RENT: The Stories We Say (Chapter Seven)
Aug. 2nd, 2007 03:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: The Stories We Say
Chapter: 7/14
Pairing/Characters: Mark/Roger, Collins, Benny
Word Count: 1608
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Maybe it's love, maybe it's obsession - and maybe he wouldn't admit it if it were either - but Mark has to do something about it before he goes crazy.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rentchallenge speed challenge #21.
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
<< Previous Chapter
"Are you going out?"
Mark stops in the doorway and turns to raise an eyebrow at Benny, his expression momentarily blank. "Uh... yeah. Why?"
Benny shrugs and gestures to the window. "Well, it's raining pretty hard..."
"Yes, and if I were the Wicked Witch of the West, that would concern me. Since I'm not, I think I'll be fine. Anyway, I have work." He turns quickly and steps outside, pulling the door shut behind him and wondering why the hell Benny cares if he's going out in the rain or not...
It's not until he's halfway down the stairs that he realizes Benny might not have meant anything by it, that it might have just been an innocent question. Making conversation. It's a little late to take it back the sardonic retort now, though, so he continues down the stairs and out the door, sighing a little as he bows his head and steps out into the rain.
He used to have an umbrella, he could swear... Probably buried under one of the piles of crap scattered throughout the loft by now. Or maybe Roger'd taken it with him when he left. He discards that thought almost immediately, though, because Roger forgets to grab an umbrella or a coat when he's just going outside, let alone moving out...
He shouldn't be thinking about Roger at all, really, but as much as he invades his thoughts recently, he's given up. Not love, no. Not that Mark could even say what love feels like, but this isn't it. Obsession, maybe, but he'd never thought of himself as the type to get obsessed, and...
While his thoughts wander off, his feet carry him down one of the walkways in the park, not particularly caring of where he's going, nor of the rain now plastering his hair to his head, running down the back of his neck – he's wet already, a little more can't hurt – and maybe he's not exactly walking in the direction of the diner where he works, but he's not in a rush, he's got time...
There's a homeless man sitting on a bench, hunched into his coat against the rain, holding a sign that might say something about being a Vietnam veteran, maybe – it's hard to tell when the rain's made the ink seep into the cardboard. Passing by, Mark shoves his hand into his coat pocket on impulse, fishes out a couple quarters and drops them into the cup sitting beside the man on the bench. He nods at the murmured thanks and then turns away, his thoughts quickly turning back to questions of love and obsession, and does it really matter which, if the outcome's nearly the same?
Pathetic. Pathetic and useless, because he's gone now. Mark keeps his hands shoved into his pockets as he walks, out of the park, down the street, and he realizes he's heading in the exact opposite direction from work, but he doesn't care right now. They won't murder him for missing one day, and he'd rather wander about the city than serve food to cranky customers, some of whom would doubtless only be there to get out of the rain. Even if skipping a day means not being paid, means not necessarily eating tonight, means...
"Whatever," he murmurs, shaking his head, and keeps walking. He keeps walking until he realizes he's turned down Broadway and is walking south, in the direction of Roger's new apartment – because Roger had left a note on the table, with the address, just in case they needed to get hold of him, and somehow without trying to at all Mark has memorized it, and what the hell is he doing? Mark turns on his heel and begins walking the other way, taking several deep breaths, eyes on his feet. He's not obsessed or in love, damn it, but whatever the hell this is, it needs to stop, he needs to forget anything ever happened between him and Roger. If only he knew how to manage that.
*
When Mark gets home, he's cold, and wet, and feeling no better than he'd been feeling when he left the loft. It's irritating that the cold and rain don't even have anything to do with his mood, although they certainly aren't helping. He half slams the door closed behind him, stalking to the kitchen. Collins gives him one look, eyebrows raised, before shaking his head and looking away. Benny doesn't bother with such tact.
"What happened to you?"
