this is a very long fic that struck me a long time ago, but i didn't write it until now. it is postRENT, in case anybody is wondering, and i hope you like it. btw, I made up the title of the song, and the lyrics will follow as a second chapter, i think. they are mine. all mine. ha ha. btw, this fic is for my friends Julia, Mira, Jess, and Emma, who know more about musical stuff than i EVER will, and who never fail to make me feel rather...shall we say, newbie-ish. love them, but i am so jealous...

unfortunately, RENT is not mine. i shall now cry myself to sleep.

Roger lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Beside him, Mimi was sleeping, her long brown hair drawn back into a ponytail and her face in peaceful repose. He shifted around his back and tried to fall asleep, but it just wasn't happening. And he knew why too.

Every once in a while, Roger would have urges, urges so strong they really controlled him more than he controlled himself. They told him to write songs, to play the guitar, to just…create something musical that someone somewhere might remember. They had died down in the previous year, but ever since he had finally written "Your Eyes", the song that had changed so much for him, Roger would have these urges almost everyday. And it was not in vain; "Your Eyes" seemed to have broken a dam inside him, and in the last month and a half he had written eleven songs. Some of them were the kind of loud, raucous, shredding songs that energized him. Some of them were softer, smoother, warmer. And then there were those that were just sort of…confused. He didn't have much hope for them. But he was working. Roger was finally doing what he was born to do, and to top it all off, he and his new band had a gig coming up.

He couldn't believe it. Less than two months of being together and they managed to book a gig. It wasn't a huge place, but it was very definitely not small. He was nervous, but he had faith in his band; they were good musicians, all of them. They could handle it if they worked hard. They weren't what was keeping him awake.

For the past few days, Roger had been puzzling over what to use as the closing song in their set. Did he want a calm, soulful song? Did he want a wild one? Roger had known what to do before. Before, when everything was simple. Now it wasn't. Now these songs were his, and he didn't know what the hell to do with them. That was what kept him from sleeping. The need to write a song that was perfect to end their time onstage, the song that people would remember and take for more than it was on the surface.

Roger sighed, and then made a decision. He very slowly sat up in bed, glancing warily at Mimi. She didn't stir. He smiled and leaned down, kissing her forehead. In her sleep, she gave a small sigh and wrinkled her nose. Roger looked down at her, wondering how he could have ever left her. He loved her so much…how could he have done it?

Slowly, so as not to wake Mimi, Roger got up and slipped on a t-shirt and a sweatshirt. He was already wearing sweatpants and thick socks; Mimi hadn't had heat for a few days, and her apartment was far from warm. Roger made his way over to the corner and picked up his acoustic guitar, wincing as his fingers caught and plucked a C. Mimi snored and rolled over. Roger stole quietly out of the apartment.

He climbed the stairs, carefully not wake Mark, who slept lightly, by banging against the metal. Collins might or might not in the loft; he spent the nights where the memories of Angel overwhelmed him with his old friends. Roger had watched Collins slowly over the last few weeks, and he had to admit it, no matter how painful; his friend was fading fast. Collins had gotten much thinner, and his cheerful, warm energy seemed to run out easily nowadays. Roger had a feeling that the only thing keeping him tethered to this world was his family of friends. They all knew, though, that despite his love for them and his knowledge of how much they loved him back, what he really wanted—no, not wanted, needed—inside was Angel. Some people are able to move on after the death of lovers; others aren't. Collins hadn't been able to. This wasn't for lack of trying; he had done everything possible to love life in the same he had before Angel. But it wasn't working. She had become his life, and without her he was too empty.

Roger climbed higher and higher until he finally emerged onto the roof of the building. The cold air bit at him, but he ignored it. The night was lit dimly by dozens of illegal trash-can fires, which speckled the surrounding roofs and sidewalks. Overhead, a rare star peeked through the gloom of NYC. Roger headed straight for the pipe that served as his "thinking seat"; the place he always sat when he needed inspiration. He sank onto it, shivering as the cold of the metal seeped through his clothing. He could not stay out for long; anyway, his fingers would grow numb long before the rest of him, and if he couldn't play the guitar, there was no use freezing to death.

Roger sighed, his breath floating through the air in a little cloud. Hefting the guitar in both hands, he poised his fingers, ready to play those unbid melodies that crept into his head.

