Just when I think I will never get a new idea for a story, original or fanfic, one appears! Anyway, I won't ramble you to death. Just the usual: pretty please review, I appoligize for spelling/grammar mistakes, constructive criticism is much appriciated, and I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent or any of the characters in it, and if you don't know that, well, you're none too bright, now are you?

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"Zoom in on Mark Cohen. I hate these shots of myself, I always look like I have bug eyes. It's much easier to tell my camera what I'm feeling though, because it doesn't interrupt. Rog has been getting sicker since Mimi died. I'm worried about him—"

"You're so pathetic. Talking to your camera like that."

Mark sighed heavily, picking the camera up off the tripod he had set up in front of the lumpy couch in the loft. "Pan over to Roger, who I thought was asleep but was obviously faking it."

"I wasn't fucking faking it, I just—"

"Where are you going?" Mark interrupted sharply, noticing that Roger was putting on his cracked old leather jacket. "It's late. You should be in bed—"

"It's barely nine and you're not my mother." He reached for the doorknob. Mark set his camera down carefully but quickly and dashed to grab Roger's arm.

"You heard the doctor as well as I did; she said you needed to take it easy for a while or you'd be back in the hospital."

"I'm FINE!" Roger snapped, wrenching his arm out of Mark's grasp. "I've been out for two weeks. I can go out for a few—"

"You've been out for ten days and you should not be drinking; you should be sleeping. She said you're lucky and you could live for years is you take care of yourself!"

Roger turned the handle. "Live for years. Oh goodie."

He slammed the door shut and the noise of it resounded in Mark's ears.

Mark's eyes dulled with sadness. Roger would kill himself like this. Kill himself and leave Mark alone. That very word struck terror into Mark's heartstrings, but his mind repeated it over and over. Alone. Alone….

Sighing and muttering nonsensical narration to himself, he went into the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. He already felt alone. Roger was still alive, but was no longer really here. He spent all his time out of the apartment or else locked inside his own mind. Mark could no longer penetrate the thick wall Roger had built around himself.

He sat back down on the couch, staring at the black, dead TV screen and raising the bottle to his lips every few moments, taking a pensive sip or three. He wanted to be drunk, to be wasted, to not have to think about Roger for a while. To not have to be terrified that Roger would have another episode.

Three weeks ago, Roger woke up in the middle of the night horribly thirsty, but when he got up to get some water, he was overcome by a dizzy spell and collapsed in a heap in the hallway, his breathing ragged and difficult, his whole body on fire. He couldn't see and could hardly speak. Luckily Mark had heard his strained and desperate whispers and found him in time to call an ambulance and get him to the hospital. He was stuck there only for a week, a week, which Mark stayed with him every moment he was permitted. Roger was okay, he recovered quickly from the spell.

But he stopped taking care of himself after that. Mark had to constantly bug him to take his meds, nag him ceaselessly to sleep, to eat, to drink water. To not drink alcohol or smoke anything, cigarettes included. Roger did it all anyway. He had actually told Mark that he had no reason to live anymore. Mimi was gone. Dead at twenty. He didn't see the point in fighting his disease anymore.

Mark drained the dregs of the beer, and was just considering getting another when there was a loud, frantic knock on the door.

"It's open!" Mark shouted.

No response.

"I said it's open!"

Whoever it was just knocked again. Groaning due to the interruption of his thoughts, he forced himself to get up. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the mouth of the beer bottle, then set it down on the coffee table.

He opened the door. "What do you—?"

He froze, mouth dropping open as Maureen stumbled through the threshold of the loft. "Hey, Marky," she purred, falling against his chest. She smelled heavily of alcohol.

"M-Maureen?"

"Yeah, honey, it's me!" She giggled madly. Mark noticed that her mascara was streaked down her face as if she had been crying. And then washed out her sadness with liquor, like he had been about to do….

Mark shut the door and managed to lead her over to the couch where she sprawled, practically on top of him.

"Maureen, what are you doing here?"

She put on her classic pout. "I was lonely."

"What about Joanne?"

"Joanne's a fuck-head," Maureen slurred, running her fingers through Mark's hair. "She doesn't love me. You love me. Don't you? You said you'd always love me…."

Mark stared at her incredulously. How dare she. Old feelings and bitterness and hurt seemed to slide inside of him through every hair on his head that her fingers stirred. Roger's declining health, though it tormented him, did provide one escape: it allowed Mark no time to dwell on this old love. He had loved Maureen more than anything, and she broke his heart. He had never gotten over her completely, not really, and though during his waking hours he had very little time or energy to think of her, at night he still had dreams where they were touching or kissing or more more more. He still wanted her back, of course he did, and if she had shown up on his doorstep begging forgiveness, he would have given it.

