you know," Maureen says, and Mark has to close his eyes again. He can either sort of see, or else he can listen to her voice but doing both hurts way too much. "He's upset that you missed his show." Mark knows that is complete shit, but he can hardly think right now without feeling ready to vomit much less actually argue with Maureen over this, so he just accepts her answer. "I think we were all... surprised, you know? That kind of stuff, that isn't like you."
If Mark were conscious enough, he'd probably demand to know what is like him? The goofy best friend, the bad lover, the guy in the background with his camera? None of those guys can get drunk every now and then and sulk at their best friend's show. None of those guys can just be in one little relationship that doesn't end with the guy's girlfriend committing suicide or his own girlfriend becoming a lesbian? Mark has plenty of reasons to get drunk ever now and then, so what does that mean that it isn't like him?
The guy he is now is so alone that he can't even be with his friends without alcohol in the mix, or else he'll just end up standing in the back with nothing to say. Personally, Mark thinks as he tries to go to sleep and die for a while until the pain has settled down, he is fucking sick of being himself.
*
Mark is sick of being himself. That is the one thought that manages to stay in his aching head, haunting him a lot like that damn alcohol he drank way too much of. When he finally managed to crawl out of bed - and fuck that stings and shit, it hurts it hurts it, screw this... No, gotta pee enough to get up - even then it's in his mind. Eating away at some part of him, just to drive him insane maybe. Like it knows he had plenty to think about already, and then it comes up with something new just to really get under his skin.
He has plenty to deal without the new dose of self-hatred. He's got Roger to look after, Maureen to comfort when she gets into a fight with Joanne, Collins to call to make sure he's doing okay, his film to finish, his mom to ignore. There is just so much going on in his life, and it's no wonder he wants an escape. Still, he doesn't really have time.
So in the end, Mark really has no fucking clue how he ends up at this club.
It's loud. Of course it is loud. Some band is on stage screaming at him. They're not like Roger, whose guitar can get a little too noisy sometimes. They're actually yelling at the people, and the crowd around the stage seems to be enjoying it.
Mark should probably get out of here and get back to the real world, where random guys on the subway who smell like three week old fish yell at you. Not in some club where he is paying to be screamed at. Then again, he came all the way here. Made up lies about filming just so he could shed off a layer of himself. One thing that he never liked about himself is that he's never gone to get someone. Roger fell in his bed. Maureen came up to him. If Mark is so sick of being alone, he has to be the one to do something about it, damnit!
With some newfound resolve, he looks out over the dance floor to the crowd of people huddled around the stage. Just go and ask someone to dance or something. He can do that. Just that the band is so loud, and still screaming. He probably needs a drink to deal with that kind of music.
Turning around, Mark falls into one of the stools by the bar. Shit, this is just like two weeks ago. Is he really giving up so soon? He doesn't want to get drunk and end up puking in the back alley while getting the shit beat out of him. He wants to get laid. It's New York in the nineties and everyone is over sex and isolated and looking for someone to cling onto, right? So how hard can it be, finding someone as lonely as he is and convincing her to come back home with him? Roger must have done it a thousand times back when Mark sort of almost knew him in high school. He could pull it once.
Mark is slipping back into his private misery when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Almost jumping, he looks up to see a cute girl with strawberry colored hair and a huge smile looming over him. "Hey there," she says in a voice that could probably crack glass. Or maybe Mark is just too use to Roger's low, soft sound and that's why high-pitched vocal chords on this chick make his eyes twitch. Still, it isn't like she isn't cute. A little skinny, a little too covered in make up, but cute.
Or, well.... Mark is beyond being picky. His last girlfriend is now dating a black lesbian lawyer. Anything is a step up from Maureen, right?
This cute girl sits next to him, batting her eyes, which appear to have a mountain of blue pasted on. It doesn't matter. Mark is determined to be with someone, even if they apparently spent more on one face full of make up than he did on food for the last year. This isn't about finding the perfect someone; Mark has given up on that high school type quest. This is just about being close to someone, about not being so alone and everything else he can look past. "Buy me a drink?"
"Oh, umm..." Mark frowns, fingers tapping against the bar as he tries to pick out the best way to say this. "I, uh... I don't really have any money on me." Well, he had money, but he planned on buying himself a beer, and that was about all he could afford.
