Zinfandel, Rent, Mark/Roger, PG-13
Title: Zinfandel
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 946
Notes: For letter_love. I managed to not reread this one through in the slightest. So I'll probably kick myself for that when I get home tonight. And once the kicking has finished, I may tweak it a bit. But I wanted to get at least one more done and up here before NaNo started.
When Mark comes back, he finds Roger in a sad state on the couch, bare feet kicked up before him on the coffee table and every half-full bottle of alcohol that they had in the loft now empty and scattered on the floor.
“Oh no,” Mark sighs and sets his bag down beside his roommate. “What happened to you?”
“Fear not,” Roger says, trying to raise one silencing finger without losing his grip on the wine bottle he had been raising to his lips. “I was only bored. This has nothing to do with you. Me. You and me. Nothing at all.” Roger takes a gulp off the bottle. “Mostly nothing. There may be a bit of something. Some something, if you will.”
Mark smiles and shakes his head. “Do we need to talk about this?”
“Things might have changed, Mark. You know, got messed up a bit, but I did not turn into a woman, all right? No, I do not want to talk about this.”
“One, you’re drinking pink wine, so that’s not really helping your case at the moment. Two, I didn’t ask if you wanted to talk about it; I asked if we needed to talk about it.”
Roger blinks at him. “You’re very calm about this,” he says. “How come you’re so calm?”
“How come you’re so upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m…drunk.”
“I can see that.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Mark reaches across Roger’s lap and takes the zinfandel from him. “You didn’t answer mine,” he replies and takes a pull off the bottle.
“Which question was that again?”
“Do we need to talk about this?”
Lost without the distraction of the bottle in his hands, Roger gets to his feet and checks the cabinets for the tenth time before returning with a bottle with a few swallows of scotch left. He looks down at the bottle in his hands and says, “No, I don’t think so."
The corner of Mark’s mouth twitches up. “Yes, this is a better way of dealing with it all. Obviously.”
Roger thumps down onto the couch and doesn’t look up as he states, “I’m in mourning.” His thumb and forefinger worry away at the label on the bottle, so old it’s faded, but none the less recognizable.
“For what?” Mark asks, matching Roger’s quiet tone.
“For the person I thought I was. Or pretended to be. Or…I’m not even sure.”
Mark has had enough gay friends, has attended enough support group meetings, has heard enough coming out stories to know he should point out that Roger’s still the same person-they both are despite recent revelations. But he understands Roger’s loss of self. He has spent the past twenty-four hours reexamining his life as if from an outsider's perspective; now every choice that seemed so simple and obvious before has layers of secrets and fears to be pulled away, and he’s beginning to wonder just what else he doesn’t know about himself.
So Mark just nods and takes a drink, and Roger lets out a sigh and leans his head back against the cushions of the couch.
“To us,” Roger says, lifting his bottle above his head.
Mark smirks at this pink wine in his hand and ponders whether it’s symbolic or just stereotypical. He raises the bottle up to Roger’s and toasts, “To old friends.”
Roger snorts as he clinks their drinks together, but his smile is genuine and the first Mark has seen all day.
“Isn’t there usually something about new lovers in that toast, too?”
“Is there?” Mark thinks for a minute and shrugs. “Maybe.”
Roger laughs again, and as their bottles clink together in the darkness of the loft, he lets his head rest on Mark’s shoulder.
“You were gone a long time,” Roger says. “I thought-” he lets out a laugh that rings false against all the others- “I thought maybe you weren’t coming back.”
“Hey.” Mark jostles Roger’s head with his shoulder a bit. “I wouldn’t do that. No matter how mad or upset or embarrassed or whatever… I wouldn’t do that.”
“You were mad? Why were you mad?”
“What? No. I wasn’t-… I was just saying, you know, for future reference. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t just up and leave and not tell you.”
“What did you do then?”
Mark shrugs. “I don’t even know. I walked a lot. And just thought about things. About me and you. And about Maureen strangely enough.”
“Good old Maureen,” Roger says, raising his bottle in a half-toast even though he’s emptied it.
“Right,” Mark chuckles.
Roger takes the bottle from Mark and finishes it. “I drank today. That’s what I did.”
Mark barks out a laugh and even though he can’t see, he knows Roger is grinning. “You did a good job of it, too.”
And as Mark’s looking down at Roger’s head on his shoulder, Roger cranes his neck to look up at Mark, reaches his hand up around to bring Mark’s face down to his, and it’s a test, really, to see what exactly it is between them because so far they only know what happened the night before and that they’re both fully expecting it to happen again. Whether or not it’s for the best has yet to be determined.
But Roger brings their lips together, and Mark’s more than willing, and they both taste of white zinfandel.
“Are you sure we don’t need to talk about this?” Mark asks one last time in the gap of breath between them.
Roger nods, and it’s enough for the both of them. The bottle falls to the floor without crashing as they twine together on the couch again.