Mark flips him off, strips off his coat with a grimace, the damp cloth of his shirt clinging to his body. "It's raining," he answers, dropping his coat carelessly on the counter before hunting through the cabinets. He's certain there's still a can of soup somewhere, and that should be warm enough to counteract some of the chill...
"Yeah, it's raining, but you look like a drowned rat," Benny says while Mark's still rooting through the cabinet. Locating a can of chicken soup in the back, Mark grabs it, straightens, and hefts the can so Benny can see it.
"You keep this up, and I will throw this at your head."
Collins makes a sound that's suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Benny just rolls his eyes, and after a second Mark gives up on being threatening, sets the can on the counter, and finds a can opener. He's silently debating what to do with the soup once he's heated it. On the one hand, eating it would warm him up. On the other, the idea of dumping hot soup on Benny's head is so very tempting.
"You need to get laid."
That suggestion earns him a glare, and a decision. The soup is now destined to become a weapon. "Yeah, and when's the last time you got laid, Benny?"
"Yesterday."
In the middle of prying off the lid of the soup can, Mark looks up sharply, and then hisses sharply as he manages to cut himself on the sharp edge of the lid. "Ow! What?"
"Yes, I am seeing someone. Don't have a heart attack or anything."
Mark mutters under his breath and dumps the soup into a container to heat it, trying to ignore the fact that his finger's bleeding, and then when it's still bleeding a minute later, grabbing a stray dishtowel to staunch the blood. He doesn't speak for a minute or two, then finally looks up at Collins. "And I suppose you're getting laid too, aren't you?"
Collins is momentarily silent before saying slowly, "You don't want me to answer that."
Mark drops the dishtowel on the counter, and his finger's still bleeding, but slowing, and he doesn't think they have bandaids anyway. "Am I the only one here not having sex?"
"Well," Collins begins, and then stops himself. Finally, he offers in a way Mark can tell isn't really meant to be helpful, "None of us are having sex right this instant."
Mark grumbles and frowns at the cut on his finger, watching as the blood wells up, and tries to pretend somehow that it's just about the sex.
*
Happiness shouldn't be a foreign feeling for Roger, but it almost is. Not quite, but so close the difference doesn't much matter, and that scares him a bit. He is happy, though, and that matters very much. Happy that the rain has stopped, happy on a leftover high from the show last night, most of all happy about April, and that she'd kissed him goodbye when she left, and pressed a piece of paper with her phone number into his hand.
So he's humming as he walks back home, smiling slightly to himself, gig bag with his guitar in it slung over his shoulder, wearing the same loose purple shirt and jeans he'd been wearing the night before, and God, happy... He heads up the stairs to Hunter's apartment when he reaches their building, taking them a little more slowly than he usually would because he's trying to fish the key out of his pants while being hampered by the gig bag and trying not to overbalance because of it, and his head's down as he reaches the top of the stairs. It's only as he turns down the narrow hallway and is almost at the door, and finds a man leaning against the wall beside the door, with a familiar slouch, wearing a familiar plaid coat.
Oh God.
"Roger," Mark says softly, pushing himself away from the wall.
Roger's frozen in place, staring at him. "What're you doing here? Is... is something wrong, or...?"
"No, that's not... I came to see you."
And then he's stepping forward and kissing him, and Roger closes his eyes immediately, and if he thought he was happy before, that was nothing compared to this. Underneath that happiness there's a jolt of fear – I can't leave you again, I can't do that to myself twice, please don't make me – but this feels too right, too close to perfect, to pay any heed to the fear. When Roger breaks the kiss, it's only so that he can unlock the door and pull Mark inside, and it's a damn good thing none of his roommates are home, because nothing's going to stop him from pushing Mark down on the couch right then and there, kissing and touching and feeling Mark's skin against his.
"I love you," he whispers, and for this instant, doesn't even care that Mark doesn't answer.
