Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, baby!

[bluetears07]

Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Paring: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Mark’s Camera/Mark’s Scarf, Mark/Roger
Summary: When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their ‘accessories’ also get better acquainted.
Rating: Chapter Two: R
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, baby! Finals over, commence with more crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Probably not as funny as first one, but I’ll try. Oh, and I've never been to the Pyramid, not 100% sure what like, just a spec. :D Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied

Chapter Two

I am over the moon.

My Mark decided to come.

The very instant my Mark walks into the sleazy bar a few blocks away from the loft, I let out an exasperated sigh. Can we not go somewhere clean for once? I just know that every single frame of film I shoot tonight will probably be ruined by the proverbial haze of smoke permeating throughout the small venue where my Mark’s Roger is performing. However, that does nothing to daunt my intrepid little Mark’s ambitions of capturing Roger’s return to the musical stage of his life since the needle girls left him. Clutching me tight to his chest, my Mark manages to squeeze his way through the pretty decent sized crowd gathered around the makeshift stage the bar has set up for gigs. A few wiry girls, all in black leather and lace, try to wrap their arms around my more than surprised Mark and pull him in for a dance. He politely tries to refuse the offer, having to shout over the rifts tearing through the air and blocking out all other noise. Thank you Roger’s Fender. My poor Mark has never learned how to dance to his Roger’s music. At least not the harsh chords that Roger plays on that annoyingly conceited, electric guitar, The Fender.

I would definitely take Roger’s beautifully handcrafted acoustic over the mass-produced, flashy Fender any day.

Oh, I already have. The sweet image of my Mark’s goofy smile from early this morning dances around in my mind, that same grin would be plastered all over my lips if I only had a mouth.

Once getting away from the more than willing hoard of girls, my Mark makes it to the opposite side of the small club. I hear the music begin a strange semblance of a crescendo, a beautiful term as such not really applicable to The Fender’s style, begin as my Mark takes a seat on one of the many open bar stools. That is one thing my Mark’s Roger has always had, the stage presents and charisma to get everyone on his or her feet. Well, save for my Mark, ever conscious of the need for a steady hand. I know that adorable smile, the one that makes him look so sweet, is pulling at his lips by the way his fingers gingerly wind me up for the long haul.

“Darling,” I visibly flinch and thankfully my Mark just things he lots his grip. Soft fabric brushes against my back as my Mark holds me against his chest to steady his hand. All day my Beloved has been trying to get me to talk to him. Explain what happened, why I cheated.

He’s my perfect stand-in Maureen.

I ignore him. Again.

“Close on Roger, inside the Pyramid club finishing up his first set on his good old Fender,” my Mark whispers to me, just loud enough so that I can pick up the vibrations of his voice and record them. He purposely leaves out the lengthy debate he had with himself, or rather with me, though I was not filming, whether or not he should show up tonight. This morning my Mark and his Roger barely said more than a hand full of sentences to one another after discovering my self and Roger’s guitar in a rather compromising position. I could tell from the way they were acting neither one knew how to behave now they had finally crossed that threshold from friends to lovers.

The only thing of real consequence that was said this morning was Roger’s open-ended invitation to my Mark to come see him at the Pyramid tonight for one of his gigs. I know for a fact that my Mark’s heart simply soared when he heard that his Roger was playing again, actually playing for a live crowd, not just sitting at home with a notebook full of unfinished songs.

He zooms me in on Roger’s face. There is an intense expression on his countenance as he strums the final chord. As the last note dies, I watch Roger crouch down, falling outside of my frame and disappearing behind the swarm of fans that remember him from his glory days. When he stands back up I see the worn and torn strap of his acoustic guitar slung across his shoulder. A hush falls over the crowd as they watch Roger’s entire demeanor change; so drastic it’s nearly tangible.

“I’m gonna switch things up a bit here, if that’s all right,” he mumbles into the microphone, lips brushing against the cool metal. That same melancholy mood wraps around his entire form as he places his fingers on the neck of the guitar. A twinge of jealousy spins my film extra fast and suddenly my Mark needs to crank me up again. The pad of Roger’s thumb trails over the taut cords he retuned this morning. He strokes the guitar until it sings perfectly for him.