In a flash the cute little smile on the girl's face is gone. She rolls her eyes, like he's done something inherently wrong in not having cash on him, and leaves. Just like that, without even another word. Mark frowns, watching her going and not caring enough to call her back. His standards are low, yeah, but not quite that low.
"Well, she's a bitch." Mark looks up, glancing a few seats down the bar where a young guy is sitting, beaming at him. He has that same smile that Roger use to have, the one where his lips wrinkle up the corner of his eyes, and that hint of mischief that Roger had picked up from April is already there. "So, you came to the bar, skipped the dancing and obviously want to get drunk, but you have no cash?"
"Oh, well," Mark is about to explain that he has enough for one beer, and that he had planned on dancing he just got a little freaked out by all the screaming. He doesn't get a chance when the guy calls over the bar tender, and just like that Mark has a beer in front of him. He looks down at it, a little shocked over what had happened. He isn't use to getting things from free. "You didn't..."
"It's fine," the guy says, still smiling as he moves down to bar and closer to Mark. "Always nice to have someone to drink with." Mark nods, taking a slow sip and looking over to this guy. He thinks he knows what is going on, but really why would anyone try and hit on him? Well, other than Maureen and Roger and time kind of showed how well those worked out.
"Look I..." Mark stops. First, he's going to seem like an asshole if he thinks this guy is hitting on him and he isn't, he's just being nice. On second thought, someone just randomly being nice in New York City seems about as likely to Mark as the guy actually trying to come onto him, so it's about an even chance of improbability.
If he is, though, if he's actually for whatever reason interested in Mark is he really going to turn this guy down? He was willing to go out with that girl a few minutes ago, and she looked like she was made of plastic. So he'll say no now just because the guy has a penis. It isn't like he's never gone there before. Hell, he distinctly remembers going there and liking it.
He just is so sick of having nothing but his film, and he doesn't get to be picky right now. Anyone as lonely as he is will do. Start the line, New York. He knows someone out there has to feel as pathetically isolated as he does, and if it happens to be this nice guy who stole Roger's old smile, than he'll take it.
"Don't worry about it. I'm Evan." The guy is still grinning, holding a hand out for Mark.
He takes it, moving closer. It's just a brush of contact, but it's a start. It's been forever since he's even touched someone other than his group of friends. "Mark."
"So," Evan says, letting go of Mark's hand after a long pause where either of them could move away and neither of them does. So maybe Evan is just as needy for someone as Mark is, and this makes him feel better somehow. Knowing he isn't the only one out there in desperate need of some contact. "You know," he mutters, head cocked to the side and his face has this serious sort of look on it. Like he's looking through Mark. "You have the coloring of someone who's drowned."
"What?" Fuck, please don't say that a serial murder is hitting on him. The scary thing is, Mark isn't even sure that matters at this point.
Evan at least looks horribly upset about the comment. "Nothing. Sorry. Bad joke from work. So, uh, you came to the bar without money," he repeats, quick to change subject. For some reason, that makes Mark feel a little better. "What are you doing here?"
"Umm..." Mark frowns and stares down at the bottle in his hand, not sure what he wants to say to Evan. Something clever that will get Evan to like him would be nice, but Mark just can't think that clearly with the smoke and the screaming from the band. So he goes with sincere instead. "I'm sick of being the only guy I know without someone, and I haven't had sex in about... two years, I think, and I'm desperate."
Mark gets the impression that he has some how managed to fuck up less than five minutes after meeting Evan. He's giving him this look, almost wide eyed and without a smile. He isn't backing up slowly either, so that could be a good sign. "Well..." His look breaks, and Evan laughs. Not as pleasant as Roger's voice, but it's reliving to hear. "That's a good goal."
"One drink doesn't usually make me so honest," Mark says, because that seemed to impress Evan just a little and maybe Mark can be witty for a little while longer before that crashes down around him. He can be like that in groups with his friends, goofy and fun and all. How is it so different using it to impress a guy? "What about you?"
"I'm usually a touchy drunk," Evan says with that warm smile of his. "And, well, I guess I came here because... It's a bar, and I need that."
"Just needed to get drunk?" Mark can understand that. It didn't end up so well for him the last time he tried, but he can understand it.
"Just needed to be touchy," Evan says with another laugh and a sort of careless shrug, as if conversation bordering on flirting comes so naturally to him. "You ever felt like that?"
