A/N: Just a short little piece. My thoughts on how Mark feels about Roger. Feedback is highly appreciated:-)
Mark thinks Roger's poetic. In his mind, that's the only way to describe the devastated, starving musician.
Mark's never been a poetry fan. It bored him all through high school, never giving him much incentive to read it later on in life. Something about Lord Alfred Tennyson's, "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal," never failed to keep him sound asleep in Ms. O'Dea's junior English class.
But Roger's poetic nature- His emerald green eyes, his worn down leather jacket, his out of tune acoustic guitar, the emptiness the man felt after April ki-...passed away...
It was all strangely appealing to the filmmaker.
And somehow, the idea that kissing Roger would be scary and uncomfortable and just plain weird was completely false. That night, when Roger walked in from a late band practice, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, Mark didn't hesitate before pushing the musician against the loft's metal door and kissing him passionately, yet still staying gentle, on the mouth. Roger obliged, wrapping his arms around Mark's frail body and pulling the younger man closer and closer until there was no room left between them.
They fit together perfectly, almost like two interlocking puzzle pieces.
Mark parted from the man and ran his fingers through Roger's gelled blonde hair.
"I was um...thinking of buying a book of poetry tomorrow. Got any suggestions?"
Roger stared at Mark blankly. After a kiss like that, something so...groundbreaking, why was he talking about a visit to the bookstore?
"Oh...um, I don't know, Tennyson's always been my favorite."
Mark laughed. "Sounds perfect." He replied, kissing Roger again and leaning against the larger man's body.
In the back of his mind, Mark knew that it didn't matter how many poems he read. Roger would always be his favorite.