bluetears07 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluetears07) wrote2006-03-26 04:12 am
bluetears07) wrote2006-03-26 04:12 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Parings: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Roger’s, Mark’s Scarf/Roger’s Plaid Pants, Roger’s Fender Stratocaster/Mark’s Plaid Coat, Collins’ Knit Skullcap/Angel’s 10-Gallon Plastic Pickle Tub, Mark/Roger
Summary: Collins drops in on the boys.
Rating: Chapter Eight: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: For all intensive purposes we are calling Collins’ hat a knit ‘SkullCap,’ or Cap for short. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Chapter Eight
At first glance, one would assume that Roger’s Plaid Pants and my Mark’s Plaid coat would go perfectly well together; birds of a feather or something like that. But, you know, in reality it would all just be too horribly tacky to bear. I mean, Plaid on Plaid, it just makes me shiver. Also, those two personalities together, the laidback, haughty yet oddly sweet Plaid Pants and the unbelievably shy and reserved Plaid Coat, two extreme versions of their owners traits, would be so odd in a relationship. They would never find anything in common except wanting to fuck each other’s Plaid brains out. However, all that definitely does not mean that in a million plus years I would even begin to image the most remote, sliver of a possibility that Roger’s Asshole of a Fender Stratocaster would be shaking up with my Mark’s sweet Plaid Coat.
But it does explain a lot.
I guess it is true what my Mark always said about chauvinists, though I’ve only caught bits and pieces because usually he was filming them and muttering more so to himself than me. Generally, my Mark says that those who have some kind of blind hatred for some characteristic of another person (or inanimate object in our case) are probably just lashing out against the same characteristic that they know is also within themselves that they simply cannot cope with. For example, the Fender’s bigotry, talking about me as a “fucked up bi-inanmateual” in addition to calling the acoustic and mine’s ‘cross-personal object’ relationship something vile when he, himself, is screwing around with one of my Mark’s pieces of clothing.
Classic.
Guilty on both accounts.
The Fucking Fender Stratocaster, what a hypocrite.
However, that pure logic and nice, simple rationalization that I just spewed above, all of which I concluded post-facto, yeah, well that did not help me out in the heat of the moment. Basically, I passed out cold at the sight of those two going at it. Right there, on those splendidly crappy wooden floorboards, I blacked out. Pathetic, I know, but it was really a shock to the system. Granted I may have been a little more than fatigued thanks to my Beautiful Acoustic guitar’s desire to show me how much he loves me in just about every way, shape and form known to inanimate objects worldwide. So, about three fourths of the way down the hall to the ‘living room,’ far enough for my zoom and my lens to adapt to the darkness, I fainted. Which is were I was unceremoniously woken up by a soft and low murmuring voice, echoed faintly by solid footsteps and an almost palpable, all too familiar, knowing grin.
Oh, ahhh, woah!
Eeep!
“What are you doing out here in the hall, little buddy?” Large warm hands wrap around my little body as I’m suddenly picked up off the floor and pulled into the air about five feet up. My sleep-laden mind is still a jumble of stock images and is thrown completely sideways as I find myself tipped on my side. A couple inches of precious film are still wound all about me, caught on my turn crank, thanks to the acoustics magic chords. Fingers, not as callused as Roger’s but definitely not as nibble and soft as my Mark’s start to tug gently at the film, attempting to stuff it back inside my body without having any clue as to what in the world he is doing to my delicate frame. You cannot just jam film back inside a camera. I really don’t work that way!
I require finesse, dammit!
“Collins,” I try yelling at him in vain, hoping that somehow by a miracle or stroke of madness he’ll suddenly be able to understand me. “Put me down right this instant, young man,” my voice sounds ridiculous when I’m trying to be both menacing and threatening and I just know this is not going to end well, but I’m desperate. “I said now!” And of course he does not understand me whatsoever.
Crazy anarchist.
