||[Dec. 31st, 2011|11:44 pm]
A slash comm for British panel shows
Title: Foolish [2/?]
Pairing: Jimmy Carr/Mark Lamarr
Rating: M to be safe
Disclaimer: Don't own. Never will. Never happened. Never will. *sob*
Summary: They would never have been a couple, and they would never be a couple...
~Don't worry. It's fine. Just forget about the whole thing.~
It sounded like a breakup, which was stupid, because they weren't a couple. They would never have been a couple, and they would never be a couple, especially since Mark had nearly raped him in his own flat.
Lighting his god-knows-what-number cigarette of the day, Mark pulled Billie Holiday Sings from its spot in the haitches, slipping the record from its sleeve and staring at it with a frown. He liked Billie Holiday, and not just because of her remarkable effect on pop and jazz music. There was something relaxing about her music, something that lent itself well to introspection. Mark didn't really want to be introspective, but he wasn't about to try to force himself to listen to something he wasn't in the mood for.
Placing the record on the turntable, he guided the needle to the proper place and collapsed back onto the chair. Strains of a somewhat gritty recording of 'You Turned The Tables On Me' filled the space. It drifted over Mark, carrying with it the smell of bourbon and cigar smoke and the sound of rain on windows and the clink of crystal tumblers. He was too tired to move, and the piano weighed him down, filling his limbs with leaden lethargy, but he still felt the warmth and the gentle sway of a slow dance.
There was a soft laugh in his ear, and stumbling a bit, and a hitch in the breath. The smell of aftershave that wasn't his and large, strong hands on his shoulders. Dark eyes glinting in the smoky darkness of his imagination.
Mark sighed, a stream of cigarette smoke billowing above his head in a swirl of exasperation. His eyes slid open, narrowing at the record player as the next song began. He should have known better than to pick this record, but it was what he was in the mood for, and silence would have been...
~Just forget about the whole thing.~
Groaning, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. The whole thing was so stupid. He had been so stupid. Why had he even gone over there that day? Why had he let himself give in like that? Yes, okay, he'd been wound a little tight since his girlfriend left. And, yes, he'd felt a bit lonely. Was that any excuse to take advantage of someone he might have otherwise been friends with?
He remembered the flush of heat and the tightness in his chest when he'd watched that stupid episode, seeing once again the admiring smiles and the coy glances. They'd been a source of amusement during the actual recording. A private joke he told himself. Aw, Jimmy's got a crush, how adorable.
Adorable, certainly. The little grins that made his eyes crinkle and his cheeks flush just slightly, the way he ducked his head shyly, all of it endearing in ways Mark didn't like to think about, but seemed to be doomed to. Punishment, he supposed, for his harsh violation of the man only weeks before.
It wasn't like he had wanted to seduce Jimmy, or something equally...queer. Not that Mark had a problem with gays - he had been in showbusiness for too long to hold on to such archaic prejudices. He had never been too set in his own heterosexuality himself, which was good, because he couldn't imagine what his sudden lapse in sanity would have done to him had he convinced himself he was entirely straight.
Men weren't his preference, though, and even if they had been, Jimmy certainly wasn't his type. He was too delicate-looking, too feminine, which might have seemed counter-intuitive, but it made perfect sense to Mark. What was the point of being with a man who was more feminine than the women you dated? Didn't it defeat the purpose?
Something about seeing that silly grin, though, clicked with Mark. And when the fatigue and the aches and pains and the thoughts of being alone for-fucking-ever seemed to overwhelm him, he found himself at the door of Jimmy's flat, begging entry and trying to pretend he wasn't falling apart at the seams.
It was all so normal. The talking, the casual laughter, the bickering over ska. And every time Jimmy laughed at something Mark said, the urge to press into his personal space and taste that pretty little smile pulsed through him, stronger and stronger until he had to pace the floor and shove his hands into his pockets to hide the way his fingers trembled.
