(no subject)

[bluetears07]

Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Parings: Mark’s Camera/Roger’s Guitar, Roger’s, Roger’s Fender Stratocaster/Mark’s Plaid Coat, Mark/Roger, Maureen/Joanne
Summary: Our two favorite couples (both inanimate and human) have suddenly become a right pair of couple’s councilors.
Rating: Chapter Nine: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Done with school! More crack!fic, inspired by notapopstar’s icon. Still Mark’s Camera’s perspective.
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Preoccupied

Chapter Nine

It is almost too predictable. In some twisted way it would be funny, if it weren’t so heartbreakingly pathetic.

“I can help him.”

Now where have I heard that before?

It’s perfect actually. Really, it is, in some sickeningly symmetrical way that the whole universe spins its axis upon. Like I have been saying all along, we are the sweet little manifestations of our owner’s idiosyncrasies and best character flaws, some, of course, more flawed than others. My Mark’s Little Plaid Coat, the epitome of my Mark’s sweet, caring nature. He is that side of my Mark that kept the filmmaker beside his Roger throughout even the worst of the Withdrawal Days just because my Mark knew that no matter what he could somehow help his Roger. Of course the Plaid Coat wants to be the bleeding-heart to reform the Fender Stratocaster, the ultimate mirror image of Roger’s many vices, corruption, and the all-round blatant asshole, rock star persona that Roger, thankfully, lost touch with after the disappearance of the White Powder.

I sigh.

“Camera,” the Plaid Coat implores, his voice still wholly timid though it is laced with a commanding undercurrent my Mark uses whenever he is asserting himself. I notice the way the Plaid Coat shifts anxiously, stuffing one of his own sleeves up the other to make himself appear even smaller. Wedging himself back into the corner of the cushions, he attempts to give me his best ‘steadfast and determined’ look that appears pretty meek yet commanding in its honesty. “H-he,” the poor thing stumbles over the word before taking a deep, calming breath. I watch as he glances over at the sleeping Fender guitar propped up against the wall where Roger last placed him, situated right alongside the disgustingly sultry Amplifier. The Plaid Coat’s entire demeanor slowly changes; the hard edge he had been trying to maintain begins to melt away. It’s eerie. I’ve seen that subtle shift in personality before, reflected in the polished wood of my Beautiful Acoustic when he turns to look at me with a slow burning smile. “The Fender, he and I…we,” I can almost hear the distant flush in his voice.

“Plai-” I being lamely, shifting closer to him on the small table. I find myself teetering close to the edge as I attempt to comfort him. Thought I was going to try and talk some sense into the poor thing, all he does is cut me off before I can even finish a complete syllable.

“Please,” there is a defined note of desperation putting a harsh clipped tone to his voice. I remember hearing that same edge cutting off the last few syllables of my Mark’s words whenever he would defend his Roger’s actions to a knowing Collins on a particularly bad Withdrawal Day. “Y-you don’t know how sweet he can be,” I nearly balk at the use of ‘sweet’ as an adjective to describe that Hypocritical Fuck of a Fender Stratocaster. There has to be something seriously wrong or missing from this clothing’s mind. For a moment I cannot find it in myself to even want to listen to the rest of whatever he has to say in defense of the Fender. “H-he’s just,” the Plaid Coat stammers again, racking his woolly mind for the correct way to express himself. He falls short and I try to prompt him, still horribly irritate and coming to the end of my rope.

“What? He’s just what, Plaid?” I wince at the bitter tone of my own voice. I do know in my more rational mind that I should not be so hostile towards the poor Plaid Coat, especially when he cannot control his own metaphysical heart and its eccentric desires. Even I know that no one would voluntarily fall in love with someone so obviously wrong for them.

“It’s that amp,” he whispers, slowly sliding himself out from between the cushions to lay closer to the lip of the couch. Glancing over at the object in question, he makes sure she is asleep or otherwise preoccupied. His voice is a fierce whisper and I cannot help but take in his every word as the honest truth. I’m being pulled under by the Plaid Coat’s misguided concern and compassion. My heart is beginning to break and I am starting to believe the validity of both his predicament and perhaps his love. “She’s messing with his mind, he can’t function straight when she’s always there beside him,” he is fiddling nervously with a loose sting of his collar as he maneuvers himself so he’s spanned between the couch and the small coffee table I am resting upon with the acoustic. “She’s toxic, Camera,” is a quiet statement that sends a shiver along the innermost panels of my mechanic body. If I could I would wrap arms around the poor dear, tell him the acoustic and I will do all that we can to help him. “He needs me,” he’s not longer looking at me, staring off in the direction of the Fender, cast in shadow now as the moon slips behind a cloud.