Next Chapter >>
Chapter: 7/14
Pairing/Characters: Mark/Roger, Collins, Benny
Word Count: 1608
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Maybe it's love, maybe it's obsession - and maybe he wouldn't admit it if it were either - but Mark has to do something about it before he goes crazy.
Notes: Written for
rentchallenge speed challenge #21.Disclaimer: I don't own Rent, Mark, Roger, April, Collins, Benny... any of them. If for some reason you thought that would have changed by now... well, it didn't.
<< Previous Chapter
"Are you going out?"
Mark stops in the doorway and turns to raise an eyebrow at Benny, his expression momentarily blank. "Uh... yeah. Why?"
Benny shrugs and gestures to the window. "Well, it's raining pretty hard..."
"Yes, and if I were the Wicked Witch of the West, that would concern me. Since I'm not, I think I'll be fine. Anyway, I have work." He turns quickly and steps outside, pulling the door shut behind him and wondering why the hell Benny cares if he's going out in the rain or not...
It's not until he's halfway down the stairs that he realizes Benny might not have meant anything by it, that it might have just been an innocent question. Making conversation. It's a little late to take it back the sardonic retort now, though, so he continues down the stairs and out the door, sighing a little as he bows his head and steps out into the rain.
He used to have an umbrella, he could swear... Probably buried under one of the piles of crap scattered throughout the loft by now. Or maybe Roger'd taken it with him when he left. He discards that thought almost immediately, though, because Roger forgets to grab an umbrella or a coat when he's just going outside, let alone moving out...
He shouldn't be thinking about Roger at all, really, but as much as he invades his thoughts recently, he's given up. Not love, no. Not that Mark could even say what love feels like, but this isn't it. Obsession, maybe, but he'd never thought of himself as the type to get obsessed, and...
While his thoughts wander off, his feet carry him down one of the walkways in the park, not particularly caring of where he's going, nor of the rain now plastering his hair to his head, running down the back of his neck – he's wet already, a little more can't hurt – and maybe he's not exactly walking in the direction of the diner where he works, but he's not in a rush, he's got time...
There's a homeless man sitting on a bench, hunched into his coat against the rain, holding a sign that might say something about being a Vietnam veteran, maybe – it's hard to tell when the rain's made the ink seep into the cardboard. Passing by, Mark shoves his hand into his coat pocket on impulse, fishes out a couple quarters and drops them into the cup sitting beside the man on the bench. He nods at the murmured thanks and then turns away, his thoughts quickly turning back to questions of love and obsession, and does it really matter which, if the outcome's nearly the same?
Pathetic. Pathetic and useless, because he's gone now. Mark keeps his hands shoved into his pockets as he walks, out of the park, down the street, and he realizes he's heading in the exact opposite direction from work, but he doesn't care right now. They won't murder him for missing one day, and he'd rather wander about the city than serve food to cranky customers, some of whom would doubtless only be there to get out of the rain. Even if skipping a day means not being paid, means not necessarily eating tonight, means...
"Whatever," he murmurs, shaking his head, and keeps walking. He keeps walking until he realizes he's turned down Broadway and is walking south, in the direction of Roger's new apartment – because Roger had left a note on the table, with the address, just in case they needed to get hold of him, and somehow without trying to at all Mark has memorized it, and what the hell is he doing? Mark turns on his heel and begins walking the other way, taking several deep breaths, eyes on his feet. He's not obsessed or in love, damn it, but whatever the hell this is, it needs to stop, he needs to forget anything ever happened between him and Roger. If only he knew how to manage that.
When Mark gets home, he's cold, and wet, and feeling no better than he'd been feeling when he left the loft. It's irritating that the cold and rain don't even have anything to do with his mood, although they certainly aren't helping. He half slams the door closed behind him, stalking to the kitchen. Collins gives him one look, eyebrows raised, before shaking his head and looking away. Benny doesn't bother with such tact.
"What happened to you?"
