(no subject)

[bluetears07]

Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Parings: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Roger’s Fender Stratocaster/Roger’s Amp, Mark’s Scarf/Roger’s Plaid Pants, Mark/Roger
Summary: In which the Fender is an ass.
Rating: Chapter Five: R
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Bi-inanimateality is not a real word, own invention meaning that an inanimate has ‘sexual’ feelings towards both inanimate objects and clothing. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. A plot? No…Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied

Chapter Five

If asked, he would deny it up and down, eight ways to fucking Sunday. But, I know deep inside his golden heart, the acoustic looks up to the Fender in some fucked up form of idolatry.

He’ll listen to him.

It makes me inexplicably nervous.

“There are certain rules for these types of…less than platonic ‘interactions’ I’ve been seein’ you engage in most recently.” I shiver as an odd chill courses through my sprockets while I press my little body closer to the paper-thin wall. The unplugged twang of the Fender whispering in a harsh voice. Unlike the acoustic’s beautiful singsong voice, there is something raw and unconnected that contours his words, drawing them out so they permanently sound infused with lust. It always makes me feel dirty. If I had skin like my Mark, trust me, it would be crawling.

“What are you talking about, Strat?” The acoustic’s voice is slightly muffled but I would know it anywhere. An odd resigned note of apathy hangs in the air just beyond the wall I’m currently pressed against. A part of my insides contracts, winding my film tight as I focus on the Fender’s reply.

“Don’t you know anything about inanimate object relationships?” Ever since day one, when my Mark and I moved into the loft and met Roger and his Fender Stratocaster, that damned guitar has, and probably forever will be, a condescending prick. I really do not understand him, nor do I really want to take the time to.

Maybe he was just built that way.

The only thing that is unsettling is this social order that the Fender is talking to the acoustic about. Yeah, I’ve heard of it before but what is the matter with what the acoustic and I have going on? We’re both consenting objects, unless that asshole is super conservative, which would be completely counterintuitive. But then again he’s a total drama queen, anything to create conflict that will keep him amused so he doesn’t have to think about all the times Roger has passed him up for the acoustic.

“I mean,” the Fender starts speaking again in a low humming drawl. An air of disappointment and blatant patronization fills his voice. “Since when do you fuck around with Mark’s little camera?”

Fucking.

Bitch.

I can feel something inside my body snap as a tiny bubble of rage unlike anything I’ve ever felt before bursts.

“What?” That same anger is mirrored in the sound of the acoustic, loud and clear, a dangerously low note of warning. I hear the muffled sound of carved wood scraping against the floor.

That’s right, Acoustic, defend my fucking honor!

“It goes object-object and clothing-clothing.” Only from hearing his callous voice, the Fender sounds beyond offended and disgusted. I have never heard him sound like this before in my life. His usually fluid speech pattern has dissolved into a series of abrupt, staccato words. There must be another dimension to this all, something more, something personal. The Fender can barely contain his emotions as it is, now they're bubbling up and spewing all over the nearest object.

My Beautiful Acoustic.

“But Mark’s camera is an object.” A brilliant counter.

“That fucked up bi-inanmateual is one of Mark’s objects, not Roger’s.”

“Hey, fuck you!” I yell in a whisper, knocking my body against the wall in vain. In the social world I may be a little naïve but I am conscious enough to know that being called a bi-inanmateual is definitely not something you want to be labeled as, even if it is what you are. I just want to be with my Beautiful Acoustic. I ignore the tell-tale sound of old rotted wood grating against wood as the top drawer of the dresser slides open and the Plaid Pants and my ex-Beloved stop screwing around long enough to listen to what is transpiring in the other room.

“Cross-personal object ‘relationships’ are…are,” he’s tripping over his own words, so revolted by the idea he can barely find the right expression to convey his emotions. There is the sound of more scrapping, though this time it is the sound of a hard molded body of the Fender. “It’s disgusting and just fucked up.”

