5/7

[bluetears07]

Title: A Little Business
Author: Bluetears07
Pairing: Mark/Roger
Rating: R
Summary: Maybe if Mark had followed his parents wishes and studied business, things would have been so much easier. Well, maybe.
Notes: Originally attempt for Speed_rent (Challenge: a character has the chance to go back in time and change one thing. How present change as a result?)…little poetic lisence, nothing dramatic, just info you can’t 100% get from the play. Fight! Still not the end.
Disclaimer: Don’t own, not my characters.

A Little Business

“This,” Mark’s tone bordered on exasperated, a hard edge creeping into his voice after being pushed hastily up ten flights of stairs by an eager Roger to find himself on the rooftop of the apartment building. Everything was covered in a thin film of grim and city soot, Mark visibly cringed. He tore his eyes away from the filth when he noticed the low wall along the perimeter of the rooftop. It was barely high enough to keep someone from falling over the ledge onto the street below—he took a step back inside the stairwell. “This is what you wanted to show me?” He crossed his arms over his chest, maintaining some semblance of control as he folded into himself and casually leaned against the doorframe to the stairwell. White knuckles clashed with the dark fabric of his sports coat as he twisted the sleek fabric up into a wrinkled mess along the upper arm. “I’ve seen Avenue B before, an aerial view isn’t going to inspire me, if anythi—”

“Shhhh.” Roger clamped his hand over Mark’s mouth, his own lips pressed into a flat line. Nose to nose, Roger caught the delicate shift in blue as the rare appearance of a small smile managed to reach Mark’s wide eyes. He felt the soft lips move against his fingertips, starting at the corners before spreading out into a grin.

“It’s not even a nice day,” Mark said around Roger’s fingers, the sound muffled and threaded through with a subtle mirth. It was true, the sky was not longer a pale blue but instead a murky overcast gray that threaded to rip the heavens apart for a downpour. A clever retort, barely on the tip of Roger’s tongue, was cut short when he saw the smiling eyes dart anxiously over his shoulder—a little color draining from Mark’s cheeks. Roger followed the gaze to the rooftop ledge.

It clicked.

The grip Mark had on his own arm tightened the moment Roger pulled him a step outside the stairwell. Mark, of course, like anyone else, had certain reservations but irrational fears—that was a new one.

“You’re afraid?” His hand fell away from Mark’s mouth.

“No,” Mark said a little too quickly, retreating back into the safety of the stairwell with a quick half step backwards. There was a short pause as Mark took a deep breath, casting his eyes downward for a moment to ground himself before giving Roger a forced lopsided grin that the other man had never seen before. A shiver ran up his spine, nerve ending firing and pulses speeding up. “Can’t we just—” His pale hands instantly flew to his sport coat, smoothing out the tiny wrinkles along the sleeves before plunging his twitching fingers inside the confines of his pants pockets.

“Mark doesn’t like heights?” Roger matched the man’s step with an advance, electric green eyes lighting up and narrowing as an openly demonic grin twisted his mouth—playful and domineering. Roger had the upper hand and Mark was not entirely surprised to find himself only fighting halfheartedly. If it was anyone else, even Collins, Mark would have clammed up and diverted the other’s attention back to the fact that, hey, they hadn’t had anything for dinner yet and maybe it was a good idea to go back downstairs to the loft to make something to eat. But, there was something cathartic about allowing Roger to be in control, finally feeling comfortable enough in his own skin to let that piece of himself go—handed over directly to this man.

He could be vulnerable and exposed.

“Roger.” There was a hint of pleading lodged in his throat, coming out disjointed, somehow piecing together the butchered job his voice made of the syllables in the young man’s name.

“Mark,” he replied with the same tone, mocking him a little in an attempt to keep the mood light. When Mark’s face remained ashen, eyes focused on the far wall, Roger switched tactics. “Come here.” He grasped Mark’s hands and laced their fingers together in a tight knit tangle. The slip slide of sweat rubbing against his palm, transfer from Mark’s heated flesh, telling that Mark was much more nervous than he let on.

Roger took a step backwards. Mark didn’t move.

“Look at me,” he said, ducking his head to catch Mark’s gaze and hold it.

“This is ridiculous,” Mark mumbled, still a little hesitant. There was a gentle tug on his arm when Roger took another step and Mark stumbled forward, their clasped hands knocking against Roger’s chest.

