Title: Days of Inspiration

Fandom: Rent

Paring: Mark/Roger

Summary: Roger discovers a new muse amongst the mundane. Cliché, but something special at the end.

Prompt: Ends.

Rating: PG-13 (Language)

Disclaimer: So not mine.

AN: First Rentfic ever thus the mandatory song lyric for title. I'm not 100 sure about timeline, sometime during the limbo between Contact and Angel's death. :D Song lyrics are from RENT and Brokeback Mountain Soundtrack.

Days of Inspiration

Inconsistency is probably one of the things Roger is best known for amongst their small circle of friends. Ironically, it is also the one constant in his life, well, that is besides Mark, of course.

For a while it had been pretty good, up until the point when April started using regularly, hocking every last one of her possessions for a score of white powder in a tiny plastic bag. Everything, gigs, money, sex, a new best friend and incredible original music, all seemed to simply fall effortlessly into his lap. Chords and perfect words flowed right through him nonstop, straight down to his fingertips, bleeding out onto any blank scrap of paper he could get his hands on. For lack of a better word, she had been the ideal muse for Roger, so full of life, untamed and free.

A real wildfire.

Burning Roger twice on the way out.

But that was before he gave into her and packed his own veins so full of smack that the drug began to clog the pathway between coherent thought and his pen. For over half a year he didn't touch his precious Fender guitar. The calluses that used to cover the pads of his fingers had faded away; completely worthless until he built them back up. Roger's brain had been short-circuited on repeat with only the first few lines of Musetta 's Waltz locked away in the intangible catalog of songs.

Then there was Mimi. Her vivacious presence pulled him out of the apathetic gray haze he had been sleepwalking through since rehab and helped to jumpstart the musician's natural drive to compose and play. However, after the 'official' breakup a couple weeks ago, back when Angel was first admitted to the hospital, he was sent back to square one; every word and every chord painfully drawn out, the ability to compose locked somewhere inside his mind.

Just one song.

The sickeningly familiar opening measures of Musetta's Waltz are slowly hammered out by long, callused fingers pressed against taut strings traveling up the sleek neck of the Fender guitar. A chipped pick that had been unearthed beneath a duct tapped cushion of the couch is caught between the pads of his thumb and forefinger, racking over the worn and torn nickel wound cords. The sound is distorted by an old amp Roger stole from the last gig he did before the band split. Perched on the hard surface of the stainless steel table, long legs dangling over the edge, Roger idly plucks away while looking over the open notebook lying next to him.

The entire page is pockmarked with little sketches and black and blue spots from where Roger began impatiently tapping his pen against the cheap paper, attempting to force the words to come. Stanza after stanza of one song had been repeatedly crossed out, along with several of the little love notes and messages Mimi had scrawled in the corners. His hands down favorite addition to the page, however, has to be the clever little yellow post-it note that Mark had stuck to the bottom right-hand corner of the page reminding Roger to pick up his AZT. There was even a little portion of the note detailing the reason for placing the message in the musician's notebook, 'knowing Roger would for sure find it there.' On the faint blue line where the last scribbled out song ends is a small character sketch he had done the other day of his roommate.

Roger had jumped at the first noise he heard, any distraction would sufficed. He needed something to pull the focus away from his lack of progress. When he looked up, however, all he was greeted with was a glinting lens pointed in his direction, accompanied by the sound he had heard before, more of Mark's constant narration murmured into the camera, safely out of the limelight and stuck permanently behind the viewfinder. He reached out towards the ancient machine, blocking the lens with the palm of his hand as he pushed the camera out of the way to see Mark's flushed face.

"Can't I see your face for once?"

The tiny recreation of Mark, scribbled in the margin of his notebook, is nothing more than a doodle. But, the fact he included the ever-present scarf wrapped around Mark's neck despite the fact that the temperature nearly broke one hundred that day, replaces the brooding look with a genuine grin, even if it is only for a few fleeting moments. A breathy laugh nearly rolls off his tongue but he holds it back, opting to draw his attention back to the present and away from the open notebook. His gaze falls upon the strands of short blond hair at the nape of Mark's neck.

The filmmaker is seated on the couch a few feet away, busy sorting a mountain of tin film canisters. He's spent the past week attempting to gather up a select few that he wants to bring to convert to VHS to show to Angel on the hospitals VCR. A cute blond from the shop where Collins and Roger bought their roommate the old projector had told Mark that the shop had recently got a new machine that could transfer the old film onto a more recent VHS format. Of course there would be a charge to use the equipment, but the girl had a slight crush on the aspiring filmmaker. She told him that if he wanted to get something converted she would let him off with no charge, calling it a 'free trial example' of the new technology.

A gust of wind slips inside the muggy loft through the wide-open windows; the cool air is a welcome feeling in the stifling mid-August heat that seems to increase ten fold inside the paper-thin walls of their apartment. The refreshing rush of cold sends a chill down Roger's spine and his finger slips. He hits a particularly sour note, knowing instantly it was completely off the scale when he hears the old tin film canister Mark had been busy labeling crash to the floor.

