Co-written with Black Lightning Bulb. A re-write of a story we wrote in gym when I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. Therefore we owe special shout-outs to Remy, who was there the first time this story went down, and who assured me I was not a slut, and to our gym teacher for never making us do anything, and also to Hannah, who had a hand in parts of the first draft which did not make it to the second.

Disclaimer: Neither Rachel nor I own Rent. Thank God, because as this story demonstrates we are CLEARLY not up to the responsibility. (Though we are up to the responsibility of owning the character referred to throughout the first draft-- quite lovingly, I assure you-- as Frothy the Gay Froth Slave. We rent him out for parties. PM for permission to use him.)

Without further ado, I bring to you…

The Misadventures of Froth Slave and Camera Man

"I think my skin is going to burn off."

"Shut up, let's just get this over with."

"Why did she give me this thing? Doesn't she know it's the root of all evil?"

"What, the gift card?"

"No, the store."

"Well. I guess thats what they do in corporate America. They give Starfucks gift cards." Roger concluded, staring up at the large Starbucks emblem that was connected to the window of said evil.

"Well, then, fuck. Just fuck." Mark sighed, sounding slightly defeated.

Roger laughed, still looking at the large green emblem. "I know you need to be fucked, but seriously, can we just get some coffee first?"

"Fucking coffee that's beans are harvested by fucking children in Brazil."

"Dude, shut the fuck up, I might start to feel guilty about this whole thing."

"You should feel guilty."

"I'm not the one who sold my soul to corporate America."

"Touché."

Roger was about to celebrate his victory over the cameraman with a Wet Willy when he stopped, turning slightly to the left. And that was when he saw him.

He was a figure with the most gloriously ambiguous sexuality Roger had ever seen. He elbowed Mark in his too-prominent ribs.

"See that?" He hissed.

"The Starbucks employee?" Mark asked.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Marky, it's STARFUCKS, and he's a froth slave."

"I take it that's a yes."

"That is a hell yes."

"What does the froth slave have to do with anything?"

"I think he's straight." Roger declared, secretly praying that Mark would take the bait. Please, please, please, Roger thought to himself, let him take it, please pretty please.

"No way, he is gayer then the whole of P-town." Mark replied, opening the door for Roger.

"Fine, you just said you wanted some tail. I bet you can't get him to ask you on a date." Mark looked at Roger like he had just thrown his camera under a tow truck. Roger smirked, getting in the already long line of customers.

"Why would I want to do something like that?" Mark hissed, quickly walking to catch up with him.

"Because I'll pay you." It was out of his mouth before he realized he had no money, and Mark was shocked enough that he didn't realize it either. "Twenty bucks for a date with him. Another fifty if you get him to kiss you."

Mark bit his lip, looking back and forth between Roger and the froth slave. To pretend to be gay, or not to pretend to be gay, that is the question. "Fine. Only because I really like popcorn."

"Shake on it."

The two men shook hands and Roger told Mark to order him a plain coffee and that he was going to go find them seats in this "crowded corporate zoo."

Plain coffee wasn't really on the menu at Starfucks that day, but Mark did his best and ordered the closest thing he could find to tea for himself.

"You want that with or without whipped cream?" the froth slave asked, flashing Mark a perfectly white homosexual smile.

"With whipped cream." Mark managed to choke out, weakly smiling.

"Coming right up." Froth Slave said with a wink that secretly said I want to strip you naked and sex you up.

As Mark waited nervously by the counter, drumming with a stirrer, he felt someone tap his hand. "Nice beat." Froth slave said, nodding to his little red straw.

"Oh, thanks. I guess mini-performances in here are as good as I'll ever get."

"Well, here is your tea. I made it myself, so the newbie wouldn't mess it up."

"Oh, um, thanks." Mark tapped his foot nervously. The only pick-up line he could think of was "Is that a mirror in your pocket, 'cause I see myself in your pants." For some reason, he didn't think this was appropriate.

