New RENT fic - We're Okay
Title: We’re Okay
Summary: Roger hears crying through his wall one night and goes to check on Mark. Just a random bit of cuteness between our two favorite boys.
Rating: PG-13
Author’s Note: This was scribbled in my note book and transcribed pretty much exactly like I first wrote it. It’s just a shot that popped into my head. I don’t know where I’m going with this, or if I’m going anywhere. If I get good reviews, maybe I’ll continue, if not, well, I still might but most likely not.
Disclaimer: I own neither one of the two boys, much as I would love to. And I don’t own Maureen. They belong to, I don’t know anymore, but mainly the late, great Jon Larson.
Roger woke up suddenly. He felt disoriented from his abrupt awakening and it took him a second to remember where he was. It took him another minute to figure out why he had woken up. Soon though, he realized that he could hear the sound of crying floating through the thing wall that connected his room to Marks. Having finally figured out the source of the rude awakening, Roger laid his head back down on his pillow and pulled his blanket up to his chin. He already has his eyes closed by the time he understood what he had heard. His eyelids snapped back up, he threw the thing blanket off of him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He winced as his bare feet touched the cold, wooden floor. Trying to ignore the pinpricks of cold plaguing his bare chest, Roger walked out of the room and into the bedroom next to his. The door stood slightly ajar. Roger knew Mark always left his door open at night, but Roger wasn’t sure if it was because Mark liked the that poured in through the living room windows, or if he wanted to be able to hear if Roger got up.
Roger stood in the doorway. There was enough light in the room that Roger could see Mark’s eyes were closed. He was curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his legs, knees tucked under his chin. His breathing was ragged and thick with tears, tears that were rolling down his pale cheeks. Mark, crying? But Mark never cried. At least not in front of Roger. Maybe he broke down sobbing in front of Maureen, or Collins, but Roger didn’t think so some how. Mark didn’t show emotions. He just id behind that damn camera instead. Didn’t let anything in or out. Maybe that’s why he was lying on his bed sobbing at three in the morning.
Roger turned his attention for the form on the bed. He took one, two, three steps in to the younger mans bedroom and stopped. “Mark?” He whispered, hesitantly. Mark didn’t move, or speak, but his breathing cut off suddenly. “You okay?” Still Mark didn’t speak. His eyes remained shut.
Roger shrugged and started towards the door, but a voice from the bed stopped him. “Please don’t go.” Roger stopped instantly and went back to the bed. Something in Mark’s voice scared him. He sounded so pitiful, so scared. Like a little kid who though there were monsters in his closet. Roger sat on the edge of the bed. Mark rolled over so that he was facing Roger. Eyes still closed, he moved until he was right next to Roger, almost touching but not quite. Roger’s hand drifted down to rest on Mark’s head. He ran his calloused fingers through his friends blond locks. Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Roger finally couldn’t stand it anymore. He picked up Mark (it was disgustingly easy. When was the last time Mark had had a proper meal? Roger had to start making sure he ate) and carried him into Roger’s room. He laid him on the bed and laid down next to him, pulling the covers over both of them. Roger tugged Mark’s shivering body close to him and wrapped his arms around him. Mark buried his face in Roger’s chest and cried. Roger could feel the dampness on his chest, and tightened his grip on the man. “Shh Marky, it’s okay. I’m here.”
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Mark woke up slowly, drowsily. He felt very odd and didn’t know where he was. Opening his eyes might help with that problem though. He lifted his eyelids slowly. The light shining through the window blinded him momentarily. Wait, what? Light through the window. Mark didn’t have a window in his room. Where on earth was he. The bed he was laying on was warm, a nice change from his normally freezing bed, but no help as to where he was. And there was someone laying next to him. Mark rolled over, or at least tried to. The arms that were around his waist tighten as he moved and someone’s face buried itself in Mark’s neck. Mark froze. He took another look around the room and his eyes landed on a fender guitar leaning against the wall near the door. Mark knew where he was instantly. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had gotten there though. How had he ended up in his best friends room, in his best friends bed, with his best friends breath tickling the back of his neck...
Mark rolled over quickly to get out of Roger’s grasp. So quickly in fact, that he rolled all the way off the bed. He was greeted by a hard, freezing floor. Now he felt like he was on his own bed. The dull thud and squeak of surprise from Mark seem to have roused Roger from his sleep. His face appear over the side of the bed. “Mark? What’re you doin’ down there?”
Mark gingerly got to his feet. He realized (not for the first time) just how very cold the loft was in the winter. Shoving those thoughts out of his head, Mark just shook his head and headed out of the room, bits of what had gone on last night floating through his mind. Mark went into his own room and went straight to the pile of cloths sitting in the corner. He really needed to put something on other then his boxers. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shit and favorite, old blue and maroon sweater. His black and white scarf found it’s normal place around his neck. He put on socks and boots and put gloves in his pocket. Just before he left the room he picked his camera. Mark hadn’t expected Roger to be up, dressed and in the main room already, but there he was, attempting to make tea and whistling like nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Mark?” Roger had finally noticed his presence in the room. Roger didn’t seem like he had expected an answer. He walked to Mark and handed him a cup of peppermint tea. Roger dropped onto the couch and Mark, after hesitating a moment, joined him. He put his hands all the way around the mug and breathed in the hot steam. After sitting silently for a minute or two Roger reached over and put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. He smiled at Mark, who finally made eye contact with him, and said, “It’s okay Mark. We don’t have to talk about last night if you don’t want to. Okay?” Mark nodded, and leaned against Roger warm, solid frame. Maybe Roger had been the previous night. Maybe it was going to be okay.