"Fuck," Roger chides himself in a low murmur, visibly wincing as he hears his roommate shifting positions on the couch. The dim sunlight glints off Mark's glasses as he twists around to look at Roger. Pale fingers digging into the coarse fabric stretched over stiff cushions lining the back of the sofa.

"Roger…" Mark's voice is barely above a whisper, something underlying his words that Roger tries to decipher. He sees the proverbial melancholy smile grace Mark's face with a practiced ease, having cast Roger countless similar glances infused with a mix of empathy and concern over the years. There's a moment of strange awkward silence that fills the void between the two best friends and then Mark manages to catch Roger's restless gaze, holding it for several seconds that seem to last forever and a day. Roger is the first to look away, eyes falling to stare at the filthy floorboards a few inches beneath his dangling feet. Refusing to look up he hears feet padding quietly against the floor as Mark moves around the loft, the sound getting faint as he walks in the opposite direction before getting louder coming closer to stand in front of his best friend.

Roger quickly flips the notebook beside him closed, carefully hiding the sketch of Mark.

He looks up.

"I'm going to go visit Angel." Mark adjusts the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, stuffed full of film canisters. Before the question is even out of Mark's mouth Roger can already hear the words fully formed in Mark's soft voice, he cringes. "Do you want to…?" He paused, leaving the invitation open-ended. Not looking away this time, Roger does not say anything, the silence screaming volumes. It is written painfully clear in Roger's eyes, some twisted twinge of unfamiliar fear. "Okay, well," Mark began, tripping over his words in such a hurry, trying too hard to let the moment pass unnoticed but only emphasizing it more so. There's something off about his roommate today. "I'll be back later, hopefully with some food." Mark gives a halfhearted laugh in an attempt to lighten the suddenly macabre mood. He smiles, or tries to smile but it fails to reach his eyes. Something different in his smile, reflecting back the same emotion he caught in Roger's eyes a moment ago.

"Mark." His voice sounds disembodied, not even his own. A note of perversely understated dread twisting the name. There's an intrinsic desire somewhere deep inside Roger clawing its way out, a want to comfort Mark as soon as he sees the muted panic flicker in his eyes. "I would, I jus-"

Too real.

Too close to home.

Not enough time.

"I know."

Roger knows he does.

And all of the sudden he's pulled Mark into his arms. Blunt fingernails scrabble against the light material of his roommate's shirt, digging into the flimsy fabric. He clutches the smaller frame against his own. Desperation. Mark is warm and breathing and so alive, pressed tight against his chest. There is an erratic beat just beneath his breastbone. Untainted blood pulses through his healthy veins. Pure. Thin arms wrap around his shoulders as soon as the shock wears off and Mark reacts to the odd display of affection, meeting Roger's action full force. Feeling Mark respond sends Roger off on a wholly natural high. Tactile sensations override Roger's senses, he's never been this close to Mark while coherent or conscious.

When he finally pulls away there is a distinctly masculine burn of faint blond stubble grating against Roger's rough lips as he turns his head the fraction of an inch. He's not sure if the movement was deliberate. Not the flushed cheek and not square on his open mouth, somewhere along the delicate meshing of the strangely soft lips and hard flesh, the corner of his mouth. A kiss. Not even that, the sweet ghosting feeling of warm, hot breath licking at Mark's skin with an intangible caress. So brief that Mark is not quite sure it actually happened or if he simply imagined it.

"I'll be back in a few hours." Mark says, a slight dazed quality to his words. A step backwards and he searches his roommates face for any recognition of what just happened. Roger's expression gives nothing away. The musician only nods silently before murmuring a quiet, "later," that Mark replies to in kind and he is gone.

As soon as the heavy metallic clang of the loft door slamming closed echoes throughout the loft Roger slides off the table and dashes to the couch. Grabbing the pen Mark had been using to label is films; he tears open his notebook to the same page with the sketch of Mark.

He begins to scribble furiously, jotting down words and phrases, linking them together, and crossing several out before settling on the right combination. A few guitar tabs scrawled in the margins along side the lyrics. He pauses, looking down at the last word scribbled on the page.

'love.'

He quickly scratches it out, his mind flashing back the sensation of the blond stubble against his lips that sparked the surge of inspiration. As he taps his pen anxiously, feeling the words floating away faster than he can write them down he writes the word down once more. Messy handwriting nearly overlapping onto the sketch of Mark and the week old post-it note the filmmaker had left in the notebook. Once again he finds himself writing that word, he crosses it out. Twice. Chewing anxiously at the dry flesh of his lower lip, Roger sighs and writes the word one last time.

Next time it's capitalized.

Flipping the flimsy notebook page, he began writing the second stanza. The words suddenly fit, fluid, whole. Grip tightening, the pressure of pen to paper increasing he practically carves the title of the song onto the page.

Raw.

Reading over the words Roger isn't quite sure whom the song is for.

It scares him.

AN: Thank you for reading. Now the fun part:

Fixed--Roger's Notebook Pages: (Take out spaces and ())
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