Title: One Last Refrain

Feedback: Please, please, please. I live for feedback, feedback is my friend. But don't be too harsh. Although I do like constructive criticism, please remember, fanfiction writers are people too.

Pairing: Mark/Roger

Rating: PG13 (language somewhat editted for )

Genre: Angst, Drama

Summary: PostRent timeline: Questions, fear and rage about mortality force Mark and Roger to look at their lives.

Notes: Mark and Roger are an established couple:)

Spoilers: Post-Rent timeline although some details of the show might be changed.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death (I'm playing with a couple of ideas for this fic, so this might not be who/what you think :))

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT or any of the RENT characters. All invented characters however are my own. I am not making any money off of this fic and am writing purely for pleasure and my general love for the show.

December 24th-3pm- The Food Emporium was relatively vacant, many of the people were probably already at home or with their families somewhere in Westchester, but Mark and Roger were still there, stuck in the East Village in an apartment with no heat, no hot water and a window with a crack in it larger than the San Andreas fault. But they managed to survive.

They walked down the aisles of the supermarket, Roger leaning on the cart as if it was holding him up, and Mark walked ahead, holding the list. Roger reached up, grabbing a box of condoms off the top shelf and opened it up, taking a handful and putting them in his pocket before tossing the box back onto the shelf.

"What are you doing?" Mark came to a stop, spinning around.

"It said 25 free," Roger explained. "Doesn't say anything about buying the first 100 first. I'm just taking what I'm owed."

"Do you want to end up in jail on Christmas Eve?" Mark said.

"Do you want to have to choose between sex and dinner?"

"Touché," Mark said, checking the list. "OK... anything cheap that we can make without boiling water."

"You mean like peanut butter?" Roger sighed. "I am tired of peanut butter."

"It's all we can afford that we can make without a heat source."

"We'd get more food living on the street."

"Bite your tongue!" Mark said. "That little piece of shit apartment might not be much, but at least we've got it."

"You say that again when it starts to snow in the bedroom tonight." Roger sighed, helping himself to a loose grape from the bag which sat in the front of the cart. "We've gotta get out of that place."

"Yeah, you sell your guitar so we can get rent on a new place."

"Yeah, fk you," Roger laughed. "I'd find myself sleeping on a park bench before I sell the Fender again."

"If we don't do something soon, we're going to be starving," Mark pointed out. "Stop eating the grapes."

"I'm hungry," Roger said. "Just think, I'm saving us money... which we seriously need right now. Seriously."

They continued through the store, picking up a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, placing it strategically in the front of the cart. Roger reached out, wrapping his fingers around a candy bar on line, unwrapping it and taking a bite.

"I'm not paying for that" Mark said.

"Relax, Coppola," Roger said through the half masticated chocolate. "I think I have the 29 cents."

"You'd better," Mark sighed. "Because I don't"

Roger rolled his eyes, pulling three dimes out of his pocket. "There" he said. "Happy? I had to lower myself to playing on the street corner for that."

"You're gonna get pneumonia standing out in the cold."

Mark paid for the groceries.

"We live in a fing icebox." Roger retorted. "I'll get pneumonia staying at home. Can we go? Back to the abyss that we call an apartment?"

"Grab a bag," Mark said as they walked out of the store. They began to walk back towards 11th Street and Avenue B. The trek was a bit lengthy, but Mark and Roger had done it so many times before that it was second nature.

Mark kept his stride ahead of Roger's. He always had, as Roger seemed to lag behind all the time. Mark never questioned it, just allowed Roger the space that every artist needs to play through notes and chords and lyrics in his mind. The snow had already blanketed the ground from the night before and small white flurries where just now, again starting to fall from the sky. Mark stopped. "You were right" he said "We're gonna need to figure out a way to plug up the hole in the ceiling again tonight...." Mark turned around to face him. "Roger?" Roger wasn't anywhere in sight. Mark shook his head. He couldn't have left him that far back. Mark sighed, beginning to retrace his steps, hoping that he would be able to get somewhat back into stride with Roger.

Mark had only walked a short while when he got a feeling deep down in his gut. An eery sickening feeling that he had felt the night that Angel had died. He looked a little further up the street, seeing a figure, folded over, motionless on the ground. Mark's heart stopped beating, unable to move for a second before running over, just knowing. He fell to his knees, turning over the frozen, limp body, brushing the snow from his hair. "Roger?" he said . "God... Roger. Help!" Mark called at the top of his lungs. "Somebody!" There had to be somebody in that city that wouldn't walk over them, somebody who would pick up a phone and call for a doctor. "Anybody! Help!"

TBC