Fuck A.P. Euro

[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: Party at Joanne’s apartment!
Rating: Chapter Six: R
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Angry!smex is always fun. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied

Chapter Six

First and foremost, I just love Joanne.

I mean really, you’ve just got to love her. What a class act that woman is, especially the way she knows how to handle Maureen. Being able to save my Mark from the death grip of her crazy girlfriend, bravo. I doubt that anyone other than Joanne could have pried Maureen’s fingers from around my poor, stunned Mark. And of course I’ve got to hand it to someone who is able to save me from gaping maw of unequivocal torture, being squashed by those disgusting mounds of flesh Maureen always presses against my Mark’s chest, though I’m normally used as a shield. But, in that particular situation, I can’t hold that against him.

“Oh Pookie,” Maureen coos with a teasing smile and that singsong voice. I can remember a time when Maureen would use that same sweet voice on my star-crossed Mark and get away with anything and everything. It still makes me cringe whenever I hear it even though I have grown to like Maureen a whole lot more now that she and Joanne are together. “I was just greeting them.” She slips her arms around Joanne’s waist before pressing a dainty, playful kiss against her cheek. All I can think about in that moment is the image of my ex-Beloved.

“Which explains why you didn’t give Roger a bear hug,” Joanne inquires with a flat tone as she pulls Maureen’s arms from around her waist. An awkward pause hangs in the air as both Maureen and Joanne have a silent test of wills, staring at each other. Well, more like Maureen giving her girlfriend the most heart wrenching pair of big doe eyes that would have even worked on me the day after she broke my Mark’s heart. I can see Joanne’s resolve crumbling piece by piece as she tries her best to resist Maureen. However, my attention is immediately drawn towards the drama occurring behind me as I feel my Mark shift nervously. He moves his arms so that I’m now press flat against his stomach, facing Roger. I can tell that he is staring at Roger, whom I can see is looking pretty much everywhere but my Mark.

The musician’s hands are stuffed deep inside the pockets of his leather coat.

My Mark’s body flinches as he restrains himself from taking a step closer to his Roger.

I can feel my body being clutched tighter and tighter by my Mark’s pale fingers, pressing closer against his stomach as he tries in vain to get Roger’s attention. My would-be heart feels like its breaking as I hear my Mark’s faint voice call to his Roger. He’s so quiet that I’m the only one who can hear him.

His voice cracks but goes unnoticed by the two women.

There is an air of indecision radiating from Roger, head tilted down but at least he is now looking at my Mark’s shoes instead of the strange artwork decorating Joanne’s apartment. A small popping sound of joints cracking catches my attention as I notice the leather covering Roger’s hand strain. When Roger gets nervous, or at least this is what my Mark had told me from time to time, he cracks his knuckles. It’s just one of those idiosyncrasies that my Mark loves to obsess over. I watch his lips part, the tip of his tongue runs along the soft flesh before the glint of teeth refract in my lens and I see him begin to anxiously worry the lower lip.

They never talked about how they were going to act.

I see Roger discreetly glance over at my Mark. His clouded gaze flits over my Mark’s body, falling upon the probably furrowed brow and sadly familiar kicked puppy dog look that I’m sure my Mark must be wearing.

“Well,” Joanne says with a strained voice, finally turning her attention back towards us “you two must be hungry,” and she thankfully manages to break the odd moment between the two couples.

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As my Mark would say, you could have cut the tenfold tension in the room with a dull knife. And if I, an inanimate object, could pick up on that palpable strain it had to be fierce.

However, it might be because of the wonderful seating arrangements that Maureen engineered. Both of the couples, though neither Maureen nor Joanne had any idea that my Mark and his Roger are in fact a couple, are seated across from one another. I would agree that it probably is an awfully sweet thing to gaze into one another’s eyes, it’s downright awkward to be forced to do so when your counterpart just denied any ‘more than friendly’ affection towards you. Though I might still be just a little bit bitter. Can you really blame me? And, my Mark has decided to place me beside his silverware, off to the right so that I’m once again facing our old friend, Stoic Roger.

While there had been a nice stream of banter between my Mark and Maureen, even a few actual bits of conversation between my Mark and sweet Joanne, Roger has yet to speak a single syllable. My Mark has tried in vain to get Roger to join the conversations but all he gets is a guttural grunt of indifference or a shoulder shrug.

Awesome time to go antisocial again Rog.

“So,” my Mark says with a small smile in his voice that I pick up on instantly. I notice Roger glance up at my Mark for a moment as he mashes a lump of baked potato beneath the prongs of his fork. “Is there any particular reason you invited us over, rather than to just let us mooch?” A self-deprecating laugh is cut short as both my Mark and I see Roger flinch at the comment.