There is a pause as the words sink into my mind. In the silence I hear the slip slide sound of wood grating against the metal of the coffee table. My Beautiful Acoustic moves beside me, his warm presence is beyond the realm of comforting. I find myself scooting into the alcove of his carved body. Looking up at him I can see the look of muted wonderment ghosting over him. I know that he too will do whatever he can to help the Plaid Coat in any way, shape or form. He has managed to pull us into his own whirlpool of seemingly unrealistic optimism and hope.

Quite the charismatic speaker.

How else do you think my Mark convinced everyone else that Roger was not a lost cause?

“I can make him better!” The Plaid Coat’s anxious voice suddenly brings us back to the reality of the situation. “Please,” he beseeches us one last time, curling back into himself on the seat cushion.

“Plaid,” I begin in a quiet tenor, for only the little Plaid Coat’s to hear. The tone I take is one as if I’m explaining something to him beyond his own comprehension, like talking to a child about love and death in seemingly simple terms. “I know you think you can change him, maybe make him better,” I tell him, moving away from the acoustic. Almost word for word, I find myself quoting Collins when he finally convinced my Mark to hand his Roger over to a rehab clinic to cure him. He is quite compelling; I’ll give him that but even Roger needed more than my Mark. The Fender obviously needs more than a flimsy Plaid Coat he can walk all over to improve his rotten, bigoted attitude. “But that guitar,” I make a rude sound, still clinging to my bitter sentiments and feeling a cynical air rise around my body. “He’ll never change.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” the Plaid Coat tries to counter, unfurling himself to lash out against me. I sigh heavily. “He just got scared that, you know, someone would find out, and…” He trails off, beyond babbling his point. If anyone is scared it is the sweet Plaid Coat. I cast my gaze behind me to see the acoustic looking on with some semblance of a melancholy expression.

“Okay,” I sigh again, turning back to the Plaid Coat. His entire essence brightens and he nearly hurls himself across the gap spanning the distance between the couch and the small table. But before he can do so I halt him with my one condition of surrender. “At least let us help you”

“I promise you I can help him.” The Plaid Coat says again, more determined than ever to show his own worth.

“Plaid…”

“Just let me try it my way and, and if it doesn’t work I’ll come to you and the Acoustic.” At least we made some progress. I can only hope that while he is trying so hard to help his Fender the poor thing doesn’t get his heart broken. “Okay?” He prompts me to agree.

“Alright,” I concede and watch as he silently rolls himself over to the opposite of the couch. He lays himself across the arm, looking at the Fender and waiting patiently until they are alone to pounce.

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A few hours after the little heart-to-heart chitchat with the Plaid Coat, my Mark and his Roger stumbled into the loft. Actually, almost anyone could probably hear their tired footsteps clunking up the steps almost a mile away, thus my Beautiful Acoustic and I were not unintentionally interrupted from our rather intimate ‘talking.’ Well, like we would really be doing anything more than snuggle with the Plaid Coat and the slumbering Fender and Amp only a few feet away. Florescent light floods into the loft from the hallway as they slowly drag open the heavy metal door. Everything is awash in the harsh light, only extending a few feet inside the dark loft. My Mark makes his way over to the couch in the faint light, looking boneless as his head falls against the back of the sofa, heaving a deep sigh. I hear a few curses as Roger slides the loft door closed and precedes to trip over a few objects as he tries to find my Mark. After nearly breaking his neck on a discarded film canister he finally plops down beside my Mark on the couch, throwing a comforting arm around my tired filmmaker.

Obviously it had been a rather eventful dinner, but then again any night in Alphabet city with Collins and Maureen is a recipe for ‘eventful,’ if not disastrous—but only in the best ways of course.