End
Summary: Roger hears crying through his wall one night and goes to check on Mark. Just a random bit of cuteness between our two favorite boys.
Rating: PG-13
Author’s Note: This was scribbled in my note book and transcribed pretty much exactly like I first wrote it. It’s just a shot that popped into my head. I don’t know where I’m going with this, or if I’m going anywhere. If I get good reviews, maybe I’ll continue, if not, well, I still might but most likely not.
Disclaimer: I own neither one of the two boys, much as I would love to. And I don’t own Maureen. They belong to, I don’t know anymore, but mainly the late, great Jon Larson.
Roger woke up suddenly. He felt disoriented from his abrupt awakening and it took him a second to remember where he was. It took him another minute to figure out why he had woken up. Soon though, he realized that he could hear the sound of crying floating through the thing wall that connected his room to Marks. Having finally figured out the source of the rude awakening, Roger laid his head back down on his pillow and pulled his blanket up to his chin. He already has his eyes closed by the time he understood what he had heard. His eyelids snapped back up, he threw the thing blanket off of him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He winced as his bare feet touched the cold, wooden floor. Trying to ignore the pinpricks of cold plaguing his bare chest, Roger walked out of the room and into the bedroom next to his. The door stood slightly ajar. Roger knew Mark always left his door open at night, but Roger wasn’t sure if it was because Mark liked the that poured in through the living room windows, or if he wanted to be able to hear if Roger got up.
Roger stood in the doorway. There was enough light in the room that Roger could see Mark’s eyes were closed. He was curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his legs, knees tucked under his chin. His breathing was ragged and thick with tears, tears that were rolling down his pale cheeks. Mark, crying? But Mark never cried. At least not in front of Roger. Maybe he broke down sobbing in front of Maureen, or Collins, but Roger didn’t think so some how. Mark didn’t show emotions. He just id behind that damn camera instead. Didn’t let anything in or out. Maybe that’s why he was lying on his bed sobbing at three in the morning.
Roger turned his attention for the form on the bed. He took one, two, three steps in to the younger mans bedroom and stopped. “Mark?” He whispered, hesitantly. Mark didn’t move, or speak, but his breathing cut off suddenly. “You okay?” Still Mark didn’t speak. His eyes remained shut.
Roger shrugged and started towards the door, but a voice from the bed stopped him. “Please don’t go.” Roger stopped instantly and went back to the bed. Something in Mark’s voice scared him. He sounded so pitiful, so scared. Like a little kid who though there were monsters in his closet. Roger sat on the edge of the bed. Mark rolled over so that he was facing Roger. Eyes still closed, he moved until he was right next to Roger, almost touching but not quite. Roger’s hand drifted down to rest on Mark’s head. He ran his calloused fingers through his friends blond locks. Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Roger finally couldn’t stand it anymore. He picked up Mark (it was disgustingly easy. When was the last time Mark had had a proper meal? Roger had to start making sure he ate) and carried him into Roger’s room. He laid him on the bed and laid down next to him, pulling the covers over both of them. Roger tugged Mark’s shivering body close to him and wrapped his arms around him. Mark buried his face in Roger’s chest and cried. Roger could feel the dampness on his chest, and tightened his grip on the man. “Shh Marky, it’s okay. I’m here.”
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Mark woke up slowly, drowsily. He felt very odd and didn’t know where he was. Opening his eyes might help with that problem though. He lifted his eyelids slowly. The light shining through the window blinded him momentarily. Wait, what? Light through the window. Mark didn’t have a window in his room. Where on earth was he. The bed he was laying on was warm, a nice change from his normally freezing bed, but no help as to where he was. And there was someone laying next to him. Mark rolled over, or at least tried to. The arms that were around his waist tighten as he moved and someone’s face buried itself in Mark’s neck. Mark froze. He took another look around the room and his eyes landed on a fender guitar leaning against the wall near the door. Mark knew where he was instantly. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had gotten there though. How had he ended up in his best friends room, in his best friends bed, with his best friends breath tickling the back of his neck...
Mark rolled over quickly to get out of Roger’s grasp. So quickly in fact, that he rolled all the way off the bed. He was greeted by a hard, freezing floor. Now he felt like he was on his own bed. The dull thud and squeak of surprise from Mark seem to have roused Roger from his sleep. His face appear over the side of the bed. “Mark? What’re you doin’ down there?”
Mark gingerly got to his feet. He realized (not for the first time) just how very cold the loft was in the winter. Shoving those thoughts out of his head, Mark just shook his head and headed out of the room, bits of what had gone on last night floating through his mind. Mark went into his own room and went straight to the pile of cloths sitting in the corner. He really needed to put something on other then his boxers. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shit and favorite, old blue and maroon sweater. His black and white scarf found it’s normal place around his neck. He put on socks and boots and put gloves in his pocket. Just before he left the room he picked his camera. Mark hadn’t expected Roger to be up, dressed and in the main room already, but there he was, attempting to make tea and whistling like nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Mark?” Roger had finally noticed his presence in the room. Roger didn’t seem like he had expected an answer. He walked to Mark and handed him a cup of peppermint tea. Roger dropped onto the couch and Mark, after hesitating a moment, joined him. He put his hands all the way around the mug and breathed in the hot steam. After sitting silently for a minute or two Roger reached over and put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. He smiled at Mark, who finally made eye contact with him, and said, “It’s okay Mark. We don’t have to talk about last night if you don’t want to. Okay?” Mark nodded, and leaned against Roger warm, solid frame. Maybe Roger had been the previous night. Maybe it was going to be okay.
End