Not that I don’t love him like my Mark and his Roger do, I really do, but I’ve seen how he loves to take apart appliances and other unsuspecting victims of the machine-object persuasion and I would rather not be subject to any such tinkering and so-called ‘improvements.’ I’ll just take a rain check. I’m not really in the whole ‘revamping’ mood this morning, or any morning, day or evening for that matter. Especially since I just started liking myself the way I am again.
I resign myself to my fate as a hunk of useless scrap metal that was once a functional camera as I feel him continue to try and stuff the film back into me. Thankfully though, this time he threads it correctly, syncing everything up perfectly. Of course he would never really do anything to permanently screw with my temperamental mechanics since he knows how dear I am to my Mark, but you never can be one hundred percent sure of anything with Collins—again, anarchist. My delicate film, all nice and fingerprinted, is queued up to where my Mark stopped filming his Roger’s performance last night. I feel Collins turn me right side up and test out my weight before taking a peek through my eyepiece with a self-satisfied smile.
“Now, let’s go find your owner,” Collins said quietly, already filming as he sets out on his quest to find my Mark. He starts by wandering down the hall, heading towards the empty bedroom that belongs to my Mark. Not quite sure what he’ll find in there but it will for sure not be my Mark.
“Hey man, what’s up?” A low, warm voice, sounding like a composite of several different tenors, all different strands knit together but speaking as one voice, calls down to me from atop Collins head. Collin’s old SkullCap. Back when Collins used to live in the loft, it seems like nearly a lifetime ago, Cap and I were really good buddies. Whenever we got the chance he would always talk to me about either in-depth philosophical rants or detailed stories about adventures he had Collins went on in the Village. Personally, I always preferred the rare combination of the two.
But then Collins left and there had been a huge hole in my daily life. No more ‘Fireside’ SkullCap Chit Chat Time. No Descartes, no Hegel, no Heidegger, no Arendt, nothing. Not even Snagging and Shagging Pretty Boys, well a little from my Mark’s Glasses, but that wasn’t really the same since there was no Shagging because our Mark was deeply, deeply in denial and totally afraid of even jacking off to the thought of Pretty Boys like his Roger. All in all, I’d really missed talking to him. So, every time Collins comes for a short visit I just get tickled pink to get to talk to him again.
“Nothing really,” I reply with a lopsided smile embarrassingly evident in my small voice. With Cap you have to start out blasé, like nothing is really happening and then drop the big bombshell. I can barely contain all the nervous energy that is building up inside my body. I can’t wait to tell him that everything has changed. So much is different and I just know he will be just as excited about is as the acoustic and me. Pausing for a moment I take a depth breath, or at least imagine taking one, and decide it to tell him first about my Mark and his Roger before Collins stumbles upon the happy couple zonked out on Roger’s bed, hopefully they’re under the sheets by now. “Well, actually,” I start, my voice almost quaking with excitement, “Mark and Roger finally hooked up.”
“I’ll be damned!” He replies with a deep laugh that would be rebounding off the walls. I can see by the way Collins adjusts Cap that he’s about ready to roll onto the floor to start laughing wholeheartedly. “That’s fucking fantastic,” there is a grin in his voice and I just know he’s as thrilled for the Boho boys as I am. “You know, Collins and I have been waiting to see when those two boys would finally crack,” of course they have, how could I expect anything less.
“Yeah,” I murmur in agreement, still grinning. There is a short lull as I debate with myself about whether or not I should telling him about my Beautiful Acoustic or wait to do it together with the acoustic. Finally settling on the latter I turn my attention onto what Cap has been keeping himself busy with while he and Collins are away from the loft. “How ‘bout you?” I ask in a more somber tone.
“Hmmm, not in there,” Collins mutters to himself and, I guess, to me also as he glances around my Mark’s empty bedroom. He lingers on the mattress, a prolonged shot of the unmade bed sheets and a flat pillow, probably assuming that my Mark has already woken up. However, he cannot really think that since it is far to early for my two Boho boys to be awake and roaming around the loft—really anything before eleven o’clock is inhumane and ungodly.