"I'm, um, Mark." He said.

"I'm George. So," the froth slave said, leaning over the counter and bringing his face level with Mark's, "Mark, is it? What are you doing this weekend?"

Like that? Just like that?

"I was about to ask you the same thing?" Mark said, hopeful lilt in his voice.

The froth slave (henceforth referred to as George) breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I thought I might be making a fool of myself. But then I thought that no self-respecting hetero would wear that sweater, so I took a chance."

Mark decided to worry about his sweater later and worry about winning his money for the moment. "Um here, I'll give you my number. If I don't pick up just, you know, leave a message, we... I mean I screen my calls."

"Cool beans. Nice meeting you, Mark. I hope we'll be seeing more of each other soon." George said, flashing the homosexual smile and sexual wink all in one blow. Mark scrawled his phone number quickly and grabbed their drinks.

"Looks like someone has a date." Roger joked.

"He said my sweater was gay." Mark whined.

Roger laughed. "Well, you did get it at the Goodwill in Greenwich. What'd you expect? After Frothy kisses you, you can buy five more to replace it."

"Look, let's just ditch this place." Mark said, starting to feel a bit self-conscious.

"Oh, but if we leave together, Froth slave might get jealous." Roger laughed, already starting to walk to the door.

"Shut the hell up." Mark muttered, feeling drained from the way the day's events had played out.

Phone calls were made and received, plans were set up, and before Roger had even finished laughing, Mark was going on a movie date with George the gay froth slave.

"Does this sweater make me look gay?" Mark worried, chewing his lower lip the afternoon of the big date.

"Let's put it this way. That sweater could be bright purple with sequins forming a rainbow and have buttons which spell 'homosexual' and 'I like penis' and it still wouldn't be as gay as the question you just asked me." Roger ruffled the filmmaker's hair. "You'll be fine." He said in what he hoped was a comforting tone.

Mark felt himself blush and knocked Roger's hand away from his head. "I just really want that money." He said sheepishly, turning and tugging at his sweater.

Roger smiled giving him a little push towards the door. "Come on. Gay people are always on time."

"Collins wouldn't appreciate that."

"Collins is a weird crossbreed of gay and stoner."

Mark shrugged, feeling his usually pale face still warm with too much blood. "Maybe your stereotypes just aren't accurate."

"Nope." Roger stretched, smiling. "This is New York. Stereotypes are always accurate." He flashed his trademark Modern Sex God grin, but it lacked its usual contagiousness because Mark didn't smile back. "You okay, Marky? You don't have to do this if--"

"I'm fine. I want to do this. I want the money." Mark said. "I was just thinking. When he gets here to pick me up, you probably shouldn't be out here. Might give him, you know, the wrong impression."

Roger frowned. He felt oddly betrayed. "You sound like my mom when she would bring over a guy. 'Stay in your room.'" He said it jokingly, but he was hurt. He felt discarded like trash.

He felt a pang of what it was like to find April in the bathtub.

Mark bit his lip and responded quickly, "No, no. It's not that. I just, I don't want him to think I'm two-timing." He smiled awkwardly. "Plus if he saw you, it would be all over."

They both realized and stood there in silence. Finally Roger joked, "Way to get into character."

"Yeah. Character." Mark choked out.

"Guess I'll see you." Roger retreated to his room and shut the door. Mark half-expected the Fender to begin making its trademark sounds but Roger's room remained obediently silent.

By the time George got there, Mark had obsessively cleaned most of the visible parts of the loft.

"Hey there." He said. As he gave Mark the once over, he couldn't help but fidget nervously. "Those sweaters you wear are just too adorable!" He reached over and grabbed Mark's hand, pulling him towards the door. Mark tripped forward but was able to right himself before he fell irredeemably on his face. George didn't seem to notice. "So the theater is having an Audrey Hepburn weekend and its Breakfast At Tiffany's, so we have to go. It's a classic."