Nothing came. He waited a little longer, but still no notes drifted through his mind, no tunes awaited the blossoming of a song. He felt stupid. Here he was, freezing his ass off in the middle of the night for no reason. Roger sighed again and looked upwards at the thick mixture of smog and cloud. Maybe if his mind relaxed…

For some reason, Angel popped into his thoughts at that moment. A memory of her, clear and sharp as if it was one of Mark's films: Angel sat on the floor of the loft, demonstrating to Mimi and Maureen how to paint her right-hand fingernails with her left hand (she had once told Roger that she taught herself to be ambidextrous when she was nine). Roger could see so plainly the expression of calm concentration on Angel's face, the beautifully smooth motions of her hand as it spread the polish over her fingernails. It made his heart ache.

The memory moved forward, as though Mark was fast-forwarding the film. Roger saw Angel finish her hand and blow on it, happily answering Maureen and Mimi's awed questions. Just as the polish was dry enough to stop blowing on, Collins came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her ear. Angel giggled and squirmed, while Mimi and Maureen grinned at each other and exchanged the sort of exasperated, affectionate looks that Collins and Angel seemed to bring out in them. Collins sat down beside them and asked what was happening. Within a minute, the three of them were ganging up on him in an attempt to paint his fingernails.

Roger smiled to himself. It seemed so real, as though it hadn't been months ago, only hours…it took a minute before Roger realized that he was picking out notes on the guitar, his fingers moving unbidden across the strings. He snapped to attention, carefully remembering and losing himself in the melody. The music seemed to fill him, and he lost himself as the notes slid out into the cold night air.

Roger had been playing out there for almost half an hour before he realized someone was watching him. He had stopped to puzzle out a bridge when he heard a tiny cough; not a rude one, just an unobtrusive sound. He turned his head to see Mimi leaning against a pipe, clad in her long, rosy, terry-cloth bathrobe, smiling and playing with a strand of her hair.

He blushed, as though she had caught him in some shameful act. Her eyes widened with amusement, and the smile became a grin.

"Mimi…how long have you been there? It's too cold out for you, you shouldn't be—"

"Relax, baby, I'm okay," she said softly, coming to sit beside him. She leaned against him and sighed; he kissed the top of her head tenderly. She snuggled closer. It was true; every since Christmas, they'd had this flow of affection that neither of them cared to stop. It bound them closer, gave each other something more.

"What were you playing?" Mimi asked. Roger shrugged, letting go of the guitar with one hand and wrapping his arm around Mimi.

"Just…something new."

"Mmm…it's pretty." She yawned like a cat, and for a moment he thought she would fall asleep. But then she looked up at him with those brown eyes, and he felt she could see right into his thoughts.

"Who were you thinking about?" she asked. Roger frowned.

"What do you mean?" She giggled.

"Roger, I know you better than almost anyone else, and I know that when you write songs, you're thinking of someone. Like me." Her smile was playful, and he pulled her closer.

"Like you." He kissed her gently. Mimi kissed him back for a moment, then pulled away, staring up at the sky. He looked up too, searching for the stars in the smog.

"You were thinking about Angel, weren't you?" She made it sound like a comment, not a question. Roger was surprised for a minute, but then he decided not to be. Mimi saw through him every day. Why should this be any different?

"Yeah. I was."

"Roger…I miss her. And I saw her on Christmas, but that just makes me miss her more." Her voice was rather hoarse all of a sudden, and Roger saw the brightness come into her eyes. He held her and stroked her back while she blinked back the tears, and then he whispered, "I know, baby, I know."

"Good luck, man. I know you guys are going to rock." Roger smiled and clapped Collins on the shoulder. His friends were gathered around him outside of the club, and Roger was just about to go and start getting ready for the show.

"Are you going to play 'Wild Girl'? Are you? Are you?" Maureen asked, hopping up and down. Joanne rolled her eyes and reached out, grounding the diva. Roger groaned.

"That's the worst song I've ever written, Mo; why do you love it so much?'

"Because it's my song, damn it, and it's fun! Promise me you'll play it," she said, giving him a look. He sighed and nodded ruefully.

"Sure, Mo. For you." She squealed happily and gave him a quick hug. Joanne shook her head and smiled at Roger.

"You're going to be great, Roger. I'm really proud of you." He grinned at her.

"Thanks, Jo." Mark raised an eyebrow.

"Now remember, Roger, it's okay to say swear words in songs; no one will get offended if you say 'dang'. Just don't go any farther than that, or you'll start a riot, for goodness' sake!" Roger snorted and knuckled the top of Mark's head. The pale blond squealed and grinned at his friend.