“Well, you know that me and Gal are still going strong,” Cap says with a broad grin evident in his voice. While our sweet Angel left us quite some time ago there was the matter of the 10-gallon plastic pickle tub that Collins kept. Everyone calls her ‘Gal’ for short. And of course what sweeter ‘cross-personal’ and bi-inanmateual couple can you get but Collins’s SkullCap and Angel’s 10-Gallon Plastic Pickle Tub. They are the most perfect definition of ‘in love’ I have seen between two inanimate objects to date. “You still with Mark’s Scarf, Camera?” I almost leap out of Collins’s hands at the question, feeling a cold shiver run along my body.
“Well, actuall-” I begin shyly before I’m interrupted by Roger’s Plaid Pants cries of anguish.
“Dude!” The Plaid Pants yelp of protest to being stepped on by Collins as he comes to stand in Roger’s doorway. His voice, uncharacteristically uptight, is closely followed by my ex-Beloved’s whine of, “Collins, watch where you’re going!”
“Shit,” I swear as the image of Roger’s back fills my lens. This is certainly not going to end well for my Mark. I don’t really know about how Roger will take it based on last night’s performance but my Mark will for sure not be pleased to be caught in such a compromising position. Telling someone you’re now going out with and fucking your once best friend, male best friend to be exact, and them finding you two in bed together still in a sweet morning-after phase are two completely different animals. And I’m almost two hundred and fifty percent sure my Mark would die before he had someone find him in Roger’s bed, naked, with an equally naked Roger.
“Oh, ho, ho snap,” Collins chuckles to himself in a low and overtly mischievous manner.
From where we are standing the image is rather provocative and surprisingly ambiguous. The dirty sheets are at least pulled up just barely enough to cover Roger’s fine ass, falling below the slight curve of his sharp hipbone, clinging to his body like a second skin. Apparently Roger liked the position he was in last night, curled up on his side with one arm tucked beneath his head so that my Mark’s entire body is shielded by Roger’s body from anyone looking in on the two. However, at the bottom of the ratty mattress, peeking out beneath the sheets are two pairs of feet so it is also obvious to Collins that Roger defiantly has someone in bed with him.
“Looks like Roger finally got himself laid post-Mimi,” I feel Collins pull away from my eyepiece and turn his head to glance down the hallway, looking to see if maybe my Mark is in the bathroom and could be pressed for information concerning the two Sleeping Beauties. But when he hears nothing, no rusty pipes and rushing water, he decides to find out the old fashion way, by simply asking the musician himself about his choice in a bedmate. I hear a rush of wind as he sucks in a deep breath before bellowing out a loud, “so Rog, whose the lucky la-”
His voice fills the entire loft, waking both sleeping men.
“Colmmph!” My Mark squeaks out some semblance of Collins’s name as he promptly tumbles out of bed. A loud thud follows my Mark’s yelp as he slams boney ass first onto the hardwood floor, all neatly tangled up in Roger’s bed sheet. A bundle of deeply flushed skin and old white, stained linen; my Mark is the embodiment of sheer embarrassment.
“-dy?” Collins finishes his question before dissolving into a fit of laughter that will surely scar my Mark for the rest of his adult life. Poor baby. My entire shot is distorted as I begin to tremble along with Collins’s shaking. “Awwww man,” he laughs as Roger rolls over onto his stomach, flashing me a rather interesting and might I dare say succulent, I mean scandalous, visual of his backside in all its glory.
“Woah, Mark, you okay?” Roger asks concerned, reaching out to my Mark to pull away part of the sheet that somehow managed to wrap its way around my poor, unsuspecting Mark’s head. Inspecting his boyfriend’s bright red cheeks, the musician cannot help but try and bite back the grin I know is battling to pull his lips up. I will admit that even though the situation is terribly bad for my Mark he is simply Adorkable and I know in that instant even more so than before why my Mark’s Roger loves him like he does.