“Actually, yes,” Joanne begins and I hear her gently place an eating utensil down onto the large china plate. She takes a short breath just as Maureen starts to talk right over her in an excited voice that she generally reserves for her own accomplishments and tiny triumphs.

“My Joanne was just assigned a very high profile case that’ll be all over the news networks and papers.” If I did not know Maureen as well as I do I almost would have thought she was gushing. Wait, that’s exactly who Maureen is, but she’s gushing over someone else’s accomplishments.

“Congratulations,” my Mark says with a genuine smile. I feel a familiar sweaty palm brush against my back as my Mark touches me absentmindedly.

“Thank you, Mark,” Joanne replies before explaining in depth about the case. It’s actually a rather interesting predicament, something about a lesbian mother and custody of her children, a very worthy cause that is surprisingly enough getting a lot of intense news attention. However, it might be because of whom her ex-husband is, some rising star, hotshot political figure. After explaining the case, my Mark surely lost after the first couple minutes and Maureen just smiling and nodding, there is a short lull in the conversation. And apparently my Mark feels the need to fill the gap.

“Well,” he begins, finger’s gripping my sides and I know instantly that he is looking straight at his Roger. “Roger also just got a steady jo-”

“What Mark means is,” Roger cuts my Mark off rather abruptly, though he now is looking my Mark directly in the eye. There is a hard warning glint putting a razor sharp edge to Roger’s gaze. It’s a look that I have only seen once before, back in the Needle Days when my Mark and me walked in on his Roger playing dirty games with that evil needle girl and her white powder and searing fire. I can feel the nearly impermeable rattle of the table as Roger places his fork rather forcibly upon the hardwood table, “I’m just working now on Friday nights at the Pyramid club, that’s all.” The musician says, his voice getting quieter as he comes to the end of his sentences, as if he’s run out of steam. He sounds tired. “It’s nothing, really.” Roger mumbles quietly, more so to himself and my Mark than to Maureen and Joanne.

Nothing? Yesterday it was almost all he could talk about, waking my Mark and I up from our afternoon nap and everything. He was ecstatic, nearly vibrating with so much life that my Mark and I have not seen in a long time. Roger had been beautiful in that moment, with the acoustic slung around his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. A sweet, haunting melody playing in my mind. How can he say that it’s nothing? There is definitely something else going on that my Mark and I are completely missing.

“What?” My Mark replies, his voice quite and confused, fading beneath sweet Joanne’s congratulations.

“No, that’s great Roger,” sweet Joanne reassures him with a brilliant smile in her voice that makes me love her even more in that moment.

“Thanks,” Roger murmurs before turning his attention back towards the half eaten baked potato and salad.

“Yeah, really, Roger, it’s fantastic,” Maureen chimes in, though I know she’s looking at my Mark and not his Roger.

+++++++++++++++

“What the fuck was that, Roger?”

My Mark hardly ever swears, especially at his Roger.

I’m scared.

“What’s going on?” The acoustic asks panicked as soon as my Mark throws open the sliding door and stomps over to the stainless steal table. Roger’s acoustic has momentarily forgotten that he is not suppose to be seen ‘cavorting’ with me, giving in and speaking to me.

“Shh,” I whisper, though the sound wavers as I feel a reel of terror course through my little body. I’m scared out of my mind as Mark slams me down onto the table beside Roger’s acoustic guitar. My Mark never stands up to Roger like this, head on and figurative guns blazing. I’m in a fucking episode of the Twilight Zone here. And to top it all off, before I even realize what I’m doing, I find myself all snuggled up to the acoustic. I’m pressing my little body beside his long, hard wooden frame and he responds. The acoustic is pulling me closer with intangible fingers, protecting me from the hailstorm that is about to rain down upon Roger.

“Mark,” Roger whispers, attempting to calm my Mark as best he can. You know, for some reason I don’t think it’s working, Roger. He slides the loft’s door closed, a loud metallic clang echoing through the loft. I watch as Roger shuffles closer to where my Mark is standing, his back facing his Roger. I flinch as I see Roger’s long fingers brush against my Mark’s shoulder.

“No.” My Mark snaps, rounding on Roger. Startled, the musician takes a step backwards. “Tell me.” My Mark’s voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it, though it’s nothing to rival Roger’s when he gets worked up.

“What?”

“You completely shut down.” My Mark tries to push past his Roger, shoving his index finger roughly into Roger’s shoulder to emphasize his words. I watch as he heads towards the door again. I know that he is not going anywhere. For a moment Roger just stands there, transfixed with the oddest expression. Something in his eyes shifts and I see that hard edge break through, he grabs my Mark’s wrist in a grip I’m sure will leave discolored bruises on his pale flesh. Twisting his arm around, Roger turns my Mark to face him.

