Before This Song Dies

A/N: Well, here's a bit of Rent fiction for you all. Woo. As a warning, it is slash. Sort of. So, you've been warned.

Mark entered the loft, breathing in the barely existent fragrance of emptiness that consumed the dark corners of the cold room. He wearily took off the coat of his black dress suit and slung it over the couch's arm and dropped beside it heavily, reflecting on the events of the past day despite his former determination not to dwell on it...

The funeral had been beautiful – Mark had made sure of that. The flowers were beautiful without being too much, the service was not too long...he tried to arrange it how Roger would have wanted it. It was funny – the man had known he was dying for over five years, but he never left instructions for his funeral or anything of the sort. Perhaps it was his own way of not allowing himself to die emotionally before physically – Roger was the type to rationalize it that way.

Collins had flown in from Sante Fe for the funeral, for which Mark was eternally grateful. Maureen and Joanne were there, as was Roger's mother, sisters, and family...and of course, Mimi was there. Mimi, acting the part of the poor, deserted widow, even though she and Roger had never been married. They had been planning the wedding for the next summer...

Mark greeted everyone, made all the arrangements, took care of everything so that the Davis family and Mimi didn't have to worry about it...because he couldn't handle not being busy – that would leave too much free time for useless thinking, thoughts that would get him nowhere...but now, all the preoccupations and beautiful distractions were gone, and he was left alone.

Roger's voice echoed in his mind, his words so painfully true. "You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive..." The anger and desperation on his friend's face replayed again and again, like a never ending looping scene, the voice so bitter. "You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive..."

Mark hadn't cried yet. He wouldn't cry.

He began pacing around the room, his eyes catching hold of his box of old film reels. He pushed the newer reels away, looking at those nearer to the bottom of the box. He picked up one, dated November 21, 1987, and hesitantly began to play it, knowing full well which bit of film this was.

The screen flickered on doubtfully as Mark sank onto the couch.

There was Roger, smiling that unforgettable grin, his deep dimples flashing, his girlfriend April in hand. He was so alive, so young in the footage – he couldn't be a day over twenty, with his brand new guitar case slung over his back. His blue eyes were sparkling with life, his dirty blonde tresses in his perfect face. He and April were singing, rehearsing a harmony. Roger broke off, starting to babble about minor thirds and how important the C natural was to the chord...

"Zoom in on Roger, who is off in his own world of music theory gibberish," came Mark's own young voice.

Roger turned to the camera, an eyebrow arched slightly. "Turn off the camera for once, will you, Mark?"

"Of course not! This is a great angle for you."

Roger shook his head, giving up. "Well, do you want to come to our gig tonight? The band's going out for dinner and drinks afterwards, if you wanted to come..."

He was staring just beyond the camera at where Mark would have been standing, looking hopefully at him. Mark cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"No, you guys go on..."

"Come on, Mark, you never come along anymore! Just one night..."

"Roger," scolded April playfully, "Mark doesn't wanna come along, babe. You know, he can't go everywhere with us. Who's the girlfriend here, me or Mark?"

Roger laughed, his same, slight uneasy laugh he sometimes had. "You are, sweetheart," he replied, slinging his arm around her. With a small wave and a last regretful glance, Roger left the loft with April.

Mark's voice-over cut through the silence of the shot of the empty apartment. "Pan right to the door...zoom in on my empty life."

The door swung open suddenly, and a surprised Mark nearly dropped the camera. Roger stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Forgot my wallet," he murmured sheepishly, grabbing it from the nearby table. "You're sure you wanna stay here?"

"Yeah," Mark lied quickly. Roger didn't look convinced, and Mark began to invent wildly, his voice cracking nervously. "Maureen's coming over tonight, anyway."

Roger's brow furrowed. "Maureen? That girl you met in the bar the other night?"

"Yeah. She was...nice."

"Really? I thought your words were 'melodramatic bitch,' weren't they?"

"What's it matter to you, Rog?"

"It...it doesn't. It's just...you can do better than that, Mark." Roger was walking slowly closer to the camera, and Mark's ever-sure camera hand began to waver. Roger gently pushed away the camera...

And the reel ended. Mark buried his head in his hands, the scene continuing on in his mind without the filmstrip. They were standing, staring at each other, an unknown connection that was etched in every soft line of Roger's young face, and then, tenderly and effortlessly, their lips met.

It was never again mentioned, both acting as though it meant nothing, as if it hadn't happened. It was never referred to and never repeated.