“You two finally fucked!”
“I guess that’s one down,” Roger says quietly to my Mark as he looks down at him with a broad grin, oddly optimistic for his natural brooding character. Though I guess that’s what my Mark brings out in him. My Mark just scowls and rubs his hand along his thigh, jumping slightly when he applies just the faintest bit of pressure to his bruised and abused backside.
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“You could have woken us up nicely…” My Mark grumbles as he nervously shifts his elbows around, trying to put a little less pressure on his lower back. Leaning against the small island inside the sad excuse for a kitchen the boys have in the loft, my Mark is practically bent completely over the countertop. And I’m pretty sure, judging by that impish look in Roger’s eyes, and the fact they are glued to the pale expanse of skin where my Mark’s shirt has ridden up on his back, he is most certainly not adverse to the position. I know for a fact that he is definitely not opposed to his designated role as ‘attentive boyfriend,’ reveling in the fact he has an excuse to be almost inappropriately close to my Mark’s ass while they have company, hiding behind the guise of presses the ice shavings from the freezer against my Mark’s poor, bruised backside.
“Like your skinny white ass still wouldn’t have fallen out of bed when you heard me waking you up—caught buck naked in Roger’s bed.” Collins teases as my Mark flushes a bright pink shade, knowing that no matter what he still would have flipped the fuck out and managed to hurt himself.
“My ass is gonna be frozen solid,” my Mark complains, dropping his forehead to rest against the countertop. Every once in a while my Mark needs to stop trying to take care of his Roger so completely and allow the musician to take care of him.
“Don’t worry, Mark,” Roger murmurs in a soft voice that I almost buy, nipping playfully at my Mark’s earlobe and laying his warm, naked chest against my Mark’s back. “I’ll help ya warm it up later,” he says with a leer, gently pressing his hips against my Mark, causing the poor boy to yelp in pain and swat feebly at his Roger while Collins looks on with a grin.
“Don’t think you’ll get off that easy, mister Magic Music Fingers,” oh my Mark. I have to say that no matter what I’ll always love my disgruntled morning Mark; he’s just so stupidly witty. “This is all your fault,” he suddenly realizes, glaring over his shoulder at his Roger. “You distracted me with that wicked tongue from locking the door,” of course Roger’s response is to flick his tongue out and run the flat of it along the side of my Mark’s neck.
“Oh, shhh,” he scolds my Mark with a small smile, running his hand along my Mark’s undamaged hipbone. Placing a short kiss upon my Mark’s lips as he glances back at his Roger to protest, my Mark blushes again. Roger grins. “And who is holding your ice pack, hmmm?”
“Those two are priceless together,” Collins’s SkullCap calls over to us as Collins’s begins to actually talk about something of merit while my Mark tries to listen and Roger idly fingers my Mark’s pajama bottoms waistband. “You guys must have a ball watching them go at it, in bed and out.” No matter how true that is I try and ignore him and the men. Stretched out on the small table in front of the couch, I am playing ‘Doc. Roger Davis’ with my Beautiful Acoustic. I focus on repairing the couple of snapped cords, all of which I am a direct cause for their snapping, that thankfully Roger did not notice thanks to the great Distraction by Collins and my Mark.
“You wouldn’t believe,” my Beautiful Acoustic laughs in reply as I wrap a cord around my turn crank and try to string it up along the neck. It proves to be harder than it looks and I lose control. “Ouch!” He cries out as the cord snaps back. We all hold our breath, waiting for my Mark and Roger and Collins to round on us, but thankfully Collins was in the middle of a comedic story and they all had been laughing.
“Sorry,” I whisper, pressing a would-be kiss against his body, trying to comfort him as best I can.
“Just, just watch it with the metal cords and the woodwork, Honey,” he advises quietly. I pause, just about to successfully string one cord when what he said hits me and I stare at him.