For me.

For our Mark.

There is a striking dichotomy occurring in this instant that I have never experienced before at any of Roger’s other gigs. On one dimension, my Mark’s and his Roger’s, there is a pretty boy musician’s and his husky voice crooning out a surprisingly unique and artful love song for my Mark. The second, the one that belongs to myself and everything else not breathing in the club, is filled with the haunting melody produced by Roger’s guitar. A song twisted and tweaked into something remarkably romantic for an inanimate object. There was always a simple harmony between the chords Roger would play and his powerful voice, the two not needing to blend because they were always in agreement. It had been that was only moments before with The Fender. Now they seemed to be the two separate entities, mixing and taking parts from one another to build upon. His guitar is not singing for what Roger is, it’s something else.

It’s mesmerizing.

The audience knows it, can feel it, as they stand transfixed watching Roger. No one makes a sound, barely moving to breath. Even my Mark picked up on the difference, lowering me to focus my lens on the guitar’s long neck. He pans me down the neck. I’ve been transported beyond heaven. The sleek polished wooden body, carved to perfection with a fluid curve.

My Mark finally shifts my focus back onto Roger’s face. I see his eyes move from a point somewhere just beyond the crowd. My Mark told me once when he first met the musician that it’s a trick Roger uses so he does not have to make direct eye contact with the audience, yet appear to be doing so. A little façade. Panning across the dimly lit club his gaze finally settles on the bar where we are seated.

He looks beyond me and smiles.

If his guitar only had a real mouth.

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Roger is two steps ahead.

A smile was all they exchanged before heading back to the loft.

It’s a familiar sight and it would normally give me some sense of comfort. Though, now the image of my Mark’s Roger walking away from my Mark, appearing to be alone, makes me inexorably sad. My Mark’s Roger has long legs that my poor Mark can not hope to match so he resigns himself to filming Roger walking in front of us. In one hand is The Fender, packed safely away, protected from the elements while the acoustic guitar is slung across his leather covered back, facing me.

“You were amazing tonight.” I call out to the guitar with a would-be proud grin evident in my voice. Suddenly the guitar looses its holding and I watch as Roger has to hitch up the strap around his shoulders to keep it from slipping.

“Thanks.” He calls back; I know I caught him off guard. I had not had a chance to speak to the guitar since my Mark and his Roger went their separate ways this morning. “I’m glad you and Mark decided to come,” his words are sung once more in that same beautiful melody I heard tonight at the club. A twinkling laugh follows and I almost tear another roll of film. I could spend all day filming him. “Roger was freaking out, well in his own ‘brooding-Roger’ way,” I can tell he has learned a lot from Roger, the classic transferring his own emotions on to someone else.

“I’ll admit I was a little frightened when Roger pulled you out, I wasn’t sure if the crowd would go for something a bit more…subdued.” Light humor, something my Mark would probably say. It’s actually quite beautiful what Roger can do when he mixes his voice with the acoustic guitar, soft yet haunting and extremely powerful. However, taking a page from my Mark’s book, I don’t say this out loud of course. Can’t give away too much, far too vulnerable.

“I think they liked it,” the guitar sighs, a little bit of the tune gone flat. “I hope they did.” I stare at him with an odd sensation washing over me, feeling the waves of insecurity that Roger bottles up radiating from the guitar. Suddenly the soft jostling from Mark’s even gate stops and the image of the guitar is replaced with black leather.

Roger has stopped and turned towards my Mark, but his gaze is focused on the ground my Mark is standing on. A heavy sigh passes from between Roger’s lips and he takes a small leap, looking up at my Mark.

“Mark,” he extends his hand towards my Mark.

I wish I were filming this.

The image is too beautiful, too real, too raw. Standing alone on the grimy streets of Alphabet city, Roger finally opens himself up for my Mark to accept or deny. Hope flits across Roger’s face, his hand palm up and waiting for a warm human touch. Everything hangs on what my Mark does next.