Mark got off the couch, physically and emotionally fatigued, and walked uncertainly over to the corner of the loft where the Fender guitar still stood on its stand. He reverently picked up the instrument and gently strummed the open strings, listening to the vibrantly melancholy familiar chord. It was still in tune, as far as Mark could hear – of course, Roger himself had tuned it less than a week ago...

Mark gently set the guitar down and shifted through Roger's music, caressing the pages softly. At the bottom of the stack was a score that immediately caught his attention. At the top, in Roger's cramped, messy handwriting that still maintained an unidentifiable grace, were written the words, "For Mark."

He stared at the small, handwritten notes that were scattered across the page unbelieving. It was dated 11-13-90 – this was written while Roger was taking his road trip of sorts to Sante Fe. He surveyed the score, not fully comprehending the meaning of the words and notes. He looked down where he had picked up the music and saw a small cassette tape amid the music, labeled, "Mark's Song."

Trembling, Mark inserted the tape and pressed the Play button. The familiar sound of the guitar filled the air, and Roger's voice, the epitome of perfection, wrapped itself around Mark. That voice, that gentle grace combined with the unending sadness that possessed it...the cool, cold mask of numbness, the dam of his heart broke as he crumpled on the floor, sobbing.

And I'm sorry for this

Sorry that I never told you

Now it's just too late

I know that I'll never hold you...

You were my ears, my heart, my eyes, my song

Couldn't you see? I loved you all the long...

Roger's voice was filled with the same tense agony that ripped apart Mark's soul. "Why couldn't you tell me, Roger?" he whispered through his sobs. "Why now...now...now that you're gone? Roger..." The world seemed to be spinning yet utterly stationary as Roger's voice continued. The song ended with a last chord, then Roger's regretful voice on the tape whispered softly, "Goodbye, love."

Mark eventually became aware of his sobs being joined by another's and a pair of small, cold hands on his shoulders. He looked up into Mimi's eyes, and a mutual understanding fell into place, as she fell into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder, her tears soaking his shirt. He rocked her back and forth, moving with her sobs and his own, both clinging to each other with a utter desperation neither had ever experienced before.

After crying until neither had any tears restrained, they held each other, both holding on to the brief moments of warmth and agreed heartbreak. After close to half an hour, Mimi pushed away from him, still sitting on the floor, looking at him, her big brown eyes red-rimmed and full of pain. "It was always you, Mark," she said softly, slipping her hand into his. "This past week at the hospital...almost every night he would wake up around one or two, and say he wanted to see you. 'I need my Mark...where's Mark?' he would cry, still partially asleep. It was always you, really. My God, Mark – he loved you. He never tried to show it...he wanted you with every fiber of his body and soul, but he wouldn't let himself."

Mimi paused, trying to decipher his emotions. Mark sat in a stunned silence. "He knew he would never forgive himself if he hurt you. You knew that if you two were to ever be together, he would be killing you, in essence, by giving you this disease, and that was not a sacrifice he was willing to make. He loved you too much for that."

Mark was staring off into space, his mind reeling. "And...and you're okay with that?" he asked awkwardly. "I mean..."

"Yes – it's hard when your fiancé is dying, and the only person he asked for is his room mate, but he attempted to explain it all to me two days before he died. It's not necessarily that he didn't love me...just that he didn't love me in the same way he loved you. I started out as a distraction – I knew that...but when he saw me taking AZT, he knew that were in the same boat, so to speak. We were just living each moment as our last, and who can blame us? He grew to love me more than that eventually...but it was never as much as he loved you."

"Then why did he have to leave?" he asked miserably, knowing no one could answer it. "Why did he die, instead..." He cut off, but he knew that Mimi fully understood what he was thinking...

"Why him instead of me?" she asked. She put her hand gently on his arm. "I don't know, Mark. I was the sick one, the one no one expected to make it...but Roger pulled me through, saved my life. Nothing to do with our bodies makes sense anymore...mine just went on living, like it's perfectly normal and healthy...but eventually the virus will catch up with me, too. With Roger, I guess it just caught him first."

Her eyes began to shine with tears once again as she pulled him to face her completely, her hands grasping his shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes. "I loved Roger, and he was a wonderful man. But he lied to us all." Mark's brow furrowed anxiously. "It was never me. He returned from Sante Fe because he couldn't live without you. It was your eyes. Mark, youwere the song all the long."