Pushed too far.

An odd popping noise cracks through the charged air, sounding for all the world like a snapped guitar string. There is a long pause of uneasy silence.

I almost snap.

Is he okay?

“What about the Plaid Pants?” He is slow to speak, his voice distorted. Something in the way his voice sounds almost nervous, a trembling harmony that is not quite in sync, missing something vital. No longer a perfect full set of beautifully taut cords strung up the long handcrafted wooden neck. “They, they’re with Mark’s scarf…” He trails off at a loss for what to say in defense.

“Well, since our dear Roger has temporarily lost his fucking mind and is now getting head from that Mark,” he spits my sweet Mark’s name out like he is nothing. Obviously he’s something to your fucking Roger! “They mix their laundry together. Clothing doesn’t really have a choice, now do they?”

“Dude, what did he just say about us?” Suddenly the Plaid Pants have decided now is as good a time as ever to startle me half to death. I jump away from the wall and nearly fall of the dresser upon hearing the outburst.

“Plaid, darling, shhh,” my ex-Beloved hushes him quietly as I steady myself and look behind me at the two articles of clothing peering over the lip of the dresser at me. I can’t stifle the venomous glare I shoot at the Plaid Pants.

“Ohh, shut up.”

“Sorry dude,” he backs off as I notice my Mark’s scarf slip through a few of his belt loops, encircling him in a warm embrace.

“Seriously, man, you need to find something else.” The Fender’s voice cuts through the air again. I press myself back up against the wall, straining to hear every word the acoustic has to say in response.

“What about you? Who do you have?” Same old tactic I tried on him a few nights ago before my world was turned on it ear.

“Me?” There’s an oddly amused tone in his voice, almost sounding like a crazy grin that Roger gets whenever he is about to pounce on my poor oblivious Mark. “I’ve got my little lady right here.” A high-pitched giggle is the only sound that follows his haughty statement. “Well, ain’t that right, babe,” he coos disgustingly and I can only assume he is speaking about that slut of an amplifier that Roger jacked from some sleazy nightclub that was going out of business.

Now if you want to talk about nymphomaniacs, I bet that my ex-Beloved and that amp would be just a winning pair. However, they’d probably be too busy screwing around and cheating on each other that they would never actually fuck. Oh, oh wait, my bad, that would be in total violation of the fucking rules that prick in there just drew out for all of inanimate objects in the loft.

“You understand now, Acoustic?” He pauses long enough so that a flat note of agreement echoes inside the loft. When I hear the twang again is a sickeningly playful tone, with a menacing undercurrent that gives a real weight to his words. “Next time I catch you with that fucking camera I’ll snap more than just one of your cords, and definitely not in the way you would prefer him to do.”

“Fucking Fender, piece of shit,” I begin to mumble, winding myself up probably more than is healthy. I know my film will be in tatters tomorrow morning when my Mark goes to put a new reel in.

“Calm down dude, that ain’t gonna help anything,” the Plaid Pants attempt to be the voice of reason but something in that all-too-relaxed drawl makes me snap.

“Shut up, Pants!”

Fuck the Fender.

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That following day is probably one of the most awkward times of my life to date.

For starters, the first thing I hear is a string of mumbled curses issuing from a very agitated Roger as he stumbles back inside the bedroom cradling our wounded Beautiful Acoustic. A shock of anger rips through me again and I know for sure that my Mark is definitely going to be upset when he sees the state of all the film he shot yesterday is in this morning. Bleached hair mused and sticking out in odd angles that would have been comical if not for entirely defeated look of misery carved on his tired face.

He looks old, too old.

Roger pads quietly over to the dresser he pauses, glancing back at my Mark who is still asleep laying spread eagle on the twisted bed sheets. I watch his hand press down against the dresser, beginning to slide across to clear a spot for his guitar. He pauses as a few pennies and wayward buttons go flying across the room, his fingertips grazing my side. A small smile pulls at his lips as he picks me up. Cradled in the crook of his arm, probably mimicking the way he has see my Mark hold me, Roger places the acoustic on the flat surface. He puts me back down on the dresser, tucked neatly out of the way, protected on nearly all sides by the curve of the guitar’s warm wooden body.