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 946
Notes: For letter_love. I managed to not reread this one through in the slightest. So I'll probably kick myself for that when I get home tonight. And once the kicking has finished, I may tweak it a bit. But I wanted to get at least one more done and up here before NaNo started.
When Mark comes back, he finds Roger in a sad state on the couch, bare feet kicked up before him on the coffee table and every half-full bottle of alcohol that they had in the loft now empty and scattered on the floor.
“Oh no,” Mark sighs and sets his bag down beside his roommate. “What happened to you?”
“Fear not,” Roger says, trying to raise one silencing finger without losing his grip on the wine bottle he had been raising to his lips. “I was only bored. This has nothing to do with you. Me. You and me. Nothing at all.” Roger takes a gulp off the bottle. “Mostly nothing. There may be a bit of something. Some something, if you will.”
Mark smiles and shakes his head. “Do we need to talk about this?”
“Things might have changed, Mark. You know, got messed up a bit, but I did not turn into a woman, all right? No, I do not want to talk about this.”
“One, you’re drinking pink wine, so that’s not really helping your case at the moment. Two, I didn’t ask if you wanted to talk about it; I asked if we needed to talk about it.”
Roger blinks at him. “You’re very calm about this,” he says. “How come you’re so calm?”
“How come you’re so upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m…drunk.”
“I can see that.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Mark reaches across Roger’s lap and takes the zinfandel from him. “You didn’t answer mine,” he replies and takes a pull off the bottle.
“Which question was that again?”
“Do we need to talk about this?”
Lost without the distraction of the bottle in his hands, Roger gets to his feet and checks the cabinets for the tenth time before returning with a bottle with a few swallows of scotch left. He looks down at the bottle in his hands and says, “No, I don’t think so."
The corner of Mark’s mouth twitches up. “Yes, this is a better way of dealing with it all. Obviously.”
Roger thumps down onto the couch and doesn’t look up as he states, “I’m in mourning.” His thumb and forefinger worry away at the label on the bottle, so old it’s faded, but none the less recognizable.
“For what?” Mark asks, matching Roger’s quiet tone.
“For the person I thought I was. Or pretended to be. Or…I’m not even sure.”
Mark has had enough gay friends, has attended enough support group meetings, has heard enough coming out stories to know he should point out that Roger’s still the same person-they both are despite recent revelations. But he understands Roger’s loss of self. He has spent the past twenty-four hours reexamining his life as if from an outsider's perspective; now every choice that seemed so simple and obvious before has layers of secrets and fears to be pulled away, and he’s beginning to wonder just what else he doesn’t know about himself.
So Mark just nods and takes a drink, and Roger lets out a sigh and leans his head back against the cushions of the couch.
“To us,” Roger says, lifting his bottle above his head.
Mark smirks at this pink wine in his hand and ponders whether it’s symbolic or just stereotypical. He raises the bottle up to Roger’s and toasts, “To old friends.”
Roger snorts as he clinks their drinks together, but his smile is genuine and the first Mark has seen all day.
“Isn’t there usually something about new lovers in that toast, too?”
“Is there?” Mark thinks for a minute and shrugs. “Maybe.”
Roger laughs again, and as their bottles clink together in the darkness of the loft, he lets his head rest on Mark’s shoulder.
“You were gone a long time,” Roger says. “I thought-” he lets out a laugh that rings false against all the others- “I thought maybe you weren’t coming back.”
“Hey.” Mark jostles Roger’s head with his shoulder a bit. “I wouldn’t do that. No matter how mad or upset or embarrassed or whatever… I wouldn’t do that.”
“You were mad? Why were you mad?”
“What? No. I wasn’t-… I was just saying, you know, for future reference. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t just up and leave and not tell you.”
“What did you do then?”
Mark shrugs. “I don’t even know. I walked a lot. And just thought about things. About me and you. And about Maureen strangely enough.”
“Good old Maureen,” Roger says, raising his bottle in a half-toast even though he’s emptied it.
“Right,” Mark chuckles.
Roger takes the bottle from Mark and finishes it. “I drank today. That’s what I did.”
Mark barks out a laugh and even though he can’t see, he knows Roger is grinning. “You did a good job of it, too.”
And as Mark’s looking down at Roger’s head on his shoulder, Roger cranes his neck to look up at Mark, reaches his hand up around to bring Mark’s face down to his, and it’s a test, really, to see what exactly it is between them because so far they only know what happened the night before and that they’re both fully expecting it to happen again. Whether or not it’s for the best has yet to be determined.
But Roger brings their lips together, and Mark’s more than willing, and they both taste of white zinfandel.
“Are you sure we don’t need to talk about this?” Mark asks one last time in the gap of breath between them.
Roger nods, and it’s enough for the both of them. The bottle falls to the floor without crashing as they twine together on the couch again.