"Yeah, a classic." Mark echoed. He didn't like Breakfast At Tiffany's. The lack of continuity annoyed him to no end.

But that was his filmmaker brain. To make it through this evening he was going to have to unplug it and concentrate on thinking with his gay brain. So to speak.

"And Audrey Hepburn? Fab-u-lous." George grinned, a sticky sweet version of Roger's infectious smile, but without the warmth.

Weren't gay guys supposed to like men more than women? Why, then, was Mark on his date talking about Audrey Hepburn? He guessed it was better than the alternative, always buzzing around his brain, hanging heavy over them-- we both have penises-- and so he just nodded and said "Fabulous. Right."

They walked to the theater with George doing most of the talking. He added in the quick "I agree" or "Of course" but for the most part stayed silent. He had seen Roger behind them, a bad version of a television spy as he followed them. "I need confirmation" Roger had said, smiling. His eyes lighting up in mirth as he grinned that sexy smile. Mark frowned, almost tripping over his feet. Sexy smile.

"Just getting into character." He muttered.

"What was that?" Froth slave asked.

"Oh, just saying she was getting into character." Mark said quickly.

"Oh you are such a laugh!" He exclaimed, wrapping his arm around Mark's waist in what Mark hoped was a half hug. It wasn't.

George's arm around his waist was hot and confining, like a snake gearing up for a meal. Mark had never thought of himself as weak and vulnerable, but tonight he felt like the prey in a nature documentary. He wanted to shake George away and reclaim his personal space, but that was not his character this evening. He had been cast in the role of gay man, and he was going to play it.

While Mark was being prey, Roger wanted to become a predator. He wanted to hunt down the species called Froth Slave. He didn't know why, but when George placed his arm around Mark, he just wanted to run and pull Mark away, yelling at George "Its called the human bubble, BITCH!"

Maybe calling him a bitch was a bit too catty.

Since Roger was neither gay nor a lion defending territory, and the froth slave was likely to neither believe him as Mark's jealous boyfriend nor drop dead on the spot, and since the time had not yet come to follow through on the bet, he forced himself not to intervene. Mark, he reminded himself, was a big boy. Who could take care of himself. He had, after all, survived Maureen.

Mark steeled himself against a flinch as George led him into the theater. "I'll get us popcorn," George whispered, breath warm and moist and FAR TOO CLOSE to Mark's ear. "You find seats. The farther back the better."

Mark waited until George's back was turned before he shuddered.

Mark ran into the door and saw that somehow, miraculously, Roger had arrived before him. He ran up to him, looking a bit like he was about to puke. "He wants me to sit in the back. The back, Roger!"

Roger was glad it was dark, and hopefully Mark would not notice the jealous sneer that had somehow made its way to his face. "I'll sit in the back. Then you can say it would be weird."

Mark hugged him. Then he quickly realized what he was doing and took a giant leap back. Roger quickly ascended the stairs and Mark followed, sitting a few rows in front of him."

He barely noticed George approaching until he was there, sitting in the seat next to Mark, one armrest away, shoulder-to-shoulder, face turned towards him. "Hey," George said, handing Mark the giant popcorn bag. "What happened to the back?"

"Some guy in it already." Mark shrugged. "I'd feel weird." He occupied himself with the bag of popcorn, focusing his hands and face on it, holding it close to his body like it would protect him from George's lecherous advances.

Which it did.

All the way through the previews.

"Well, I hope you don't mind maybe missing the movie." George whispered, the gap between his mouth and Mark's ear reaching that very dangerous point of way too close. The ironic thing was that in almost any other circumstances he would love to miss this movie. He could feel George's hand massage his knee. "Because I've wanted to maul you since I picked you up at your apartment." How funny Mark had almost used those words for what would happen if he saw Roger.

Mark's eyes widened and it sure as hell wasn't because George was sticking his tongue in his ear. Well, maybe it was a little because of that, because why the fuck would anyone want to put their tongue in someone's ear? Said ear was filled with ear wax. That would be just sick.