"Ok, the others are waiting for me. Bye, guys!" Roger said, starting to leave. Mimi, however, wasn't done with him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she planted a gigantic kiss on him. Maureen smirked, and Collins elbowed Mark.

"For luck," Mimi said when she pulled back. Roger, woozy from lack of air and from X-Treme Kissing, made his way vaguely into the club.

For Roger, time seemed to slow when he got on stage. Everything was blurred from that first cheer to the final note struck on the second to last song. The audience was a good one, better than good even. They cheered wildly at his good songs, not so much at his others; but there was a general feeling of goodwill towards Roger and his band. They were liked; that was enough. Roger, however, was not able to completely and totally concentrate on all the songs. It was because he was worrying about the finale.

By the time the cheers from "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" died down, Roger had switched his electric guitar for an acoustic one. The lights on the rest of the band had faded, and now all the illumination was focused on Roger, who was leaning against a chair that had been dragged up from backstage. The audience seemed slightly confused; they didn't expect a solo at the end of a set. Roger swallowed. What he was doing was an insane gamble. Any respectable band member would have slapped him and told that audiences did not want heart-felt songs with only an acoustic guitar at the end of a show. They wanted a big number that would energize them, hype up their adrenaline. And they especially didn't want long speeches before the song. What he was doing could quite possibly be classified as musical suicide.

But Roger didn't care. He had decided it already, and he was going to make it through. The only hope he had was that audience might understand, even slightly, where he was coming from.

Roger cleared his throat and stepped up to the mike stand. He looked out across the club, searching the sea of faces for the five he knew were there. He cleared his throat.

"Hey…how you all liking us so far?" There was a roar of approval, and Roger smiled. They didn't hate him, at least not yet. He cleared his throat again and opened his mouth to say the words he had tried to plan, but finally given up on.

"Well…this is the last song in our set, and before I play, I think I've got to just say something about it really quick." Roger took a deep breath. "I wrote this song maybe four days ago, and in the middle of the night. I wrote the music, that is, and the words came later. But, um, anyway, the thing is, I wrote this song with someone in mind. Someone who…who's gone now." He was beginning to sweat. The crowd didn't seem to have reached the antsy stage yet, but it couldn't be long now. And he wasn't half done yet.

"See, this person was a friend of mine, a really close friend, and he had this…thing, I guess, where he could make anything—god, I don't know how to say this. I mean…it was like, you would be doing something important, something that took a lot of hard work and time, and you were so close to just giving up and throwing it away…well, this person could stop you from doing that. He could make you feel as though what you were doing was something amazing, something special, and if you finished…you could make the world a better place. You had the power to create something, and you had the talent or will to finish. That's how he could make you feel. And also that you were special, that you deserved to be here, that you should stay and give yourself to the world because…it needed you." Roger was rambling now, hardly aware of what he was saying. All he knew, though, was that the crowd had amazingly not booed him off the stage. The seemingly endless faces were still as they looked at him, almost entranced. Could it be…they got what he was talking about?

"And see, this person had a lot of reason to be angry and scared with everything; he was broke most of the time, he had no job, he had—he was sick, and a lot of people would hate him just by looking at him. He had every right to say 'screw this', but he didn't. He knew he didn't have a lot of time left, and he…just made the most of all of it, I guess. And a lot of people loved him…he had a family. And one person in particular, who would have done anything for him, and who he…he loved just as much. And somehow, anyone who met him had this feeling of—being alive." Roger wasn't thinking of the audience or the gig anymore. He wasn't worried. Because it felt like Angel was there again, urging him on, telling him he could do it…just like Angel had done so many times before.

"But then he, um…he died, just when we all needed him most. And it hurt; it hit all of us hard. We missed him then, and we miss him now. But he hasn't really let us go; he's helped us through a lot, even though he's not here anymore. And when I wrote this song…I wrote it for him." Roger cleared his throat and positioned his hands. There was complete silence around him, and his fingers hovered over the strings. He looked out one last time across the audience. And then he saw them: Collins, Maureen, Joanne, Mark, and Mimi, standing beside each other, arms around waists and shoulders. He could see tears glistening on some of their faces. And he knew that he had done the right thing.

"So this song is for Angel, and all the people that loved him and miss him." Roger's voice trembled, and he could hardly say the last words.

"It's called, 'Life is for Living.'"

