A/N: Hey-o, guess what guys? I've got a brand new rp group on tumblr. That means about seven billion more fics worth of inspiration so maybe I'll actually get shit done. (maybe...) Anyways my new Roger hath requested some Marker and lo and behold, I have delivered. I really loved what you wrote me, too, btw thank you so much. :3 Here you go Sara, enjoy what was supposed to be angst and turned into this.
Disclaimer: The boho boys belong to the almighty J-Lar.
Haven't Had Enough
"I'm going out. Don't wait up."
"Don't be an asshole, Roger-"
The slam of the metal door rings for almost an entire minute after Roger storms out, and Mark rubs his temples. He can feel his pulse in his throat, uncharacteristic anger flushing what feels like his entire body. Nobody knows how to piss him off quite like Roger, not even Benny, although he gives him a run for his money. He still hasn't turned their heat back on.
Sometimes Mark really hates people. He blames it entirely on his roommate.
With Roger gone and the metallic clump of his boots fades down eight flights of stairs, the loft is eerily silent. All Mark can hear is his own aggravated breathing, the scrape of his nails on his scalp as he scratches the back of his head, the slide of his socks on the floor. It's like when Roger went to Santa Fe, leaving the loft cold and empty in his wake for Mark to stew in. Already, he's annoyed with himself for missing the pluck of out of tune guitar strings and the stale smell of cigarettes. Roger makes him crazy. He does this to him all the time- just picks a stupid fight and storms out, leaving Mark in a confused and lonely state that he can't really explain.
It's the silence that unnerves him every time, the really infuriating part. Mark knows that Roger can't stand silence, never has been able to, not since long before they'd made it official. He should be here, making noise, complaining about something. Instead he's halfway down the street, probably angrily lighting a cigarette as he prowls.
The thing about Roger is that he's an adorable brat and Mark wants to hug him as much as he wants to hit him. The thing about Mark is that he's a hopeless romantic and Roger knows exactly which buttons to press to frustrate him the most. And the thing about the two of them together is that they might as well be married already, they fight so often.
Mark has to admit that it was a lot easier being around Roger before they were- well, not dating. Doing whatever the hell they're doing now. They're too close to be simply boyfriends and not sappy enough to walk down the aisle together. He's never had so much respect for Mimi, or April before her- how anyone can stand Roger's bitching for so long without strangling him, he doesn't know. He's just lucky that Mark is too squeamish to punch him in the mouth and risk blood.
And then there's HIV, which has been cockblocking Mark for months now, and he doesn't even want to think about it anymore.
Roger is just so goddamned good at making soft-spoken Mark's blood boil. He's the only person who can do it and he knows it, and it makes him cocky. Mark will never understand what it is about Roger Davis that makes him feel the way he does; nor will he understand what the hell Roger is thinking when he pokes and prods and drives him to the brink, trying to get a reaction and then getting angry when he finally does. He's like a four year old. A really obnoxious, overgrown four year old who doesn't understand that they're supposed to be in an adult relationship.
Lately Mark doesn't even know what to do with himself, another haunting reminder of Santa Fe. All of their friends have suddenly grown lives outside of the city if they're not dead and now that he's not busy being the center and the arbiter and the giver of advice, Mark is left with just Roger and nobody else, only his camera and the emptiness of the loft after yet another argument.
This isn't what he'd imagined when he'd told him, almost a year ago. His heart had been pounding and his cheeks flushed, like a nervous teenager all over again, asking his date to the prom. Roger is far from a giggly little girl, however, and things haven't progressed anything like Mark would have expected them to. They're both men and it's increasingly obvious that the testosterone building between the two of them is going to suffocate them some day. Neither of them want to hold hands and skip down the sidewalk. They don't even really hold hands at all. They don't have to, they don't really want to, and they probably won't ever get into the habit.