His whole body tensed up under George's rather revolting attentions. He squirmed. "Hey, cut it out, this is my favorite part." He never thought he'd see the day when Audrey Hepburn was good for something, but George (reluctantly, and not without grumbling) backed off.

Just enough to get his arm around Mark's trembling, nervous shoulders.

Mark felt his torso being turned every so slightly. Come on Audrey, do something magnificent, he thought, trying to keep his eyes glued to the screen as his head moved with the rest of his body. Do something Audrey-ish, Audrey, do something cute and quirky that gay boys love, please please please.

Audrey instead decided to walk out the door.

Damn her big poofy hair.

Then he felt Froth Slave's lips crash onto his.

It wasn't the worst kiss Mark had ever experienced, if he was honest with himself. (That dubious honor belonged to Janelle Carmichael in the tenth grade, all teeth and tension.) It might even have been a good kiss, smooth and practiced, if a little more forceful than most of the girls Mark had kissed. But Mark wasn't thinking about how good the kiss may or may not have been. He was thinking OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD there is a MAN kissing me and IS THAT HIS TONGUE?

As Roger watched on with glee at the scene unfolding in front of him, he could never get enough of Mark squirming, but he couldn't help feel a twinge of something else. Was he jealous? He could try to rationalize it, he could cite annoyance that he had not had any action a long time, but he was pretty sure that wasn't the issue.

Roger stood up jerkily, feeling a bit ill. When thinking back on it, Roger would curse the youth of America because the events that were to occur would be their fault. Those damn kids. Roger tugged at his foot a few times before looking down to see what was gluing his foot to the ground; gum. "Damnit." He muttered, looking down at Mark and Froth Slave. Froth Slave was still attacking him. While he was gawking he finally released his foot, only to careen forward, and straight into the make out fest going on with his best friend.

It was a pile of limbs. A tangle of flesh. And not in the good way.

As they disentangled themselves, they surveyed the damage. Roger's elbow was digging into Mark's spleen. Mark's chin had caused a bruise on the cheek of the froth slave. George's shoulder had ended up crushing Roger's windpipe, an injury from which Roger had trouble recovering.

"Hey! Watch it, freak!" George snapped. "We were in the middle of something."

Roger coughed. "Um, sorry." He coughed again. Ouch. "Didn't mean to." Cough choke gag.

Mark was torn between relief, fear, and concern. His eyes seemed overbright to Roger, who could see the skinny filmmaker's bony shoulders trembling slightly.

Mark was worried for Roger's safety, but at the same time worried for his own. Froth Slave looked pissed off. Not pissed off so much as a counterpart to Maureen when she is being accused by anyone of having cheated on her partner of the moment. He thought he saw steam coming out of Froth Slave's ears. He could remember from the brief nightmare before he fell into an absolute horror show (or someone fell on him and he was pushed into one) feeling Froth Slave's arms (in what might have been an attempt to remove them from around him.) Froth Slave's arms felt like stone. Solid rock. Starbucks was pumping growth hormones into their employees.

"George." Mark muttered, realizing quickly that the other occupants of the theater (all five of them) were staring at him. "We should leave."

"But Mark," the froth slave mock-whined, his voice a terrifying steely glitter in the flickering light of the theater, "I was just starting to enjoy myself. Don't you want this punk to be taught a lesson?"

"No, er, that is, I think he's had enough lessons? Please?" Mark worked on looking as small and pathetic as possible. "I think I might have been hurt when we fell. I kinda need to go home."

George turned from Vigilante to Nurse in the blink of an eye. "Oh baby, you were hurt? Here, let me help you out."

Mark didn't have time to say it wasn't like his leg had been shot off in war before George had swept an arm around his back and was half pushing him half dragging him down the stairs. Roger held back the urge to gag.

Mark wasn't sure if this new concern was better or worse than the kissing had been. On the one hand, at least there were no tongues involved in this. On the other hand, there was still rather too much closeness and people staring. And cooing. There had not been cooing before.