“Roger!” I hear the acoustic and myself cry out in surprise as Roger slams my stunned Mark up against the heavy metal door.

The loud clang echoes again.

“What?” Roger’s lips are almost brushing against my Mark’s mouth as he yells. “Just because I didn’t hold little Marky’s hand, I’m a fuck up?” Sarcasm and venom drip from Roger’s words and I know exactly where the Fender gets his volatile personality from, this side of my Mark’s Roger. He backs away and suddenly drops my Mark’s hands and his palm comes to press against my Mark’s cheek. I watch the odd contrast to his voice and the tender way his thumb caresses my Mark’s cheekbone. “Maybe I don’t want them to know.” His voice is low and I almost don’t hear what he says.

My Mark’s heart breaks, and for a single moment so does mine.

“What, so it’s okay for the rest of New York City to know you’re fucking me but not our friends?” My Mark tries to push his Roger away, his hands caught between their bodies as Roger presses closer.

“It’s different, Mark!”

“Well maybe you should fucking clarify it for me because I don’t see how!” My Mark is still struggling, full strength in his voice though only half-heartedly in body.

The tension snaps and a reel of film tears clean in two.

“I-I-It jus-” another metallic clang sounds as Roger’s mouth clashes with my Mark’s and his head is knocked back against the door. I can hear the asymmetrical clicking of teeth and slippery tongues fighting for dominance. Ragged breathing and my Mark’s coat goes flying across the room as Roger peels it from his body. “Is,” he breaths against my Mark’s lips, grinding his hips savagely against my Mark. There is still and undercurrent of anger and suppressed rage channeled into a different mode. But I watch as it slowly dissolves as my Mark and his Roger become too caught up with one another to really be upset and violent, just a level of intensity I have never been privy to see from either man.

“Roger,” a choked moan as Roger’s hands slip beneath the hem of my Mark’s sweater. I see his hand trail up to brush the cold flesh of his fingertips against my Mark’s warm nipples. My Mark’s thin hips thrust against the thigh that has been pressed between them. His head falls back as his Roger nips along the pale throat before kissing him again, all tongue, teeth and hot puffs of breath.

“And fucking Maureen,” I hear Roger grit out between clenched teeth as he tears off my Mark’s sweater and throws it in the opposite direction of the coat.

“Rog,” my Mark gasps as his bare flesh comes into contact with the freezing cold metal. Roger’s hands slide around to his shoulder blades as his tongue trails a slippery pathway down towards my Mark’s collarbone. “Uhhmmm,” my Mark moans unintelligibly as he bucks against Roger again, slipping his arms around Roger’s waist and beneath his warm leather jacket. Large hands glide down my Mark’s back, below his waistband to grip his ass.

“Why did you have to tell them?” Roger asks in puffs of hot breath against sweaty skin as he grinds his cock against my Mark’s thigh. There is no anger in his words, only…sorrow?

“W-what?” my Mark asks, a little to far gone with lust to comprehend what Roger is saying.

“Why’d ya tell them?”

“Tell them what?” my Mark asks again, pulling Roger’s hands out of his pants, clasping them in his.

“About the stupid, shitty job…” Roger doesn’t look at my Mark.

“I thought you were excited about it.” Pale fingertips caress the underside of Roger’s chin, tilting his face up so he can see my Mark’s eyes. He slowly cards his fingers through Roger’s bleached hair, coming to rest at the nape of the musician’s neck. My Mark’s deft fingers rub tiny, soothing circles there.

“But, compared…” ‘to Joanne.’ Is the silent addition that both my Mark and I add onto the statement. Roger, an inferiority complex? I do believe that hell has just frozen over solid. My Mark’s eyes soften and I see him pull Roger’s hands close to his chest, over his heart. I would be getting misty eyed if I could cry. “I’ll never be able to give you anything, Mark.” Roger mumbles, leaning into the tender touch of my Mark’s fingers. “Just fucking and music.” My Mark presses a soft kiss against Roger’s rough lips, pouring everything he’s got into the caress.

“Oh please,” the twang of the Fender draws all my attention away from the sweet moment between my Mark and his Roger. My skin would be crawling hearing that malicious asshole degrading both of our owner’s moment together.

“Shut up, Fender.” I spit back, suddenly all to aware of my proximity to my Beautiful Acoustic.

“Ooo, Camera’s got some teeth,” the Fender drawls in a slow mocking tone. “Who would have guessed?” Unnoticed by the couple literally kissing and making up, the Fender slides onto the opposite end of the couch so he is closer to the stainless steal table. “You really think your Mark deserves our Roger?” For the life of me I can’t understand why he hates my poor Mark so much.

“Strat, stop,” the acoustic mumbles a low warning that does nothing to stop the Fender’s diatribe.

