Room to Breathe: He IsPosted by shotaphile on 2006.05.06 at 21:02
Current Mood: annoyed
Current Music: Finale B--Rent OST
Spoilers: It's RENT, go see it. You'll love it, promise.
Warnings: SLASH. And my language. Weird present tense format, be careful.
Rating: Pg-13. And only that because of the language.
Mark hates him.
The speakers haven’t blown out since that night and Mark knows better than to believe it’s all thanks to his shitfaced repatching during the show. He’s tempted to charge extra, but just doesn’t have the energy to argue with the drummer on this matter. So fucking tired recently. Collins asks if he’s sick and Mark ignores him, because it’s obvious he’s not and Collins should be more worried about his own health. He’s just tired. Tired of this city, tired of this job. Tired of him. Tired.
Mark hates his eyes.
Always watching him, don’t think he doesn’t notice. Not stupid, not numb. Not yet. Doorways into the soul and Mark has to remind himself that he doesn’t want to see what’s behind door number one. Doesn’t want to see what’s behind door number two. Don’t look. It’ll just encourage him. Don’t. He won’t find anything, there’s nothing to find. Look. And he’s right. There’s nothing there. A smirk and a voice all wrapped up in leather and there’s Nothing There. But he’s gone and looked, and there’s no escaping those eyes now. They’re almost permanently skewed from the drugs and the sex and the rock n’ roll and Mark can’t be certain whether he was using that night or not, and like it changes anything anyway. He’s tired of guessing.
Mark hates his hands.
His hands, his arms and all the strength within, leading him away from the noise and the crowd--and Mark hates the atmosphere, so why is he suddenly so hesitant to leave it?--and keep him there when all he wants is to run away. Stop. Stay. And Mark is just too tired to fight him on this.
Mark hates his lips.
And all the saccharine sweet words that ooze out silk and honey and Don’t you feel special that they’re meant for you? And he talks and he talks, but he’s not saying anything. How are you, Who are you, Why are you laughing? Mark can’t stop laughing. This is all so fucking ridiculous and he can’t stop laughing. He’s hysterical, chanting, CROONING. Front man. Roger. Fucking front man. Fucking Roger. And it’s stupid and pointless and all he can do is watch those lips. But he’s got his manners, even if his mother isn’t around to enforce them anymore. It’s ingrained, and he’s too tired to fight the habit. Mark. Mark? Mark, but who the fuck cares? I care. Liar. No, I--LIAR. Pretty words, it’s all just pretty words and lies and he doesn’t mean any of it and Mark wonders why he’s even trying. Mark? Stop saying my name like that, /please/. And Mark wonder’s when he started crying.
Mark hates him.
For acting like he cares. Acting, because no one can care about him. Not like that. For making Mark care. Because he’s been fighting it for so long and he was winning, Goddamnit, until the fucking front man had to go and have a name. Roger. Mark can’t remember the last time he cried, and he’s not sure he wants to. If it hurts this much, he never wants to cry again. But he’s not sure that’s possible.
And he fucking hates Roger for it.
Notes: So most of this has just been sitting on my computer. It's the last couple of paragraphs that I hammered out tonight. I really didn't know what I was gonna do for the actual confrontation. And, frankly, I'm a little happy that it looks like Roger's the good guy. Just a warning though. This is NOT a happy fic. Just remember that. Don't say I didn't warn you.