Fuck, that is why Mark is here. He knew, in that intellectual way, that in this day and age with the technology and the movement and everything around them, everyone feels alienated just a little bit. Still, when all his friends seem to have someone - or had someone - Mark had been starting to feel like maybe it isn't a universal problem. Maybe it's just him. As horrible as it is, it feels fucking good to know that someone else is just as miserable.
"I get that," he says, nodding and taking another sip of his beer. He moves closer and Evan moves closer, and it just works out. "Yeah, definitely get that."
Title: On The Friendship & Sexual Relations (Mostly The Sex) Of Mark J. Cohen & Roger M. Davis
Chapter: Four: Jealousy & Drinks
Pairings: Mark/Roger, Mark/Roger/OMC
Rating: Nc-17
Word Count: 12,260 (no... seriously)
Warnings: Look, just.... don't read this if you don't know what anal beads are, Okay?
Summary: Lots of people know they're friends, of course, but no one really thinks of all the sex that when into that. Final chapter in the four part Sex Life of Mark and Roger series.
Additional Chapters: Additional Chapters: One: First Times & Blow Jobs, Two: Fucking & Fucking Up, Three: Scripts & Sickness, Four: Jealousy & Drinks, Five: Blindness & Bondage
Crossposted: fuckingartists,rentcubed,below14thstreet,2leather2dildos
On Reflection of the Friendship and Sex (but mainly sex) of Mark and Roger
Chapter Four: Jealousy, BDSM, and Utter Stupidity
Mark forgot how loud these places could get.
Don't be an ass, he thinks to himself as he hides out in the back of the dark club, scrunched up against a wall to keep safe from the crowd. He's here for Roger, not because of some driving need to lose his hearing. He shouldn't be acting like such an asshole, almost forcing Maureen to drag him out of the loft in the first place. Shouldn't it be Roger being forced out of the loft kicking and screaming? When did Mark become the recluse? Well, the loft recluse, anyway, disregarding any time spent behind his camera.
This is important to Roger. This means so much to Roger. This is Roger's gift to Mimi, what he promised he'd give her. This is somewhere Mark really doesn't want to be, standing in the back of a small local bar that smells like pot and beer, watching Roger set his guitar up on stage. No band to back him up, just a lonely front man and his fender.
It isn't exactly the best image, seeing your friend up on stage alone, spot light concentrating fully on him as he tunes and plugs everything into place, the crowd gathered at the stage, drinking and laughing and waiting. It seems wrong, to see him alone so quickly, but Mark knows that isn't quite true. He's singing for Mimi, about Mimi, thinking of her and still has her in some ways. Like Collins still has Angel, still visits her and talks with her and gets this look on his face when he remembers her. She is still there for him, like Mimi is still with Roger. It's just as real as Joanne and Maureen, holding each other at the bar as they order their drinks. Mark doesn't think he can take it.
Don't be an asshole, he thinks again, taking a deep breath as he goes to get a drink. Because alcohol will go so well with his current mood.
It isn't that he isn't happy for Roger. Fuck, it's his friend's first show onstage in... God, it feels like forever. Since before April's death, which seems to Mark to be where this whole mess began, and he can hardly even think of a time before that. Mark wants to be here for Roger and watch him perform again and it's worth more now than it ever was before when the money went to heroin. This show is purer. This show is for Mimi, and Roger needs this or else he might crash again. Like he did after he lost April.
Still... Mark looks down at his beer, frowning at it like somehow it can answer why he's in such a bad mood. Why he doesn't want to be here, out with his friends and the people that mean more to him than, well, than his own family. Looking for answers in alcoholic drinks is never a good idea. Mark should know better, but instead he just finishes the beer as quickly as he can.
"He looks hot like that," Maureen says next to him, snuggling into Joanne's arms as they watch Roger set up. Mark looks up at stage and Roger as he flutters around. He's got this wide-eyed look, brushing too much at his hair and jumping over wires. He's nervous. Mark's known him for years, and he can tell when he's nervous.