“Focus on me, nothing else.” Roger’s voice cut through everything else that was currently zipping through Mark’s mind on fast-forward. Mark took the next step voluntarily. Eyes locked on Mark’s, Roger walked backwards toward the center of the roof. After a few shaky steps, they were close enough to the edge to catch a glimpse of the avenue below. Blunt fingernails dug painfully into the backs of Roger’s hands but Mark’s face remained school in the perfect haughty expression. Together, they silently watched the busy street below. Several cars drove by and a young girl ran out from the apartment building with a bounce in her step.

Nothing happened.

Mark loosened his viselike grip as a low, self-deprecating laugh poured from his lips like honey infused acid.

“See,” Roger said with a small smile. Callused fingers wrapped around Mark’s chin, tilting his head back so Roger could press his mouth to the other boy’s. A soft, slow kiss and Mark’s entire body sagged against Roger, all the tension draining from his muscles as they went lax. Their tangled fingers pressed against the leather coat. “Not so bad.” The words came out as little puffs of warm breath against Mark’s lips. Pulling away with a small nudge of his nose against Roger’s cheek, Mark immediately noticed the odd bent to the young man’s smile—one he had seen before and was not exactly a good omen. A few quick steps and the Roger was leaning against the rooftop ledge with his best mischievous smirk on display just for Mark.

“Shit, Rog—” Without a second thought, Mark rushed to where Roger had now hoisted himself onto the poured concrete slab capping off the short wall, thick rubber heels of his boots colliding with the brick. Pressed flush against the wall, standing between Roger’s thighs, his pale fingers clutching at the tacky fabric, Mark found himself far closer to the edge than he had ever intended on being. He looked up to see a self-satisfied smirk spreading over Roger’s face as the young man caught him in a loose embrace about the shoulders.

Just this once Mark let the obvious manipulation slide

“I just wanted to show you this place because it’s where I go when I’m feeling,” he paused, searching for the right words as his hands came up to idly skim across Mark’s freshly shaven jaw line. Mark leaned into the touch, fighting to keep his eyes open and keep his head above the deep end of total surrender. “Kind of like you felt at the Life tonight, alone, forgotten, like a fish out of water choking on air.” The pad of his thumb traced over the sharp cheekbone, slowly pressing a heated caress to the already flushed skin. Mark’s fingertips ran along the seam of his pants, up the outer thigh before hooking in his belt loops. As he spoke, Roger pulled away from Mark, carding his finger through his wild, half bleached hair. “I come up here when I’ve hit writer’s block and need inspiration for a new s—” A large drop of water splashed against his knee, leaving a dark splotch on the plaid fabric. “You just feel a raindrop?”

“Yes, and now we’re going inside,” Mark said brightly as if it were the most ingenious idea to have ever graced mankind. He was finished placating Roger with submission and the sudden shift brought back memories of falling, beyond his control. Comfortable or not, Mark could feel the bile rising up in his throat after watching Roger sit so carelessly on the cusp, grounded to nothing in the knowledge that he was dieing anyways so what the hell. With a little too much force, he yanked Roger down from his precarious perch on the rooftop ledge. “I’m not going to let you get sick, okay.” Roger stilled when he heard the genuine concern flit about in Mark’s voice as it slide up into a higher register of unease.

“No Mark.” His voice was soft as his small smile, devoid of any real aggressive defiance or malice—a simple statement of fact.

It began to pour, huge drops of recycled water hitting the rooftop and rusted metallic air ducts that never worked properly with a steady rhythm. Mark gave Roger’s arm an impatient jerk when a clap of thunder shook the foundation of the building. Blond strands of hair were plastered to his forehead, clinging to the lenses of his glasses. He pushed them out of the way, slicking the hair back until his hand rested against the nape of his neck. A tremor ran through Mark’s body, lighting up his senses and spreading through his entire system like napalm and quicksilver.

“Roger, ” he tried again, hands linked together behind his head as he took a step back to shout above the rolling crack of thunder.

Roger was standing in the middle of a rooftop in Alphabet city, arms stretched out wide, mouth open and face turned up toward the heavens—soaking wet. The old baggy green pullover was drenched and clinging to his thin frame, as where the threadbare plaid pants hugging his lean thighs. Squinting through the mess of water droplets smattered across the lenses of his glasses, Mark saw the tiny shiver scale up Roger’s body as the young man pushed the hair away from his face. A few longer strands stuck to the clammy skin of his jaw and cheekbones. He was crazy, he was going to get sick, but he was already sick, he was completely imbalanced, in love, indescribably alluring and fucking hot beyond all rational logic.

