Disclaimer: I don't own Rent or any of its characters. I've borrowed some lyrics from the RENT….I've done that with every chapter.

A/N: Replies to reviewers below. I'm back again with Roger's chapter. Longest one yet. I hope you enjoy-I absolutely loved the reviews. You guys are amazing. Welcome back the-frauline.

Roger

Fall. He hated the fall. Something about the crisp air and angry leaves left him feeling despondent. Roger sat up in the queen sized bed and looked through the open blinds at the darkening city. He spent most of his days like this, in bed. He didn't necessarily like the isolation, but he was growing steadily weaker. His muscles would freeze, his heart would start pounding, and he would be grasping for breath after a few short steps to the kitchen. Death blew.

It had been a year since Mimi's death. Two years since Collins, and two and a half since Angel's. The time had died away quickly leaving behind himself, Mark, and Maureen. Soon his death would seal the end of the AIDS victims in the loft high above Avenue B. Roger wanted it desperately.

In all dying soliloquies when the fading lover speaks to the man she loves-she tells him one thing. Live. Roger had tried for a while. He had tried to create a normal routine but when he passed out during a show, all efforts had collapsed with him. He didn't want to return to the dark days that followed April's startling death, Mimi would have screamed at him for wasting his last days. So now he spent most of his days in bed, staring at the guitar that had found him his only glory, and through the window that seemed to be his only form of life.

Roger ran a hand through his thin hair and down to grasp the nape of his neck. A cough escaped his lips followed by another and then another and another until finally Mark ran in. Once Roger had calmed down he smiled at Mark. "False alarm." He joked softly. Mark looked at him as if he were mad.

"You've had a lot of those lately Roger."

"Stop your worrying, I'm fine."

Mark snorted, "Yeah yeah. What are your plans for the night?"

"Not this bed."

Mark raised an eyebrow, "Goin' for a walk?" Roger nodded in response. "Where to?"

Roger shrugged his shoulders, "Just a walk."

"Be careful."

"Always Mark. Always." Roger replied. Mark nodded and headed out of Roger's room. A closing door let Roger know that he was back in his studio. Always working on some sort of film. Roger smiled at the image of his awkward friend. Groaning Roger ran a hand through his wispy blonde hair and placed his feet on the floor. He took a breath and stood up. One step. Then two. He seemed alright. Life granted him a good day. There were so few of them lately. Walking over to the makeshift closet he pulled out a pair of jeans and an old long sleeved blue shirt. Pulling the jeans on over his white boxers and the shirt of his significantly thin torso, he ran a hand through his hair once more. A vain attempt at taming it. It was something he did often now. He pulled out an old pair of tennis shoes and sat on the bed as he pulled them on. His eyes caught a glimpse of the Fender in the corner. He sighed and placed his right elbow on his knee and his head in his palm. Familiar tunes echoed through his ears. One song, glory, one song before I go one song to leave behind. Find one song, one last refrain. Glory from the pretty boy front man, who wasted opportunity.

Well he had found his song. He had found his legacy. After a year of breaking down. After a year of standing still, of feigning blindness, of holding on to an angry past. After a year of spit-shit, he had finally found his song. And that same year he had almost lost his muse after already losing his truth. Time flies…time dies. He sang emptily. It was a feeling he longed for. Emptiness. He had always fallen hard and felt too much according to Mark. He stood up and forcefully diverted his gaze to his open bedroom door. He grabbed his old black leather jacket and headed to the loft exit. He wondered how many times he would leave this loft. He wondered how many times he would enter it again. He jogged down the steps and found that he actually missed the Squeegee man that always took a leak on the stairs. The halls no longer smelled of body odor and urine, instead they smelled of antiseptic. Thanks Benny.

Benny…he had changed so dynamically since his marriage and divorce to Alison. Once a kind man with big dreams he turned into a U.S Grade A asshole. Mimi had changed him, Angel's death had sealed it. He suddenly became…gentler again. He still ran his business with a vengeance, but he let the homeless sit on his car any day now. Roger reached the exit to the building…the graffiti had been removed. Pity. Roger always admired graffiti artists, something about the elementary design was deeper than most of Monet's works or Mozart's symphonies. He pushed open the door and faltered at the step. The fall air was always hard on his lungs, and the season was depressing as was. It was a simple transition between summer and winter. Between life and death. He was in fall.

