RENT: To Finish Our Story
Nov. 25th, 2007 05:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
find_rightbrainTitle: To Finish Our Story
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1236
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Last kisses, last words and something of a happy ending.
Notes: The sequel to The Stories We Say, started for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rentchallenge weekly challenge #19 and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
emilystarr1's birthday.
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.
The last time Mark kissed Roger, it wasn't even a real kiss - he just has a tendency to call it that, because it's the closest he ever gets these days. A drunken kiss on the lips on Roger's birthday, celebrated alone because Mimi was gone and everyone else busy with their own lives, and Mark only had the courage to do it because he was drunk. But no, that wasn't the last time. The last time he kissed him was after Mimi died, gentle and careful, once on the forehead and once on the lips, the most chaste any kiss of theirs had ever been, almost a benediction. Or...
It's useless trying to remember when their last kiss was, and Mark knows this, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He turns the scenes over and over again in his head, imaging each in crystal clear, all too sharp detail, kisses both stolen and those allowed, drunken and playful and bittersweet.
His mind then rolls further back, to kisses deeper and hungrier, paired with hands roaming over willing bodies, soft moans into each other's mouths. Back all the way to the first kiss, hesitant and fumbling, when he could almost taste Roger's fear, when he decided it couldn't hurt, just this once.
Thinking of that, remembering that, there is inevitably one of two outcomes. Either he ends up curled in bed, hugging his pillow, wishing it were Roger, or he goes out to some club, gets drunk, goes home with some stranger who's pale and blond and has a pretty smile.
Very nearly inevitably, he chooses the second option.
*
"Where were you last night?" Roger asks, and Mark can't tell if he really cares or if he's just asking to be polite. He does an awful lot of that lately, asking to be polite, which to Mark seems deeply wrong. He'd think he earned more than that over the years, all he'd done for him...
Then again, maybe not, with all he'd done to him.
"Out," he says as he closes the door behind him. Out in some stranger's apartment in Tribeca, more than a little drunk, getting fucked so hard it still hurts, and he doesn't even remember the guy's name because that wasn't the name he'd been saying anyway.
He doesn't actually have to say the words for them to be heard. Roger knows, and Mark can see it in the way he ducks his head wordlessly, eyes on the floor. Mark stands there awkwardly for a moment, and then walks by Roger to the kitchen, ruffling his hair as he passes. "You make coffee?"
"It's probably cold now," Roger mutters, smoothing his hair, and Mark shrugs.
"That's what the hotplate's for." Maybe caffeinated, the world will look a little brighter.
"Yeah," Roger says quietly, not exactly looking at him - he's developed this way of studying Mark out of the corner of his eye, that he probably thinks Mark doesn't notice. Checking for bruises, maybe, or hickeys or whatever the hell else.
He all but slams the coffee onto the hotplate, wincing a little at the sound that results. He hadn't meant that,not exactly, but it feels good. Roger doesn't have any right to be jealous. He was the one to turn his back when Mark finally found the words he'd needed to say.
"If you're upset with me now," Mark mutters under his breath, "you can bite me."
"What?" Roger asks, and now he turns to look at him.
"Nothing."
*
The last time Mark said "love" and meant it was also the first time. That one time, he meant it in a way that he couldn't match now if he tried. It had hurt enough the first time, and he's fairly certain that if he ever tried to say it again, the word alone would tear his heart free of its moorings, cast it onto the floor where Roger could crush it to nothing, with the same achingly indifferent expression he'd worn that first time he turned away.
Still, despite all of that, he can't help but consider it from time to time, because maybe it would be worth it anyway. Maybe if he said it, it would hurt but that would serve as some kind of blood price to bring Roger back to him. Maybe that's what it takes.
Then he looks at Roger, paler and older, but still so young in Mark's eyes, the lines and hardness to his face that weren't there before, the anger that never quite went away after April's death (except it stems from before then, Mark knows and never quite dares admit it), and he knows one word can't possibly resurrect what crashed and burned ages ago.
