RENTfic: The Tale of Love. Mark/Roger 1/1
The Tale of Love
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Summary: When an elderly man takes Roger away in the night, Mark journeys to find out why.
A/N- Based on an Old fairy tale, “The Story of a Mother”. For David Vivavantramp …who’s been waiting long enough for it. Happy SUPER belated birthday.
Disclaimer: I own them if you’re perplexed who they are.
Okay. Collins is not allowed to smoke Marijuana near me anymore. Mark thought, groping beside him. Roger did not just vanish. I felt him not even a minute ago. Blinking sleepily, he put his glasses back on, and cursed. When I find Roger, I’m going to kill him.
The loft seemed unusually warm, as if the old heater was finally working. The usually creaky floors made no noise. The air normally perfumed with dust and must, smelled heavily of Irish Cream Coffee, Mark’s favorite flavor.
I am definitely high. Damn it, Collins. He thought. The loft door was wide open, and a cool breeze was blowing in.
“Collins?” Mark murmured; his old friend stretched across the couch. Barely awake, the man glanced up. “Did Roger go this way?”
“Some old guy in a coat.” Collins grumbled, wrapping his leather trench coat around him. “Talking about a greenhouse.” Mark groaned, struggling into his boots and coat.
It’s two in the morning. Mark closed the door. It just snowed. He traipsed down the hall, each step echoing louder and louder. Why the fuck would Rog go off with some old guy to a greenhouse? Besides…he’s sick. I’d hope the fucker would have more sense than to run off.
“The one you seek.” An old woman croaked, as soon as Mark stepped on the sidewalk. “I know where he went.” He jumped.
Okay. This is creepy. How does she know?
“You do?” Somehow, Mark managed to find his voice. The old woman nodded.
“I’ll tell you.” She said. He leaned in. “For a price.”
“A price?”
“Yes. A price.” She muttered. “Do I not speak English?”
“Name it.”
“Your sight.” She said.
“My sight?” he asked, his voice trembling. She nodded.
“I am very old. My sight…it grows dim.” She murmured. “It’s a small price to pay for the one you love.” Mark clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm. He winced, feeling warm blood begin to flow through the cuts.
“Okay. It’s my livelihood, I'm a filmmaker, but I love Roger enough.” He murmured. The woman handed him a box. “What?” She sighed.
“Look into it.” She whispered. “Once I have your sight, I’ll see well enough to guide you. For I know where he that you seek takes his people.” Mark opened the box, and glanced into it. He saw Roger…and himself, the very first time they kissed. Then…everything faded to black.
“Oh my fucking God…” Mark mumbled, struggling not to panic. “I’m blind.” The old woman snorted.
“I took your sight.” She said. Silently, she slipped his large hand into her delicate wrinkled palm. “Walk. I won’t let you fall.” Mark took a few unsteady steps.
“Who took him?” he asked, growing more confidant. The more he walked, the more his other senses sharpened. “Who was the old man?”
“Death.” She murmured. “Death took him.” Mark stopped. “However, if you hurry, you may be able to bargain.”
“Bargain?” he questioned. The old woman nodded slowly. “How do I bargain?”
“Convince to take someone else.” She said. “Trade. A soul for a soul.” Mark gasped.
Kill someone to save him? He thought. How can I do that?
The old woman stopped short. Mark stumbled, almost falling to his knees before catching himself on a light post.
“Where are we?” he wailed. She pressed his hand onto something smooth and cool, a pane of glass. “Glass…I feel, but where are we?” She sighed.
“Open your eyes.” She pressed her thumbs into his eyelids. He opened his eyes, shocked that he could see. “I had to test your love. Death’s greenhouse isn’t something everyone sees…or are even worthy enough to see.” Everything was so clear…including the greenhouse. A greenhouse? Was this what the old man had talked about? “Go in, and remember what I told you.”
Mark reached out, his hand grazing the handle. It was icy. He drew back his hand, in shock. Then, he pushed his way in.
The old man seemed almost shocked, to see Mark standing in the doorway. He seemed on the verge of speech and then decided against it. Finally, he began to speak.
“What do you want?” he asked, in a voice that reminded Mark of pipe smoke and rocking chairs. “You can’t save him.” He picked up a trowel. “I’m getting ready.” He sunk the shovel into dirt, and pointed to a small pot that held a single Honeysuckle. “Generous and devoted affection.”