Two steps forward, or another back.

I feel myself being shifted from my Mark’s right hand to the left. My Beloved brushes against me as I’m moved to the other side of my Mark’s body. I hear a dull thud of Roger’s guitar slipping around to rest on the man’s hipbone, straining to see where I’ve been moved.

“Darling,” a hiss.

I call out for Roger’s guitar.

My Mark laces his fingers with his Roger’s.

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“Close on the newly born-again Rock Star, Roger Davis. Just returning home from his premiere show at the Pyramid.” Mark narrates to me as he somehow manages to walk rather gracefully backwards up the stairs. Surprisingly, he has yet to fall and bump me in any way that will render my film completely unusable. Roger is slowly walking up the stairs, the correct way, with a broad grin pulling at his lips before winking playfully at me and licking his lips in a rather raunchy display.

Film tears.

My Mark pauses as he reaches the floor of the loft.

“This time with a little less rock and a lot more soul,” my old cheesy Mark, how I adore him. A short laugh dies on Roger’s lips.

“And a complete lack of drugs.” I can’t stop myself from zooming in on Roger’s melancholy expression as he speaks. These strange moods that Roger goes through are moments that fascinate my Mark. Something in Roger’s eyes changes, the color burning deeper as his gaze looks beyond my lens, like he did back at the club.

Directly at my Mark.

A mischievous grin I used to see all the time, but very rarely as of late, pulls at Roger’s lips. He takes a few steps closer to my Mark but remains the same size as I feel my Mark back away unsure what devious thoughts are going through Roger’s mind. Everything jumps slightly as my Mark’s back collides with the loft’s door. The warm, rough flesh of Roger’s hand caresses my cool metal, traveling along my side before pushing me away from my Mark’s face. He is completely out of the frame; save for a leather clad shoulder. I can see the still image perfectly in my mind however, my Mark’s eyes wide and Roger’s hand now gently gripping his chin. The soft sound of lips moving against one another, followed by the clang of metal as the loft door is shoved open behind my Mark’s back. He stumbles back inside the loft. I catching something Roger says, the words breathy and half formed as he tries to kiss my Mark and speak at the same time, “but plenty of sex.”

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Beautifully callused, long tapered fingers dig roughly into the short strands of blond hair at the nape of my Mark’s neck. A thumb, the same that stroked his guitar, presses against the straining muscles of my Mark’s neck as his head bobs. Those thin veins, polluted with the one thing that my Mark is truly terrified of, rise to the surface of his flesh as Roger’s grip tightens. Head tossed to the side, pressing against the cushion of the back of the sofa, Roger murmurs something unintelligible, punctuated every so often with my Mark’s name in a quiet moan. The full expanse of his throat is exposed, Adam’s apple jumping as he gasps for air.

I have to bite back a whimper. Beside me I hear a beautiful low note slip from Roger’s acoustic guitar, something similar to an open G-string. It’s torture to watch them have at it while we can do nothing about our own…carnal desires when they are still in the room. Even worse, the view of exactly what my Mark’s hot mouth is doing to make Roger writhe is blocked by my Beloved, his fabric still wrapped tight around my Mark’s neck and falling to hid his flushed face.

Both men distracted, I sense a chance to shift closer to Roger’s guitar. The cool metal of my body brushes gently along his long neck and I shiver, those old loose screws rattling again. I feel my entire body hum as Roger groans low in the back of his throat, reaching the completion that his guitar and I are a breath away from. The sound is almost musical, or that may be the resonating note that his guitar cannot manage to stifle as he hears me whimper again.

However, as soon as my Mark pulls his lips away from his Roger, I see it. The image that will forever be burned onto my lens, ghosted onto ever strip of film that courses through my little mechanical body.

My Beloved, in all his glory, tangled and zipped wantonly into the fly of my Mark’s Roger’s own much-loved threadbare Plaid Pants.

Slut.

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AN: Uhhh, what was that?