“You’re insane,” Mark laughed in disbelief, the sound cutting through the pitter-patter of rain as it started pelting them en masse.

“I know,” Roger shouted back and Mark had never seen that shade of bright green before but knew he wanted nothing more than to capture it on film. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re still here,” his voice grew steadily louder as he closed the gap between them, wet lips pressed against the delicate skin of Mark’s ear. “With me.”

“Trust me.” The familiar cynical bite was easing itself back into Mark’s tone, comfortable and playful as ever. Roger grinned as Mark pressed his warm hands against the man’s cold cheeks. “If those hideously attractive pants were soaked through and pasted to yo—”

“Shut up,” Roger said, silencing him with a hot wet kiss full of tongue, teeth and lips infused with cool droplets of rain pouring from the straight line of his nose pressed against Mark’s cheek. The taste of warm metal sloshed about in Mark’s mouth as Roger licked away the drops of water from his lips, followed by the sweet sinking feeling of blunt teeth nipping at flesh.

“Downstairs, Rog,” Mark moaned into Roger’s mouth, and Roger followed with his own lopsided grin and rain washed hair.

A little buzzed from the sporadically hot and cold shower that Mark had forced them to take before wrapping Roger up in every blanket he could find, the two tumbled into Roger’s bed. Swathed in old quilts and tattered bed sheets, Roger managed to untangle himself enough to wiggle his way on top of Mark’s prone body, straddling the thin hips and pressing his hands against the man’s flushed chest. Everything was warm and hot to the touch, something relatively rare. The only towel they could find was currently draped over Roger’s head as Mark toweled off the drenched hair with quick, deft flicks of his wrists. Satisfied with the way each strand of hair was sticking up in every direction possible, Mark slid the towel around Roger’s neck and pulled him down using the terrycloth as leverage into a slow kiss.

Three used condoms and a half empty tube of lube later, Roger collapsed against Mark’s chest with a ridiculously wide grin, huffing a few breaths against the sweat-slicked skin. With a groan, low in the back of his throat, Mark shifted a little and eased himself out of Roger. The young man grunted at the loss, his arms wrapping tighter about Mark’s thin chest. After tying off the condoms, using the last of his strength to toss them into the wastebasket with a spent Roger clutching at him, Mark pulled up the elastic waistband of his boxers from where they had been imprinting a rather interesting design into the skin just above his knees. Roger’s head lulled to the side, pillowed in the space between Mark’s neck and shoulder. Pale fingers, still a little sticky, began running through the bleached strands of Roger’s hair. With his free hand Mark adjusted his glasses so they sat correctly on the bridge of his nose. Stroking down a few wayward pieces of hair, Mark let his eyes wonder around Roger’s room.

The first time he came to the loft with Roger, it was past midnight and he wasn’t exactly interested in the décor so much as the person who occupied the room—not to mention the crappy spring mattress said person thought was perfectly suitable for screwing around on. And the next morning he was too bedraggled and baffled that he had actually fucked his male assistant, repeatedly over the course of one night, to notice what was taking up space inside the man’s bedroom.

“Is that your guitar?” Mark asked, his eyes now settling on an acoustic guitar leaning against an old dresser on the far side of the room. His fingers caught on a tiny tangle in Roger’s hair. Pulling gently at the knot, he watched as it came undone beneath his fingertips, rewarded with a content sigh from the other man.

“Yup,” Roger murmured, his head still pressed against Mark’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder. “I can sing too.” Mark could hear the cocky smile in the young man’s voice. “I told you I was an artist, a musician.”

“A musician,” Mark repeated, swallowing a dry lump that had formed in his throat around the words. A tiny seed of panic settled in the pit of his stomach.

You’re going to fall fucking head over heels for him, Mark. Trust me, this guy’s one of a kind, a real Rock and Roll Deity.

Whatever you say, Collins.

“Actually,” Roger said, cavalier and swelled chest as he gingerly pulled his sated body back up into a sitting position, still naked and straddling Mark’s hips. The small seed trembled, about to blossom. “I used to be a fucking Rock and Roll God.” The last words came out in a hard staccato rhythm, a unique beat all their own—somehow seductive and defiling in one breath.

“No,” Mark said matter-of-factly. “No, no, no,” he kept saying over and over, making it true with the times he said the single syllable.

