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perpetual_motionTitle: Into the Next Moment
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: RENT
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG
Summary: After the second New Year.
Dis: Not mine. Lied.
Author’s Notes: RENT-fic. It was only a matter of time. Do enjoy.
Into the Next Moment
By Perpetual Motion
It takes a month before Mimi stumbles into the apartment with glazed eyes and a needle buried at the bottom of her purse. It takes all of four minutes for Roger to go from caring and quiet to angry and yelling. Mimi yells back, and neither of them notice Mark setting up the camera in the corner. The way they move, the way they poke at each other, it’s a dance in Mark’s lens, and he has to have it recorded for later. What he’ll use it for, he’s not sure, but he knows he has to have it.
Mimi storms out after twenty-three minutes and a round of name-calling that gets Roger slapped across the face. She leaves her purse in a puddled heap by the run down couch Mark and Roger found on trash day. It smells like vinegar and feet, but the blanket they threw over it smells like Mark’s mom’s fabric softener, so it’s not so bad. Roger collapses on the couch, grabs the purse, and hurls it across the room. The contents go flying when the purse hits the wall, and Mark gets the whole thing on tape. He walks over, camera trained on the floor, and zooms in on every piece of Mimi one piece at a time. There’s lipstick, and AZT, and the syringe, which still has a few drops of something bad spattering the tube. Mark rotates a hundred and eighty degrees, and puts the camera on Roger, who still sits on the couch, but his head is in his hands, and his shoulders are hunched up near his ears. Mark grins a little when Roger gives him the finger without looking up.
“Turn that fucking thing off.”
Mark waits for Roger to look up before he complies. He needs the look in Roger’s eyes, the anger and disappointment and pain. He puts the camera on one of the rickety chairs that sits by the unsteady table where they grab meals, and he walks over and sits next to Roger. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the way Roger’s hands flex and wishes he still had his camera.
“Goddamnit.” Roger’s voice is harsh and tired. “She’s probably headed to Benny’s right now. Probably hiking up her skirt and pulling down her sleeves and putting on that smile that always makes men give her money.”
Mark loves to listen to Roger talk when he’s angry. It always sounds like he’s about to break into song with a deep guitar riff jangling behind his voice. He hums a few bars of something hard and unidentifiable and offers no explanation when Roger gives him a curious look. “Dinner?” He offers instead as he stands up and walks over to their cupboard.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Roger pushes up from the couch, stalks across the room, and grabs his guitar. He plays nothing in particular while Mark makes soup and sandwiches with the last of the peanut butter and bread. He considers mentioning to Roger that their combined income for the past few weeks, with Roger playing a paying gig and Mark picking up cash by doing a little camera work for the local news on a whim, is enough to actually *buy* more peanut butter, but the way Roger hits the D at the end of a long run of As and Es tells Mark that Roger doesn’t care at the moment.
“Dinner is served.” He says it with no fanfare as he puts a bowl of soup and a sandwich down by Roger’s knee, just far enough behind it to keep it from getting knocked over by Roger or the guitar. He settles in front of Roger and watches him play, watches the way he flips the pick between his fingers as he adjusts the guitar strings at the top of the neck. He’s halfway through his sandwich before Roger looks up and cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re not going to say anything else?”
“Like what?”
Roger whips his guitar strap over his head with too much force and places the guitar on the floor with the care that most people use when putting infants to bed. “Aren’t you supposed to be the optimist? You’re supposed to be telling me that I’m being too hard, that she’s just a little weak, that it can be fixed.”
“But you’re not, and she isn’t, and maybe it can’t.” Mark shrugs and sips his soup while Roger cocks his other eyebrow. “I don’t have much optimism tonight.”
“Not even with enough money for peanut butter?”
Mark grins and lifts Roger’s sandwich from the plate by his knee. “Eat something.”
“And take my AZT.” Roger’s tone is light, and the shadows in his eyes are lifting.
“Well, at least you know the chorus.” Mark finishes off his soup and tries not to watch as Roger eats his sandwich. He still worries sometimes that Roger will remember how easy it was to be depressed and miserable and borderline dead. He stands up and takes his bowl over to the sink before he can get caught. “Do you want to do something tonight? Go to the Life Café? Collins said he might be down there.”
