Authors Note: This story is my first fanfiction. It's going to start before RENT and continue through and after the story. I'm not quite sure if my original character will be major or not yet, but either way there will be a lot of focus on Mark/Roger. Also the POV will switch from Mark to Roger every couple of chapters. I don't own RENT. Please read and review.
Mark's POV
I don't really smoke anymore. It's not because I don't want to, it's sort of the opposite. I love smoking a cigarette on the fire escape of the loft after a long day of filming. I picked up the habit in high school as a way to tame my usually spastic self. It was getting my first camera that really made me slow down. I didn't need a cigarette to occupy my hands or calm my nerves when I could simply wind up the camera and become the observer. I stopped smoking altogether when I moved to the city. When you barely have enough money to make the rent, cigarettes are no longer high on your list of priorities. When I can afford cigarettes now, I save them for special occasions, when I really need something to take the edge off. Right now I need it. I need the calming of the nicotine to drown out the screams coming from the loft as Roger and April have yet another fight. I carefully slip out the window and onto the fire escape, closing it behind me to muffle the sounds of anger radiating out of Roger's room.
Nights like this are becoming way too common. I know it's the drugs. It was never like this before April started using. On top of that Collins, the peacemaker of the loft, is out of town again doing… whatever Collins does with his free time. Probably in some four star hotel in Brazil kicking up his heels while I deal with the mess here. I would give anything to get out of here too. It all gives me a raging headache. Fortunately I have one last cigarette saved for a night like this. And one last match to accompany it. I pull it out of the box and go to light it. I fumble. I watch the match slip out of my hands and fall, almost in slow motion, all the way into the on the street below. Fuck. I close my eyes and let my head rest on the rail of the fire escape, fixating on the wasted match in the gutter. I close my eyes and try to will away the pounding in my head, the cold of the city around me, the utter mess that my life has become. Why me? Something clatters on the floor of the fire escape, interrupting my stupor of self-pity. I slowly lift my head and begin to inspect the floor for whatever is being thrown at me. It's sitting a few inches from my feet, small and square. A book of matches. I've never been religious, but in that moment I think there must be a god. I quickly look down for the wonderful person who has taken pity on the poor guy who looks like he's about to throw himself off the building. I find her on the fire escape below me. Wow.
It would sound way too clichéd to say that the girl perched on the railing below mine is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but this is the thought which slams through my head when I see her. She is young, too young, she can't possibly be over nineteen. She is too thin, too pale, shaking too much in her thin clothing, but so pretty. She's sitting on the rail of the escape, so small I can only think that a gust of wind could pull her over the edge. Pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight and dark brown hair falling over her delicate face. I stare. Wow. She's smoking a cigarette. Isn't she a little young for that? I watch as she takes one last drag and ditches it over the railing. Sliding off, she flicks her eyes up at me and meets my gaze. I can't move. I can't think. Those blue, blue eyes. When I finally force myself to look away she smiles at me. A beautiful, knowing smile, almost mocking me. I watch as she disappears back into her own apartment . I still can't move.