Room to Breathe: This Isn'tPosted by shotaphile on 2006.04.26 at 16:13
Current Mood: chipper
Current Music: Without You--Original Italian Cast
This is for everyone taking my sarcasm so well. I hope I don't disapoint.
Spoilers: It's RENT, go see it. You'll love it, promise.
Warnings: SLASH. And semi-sex scene. Not full-blown sex scene because I can't write those. Live with it. And my language. Weird present tense format, be careful.
Mark isn’t a groupie.
Stale air and stale lines and Mark is hardly impressed with either. Just fix the sound system and leave with a little cash rolled into his socks, he’s not interested in becoming another fuck. He can’t remember what finally convinces him to stay; something about overseeing the feedback that he doesn’t believe for a second, but the singer buys him a drink and Mark decides that it really has been too long since he’s gotten drunk. And the Stoli keeps coming, and there’s no one waiting for him back home anyway. He stays.
He hates this kind of music.
The lazy hum of inebriation only serves to amplify the heavy drum of the bass, making his bones ache down to the very marrow. Mark distantly notes that at this level the amps will blow out before the next song is through, but finds little satisfaction when he’s proven right. It never has, and never will be a fantasy of his to rewire a speaker during the middle of a performance, after consuming copious amounts of alcohol; he pointedly ignores the self-assured smile thrown his way and a vague notion that the levels had been thrown out of whack for precisely this reason. Reconnected. Tested, too loud, but who really cares what he thinks anyway? Ears ringing, he somehow manages the stairs without falling flat on his face. Down another shot, no way he can make it home tonight. A firm grip on his arm, soft voice in his ear, Let’s get you home. But this isn’t his home. This isn’t his bed. This isn’t, and Mark can’t quite bring himself to care. Cold hands on heated skin and he doesn’t care. He stays.
Hates the kohl-rimmed eyes, plaid pants, piercings, the drugs.
Chapped lips and teeth clack and whimpers of pleasure become whimpers of pain--and is there really any difference--as callused fingers bruise, nails and teeth draw blood. Smoke and sweat and Mark aquires a taste for the nickel back studs on his tongue and a metallic sensation in the back of his throat. Buttons snap, zippers jam. That plaid is getting in the way. Boots snag in the blankets; pants won’t come off until those do. But who has the time to untie and unlace, just get that God-awful plaid out of the way! Mouth wanders, ear, cheek, neck, chest and OH. Kohl smears but who cares, more--MORE. Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. He can feel the track marks against his skin. Rub raw scrape claw. Dilated eyes and rapid pulse that has nothing to do with here, now, him. Moan whine his SCREAM. He knows he should care. Don’t. Stop. But he doesn’t. Don’t. Leave. He stays.
Mark is anything but a groupie.
Tired and spent, Mark realizes he doesn’t even know his name. The pretty boy front man, he never cared to learn anything more. Still doesn’t care. Shoes on, doesn’t care. Shirt torn, doesn’t care. Find his glasses, check his socks. Breathe in. Breathe out. He can’t care, he just can’t. He leaves.
This is anything but love.
Notes: Okay, so this isn't it. It's a semi-series. That I honestly plan to finish. And once this is done I vow to write something happy because as my friend told me, "this fic is set to permanent scowl mode". So yeah, happy. Maybe something with a fort.