*
"Are you going out tonight?" Roger asks, his voice a little too soft to be properly heard, but he asks this question every other night, so he doesn't have to be heard for Mark to know what he's saying.
"Yeah," Mark says shortly. "Just kind of... restless, you know?"
"Yeah." Roger nods, prodding absently at his microwaved macaroni and cheese that's gotten cold and sticky by now, and looking at it turns his stomach. But looking at his disgusting microwave dinner means he doesn't have to look at Mark, and that makes him slightly more nauseous, knowing where he's going. Not exactly where, but he's got a good enough guess that the specifics don't matter. Knowing what he'll be doing all night long, and it's sick and dangerous and...
"Don't wake me up when you get home," he says, trying to make it sound light and joking. It just comes out bitter, with the knowledge that Mark won't be home until early in the morning. Either Mark doesn't notice that edge to his voice, or he's very good at pretending he doesn't. Roger knows Mark, and he's fairly certain it's the latter.
"I won't," Mark promises with a bit of a smile, and grabs his wallet as he heads for the door. Roger wonders absently if there's actually any money in there, or if he just keeps condoms in there or something. Or maybe he's too much of an idiot to use them, or... No, he'd know better than that, but even then, with a different guy every night...
He doesn't know why he's torturing himself, thinking about this. He also can't seem to make himself stop. Roger's still and silent as the door closes - Mark makes a point of closing the door carefully, so Roger can't think he slammed it - and he stares at it for a long time after it's closed.
This is just loneliness. Loneliness and nostalgia, that's all it is, this hunger and longing in the pit of his stomach, the empty ache in his heart. Except that Roger doesn't believe in explaining things away like that, he knows love is love is love is love is love. He knows it doesn't go away, not with him, no matter how much time has passed.
He misses being able to say it, not caring whether or not Mark would say it back. He closes his eyes, draws a breath. He knows of only two ways to get rid of that aching, empty feeling. One is no longer an option for him.
Characters/Pairing: Mark/Roger
Word Count: 1236
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Last kisses, last words and something of a happy ending.
Notes: The sequel to The Stories We Say, started for
rentchallenge weekly challenge #19 and emilystarr1's birthday.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.
The last time Mark kissed Roger, it wasn't even a real kiss - he just has a tendency to call it that, because it's the closest he ever gets these days. A drunken kiss on the lips on Roger's birthday, celebrated alone because Mimi was gone and everyone else busy with their own lives, and Mark only had the courage to do it because he was drunk. But no, that wasn't the last time. The last time he kissed him was after Mimi died, gentle and careful, once on the forehead and once on the lips, the most chaste any kiss of theirs had ever been, almost a benediction. Or...
It's useless trying to remember when their last kiss was, and Mark knows this, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He turns the scenes over and over again in his head, imaging each in crystal clear, all too sharp detail, kisses both stolen and those allowed, drunken and playful and bittersweet.
His mind then rolls further back, to kisses deeper and hungrier, paired with hands roaming over willing bodies, soft moans into each other's mouths. Back all the way to the first kiss, hesitant and fumbling, when he could almost taste Roger's fear, when he decided it couldn't hurt, just this once.
Thinking of that, remembering that, there is inevitably one of two outcomes. Either he ends up curled in bed, hugging his pillow, wishing it were Roger, or he goes out to some club, gets drunk, goes home with some stranger who's pale and blond and has a pretty smile.
Very nearly inevitably, he chooses the second option.
"Where were you last night?" Roger asks, and Mark can't tell if he really cares or if he's just asking to be polite. He does an awful lot of that lately, asking to be polite, which to Mark seems deeply wrong. He'd think he earned more than that over the years, all he'd done for him...
Then again, maybe not, with all he'd done to him.
"Out," he says as he closes the door behind him. Out in some stranger's apartment in Tribeca, more than a little drunk, getting fucked so hard it still hurts, and he doesn't even remember the guy's name because that wasn't the name he'd been saying anyway.