If anyone else had played it, it would have been a mediocre song. If it had been in an album, it would probably have not been in the "Most Played" section. It definitely wouldn't make "The Best Of' or "Greatest Hits" albums. People would like it, but not remember it.

If anyone else had played it.

But Roger played it, and the song was transformed into something special. It was magic. The emotion and feeling with which Roger sang the words and played the music touched everyone who heard it. It flowed through the room, filling the emptiness and softening the hardness. It gave the audience something. For only a moment, it communed with them. Roger's sweet, slightly husky voice gave the words newness, as though they were only just born. The melody was simple and beautiful.

When he had let the last chord fade into the air, there was a moment of silence. Then, from around him, it built up; a slow, solid wave of applause. There was no cheering; it wasn't that kind of song that you cheered about. But the applause grew almost deafening, and it was a long time until it began to ebb. When it did, Roger stood and called, "Thanks for listening!" and the set was over.

Backstage, the rest of the band congratulated each other and Roger on a job well done. He returned and added compliments, but his mind wasn't on them. It was on the five people he had seen out in the crowd. He needed to see them again, and now. So when the band had packed up their equipment, Roger was the first one out.

He had hardly walked five feet when a whirl of brown hair and purple shirt engulfed him. Mimi clung to him, her face pressed against his chest. He stumbled backwards but regained his balance, putting his arms around her. The moisture of her tears seeped in through his shirt, and when she looked up he could see the emotion in her eyes.

"Roger…that was wonderful, that was so, so beautiful," she whispered. He felt relief flow through him; in one part of his heart, he had been afraid that none of the others would like it. But she did, and now suddenly it seemed real to Roger. His heart shuddered, and he felt like crying.

And then the others pushed their way towards him and surrounded him. Mimi pulled away and was immediately replaced by Maureen, who gave him a firm, warm hug. She too had been crying. When she pulled back, she said simply, "You had the magic again, Rog. You made it real." That was the kind of cryptic compliment from Maureen that only her friends knew how much it meant.

Joanne was next. She didn't hug him, but she placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a look that came from deep, deep down. Joanne and Roger, despite no logical reasoning, had always had a small, invisible connection, and now she spoke to him through it. He felt her emotion, knew what it meant.

Mark gave Roger a hug. It was rough and fast, but Roger knew why. Mark was letting his emotion show through; he had never been one to deal with it well. It tended to make him rush or do things in different, ways, because he was never sure how to handle it. Now he gave Roger a small smile and said quietly, "That song meant a lot, Roger. I…I guess I'm proud of you. Really proud." Roger nodded. The feelings between them all were strange, distorted. When he played "Your Eyes" for Mimi, the situation had been completely different. This time, nobody really knew how to feel or act.

And then Collins stepped forward. Roger stiffened. The pain on his friend's face was so visible that he wanted to look away. Collins had shielded them from his hurt in other times, but Roger's song had broken his defenses. There were tear tracks on his face, and he seemed almost intangible for a moment. Roger felt a pang go through him. What had he done?

Collins stood there for a moment, just looking at Roger. Then he put his arms around him and hugged him tightly. Roger hugged him back, aware that he was seconds away from crying himself. When Collins pulled away, he only said one thing.

"Thank you."

Later that night, Roger found he couldn't sleep again. This time, he didn't waste any precious moments deliberating. He got up, pulled on the same sweatshirt and t-shirt, and climbed out the fire escape, making his way up to the roof. And this time he didn't expect to be alone. All of them had slept at the loft that night. It was just a matter of waiting.

Roger had been sitting there with his guitar for maybe ten minutes when Mimi came. She was wearing the same rosy bathrobe, and she sat beside him again, exactly like she had that other night. Moments after, Maureen and Joanne came together, fingers entangled. They laid out a blanket on the roof and sat down silently. Then Mark, his hands in his pockets and his scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. He leaned against a large vertical pipe, staring up at the sky. Now they were only missing one person.

Collins took much longer than the others. They had all just secretly started to worry when they heard his footsteps on the fire escape; slow and steady, but definite. When he emerged onto the roof, he went and sat cross-legged beside Maureen, who grabbed on his hands in hers. They all sat silently for a moment, ignoring the cold, letting the memories flow freely for the first time.

And then Roger sighed, hefted the guitar, and began to play.

The notes drifted up wards into the air, and their gazes followed them. As the beautiful, soft melody filled them and surrounded them and hugged them close, it was almost easy to believe that there was one more person sitting with them that night.

Angel helped us believe in love…

and there you have it.