A/N: I do not own RENT or anything related to RENT. If I did, I'd be famous and crazy rich but I am neither of these, haha. The only thing I claim from this fic is the story line and a couple of the original (non-canon) characters. I hope you enjoy the story!

Roger cupped his hands over his mouth and exhaled sharply. His breath was enough to warm his fingers, but not enough to keep them warm, much to his dismay. He tried his best to play another tune on his trusty acoustic guitar, but the cold mid-January air made his fingers stiff. Too stiff to even form a proper D chord . . . much less to finger pick. "Should've kept better tabs on that pick," he sighed to himself, "it was my last one." He leaned forward and peered into his open guitar case. A quarter and a dime was all he saw. Albeit he had been out there for less than fifteen minutes, he had been hoping for a better income. It was looking to be a slow night as far as profits went, even though the area was crawling with people. Roger was determined. He hadn't come all the way to Tompkins Square Park just to walk away with thirty-five cents. New York's most desperate mugger wouldn't even bother stopping someone for a quarter and a dime. As far as Roger was concerned, if it wasn't enough to attract a thief, it wasn't enough to walk away with. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together, hoping to loosen his joints enough to play at least one full song.

Before he could get through an intro, a bit of distant commotion caught his attention. He paused and listened. It sounded like a mild struggle, nothing too exciting, so he resumed playing. But he paused again, intrigued by the two voices he heard shouting back and forth to one another. Roger sighed again, letting his arms dangle hopelessly over the edge of his guitar. He had to check it out now. After scooping up and pocketing the two coins, Roger swung the instrument onto his back and rose from his seat on the metal bench. With that, he made his way forward to investigate the ruckus which was now attracting the attention of others. Apparently people were more interested in drama that didn't even involve them than a reasonably attractive man playing good music.

He gently pushed his way through the small crowd that had formed into a circle, like school kids gathering around a fight in the hallway. On the other side he saw Officer Martin, shooing the curious onlookers away with his left hand.

"Nothing to see here, everything is under control." Officer Martin said. "C'mon, get outta here!"

With his right hand, however, Officer Martin tightly held onto a young boy by his right arm. The lad looked to be no older than ten years old, and was frowning about being in the grips of Officer Martin. Roger squinted his eyes to get a better look at the boy. He was familiar, though Roger couldn't quite determine where he had seen him before. The crowd broke apart all except for Roger. Officer Martin then turned the kid around to face him, keeping his grip firm and his tone of voice assertive.

"I'll say this one more time," he began "I don't like seeing kids like you out in the park without supervision this late in the evening."

"I can supervise myself!" the kid exclaimed "I've been here since this morning and everything's been fine. What could possibly change when the sun goes down and the streetlights come on, huh?"

"Dark is when the bad boys come out to play."

The boy rolled his eyes and looked down towards his worn out sneakers, but he didn't say anything. In fact, he seemed to surrender.

"Now I'm gonna escort you out." Officer Martin said, a look of prideful accomplishment crossing his round face "After that I want you to go home, okay?"

"Thank god!" Roger shouted, running towards the man and the boy. "Thank god, you found him!"

The most confused expression formed on the young boy's face. He looked to his left and then to his right, searching for anyone else that could be the him this man was praising Officer Martin for finding. But there was no one. He looked back up at Roger and raised an eyebrow at him. Was he mistaking him for someone else? If so, he was in for some disappointment.

"You know this kid?" Officer Martin asked, his tone dripping with skepticism.

"Do I know this kid? He's my cousin!" Roger exclaimed with a smile.

The boy's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. What the heck is this man talking about? he wondered. But he kept quiet, simply watching the man as he interacted with the officer.

"You see," Roger began with a chuckle "my aunt and uncle are in town. They're staying for two weeks and agreed to let him crash at my place for a few days. I guess he got off the subway and took a wrong turn if he ended up all the way down here in Tompkins Square."

"If he's your cousin, then tell me his name." Officer Martin challenged.