He turned left away from the building and still vacant lot. So many times he had wanted to leave since Mimi's death. A stupid voice always argued that he would be running away, but what the hell? He had done it once. Running away aka cowardice wasn't the reason he stayed though. He stayed because he knew he wouldn't find peace. He'd only hurt Mark again. Another stubborn attempt like the one he had made when he left for Santa Fe.

Roger had accused Mark of hiding. From facing your failure, from facing your loneliness, from facing the fact that you live a lie. You're always preaching not to be numb when that's how you survive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive.

Mark's next words had left an impact on him over the following weeks in Santa Fe. Perhaps because I'm the one of us to survive!

You know, for someone who's always been let down, who's heading out of town? He had yelled in a final attempt to make Roger stay. Roger had only yelled in return:

For someone who longs for a community of his own, who's with his camera, alone? Both had realized the other was correct, both were stubborn as hell in their stances. But Mark knew best, Mark always knew best.

That's why he didn't run away. He'd only come home a week later banging on the door, guitar on back. Except this time he'd be on hands and knees. He had found what he wanted. No use in running.

Roger walked down the streets. He caught a small glimpse at the formidable angry figure. The Man. The one who had practically torn them apart. Them. Mimi and him. Tears burned in his eyes. Roger only shoved his hands in his pockets. The Man waved at Roger. Roger resisted the urge to flick the bastard off. He looked over and saw the pathetic line of junkies. He saw a ghost of himself and April in the back of the line. Roger turned his head to the sidewalk ahead of him. He had done his share of grieving over April. Sometimes she wouldn't let go, other times she never existed. Mimi's death was still too new and raw, he believed he'd never feel that with her.

A couple passed him on the sidewalk. Roger's head shot up. Collins. He turned to follow the couple and then felt an idiot for doing so. Collins was dead too. He had been at the funeral. He didn't look the same. Collins thrived in life. He thrived in preaching Actual Reality, he thrived in Angel. Once Angel had died, the spark in Collins's eye died. He eventually learned to breath again. But his eyes were never the same.

Your eyes…as we said our goodbyes-can't get them out of my mind. And I find that I can't hide from your eyes….

Roger was the first to understand a person and that was because of one thing. He could read them easily. He saw past their flawed facades. Past their acts and dress codes. He saw them for them. He saw their eyes. He had fallen for Mimi when he saw the life in hers despite the disease.

Roger kicked at a crack and sniffed. Life had failed him miserably. Life had given him AIDS, had given him a girlfriend that decided death was more friendly than a life waiting for death, had killed Angel and Collins and Mimi and now him. The last of the AIDS victims. Wahoo. He twirled a finger to mark the sarcasm. The only thing that mattered now was Mark.

Roger never understood how he put up with so much. But Mark was the spirit of them all. He had tried to keep them together after Angel died and Roger had run. He had tried to hold fast to his friends. He had tried to understand their pain. He had taped it all. In the end he would only be left with his tapes. Roger preferred his future. Looking up he saw The Life Café.

He remembered their first Christmas Eve together fondly. What a mess that had been. The waiter looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. Benny had looked like he wanted to die with his father in-law looking at the people as if they were insane. Maureen loved screwing with Mr. Grey by locking lips with Joanne and of course mooning the entire café. VIVA MAUREEN'S ASS.

Chuckling Roger kept walking. He would get Mark to take him there one day. Maureen and Joanne would come too. Out of eight, only four remained. One little Indian…two little Indians…three little Indians…and one more down. Looking to his right he saw the park and paused. The Park was his and Mimi's spot. They would go and just be…she said she favored it because of its scenery. He knew it was because it had helped led her home. She was huddled in the park, in the dark, and she was freezing…and begged to come here. Roger's hands fisted. He had almost lost her that night. That night he would have died right with her. Angel had sent her home though. Not once did Roger regret the time they had together. He had embraced it. Embraced her wholly for the first time.

