Copyright: All characters from RENT belong to Jonathan Larson and whoever owns the rights now

Copyright:  All characters from RENT belong to Jonathan Larson and whoever owns the rights now.  Without his play, I'd never have my stories or anything to obsess over.  The Bohemian Offspring and Dulcinea belong to me.  Oh, and I gotta give credit to Victor Hugo.  One story line is similar to a story line in Les Miserables (if you've seen or read Les Mis, you'll understand what I'm talking about).

I reworked my stories and combined them together.  There are a few obvious changes, as you soon will see.  I finally had time to update – hope ya like.

December 24, 1996. 10:30 pm.

            "The power is officially restored," Collins announced as he grabbed a seat on the couch.  "I say let's order in some Chinese food and watch Mark's film."

            Mimi snuggled herself into Roger's chest.  "I'm game."

            "Are you sure?" Roger asked worriedly.  "You probably should get some rest."  If I ever lose her again, someone better shoot me.

            Mimi kissed her boyfriend's cheek.  "I'm feeling much better, honey."  She turned to Mark, Joanne, and Maureen.  "What do you think?  Chinese food and Mark's film?"

            Joanne and Maureen agreed (for the first time in their entire relationship) that it was a very good idea. 

            Roger called up the Chinese restaurant, and within fifteen minutes, everyone was sitting around the projector.

            "Marky, turn the projector on," Maureen ordered.

            Mark glanced quizzically toward where the voice was.  It was a female voice, and it sounded familiar.  He heard the sound of the voice, but he couldn't connect the sounds into any logical sentences.  He wished he at least could connect the voice with a name.  He saw her brown eyes, her curly black hair, and her full lips.  It meant nothing to him and he couldn't figure out why.

"Mark … earth to Mark!" Maureen said.

            Mark blinked.  "Sorry, um, what did you say?"

            "The projector."

            He was barely able to make any sense of what the woman was saying, but he heard the word projector.  He turned it on. 

            The images on the screen were brighter than he had expected.  The colors were almost too vibrant, and he recognized nothing he had filmed.  The brightness was killing his eyes.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Is there some kind of drug hidden in the egg rolls?  His senses were playing tricks on him.  He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at the bright fragments of nothingness.

            Roger stopped stroking Mimi's hair to give his best friend a worried look.  The filmmaker was ashen-faced, and his eyes were tightly shut.  "Mark?"  He nudged his friend.  When he didn't respond, he grabbed his shoulders and shook him.  "Mark!" he shouted. 

            Damn it!  I know that voice, too, Mark thought grimly to himself.  He felt something – pins and needles? Voodoo sticks? – poke him.  He forced himself to open his eyes.  "Hey… just… I'm fine… watch," he mumbled.  Is someone making noise next door?   "Will you shut the fuck up!" he screamed towards the wall.  "You folks are way too loud!"

            "Who's too loud?" Joanne asked. 

            "The people next door!"

            "Um, there is no 'next door'," Mimi said quietly.  "And everybody is in this room."

            Maureen giggled. "You must be hallucinating, Mark."  Mark loves to joke around with us.   Deep down, her ex-boyfriend's behavior was worrying her.  The look in his eyes was one of genuine confusion and fear.  She lowered her voice.  "Are you alright, Marky?"

            Why is everyone staring at me?  He wanted to scream or run or do anything but be in here, with these people staring at him.  "Um, you know. Maybe bed… a sleep… sounds good," he stammered.  He stood up and staggered to his room.  "I'll see you in the morning."

            Roger watched Mark leave the living room.  He was fine earlier.  He glanced around at the rest of his friends' faces.  They were all staring in the direction of Mark's room.  Even Mimi, who had almost – no!  Don't even think about that! – even Mimi looked concerned.  He stood up and walked towards his best friend's room.  "Mark?" he called. 

            "I'm sleeping," Mark answered.  "I'll feel better in the morning, alright, Roge?"

* * *

December 24, 1996. 11:58 pm.

            Collins pulled his overcoat tightly around his body, trying to keep out the bitter chill.  The impromptu screening of Mark's film had been a success, even if the filmmaker himself had not stayed to view it.  He wondered what Mark's behavior tonight had been about.  Tonight was not going to be an easy night; they knew that long before Maureen and Joanne arrived with Mimi.  It would have been his one-year-anniversary with Angel.  Mark was having a difficult time handling his death.  Hell, Collins reminded himself.  We all are.  Mark had used his film as an excuse, but they all knew the truth.  Mark had buried himself in his work – didn't even eat or sleep for two months straight – in order to avoid showing his emotions. 