Not just because this is his first gig in a while, but because this is his first show in forever where he hadn't shot up before he'd gone on. Mark knows, because he watched him all day yesterday. Maybe he should feel bad about that, having to keep an eye on his friend because he didn't trust him enough not to slip back into old habits, but after Mimi's death, Roger seemed unpredictable and on edge. He'd go from his usual moodiness, sitting in his room staring at the wall without a word to radically excited about this show, unable to say anything that didn't relate to music or getting this gig so that he could sing for Mimi. Mark just had to be sure.
"I hope you mean because of the lights," Joanne says, smiling at Maureen as she gives her a gentle nudge, and Maureen laughs, leaning back into Joanne. They're like one fucking body with two heads and four arms and, well, one giant glob of girl.
Mark looks back to the new beer in his hand. He isn't that drunk, is he? That he just thought that?
Shaking his head, he starts on the next drink. This just seems like the obvious, easy thing to do. "I didn't mean like that," Maureen says, voice somehow clearer to Mark than everyone else around them. He is pretty sure that is more of an effect of being pathetic even two years after she broke up with him than the alcohol. "I mean, look at him. He looks good onstage."
Mark almost chokes on his beer, raising and eyebrow as he looks back to Maureen. Isn't she supposed to be a lesbian? And, yeah, Roger does look natural with a guitar in his hand and that worried smile on his face that makes you want to jump him, but Mark gets that feeling a lot anyway. The point is, isn't the whole her being gay thing why she left him? And now she is saying that Roger looks hot? He keeps staring, but she doesn't see him, too busy playing around with Joanne to notice him. Then it hits him, why he's in such a bad mood even when he should be supportive for his best friend, whose life is falling apart and who needs him right now when all Mark can do is be a brat and sulk in the background.
Mark is jealous.
He doesn't think this is a beer-induced serendipity, but in case it is he grabs another one. He doesn't want to lose the thought, and if it's right than he's probably going to need a few strong drinks. It makes sense though, that Mark is jealous. Not just of Roger, who seems to have found this great muse in Mimi that he can hold onto even now. Not just of Maureen, who finally found someone she can stay with, someone who pointedly isn't Mark. Just of everyone. Of all his friends, everyone who has someone to love and someone who stays around no matter what.
Fuck, he's even jealous of Benny and Muffy.
When did this get so bad? When did Mark seriously start to notice that he has no one? Not like Collins and Roger and Maureen and Benny have someone. Mark is just alone, slumped over the bar with a beer in hand. Or, more commonly, tracking through the streets with his camera, capturing everyone else's life as they spend it together.
Beer must make him especially morose and poetic, Mark thinks as these thoughts all flitter through his mind. So he downs another one, because, yeah, that will really help.
He's jolted out of all those thoughts when Maureen reaches over to tug at his shirt. "You coming?" She asks, and Mark just notices now that Roger is standing up at the microphone, and Maureen and Joanne seem to be walking up front to get a better look at him.
Mark glances to Roger, then back to his drink. "Yeah, in a second," he promises. Maureen actually looks worried, and maybe Mark should take that as a sign that he is in serious trouble, that Maureen can sincerely look worried about him. She doesn't say anything to him, and that should really tip him off. But he just keeps sulking over his beer as Maureen nods and walks away to join Joanne.
Just this one more, he thinks, and then he'll go up with Joanne and Maureen. He'll watch his best friend play and he'll cheer him on, and when he comes off stage Mark will tell him how Mimi would have loved it. He just needs one last beer, and he'll be able to pull that one off.
Roger's voice, dark and soft as it flows through the club, starts in over the static. Mark doesn't look over at him, keeping his eyes down on the bottle in his hand. It just seems like the easiest place to look as Roger pours his heart out. It's an over-used phrase, but it's the only way to describe what he's doing. Songs that he wrote for Mimi. Songs about her and love and sickness and all those things that compose his life. What else can you call that, but pouring your heart out?
Even though Roger tried to keep the songs from everyone until today, Mark already knows the damn lyrics. He had been there, taping the story. Of course he knows it when he hears it. About Mimi and the drugs, all the things Roger fought against to be with her. Yeah, he's already got that on film. He doesn't need Roger's voice to remind him what they've been through. Maybe it would make a nice soundtrack though, for the movie.
That last thought... That is what really tips Mark off that he's been drinking way too much.
Well, that and the sudden feeling that he's going to puke.
