Her breathing was labored. Her gasps shuddered through her frail body. He couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. But he could hear last breaths as she tried to speak. "You've got to go on."

He tightened his grip on her shaking frame, tears blurring his vision. "Can't go on without you, though." He managed to choke out.

She inhaled, with difficulty. Her eyes, seemingly unfocused, snapped back and stared straight into his. He brushed a piece of hair out of her face as she struggled. She couldn't be dying. Not his one and only love. Not after having won, having the right ending. "You've got so much…to give." She told him, her breaths coming shorter. "Tell our story."

"No…" He protested. How could he bear to recall the story of a love that overcame all obstacles, when she wasn't there to share it with him? 'Come What May' was supposed to get them through everything together, not him on his own, without her. He started shaking, and the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. He held her tighter, wishing with all his might that he be able to save her.

"Yes…yes…" she was fading fast, a star falling out of the sky. She grew weaker by the second, but continued to try and hold on for him.

They had fought so hard, and to have it end like this. The onstage story ended right, but backstage, in real life…it was all wrong. How could he write that? How could he ever write again? And yet he agreed, choking out a "Yes." He couldn't refuse her wish. As hard as it might be, he'd do it. He'd write it, for her. For them.

"I will…" Her breaths were shallow, few and far between. "I will always be with you." She drew a last shaky breath, and then she was gone. He stared, disbelieving, at her body in his arms. As tight as he held her, she had still slipped through his fingers. He whimpered, before crying out in anguish, sobbing for his lost love.

Connor Amour sat straight up in bed, shaking uncontrollably. He panted, trying to calm down, but the pain-filled scream still echoed in his mind. He'd had dreams like this before, but none so vivid as that one. He stood and walked over to his window, gazing at the New York skyline. It was breathtaking, and would probably help him relax. That, and some tea. He wished all of the rest of his things were here, then he could make some.

He'd only moved into this tiny apartment today, and the only things filling it were his bed, a kitchen table, boxes of this and that, and a sofa. The boxes of other, useful, things wouldn't come until tomorrow. Connor plodded into the living room in the hopes of finding a pad of paper. Writing always helped him think straight, especially with strange dreams. He found one and dug up a pencil before sitting down on his couch.

Even though he was a newly hired reporter for the Times, Connor was having trouble writing. Spewing out facts without an opinion or even a care was different then writing a novel, something he'd always wanted to do. A romance novel, a simple story about love. Not about someone being ed or a building set on fire. But the little muse inside his head seemed to have gone out on a coffee break, and Connor sat staring at the pad of paper. Why was he was having dreams about a woman dying in his arms? He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps his depressing job was getting to him.

He became aware of piano music coming through the walls. It was pretty, until a jarring chord rang out loud and clear. Connor, annoyed and still a bit shook up, shouted at the wall. "Hey! Keep it down!"

He glanced at his clock. Who could be playing the piano at three in the morning? Momentarily forgetting his dream, Connor threw on his bathrobe and went to meet his new-and apparently, music appreciating-neighbor.

Most people woken at 3 a.m. by their roommate playing the piano would not only be extraordinarily mad, but would also consider getting a new roommate. For the three men occupying this apartment, however, it was quite normal. On this morning, Thomas, newly awoken, wandered into the living room and barely glanced at Sydney. Sydney hit a wrong note and cursed loudly, which led to Antonio meandering into the kitchen and beginning to make coffee.

"Inspired?" Thomas asked, yawning.

Sydney grunted and made a note on his sheet music. Thomas flopped down on the sofa and turned on the TV. He made sure to mute it and put on captions, for otherwise Sydney would maul him. Sydney began the series of notes again, and at the same point as before, shouted something that would make a sailor blush.

"I can't get the right note!" he fumed. "The rest of the phrase just--came to me, but this last damn note-!" he pounded on several keys angrily.

"C sharp." Antonio called in a bored tone from the kitchen.

Sydney paused, then experimentally played the phrase again, this time with the C sharp at the end. It fit perfectly. He wrote down the note. "You're brilliant."

"I know." Antonio replied. "Want coffee?"

"Tea." Sydney continued on with his composing.

"I want an Irish coffee!" Thomas announced.

There was a sigh from the kitchen. "You're going to have liver failure."

"You're going to get syphilis." Thomas retorted, flipping channels. He ignored Antonio's angry reply and focused on the small news report on a new Broadway musical. The plot sounded interesting, and the scenery looked spectacular. Thomas took the mute off momentarily to catch the last few strands of one of the songs. The report ended, and a commercial came on. Thomas sighed and hit mute. "Why can't we do that?"

"We don't have a writer." Sydney muttered, holding his pencil between his teeth.

The men had been trying for years to come up with a Tony-winning Broadway show. The plan was for Thomas to direct, Antonio and his friend to choreograph, and Sydney to compose the music. All that was missing from their creative team was someone to write it. That, and a producer with lots of cash.

Antonio came out of the kitchen and put a cup of tea on the piano. Sydney gave a grunt of thanks. Antonio handed Thomas his Irish coffee and sat down on the couch. "We also currently have no star." He reminded the others, picking up a magazine from the coffee table.