Roger could only hesitate. He looked down at the boy who stared timidly back. Roger studied his features, trying to pick a name that would fit him. His head was square with a pair of big blue eyes, a small nose and thin lips. "Colby!" he exclaimed, unsure of what else to say. It was the first name to come to mind that actually fit. "In the family we call him Colby."

Officer Martin looked down at Colby, who vigorously nodded his head and gave a cheesy grin.

"Please, Martin. Now that you've found him I can take him back to my place and we'll all forget this ever happened. In fact, I'll give him a tour of the entire city so it's guaranteed not to happen again."

Officer Martin's brow furrowed at Roger. Somehow this was all too convenient for everyone involved. But he didn't want to pass up the offer. The night was young and he had a lot of patrolling to do, so why waste time dealing with this kid any longer than he had to? "Fine." He said, releasing his grip on the boy.

"Thanks, Martin! I owe you big time – you've saved both of our necks from Aunt B's chopping block for sure."

Roger quickly put an arm around the boy's shoulder and started to walk away. "Don't look back." He warned quietly. "Whatever you do, don't look back."

The boy listened and kept his eyes fixed forward until they were out of the Officer's sight. After checking to be sure that they were in the clear and seeing they were, Roger took his arm away from the boy's shoulder and chuckled. "You gotta know how to talk to Officer Martin," He said, crossing his arms over his chest "he won't hesitate to arrest your hide for jaywalking, but he's as gullible as ever."

"You're not worried that he'll arrest you?" the boy asked. "You know, when he finds out that I'm not really your cousin?"

"Nah . . . 'cause I don't think he'll ever find out. Besides, he's too busy chasing those bad boys he was telling you about. Whether you're my cousin or the President's son, he'll leave you alone as long as you behave and stay out of his way."

"Thanks for the tip – I'll keep it in mind." The boy said, playfully tapping the side of his head. He then pulled his black beanie down over his ears. "And thanks for bailing me out. I appreciate it."

"No problem. I guess I'm in a compassionate mood tonight, unlike the other people around here." Roger took out the coins from his pocket, looked at them, and sighed. "Think I could buy a guitar pick for thirty-five cents?"

The boy gave him a confused look and shrugged his narrow shoulders, but said nothing. Roger studied the boy. He was pale, small in stature, and quite thin. His clothes looked warn out and reasonably dirty, which made Roger wonder what his living conditions were. Did he have a family? A home? Roger didn't feel comfortable with prying into the boy's life, considering that he had only just met him, so he resigned to a simple introduction.

"I'm Roger." He said, holding out his hand for a friendly shake.

The boy hesitantly shook Roger's hand, but didn't bother to speak his name. Confused, Roger turned his head on a slant. "Who might you be?" he asked.

He hesitated again. "You can call me Colby, I guess." He replied finally with another shrug of his shoulders.

Roger was surprised by how laid back the boy was. In fact, he seemed gloomy. His eyes were tired, his expression was disinterested, and his voice was growing more and more nonchalant with every word he spoke, and it baffled Roger. Most other kids he talked to were lively, happy, and childish, but this kid was like an old soul wrapped in a dirty winter coat. Colby certainly didn't seem interested in having a conversation, which lead Roger to lose interest as well. He turned slightly to the left, tempted to say goodbye and return to his abandoned guitar case (if it hadn't been scooped up already) and let the boy go on his way. But just as his lips were forming to pronounce his farewell . . .

"Hey!" Colby exclaimed. "What is that?"

Roger looked around, but didn't see anything spectacular for the boy to be so suddenly excited about. He turned back to face him, returning his head to its slanted position (a sure sign of confusion). "What's what?"

"That . . . on your back."

Roger scoffed. "Have you been living under a rock? It's a guitar. These things have been around since the beginning of ti-"

"I know it's a guitar, idiot . . ." he chuckled "I meant what make is it?"

He moved to stand behind Roger and stood up on the tips of his toes to see the same printed on the top of the instrument's neck, but to his dismay, all that was left were four or five specs of gold paint – remnants of the vibrant text that once was but had faded away over time.