The entire dresser shakes as Roger unceremoniously yanks open the second drawer and begins rummaging around for a package of guitar strings that he apparently bought last week and stuffed in my Mark’s dresser drawer so he would not loose them in the black hole of his own room, or so he keeps muttering to himself. A few old tattered sweaters my Mark never wears anymore, go flying over his shoulder and into a heap on the foot of the bed where my Mark is beginning to stir. Roger’s entire face lights up as he finds the strings and attempts to rips open the cheap plastic. While Roger is distracted with figuring out how best to attack the packaging I press myself against the acoustic and am surprised when he shifts closer, hopefully taking solace in my presence.

“What happened?” I ask already knowing the answer, both the truth and what his typical, by-the-book-Roger response will be. A part of him shrinks away from me and all I can focus on is the flat tone of his voice.

He’s incomplete.

I was not there to keep him together when he needed me most.

“Nothing…” the acoustic murmurs with a quiet sigh. In the background I hear Roger yelp in surprise as he finally tears open the package and the set of strings go flying on to the dresser. Poor Roger is frantic. Hands moving sporadically all around us as Roger desperately searches for the one he needs to fix his guitar, I try to focus on what the acoustic is saying to me. “Don’t worry about me,” he adds in a soothing tone as Roger begins to untie his broken string.

“Listen, Acoustic, las-” I’m cut off as I hear the sounds of sheets rustling and bare feet treading softly against the floorboards. My attention is immediately drawn to the image of my Mark, wrapped up in a bed sheet. He walks quietly over to where his Roger, the acoustic and myself are situated. Silently, my Mark slips his arms around his Roger’s chest, lacing his fingers together. I can tell by the way his Roger slumps forward slightly he’s pressing himself against the musician. Just over Roger’s shoulder are a few wayward tips of brilliant blond hair as my Mark presses his face against the bare flesh of his Roger’s shoulder blade. Something in Roger’s domineer changes from frantic and unbelievably agitated to a fluid calm. His long fingers stop trembling and he strings the new cord flawlessly along the acoustics neck.

No words are exchanged between the two.

I hear the soft press of lips against bare skin as my Mark plants a kiss on the middle of his Roger’s back. The odd tilt to Roger’s body disappears as he relaxes back against my Mark, once again having to get used to the tactile warmth of another person. This time however, it’s the touch of someone who will always be there. A content sigh slips from Roger as he tunes the brand-new string, satisfied with the sound. My Mark’s hands unfold and slip from his Roger’s chest, trailing down his arms before moving away completely. Without a word he heads towards the doorway, pauses for a moment and glances back over his shoulder to where Roger is neatly folding his old sweaters.

“Roger,” he murmurs in an amused tone that sets a subdued flush creeping up the back of his Roger’s neck. The musician drops the last article of clothing into the drawer, closes it and is across the room in a heartbeat with his arms wrapped around my Mark’s shoulders. I strain to see the two take off down the short hallway in the direction of the bathroom.

“Last nig-” I try to begin against as the squeaking of old water pipes fades into the dull hum of the sleepless city.

“Can I just hold you, just for a little while?” For a moment I cannot register his words. I don’t even know the last time someone, let along my ex-Beloved wanted to just hold me in silence. My heart, if I had one, would swell to twice its size and nearly burst out of my little body. Such a sweet simple request, I cannot deny him, that is, if I could deny him anything at all. But there is a strange undercurrent, an odd tone of finality to his voice that makes me shiver.