He doesn't actually have to say the words for them to be heard. Roger knows, and Mark can see it in the way he ducks his head wordlessly, eyes on the floor. Mark stands there awkwardly for a moment, and then walks by Roger to the kitchen, ruffling his hair as he passes. "You make coffee?"
"It's probably cold now," Roger mutters, smoothing his hair, and Mark shrugs.
"That's what the hotplate's for." Maybe caffeinated, the world will look a little brighter.
"Yeah," Roger says quietly, not exactly looking at him - he's developed this way of studying Mark out of the corner of his eye, that he probably thinks Mark doesn't notice. Checking for bruises, maybe, or hickeys or whatever the hell else.
He all but slams the coffee onto the hotplate, wincing a little at the sound that results. He hadn't meant that,not exactly, but it feels good. Roger doesn't have any right to be jealous. He was the one to turn his back when Mark finally found the words he'd needed to say.
"If you're upset with me now," Mark mutters under his breath, "you can bite me."
"What?" Roger asks, and now he turns to look at him.
"Nothing."
The last time Mark said "love" and meant it was also the first time. That one time, he meant it in a way that he couldn't match now if he tried. It had hurt enough the first time, and he's fairly certain that if he ever tried to say it again, the word alone would tear his heart free of its moorings, cast it onto the floor where Roger could crush it to nothing, with the same achingly indifferent expression he'd worn that first time he turned away.
Still, despite all of that, he can't help but consider it from time to time, because maybe it would be worth it anyway. Maybe if he said it, it would hurt but that would serve as some kind of blood price to bring Roger back to him. Maybe that's what it takes.
Then he looks at Roger, paler and older, but still so young in Mark's eyes, the lines and hardness to his face that weren't there before, the anger that never quite went away after April's death (except it stems from before then, Mark knows and never quite dares admit it), and he knows one word can't possibly resurrect what crashed and burned ages ago.
"Are you going out tonight?" Roger asks, his voice a little too soft to be properly heard, but he asks this question every other night, so he doesn't have to be heard for Mark to know what he's saying.
"Yeah," Mark says shortly. "Just kind of... restless, you know?"
"Yeah." Roger nods, prodding absently at his microwaved macaroni and cheese that's gotten cold and sticky by now, and looking at it turns his stomach. But looking at his disgusting microwave dinner means he doesn't have to look at Mark, and that makes him slightly more nauseous, knowing where he's going. Not exactly where, but he's got a good enough guess that the specifics don't matter. Knowing what he'll be doing all night long, and it's sick and dangerous and...
"Don't wake me up when you get home," he says, trying to make it sound light and joking. It just comes out bitter, with the knowledge that Mark won't be home until early in the morning. Either Mark doesn't notice that edge to his voice, or he's very good at pretending he doesn't. Roger knows Mark, and he's fairly certain it's the latter.
"I won't," Mark promises with a bit of a smile, and grabs his wallet as he heads for the door. Roger wonders absently if there's actually any money in there, or if he just keeps condoms in there or something. Or maybe he's too much of an idiot to use them, or... No, he'd know better than that, but even then, with a different guy every night...
He doesn't know why he's torturing himself, thinking about this. He also can't seem to make himself stop. Roger's still and silent as the door closes - Mark makes a point of closing the door carefully, so Roger can't think he slammed it - and he stares at it for a long time after it's closed.
This is just loneliness. Loneliness and nostalgia, that's all it is, this hunger and longing in the pit of his stomach, the empty ache in his heart. Except that Roger doesn't believe in explaining things away like that, he knows love is love is love is love is love. He knows it doesn't go away, not with him, no matter how much time has passed.
He misses being able to say it, not caring whether or not Mark would say it back. He closes his eyes, draws a breath. He knows of only two ways to get rid of that aching, empty feeling. One is no longer an option for him.