Last Year's Wishes Are This Year's Apologies, Rent, Mark/Roger, PG-13
Title: Last Year's Wishes Are This Year's Apologies
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I've only been picking at this in a gmail draft for like a month. It's a bit more meandering than I had hoped, and a bit more angsty, but we all know that's how I roll.
From up on the roof, they can only see the city through the waves of heat, the buildings and trees distorted and twisting as the sun hangs on for those last few moments before it slips below the horizon.
Roger leans back, elbows resting against the ledge, cigarette dangling between his fingers, and Mark smiles because it's so familiar and yet not: the skyline is the same as is the damp heat making his shirt cling to his back, but the taste of imported beer on his tongue is not, nor the sense that he and Roger are somehow from completely different worlds now.
"You look good," Mark says because it was the first thing he noticed when Roger opened the door to the hotel room, all wide grin and professionally disheveled hair. The road, the whirlwind of interviews and studio time--it had not worn on Roger as Mark had originally feared. Instead, he was stronger and healthier than Mark had ever remembered him. Of course, the money helped; staying healthy was easy when one could afford proper meds, and when the words "personal trainer" slipped from Roger's lips, Mark nearly sprayed his beer over Roger's face.
"I know, right? The fuck," Roger had grinned.
But while Roger had clearly changed--been polished up for magazines and album covers, been toned down for mass appeal--Mark still glimpsed the reassuring hints that all that was just surface, and the man Mark had known for so long was still there just waiting for an opportunity to emerge from underneath: the way he had pulled Mark into a tight hug upon greeting him at the door, and how he still smelled the same as Mark pressed his nose into his shoulder; the way he talked too fast when he was excited; the way he could never look anyone in the eye for too long, a shyness that still surprised Mark every time quickly forcing his gaze to his shoes or the sky or his hands.
Roger rests his hands on the ledge and looks our over the rooftops of the city. "God, I've missed this."
"What?" Mark snorts. "Heatwaves in the city?"
"You have no idea," Roger says, shaking his head as his eyes trace the jagged shapes of the city against the horizon, and Mark realizes with an unsettling twist of his stomach that he really doesn't. Roger glances at him, like he realizes it, too, but he doesn't take it back, doesn't rush to trace back his steps, and that's another difference. Roger has finally learned that toes are made to be stepped on, and there are no more apologies and looking backward when everything else is pushing you forward into the unknown.
The sky is lit with pinks and purples, and Mark watches as cloud encroach from the west. He can feel Roger's eyes on him, can feel him remembering all the years spent on city rooftops, all the shared moments, shared drinks, shared heartaches, and this chasm between them now that both of them are trying their hardest to ignore.
"How are you?" Roger asks, his voice cutting through the oppressive air around them even though it's barely above a whisper.
Mark starts nodding before he even has an answer, like he's trying to put a positive spin on things for Roger's sake even before he has the time to assess them. But the more he nods, the harder it is to find words, and a moment later, Roger is behind him, arms wrapped around his chest and his squeezing makes it easier to ignore the tightness building there. Mark squints into the setting sun, and he tells himself that that's why his eyes are burning as Roger rests his chin on his shoulder, his lips against Mark's ear.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't around. I should have been."
And it doesn't matter if he just means in general or something specific: that first month when it was really hard, the loft all echoes and shadows and empty places where Roger's life used to be; when Maureen and Joanne moved to Rhode Island, waving frantically out of the window of their newly purchased car as it drove along behind the moving van and receding in the distance until he could no longer see it; the long nights spent beside Collins in the hospital as he watched one of his best friends diminish into only a memory.
Mark wonders just why the hard weeks blur into months and years, and how long it will take before he will admit that it's life that hard, not just the seasons.
They're right up against the ledge looking out over a city now cast in impossibly long shadows, the tops of other buildings reaching out to pull them down. But Roger's hands are strong against his chest and shoulder, holding him back, holding him together, and it's just another way things have changed.
"I'm sorry," Roger repeats, and Mark closes his eyes as they toe the ledge. He feels the heartbeat against his back, steady and reassuring after long absence, and tells himself not to fall.
