Mark climbed the small hill of the cemetery slowly, clutching his bunches of flowers. He'd spent hours choosing them the day before: bright, cheerful sunflowers for Angel, orchids for Mimi, and roses for Roger and Collins. Joanne was already there, arranging a bunch of lilies on Collins' grave.

"Hey, Joanne."

"Hey."

The lawyer shifted one of the lilies to the right, and straightened, hugging herself.

"I had to get them all the same this year," she aid, watching Mark add his flowers to each headstone. "I keep imagining Mimi and Angel arguing over whose flowers are prettier."

Mark smiled. "I can see that happening."

They stood quietly for a while, each lost in their own memories of their friends.

"Is… Maureen coming today?" Mark asked eventually, although he suspected he already knew the answer. Maureen never visited the Bohemians' graves with anyone else, preferring to keep her pain private. She'd been the same way ever since Collins had died, six months after his beloved Angel. Mark had always thought it was because the diva didn't want anyone to see her cry, but Joanne knew it was because she still talked to her silent friends, even two years after the last of them, Roger, had gone.

"She said she would stop by later," Joanne said, in answer to Mark's question. "She's still in bed, I think."

The previous night, the three of them had drunk glass after glass of Stoli in honour of Collins, Angel, Mimi and Roger. Mark had stopped feeling the effects of his that morning, but Maureen was notorious for getting the worst hangovers known to mankind.

"Do you remember that first Christmas?" Joanne smiled nostalgically.

"Maureen did that protest," Mark nodded.

"And you got your film on TV," Joanne reminded him.

"And fixed your sound equipment," Mark grinned.

"I remember dancing on tables," Joanne laughed. "and it was snowing."

"Viva la vie boheme," Mark murmured.

Joanne smiled, remembering the time four years ago when everything had still been simple, and visits to hospitals and graveyards hadn't been part of daily routine. They had taken one day at a time, happy just to have each other. They hadn't worried about which of them would be the next to die, or lain awake at night crying and wishing they would wake up from the nightmare that had swallowed their lives.

"Joanne?"

Mark's voice roused her from her thoughts, and she had wiped a tear off her cheek before she realised it was there.

"Sorry," she half-smiled, laughing self-consciously.

"I get it," said Mark quietly. "It's weird thinking that this time four years ago they were all… I mean, we were still…" He paused, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his scarf to stop them fogging up.

Joanne laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay," she offered, somewhat lamely. Mark gave her a comforting smile.

"Thanks."

Joanne looked at her watch. "I better go." She turned to the row of headstones. "Bye, guys."

She hugged Mark, both of them glad of the security of their friendship. Ever since they'd met, each of them had been the only constant in the other's life. Mark had comforted Joanne when she and Maureen fought, and she had sat up with him night after night after first Collins and later Roger left him, listening to him cry and cradling him to sleep like a baby when the grief got too much.

Joanne squeezed Mark's shoulder and turned to walk away down the hill. She stopped about five paces away and turned, a bittersweet smile playing across her face.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Merry Christmas."

…

So there's my sole attempt at a Christmas story… Reviews are nice. They earn cookies.

Oh, and I own nothing, it all belongs to His Holiness Jonathan Larson. He owns you, too. That's right. Burn…