Thomas sipped his drink. "Sophie just needs convincing. Once we have a writer, both she and a producer will beg us to let them be part of it."

Another jarring chord sounded from the piano. Sydney threw his pencil across the room. "Godammit! I've lost it!"

"Drink your tea and the muse will return." Antonio assured him, not looking up from his magazine.

Sydney angrily swallowed his tea. Thomas changed the channel. "Just you wait. Our writer will drop in when you least expect it."

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. The men exchanged glances before Thomas hopped off the sofa and went to answer it. There stood a young man, probably early twenties, looking partially annoyed and a tad distressed. "You are aware that it's three in the morning?" he asked Thomas.

"Really? I thought it was almost lunchtime." Thomas answered without a drop of sarcasm in his voice.

"Not that it matters, you'll drink any time of day." Antonio pointed out from somewhere behind him.

The young man looked at him like he was insane. "I'm sorry." Thomas apologized. "We're artists, you see. I paint, Antonio dances, and you know already about Sydney's composing…" he looked over his shoulder at the fuming musician. "We work when inspiration comes."

The man relaxed a little. "I know how that feels."

"You're an artist?" Thomas opened the door wider, motioning for the man to come in.

"A writer." The man cautiously entered the apartment.

The hair on the back of Thomas' neck stood up as he closed the door. 'A writer!' he mouthed to his roommates. But beside that exciting fact, Thomas felt he had met this man somewhere before. There was something so…familiar about him. Thomas shook himself slightly. He focused on the young man, now sitting on their sofa, and tried to find a way to convince him to write their musical. "So…what do you write?"

The young man glanced from Thomas to Antonio, who was pouring him some tea before answering. "I'm a journalist, I write for the Times."

"No experience in Broadway then?" Thomas wondered hopefully.

Antonio handed the man his tea and glared at Thomas. He turned to the young man. "Ignore him, he has delusions of grandeur."

The man nodded slowly, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. "I…helped re-script some things in high school."

"Perfect!" Th claimed.

"Thomas, you haven't even introduced yourself and you're already scaring him." Antonio sat down beside the young man.

"That's different, usually you introduce and then scare." Sydney commented, idly playing the first few measures of 'The Sound of Music'.

"Oh, sorry." Thomas plopped down beside Antonio. "I'm Thomas--,"

"My name is Henri Marie Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa."

He blinked. That strange voice in his head…sounded kind of like his own. It felt familiar, like a memory, but he'd never heard that name in his life. Dismissing it as one of the products of his confusing mind, he continued on. "--that's Antonio, and the grumpy piano player is Sydney."

"Nice to meet you…" the man said in a very scared voice. "I'm Connor…"

"Hello. Would you be interested in writing a Broadway musical for us?" Thomas inquired, which resulted in being smacked on the head by Antonio.

"But we haven't read anything he's written." Sydney mentioned. "We don't know if he's good."

"He's good. I can tell." Thomas declared.

"I haven't actually agreed to anything yet…" Connor said quietly. He was ignored.

"You would take any writer you found, good or not." Antonio crossed his arms and glared at Thomas.

Thomas closed his eyes in frustration. He couldn't explain how he knew this stranger was the writer they'd been searching for. Perhaps it was the familiarity, perhaps it was that odd voice in his head, perhaps it was just instinct. But Thomas knew, and he'd do anything to prove it.

"I'll show you." He shoved a pad of paper at Connor. "Write something, anything." Thomas turned to his roommates. "Trust me. This is a good idea."

"You thought that making Tofu turkey for Thanksgiving last year was a good idea." Antonio pointed out. Thomas opened his mouth to make a comeback statement, but Antonio plowed on. "You thought that going ice fishing on the Hudson was a good idea. You thought that having a bonfire on the roof was a good idea. Pardon me if I have a few objections to your latest 'good idea'."

Connor stared down at the paper in stunned silence as his new neighbors argued around him. He had never said he wanted to write a musical. He had no idea how he'd suddenly become a part of this scheme. And yet…a thought became an idea, an idea became a plot, and a plot would soon become a story as he began to scribble furiously on the paper.

Three a.m. passed to four a.m. as he wrote. One of them played soft music on the piano, strands of songs he half-recognized. Another went somewhere and reappeared only to refill his teacup when it was getting low. And the third one, the shorter one who, for some reason, believed that there was something in Connor worth finding, sat beside him on the sofa and simply watched. Watched him erase, watched him crumple sheet after sheet, watched him stare at the paper in hopes of an idea. Four became five as he finished and held it out, in triumph, to the man beside him.

Thomas read the short story Connor had produced. What it was about didn't matter. It was the way the words flowed, the way they described joy and pain, the way everything just magically clicked. He showed it to Antonio, who grudgingly began to read it. Twenty minutes later, a shell-shocked Antonio handed the pad of paper back to Thomas. "We've found him."

Thomas gazed at the now-sleeping writer on their sofa. "Indeed we have, my friend." He whispered. "Indeed we have."