"I'll take you home and get you settled in and take care of you until you fall asleep," George was saying.

Mark nodded dumbly, body on autopilot (the adopted limping gait was easier to hold than he'd expected; Roger's elbow had really fucking gotten him) while his mind raced. That was the worst of all: where was Roger going to go now that George was coming back to the loft?

And, oh God, what was George going to attempt once they were alone?

He could always hope for one of those random, good ol' fashioned NYC muggings.

It would probably be better to hope that Roger got back to the loft first.

After George hailed a cab, Mark gave up all hope of Roger making it back first. He had to loan Roger the money for him to get into the movie. How the hell would he get a cab? It wasn't possible. "Maybe we'll play doctor." George whispered in Mark's ear as the cab muttered to himself in a foreign language. "I'll be the doctor, you be the sexy patient."

Mark flinched as George slipped an arm around his thin waist. "Ouch," he allowed himself to whimper. "Sorry, I'm a little sore." It wasn't exactly a lie. He would probably have a bruise. But the flinch was more about the arm than the injury.

"Oh, poor baby." George cooed, retreating to his side of the cab. "I hurt you? I'm so sorry. We'll get you all fixed up right away."

The implications of that kind of sucked, but at least there was no touching. For now.

Roger was currently walking very fast, (actually closer to running), back toward the loft. He saw George all but push Mark into the backseat of the cab. He could imagine Mark, scared, whimpering, in the fetal position, in the corner of the back seat of the cab. George (who in his mind's eye had grown and evil French mustache in the last ten minutes) leering over him, locking the car door. The cabbie cackling maniacally as he put his Starbucks cap back on.

Those bastards.

With that thought, Roger broke out into a run.

He managed to make it to the loft with seconds to spare. (God bless New York City traffic.) Those seconds he used to throw his body behind the nearest closed door (it happened to belong to Mark's room.) From there he could hear anything that was going on and stop it before it... got out of hand.

In a manner of speaking.

Or before he could get it into his hands.

Roger bit his lip and decided that maybe, just maybe...

Before he could finish that thought he heard the tell-tale signs of the door sliding open. He held his breath, as if this could help him hear what was going on. He could really hear because he had left Mark's door open, and the loft had thin walls. "Mark, I just want to make sure you're okay." He heard George whine.

"Can't you do that without taking my shirt off?" Mark asked unconvincingly as George advanced towards him with fangs growing and claws becoming unsheathed. Well, in Roger's mind that was how it happened, seeing as he couldn't actually see what was going on.

"I need to see where you're hurt," the froth slave was saying. "You might have hemhorraging."

Roger could almost feel Mark's familiar exasperated sigh. "Excuse me, I thought you worked at Starfucks, my mistake. Clearly you forgot to tell me you're a doctor."

"Studying to be one, yeah." George remarked acidly. "Which you'd know if you'd asked me. Now get your shirt off so I can look at you."

"Excuse me, but movies aren't meant to be talked during, they are meant to be watched," Mark rebuffed. Roger felt like smacking his head. This would have been the time to say something life, No, I refuse, go rape one of your froth slaves and hope that their anus is filled with coffee.

"You're right, movies aren't made for talking during." Froth Slave said in a condescending manner. "Why don't we get back to doing what we were doing while not watching the movie?"

Roger wanted to stab him.

Mark wanted to tell him no, not if George was going to talk to him like that, and also nonononono! just because. But he was not that sort of person, the kind who disappoints others to stand up for himself. He knew that. Roger, listening in Mark's room, knew that. Even George, whom he had known for less than a week, seemed to have picked up on it.

So he let George take his shirt off.

This was how Coco must have felt in Fame. He understood her, now that George's ickily soft hands were feeling up his bony bod. He didn't know what to do or how to respond. He whimpered. Which should have been interrpreted as get the hell off of me but was instead misconstrued as YES, YES, YES! George continued his role play as doctor. "Well, sir." He said in what sounded like a serious tone. "This is just a routine check up. So take off your pants."