“No.” Roger slurps down his soup and raises his eyebrows again when Mark looks over. “You’re antsy.”
Mark rinses his bowl and shakes out his hands. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Roger’s shrug is easy, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells Mark that he’s not fooled.
“I just…” Mark trails off and watches Roger unfold from the floor with his bowl in his hand. He thinks about them. Their friendship, their fights, the way they’ve stuck it out in this roach-infested, over-drafty, nearly-condemned apartment. It’s been another year and they’re not dead yet. Mimi’s off for a fix, Collins is probably discussing the philosophical ramifications of Ani DiFranco and Sekou Sunndiata, and Benny’s somewhere counting his money or giving it to Mimi for a fix and a blow job. Maureen and Joanne are fighting or making up; Mark’s not sure where they are this week in their personal drama. “A lot’s happened.”
“Same old shit.”
“New song, though.” A rush sparks up Mark’s spine when Roger touches his shoulder. “New lyrics.”
“It’s the same song. We just remixed it last year.” Roger drops his bowl into the sink and runs the water for a few seconds. He leaves it to soak and wanders around the living room in a slow circle. “I think it’ll sound different this year.”
“Yeah?” And Mark’s not expecting the kiss, except that maybe he is; maybe he always has been, because it feels like it’s something he’s done before with Roger. Like all the words, the songs, the shared bowls of soup, have just been a build up to the moment when they could kiss like this. Even the light from the window, bouncing off the metal pipe across the alley, bouncing off their worn-out metal stove, it gives the place the type of lighting that Mark lusts for in old movies. There’s a haze of light around Roger when he pulls away and looks at Mark.
“We good?” Roger doesn’t actually sound worried, but his eyes are squinty, and the hand he has on Mark’s shoulder is flexing with a stuttering beat.
“We’re good.” Mark smiles and strokes the hair on Roger’s temple, and when Roger steps away, Mark lets him go. It could be the start of something. It could be nothing. It could be some odd moment in Roger’s head, like the type that makes him shuffle around the apartment late at night humming bits and pieces of songs that never get written. Whatever it is, Mark thinks as he dumps the water out of Roger’s soup bowl, it’s the two of them, and there’s another year ahead to figure out the details.
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: RENT
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG
Summary: After the second New Year.
Dis: Not mine. Lied.
Author’s Notes: RENT-fic. It was only a matter of time. Do enjoy.
Into the Next Moment
By Perpetual Motion
It takes a month before Mimi stumbles into the apartment with glazed eyes and a needle buried at the bottom of her purse. It takes all of four minutes for Roger to go from caring and quiet to angry and yelling. Mimi yells back, and neither of them notice Mark setting up the camera in the corner. The way they move, the way they poke at each other, it’s a dance in Mark’s lens, and he has to have it recorded for later. What he’ll use it for, he’s not sure, but he knows he has to have it.
Mimi storms out after twenty-three minutes and a round of name-calling that gets Roger slapped across the face. She leaves her purse in a puddled heap by the run down couch Mark and Roger found on trash day. It smells like vinegar and feet, but the blanket they threw over it smells like Mark’s mom’s fabric softener, so it’s not so bad. Roger collapses on the couch, grabs the purse, and hurls it across the room. The contents go flying when the purse hits the wall, and Mark gets the whole thing on tape. He walks over, camera trained on the floor, and zooms in on every piece of Mimi one piece at a time. There’s lipstick, and AZT, and the syringe, which still has a few drops of something bad spattering the tube. Mark rotates a hundred and eighty degrees, and puts the camera on Roger, who still sits on the couch, but his head is in his hands, and his shoulders are hunched up near his ears. Mark grins a little when Roger gives him the finger without looking up.
“Turn that fucking thing off.”
Mark waits for Roger to look up before he complies. He needs the look in Roger’s eyes, the anger and disappointment and pain. He puts the camera on one of the rickety chairs that sits by the unsteady table where they grab meals, and he walks over and sits next to Roger. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the way Roger’s hands flex and wishes he still had his camera.
“Goddamnit.” Roger’s voice is harsh and tired. “She’s probably headed to Benny’s right now. Probably hiking up her skirt and pulling down her sleeves and putting on that smile that always makes men give her money.”