Her funeral had come to mind. Roger ran across the street and sat against the gate's railing. He folded himself and stared at his knees. The tears were falling, he didn't try to stop them. They had been expecting her death. Roger had been fairly healthy at the time, but Mimi was weak. The last week he had given her the bed, she was restless at night. Roger didn't want her bruised more than she already was. So he pulled a sleeping bag into the room and slept by the bed. He didn't complain, and she didn't ask. He would simply kiss her goodnight, and she would fall asleep smiling. That's how she died…smiling. She was content. The night she died she had reached for his hand, and she fell asleep holding it. He didn't let go. He simply brushed his lips over her knuckles and whispered "Good night."

"I love you Roger." She replied.

"And I love you Mimi Marquez." She smiled and fell into the deepest sleep. The next morning he knew she was gone before opening his eyes. He called for Mark, but by the time Mark had groggily run in Roger was on his knees sobbing. He looked at Mark helplessly and Mark walked over to Mimi. For the first time in years Mark hugged Roger. For the first time in years, Roger cried on Mark's shoulder. The funeral could have been more than anyone could have wanted. Once everyone had departed, Roger had sat by her freshly dug grave.

"One more time Mimi-just for you-always for you.

Your eyes,

as we said our goodbyes,

can't get them out of my mind,

and I find that I can't hide from…

Your eyes,

the ones that took me by surprise,

the night you came into my life.

Where there's moonlight

I see your eyes.

How'd I let you slip away

when I'm longing so to hold you?

Now I'd die for one more day

'cause there's something I should have told you,

yes there's something I should have told you.

When I looked into your eyes.

Why does distance make us wise?

You were the song all along

and before this song dies…

I should tell you I should tell you

I have always loved you.

You can see it in my eyes.

Roger then dropped his fingers and stared at the grave covered in roses and lilies. At the hundreds of other graves. In the end this is what it came to. A name in the dirt. Roger had searched for the one song to bring him glory. Instead he found the one song to bring him life.

The present snapped back into place and Roger ran his hands over his wet face. A concerned woman looked down at him. "Hey man-you alright?" Roger looked up at the woman and shook his head. She smiled softly and began to walk away. Then it clicked. Roger called after her:

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

The woman looked back. "I don't think so."

Roger stood up at stared down at the short black woman. Of course he did. She was cleaned up now, but she would walk the streets in a black garbage bag with a handful of department store bags. "Yeah-yeah I do. You used to walk around the streets with bags."

The woman laughed. "Yeah…things are different now. Welcome to the year of the end." If only she knew. Roger thought. "You were friends with camera-boy weren't you?" She asked. Roger grinned sheepishly. "Things have changed." She whistled. Roger shoved his hands into his pockets. "You take care now honey." She then turned and walked away. Roger nodded. You take care now…

Roger turned back to the loft. He reached the building. He walked up the steps longing for just a moment that life would return to normalcy. He opened the door. He waved to Mark. "Good night" He called to Mark. Mark smiled at him. "Night Roger." Roger walked back to his bedroom. Stripped back to his white boxers. He climbed intobed and looked at the bedside table at the picture of Mimi and him. Goodbye love…goodbye love…goodbye love…hello disease. He took one last look out the city window at the deceptive sparkling New York City lights and fell into that deepest sleep.

A/N: Roger's chapter is done…review please and let me know what you thought- because I honestly don't know if it was that good. I can't wait for Mark's chapter.

To my reviewers so far…

Angelina

The-fraulein

Harper's Pixie

Bway Diva

Rentjunkie

And my first reviewer rawrful

Thank you so very much. I'm glad what I write affects you; in all honesty I want it to. I write to draw emotion from readers-whether it be anger, happiness, or sadness. I want my readers to connect with the story whether it be through tears, smiles, hatred, or empathy. I want you to walk away feeling something. Thank you for letting me know that I have succeeded. I love to write, but I don't want to write something that ends with no reaction. Thank you SO MUCH for taking the time to review but more importantly to read and by doing so…to feel. I feel as if I accomplished something, and I think I have. You are wonderful and remember:

No day but today.