Disclaimer: Rent is fabulous; however, I don't own it.

Author's notes: Clearly, this is chapter two.

Bits of story that are posted like this: blah blah blah are flashbacks.

Chapter Two

"You've reached Maureen."

"And Joanne. We can't come to the phone right now."

"We're fucki—.."

"We're busy. Leave a message."

"After the moo. Moooo."

Roger listened to Maureen and Joanne's answering machine before speaking in a tired voice. "Hey guys, it's Roger. Mark's been beat up…pretty bad. We're not sure what really happened. We're at county, but…we haven't heard anything yet. So you should come as soon as you get this." He hung up the payphone when he was done and turned around, as a doctor was approaching.

"Are you waiting for Mark Cohen?" The doctor asked and Roger nodded. "I'm Dr. Hannimore. I worked on your friend."

"How is he?" Roger asked quickly.

"He's stable." The doctor began. "However his injuries were quite substantial. I imagine if you hadn't found him when you did he would be dead right now. He's received a broken nose, a severe concussion, several fractured and bruised ribs, and major internal and external bruising."

"But he'll be all right?"

The doctor continued, ignoring Roger's question. "This of course doesn't include his minor injuries. He has a fractured wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and some smaller cuts and scrapes."

"But will he be OK?" Roger pushed.

Dr. Hannimore sighed. "For someone perfectly healthy, these injuries would be a small setback of a few days."

"Mark is perfectly healthy." Roger shook his head confused. In all the years that he had known Mark, he had never seen the boy sick. Mark was the one who always took care of him when he was sick. Saying Mark was unhealthy was…crazy.

"I'm afraid not. Mark is severely underweight. This made his injuries extremely taxing on his body. He lost more blood, faster than some people would. It made every punch that he received far more traumatic to his system." The doctor paused. "Currently he's unconscious. He hasn't fallen into a coma, but it could be a few days before he wakes up. His body is going to stay unconscious until it feels rested. But yes, he will be fine."

"Can I see him?"

Twenty minutes later Roger was sitting in the impersonal hospital room, next to Mark's bed. Mark's camera sat on the bedside table, and it was the only thing in the room that made the room seem normal, because everybody knew: If Mark went somewhere without his camera, then the apocalypse must be coming.

The room was a dingy, faded white. The walls, the sheets, the blankets, the floor…the only thing that wasn't white was Mark. Mark was in the bed that had been cranked into a halfway sitting position. His left wrist was in a white cast, and the arm was folded across his chest in a sling. His face was a myriad of hues, mostly dark purples and blues, to the point where they looked black. Both eyes were swollen and accompanied by these bruises, the right looked worse than the left. The bruises were continuous down his face, lighter on the left once again. There was an angry red scrape starting to scab over on the left side, that was it's color. The area above, below, and on his eyes seemed to be covered by small cuts. Some of them with stitches and some of them with butterfly bandages. Mark's hair was gone. The honey blond hair that was always kept lightly spiked had been shaved off to allow for the large wound on the back of his skull to be sewn up.

Roger had Mark's right hand in his, just watching him with a blank look on his face. He knew that the doctor had said that Mark would be fine, but some part of him couldn't help but think that Mark was still leaving him. That after everything that they'd been through, this was the way it would end.

Roger stepped out side of the Massachusetts gas station, intent on getting into the car and driving as fast as he possibly could to New York where he knew an apartment and new life was waiting for him. It wasn't that his life was bad. His parents were great, letting him live with them. He had never been mistreated. He had never had any problems other than his grades at school, and even then, that wasn't a problem…he was just lazy. It was that Scarsdale was boring, and it wasn't a good place for the twenty year old to start his rock career.

His intent was just to get into the car and go…on his own. But there was a grunt of complaint from the ground next to him when his foot collided into something soft. Looking down he saw a boy, he didn't look more than fourteen, just sitting there, breathing heavily. "Hey man, you OK?" Roger asked quietly.

The boy looked up, revealing startling blue eyes. "W-what?" He started a little, and then continued breathing heavily.