"I don't know." Roger replied "I got this thing on the street a few years back, and by the looks of it I assume it's pretty old, but it sounds good. That's all that matters to me."

"Wouldn't you like to know what make it is?" Colby asked.

"Well, sure . . . but I don't feel like hauling it into a music store."

"You don't need a music store to identify guitars, just someone who knows a little something about them."

"And I suppose you know a little something about them?" Roger asked sarcastically, turning around to face the boy, who offered a small smirk and nodded his head. By the look on his face Roger knew what the boy was implying and decided to humor him. "Okay then, Colby," he began, resting his hands on his hips, "what make do you think it is?"

"I don't think . . . I know it's a Squire by Fender."

"HA!" Roger exclaimed, a puff of gray smoke bursting from his mouth as a result of the cold.

"What?" Colby asked, appearing to be put-off by Roger's mockery. "You don't believe me?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you don't."

"Well . . ."

"I know what it is, but if you don't believe me then go ahead, haul it down to the music store and let the experts . . ." he said, using air quotation marks "take a look at it."

"Maybe I will."

"Fine. But when they confirm what I said, I think you should give me something. You know, to vindicate the emotional trauma your doubt has caused me."

"What? You don't look the least bit traumatized by anything, you little scammer. Besides, I already saved you from Officer Martin. That ain't enough for ya?"

The boy smiled, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth. He even managed to giggle, and for the first time to Roger, sounded like the child he was. Relieved to see a glimmer of normality in the kid, Roger laughed too, but Colby's proposal made him wonder if he would even see the boy again. Something about him made Roger hope that he would, even though he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Without realizing it, Roger was now rubbing his chin in thought as he stared absentmindedly at the boy, who stared right back only with a more intrigued look on his face.

"Are you any good at playing guitar?" he asked.

Roger was shaken from his trance-like state. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you good at playing guitar?"

"Good enough to earn thirty-five cents on the street, apparently." Roger replied with a scoff. "Not to sound overly self-confident or anything, but I'm as good of a player as most of the other schmucks being played on the radio these days." Roger sat down on a short stone wall and brought the guitar down to his lap. "I actually was one of those schmucks for a little while."

"What happened?" Colby asked, his tone of voice growing soft.

Thoughts of April were now dancing around inside Roger's mind. He could easily answer the boy's question in many different ways. It was the lifestyle that lead him to April, thus leading him to heartbreak and a seemingly endless period of grief. He involuntarily shook his head in disappointment as he thought about her. Why'd she have to go and kill herself? He was HIV positive too, yet he was still living, and she knew darn well that he was prepared to take care of her in the bad time ahead. Why she did it still confused him to this very day, and it still hurt like a fresh wound. Heck, it was still a fresh wound. He realized now that the pain of death and grief stayed fresh for much too long. What he didn't realize, however, was that he had trailed off in thought . . . again, leaving the kid hanging. But he could see that Roger was thinking, and he could see some type of burden was laid on him, so he stayed quiet, allowing the man to think. After several long moments of silence, Roger straightened his posture and sighed, forming a chord on the neck of the guitar, and positioning his right fingers to pluck them out.

"It just wasn't for me." He replied. "Or rather, it wasn't the right time for me. I might get back up there someday, but I don't know." It all depends on how sooner or later this disease decides to kill me, he thought to himself.

With that, he started to quietly play the chords, and softly sang his lyrics.

"One song glory,
One song before I go
Glory, one song to leave behind
Find one song, one last refrain
Glory, from the pretty boy front man . . ."

He was cut off by the sharp sound of change hitting the ground. To his surprise, it was the boy who had dropped it. Three dimes, a nickel, and a penny – thirty-six cents total.

"I think you're good enough for more than thirty-five cents." he said, his expression blank but his tone of voice filled with something like compassion.

Roger offered him a curt nod as if to thank him. Colby returned the favor, and without saying a word, turned and began to walk away. Roger watched until his figure disappeared from sight. It was an abrupt ending to a nice little conversation/meeting, but something in his gut told him that he'd be seeing Colby again soon.