            As he passed the phone booth, he could almost picture Angel sitting there, pounding a gentle rhythm on the pickle tub drum.  You okay, honey? … I'm afraid so …Be my lover – and I'll cover you.  He blinked back the hot tear forming in the corner of his eye.  God, how he wished he could hold his Angel again!

            "Live in my house – I'll be your shelter," he found himself singing softly under his breath.  He swallowed and let his voice rise a little.  "Just pay me back – with one thousand kisses."  His deep, booming voice carried across Avenue B.  "Be my lover – and I'll cover you …"

            He was interrupted by a quiet moan.  He nearly jumped when he saw the small figure huddled against the side of the phone booth.  He slowly approached it, and knelt down.  It was a young girl, with latte colored skin, thick raven-black hair matted to her cheeks, and large amber eyes that gazed at the intruding philosopher in terror.  Her burgundy dress, ripped and shredded, was soaked in blood.  She had cuts all over her forehead and neck.  Blood and snow mixed together and dripped down her hair. 

            Jesus! Collins said to himself.  Where's the monster that hurt this kid?!  He gently lay a hand on her shoulder. 

            "Hush, hush," he soothed.  "It's gonna be okay."

            The girl recoiled, and attempted to scoot back against the phone booth.  Unfortunately, she could barely move as it was.

            "My name is Collins," he told her.  "I'm going to call the paramedics."  He ducked into the booth, hoping the medical dispatchers wouldn't bug him with too many questions.  He didn't want to leave the girl alone.  As soon as the call was completed, Collins sat down next to the child.  He removed his coat and pressed it against the girl – partly for warmth and partly to stop the loss of blood.

            "Dulcinea," she said.  Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

            "Excuse me?" Collins asked.

            "Dulcinea," she repeated, a little more forcefully.  "My name is Dulcinea."

            Collins smiled.  "That's a beautiful name," he assured her.  "She's a character in Man of La Mancha.  Have you ever read it?"

            Dulcinea nodded.  "My brother used to read it to me.  It was his favorite book because my name was in it."

            "It was my boyfriend's favorite book, too," he said softly.  Before Angel had gotten sick, they would read to each other.  Angel almost always requested that Collins read Man of La Mancha.

            He decided he should do anything to keep the girl awake and alert.  "I'm sure your brother is a very nice man," he said.

            He saw a faint glimmer of a smile begin to form on Dulcinea's face.  "I was gonna visit him on Halloween," she said.  "It being his favorite holiday and all.  I – I couldn't find him."  She looked up at Collins, her amber eyes soaked in tears. 

            Her eyes … they reminded him of Angel.  Angel's eyes, once shining and full of hope, had become dull and frightened.  She even looked like his deceased boyfriend.  He shook his head and pushed the futile thought aside.

            "Can you tell me your brother's name?"

            "Angel," she answered.  "Angel Dumott Schunard."

              Collins mouth dropped open.  "That's – that's my boyfriend!" he exclaimed.  He had almost said was my boyfriend, but decided that this was not the time to tell the child her brother was dead. 

            "Do you love him?" Dulcinea pressed.

            "Of course I love him," Collins said.  "Your brother is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

            She asked him where Angel was.  Luckily for Collins, the ambulance arrived and saved him from having to formulate a difficult lie.

* * *

December 25, 1996.  8 am.

            "Silent night, holy night," the alto and baritone voices sang. "All is calm, all is bright."

            Mark wrapped his pillow against his ears.  "Go 'way!" he mumbled.  "I'm sleeping!"

            "Don't you want to open your presents?" Roger asked.  Christmas morning was the only time of the year he ever woke up before noon.  When all he got in response was a groan, he yanked the covers off the film maker's body.  "Jesus, Mark!" he said.  "You slept in your clothes?"

            Mark nodded and curled up into a ball.  "Go away," he repeated. 

            Roger turned to Joanne.  "I think we should take his arms and drag him into a nice cold shower."  He grinned at her.

            It was enough to get Mark to sit boltly upright in bed.  "Okay, okay, I'm up!"