Fandom: Rent
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I've only been picking at this in a gmail draft for like a month. It's a bit more meandering than I had hoped, and a bit more angsty, but we all know that's how I roll.
From up on the roof, they can only see the city through the waves of heat, the buildings and trees distorted and twisting as the sun hangs on for those last few moments before it slips below the horizon.
Roger leans back, elbows resting against the ledge, cigarette dangling between his fingers, and Mark smiles because it's so familiar and yet not: the skyline is the same as is the damp heat making his shirt cling to his back, but the taste of imported beer on his tongue is not, nor the sense that he and Roger are somehow from completely different worlds now.
"You look good," Mark says because it was the first thing he noticed when Roger opened the door to the hotel room, all wide grin and professionally disheveled hair. The road, the whirlwind of interviews and studio time--it had not worn on Roger as Mark had originally feared. Instead, he was stronger and healthier than Mark had ever remembered him. Of course, the money helped; staying healthy was easy when one could afford proper meds, and when the words "personal trainer" slipped from Roger's lips, Mark nearly sprayed his beer over Roger's face.
"I know, right? The fuck," Roger had grinned.
But while Roger had clearly changed--been polished up for magazines and album covers, been toned down for mass appeal--Mark still glimpsed the reassuring hints that all that was just surface, and the man Mark had known for so long was still there just waiting for an opportunity to emerge from underneath: the way he had pulled Mark into a tight hug upon greeting him at the door, and how he still smelled the same as Mark pressed his nose into his shoulder; the way he talked too fast when he was excited; the way he could never look anyone in the eye for too long, a shyness that still surprised Mark every time quickly forcing his gaze to his shoes or the sky or his hands.
Roger rests his hands on the ledge and looks our over the rooftops of the city. "God, I've missed this."
"What?" Mark snorts. "Heatwaves in the city?"
"You have no idea," Roger says, shaking his head as his eyes trace the jagged shapes of the city against the horizon, and Mark realizes with an unsettling twist of his stomach that he really doesn't. Roger glances at him, like he realizes it, too, but he doesn't take it back, doesn't rush to trace back his steps, and that's another difference. Roger has finally learned that toes are made to be stepped on, and there are no more apologies and looking backward when everything else is pushing you forward into the unknown.
The sky is lit with pinks and purples, and Mark watches as cloud encroach from the west. He can feel Roger's eyes on him, can feel him remembering all the years spent on city rooftops, all the shared moments, shared drinks, shared heartaches, and this chasm between them now that both of them are trying their hardest to ignore.
"How are you?" Roger asks, his voice cutting through the oppressive air around them even though it's barely above a whisper.
Mark starts nodding before he even has an answer, like he's trying to put a positive spin on things for Roger's sake even before he has the time to assess them. But the more he nods, the harder it is to find words, and a moment later, Roger is behind him, arms wrapped around his chest and his squeezing makes it easier to ignore the tightness building there. Mark squints into the setting sun, and he tells himself that that's why his eyes are burning as Roger rests his chin on his shoulder, his lips against Mark's ear.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't around. I should have been."
And it doesn't matter if he just means in general or something specific: that first month when it was really hard, the loft all echoes and shadows and empty places where Roger's life used to be; when Maureen and Joanne moved to Rhode Island, waving frantically out of the window of their newly purchased car as it drove along behind the moving van and receding in the distance until he could no longer see it; the long nights spent beside Collins in the hospital as he watched one of his best friends diminish into only a memory.
Mark wonders just why the hard weeks blur into months and years, and how long it will take before he will admit that it's life that hard, not just the seasons.
They're right up against the ledge looking out over a city now cast in impossibly long shadows, the tops of other buildings reaching out to pull them down. But Roger's hands are strong against his chest and shoulder, holding him back, holding him together, and it's just another way things have changed.
"I'm sorry," Roger repeats, and Mark closes his eyes as they toe the ledge. He feels the heartbeat against his back, steady and reassuring after long absence, and tells himself not to fall.