RENT: Staring
May. 7th, 2007 05:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: Staring
Pairing/Characters: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1584
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger has a dead animal of some sort on his head. Mark and Roger get very drunk. Mark is horribly mean to Roger, and finds it far too amusing.
Notes: Declan!Roger and Harley!Mark, probably not too long before Rent takes place.
Disclaimer: I do not own Mark or Roger. Nor do I own Harley orbabycakes Declan. Believe me, if I did, you'd all know it by now.
Mark tried to resist actually saying the first comment that came to mind when he walked into the room and saw Roger. He really did, especially once he realized that was actually Roger's hair.
He tried, and failed, and gleefully gave in. "What died on your head?"
Roger reached up to run a hand carefully through his hair – what was left of it now. He'd buzzed it on both sides, leaving a strip in the middle that he'd spiked into a sort of mohawk. And bleached a diagonal stripe in it. "You don't like it?"
It looked like he'd dyed it while drunk. And actually, now that Mark thought about it... "Actually, no. It looks like a dead skunk. But I'm actually more concerned about the possibility that you've stolen all the alcohol."
Kicking the door shut, he studied Roger silently, trying to gauge whether or not his roommate really was drunk. But it was hard to tell with Roger just by looking – he didn't slur his words or anything, he just got a little quieter and languid, and these days "quiet" was the norm for Roger.
"I'm not drunk," Roger said, and then added defensively, "I like my hair."
Mark, firmly in the process of ignoring him, set his bag down by the door and walked to the fridge to yank it open. As he had feared, every form of alcohol they'd had in the fridge had disappeared in the time since Mark left the house that morning. He sighed and looked back at Roger, "You know, if you were gonna drink, you could've at least waited for me to get home. It's called sharing, man."
"I didn't drink all of it," Roger said, a bit too innocently, and Mark rolled his eyes as he walked to the couch to flop down beside Roger. As he did, he made a mental note not to be seen in public with him with that hair, if Roger ever saw fit to go out in public again.
"Sure, babycakes." Mark grinned at the face Roger made at that nickname, and made a mental note to use it more often, just to get him to make that face. "You took a break to do that to your hair, huh?"
"No, I did not." Roger sounded like he was trying to sound dignified and coming up just a few inches short. "I did the hair first."
"And had to drink to relieve the pain of looking at it afterwards?"
"Do you want any alcohol at all?" Roger asked. Mark decided that, for the moment, he could postpone the mockery – especially since Roger seemed almost as if he might be pulling out of that armor he'd built up over the past six months or so. Might as well not give him any reason to pull it back up.
Mark held out a hand, eyebrows raised. "Cough it up," he said, and grinned when Roger pulled the bottle out of its hiding place (between two pillows on the couch) and handed it over to him. "Thank you."
*
"You know," Mark said, eying Roger – or more specifically, Roger's hair – "it might look better if you didn't have just part of it blond. If you'd just left it, or dyed it all blond... Or another color."
"Like what?" Roger asked dubiously, and Mark considered him judiciously for a moment before answering.
"Blue."
"Blue?" Roger asks, and something about his tone, his accented voice, warmed Mark's stomach almost as much as the alcohol.
"Yeah. It'd bring out your eyes." It was funny how he could be drunk, know he was drunk, and know that every single word coming out of his mouth was stupid, an d not care. Part of it probably had to do with the fact that Roger was even less sober than he was, so it was pretty safe to say these things, but it still never failed to surprise him, the things that came out of his mouth when under the influence.
Roger twisted around on the couch so that he was half leaning against the arm of it, his legs stretched out over Mark's lap. "Yeah, well, the next time I do something to my hair, I'll clear it with you, alright?"
"That's all I'm asking," Mark answered, spreading his hands in a magnanimous gesture. A distant part of his brain announced that he really was drunk, and at a certain point he would need to stop talking. Most of his brain ignored that tiny part of it. After a moment, he shifted around as well, half-lying on Roger's chest, sprawled over him, and he barely fought back a smug smile at the slightly startled look in Roger's eyes. It was pretty when his eyes went all wide like that, and his alcohol-clouded brain was still telling him it'd look even prettier with blue hair.
He ran his fingers lightly through Roger's strip of hair – it was a little stiff from what Mark assumed was hair gel to keep it sticking up, but he wasn't so much paying attention to that as the way Roger's body stiffened and then relaxed, the way he leaned ever so slightly into Mark's hand. Mark ran his hand down from there to the buzzed hair on the side of Roger's head, soft and downy. Roger's eyes slid closed, his breathing hitched momentarily, and Mark smiled a little to himself. He really was... beautiful, prone like this, all stretched out and beneath him...
"I like your hair," he pronounced at last, firmly, and Roger's eyes flickered open. And he smiled, looking something like the gorgeous, devil-may-care rock star he used to be, and Mark realized that maybe it wasn't just the alcohol talking there, that maybe he'd actually meant what he said, and would still mean it when he sobered up.
And maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
*
Mark wasn't sure whether it was the remnants of alcohol in his system, the fact that he was half-asleep, or the fact that it was so damn dark that made it so difficult to get from his bedroom to the bathroom at two in the morning. All he wanted to do was take a piss.
"Huh," he muttered to himself under his breath. "It's dark in the middle of the night. Imagine that."
Still, he knew the layout of the loft. He ought to be able to make his way even in the dark, without running into any tables or couches or –
That thought process was abruptly interrupted as he ended up sprawled on the floor, foot smarting and his entire side aching from a sudden and unexpected collision with the very hard floor. He pushed himself up carefully, doing a quick survey to make sure he hadn't broken or seriously damaged anything, and then turned to see what the hell he had tripped over. Roger's guitar case. Go figure.
"Stupid thing, you were sitting there just to trip me, weren't you?" He kicked the thing resentfully – of course, with his injured foot, which only led to a stifled yelp as he jumped back, glowering at the guitar case through the dark. "Son of a–"
He cut himself off as he heard something more interesting than his argument with an inanimate object, soft gasping breaths and barely choked-back moans, and he decided to ignore the fact that everything still hurt in favor of this. Trying not to limp, he stepped carefully around the guitar case – as if it might jump out and attack him again if he weren't careful – and made his way to the door of Roger's room, leaning against the door frame where he could see in through the door that was just barely cracked open...
Dark as the room was, Mark could still see Roger on his bed, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, hand wrapped around his cock as he arched up into it, his breathing coming in soft, ragged gasps, and Mark had to remind himself to breathe. A part of him was satisfied just to watch, because the way he moved, the cadence of his breaths, the way he licked his lips every now and then, it was all so fucking beautiful in a way not purely aesthetic... The part of it that wasn't all aesthetic beauty was the part that compelled him to screw watching, push open the door and go in and fuck him into the mattress.
A soft moan sent a chill down Mark's spine, and he swallowed hard, fighting to remain still and silent. And then the moan turned to a word, a soft, hushed murmur of "Mark," and Mark jerked back out of sheer surprise, bumping the door in the process, making just enough noise to be noticed.
Roger sat bolt upright, yelping softly, "Mark!" He jerked the blankets over himself, and Mark fought back a twinge of disappointment.
"Uh, hi. I was just, uh... I didn't really mean to... I'm just going to..." He gave up trying to explain with fragmented sentences and a series of hopeless gestures, and quickly turned to walk back to his room, still barely remembering to breathe and the clear image of Roger still flashing just beneath his eyelids. He had the very definite feeling he wouldn't be sleeping for a long, long while. He didn't mind.
Pairing/Characters: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1584
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Roger has a dead animal of some sort on his head. Mark and Roger get very drunk. Mark is horribly mean to Roger, and finds it far too amusing.
Notes: Declan!Roger and Harley!Mark, probably not too long before Rent takes place.
Disclaimer: I do not own Mark or Roger. Nor do I own Harley or
Mark tried to resist actually saying the first comment that came to mind when he walked into the room and saw Roger. He really did, especially once he realized that was actually Roger's hair.
He tried, and failed, and gleefully gave in. "What died on your head?"
Roger reached up to run a hand carefully through his hair – what was left of it now. He'd buzzed it on both sides, leaving a strip in the middle that he'd spiked into a sort of mohawk. And bleached a diagonal stripe in it. "You don't like it?"
It looked like he'd dyed it while drunk. And actually, now that Mark thought about it... "Actually, no. It looks like a dead skunk. But I'm actually more concerned about the possibility that you've stolen all the alcohol."
Kicking the door shut, he studied Roger silently, trying to gauge whether or not his roommate really was drunk. But it was hard to tell with Roger just by looking – he didn't slur his words or anything, he just got a little quieter and languid, and these days "quiet" was the norm for Roger.
"I'm not drunk," Roger said, and then added defensively, "I like my hair."
Mark, firmly in the process of ignoring him, set his bag down by the door and walked to the fridge to yank it open. As he had feared, every form of alcohol they'd had in the fridge had disappeared in the time since Mark left the house that morning. He sighed and looked back at Roger, "You know, if you were gonna drink, you could've at least waited for me to get home. It's called sharing, man."
"I didn't drink all of it," Roger said, a bit too innocently, and Mark rolled his eyes as he walked to the couch to flop down beside Roger. As he did, he made a mental note not to be seen in public with him with that hair, if Roger ever saw fit to go out in public again.
"Sure, babycakes." Mark grinned at the face Roger made at that nickname, and made a mental note to use it more often, just to get him to make that face. "You took a break to do that to your hair, huh?"
"No, I did not." Roger sounded like he was trying to sound dignified and coming up just a few inches short. "I did the hair first."
"And had to drink to relieve the pain of looking at it afterwards?"
"Do you want any alcohol at all?" Roger asked. Mark decided that, for the moment, he could postpone the mockery – especially since Roger seemed almost as if he might be pulling out of that armor he'd built up over the past six months or so. Might as well not give him any reason to pull it back up.