At this point, Roger had left his place in the closet and was currently hiding by the open door, up against the wall. He felt like a kid spying on his parents. Except that this was awkward and involved a smiley faced, "Can I put some whipcreme on that?" Starbucks Frothslave. He wished Collins would pick this moment to drop by. But he couldn't just wait for someone else to interrupt.

He had a better plan.

He sneaked a peak around the corner and saw that Froth slave had his back turned to the hallway. Poor Mark. He looked so scared. He tiptoed across the hall to his own room, thankful for once that the door somehow never managed to stay shut. He quickly opened a window, praying to God that it wouldn't squeak. Now, while it may have not been an act of God but due to the fact that Benny had listened to his complaint about the window never opening and replacing it, the window opened. The fire escape.

Yahtzee.

He pulled his shirt up over his mouth cowboys-and-robbers style and crossed as noisly as he could to the window outside the main space. He prayed that Benny would be nice and forgive him for what he was about to do. It was all to save Mark from being raped and they had all one point been friends. He would understand. Roger kicked in the window. "This is a robbery, you faggots!" He yelled.

Mark wasn't sure whether to be relieved or afraid. Because, physically, George could totally take Roger. But he also worked at Starbucks and was completely gay to the point of worshipping Audrey Hepburn, all of which pointed to a certain lack of courage.

Mark also was glad that George wasn't facing him when he mouthed to Roger, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

Roger spoke quickly, "I HATE you fucking queers and I won't let you two do those dirty things you do that will spread your sin across the nation."

This would have worked out a bit better if Roger and Mark didn't have neighbors. Particularly neighbors who were also at one point girlfriends and were now friends. "Mark! Mark! Mark let me in!" Mimi yelled, banging on the door.

There was another thing about the flat; the locks never worked. Ever.

Mimi busted in with what looked like a hand gun. Having dated the stripper Roger knew it wasn't a hand gun, but a cigarette lighter. "Mark, where's Roger?"

"Who's Roger?" George asked, feeling that he should have worried about whether his date was single instead of whether or not he was gay.

"Who are you?" Mimi asked, completely ignoring Roger-The-Would-Be-Robber-Bigot.

Roger resisted the urge to yell, then realized, that maybe that was exactly what he should be doing. "Shut the fuck up, you dirty slut!" Oh, wait, she enjoyed being called that.

Mimi pointed the gun/lighter at Roger. "Don't call me a dirty slut, you dirty slut!"

Suddenly Mark remembered why Roger always complained about Mimi. She wasn't a stripper for nothing. "Look, why don't we all calm down here. Mimi, I have this under control."

"No you don't."

"Look I'll bargain for you to let them go." Mark said, trying to be the cool hero. He had just filmed some guy saying that last week. "I'll stay. Hell, I'll help you carry shit out."

"Mark, I have a gun. We have the upper hand."

"Shut up. It's a lighter." Roger snapped.

Mimi turned to him, eyes wide. "Roger?" She asked. "What the fuck?"

"Fuck, Roger, just... fuck." Mark sighed. "What the fuck'd you do that for?"

"I think," George piped in, "we are all agreed on the what the fuck score."

"He was gonna ass rape you!" Roger replied indignantly, pointing at George.

"Mark was gonna get ass raped?" Mimi inquired, slowly realizing that this was certainly not her battle. "I'm gonna bounce. Got a shift soon." She muttered, rushing out as fast as she had rushed in.

"Who was that?" George yelled. "And who is this now?"

Roger let the shirt fall away from his face. "Hi, I'm Roger," he snapped. "Mark's roommate. Now, unless I was very mistaken, you were about to ass rape my best friend?"

"It's not rape if it'c consensual," George spat.

"It's rape if it's not," Mark muttered.

George glared at Roger for ruining his supposedly consensual moment. Then a light bulb went off over his head. "You're that guy. The one from the movie theater."