“What is it?” A few soothing kisses were pressed against Mark’s collarbone as a hand stroked up his bare arm.

“Roger, get off,” Mark calmly pushed against Roger’s chest.

“Mark what is it?” Roger asked, his fingertips skimming along Mark’s face as he tried to read his expression. The slighter man squirmed beneath him like a wild animal ready to run off.

“Get the fuck off me.” Before Roger could even process what exactly had happened he was flat on his back, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling.

“Mark?” He felt lost, embarrassed surrounded on all borders by in an endless sea of threadbare blankets and condom wrappers.

“J-just shut up, R-roger.” Mark was stuttering again. The T-shirt he had been wearing was crumpled in a heap with the sports coat at the foot of Roger’s bed.

“Mark, we, can’t we just—”

“Shut up.” He turned away from Roger, scanning the room for where Roger had tossed his pants. “Do you remember,” he began, voice strained as he bent over to pluck his slacks from behind the dresser. “In that fucked up, heroin addled brain of yours, a few years back.” Mark huffed a breath as fumbled with the fly zipper, his numb fingers refusing to work no matter how much his brain was screaming to bolt. “You were supposed to go on a date with one of Collins’ friends.” “Some young kid on break from college,” Mark laughed, a bitter bent to the harsh sound. His scarf, the one he wore for Roger, had been carefully placed on the nightstand. Plucking it up off the stand he wound it loosely about his neck. “A poor misguided soul that was trying to assert himself in the big wide world of New York City,” he finished, straightening out the collar of the coat and smoothing down the wrinkles and staring acutely at Roger on the mattress.

Roger felt as if he were on display.

“Vaguely,” he answered uncertainly, watching as the last layer of solid ice was packed down inside Mark.

“And,” he said, drawing out the word as he fumbled with his shoes, “do you remember you stood me up.” Mark slipped out the doorway.

“What’s tha-” he called after Mark, the man’s exact words yet to sink in. Then they hit full force. Somehow, beyond all reason he had stood Mark up a million years ago and the boy was still raw about it. “Shit.” Roger to scramble for his boxers before throwing open his bedroom door. “Mark,” he yelled over the sound of his skin sliding painfully against the dirty hardwood floors. Roger careened into the sofa, coming to a halt in the living room. He looked frantically around, not seeing a flash of blond. “Mar—”

“That way honey,” Angel supplied quietly from the kitchenette area Roger had overlooked, she pointed a dark blue fingernail in the direction of the open door leading down the stairwell. A bobbing blond head came into view, just about to step outside the apartment building. Bare feet slapping against the linoleum, Roger ran down the remaining flights of stairs.

“Mark!”

“What Roger?” Mark had just stepped onto the busy sidewalk. “Jesus, get back inside,” Mark yelped, eyes wide as soon as he turned to find Roger standing in the open doorway wearing on his thin linen boxers. Trying to shove the man back inside the building’s excuse for a foyer.

“What? No,” Roger said confused, ready to hold his ground.

“You’re going to catch a fucking cold and die and it’ll all be on my conscience.” Mark took the short steps up to the doorway two at a time, the odd concern for Roger burning the back of his throat. One part of his mind, the one currently not choking on the information that Roger had been the one—the last straw—to inadvertently send Mark packing back to Brown to finish his college education and effectively kill his dreams of filmmaking, was wrapping itself around the irrational worry and need to protect Roger—in spite of and in turn because of his flaws. “Get in the building,” he instructed, his hands pressing against Roger’s naked skin, shoving him back inside. As soon as they were in the silent apartment entrance Mark felt his temper flare up again. “Now, what can you possibly say?”

“Look, I was 20, just dropped out of college, I was young and stupid and most likely high. And then fucking April.” Mark felt and inappropriate rush of hatred and jealousy toward the dead woman when he saw the heartbreaking way Roger rolled his lips inside is mouth to bite anxiously. The corners of his mouth crooked up in a half smile. “Even you couldn’t have said no to April.” His bright green eyes glazed over with an intangibly familiar haze.

“Is this supposed to inspire sympathy?”

“Look, Mark, I’m sorry,” he sighed desperately, looking up at Mark with a broken look—dull green merged with acidic neon. There was no sign of emotional response in Mark’s eyes when Roger glanced up at the other man’s face. “It was nothing personal, I didn’t even know you.”