“Mmmff, Roger,” I hear my Mark moan into his Roger’s chest as he rolls over to press his face against his Roger. He curls his body around the musician and I can see the faint moonlight reflect off his pale skin as he twists his fingers into the faded material of some old band t-shirt his Roger is wearing. The roughly callused pads of Roger’s long fingers wrap around my Mark’s shoulder, rubbing soothingly against the fabric of my Mark’s old sweater. My Mark draws his knees up to his chest and shifts so that his heads is gently cushioned against his Roger’s thigh. “Please explain to me how we got so entangled with crazy, squabbling lesbians?” He asks, only with a hint at the underlying playfulness of his honest question.

“Well,” Roger begins in all seriousness, sliding his hand along the thin collarbone to run his fingers through the short strands of blond hair at the nape of my Mark’s neck. As he cards through my Mark’s hair he ponders for a moment before replying with a grin my Mark cannot see but rather hear twisting his roommates words. “I think it all probably started when you dated one,” he teases, needling a little before my Mark rolls over to glare at him with knit brows.

“Not helping, Rog,” he mumbles sourly, thwacking his Roger on his shoulder with a hearty smack of skin against skin. Roger merely continues to smile down at him, teeth glinting in the pale moonlight. I watch with a pleased would-be smile as he leans down to gently press a sweet kiss to my Mark’s parted lips. I notice my Mark’s wandering hand move from his Roger’s shoulder to slowly wind his fingers around the back of the other’s neck. I hear the soft sigh behind me as my Beautiful Acoustic slides silently up beside me. As Roger pulls away I see the difference in his smile, it is softer now, less teasing and more sincere than before.

“C’mon boy-o,” he whispers with the same playful tone as he nudges my Mark’s shoulder, moving to stand up. My Mark pulls himself into a sitting position, staying seated as he watches his Roger grab my Beautiful Acoustic off the table. With a small smirk of his own, my Mark pokes fun at his Roger.

“You’d probably sleep with that thing wouldn’t you,” he accuses lightheartedly with a leer before leaning forwards to pull me into his lap. Gentle fingertips caress my tiny body and I feel myself once again cradled in his warm, delicate arms and the would-be blush is on the edge of my senses.

“How do you know I haven’t?” Roger counters, eyes wide in a slightly crazed look, flashing us a broad, toothy grin and I hear both he and the acoustic laugh heartily. I know exactly the look on my Mark’s face as he rolls his eyes and I am tempted to do the same, if I had eyeballs, that is, as the two gingerly begin walking over to the bedroom my Mark and his Roger now share.

“Roger,” my Mark calls after him with a tone of mock disgust at the other’s unnecessarily lewd comment.

“C’mon,” Roger singsongs back, his voice echoing down the short hallway to bounce around the empty room my Mark and I are sitting in.

“Fine,” my Mark sighs as he stands up to follow his Roger down the darkened hallway. “I’ve got a lot to tell you,” he whispers to me and I can feel my loose screws trembling with anticipation. Thanks to my Mark’s nature I cannot help but be curious about all of humanity’s temperament. I cannot wait to hear just what happened this time between that crazy Maureen and sweet Joanne. However, I do sincerely hope that whatever spat between the two happened is only another passing tiff—they really do fit well together, a good counterbalance to one anther.

I feel the loose bottom panel of my body gently collide with the plastic of the makeshift bedside table as my Mark prepares to record the small recap of the day’s events for posterity. Roger is in the bathroom taking the last of his AZT for the day while my Mark sits himself down on their bed facing me. Like always he slips off the dark frames and sets them beside me. She is tired and only manages a quiet, “you’re gonna love this one,” before nodding off. With a smile, my Mark’s deft fingers start pull and turn until I’m reading to record his image onto film. He fidgets with the angle of my eyepiece until he feels it is perfect and begins to speak. To begin with he just sets up the scene, where they were and who all was there, and I find myself recording him distractedly while looking around for Roger’s acoustic that he wandered off with a few minutes beforehand. I spot him at the foot of the bed and by his expression he is also waiting patiently for my Mark to get to the interesting part of the story.

