Title: Preoccupied
Fandom: Rent
Paring: Mark's Camera/Roger's Guitar, Mark's Camera/Mark's Scarf, Mark/Roger
Summary: When Roger and Mark get a little preoccupied with each other their 'accessories' also get better acquainted.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: So not mine.
AN: Think Brave Little Toaster. I am obviously on crack cocaine or have been watching the icon by notapopstar too much. :D Oh, even better, written from Mark's Camera's perspective.
Preoccupied
Everything is dark.Cold metal has suddenly heated up beyond the normal room temperature.
The only sound I can pick up in the dingy loft is the frantic rustling of fabric and a smattering of breathy moans. I have heard those sounds before. The familiar leather jacket has obscured my lens as I'm pressed against Roger's chest, sandwiched between my Mark and his longtime roommate. What a wonderful place to find myself nestled in. A little spiral of unadulterated glee rattling the loose screws holding me together, making my overexposed film wind up extra tight. Late at night, when my Mark knows his Roger is asleep, he tells me things he does not want anyone else to hear. And this, this proximity between my Mark and his Roger is exactly what he has been dreaming of since that crazy rocker chick with the bad needles left in a torrent of blood that my Mark had to spend days on his hands and knees cleaning up.
Suddenly I feel my Mark's cold fingers grip my sides tightly, but only for an instant, before relaxing his hold on me. I'm nearly dropped.
Only Mark's Roger could make him drop me.
But I can't blame my Mark.
Hell, as he always says whenever his Roger gets into one of his 'funks' and becomes annoyed with my overabundant presents, "My Camera simply loves you, Roger."
Mark's Roger pulls away from my Mark and everything is bathed in pale moonlight, glinting off the stainless steel table where Roger's old acoustic guitar lays silent. Suddenly I see the table get bigger as I'm placed beside the guitar with a loud clank of my metal bottom colliding roughly with the steel. Everything shakes for a moment as I watch my Mark being pressed against the table by his Roger. My sweet, quiet, lovable Mark, the one I protect day in and out, whispers something in his Roger's ear that makes the faded 'Rock God' blush so deeply I can see the bright color of it in the dim light. A wild smile pulls at his Roger's lips as he warms up to whatever dirty fantasy my Mark has described in surprising lewd detail and his Roger's long, callused fingers wrap around my most Beloved, Mark's scarf. Mark's Roger pulls my Beloved from my Mark's neck and loosely loops my Beloved around my Mark's wrists before dragging him off to my Mark's bedroom.
"Let him go!" I feel my flimsy film nearly tear in anger as I scream in vain at Mark's Roger. To think of him manhandling my Beloved!
"Hey, woah, calm down little buddy." A smooth, singsong voice answers my desperate shout. My head spins as I swing my gaze over to Roger's acoustic guitar lying on the table beside me. I've never been alone with him before, Roger's guitar. My Mark and I are always off somewhere or else we're filming his Roger playing the guitar. But I've never had the chance to get to know the guitar, unlike my Beloved.
"Rog won't hurt your little friends. Trust me, as many crappy-ass love songs he's "composed" about your Mark he would never, ever do anything to hurt him." A part of me looses as I listen to the calming voice. The inflexions are slightly inebriating. Maybe Roger's guitar is right, my Beloved and my Mark will both be okay.
"I guess. But Mark's Scarf…" I trail off, zooming in on the crack of my Mark's door as soon as I hear a yelp from my Mark and a low teasing laugh from his Roger. If I could blush I would have.
"Is a slut." Roger's guitar finishes my thought in that same intoxicating singsong voice that's so like my Mark's Roger's beautiful tone.
Wait.
"Excuse me?" How dare Roger's guitar say something like that about my most Beloved? Like my Mark's Roger, his guitar has no tact or skill whatsoever when talking to others.
"Mark's Scarf, your little boyfriend. He's a slut." He pauses and looks at me, cords taut and dull wood shining like new in the moonlight. How dare he be so elegant in the moonlight while he speaks of my Beloved! "You really think he likes you, yeah right. He's way to wrapped up in Mark. He's simply messing around with you because Mark talks to you and not him." I sit there stunned. No, it's not true. It can't be true. My Beloved loves me but respects my Mark like I do…not love.
For a few long moments that seem to last an hour I can't say anything in response. My Mark was never one for witty snapbacks on the spot and neither am I but I refuse to let my Beloved's honor go on being besmertched by this, this, this old, dull, taut, loved, sleek, amazing guitar I film everyday.
"Well, I don't see you with anyone. Plus, you should know all about inanimate-human relationships, getting fingered everyday by Roger! Always crooning exactly like he wants you to, playing right into his hands."
"Like you don't do the same for Mark!" I hear his voice break out of the singsong pattern as he tries to defend himself.
A loud shout of my Mark's name pours from Roger's lips in a low moan that leaves an uncomfortable pause in our argument. Again, if I could blush I would have, a deep, deep red.
"Listen, I'm sorry…I…" I begin, like my Mark, always the one to try and make-up first.
"Yeah, uhh, sorry." From the sour note I can tell that, like with my Mark's Roger, 'sorry' is not an often heard or used word. Another long pause fills the air as we both hear my Mark and his Roger whisper.
Their voices make a perfect harmony in my mind.
Wholly different from one another, yet perfect together.
Filmmaker and his favorite subject.
Camera and his most vocal muse.
"I really like filming you," another would be deep flush, "when Roger plays you, I mean. You sound beautiful. You're so alive."
"Really?" I can tell from his voice he would be flushed bright pink. Strange to hear something of Roger's being shy and even coy. "I would think both you and Mark would be sick of Roger's wonderful rendition of Musetta's Waltz." He tries to brush off the compliment as Roger does with my Mark.
"Not when it's you he's playing." I move closer, an errant screw catching on a taut cord, pulling at it in a surprisingly teasing manner. A beautiful note, in his singsong voice is the seductive response.
The half used roll of film winds so tight I can hear it snap.
"Roger, what did you do to my camera?" my Mark's sleep laden voice brings me back to reality, his fingers trace over the hairline fracture in my lens before tugging anxiously at my ruined film, several rolls of it threaded through the recently loosened cords of Roger's guitar that Mark's Roger will have to retune.
"What?" A half naked Mark's Roger stumbles out from my Mark's bedroom, hair mussed and shooting out in all different directions, the perfect morning shot my Mark would adore to have, that is if I hadn't shot my load of film.
AN: Ridiculous.