Mark flips him off, strips off his coat with a grimace, the damp cloth of his shirt clinging to his body. "It's raining," he answers, dropping his coat carelessly on the counter before hunting through the cabinets. He's certain there's still a can of soup somewhere, and that should be warm enough to counteract some of the chill...
"Yeah, it's raining, but you look like a drowned rat," Benny says while Mark's still rooting through the cabinet. Locating a can of chicken soup in the back, Mark grabs it, straightens, and hefts the can so Benny can see it.
"You keep this up, and I will throw this at your head."
Collins makes a sound that's suspiciously like suppressed laughter. Benny just rolls his eyes, and after a second Mark gives up on being threatening, sets the can on the counter, and finds a can opener. He's silently debating what to do with the soup once he's heated it. On the one hand, eating it would warm him up. On the other, the idea of dumping hot soup on Benny's head is so very tempting.
"You need to get laid."
That suggestion earns him a glare, and a decision. The soup is now destined to become a weapon. "Yeah, and when's the last time you got laid, Benny?"
"Yesterday."
In the middle of prying off the lid of the soup can, Mark looks up sharply, and then hisses sharply as he manages to cut himself on the sharp edge of the lid. "Ow! What?"
"Yes, I am seeing someone. Don't have a heart attack or anything."
Mark mutters under his breath and dumps the soup into a container to heat it, trying to ignore the fact that his finger's bleeding, and then when it's still bleeding a minute later, grabbing a stray dishtowel to staunch the blood. He doesn't speak for a minute or two, then finally looks up at Collins. "And I suppose you're getting laid too, aren't you?"
Collins is momentarily silent before saying slowly, "You don't want me to answer that."
Mark drops the dishtowel on the counter, and his finger's still bleeding, but slowing, and he doesn't think they have bandaids anyway. "Am I the only one here not having sex?"
"Well," Collins begins, and then stops himself. Finally, he offers in a way Mark can tell isn't really meant to be helpful, "None of us are having sex right this instant."
Mark grumbles and frowns at the cut on his finger, watching as the blood wells up, and tries to pretend somehow that it's just about the sex.
Happiness shouldn't be a foreign feeling for Roger, but it almost is. Not quite, but so close the difference doesn't much matter, and that scares him a bit. He is happy, though, and that matters very much. Happy that the rain has stopped, happy on a leftover high from the show last night, most of all happy about April, and that she'd kissed him goodbye when she left, and pressed a piece of paper with her phone number into his hand.
So he's humming as he walks back home, smiling slightly to himself, gig bag with his guitar in it slung over his shoulder, wearing the same loose purple shirt and jeans he'd been wearing the night before, and God, happy... He heads up the stairs to Hunter's apartment when he reaches their building, taking them a little more slowly than he usually would because he's trying to fish the key out of his pants while being hampered by the gig bag and trying not to overbalance because of it, and his head's down as he reaches the top of the stairs. It's only as he turns down the narrow hallway and is almost at the door, and finds a man leaning against the wall beside the door, with a familiar slouch, wearing a familiar plaid coat.
Oh God.
"Roger," Mark says softly, pushing himself away from the wall.
Roger's frozen in place, staring at him. "What're you doing here? Is... is something wrong, or...?"
"No, that's not... I came to see you."
And then he's stepping forward and kissing him, and Roger closes his eyes immediately, and if he thought he was happy before, that was nothing compared to this. Underneath that happiness there's a jolt of fear – I can't leave you again, I can't do that to myself twice, please don't make me – but this feels too right, too close to perfect, to pay any heed to the fear. When Roger breaks the kiss, it's only so that he can unlock the door and pull Mark inside, and it's a damn good thing none of his roommates are home, because nothing's going to stop him from pushing Mark down on the couch right then and there, kissing and touching and feeling Mark's skin against his.
"I love you," he whispers, and for this instant, doesn't even care that Mark doesn't answer.
Next Chapter >>