“So,” my Mark’s voice pulls me back in as I hear that telltale note in is voice that he has finally gotten to the real beginning of his story. “I turned to Joanne and start to ask her something about that big, high profile case that she is working on,” he pauses to cross his legs on the spring mattress, leaning closer as he does so. “And out of no where Maureen start going off on some tirade about how Joanne is getting massive amounts of attention lately and that her next performance piece she’s working on has had no publicity whatsoever,” I can see the tired empathetic look in my Mark’s as he explains. He knows exactly what it is like to live with that spotlight diva and her desperate need for constant attention. “You know I thought it was weird that she had been alright with it when Roger and I went over to their house…” My Mark thought for a moment, trying to rationalize Maureen’s odd behavior. Before he could give himself a headache thinking about that subject he just sigh, muttering, “I’ll never understand that woman.”

“Anyways, so while Maureen has gone off on a tangent about her new piece Joanne just stays quiet, suffering a few apologetic looks from us guys and brushing off the whole thing,” my Mark smiles to himself. “I guess she’s used to it by now. However, the worst part was when our waitress came over,” he stopped dramatically giving me a meaningful look to record onto the film.

“Mark,” Roger’s teasing voice cuts through the dramatic pause, dragging out the single syllable. My Mark actually yelped in surprise, nearly tumbling off the edge bed again. I heard a soft chuckle from the acoustic at the foot of the bed. I could only picture my Mark’s Roger leaning against the doorframe looking on as his roommate babbles about the fight his ex-girlfriend and her lesbian lover had over dinner. “What are you doing?” He asks with that same mischievous tone curling around his words.

“I-I do this every night,” my Mark explains anxiously. I can see the slight panic in his eyes as he stares off camera, worried that his odd little habit might just be too much for his Roger to take along with his compulsion to film everything else. Then again maybe Roger should have seen this coming. “It’s kind of a like a recap of the day…” He elaborates and I see something shift in his eyes as he looks up at his Roger. “What? Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds with a faint blush creeping up the back of his neck to paint his cheeks a delicate pink color. My Mark’s eyes fall down to stare fixedly at the dusty floor, anywhere but where his Roger is standing. The floorboards creak and Roger is now walking into their bedroom

“You are just so adorable,” Roger whispers with open affection. I see a hand curl itself around my Mark’s jaw, tilting his head back as I catch a glimpse of Roger kissing our Mark firmly on the mouth in the corner of my frame of view. As he moves away I watch him plant a little kiss onto the tip of my Mark’s nose before laughing at our flushed filmmaker.

“Either shut up or come help me describe the lesbians’ showdown for the nice camera,” my Mark suggests and I hear the bedsprings squeak in protest to Roger bouncing around on the mattress.

“The things I do for you,” he sighs with an entirely believable put-upon tone befitting of the best suffering housewife. He finally comes into view, sliding up behind my Mark. His long legs fall upon either side of my Mark, strong arms wrapping around his middle as he rests his chin against the younger man’s shoulder.

“Any chance to be on film,” my Mark mumbles with a knowing grin, threading his fingers through with those of his Roger resting against his hips. Looking down at his shoulder he nudges his Roger’s head with his chin, getting him to actually focus on the camera instead of their clasped hands. A devilish grin splits his face as he realizes just what kind of situation he is currently in. I watch as Roger presses his lips against my Mark’s ear, not really knowing what to expect from the unpredictable young man as he allows a few hot puffs of breath to ghost over the flushed skin.

“There are so many more interesting things we could be doing in front of this ‘nice camera,’” Roger whispers in a low voice that sends my fresh film jamming for a moment before I think about the possibility of having this on film to watch over and over again and again. Another shiver racks my body and I shift a little on the stack of manuscripts my Mark has propped me upon. It’s actually a better angle to capture the conflicted look on my Mark’s face as he does everything he can to keep himself in check. The beautiful play of restraint flitting over his face while Roger’s hands try to wickedly distract him from his misgivings concerning propriety.

“Oh hush,” he finally hits the hands that had been slowly dipping below his waistline and into his boxers. “You debauched boy,” he breathes out like fire on his tongue and it is quite possibly the most divine sound in all the world, next to the song and melody of my Beautiful Acoustic. “That’s for later,” now I really do skip almost a full foot of the glossy film, jumping ahead in the long series of frames. “Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?” My Mark finally asks when his voice is steady and he has got Roger’s hands under control.