“Yeah, right,” he wines, voice almost sounding electrified in that moment. “He’s just screwing around with him until another female groupie from the Pyramid wiggles her fine ass into his bed.” I hear him pause for dramatic affect and I know the axe is about to fall. “Kind of like the Acoustic with you.”

“What did you say?” I ask, inspired slightly by my Mark’s display of assertiveness towards his Roger.

“It’s exactly like how Roger’s Acoustic,” he nudges his sleek body towards the acoustic as I feel the warm wood move away from where I was comfortable to be wrapped in his embrace. Cold and abandoned, I glare at the Fender. “Is just fucking you until Roger finds himself another new object for him to couple up with.” I nearly send my little body catapulting off the stainless steal table, honed in on destroying the Fender, even if I must sacrifice a shattered lens. But instead of a single, very Roger-ish, blaze of glory, I find myself being picked up. My Mark’s fingers wrap around my body and I’m suddenly aware the two men have moved.

“Come on, Roger,” my Mark whispers before I see his other hand wrap around the neck of the acoustic. Jealousy courses through me, though I’m not sure whom it is directed towards. “Play me something.”

Inside Roger’s room my Mark settles down on the old spring mattress while Roger, standing at the foot of the bed, does a quick tune-up. The notes sound all wrong, twisted and contorted into some strange, ugly melody.

“Camera, listen,” the acoustic begins, his singsong voice flat and boring. “I’m sorry,” a sour note like before, something he’s not used to saying very often. “Strat. shouldn’t have said thos-” I cut him off.

“The fucking Fender shouldn’t ha-What about you?” I pause, my voice sounds so strange. “Why didn’t you say something?” Another horrible note echoes through the small room and Roger continues to tweak the strings.

“I-I-I jus-You don’t understand.” Roger’s same inexplicable defense tactic reflected back.

“Oh yes I do.” I begin, finally getting to say everything I wanted to this morning. “I heard everything, Acoustic!”

“Fuck.” Roger mumbles.

“Everything the Fender said to you last night.” My voice is so strained I think a screw has definitely come loose. “And you didn’t have the brass cords to stand up for what you love.” He visibly winces. I feel everything swell within my tiny body as I look at the Beautiful Acoustic who is breaking my heart. “I love you.”

Roger finally found a golden chord.

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AN: Happy sigh, but it’s not over yet! More explanation of asshole!Fender in next chapter. Plus Camera/Acoustic fluff!

Comments

[silverotter.livejournal.com]

Oh, oh, oh. They're way too cute. More of this drug-like fic!

[linaynay247.livejournal.com]

Phoar. That was awesome!!!!!!

[didaverseend.livejournal.com]

AWWW... I don't know why I love this story so much... you just do such a good job with the emotions of inanemate objects...

[musettaswaltz42.livejournal.com]

Mm..Crack!fic goodness. I'm constructing an altar that I can worship you and your crack!fic on. Gotta love asshole!Fender ^^

[lozateazer.livejournal.com]

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!!!! NOW!!! *bounce*

[rabidfangirlism.livejournal.com]

!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was just told this was here now, OMG.

OH. EM. GEE. SERIOUSLY. I am BLOWN AWAY. !!!!!!

[rabidfangirlism.livejournal.com]

PS: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[cameraneverlies.livejournal.com]

Awwww!! Damnit I love that little camera so much. *hugs it* Now I'm craving fluff, hurry and give us the fluuuff

[myhobbitpippin.livejournal.com]

More more more more more more

I love this so much :P Your the only author who's been able to convince me that Roger/Mark works :P

[freak-thankyou.livejournal.com]

I love this fic. It is so many kinds of crack, but I love it. I love Mark's camera. I love Mark's camera. I love all the drama with the inanimate objects. I'm glad the Fender will get more ecplaining. He doesn't seem to really have much of a reason fro doing what he does. I'm a total band/trumpet geek. I hear the words in my head as I read the story and no matter how I try I always hear Strad. instead of Strat. which are commpletely different instruments. (Everything after this point can be ignored. Please excuse my total bandgeekness.) And then I start thinking of Strad and see my beat up Strad Model 37 and it depresses me because I'm the one that made the gigantic crease in the bell and the second valve spring broke when I was the one playing it. I feel responsible for making a Strad. crappy (though I'm of the opinion that unless you break it so that it cannot play or the tone becomes awful and the valves get warped to the point that they barely move and the slides don't move and the spit valve breaks and the tuning slide gets frozen in place then a Strad. can't ever be all that crappy because Strads are amazing (though I may be biased since both of my horns are Strad Model 37s and I've played on those since I started trumpet back back in fourth grade and the only other horns I've played on are section mates' crappy marching or concert horns and they really can't compare to the level of awesome ness that is a Strad.))