            Joanne rubbed at her eyes, trying to force herself to stay awake.  She had spent most of the night in the hospital with Collins.  No, Collins wasn't hurt or ill – he had found a girl that had been badly beaten.  The ironic thing was, not only had she been left near the beloved phone booth, but Dulcinea was also Angel's sister.  The sixteen-year-old had been beaten up by her pimp over a money issue.  Joanne couldn't believe it.  Why do good people have to go and get mixed up in bad business?  It pained her to see the child – and yes, that is how she thought of her – crying in pain and asking repeatedly for Angel.  Collins hadn't left her side all night, and he wasn't going to do so until Dulcinea's condition improved.  Joanne and Maureen had slept over at the loft.  This was partly because by the time Joanne returned at 2 am, Maureen was already snoring on the pullout coach.  Roger had decided that their lives would be in less danger if they let Maureen stay where she was (the drama queen was a classic bitch when she was half-asleep).

            "I'll have to return to my apartment to get your gifts," Joanne informed the boys.  She navigated her way through boxes of leftover Chinese food and film reels.  This place is a pigsty!  Not that it bothered her anymore.  Now if this was her apartment - that would be different.  As she left the loft, she knelt down and kissed her girlfriend on the lips.

 "Wakey, wakey, Honeybear," she cooed.  "Santa Claus is here."  

Maureen opened a lazy green eye and smiled.  "Morning, Pookie," she said, and returned the kiss.  "Merry Christmas."

* * *

December 27, 1996.  3:45 pm.

            "Room 204, please."

            The receptionist looked up at the curly-haired Latina woman standing before her.  "Second floor, last door to your left hand side."

            Mimi thanked her and ran to the elevator.  She couldn't believe she was finally meeting Angel's sister.  He had always spoken with great pride about her.  Despite the three-year-age-difference, the Schunard siblings were inseparable.  Angel used to talk about his plans to sneak into his family's apartment and see his Dulce while his parents were gone.  She wished Angel was here now, and she was almost sure Collins did, too.  She wasn't sure if Dulcinea knew about her brother yet.  That would be Collins job.  She had enrolled for the spring term at NYU this morning.  She was on probation due to the drugs screwing her up last semester, but that didn't faze her.  Even though she was only twenty-years-old, she was a senior, because she had skipped the third grade.  She even put in a request to change her major.  She had been a psychology major, but now she wanted to add women's studies.  Her NA sponsor told her to put a dollar in a jar every time she felt the urge to shoot up.  She was to use the money (which would have been wasted on smack) for something worthwhile.   Mimi wanted to help young girls avoid what she herself had gone through.  She had nowhere to turn to after her father's death – until she found heroin and AIDS.  Despite what some people thought, she had actually started working at the Cat Scratch Club to pay her tuition.  It was only recently that she had started using the money to pay for drugs.  Angel chica, you should be here to help me.    

            Mimi pushed all thoughts aside when she arrived at her designation.  She knocked quietly on the door of Room 204, and then pushed it open with her foot. 

            "Hey Collins," she greeted the worn-out philosopher.  The man looked like he hadn't slept in days – not a big exaggeration.  He was sprawled out on one of the hospital's hard wooden chairs.

            Collins stood up and gave her a hug.  He gestured to the bed, where Dulcinea lay, her head swathed in bandages.  Mimi pulled up a chair.

            "Hey there, Dulcinea," she said.  "I'm Mimi.  I'm – I'm a friend of Collins and Angel."

            Dulcinea limply shook her hand.  "Nice to meet you," the teen said.  She narrowed her eyes, as if she had recognized Mimi from somewhere. 

            "I dance at the Cat Scratch Club," Mimi offered.  "Handcuffs?"

            Dulcinea shook her head.  "No, I think my brother talked about you.  We met once for lunch last year.  I skipped school and met him at the Life Café."  She turned her face toward Collins.  "Where is Angel, anyways?"  She bore her amber eyes into Collins' velvety brown ones.  "I want to know – now!  What are you trying to hide?"

            Mimi and Collins looked at each other.  They had to tell the child sometime. 

            Collins knelt down and grasped Dulcinea's hand.  "Honey, Angel passed away in October," he said softly.  "He had AIDS."