“Why can’t you take someone else?” Mark questioned. “Look at all these people,” He gestured to the back of the greenhouse. “Why not take that bundle of Baby’s Breath?”
The old man sighed, his eyes focused on the ground.
“That bundle of Baby’s breath?” he asked. “Take a closer look at the pot.” Mark suddenly noticed a bronze nameplate. “Read it.” Mark squinted, trying to make out the dusty print.
Maureen Jefferson-Johnson.
“Maureen.” Mark murmured, her name heavy on his tongue. “That’s Maureen’s soul?” The old man nodded, picking up the pot.
“I’ll do it,” he murmured, putting on a pair of thick gardening gloves. “Just this once.” Mark stopped. “However, there are two things you must see before I do this,” He pointed to an old looking glass.
Mark focused on the glass, trying not to stare too intensely. What if this was a trick meant to take his sight again? How could he cope then?
“It’s not a trick.”
Play with me! Please? You said you would! Billy Johnson’s parents play with him! Aw. Okay. I guess I could understand that. Grandpa said I’d be nice until…you know.
“That’s a child.” Mark said. The old man nodded.
I’m sorry. We did all we could, but the infection was just too bad. What a shame…only thirty.
Dead at thirty? Roger was only twenty-eight! Maureen was twenty-nine!
“Who’s who? Mark asked. The old man looked at him.
“That I can’t tell you.” He murmured. “I’m not even really supposed to show you that.”
“Roger’s sick,” Mark murmured, his eyes glazing over with tears. “Really sick.” He glanced around. “Maureen’s happy. She acts like she has this big secret…” A knot settled in his stomach. “Let me see her pot.” The old man nodded. Carefully handling the pot, Mark replaced it on the shelf.
“Your decision has been made?” the old man asked. Mark nodded. “You’re sure?” Mark nodded again. “Alright.” Gently, the man transplanted the honeysuckle from a pot into a small plot of land. “I’m sorry. It had to end like this. I don’t make the decisions. I just plant them.”
Then, Mark jolted awake, to Collins’ frantic shaking. Glancing into his old friend’s tear filled eyes, he knew what had happened.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Summary: When an elderly man takes Roger away in the night, Mark journeys to find out why.
A/N- Based on an Old fairy tale, “The Story of a Mother”. For David Vivavantramp …who’s been waiting long enough for it. Happy SUPER belated birthday.
Disclaimer: I own them if you’re perplexed who they are.
Okay. Collins is not allowed to smoke Marijuana near me anymore. Mark thought, groping beside him. Roger did not just vanish. I felt him not even a minute ago. Blinking sleepily, he put his glasses back on, and cursed. When I find Roger, I’m going to kill him.
The loft seemed unusually warm, as if the old heater was finally working. The usually creaky floors made no noise. The air normally perfumed with dust and must, smelled heavily of Irish Cream Coffee, Mark’s favorite flavor.
I am definitely high. Damn it, Collins. He thought. The loft door was wide open, and a cool breeze was blowing in.
“Collins?” Mark murmured; his old friend stretched across the couch. Barely awake, the man glanced up. “Did Roger go this way?”
“Some old guy in a coat.” Collins grumbled, wrapping his leather trench coat around him. “Talking about a greenhouse.” Mark groaned, struggling into his boots and coat.
It’s two in the morning. Mark closed the door. It just snowed. He traipsed down the hall, each step echoing louder and louder. Why the fuck would Rog go off with some old guy to a greenhouse? Besides…he’s sick. I’d hope the fucker would have more sense than to run off.
“The one you seek.” An old woman croaked, as soon as Mark stepped on the sidewalk. “I know where he went.” He jumped.
Okay. This is creepy. How does she know?
“You do?” Somehow, Mark managed to find his voice. The old woman nodded.
“I’ll tell you.” She said. He leaned in. “For a price.”
“A price?”
“Yes. A price.” She muttered. “Do I not speak English?”
“Name it.”
“Your sight.” She said.
“My sight?” he asked, his voice trembling. She nodded.
“I am very old. My sight…it grows dim.” She murmured. “It’s a small price to pay for the one you love.” Mark clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm. He winced, feeling warm blood begin to flow through the cuts.
