Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. The story is mine, though it wouldn't be possible without said borrowed characters.

A/N: I'm very happy with how this is turning out. I've altered my original intentions a bit, but not too drastically. This chapter's sort of happy; there needs to be a little sunshine now and then, but don't get too used to it; some pretty unexpected things are on their way. Sorry if you were waiting impatiently for this (haha, listen to me, I make it sound like the world revolves around this story), but I've been balancing this and Snow Wars with writer's block (haha). And I don't want to beg, but reviews… who doesn't love them?

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To say that life in the loft was going downhill would be a drastic understatement. Only after the discovery of Roger's hearing loss did the reality of everything finally become apparent. Nothing would get better, it would all just go to shit and stay there. Supplies had been dwindling before but now, with Roger on the brink of starvation and Mark putting every spare penny towards food, it really hit them just how shitty things really were.

After staying in Roger's room for a few days, only showing her face around the rest of the loft when she had to use the bathroom, Mimi felt compelled one day to just stand before Mark without any particular purpose. Mark had been reading the obituaries, as if he was just waiting to find Roger's name there, but he glanced up just in time to witness a rare Mimi sighting. With a look of dignity that gave Mark a glimpse of the old Mimi, she declared she was ready to find another job. Some club had to hire her. She was the star attraction at the Catscratch. Now she was free to appease the lesser-known clubs, to liven them up a bit. Who in their right mind wouldn't hire her?

Hoping that he and Mimi weren't the only people who thought that way, Mark waved a goodbye, his eyes again focused on the faded newsprint. When he heard the door click shut he let the newspaper slide from his weakening grip, his eyes lifting to Roger's room. He found himself staring at that door more often now, and he pondered checking up on Roger. Mimi had been in there with him for a few days, so Mark had reluctantly let them be. But now that Mimi was gone, he felt that maybe Roger had become accustomed to having constant company. He should go in, it was his duty as a best friend.

He stopped before the door as he often did nowadays, afraid of what lay beyond. Was Roger still Roger, or did he become a living corpse in the interval of a few days that Mark hadn't seen him? Mimi had been watching him every second of the day, so what she experienced would just be a moderate degradation. But Mark, having not seen Roger for four days now, feared that entering the room with the 'before' picture in his mind wouldn't be enough to prepare himself for the shock of the 'after' picture that lay beyond those walls.

Leaning against the door, Mark twisted the knob, letting the slight pressure of his body push it open gradually. The gentleness of this action caused the door to emit a subdued creak instead of screeching as it often did when this particular door was thrown open or shut. Peering in irresolutely, Mark saw the last thing he expected to see: Roger sitting up on the floor, guitar in his arms, feeble yet determined fingers strumming quietly.

Mark's entrance was so placid that Roger hadn't even noticed his door opened. He kept on playing, without any particular structure, though his face was taut with that look of concentration that left faint wrinkles in his forehead. Placing his fingers with a surprising regard to accuracy, Roger closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nostrils, his mouth clamped shut and jaw set boldly. With callused fingers he strummed, one string at a time; Roger held the guitar close to his chest as he did this, as if the music he could no longer hear flowed through his chest via the guitar's vibrations.

Though he wasn't even aware of it, Mark was gaping, his mouth dry from the stale air of Roger's room. He merely stared at Roger, who sat there Indian-style hugging his guitar, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Suddenly he relaxed, and the atmosphere was so fragile that Mark could feel the tenseness flee from Roger's body. Opening his eyes he set his fingers to a different chord, but not without finally becoming aware of Mark's presence.

Abruptly Roger took on the persona of a child who just got caught with his hand groping about in the cookie jar, and he set his guitar aside urgently. His face reddened and Mark thought perhaps he was embarrassed, but when Roger's gaze returned to Mark, he was surprised to find that in Roger's eyes, where the flame had been dead for so long, a new fire was blazing. He looked at Mark almost challengingly, and when Mark failed to react, Roger stood up.

He stepped before Mark, and it was obvious that he wanted to say something, but it took a while for the words to come. Roger bit his lip, his face contorted mildly with thought, and his fear of sounding weird or saying the wrong thing became apparent to Mark. But the very second this thought entered Mark's mind, Roger opened his mouth and spoke, his words careful and just barely audible.

"I'm no cripple."

The words were slightly awkward but still comprehensible, yet Mark could do nothing for a while but blink in response. "Of course you're not," he said finally, catching himself before the words left his mouth and speaking slowly so Roger could read his lips. "I never thought you were."

Roger smiled for the first time in a while, and this alone showed Mark that he had comprehended. Without another word Roger spun around and made his way back to his guitar, sitting on the edge of his bed and lifting it into his lap, no longer in the playing mood but content with just admiring it. Mark watched as Roger, who was still smiling as he rubbed his thumb over the dusty surface of the acoustic. Roger's smile alone was all the solace Mark needed.

Things are going to be okay after all.