            "I knew he had AIDS.  Oh – oh my god!"  Mimi bent down to give her a hug, but she pushed the dancer away.  Her voice quivered.  "He-he talked about you and your friends nonstop.  Especially you, Collins.  He raved about you."  She blinked back tears.  "Mami and Papi had kicked him out of the house cause he was gay.  You – you were more family to him than we were."  She stopped to take a breath and force a flow of tears back into her eyes. 

            "Shhh .. shh … it's okay to cry," Mimi whispered.  She  and Collins gathered the young prostitute into their arms and let her soak their shirts with her tears.  Mimi ran her fingers down Dulcinea's cheek.  "Let it out.  We're here for you."

            After a few minutes, Dulcinea looked up at Collins, her amber eyes reminding him of a stray puppy.  "When did he die?" she asked.

            "His memorial service was on Halloween morning," he answered.

            Dulcinea's eyes grew wider and she gave a short gasp.

            "We know," Mimi told her.  "Halloween was Angel's favorite holiday."

            Dulcinea shook her head.  "It's not that," she told her new friends.  She took a breath.  "That was the morning my daughter was born."  She realized they were puzzled and continued.  "I-I named her Angel Musetta Schunard.  You know, it being Angel's favorite holiday and all."

            They didn't have to ask where Musetta came from.  Angel had been obsessed with La Boheme ever since he had learned that a character had his last name.

            Mimi felt a lump rising in her throat.  She suddenly had an idea as to why this girl had been on the street soliciting herself.  Too many girls she knew had been kicked out of their homes because they were pregnant.  If the Schunard's strict Dominican father could cast his only son out of the family for being gay, then he certainly would have no qualms about kicking out his only daughter because she was pregnant.  She couldn't believe that two of the sweetest people she'd ever met had such cruel parents.  She was interrupted by Collins' bass voice.

            "Where's Angel now?" he was asking the girl.

            "She lives with my pimp's brother Tenny," she replied.  "He-he runs a motel up in Poughkeepsie.  I pay him $40 a month."

            Just then, a nurse peered her head in the door.  "Visiting hours are over," she announced.

            Mimi gave Dulcinea a hug.  "I'll see you tomorrow, chica," she promised the girl.  Dulcinea smiled.  As she walked out of the room, she made a mental note to talk to Joanne about Dulcinea's child. 

* * *

December 30, 1996.  7 pm.

            Roger sat on the table, struggling to pick out a chord on his guitar.  It amazed him to see how quickly Mimi had recovered from her brush with death.  She woke him up during the night with her withdrawal pains, but he knew from experience that those fits would grow less frequent with time.  At the moment, she was quitting her job at the Cat Scratch Club.  Her NA sponsor had recommended she distance herself from potential relapse situations.  She didn't need the job to pay tuition, anyways – Benny was taking care of it.  At first, Roger had been suspicious of Benny's motives – how could anyone blame him after all the shit the guy pulled?  But he realized that Benny was genuinely sorry – he was only human and humans tend to screw up sometimes.  Right now, he was worried about Mark.  The filmmaker had been in his room all day, just staring at the ceiling.  Several times, he had complained to Roger that it was too loud.  Except for the TV turned low, there was no other noise in the loft.  He didn't know how to explain the reason behind Mark's strange behavior this week.  Probably shaken up cause of Mimi, he told himself.  Hell – we're all shaken up cause of what happened to Mimi.  He hoped that this was a phase.  Mark would be back to himself in no time.

            A knock on the door brought him back to his senses.  Got a light? … I know you – you're – you're shivering …

Instead of finding Mimi, he saw Collins.  His philosopher friend sprawled himself onto the couch.

            "So, I hear Mimi's quitting her job."

            Roger nodded and joined Collins on the couch.  "Yeah.  I'm gonna miss those outfits though."  He grinned at Collins.  "But we still got the handcuffs!"

            Collins cuffed him on the ear.  "Oh, I bet you would, wouldn't you?  There's a lot that can be done with handcuffs, you know."

            Roger laughed.  "Oh yeah!"  He immediately grew serious.  "Tell me, how's Dulcinea?" By this time, all of Angel's friends had seen his sister.  It was hard not to be endeared to her.  She had all of the qualities that made them love her brother.  The only one who hadn't become friends with her was Mark.  He had taken one look at his dead friend's sister (who looked very much like Angel himself) and bolted from the room.