“Something about our waitress,” Roger mumbled dejectedly as he settles for tracing circles along the backs of my Mark’s hands. Eventually he joins in with the storytelling and explains with quite a lot of enthusiasm for the subject how Maureen began to shamelessly flirt with the rather attractive waitress—

“She was fucking hot,” Roger added, receiving a pointedly annoyed glare from his boyfriend.

“Roger!”

“Well, nothing like my Marky here, but for a chick,” Roger actually somehow manages to backpedal faster than my ex-Beloved.

“Anyways,” my Mark says again, rather loudly, putting an abrupt end to his Roger’s defensive jabbering. “Maureen and the waitress have this little thing going the entire night and when we get our food the waitress pretends she forgot who had what…” he trails off for a moment as I see the slight pressure of Roger’s grip increase, signaling to my Mark that he wants to toss in his own to cents.

“Pretty tactless, absolutely no class,” he begins. “Leaning over to grab the plate she ‘academically’ handed me so she could stuff her tits in Maureen’s face, please.” I watch with a slight would-be smile as Roger rolls his eyes, my smile widening when I see the one on my Mark’s face. My sweet filmmaker is obviously quite pleased with the way that his Roger appears to have taken to the little recap. The couple finishes the story, mentioning something about Maureen actually getting the waitress’s number and Joanne pretty much telling her that she would either have to stay with us for the next few days—I visibly cringed at that one—or go off with the waitress.

“You can guess which one she took seeing as she is not with us at present. Either way you slice it I just hope it doesn’t turn into anything really disastrous,” my Mark sighed for the umpteenth time, pressing his forehead against the side of Roger’s head. A small, bitter laugh fell from his lips before he spoke. “We might have to pull some stupid Hollywood-esc stunt on Friday to get them back together because Maureen without Joanne is a very, very bad Maureen and vice versa.”

“Don’t worry about it Mark, we’ll think of something,” Roger whispered kissing my Mark’s cheek.

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The next morning, Thursday, I found myself midmorning lounging on the stainless steal table beside my Beautiful Acoustic. I could feel the warm, metaphysical arms wrapped around my body as he hugged me close. We were discussing the oddity of watching my Mark only a few feet away editing the film he had capture over the week. He was splicing the new footage into a longer documentary that he had just recently started a couple weeks ago. Quietly working on his new film, my Mark was indulging in a sugared breakfast pastry Collins had dropped off earlier from a local bakery where they always gave him a discount for teaching the owner’s son at NYU the previous fall. The entertaining part of watching him was that he had to be extra careful not to touch the precious celluloid with his sticky fingers.

However, just as he was about to delicately splice in a new scene, the rumbling of his Roger finally waking up pulled his attention away from the film. The acoustic and I watched as Roger stumbled over to the kitchenette, poured himself a cup of black coffee and paused to stare at the left over pastries. He gave them a long quizzical look, wonder how they got there.

“Collins,” my Mark said in explanation and that was all Roger needed as he shoved one in his mouth and grabbed another. Making note of the fact we had power because my Mark was editing his film, I watched Roger’s eyes land on his Fender Stratocaster. A grin pulled at his lips as he saw my Mark’s Plaid Coat wrapped protectively around the sleek body of the guitar. Taking a sip of coffee he made his way over to the couch to inspect the prized instrument.

“Shit!” The sound of Roger swearing was slightly muffled as he nearly chocked on his pastry. Frantic, he placed the coffee mug on the small table in front of the couch and got down on his knees in front of Fender. I could see him pulling at the Amplifier. Suddenly it clicked as he moaned in frustration. “My fucking amp is totally fried!” He moved the Amp to get a better look and I saw the completely blown out front and the frayed wires sticking out in all directions.

I was stunned to say the least.

“I told you not to leave the amplifier plugged in all the time, power surges and everything,” my Mark chided Roger as he walked over to wrap his arms around the distraught musician. “You’ll be able to buy a new one in a couple weeks after you start getting paid regularly, don’t worry.” My Mark’s words only floated above everything else as the acoustic and I watched the Little Plaid Coat wrap itself tighter around the Fender Stratocaster, winking at us in a conspiratorial way. I could even see the embarrassed and somewhat regretful look upon the Fender as he gave the acoustic and I an oddly apologetic half smile.

There is probably a whole world of stuff I will never know about my Mark’s Plaid Coat even if I tried.

But I’ll do what I can.

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AN: More?