But she had shown up drunk and depressed and expected him to comfort her.

"Maureen, you're piss-ass drunk."

"I know."

"Why are you here?" he said gently, stroking her hair. That came out wrong. He had meant to snap at her….

Maureen cuddled up to him. "Because you love me." She looked up at him. Mark could tell she wanted to say something else, and nodded at her to say it.

"Wanna fuck?"

Mark's eyes nearly popped so far out of his head that it was amazing that they didn't hit the lenses of his glasses.

"What!"

"I'm so lonely Marky!" Maureen whined loudly. "And I haven't been with a man in over forever. You love me. Please?"

"No!" he exclaimed.

"Pretty please?"

She grabbed Mark's face in her hands and kissed him hard and sloppily. Instinctively he kissed her back. She tasted so familiar, so wonderful. It had been so long since….

No.

This was so wrong.

"Maureen, stop it."

She ignored him completely, straddling his legs with her own and kissing his neck. "Come on, Pookie." She slid his hand up her shirt. "You know you want to…."

Mark bit his lip as Maureen began nibbling on his ear. He cast a longing glance at his bottle of beer on the table. I am so not drunk enough for this, he thought.

But then she slid his hand higher up her shirt and suddenly drunkenness didn't matter so much anymore.

"Why do you do this to me, Maureen?" he whispered a little huskily as he grabbed her tightly around the waist and kissed her greedily. She tore her shirt off and thrust her breasts into his ready hands.

And he thought he heard her whisper, "Because I can."

But maybe it was just his imagination.

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Collins dug in his pockets for a dollar, a nickel, anything. Can't pass a street drummer. Can't just pass a street drummer and leave them nothing. He saw how the people passed. How they heard the music but ignored it. Pretended it didn't exist. Pretended the soul playing it didn't exist. Tourists were the worst. They were fascinated by the complexity of the beats, this soothing sound emanating from garbage cans and pickle tubs, and they would smile and say "How awesome!" and shake their hips a little as they continued down the sidewalk. But they would not stop. Would not make eye-contact with the musician. Considered it a soundtrack, background noise, existing simply for their pleasure and enjoyment. It wasn't a real person standing behind that makeshift percussion set, no. Just part of the scene.

But Collins had nothing, no money with him. He felt his eyes grow hot with tears, and he did not raise them to meet the musician's until they had disappeared. They swelled near his eyelashes and he stared determinedly at his shoes, trying to focus on the two knots of the laces. The tears subsided. He looked up. The drummer's eyes met his own, and were lonely and sad. Nothing like Angel's. It was pretty doubtful that this guy had a fetish for cute heels and glitter, but he had his own likes. His own style. His own life. Collins shook his head and indicated his empty pockets.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The drummer just nodded and continued playing.

Collins turned, holding his coat tightly around his body for warmth as he started again for the subway. The beat of the drums stayed pounding in his brain long after he had exited its hearing range.

Suddenly a gust of wind picked up, the sort that whipped at umbrellas and stole paper leaflets from the hands of protesters. Somehow, Collins lost his footing and tripped. Feeling that unreal sensation of falling, he grabbed onto whatever was closest.

What was closest happened to be a person. A man.
"I'm so sorry," Collins apologized, straightening up and composing himself. He looked into the face of the poor guy he had just mauled. The man was probably a few years younger than Collins, not very tall, with dark, messy hair and ripped jeans. He wore a blue, vintage-looking jacket and had a khaki bag slung casually over his shoulder.

"No problem," he said with a smile. He rather blatantly looked Collins up and down. "Maybe you should consider keeping your shoes tied." He winked.

Collins looked down at his feet. His left shoelace was straddling his tennis shoe like boneless legs. "I could have sworn…. Never mind."

"My name's Daniel," the man said. "I'm a bartender at Ruby's Café. I'll be there tonight till closing."

And with one last half-smile and another wink, Daniel disappeared into the crowd.

Collins stood gaping for a moment. Had… had that just happened? Or was he misreading signals? It had been a long time since he'd been… flirted with. He tried to remember where Ruby's Café was—he knew he'd heard of it…. Maybe he could… stop in for a drink or two later….

Angel's face swam before his eyes.

He began walking again, at a swift pace, swerving through people with snake-like agility. No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He wasn't ready….

No. He definitely wasn't ready.

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