"Fuck." Pushing away from the bar, Mark stumbles out of his seat and rushes for the door. Or at least tries to, but everything is blurred around the edges and moving around way too much. Mark hasn't ever been much of a drinker, and lately it isn't like they could afford it. So maybe blowing some of Collins' money on five beers right in a row had been a shit plan.
Fuck, where the hell do they keep the exit and who put this fucking club on spin?
This isn't good, Mark's head is telling him and, yeah, that should be obvious by the way he can't quite step straight. He manages to get out of the club, though, stumbling out the door and heading straight into the alley. Despite the fact that he's in a dark alley, fingers scratching against the wall as he leans up, alcohol pushing back up from his stomach, he doesn't immediately think of how dangerous this is or how stupid he is for drinking so much. Enough that he's barely able to stand and is shaking as he throws up in a back alley. Hardly the signs of a good decision.
He thinks, fuck, he used all his money on beer. He can't afford to get back in the club to see Roger's last bit of the show. His roommate is going to kill him.
"Fuck!" That isn't for missing the show. That's for the knee that hits him in the back, sending Mark straight into the wall and shit. Someone is behind him, rifling through his pockets and saying... something. Mark can't hear. His vision blanks out for a moment and all the noise of New York fades to a dull thud.
That's his heart, beating in his ears. Vomit trickles down his chin and something else. Something warmer. Blood.
"... Money..." The words flitter in somehow, and Mark isn't even quite sure he's heard it. He's still pressed to the cold bricks, dizzy and trembling, unsure how he's keeping himself up except the guy that is holding him in place. Hand meant to hurt as they plunder through. "...fag... give..." Mark closes his eyes, trying to put it together. Blood loss and alcohol aren't helping.
"...fuck..." Blood in his mouth, down to his shirt. Still shaking, can't feel the hand the guy has pinned back, twisting his wrist hard. Then, again, he's slammed into the wall, and Mark breaks the haze that has settled over him as he screams out.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Do something. Fight back. Get in a punch at least. The knee moves away from his back and Mark falls straight to the ground. Hands still grope at his pockets, searching for a wallet that Mark knows he won't find. He's going to die, that flashes through his brain. He wants to hit back, only he can hardly move at all.
The world keeps spinning and going to black and over him the guy is growling, saying something that Mark can't hear. He opens his mouth and blood pours in and he starts to choke, body still rejecting the pure alcoholic contents in his stomach. Another punch to the gut and the blood spews everywhere as Mark coughs, rolls onto his side to get away. Fuck, he's broke. He wants to tell the guy but he can't move at all. He can't see, can't get his arms to work.
Fade to black, and the last thought Mark manages to have around the pain and panic is that, fuck, his mom was right about New York. It really would end up killing him.
*
"Are you sure?"
He has fingers. That's good. He can feel them twitching. For whatever reason, Mark thinks that this is a definite good thing. That he has fingers. That he can sort of twitch them. Just sort of.
"For the last time, I'm sure. He doesn't need a fucking doctor."
His hand. He can feel his whole hand. A kind of tingling, vague sort of ache and twisting pain, almost, but he can feel it at least. That is still good though, right? Right. It's better than not feeling it at all, which is something Mark vaguely remembers as being bad. So, good that he can feel it even if it hurts a little.
"Roger, think about this for a second. We don't even know what happened."
Voices. Talking about... Well, he doesn't know that yet and it doesn't seem as important as being able to feel his hand. But, he can hear them and if he listens close enough - Fuck, that stings like all fucking hell. Oh, shit, that needs to stop. God, what the hell is that and why is it doing that to his skull? Is that his head? Oh, God. It's his head. Fuck, make that stop. Nothing should feel that bad. It feels like his brain is trying to break out of his eyes. Why the hell does it hurt like that? Fuck. Is he dying? He better not be dying.
"He got mugged. It happens. We can take care of it."
Roger is going to be so pissed if he is dying.
"Rog, maybe if you-"
Roger. That's... Not Roger, but he's here. That makes Mark feel better some how, because he'd been worried about... Missing Roger? Missing his show, right? Why are his thoughts all jumbled like that? Fuck. Okay. Name? Mark. Age? 24. How many fingers? He's not holding up fingers. Well, maybe that's a good thing. How many beers did he have last night?
Oh, shit. Last night. The show and drinking and alleyway with the vomit and blood, unable to move or feel his hand and now he's... Back in bed?