“Honey?” I squeak back in response. A giddy sensation tumbles all around inside my body as he allows the name to hang in the air, not rescinding the sweet endearment. I allow a soft laugh to escape me as I ask him to call me it again. He does and I would-be kiss him again and finally string the cord correctly.
“Wait, I retract my earlier statement,” Cap calls to us, catching us off guard, mid-snuggle.
“What?” My Beautiful Acoustic asks confused.
“You two are far more interesting,” he replies with another grin. I am beyond thrilled that he agrees with our match. “And I’m so glad to see another ‘cross-personal object’ relationship,” I feel like I’m floating. Everything has changed so completely since last night. I was almost alone and single again, almost missed out on this with my Beautiful Acoustic. I almost lost my Real Love. “Like the Fender and Mark’s Plaid Coat, though that’s even more revolutionary—object-clothing.”
What.
“Like you and that scarf, Collins and I always love pushing the envelope.”
My blood, that is if I had any, would be boiling right now, so the only substitution is fried film and an over rotated turn crank. But the acoustic beats me to it with a dangerous groan.
“Fucking Strat.”
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My Mark and Roger left us alone in the loft while they went out to go eat an actually decent lunch at the Life Café, on Collins of course since Roger will not be getting paid until Friday. Surprisingly enough Roger convinced my Mark, but only after about ten whole minutes, that he did not need me to just go out for lunch and for the first time in a while I was glad that he left me behind. I have an opportunity to both be with Roger’s acoustic and to exchange a few choice words with that wonderfully Hypocritical Fuck of a Fender Stratocaster.
“Acoustic, we’ve got to do something about him,” I whispered, pressing close against him before gesturing silently to the Fender lying against the wall at the end of the couch.
“Now,” my Beautiful Acoustic agrees. He starts to shuffle along the small table set up in front of the couch, inching towards the Fender. I follow along beside him before I stop dead in my tracks.
“Camera,” the meek voice of the Plaid Coat calls from the opposite end of the duct taped couch. I pause and turn away from the acoustic, glancing behind to see him curled up in a fluffy ball of fabric. He’s the smallest I’ve ever seen him, all rolled in on himself like he doesn’t want to be his actual size and cause anymore problems. “Camera wait,” he says my name again and I turn around completely to look at him. “I need to talk to you…” he finishes. His voice makes me feel so retched. I know that voice, I’ve heard that same tone come from me before. Wanting so badly to believe that my ex-Beloved was pure and innocent, nothing like what everyone else was saying.
I cringed.
I wanted to cry for him.
“Please,” he begs me; his voice so quiet and these few words are more than he has said to me in an entire year. I look over at my Beautiful Acoustic and see him staring back at me with an odd look. I can’t quite read his expression but when he turns away I know he’s trying to give the Plaid Coat and I some privacy.
“Alright, speak,” I cave, like always.
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AN: More?
Fandom: Rent
Parings: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Roger’s, Mark’s Scarf/Roger’s Plaid Pants, Roger’s Fender Stratocaster/Mark’s Plaid Coat, Collins’ Knit Skullcap/Angel’s 10-Gallon Plastic Pickle Tub, Mark/Roger
Summary: Collins drops in on the boys.
Rating: Chapter Eight: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: For all intensive purposes we are calling Collins’ hat a knit ‘SkullCap,’ or Cap for short. More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied
Chapter Eight
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AN: More?
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Awwww, poor Coat! He sounds so frightened and adorable. Like Marky. xD
Reply to the AN: Definitely.
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And I ♥ Collins and SkullCap
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Eep! I hadn't even thought of that-- though you know, I *would* like to see Plaid Coat with Roger's Leather Jacket... *wheedles*
=^_^=
Anne
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I know! Tres sexy!
=^_^=
Anne
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This story is GREAT.
Please continue!
~Aubrey
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Please, Sir, I want some more crack *holds out bowl and impersonates waifish British orphan*.
=^_^=
Anne
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