Mark held out a hand, eyebrows raised. "Cough it up," he said, and grinned when Roger pulled the bottle out of its hiding place (between two pillows on the couch) and handed it over to him. "Thank you."
"You know," Mark said, eying Roger – or more specifically, Roger's hair – "it might look better if you didn't have just part of it blond. If you'd just left it, or dyed it all blond... Or another color."
"Like what?" Roger asked dubiously, and Mark considered him judiciously for a moment before answering.
"Blue."
"Blue?" Roger asks, and something about his tone, his accented voice, warmed Mark's stomach almost as much as the alcohol.
"Yeah. It'd bring out your eyes." It was funny how he could be drunk, know he was drunk, and know that every single word coming out of his mouth was stupid, an d not care. Part of it probably had to do with the fact that Roger was even less sober than he was, so it was pretty safe to say these things, but it still never failed to surprise him, the things that came out of his mouth when under the influence.
Roger twisted around on the couch so that he was half leaning against the arm of it, his legs stretched out over Mark's lap. "Yeah, well, the next time I do something to my hair, I'll clear it with you, alright?"
"That's all I'm asking," Mark answered, spreading his hands in a magnanimous gesture. A distant part of his brain announced that he really was drunk, and at a certain point he would need to stop talking. Most of his brain ignored that tiny part of it. After a moment, he shifted around as well, half-lying on Roger's chest, sprawled over him, and he barely fought back a smug smile at the slightly startled look in Roger's eyes. It was pretty when his eyes went all wide like that, and his alcohol-clouded brain was still telling him it'd look even prettier with blue hair.
He ran his fingers lightly through Roger's strip of hair – it was a little stiff from what Mark assumed was hair gel to keep it sticking up, but he wasn't so much paying attention to that as the way Roger's body stiffened and then relaxed, the way he leaned ever so slightly into Mark's hand. Mark ran his hand down from there to the buzzed hair on the side of Roger's head, soft and downy. Roger's eyes slid closed, his breathing hitched momentarily, and Mark smiled a little to himself. He really was... beautiful, prone like this, all stretched out and beneath him...
"I like your hair," he pronounced at last, firmly, and Roger's eyes flickered open. And he smiled, looking something like the gorgeous, devil-may-care rock star he used to be, and Mark realized that maybe it wasn't just the alcohol talking there, that maybe he'd actually meant what he said, and would still mean it when he sobered up.
And maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
Mark wasn't sure whether it was the remnants of alcohol in his system, the fact that he was half-asleep, or the fact that it was so damn dark that made it so difficult to get from his bedroom to the bathroom at two in the morning. All he wanted to do was take a piss.
"Huh," he muttered to himself under his breath. "It's dark in the middle of the night. Imagine that."
Still, he knew the layout of the loft. He ought to be able to make his way even in the dark, without running into any tables or couches or –
That thought process was abruptly interrupted as he ended up sprawled on the floor, foot smarting and his entire side aching from a sudden and unexpected collision with the very hard floor. He pushed himself up carefully, doing a quick survey to make sure he hadn't broken or seriously damaged anything, and then turned to see what the hell he had tripped over. Roger's guitar case. Go figure.
"Stupid thing, you were sitting there just to trip me, weren't you?" He kicked the thing resentfully – of course, with his injured foot, which only led to a stifled yelp as he jumped back, glowering at the guitar case through the dark. "Son of a–"
He cut himself off as he heard something more interesting than his argument with an inanimate object, soft gasping breaths and barely choked-back moans, and he decided to ignore the fact that everything still hurt in favor of this. Trying not to limp, he stepped carefully around the guitar case – as if it might jump out and attack him again if he weren't careful – and made his way to the door of Roger's room, leaning against the door frame where he could see in through the door that was just barely cracked open...
Dark as the room was, Mark could still see Roger on his bed, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, hand wrapped around his cock as he arched up into it, his breathing coming in soft, ragged gasps, and Mark had to remind himself to breathe. A part of him was satisfied just to watch, because the way he moved, the cadence of his breaths, the way he licked his lips every now and then, it was all so fucking beautiful in a way not purely aesthetic... The part of it that wasn't all aesthetic beauty was the part that compelled him to screw watching, push open the door and go in and fuck him into the mattress.
A soft moan sent a chill down Mark's spine, and he swallowed hard, fighting to remain still and silent. And then the moan turned to a word, a soft, hushed murmur of "Mark," and Mark jerked back out of sheer surprise, bumping the door in the process, making just enough noise to be noticed.
Roger sat bolt upright, yelping softly, "Mark!" He jerked the blankets over himself, and Mark fought back a twinge of disappointment.
"Uh, hi. I was just, uh... I didn't really mean to... I'm just going to..." He gave up trying to explain with fragmented sentences and a series of hopeless gestures, and quickly turned to walk back to his room, still barely remembering to breathe and the clear image of Roger still flashing just beneath his eyelids. He had the very definite feeling he wouldn't be sleeping for a long, long while. He didn't mind.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-24 07:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-07 06:18 am (UTC)