"Shut up, Maureen. He doesn't need a goddamn doctor."
Mark is sick of lying back, listening to Roger, Joanne, and Maureen talk about someone he is pretty sure is him. He plans on sitting up, telling them all to shut the fuck up at least until the beating in his head goes down. Only when he starts to push himself up he realizes how fucked up his body feels at the moment.
He manages maybe an inch before groaning and falling back onto the bed. That is all it takes to get everyone's attention.
"Mark!" Mark can feel Maureen's hand across his forehead, her nails barely brushing at the skin and that always perfectly dramatic tone of hers. So even though he can't see her, he knows she is there, stroking his hair. "Mark, baby, are you okay?"
As far as stupid questions go, that one is up there. He feels like he's about to die from the way his brain is beating at his skull, and she goes and asks him that? "I have a headache," he explains, moaning again when his voice scratches at his throat. Fuck, even talking sort of hurts.
"Well," she says, tapping against his head. Why the fuck would she do that? "You did drink a whole lot."
He could always count on her, at least, to state the absolute obvious. "Also, I think I might be blind."
"You're not blind, you just have a hangover," Maureen says, and she still sounds like she's arguing with Roger. She shouldn't be screaming like that. Or maybe she isn't screaming, but it certainly rings out in Mark's head. "Can you go blind from drinking?" she asks Joanne, and Mark is pretty sure she's attempting a whisper but he can hear every little cell pulsing in his head, so he hears her loud and, well, as close to clear as anything can get right now.
"I said blind," he corrects, hand rubbing at his temple as he tries to open his eyes. Fuck, way too bright to do that. He hardly cracks them open and it's like the sun is burning out his pupils. "Not deaf, Maureen."
"You can't go blind from drinking," Joanne says, and at least she sounds sensible if not just as loud as everyone else. Do they have to shout like that? Mark is in pain and couldn't they shut the hell up for a while? "He hasn't opened his eyes yet."
"Tried that," Mark explains in as soft a tone as he can so he doesn't upset his head more. Honestly, it just sounds pathetic. "Didn't work."
He can feel Joanne and Maureen sitting beside him, but he can't find Roger. Not with his eyes closed, at least, and that is how he plans on staying for at least a while longer. Mark knows he is there, but he certainly isn't that close.
"What the hell was that?"
Okay, there he is and, fuck, could he try not yelling when Mark is in this much pain? The way his head is aching right now, Roger's low growl might as well be a blow horn in his ear. With a sort of groan-grunt mix, Mark pushes himself onto his elbows and - shit, fucking hell that burns - opens his eyes to look at Roger. He has to squint to try and fight back the light, and mostly Roger is just a blur, but he can almost sort of see him, pacing at the foot of the bed like mad.
"What?" Mark grumbles, voice sounding dangerously scratched up. It hurts, too, like the fucking light that is burning through his eyes. Fuck, that drinking thing had been a really nasty idea. Being thrown into a wall and beaten up probably hadn't helped.
"What the fuck were-"
"Leave him alone, Roger." That is Joanne, using her toughest lawyer voice and Mark imagines he can see her - that if he could see more than colors and hazy shapes - glaring at Roger. With his current vision, it's hard to tell. He does watch Roger stop pacing, though, standing still for a few seconds before marching back out of the room.
Maureen sighs, her hand stroking his hair as she pushes him back in bed. He's in enough pain that he doesn't try to argue, just lets her tuck him back in. "Ignore him, pookie. He's being an asshole."
Mark has the feeling he missed something while he was out, but neither Maureen nor Joanne seems apt to tell him, and Mark doesn't want to fuss about shit like that right now. He just wants to carve a hole in his skull and hope that helps. But because it's his best friend, Mark feels required to at least ask, "What's going on with Roger?"
"Oh, you know," Maureen says, and Mark has to close his eyes again. He can either sort of see, or else he can listen to her voice but doing both hurts way too much. "He's upset that you missed his show." Mark knows that is complete shit, but he can hardly think right now without feeling ready to vomit much less actually argue with Maureen over this, so he just accepts her answer. "I think we were all... surprised, you know? That kind of stuff, that isn't like you."