"I asked if you were OK. You're kind of freaking here man." Roger informed moving out of the way of the door.

"Uh, I'm uh… I'm fine." The boy paused again trying to catch his breath. "I'm just a little…out of shape."

Roger had to laugh. The kid was more than a little out of shape; he was perfectly thin, but clearly he hadn't done any sort of physical activity in about forever. "What are you running from?" He asked, even though it wasn't his place to pry. It was then that he noticed the backpack next to the kid that seemed filled to the brim. "You're running away… Do your parents know?" It was a dumb question, but he was only 20. It wasn't like he was mature or experienced in the adult role.

The boys answer surprised him. "My mom does. She's, uh, gonna send me money, whenever I get…wherever it is that I end up. So I can finish school and stuff."

For a moment Roger thought, wondering why a mother would encourage her son to run away. "How old are you kid?"

"Fifteen." Another answer that surprised him.

The next question was an impulse. "How would you like to come to New York with me? There's room for one more in my apartment."

Roger could tell the boy's answer was also an impulse. "Uh…sure."

"Come on, my car's right here." Roger watched as the kid stood. "I'm Roger Davis."

"Mark Cohen."

Roger was brought out of the flashback by Collins entering the room carrying a bag that seemed filled in one hand and Roger's guitar case in the other. "How is he?" He asked quietly, as though he didn't want to disturb his friends.

"The doctor said that he'll be fine. We just have to wait." Roger watched as the man nodded, placing his guitar case on the floor by the bed, and handed the bag over to Roger. He started unpacking the bag; he put Mark's spare glasses on the bedside table, and a brown object was stuffed under Mark's pillow. "Why'd you bring my guitar?" The rest of the bag was clothes. Collins must of figured they'd need them.

Tom shrugged. "I wasn't sure how long we'd be here. I thought that you would want something to do."

"I do but…" Roger thought better about continuing, knowing how much it was for Collins to even step into the same hospital that Angel had died in. "Thanks."

They were silent for a while. Neither were positive how long for. Collins was who broke it. "This is weird seeing him there. Looking like he's dead. But he's not." He added quickly at Roger's face. "I always thought that the next time we'd be here would be for someone else with…someone else like us."

Roger nodded. "I know."

Later, Roger sat alone in Mark's room, still waiting for him to wake up. Collins, Maureen, and Joanne had all been there in the day, waiting with him, but by the time midnight had struck they had all gone home to sleep. They had all tried to convince Roger to go home with somebody, but he couldn't be torn from Mark's bedside. He had to be there when Mark woke up.

With a sigh, he reached for Mark's camera. "How the hell does he do this again?" He muttered as he winded the camera, just as Mark did. Years of watching him finally paid off. "December 26th…" He squinted at the clock to read it in the dimly lit room. "2:30 AM." He almost stopped, but then he remembered. "Eastern standard time."

He placed the camera back on the bedside table where it was focused on Mark, who never got filmed. It was only fair. Then he went and got the guitar that he hadn't touched yet, and started playing. It was all random notes, but by the time he had gotten back to his seat he had started talking without realizing it.

"Mark, I know that you probably can't hear me, but I thought you should know that I'm here for you. And that Collins, and Joanne, and Maureen, they were all here too. But I just couldn't leave. I have to be here for you. I have to be here for you, like you were always there for me. You were always there for me when I was drunk, or high, or suicidal, or going through withdrawal, or whatever. And I know that I can never make it up to you, but I'm going to be here for you no matter what. Because that's what family does right? And I know, we're not really family, but I know that I'm closer to you than your mother, or your bastard of a father, or anyone else. So I'm here for you. And I'm gonna be here for you until I… I'll always be here for you."

As his fingers started to go through the motions of playing the guitar, with the random notes, and broken times where Roger adjusted the tuning, the notes finally morphed into his old standby, Musetta's Waltz. He played it more than once every day, and every day Mark would complain how sick he was of it. He was finishing a strain of the song when he heard a familiar voice groan.

"Oh great. I'm in hell."

There's chapter three. A lot sooner than I thought. So you'll probably get at least chapter three before I have to go back to school.