“Of course,” I murmur. Some intangible yet entirely too palpable force wraps around my body and I feel myself drawn closer towards the acoustic guitar. Pressed against the warm wood of his body I feel whole. I can’t explain it, how that beautiful guitar is doing it but I feel fingertips and warm hands like Roger’s long tapered fingers wrapping around my body. I whisper his name and snuggle closer to his curved body, blocking out all images and sounds of the previous night.

I could swear I felt a pair of soft, thin lips press against the side of my body.

Actually I take back what I said before; the morning was beautifully bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. However, the afternoon was bad, very bad.

The rest of the day the acoustic made no attempt to even acknowledge my presence or even the fact that I existed, at least when we were in the immediate presence of the Fender. However, being in the living room for the entire afternoon meant we were always in earshot of the Fender. He pretty much kept to himself while my Mark had taken to cleaning my lens and sporadically filming Roger doing random things.

I didn’t really start hurting until Roger decided to begin plucking out a few notes.

Something was still off in his harmony, a strange imbalance that Roger was immediately aware off. However, the poor boy thought was his fault, that he was somehow causing the odd sound. He started humming a few of the notes to himself, filling in every other with the words of the song, “No one knows what it's like…” Pausing, he tried to play the same notes on the guitar. It sounded all wrong. The Fender, not really attuned to the subtlety of the acoustic guitar’s voice when Roger played him, the Fender being used to the sound of chords warped and twisted by an amp and electricity could not hear what I heard in the Beautiful Acoustic’s voice. “To be the sad man, behind blue eyes,” only I could hear the muted love and longing and pain.

Everything came to a grinding halt as the phone rang. The sound of my Mark and his Roger’s answering machine echoed throughout the loft as Roger stopped playing and my Mark turned his attention, along with me, towards the phone.

“Pookie? Baby, it’s Maureen, please pick up the phone. Joanne and I wer-” A part of me wanted to break into peels of laughter as my Mark bolted from where he sat on the table across from his Roger to answer the phone.

“Hey Maureen,” he mumbled in an odd semblance of cheerfulness. Maureen’s chipper voice sped a mile a minute from the receiver. “Uh, let me ask Roger.” My Mark said suddenly as he covered the phone with one hand and held it away from his mouth to ask his Roger a question.

“You want free dinner?” My Mark gave his Roger a goofy grin that made me glance at the acoustic. Roger placed the temperamental guitar on the couch cushion beside him. I’m not sure if my Mark picked up on the odd look Roger gave the acoustic guitar as he stood up from the couch to come stand beside my Mark, wrapping his arms around my Mark’s slim hips.

“Catch?” Roger asked, with a mischievous grin though he knew the answer.

“Maureen and Joanne’s place.”

“I accept the challenge.” Roger finally replied after silently deliberating for a good two minutes.

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I was all alone on this journey.

My Mark had decided, at the last moment of course, that it would be fun to bring me along for dinner. Maybe get some interesting shots of the nicer part of the city where Joanne lived. He also just wanted to get some shots of Joanne’s apartment, maybe use the stock images later for something to contrast with his and Roger’s loft. More wonderful reappearing dichotomies that I had began to pick up all throughout my Mark’s cinematic work.

Thus, I found myself pressed tight against my Mark’s chest, angled in such away that I could see his Roger’s thin frame walking close beside him. As the two boys stood outside the apartment waiting for Joanne or Maureen to answer the door, I felt Roger’s solid warmth fade away for the first time since leaving the loft a good half hour ago. Zooming out I caught the shifting of stiff leather as his hand moved from the small of my Mark’s back where it had been content to stay during the entire trip over here.

Roger took a step away from my Mark.

The two boys were separate and isolated when Maureen finally opened the door.

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AN: What do you think? Shit? Feel free to tell me what you really think. :D Now, my Fender is a whole world different from the Fender portrayed by the sweet gals over at the rent_objects community, it’s totally not meant as a slam, it’s just how I imagined him before ya’ll started RP-ing. But don’t worry there is more to him than meets the ‘eye.’ :D