Each person in this crazy scenario stood still and did not say anything for a few brief moments. In these few brief moments it occurred to each and every one of them that getting something was so not worth all of this trouble. Now it was a matter of metaphorical chicken. Who would back out first?

Mark, for one, hoped it would be George, since he was the one who didn't actually live in the loft. But he knew it would be him. It was usually him.

Luckily, he did not possess the lack of tact necessary to tell George about the bet. So he was able to stay silent and just blushed an almost violent shade of red for his normally pale complexion and stared at the floor trying not to vomit.

So George stood there for a few more seconds before asking, "Do you all do like, a weird couples let's-find-some-guy-to-have-a-threesome-with-thing? I mean, if you do, that's cool, everyone has a kink, but I personally just like knowing if some dude is going to stomp through the room. I mean role-play can be fun if done smart, ya know?"

Mark turned a nasty shade of purple, and Roger silently agreed. He had dated a freaking stripper. She knew every naughty game in the book and naughty games not even in the book. She could write possibly 5 volumes worth. Mark had dated Maureen who spent most of her time wanting foot massages. The only thing he could write a book on was how to give a killer foot massage. Two volumes.

"We're not together." Roger said, pointing back and forth between himself and Mark. "We're roommates."

George nodded sagely. "Ahh, I see. You all go by the 'bro system.' Cool enough." He sidled closer to Mark, putting an arm around him. "In that case, do you mind if we borrow your place for say, maybe, the night?"

"Yeah, about that..." Roger pulled a nasty face. "Not so much. See, Marky here isn't gay."

George's jaw dropped. "Yes he is."

"No, I'm not." Mark said. "Er. Sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out like this."

"But you are!" the froth slave protested. "Those sweaters! And the way you looked at him just now!"

Mark turned a violent shade of what could only be called eggplant. Even Roger blushed a bit, and Roger, as a rule of thumb, just didn't blush.

"Whatever, I'm going to the gay disco on 10th. Later, Permanently-In-Denial and Psycho-Mood-Swing-Guy." George stauntered out of the apartment, leaving the two men to sit and ponder their new, vaguely Native American names.

"Jesus Christ, I wish we still had vodka." Mark said despondently, all but falling on the couch.

That was when Roger said, "Fuck it," and pounced Mark.

This time Mark forgot to flail. Something inside was burning him from the inside out, and the only exit for this unnatural, ungodly fire was the place where Roger's lips touched his. He surrendered and let himself be swept away.

It was, even from an objective standpoint, a fucking wonderful kiss. Roger was all frantic, grabby hands and expertly moving mouth. When it was over-- instants or years, too long or not long enough-- and Roger pulled back, Mark nearly collapsed, weak and exhausted.

"Fuck," he whispered. "How long have I been in love with you?"

Roger licked his lips and smiled. "Not too bad yourself," he said breathily. "I didn't realize how much I wanted to do that. Damn." And he kissed Mark again.

Mark responded even quicker than before, and his hands were just as grabby as Roger's. He needed to touch everywhere. He needed to feel skin. He started running his hands under Roger's shirt just as Roger detached himself from Mark's lips and started kissing his jaw line. "You're not gonna stick your tongue in my ear, are you?"

Roger raised his eyebrows quizzically. "Way to kill the mood. Hell no, I live with you. That would be weird."

"Because this isn't weird?"

Roger bit his lip. He wanted to bite Mark's. "Is this weird?"

Mark thought about it. "I think the weirdest thing about it is how weird it isn't. You know?"

A smile spread across Roger's face like honey. "Yeah," he said. "I think I do."

"Just nothing involving my ears. No ears. Ears are off limits." Mark reiterated.

"So I couldn't do this?" Roger teased, starting to bite Mark's earlobe.

Mark would not deny that it felt good, because it did, but it was weird. "Roger, you have just been in George territory."

"You are untouchable."

But his smile suggested that it probably wasn't true.