“Okay. It’s my livelihood, I'm a filmmaker, but I love Roger enough.” He murmured. The woman handed him a box. “What?” She sighed.
“Look into it.” She whispered. “Once I have your sight, I’ll see well enough to guide you. For I know where he that you seek takes his people.” Mark opened the box, and glanced into it. He saw Roger…and himself, the very first time they kissed. Then…everything faded to black.
“Oh my fucking God…” Mark mumbled, struggling not to panic. “I’m blind.” The old woman snorted.
“I took your sight.” She said. Silently, she slipped his large hand into her delicate wrinkled palm. “Walk. I won’t let you fall.” Mark took a few unsteady steps.
“Who took him?” he asked, growing more confidant. The more he walked, the more his other senses sharpened. “Who was the old man?”
“Death.” She murmured. “Death took him.” Mark stopped. “However, if you hurry, you may be able to bargain.”
“Bargain?” he questioned. The old woman nodded slowly. “How do I bargain?”
“Convince to take someone else.” She said. “Trade. A soul for a soul.” Mark gasped.
Kill someone to save him? He thought. How can I do that?
The old woman stopped short. Mark stumbled, almost falling to his knees before catching himself on a light post.
“Where are we?” he wailed. She pressed his hand onto something smooth and cool, a pane of glass. “Glass…I feel, but where are we?” She sighed.
“Open your eyes.” She pressed her thumbs into his eyelids. He opened his eyes, shocked that he could see. “I had to test your love. Death’s greenhouse isn’t something everyone sees…or are even worthy enough to see.” Everything was so clear…including the greenhouse. A greenhouse? Was this what the old man had talked about? “Go in, and remember what I told you.”
Mark reached out, his hand grazing the handle. It was icy. He drew back his hand, in shock. Then, he pushed his way in.
The old man seemed almost shocked, to see Mark standing in the doorway. He seemed on the verge of speech and then decided against it. Finally, he began to speak.
“What do you want?” he asked, in a voice that reminded Mark of pipe smoke and rocking chairs. “You can’t save him.” He picked up a trowel. “I’m getting ready.” He sunk the shovel into dirt, and pointed to a small pot that held a single Honeysuckle. “Generous and devoted affection.”
“Why can’t you take someone else?” Mark questioned. “Look at all these people,” He gestured to the back of the greenhouse. “Why not take that bundle of Baby’s Breath?”
The old man sighed, his eyes focused on the ground.
“That bundle of Baby’s breath?” he asked. “Take a closer look at the pot.” Mark suddenly noticed a bronze nameplate. “Read it.” Mark squinted, trying to make out the dusty print.
Maureen Jefferson-Johnson.
“Maureen.” Mark murmured, her name heavy on his tongue. “That’s Maureen’s soul?” The old man nodded, picking up the pot.
“I’ll do it,” he murmured, putting on a pair of thick gardening gloves. “Just this once.” Mark stopped. “However, there are two things you must see before I do this,” He pointed to an old looking glass.
Mark focused on the glass, trying not to stare too intensely. What if this was a trick meant to take his sight again? How could he cope then?
“It’s not a trick.”
Play with me! Please? You said you would! Billy Johnson’s parents play with him! Aw. Okay. I guess I could understand that. Grandpa said I’d be nice until…you know.
“That’s a child.” Mark said. The old man nodded.
I’m sorry. We did all we could, but the infection was just too bad. What a shame…only thirty.
Dead at thirty? Roger was only twenty-eight! Maureen was twenty-nine!
“Who’s who? Mark asked. The old man looked at him.
“That I can’t tell you.” He murmured. “I’m not even really supposed to show you that.”
“Roger’s sick,” Mark murmured, his eyes glazing over with tears. “Really sick.” He glanced around. “Maureen’s happy. She acts like she has this big secret…” A knot settled in his stomach. “Let me see her pot.” The old man nodded. Carefully handling the pot, Mark replaced it on the shelf.
“Your decision has been made?” the old man asked. Mark nodded. “You’re sure?” Mark nodded again. “Alright.” Gently, the man transplanted the honeysuckle from a pot into a small plot of land. “I’m sorry. It had to end like this. I don’t make the decisions. I just plant them.”
Then, Mark jolted awake, to Collins’ frantic shaking. Glancing into his old friend’s tear filled eyes, he knew what had happened.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”