His fingers trembled now, a fortnight later, as he lit a new cigarette and pretended that Billie's rendition of 'You Go To My Head' wasn't at all relevant to the situation. Once again, the plinking piano thrummed in his skin like icy teardrops, Lady Day's voice weaving through his body and undulating in his ribcage like some exotic snake. With all the energy he had, Mark twisted until he was lying sideways in the armchair, legs dangling over the edge, one hand splayed over his heart and the other resting on the coffee table, the ashes of his cigarette dangling precariously over the edge of the ashtray. Once again, he let the smooth burn of the music pull him into that warm space where sounds and feelings were tangible and more real than any reality.
Wriggling his bare toes and ignoring the odd rub of the cuffs of his jeans against his ankles, Mark closed his eyes again. He could feel Billie's voice slithering into the pulse at his wrists and neck, swirling behind his eyes and making patterns in his mind.
He was flipping through Jimmy's records, just for something to do that meant he wouldn't have to look at Jimmy, at Jimmy's smile and his hands and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He'd liked the way that Jimmy argued with him, not patronizing or aggressive, but lightly, teasingly. It made him feel included, less like an outsider banging on the door and demanding to be let in. It was comfortable, warm, and Mark wanted. He wasn't sure what he wanted, exactly, but whatever it was, it had to do with Jimmy fucking Carr and his fucking smile.
Then Jimmy mentioned his "life partner" (Mark was too boneless to snort at the phrase, but he snorted in his head, cutting through the music for a split second), and Mark was left with a tight ache in his throat. Jimmy was smiling at Mark, but he was smiling because of fucking Karoline, and Mark didn't like it. He didn't like the idea that the smile he'd earned, his smile, was plastered across Jimmy's face because of someone else.
He wasn't really sure how he got from acid jealousy in his gut to rutting against Jimmy like a teenager. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what that particular thought process was. For a few achingly furious moments, Jimmy was his. He was focused on Mark, and nothing else.
Biting and bruising, Mark claimed him roughly and without mercy. For once, for fucking once, he would take what he wanted, do as he pleased. No matter what, no matter who came into the picture, he would have this much of Jimmy. Even if he had to share that smile, this, this would be his and his alone.
Every wretched feeling of inadequacy and isolation raged through him, leaving dark fingerprints and red-purple blooms on Jimmy's pale, pale skin. Signs that he, Mark, left to lay his claim, however brief. Beneath his thundering heartbeat and vile words, he could hear the gasps and moans of the other man. Sounds that he, Mark, had inspired.
When the sound of the sea and pounding drums had receded and all that was left was heaving gasps and damp tresses and an uncomfortable, sticky feeling in a socially unacceptable area, Mark was left feeling hollow and chilled, like he'd been struck with a fever. He could feel their chests pressing tighter against each other with every shuddering breath, could feel Jimmy's mouth against his jaw, and it felt too normal, too natural. So he pulled away.
As reason bled back into his mind, Mark felt a cold, sickening lump form in his stomach. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, and he mumbled a quick apology, arranging his jacket in front of his jeans carefully, and retreated as quickly as possible.
For weeks, he feared repercussions. Surely, surely Jimmy would tell someone that he'd been assaulted in his own home. Surely.
But no. Jimmy didn't say a word to anyone. And this afternoon, when Mark had dragged himself home from the studio and managed to force something edible down his throat, he'd heard the message Jimmy had left on his ansaphone.
~It's me. Listen, about...about that. Just....Don't worry. It's fine. Just forget about the whole thing. Okay? Yeah. So...um. Yeah. See you.~
When he opened his eyes again, the tinny sound of that stupid fucking message fading from his memory for a brief moment, Mark realised that the room was silent. Tempted as he was to just fall asleep there in the chair, Mark heaved himself upright and ground out the smoldering end of his cigarette.
Fuck it. Coughing, Mark got up to select another record. Maybe it would take all thirty-thousand-plus albums to help him do it, but he would forget about it. He would forget the whole thing, forget the embarassment and the vulnerability and the guilt. Forget about Jimmy fucking Carr and his fucking smile. Forget all of it.