Disclaimer: What, you think I own this? Please. All characters belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson. The piece of the script from "Today 4 U" is found within his lyrics for "La Vie Boheme." I hereby accredit these lyrics to him.

I felt like sounding all important and business-like. ;)

AN: Beware the angst! The angst will eat you alive. Reviews are much appreciated!

And now, for our regularly scheduled fanfiction...

Burn the Past

by Ex Astra

Mark stared deep into the fire before him. He had been in this position for quite some time. He'd thought about turning away, looking at something else, but something about those flames was hypnotic; he was drawn to them.

Maybe if he looked at them long enough, the pain could just melt away.

I'm looking away now. Really, I am. Maybe just another minute. Just a little longer. Then I'll be done.

He furrowed his brow at the word.

Done.

Who knew that one word could be so final?

His eyes widened for a moment before he clenched them shut. He turned his face away from the fire abruptly, as if he'd been stung. He opened his eyes again when he knew the flames would be out of his line of vision. He couldn't afford to get lost in them again. There were more important things to do.

He scanned his surroundings, trying to find something in the darkness where the room wasn't lit by the fire. All he could see were reds and yellows in front of his eyes from staring at the fire for too long. He blinked a few times and looked down at the screenplay in his lap.

The front page was simple: Today For You. Mark Cohen.

He had promised himself to get rid of screenplays. Something really did come out of the method. His film. The most important thing in his life, supposedly. Of course, he'd had to scrap the idea of not having a screenplay. A few weeks before, a production company had previewed his film and actually liked it. Well, not a production company exactly, but someone with contacts in one. They needed him to mail a script of it so it could be copied and given to the producers, and as soon as possible. So Mark transcribed one from the film.

His career might have finally been going somewhere. His life might have finally been going somewhere.

Roger had been so proud of him.

He was about to open the script when he heard a knock at the door. He had no intention of opening it. The world could stand to wait. He flinched when a second knock came.

No. I'm not opening it.

"Marky?" Maureen had already opened the door and was peeking her head in.

I thought I locked that door.

"Can I come in?"

Your head's already in.

He said nothing. She came in anyway. "Mark? Honey, why are the lights off? Oh, you… Have a fire." She walked over so that she was facing him. "Hi," she said carefully.

"Hey, Maureen."

She smiled at his response. She was prepared for him to not talk through her whole visit. God knows she had given him the silent treatment before. But this wasn't about that.

Maureen looked down at his lap. "You've been reading your script?"

Mark glanced at his screenplay. "Yeah," he whispered, folding his hands over it. He looked up at her and smiled feebly. "Memories."

She offered him a sympathetic smile.

C'mon Maureen. You didn't come here to talk about my film. Just say it.

"Mark, why are you doing this to yourself?"

And there it is.

"Doing what to myself?"

"Come on, don't be like that. Look around, Mark! You're sitting in a dark, empty room alone with your script, wasting away!"

"It's not dark. I have the fire."

"Which just adds to the cheerfulness of the room."

Mark looked back down at his folded hands. They wouldn't argue with him.

"You have to get out. Live your life! Y'know, in the world? Just 'cause you hide from it behind closed doors doesn't mean that it goes away."

Good, trusty hands. I can always count on you.

"I'm not going to let you stay here like this. None of us are. That's right, us. Your friends? We're still here, too."

I love these hands.

"Do you… Do you wanna, maybe… talk to Mimi?"

That did it.

"No."

"But Mark…"

"I don't want to talk to Mimi! Okay?"

Maureen was silent for a while. She knew that she was overstepping her bounds, but she couldn't just do nothing. She couldn't sit back and watch two of her best friends slowly kill themselves when they could've saved each other. When she could have saved them.

She stared at the cold expression on Mark's face, and though she knew he wanted more time, she just couldn't give it to him. He wouldn't last much longer. And she couldn't watch him suffer. She didn't want to go to her last resort, but maybe it would make him understand that he needed help, someone he could talk to… and Mimi could be that for him. She could at least relate.

"She loved him, too."

Mark turned his icy stare on her.

"Get out."

"Mark, I…"

"GET OUT!"

Maureen swallowed as tears filled her eyes. 'No,' she thought to herself. 'Not now.' She wasn't going to cry now. She looked at the fire to pull herself together for a minute. She bit her lip and glanced back at Mark. His gaze was fixated on the flames, his unmoving figure proving his resoluteness. She tore her eyes from him and let out a frustrated, helpless sigh. She went straight for the door. She kept a steady pace until she had gotten into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Only then did she let herself fall back on the door, hand still on the doorknob, for a moment of defeat. She grimaced and let a tear fall down her cheek. 'I can't do this, I don't know what he needs anymore…' All she knew was what she needed. And she needed Joanne. She finally let go of the door and made her way to the end of the hallway. She walked calmly down the stairs and headed back home.

Mark still hadn't moved. The fire was mesmerizing him again.

What does she know about love?

After her fading footsteps grew too faint to hear, he shook his head slightly and returned his focus to the screenplay. He flipped through a couple pages, stopping about a quarter of the way into it. He read a handwritten excerpt silently to himself:

MARK: Maureen Johnson, back from her spectacular one-night engagement at the eleventh street lot, will sing Native American tribal chants backwards through her vocoder, while accompanying herself on the electric cello…Which she has never studied!

(Floor angle: Shot of Angel dancing on the table. Side angle: Collins taking a swig of beer and laughing at the sight of Angel and the rest of the riot. Front angle: Shot of the entire table, up and dancing. Shot of snotty Mr. Muffy's Dad in his upscale investor-wear, thoroughly disgusted by the unruly scene.)

MARK: Roger will attempt to write a bittersweet evocative song…

Mark stopped reading. He flipped through more pages, skimming them quickly, looking for anything else. His eyes picked up single phrases and words as they flew past him, the handwriting getting messier and messier, embodying Mark's own excitement when he had written them.

Joanne, the lot, what happened to Benny, Roger, Maureen, it's beginning to, Muffy, Roger, not denying emotion, Mimi, life goes on, Roger, how could we lose, Collins, Roger, Angel, I die, Roger, without you, Roger, goodbye love, Roger, Roger, Roger…

His eyes landed on the last page. There were four words written across it in large capital letters in his sloppy handwriting: NO DAY BUT TODAY!

He closed the script and picked it up, staring at the title page.

Most important thing in my life.

He took one last look at the meager stack of papers before throwing it into the fire.

The most important thing in my life is dead.