If Mark were conscious enough, he'd probably demand to know what is like him? The goofy best friend, the bad lover, the guy in the background with his camera? None of those guys can get drunk every now and then and sulk at their best friend's show. None of those guys can just be in one little relationship that doesn't end with the guy's girlfriend committing suicide or his own girlfriend becoming a lesbian? Mark has plenty of reasons to get drunk ever now and then, so what does that mean that it isn't like him?
The guy he is now is so alone that he can't even be with his friends without alcohol in the mix, or else he'll just end up standing in the back with nothing to say. Personally, Mark thinks as he tries to go to sleep and die for a while until the pain has settled down, he is fucking sick of being himself.
*
Mark is sick of being himself. That is the one thought that manages to stay in his aching head, haunting him a lot like that damn alcohol he drank way too much of. When he finally managed to crawl out of bed - and fuck that stings and shit, it hurts it hurts it, screw this... No, gotta pee enough to get up - even then it's in his mind. Eating away at some part of him, just to drive him insane maybe. Like it knows he had plenty to think about already, and then it comes up with something new just to really get under his skin.
He has plenty to deal without the new dose of self-hatred. He's got Roger to look after, Maureen to comfort when she gets into a fight with Joanne, Collins to call to make sure he's doing okay, his film to finish, his mom to ignore. There is just so much going on in his life, and it's no wonder he wants an escape. Still, he doesn't really have time.
So in the end, Mark really has no fucking clue how he ends up at this club.
It's loud. Of course it is loud. Some band is on stage screaming at him. They're not like Roger, whose guitar can get a little too noisy sometimes. They're actually yelling at the people, and the crowd around the stage seems to be enjoying it.
Mark should probably get out of here and get back to the real world, where random guys on the subway who smell like three week old fish yell at you. Not in some club where he is paying to be screamed at. Then again, he came all the way here. Made up lies about filming just so he could shed off a layer of himself. One thing that he never liked about himself is that he's never gone to get someone. Roger fell in his bed. Maureen came up to him. If Mark is so sick of being alone, he has to be the one to do something about it, damnit!
With some newfound resolve, he looks out over the dance floor to the crowd of people huddled around the stage. Just go and ask someone to dance or something. He can do that. Just that the band is so loud, and still screaming. He probably needs a drink to deal with that kind of music.
Turning around, Mark falls into one of the stools by the bar. Shit, this is just like two weeks ago. Is he really giving up so soon? He doesn't want to get drunk and end up puking in the back alley while getting the shit beat out of him. He wants to get laid. It's New York in the nineties and everyone is over sex and isolated and looking for someone to cling onto, right? So how hard can it be, finding someone as lonely as he is and convincing her to come back home with him? Roger must have done it a thousand times back when Mark sort of almost knew him in high school. He could pull it once.
Mark is slipping back into his private misery when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Almost jumping, he looks up to see a cute girl with strawberry colored hair and a huge smile looming over him. "Hey there," she says in a voice that could probably crack glass. Or maybe Mark is just too use to Roger's low, soft sound and that's why high-pitched vocal chords on this chick make his eyes twitch. Still, it isn't like she isn't cute. A little skinny, a little too covered in make up, but cute.
Or, well.... Mark is beyond being picky. His last girlfriend is now dating a black lesbian lawyer. Anything is a step up from Maureen, right?
This cute girl sits next to him, batting her eyes, which appear to have a mountain of blue pasted on. It doesn't matter. Mark is determined to be with someone, even if they apparently spent more on one face full of make up than he did on food for the last year. This isn't about finding the perfect someone; Mark has given up on that high school type quest. This is just about being close to someone, about not being so alone and everything else he can look past. "Buy me a drink?"
"Oh, umm..." Mark frowns, fingers tapping against the bar as he tries to pick out the best way to say this. "I, uh... I don't really have any money on me." Well, he had money, but he planned on buying himself a beer, and that was about all he could afford.
In a flash the cute little smile on the girl's face is gone. She rolls her eyes, like he's done something inherently wrong in not having cash on him, and leaves. Just like that, without even another word. Mark frowns, watching her going and not caring enough to call her back. His standards are low, yeah, but not quite that low.
"Well, she's a bitch." Mark looks up, glancing a few seats down the bar where a young guy is sitting, beaming at him. He has that same smile that Roger use to have, the one where his lips wrinkle up the corner of his eyes, and that hint of mischief that Roger had picked up from April is already there. "So, you came to the bar, skipped the dancing and obviously want to get drunk, but you have no cash?"