“Exactly, and yet I was obviously not even worth the time to get to know.”

“Mark, please.” Roger reached out and Mark flinched away.

“I wanted it so badly,” he began slowly, looking everywhere but Roger. “You wouldn’t believe how much I wanted to be this, this thing, this something more.” Like the night he called Collins, freaked out of his mind at the sudden loving impulses riddling his body, Mark was at a loss for the art of putting words and sentences together. The words where ripping themselves from his body, coming out in spurts and half syllables. “Someone creative, all raw beauty and talent, someone who could give everything up and devote themselves to their art,” he said slowly his pace down, fingertips ghosting over Roger’s flushed skin. “I wanted to be someone like you.”

“Don’t,” Roger pleaded, catching Mark’s wondering hand between his own two. “Don’t say that.” He was chewing on the soft flesh of his lower lip until he felt it swell and ache.

“I got scared, Roger,” and Roger saw the ice melt away into saline sloshing about on the cusp of Mark’s eyes. “It’s pathetic and stupid, I know.” He fiddled with his glasses, pressing the frames hard against his nose. “But it was too big, too overwhelming, and I was so small and insignificant.” The unshed tears seemed to evaporate as his voice took on a steady quality. The pale hand Roger held, twisted and writhed, pulling away in such repulsion that it actually hit Mark in the chest. “There was no one I could connect with. Collins’ was there, but he was my philosophy teacher, and I couldn’t understand half the things he said to me they were so over my head.” Mark allowed the small nostalgic smile to flit across his face for a brief moment.

“I know the feeling.”

“He was my only link. Everyone else saw me as some suburban kid trying too hard and failing at every turn,” he paused, lacing his fingers together and popping the joints. He had never in his life been this open with anyone—especially some one like Roger, someone he actually could, some he did lov—then again, people he usually slept with ended up hating him. Thus he was on the right track, or so his mind was gathering from bits and pieces of Roger’s demeanor. “I felt this burning passion inside but no one else seemed to believe I could do it. I was drowning and everyone could care less.”

“Mark,” Roger said softly.

“Maybe,” Mark said loudly, snapping a bit out of himself, a different Mark coming to the surface. “Maybe if I had met you way the fuck back when, I wouldn’t be trapped now,” the word—trapped—nigh on a sin, burning his cynical tongue as it exploded from his mouth. “I wouldn’t be suffocating in my own fucking skin.” Mark tugged at the tight flesh stretched over the bones of his skull, pulling at his cheeks wanting to tear off the confines of his own mortal flesh. That thought struck him and suddenly everything seemed absurd. “No.” His voice was Mark’s again. “You know what, I’m sorry, this is,” he broke off, glancing up at Roger. The musician felt his skin burn as the twisted laugh echoed in the entrance hall. “This is just ridiculous.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Roger said, catching the man’s arm as Mark turned to leave again. “You’ve spent so much energy denying yourself for so long, isn’t it time you start channeling that drive into what you really want to do?”

“I’m going now,” Mark replied, dodging the question as he pulled his arm out of Roger’s loose hold.

“You really going to run away from this life again?”

“I haven’t even begun to live “this life” so how can I possibly be running away from it?”

“You know exactly what the fuck I mean,” Roger challenged, taking a step toward Mark. There was nothing really threatening about a half naked young man with the freshly fucked look still somehow clinging to his glowing skin.

“I can’t do this right now.” Mark turned and left, tugging the scarf wound about his throat a little tighter.

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

Mark had never noticed how loud a sound the heavy apartment door made when it collided with the plaster wall.

“Jesus, Mark,” Benny said, rounding on his roommate as soon as the young man was inside the kitchenette. He stopped to stare into the freezer hoping a carton of ice cream would materialize before his eyes if he stared long enough. Pushing the freezer door closed, Benny stepped in front of Mark with the familiar hard-set interrogation glint lighting up his dark eyes. Fuck him and his uptight neurosis. “What do you think you’re doing with that boy?”

“Such the wrong fucking time to ask, Benny,” Mark replied with a twisted smirk and a toxic laugh, sidestepping Benny and heading directly for his bedroom. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and just fall asleep for a week, maybe a month, or at least until Roger forgot everything stupid thing he had just said.

“Mark,” his voice was nervous, disbelieving and wanting Mark to make everything better with a few simple words of denial. “Are you actually caring on with him—that Roger boy?”

