Catalyst

A quick note before I begin: I adore the canon story of RENT and am in no way disrespecting Jonathan Larson's work. Because it is truly genius and I'm no fool. I don't think I can make RENT better; I just saw a story within the lyrics of 'One Song Glory' and in the note April left for Roger. My imagination took care of the rest.

Yes, there IS an OC in here, an original female character on top of that. (gasp!)

I am well aware of the opinion of many regarding OCs in stories; as well as the opinions of changing canon to suit the writer's purposes. I promise to do my best at it, giving you a worthwhile read as well as doing justice to the characters created by Mr. Larson's amazing talent. I expect you, as the reader, to be patient, kind, and honest with me. Let me know what you think. But do it with the knowledge that every word I write in this story is agonized over and treat it with the respect it is due, as a piece of myself.

Thank you.

This story is dedicated to my amazing beta, GoddessLaughs, whose genius is the guidance that keeps this story from derailing. Thanks girl, I appreciate it a ton!

Prologue

The floor cold against the backs of his thighs, the guitar's wood warm across his lap, Roger sat in darkness, his fingers flying over the strings. The chords filled the half-empty loft with the mournful sound of a broken heart. Heedless of the tears coursing down his cheeks, his long fingers picked at the wire strings as twilight bent beneath the intractable will of night.

He opened his eyes and it was still there, taunting him.

The envelope sat on the floor in front of him: white, pristine, unmolested. Roger ran his fingers over the strings roughly, pulling a jarring, dissonant trio of notes from the reluctant belly of his Fender.

He didn't want to think about that damn envelope. Of what it contained, what it signified.

We've got AIDS. The unbidden memory had him shoving to his feet, setting his guitar aside roughly, wincing as the acoustic protested to the treatment. Smoothing his hand down the neck of the instrument and biting off a curse, Roger stepped away and turned on his heel.

He paced the length of the loft, head down, hands shoved into the pockets of his ratty jeans. When he reached the far wall, he leaned his forehead against the cool brick and closed his eyes for a moment. But he could find no solace in the gesture, the envelope still whispered to him.

We've got AIDS.

He extracted his hands from his pockets and, with a growl, shoved away from the wall, pacing with renewed fervor. Each time he passed the envelope he swore again, ever louder.

He was lost in thought when his roommate rolled back the door and stepped into the dark loft. He didn't hear the exclaimation he made, or the noises when he searched for their stash of candles. His: "What did the power go off?" jolted Roger out of his dark thoughts, making him jump.

"Christ." he breathed. "Don't do that."

Mark surveyed him curiously. "Do what?"

"You scared the shit out of me," Roger muttered, swiping the back of his hand under his nose.

"Sorry." Mark cocked his head. "What're you doing in the dark?"

Roger grunted in response and turned to start another circle about the room. Mark crossed to the couch, shucking his coat and scarf along the way.

"What's going-"

Roger snorted at the sound of understanding that Mark uttered with his next breath; he'd spotted the envelope. "Yeah," Roger muttered. "'Oh.'"

Mark stared down at it, side-stepping it on his way to Roger's side. He seemed almost as unwilling to touch it as Roger, himself, was. "So," he asked, casually. "Gonna open it?"

Roger bit back the angry refusal. The understanding in his friend's eyes was enough to keep a leash on his temper and make him sigh. "I don't know."

"You need to. You'll feel better if you do."

He wanted to deny it, but he wasn't sure Mark was so wrong. But, then, he wasn't sure he was right, either. Shrugging again, he moved to pick up his guitar once more.

"Roger."

He stopped, his retreat from the room thwarted, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to open it. Couldn't Mark understand that? He gripped the neck of his guitar in his fist, fighting with the words he wanted to scream at his friend.

"You may not want to open it," Mark murmured. "But you need to."

Unable to argue with that, Roger turned back the way he'd come, bending to retrieve the letter from the floor.

He toyed with it a moment or two more before setting about opening it. It took him three tries to rip through the adhesive before finally pulling the letter out of the now mangled packaging. Looking down at the paper in his hands, he held his breath. If he didn't open it, if he didn't see what was written inside that innocuous envelope, maybe the death sentence handed to April would pass him by.

Catching Mark's eye, he sighed inwardly at his stupidity and took a firmer grip on the letter.

He unfolded the paper with trembling fingers. Thirty seconds passed before he could gather enough courage to look down at the results printed plainly on the paper.

For a moment the words did not register, he stared at them dumbly, thumb running idly over the raised ink. Then it hit him; his legs quivered and gave out - he would have ended up in a heap on the floor if not for Mark hurdling the sofa to reach him in time, snagging him around the waist and guiding him toward the couch. "Good news?" Mark asked, staring at the shaking hand that held the results.

Roger choked out a laugh. "Negative," he whispered, a shudder wracking his body. "It's negative." His head dropped onto his fists, the paper crumpling against the grip of his fingers. Mark clapped him twice on the shoulder, and then jerked him to his feet by his tee-shirt, capturing him in a warm embrace.

Roger clung to Mark and did his best to battle back the tears that longed to fall.

After a moment, Mark broke the silence and the embrace with a small cough and a smile. "So, we should celebrate or something, huh?"

Snuffling wetly, Roger wiped the back of his hands over his eyes. "I guess."

"You guess?" Mark huffed out a breath. "This is a huge deal, Roger! Definitely something to celebrate!"

"If you say so."

Now that the worst of the terrible fear was over, his thoughts turned from the happy news of his own freedom to thoughts of the young girl who had taken her life to escape the sentence imposed on her by that small, deadly virus. Mark, the man who knew him better than anyone else, sighed.

"You're not to blame, Rog."

"If not me, then who?"

"She made her own choices, took her own path."

Looking away, Roger let the subject drop; it would be pointless arguing with Mark; he could never understand just how responsible Roger really was.

Mark didn't know that he'd been late coming home that day; buying smack instead of being there for her when she'd needed him the most. He didn't deserve to be the one that lived. Without April there with him, what was the point of living at all?

After a moment, Mark broke the silence that hung thick in the room. "I ran into Mitch near the Vice."

"What'd he want?"

"He wanted to see how you were doing."

"Bullshit."

"He did. He heard you were getting yourself clean and was wondering how it was going."

"How'd he hear that?" Roger pinned Mark with a look. The other man shrugged and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"He used to be one of our best friends, Rog."

Roger rose from the couch. "Key words there, Mark: used to be."

Mark sighed, "You really have to let that go - it was a good thing for you. It got you out, away from the drama of the band so you could focus on getting better."

Roger's opinion of that was pithy. Mark chuckled. "I suppose you don't want to hear the rest of what he had to say, then?"

Roger bit off a laugh. "If I know you like I know I do, I'll hear it whether I want to or not."

"True enough," Mark conceded. "Well, Mitch mentioned to me that Olivia was finally done with school and coming home."

The smile dropped off of Roger's face and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper. "She is? What does this have to do with me?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Roger, stop playing dumb. We both know how this affects you."

"Please," Roger muttered and it sounded more like pleading than the derisive denial he'd intended. "That was nearly five years ago."

"But she's legal, this time."

If looks could kill, Roger's would have. "Mark, drop it. It's not like she'll remember the fact she was 'desperately in love with me' when she left." Or the fact that he'd been nearly as in love with her. He rolled his eyes at the look on his friend's face. Clearly the thought had occured to Mark too.

"Oh, shut up."

His roommate held out his hands. "I didn't say anything." But the smile remained.

Roger, annoyed, hissed quietly between clenched teeth and grabbed up his guitar, leaving Mark standing in the middle of their darkened loft. The reverberating slam of a door was the only farewell Mark got.