Mark loves to listen to Roger talk when he’s angry. It always sounds like he’s about to break into song with a deep guitar riff jangling behind his voice. He hums a few bars of something hard and unidentifiable and offers no explanation when Roger gives him a curious look. “Dinner?” He offers instead as he stands up and walks over to their cupboard.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Roger pushes up from the couch, stalks across the room, and grabs his guitar. He plays nothing in particular while Mark makes soup and sandwiches with the last of the peanut butter and bread. He considers mentioning to Roger that their combined income for the past few weeks, with Roger playing a paying gig and Mark picking up cash by doing a little camera work for the local news on a whim, is enough to actually *buy* more peanut butter, but the way Roger hits the D at the end of a long run of As and Es tells Mark that Roger doesn’t care at the moment.
“Dinner is served.” He says it with no fanfare as he puts a bowl of soup and a sandwich down by Roger’s knee, just far enough behind it to keep it from getting knocked over by Roger or the guitar. He settles in front of Roger and watches him play, watches the way he flips the pick between his fingers as he adjusts the guitar strings at the top of the neck. He’s halfway through his sandwich before Roger looks up and cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re not going to say anything else?”
“Like what?”
Roger whips his guitar strap over his head with too much force and places the guitar on the floor with the care that most people use when putting infants to bed. “Aren’t you supposed to be the optimist? You’re supposed to be telling me that I’m being too hard, that she’s just a little weak, that it can be fixed.”
“But you’re not, and she isn’t, and maybe it can’t.” Mark shrugs and sips his soup while Roger cocks his other eyebrow. “I don’t have much optimism tonight.”
“Not even with enough money for peanut butter?”
Mark grins and lifts Roger’s sandwich from the plate by his knee. “Eat something.”
“And take my AZT.” Roger’s tone is light, and the shadows in his eyes are lifting.
“Well, at least you know the chorus.” Mark finishes off his soup and tries not to watch as Roger eats his sandwich. He still worries sometimes that Roger will remember how easy it was to be depressed and miserable and borderline dead. He stands up and takes his bowl over to the sink before he can get caught. “Do you want to do something tonight? Go to the Life Café? Collins said he might be down there.”
“No.” Roger slurps down his soup and raises his eyebrows again when Mark looks over. “You’re antsy.”
Mark rinses his bowl and shakes out his hands. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Roger’s shrug is easy, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells Mark that he’s not fooled.
“I just…” Mark trails off and watches Roger unfold from the floor with his bowl in his hand. He thinks about them. Their friendship, their fights, the way they’ve stuck it out in this roach-infested, over-drafty, nearly-condemned apartment. It’s been another year and they’re not dead yet. Mimi’s off for a fix, Collins is probably discussing the philosophical ramifications of Ani DiFranco and Sekou Sunndiata, and Benny’s somewhere counting his money or giving it to Mimi for a fix and a blow job. Maureen and Joanne are fighting or making up; Mark’s not sure where they are this week in their personal drama. “A lot’s happened.”
“Same old shit.”
“New song, though.” A rush sparks up Mark’s spine when Roger touches his shoulder. “New lyrics.”
“It’s the same song. We just remixed it last year.” Roger drops his bowl into the sink and runs the water for a few seconds. He leaves it to soak and wanders around the living room in a slow circle. “I think it’ll sound different this year.”
“Yeah?” And Mark’s not expecting the kiss, except that maybe he is; maybe he always has been, because it feels like it’s something he’s done before with Roger. Like all the words, the songs, the shared bowls of soup, have just been a build up to the moment when they could kiss like this. Even the light from the window, bouncing off the metal pipe across the alley, bouncing off their worn-out metal stove, it gives the place the type of lighting that Mark lusts for in old movies. There’s a haze of light around Roger when he pulls away and looks at Mark.
“We good?” Roger doesn’t actually sound worried, but his eyes are squinty, and the hand he has on Mark’s shoulder is flexing with a stuttering beat.
“We’re good.” Mark smiles and strokes the hair on Roger’s temple, and when Roger steps away, Mark lets him go. It could be the start of something. It could be nothing. It could be some odd moment in Roger’s head, like the type that makes him shuffle around the apartment late at night humming bits and pieces of songs that never get written. Whatever it is, Mark thinks as he dumps the water out of Roger’s soup bowl, it’s the two of them, and there’s another year ahead to figure out the details.