“Fucking him, you mean?” Mark asked bluntly, glancing over his shoulder just to see Benny’s disgusted face as he continued, “I was, a few hours ago actually, but not so much anymore.”

“What?”

“I’m going to bed.” Mark knew he had a special talent for running away from arguments.

Inside the safety of his room Mark kicked off his shoes and crawled into his bed. It didn’t feel too big or lonely, just a little cold and as he rolled over onto his side he felt the harsh cloth of something not his bed sheet grate against his cheek.

The tie he confiscated from Roger.

He stared at the offensive object, contemplating whoever had given shape and form to such a tragic piece of fabric. Better yet, his mind turned over the face and soul of the man responsible for buying it and bringing it into his life.

Maybe if I had met you back then…

Mark fell asleep with Roger’s tie wrapped around his neck, the corporate noose.

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

It was far too fucking early in the morning to be at work without a cup of coffee in his hand. In fact, it was too fucking early in the morning to change into proper work attire. Or at least that was what Mark’s mind must have rationalized, but it had only sunk in when he was already on the elevator up to his office wearing yesterdays rumpled sports coat and T-shirt. Then again, he wanted to feel the burn of everything raw, no caffeine to brighten his vision and take the edge off reality, not to mention embarrassment. Effectively ignoring Maureen’s barrage of personal and wholly inappropriate questions about what, or who, rather, he did last night, Mark smiled when he notice Roger had not arrived at work yet. He still had a while to think of something brilliant to say to the young man, be it witty, cynical, cutting or desperately pleading—didn’t matter, whatever felt right when he saw the dull green.

Even as Mark stumbled, face first with a nice resounding smack into the solid mass of his office door, momentarily forgetting to push instead of pull, he did not see the need for warm, sultry, roasted coffee beans, liquefied into a sweet, sweet beverage that would be amazi—

“Fuck,” Mark sighed as soon as he fumbled opened the heavy door to find a disgustingly bright-eyed Collins lounging in his expensive office chair. He could not even bring himself to cringe as he stared blankly at the dirty heels propped up on a towering stack of legal documents and marketing copies. Bleary eyed, Mark promptly dropped his briefcase onto his left foot, swore, and stumbled inside his office. Leaning up against the now shut door he allowed the pained expression to contort his face, drawing his brows together and accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Eloquent as always,” Collins murmured with a too-wide smile for seven o’clock in the morning. “You haven’t had your coffee yet I see.” Obviously. Mark felt his stomach churn with a nasty flop as he watched Collins’ smile brighten a few watts. Maybe he would just have one sip of coffee if Roger brought it—It’s a comfort thing. He squashed the thought before it had time to congeal in his brain, turning his mind to concentrating on the words falling from Collins lips. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit behind a corporate desk in a real office.” A half assed sardonic grin pulled at Mark’s mouth as he set his briefcase into one of the extra chairs and shoved Collins’ feet off his desk. They landed on the floor with a thud. “Next you know I’ll be wearing a designer three piece suit and power ties,” Collins said as the swivel chair swung around toward Mark who had crossed around to the back of his desk. Collins’ eyes immediately flicked down to look at the garment looped around Mark’s throat. “Speaking of,” he began, the smile growing inexorably, “isn’t that wonderfully hideous thing Roger’s?”

“Shit.” Mark got tangled up in the cheap material of the tie as he yanked it undone with a few agitated tugs. The tragically blue paisley thing hung limp at Mark’s side, his fingers curled around the fabric, refusing to let it go despite the knee-jerk reaction to hurl the tie in Collins face or possible cut it up into a thousand tiny scraps—pull each thread out one by one and make something better out of the carnage.

“Don’t worry about it Mark, I’ve tried Angel’s heels on before.” Mark just stared for a moment, blinked a few times as the words shot through his brain rapid fire before trickling out the other ear without actually processing—far too early in the fucking morning for trans jokes.

“What do you want?” Mark asked straight out to the point, not up to playing mind games with Collins.

“Well, in theory,” Collins began, slipping into the catalogue of ‘professor’ mannerisms, including the voice he usually reserved for students he particularly liked. “There are usually two people involved in the creation of a heartbroken musician, specifically the one that is currently sulking around my loft.” Mark always appreciated the way Collins phrased things, even if Mark didn’t always understand what exactly he was getting at—but this, this he got immediately, not matter how fogged over his brain was. “But again, this is all in theory.” There was a drop of acid in the playful grin.

