Disclaimer: I don't own Rent. I merely rent Rent. snicker Also, they lyrics are from a song by James Blunt, called Cry, which I'm pretty sure he owns. It's pretty, you all should listen to it.

A/N: Second Rent fic. I'm not as proud of this one. Maybe it's because I'm a sucker for pretending that Roger is never going to die. That, and I don't like the ending. I do like the fic as a whole, however. I cried while writing it.

I have seen birth. I have seen death.
Lived to see a lover's final breath.
Do you see my guilt? Should I feel fright?
Is the fire of hesitation burning bright?
And if you want to talk about it once again,
On you I depend. I'll cry on your shoulder.
You're a friend.

It started with tears. It'll likely end with tears, too, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. No day but today, remember? Yesterday they were just friends. Tomorrow might never come. We'll stick with what we know is certain.

There's a lot of regret in the first kiss that Roger and Mark share. Perhaps it's because they're both holding back anguished sobs, wiping at tear-stained faces. Or maybe it's anger that this hasn't happened sooner. They've wanted it to happen, for a very long time. So long, in fact, that neither of them can be sure that they haven't been repressing this since the beginning.

They've both thought about it, at least. As younger men, naive and foolish with plenty of time to sort things out. But life got in the way. There were women and drugs and now there is a horrible urgency to do everything all at once, experience every single ounce of life before it's too late.

Perhaps this last reason is what prompted Roger to kiss him. Maybe he panicked, realizing that he could die tomorrow or at the end of the week or in a month. He didn't want to go without having told Mark how he felt. He didn't care anymore about the old excuses for not doing it. He'd rather have a ruined friendship than a lie.

He'd been feeling weaker lately. Not deathly ill, just tired. A lot. And he was losing weight. Not enough to warrant concern, but it was noticeable, along with the frequent naps and a firm refusal to go outside in the cold.

He could tell Mark was worried. Everyone else was preoccupied, unconcerned, and why should they be? He was fine. Probably. But Mark wouldn't be shooed away. He was always there, hovering around his musician. Forcing him to eat when he hadn't in days, covering him with a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch..

Mimi was long gone at this point - they'd buried her the previous Spring, next to Angel in the cemetery behind the church. There had been tears then, just as there were now. But for different reasons.

Now it was Roger's life coming to a close, his turn to die. They both knew what was happening, knew that before the year was out he'd be right there next to Mimi and Mark would have nobody to go with him to put flowers on graves.

Roger had never known Mark to cry before. Which is why he found the sight of it very startling. He'd awoken to the feel of a blanket being pulled over him, and stared silently at his friend's back for a moment, taking in the shoulders hunched in defeat. He blinked at the shoulder blades protruding roughly from the worn shirt, the fine dots of Mark's spine just visible through the thin material.

His Mark had been getting sicker with him. In sympathy or from worry, he wasn't sure, but it pained him to see yet another life being drained away. Suddenly Mark turned toward the window and Roger caught it -the tears glistening in that hollow face.

Roger shook the blanket off and stood, embracing Mark before he could say anything.

"You should be resting," He coughed, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the tears away.

Roger felt his own eyes begin to water, and he hugged his friend tighter, though he didn't look at him. Everything was different now. They were together, crying, forcing each other to acknowledge what was happening.

There would be no more pretending that Roger was going to be alright. That would be an impossible step backwards, one that Roger refused to take. A small weight had been lifted, and with it, his inhibitions.

"It's going to be okay," He murmured, stroking Mark's back softly.

A small sob escaped the other man's mouth and he buried his face into Roger's neck.

"No it's not," He wailed, feebly. Sucking in air and the smell of Roger; going limp in his arms.

Roger took a shaky breath. And pulled back a little to look into his eyes, "Life's not going to let me sit around and think about all the things I want to do anymore. I have to do them now. Today. Before it's too late."

"Don't talk like-"

And Roger kissed him, before he could finish the sentence. There were no tongues at first, it was innocent, and uncertain, and wet from all the tears. Mark was shaking all over, from pain and confusion, and perhaps a bit of excitement.

Roger wanted more. So he took it, forced Mark's mouth open though he didn't have to try very hard. The kiss burned, and tasted like the chicken noodle soup they'd both had an hour ago. Finally Mark pushed away and sat down hard on the couch.

There was no shock, no anger like Roger had expected. Just a calm, quiet sort of moment, to reflect. He sat down next to him.

Without looking at Roger, Mark took his hand and squeezed it. The tears had dried on his face but his eyes were still red from the effort of crying. They both sat back, leaning inward and resting their heads together.

"I haven't been this tired in a long time." Mark admitted, finally.

"You've been taking care of me for so long that you've forgotten to take care of yourself."

"It's hard to close my eyes at night because I'm so scared that you won't be there when I open them." The tears were coming again.

Roger slid an arm around his waist. "I'm here right now. That's all you need to concentrate on. Did it bother you, that whole kissing thing?" He asked this last bit carefully, fishing for reassurance.

"I've been waiting for it for years," he whispered, stretching his legs so that one of them came to rest against Roger's.

"I should have done it sooner but there was just... everything." He finished, lamely.

"I know." Mark agreed, no regret left in his voice.

"Let's not waste anymore time," Roger sighed, turning his head and kissing Mark again.

He threw his other arm over the man's waste and inched closer, pressing their bodies together tightly. "You're sleeping in my bed tonight," he mumbled between kisses, "You won't have to worry about me not being there when you wake up."

And that's how it started. How it progressed is another story for another time, another day that hasn't happened yet. Maybe they went on to live happily ever after. Maybe Roger died the week after, leaving Mark alone. But for this moment in time they are both alive, and warm, and the closest to happy that they can be.

I have seen fear. I have seen faith.
Seen the look of anger on your face.
And if you want to talk about what will be,
Come and sit with me, and cry on my shoulder,
I'm a friend.