"Oh, well," Mark is about to explain that he has enough for one beer, and that he had planned on dancing he just got a little freaked out by all the screaming. He doesn't get a chance when the guy calls over the bar tender, and just like that Mark has a beer in front of him. He looks down at it, a little shocked over what had happened. He isn't use to getting things from free. "You didn't..."
"It's fine," the guy says, still smiling as he moves down to bar and closer to Mark. "Always nice to have someone to drink with." Mark nods, taking a slow sip and looking over to this guy. He thinks he knows what is going on, but really why would anyone try and hit on him? Well, other than Maureen and Roger and time kind of showed how well those worked out.
"Look I..." Mark stops. First, he's going to seem like an asshole if he thinks this guy is hitting on him and he isn't, he's just being nice. On second thought, someone just randomly being nice in New York City seems about as likely to Mark as the guy actually trying to come onto him, so it's about an even chance of improbability.
If he is, though, if he's actually for whatever reason interested in Mark is he really going to turn this guy down? He was willing to go out with that girl a few minutes ago, and she looked like she was made of plastic. So he'll say no now just because the guy has a penis. It isn't like he's never gone there before. Hell, he distinctly remembers going there and liking it.
He just is so sick of having nothing but his film, and he doesn't get to be picky right now. Anyone as lonely as he is will do. Start the line, New York. He knows someone out there has to feel as pathetically isolated as he does, and if it happens to be this nice guy who stole Roger's old smile, than he'll take it.
"Don't worry about it. I'm Evan." The guy is still grinning, holding a hand out for Mark.
He takes it, moving closer. It's just a brush of contact, but it's a start. It's been forever since he's even touched someone other than his group of friends. "Mark."
"So," Evan says, letting go of Mark's hand after a long pause where either of them could move away and neither of them does. So maybe Evan is just as needy for someone as Mark is, and this makes him feel better somehow. Knowing he isn't the only one out there in desperate need of some contact. "You know," he mutters, head cocked to the side and his face has this serious sort of look on it. Like he's looking through Mark. "You have the coloring of someone who's drowned."
"What?" Fuck, please don't say that a serial murder is hitting on him. The scary thing is, Mark isn't even sure that matters at this point.
Evan at least looks horribly upset about the comment. "Nothing. Sorry. Bad joke from work. So, uh, you came to the bar without money," he repeats, quick to change subject. For some reason, that makes Mark feel a little better. "What are you doing here?"
"Umm..." Mark frowns and stares down at the bottle in his hand, not sure what he wants to say to Evan. Something clever that will get Evan to like him would be nice, but Mark just can't think that clearly with the smoke and the screaming from the band. So he goes with sincere instead. "I'm sick of being the only guy I know without someone, and I haven't had sex in about... two years, I think, and I'm desperate."
Mark gets the impression that he has some how managed to fuck up less than five minutes after meeting Evan. He's giving him this look, almost wide eyed and without a smile. He isn't backing up slowly either, so that could be a good sign. "Well..." His look breaks, and Evan laughs. Not as pleasant as Roger's voice, but it's reliving to hear. "That's a good goal."
"One drink doesn't usually make me so honest," Mark says, because that seemed to impress Evan just a little and maybe Mark can be witty for a little while longer before that crashes down around him. He can be like that in groups with his friends, goofy and fun and all. How is it so different using it to impress a guy? "What about you?"
"I'm usually a touchy drunk," Evan says with that warm smile of his. "And, well, I guess I came here because... It's a bar, and I need that."
"Just needed to get drunk?" Mark can understand that. It didn't end up so well for him the last time he tried, but he can understand it.
"Just needed to be touchy," Evan says with another laugh and a sort of careless shrug, as if conversation bordering on flirting comes so naturally to him. "You ever felt like that?"
Fuck, that is why Mark is here. He knew, in that intellectual way, that in this day and age with the technology and the movement and everything around them, everyone feels alienated just a little bit. Still, when all his friends seem to have someone - or had someone - Mark had been starting to feel like maybe it isn't a universal problem. Maybe it's just him. As horrible as it is, it feels fucking good to know that someone else is just as miserable.
"I get that," he says, nodding and taking another sip of his beer. He moves closer and Evan moves closer, and it just works out. "Yeah, definitely get that."