            "They're discharging her tonight," Collins answered.  "I'm gonna take her to my apartment."

            Since the summer, Collins had been living in a tenement on the Lower East Side.  It was a tiny space compared to the loft.  A living room held a couch, a desk, a computer, and a TV.  A shower stall accompanied the kitchen.  The bedroom was so tiny, there was barely enough room for a bed and a dresser.    

            "How's Mark?" Collins asked, glancing in the direction of Mark's room.

            Roger pinched his lips together.  "Not good.  I'm starting to worry about him."

            "Give him space," Collins said. "He'll come around eventually."

            The two friends chatted for a few more minutes.  Collins looked at his watch and stood up.  "I'd better get to the hospital before they release Dulcinea."

            "Hey, I'm meeting Mimi over at the Life around 10," Roger informed him.  "Wanna drop by?"

            Collins shook his head.  "I don't want to leave Dulcinea by herself."

* * *

December 30, 1996.  8:15 pm.

            When Collins arrived at the familiar Room 204, he was surprised to see himself greeted by a forlorn doctor.

            "I'm Dulcinea Schunard's friend," he explained.  "She's supposed to be released tonight."

            The doctor motioned him over to a chair in the hallway.  "Yes, Mr. Collins, I know who you are," the doctor said.  He extended his hand. "My name is Dr. Lewis.  I think you should sit down, sir."

            Collins gulped back the fear in his chest.  Whenever a doctor told you to sit down, it meant they had bad news.  "Is-is Dulcinea alright?" Collins struggled to get the words out.  Please let her be okay.  C'mon, girl.

            Dr. Lewis shook his head.  "She had an infection – a blood clot in her lung – as a result of the beating she took.  She passed away around 4 o'clock this afternoon."

            Collins blinked to keep the linoleum floor from swimming.  "Dead?" he whispered.  The news was a shock to him.  "She's – she's dead?" 

            Dr. Lewis placed a hand on the Black man's shoulder.  "I'm sorry."

            "She was supposed to go home tonight, damn it!"

            Dr. Lewis cleared his throat.  "She left me a note," he said.  "Wanted me to give it to you."  He handed Collins a folded piece of paper.  Collins could almost make out the hospital logo and curvy handwriting.

            "Thanks, doc," he said.  He slipped the note into his pocket and allowed himself to grieve.  Damn it, Angel! It's not fair! It's not fuckin' fair!  He took a few deep breaths and forced his legs to carry him out of this god-forsaken hospital.  As soon as he felt the cold New York air biting his cheek, he reached into his pocket and looked at the note Dulcinea had left him. 

            Dear Collins, he read.  Thank you for everything.  I never knew what love meant until I met you, Mimi, Roger, Joanne, and Maureen.  I wish I knew how to thank you.  I know that I'm gonna die soon (I'm not dumb ya know).  I can see why my brother loved you so much.  You are a beautiful person, inside and out.  Love always, Dulcinea Ani Schunard.

            Collins felt a tear trickle down his face and stain the paper.  So were you, Dulce, so were you.  His eye caught a p.s. at the bottom.  P.S. Take care of Angel for me.

* * *

December 30, 1996.   10:15 pm.

            Mimi tapped her foot impatiently against the floor of the Life Café.  Roger was supposed to meet her fifteen minutes ago.  Her boyfriend's tardiness didn't shock her.  Roger was notorious for being late.  She drank a cup of decaf coffee while she waited.  Quitting her job proved more difficult than she originally expected.  Her manager looked like he was going to grovel at her feet, the way he kept begging her to stay and telling her that her handcuff act drew more customers than any other.  She simply told him to teach one of the other dancers the act, and walked out.

            She looked up when she saw the figure of Collins enter the Café.  "Oh my god! Collins!" she shouted, waving him over to the table.  "Roger told me that you weren't coming."  She stopped herself when she saw the defeated look on his face.  "What's wrong?" she asked.

            "It's over," Collins whispered.  "Dulcinea's dead."

            The two friends stood there for almost five minutes, crying into each other.

            "Do you want something to drink?" Mimi asked between sobs and I'm sorry's.

            Collins shook his head and broke the embrace.  "No time," he answered.  "There's something I gotta do."  He gazed at Mimi to see if she understood.  "There's something I need to take care of – in Poughkeepsie."