“So you’re here to convince to go running back to that burnt out junkie?” It was only a lesser dose of guarded cynicism that what Collins was used to hearing from Mark. At least there was something to work with.

“No,” Collins said plainly, “I’m here to knock some sense into that brain-dead, blond head of yours.”

“Move,” Mark said in a flat voice, leaving no room for what his mind was currently dubbing ‘Collins’ matchmaker antics.’ With a rigid arm, he motioned for the professor to get up from the chair. He collapsed into the seat, sighing contentedly as it all but swallowed him up in its plush faux leather cushioning.

“Are you really going to blame him for the way your life has turned out?” Mark tried his best to ignore Collins, block out the calm voice, so rational and logical. The words, unfortunately, were processing rather well in his mind and as intended plucking at the few heartstrings he had left. Collins crossed around to sit in one of the chairs opposite Mark across the desk. “You had a choice, Mark.”

“I know, okay,” Mark snapped. “I know,” he repeated a little quieter, sitting bent over on the edge of the office chair with head cradled in his hands. The tips of his fingers started to turn white as he pressed them against his temples, rubbing the skin in a soothing circle.

“Just because you and Roger have shitty timing doesn’t invalidate everyth—”

“Why do you suddenly care about how I live my life, after all these years of moral apathy?” The sheen of ice had glossed over the blue of Mark’s eyes, a pinprick of hurt chipping away at the solid block. Collins dragged his hand over his mouth, tugging at the yielding flesh of his lower lip. He hesitated before speaking, Collins never thought to censor himself. Immediately, Mark sat up.

“’Cause now it’s not just your life you’re fucking with, it’s Roger’s too.”

Mark had never heard Collins use that tone with anyone, a low dangerous tenor that seemed to work far better than coffee at waking him up.

“You want to know what he told me a couple days ago?” Collins asked, continuing before Mark could reply. “It was something about you, how he started noticing your eyes sizing up everything, focusing in on certain aspects for possible shots to film.” He calmly folded his hands together and pressed them against the desktop. Mark felt something akin to hope fluttering up beneath his breastbone. Listening to every well thought out word, Mark fidgeted with Roger’s tie, spinning it around his wrist and looping the fabric about his thumb to form some odd bracelet. “Said he could almost see your mind silently planning out camera angles for different scenes.” A melancholy smile twisted around the corners of Collins’ mouth. Mark remembered seeing that same sad smile the day he began packing to go back to Brown for the new term after his last ditch effort of a blind date. The smile brightened as another thought rolled off his tongue, completely uncensored as usual. “Even admitted it got him hard just thinking about your honed intensity, especially when it was all focused directly on him,” he let a low laugh roll around in his chest as he finally saw a faint blush scaling up the back of Mark’s neck.

“Tom,” Mark said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Rog said it’s inspiring to just watch you, said something, in all his love induced triteness, about finally finding perfection in a pinstriped muse.” Before Mark even had the possibility of understanding the ramifications of that statement, his office door was tentatively pushed open and a disheveled bleached blond head popped in with a cautious demeanor cramping up his entire body.

“Mr. Cohen, I hav—Collins, what are you doing?” The façade was dropped almost instantly.

“Rog—” Collins, Mark decided a little later when his brain was fully functioning, looked sheepish as if he had been caught red handed with a mouth full of cookies from the broken glass jar.

“I told y—” Roger began, his hollow cheeks flushed and eyes set in a hard glare. He cut himself off, turning toward Mark with a slight inclination of his head as the expression dissolved into total indifference. “I’m very sorry to interrupt, Mr. Cohen, I was not aware that you had a guest,” he said with a bland smile and a lilting, stiff and formal voice that reminded Mark of Maureen taking a call from one of their lesser cliental.

Mark wanted to rip the forced smile clean off of Roger face.

“Actually, Rog, I was just heading out,” Collins said slowly, looking from one boy to the other. “Later,” he said briefly, before slipping out the door, turning to the right in the direction of Maureen’s desk.

“Thanks,” Mark said lamely as soon as they were alone and Roger was across the office shoving the steaming cup of coffee he had brewed in the break room into Mark’s open hands. It wasn’t until Roger caught his wrist that Mark realized that it was probably a bad idea to reach for the mug with both his hands.

“Is that my tie?”

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AN: Wow, I'm so sorry for screwing it around...look at what that crazy writing camp did--killed me! *Hangs head in shame* Please don't hurt me.