It's just that Mark always assumed that things were going to change when they made it official and since that first awkward kiss, almost nothing has. He's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. As he sits heavily on the couch, staring at the wall in exhaustion, he wonders whether or not they're even compatible. Sometimes it doesn't seem like it. Sometimes Roger is just a huge asshole and Mark can't believe he actually loves him, but he does.
He's in a state of perpetual frustration and exasperation and Roger is just a man-sized child most of the time. Cute, lovable, and most of all unreasonable and moody.
It's easy to forget, too, that if he calls him out on this as he occasionally has to, Roger is perfectly capable of breaking his glasses and giving him a black eye. He hasn't done it since withdrawal, but he's capable and both of them know it.
In his mind, Roger is at the end of the avenue with his calloused hands stuffed into his pockets, brooding and chewing on the end of his cigarette. He'll be scowling darkly at the ground as if it's done him some personal injustice, smoke curling around him in a way that Mark finds both repulsive and inexplicably attractive. Then again, he always finds Roger inexplicably attractive.
Blue eyes roam the room restlessly and pause on the familiar shape of Roger's leather jacket lying haphazardly draped over the side of the kitchen table. Did he really- oh, God damn it. Not again. It's getting chilly and Roger seriously can't afford to catch a cold, not this late in the game. That's another thing that Roger does that gets on Mark's nerves- he tempts fate. He won't take his medication, won't put his socks on when he goes out on the fire escape to smoke in the middle of the night. He won't quit smoking, but Mark supposes he should leave him at least one vice.
Is it wrong that he's sick of waiting up all night for someone who smells like the bar and does everything in his power to make him blow a fuse, who never apologizes and always falls into his arms like he's done nothing wrong, smirking as Mark sighs and strokes his hair without a word?
"Ugh," he mumbles. It's too quiet. Lately, Mark has to shout to be heard when it comes to Roger. And he hates to yell, but sometimes it's necessary. Like now.
He heaves himself off the couch and snatches the jacket from the table, telling himself not to think about it too hard or he'll give himself an aneurysm, and Roger won't remember to take his AZT if Mark's not around to nag him. Eight flights and two doors later he breaks into a run after the form of his roommate disappearing around the corner.
"Roger! Hey! Roger, you forgot something!"
Again, he wants to add but that would just be petulant and petulance is Roger's thing, not his. Mark is an adult. Or at least he tells himself that.
Roger stops and turns to face him reluctantly. The cigarette Mark imagined between his lips dangles from his fingers, predictably chewed and stubbly. Roger always chain smokes after an argument and that should probably worry him more, considering how much they argue. He flicks ash from the end, eying him warily. His stance clearly states we're not making up yet. "What do you want?"
Holding up the jacket, Mark nearly doubles over as he reaches him, his breath in a frosty fog before him. He clutches the stitch in his side. God, he's so not cut out for exercise. He barely eats enough to justify going for a walk. "You forgot this. It's freezing out."
"I don't see any ice." Always the smart ass. Roger rolls his kohl-rimmed eyes and takes the jacket anyways, most likely because of the look on his lover's incredulous face. "Go home. I'll be back whenever."
"I said I was sorry," Mark mutters, just beginning to catch his breath. He's still not entirely sure what he's supposed to be sorry for. He has no idea what they're arguing about at all, actually. Is this what it's like to be Joanne? He'd thought he'd gotten rid of Maureen, but instead it seems like he's just traded one drama queen for another. "Just put the damn thing on.
There's a pause. Mark glances up again and sees Roger contemplating, taking another drag of the cigarette Mark is physically restraining himself from plucking from his hand and stomping into the cold pavement. His temper, famously short, tends to fizzle quickly- begrudgingly he meets Mark's eyes. "Walk with me?"
That's as much of an apology as he's going to get and he knows it. Mark smiles, dipping his head and falling into comfortable stride with him as he turns back the way he'd been heading, slipping his arms into the leather sleeves.
Sometimes Roger makes it so fucking hard to love him, but Mark keeps doing it anyways.