XXVII.

December 24, 1999

It's Christmas Eve and Mark is standing alone on the balcony of the industrial loft he's never had the heart to leave. The night is buzzing with energy: from somewhere, he hears Christmas carols being sung, from another corner, there are bells and assorted Ho-ho-hos from the Santas on the sidewalk, urging children and shoppers to give last-minute donations. The air is crisp, almost sharp, and he breathes the cold in, whiffing in scents of snow that's yet to fall, roast nutmeg, a hint of pine; his fingers grip the almost frozen metal railings of the balcony. He runs his tongue over his lips as his mind conjures up the taste of Stoli in his mouth, which he's used to drinking every Christmas season since the time they met Angel, thanks to Collins. He watches as his breath comes out in the form of clouds, hovering a bit in the air before melting away in the darkness.

Dragon's breath, he remembers with mild amusement.

And, in that moment, he remembers Roger, Angel, Collins and Mimi, and Mark sighs, looking downward at the streets that are littered with couples, beggars, artists, and remembers a time when he too was a part of their crowd, back when life was a struggle, when he and everyone else he knew was naïve, and when everything seemed unreal because they were all young and reckless and foolish and things happened too fast. Alphabet City hasn't changed much over the years, as its tenants keep getting replaced at a rapid rate and the cycle of immortality, sex, drugs, rock-and-roll and death repeats itself. Mark is one of the few 'old-timers' who're left, and he can say that he hasn't changed much either (though the loft is relatively child-friendly and warm and fully-stocked now, thanks to Roger's money). His world, however, has evolved into something that's very different from what he was used to back then.

Mark kneels to set four candles down on the floor of the balcony. He uses Roger's old Zippo to light them, and as he puts the flame to the wick of the fourth candle, a voice distracts him.

"Dad! You weren't going to start without me, were you?"

Mark smiles at the sight of the eight-year-old boy with sandy hair and wide brown, mischievous eyes standing by the brightly-lit Christmas tree he's set up in the loft's living room.

"I would've if you'd shown up later." He teases. The fourth candle is lit and he stands up. "You ready?"

"Yup!" The boy replies. A large yellow Labrador trots over to his side and the boy pats its head. "Dodge helped."

Mark nods. "I'm sure he did." He motions with his hand for the boy to come forward. "C'mon, everyone's waiting."

"Is Santa gonna get me a guitar this year? I'm already eight. He said last Christmas that I was still too small for one," the boy says as he puts on a familiar olive green hoodie over his pajamas. It's several sizes too big so it comes down to his knees, but the boy doesn't seem to mind. Mark smiles to himself, knowing that, somewhere under the Christmas tree, Roger's precious red Fender is wrapped and ready along with a sheet music of Musetta's Waltz.

"Maybe the angels will…" he says, almost to himself.

"Maybe Uncle Roger will," the boy says, as if correcting him. "He's my guardian angel, Mommy and Mama told me…will they be sending their letters up soon?"

Mark doesn't doubt that Maureen and Joanne will. "Yes. C'mon, Luke. Bring Dodge with you if he wants to."

"'Kay, Dad,"

Mark watches his son as Luke crosses the Name Wall, where he was positioned before walking in on his father, to get the balloon that's tied to one of the chairs. The Name Wall is Luke's favorite place in the whole loft and Mark knows for a fact that it's because he loves reading the notes and name suggestions over and over again (thankfully there aren't any obscene scribbles). He especially likes Roger's note, which Mark only noticed weeks before Maureen was scheduled to give birth on December 12th, some months after they came back from a restful vacation in Santa Fe, and is more than mildly influenced by everything the musician wrote down ("Daddy, drugs are bad, right?", "Dad, can I have Uncle Roger's guitar?", "Dad, I love you. I'm sorry..."). Roger's by far Luke's favorite 'uncle', though Mark really doesn't understand why. Luke never met Roger, like he did Mimi and Collins, but all of them, Mark especially, love to show the boy the old videos and tell him stories of the faded rock star, as well as the Angel they lost. Luke loves watching the video Mark got as a present for his 27th birthday from his Mama and Mommy.

"He was your best friend, Dad, huh?" Luke would always ask Mark as soon as Roger's message ends.

"Yes, he was," Mark would answer.

"He was a good guy?"

"He was a great guy." Mark would correct. "He was the best pal anyone could ever have."

"And you never replaced him?"

"No one can come close."

"I want to be like you when I grow up, then I'll get a best friend like Uncle Roger," Luke would always finish, and Mark would smile.

The Name Wall didn't actually help in naming Luke because not once is Luke's name suggested in it, but Mark keeps it there all the same for Luke's sake, so he would always know that he's loved, even before he was born. He and Maureen and Joanne were unanimous with the name the moment they held Luke in their arms: Luke because it meant 'light'. It was a tribute to all of them, all whom they had lost and all who were still there. A tribute to that Christmas Eve when they met, to that one year of ecstasy, to those years of darkness and finding and each other again. Luke is Mark's light.

Mark helps his son get on the balcony, the rainbow balloon clutched tightly in his fist. Mark's own orange one is bobbing up and down in the wind as it's anchored to the balcony railing. The four candles' flames flicker in the wind but thankfully don't go out.

Orange for my buddy boy so he smiles more…and a rainbow balloon for Mark, Jo and Mo's little one…

"Mama and Mommy are probably doing the same thing now," Luke says seriously, and Mark laughs as he sees a hint of Collins in the little boy. Collins loved to take Luke out on long nature walks, so Mark isn't surprised that a little bit of the philosopher has rubbed off on him.

"Maybe they are," he replies. "You can ask them tomorrow, when they come for Christmas brunch. You can ask Uncle Benny too."

"Oh yeah," Luke says. "I'm telling Uncle Roger how Uncle Benny gave me fifty dollars for my birthday…and how I helped my team win in baseball. What'd you tell him, Dad?"

Mark glances at his balloon, where he's written a letter on in a black Sharpie pen. This has been their father-son tradition every Christmas Eve ever since Luke was a baby. Mimi had told him before about her remembering Roger singing to her about balloons one time and they'd looked for it in his journal. They made it into a tradition right after, where each of them would take their respectively colored balloons, write on them with a Sharpie, then let them go. Mark always does it by candlelight from four candles, one for each friend that he's lost. He also lights one as each friend's birthday comes along. On Christmas Eve, he and Luke, who gets dropped off by Joanne and Maureen at the loft at the start of every Christmas break, always do it together.

Send me a balloon and tell me how you all are…

"I tell him how you're growing up, how I'm proud of you because you're cooler than I am…" Luke laughs at this. "How I miss them…"

Mark gives a small, sad smile, because he really does miss Roger, as well as everyone else. He misses the noise, the warm hugs, the snide remarks, the companionship...it's always too quiet and calm now whenever Luke's not around to keep him company. Roger's room is now Luke's, so it looks different now with all the bright colors and toys and things. But sometimes, when Luke's at Maureen and Jo's, Mark still likes to go into the room and just sit, remembering and thinking and missing.

"It's okay, Daddy," Mark feels Luke's small hand clasp his own. "I'm here."

Mark looks down at his son and pats his head.

"Yeah, you are," he says quietly. "Ready?" He unties his balloon.

"Go!" Luke yells and lets go. Mark does the same. "MERRY CHRISTMAS, UNCLE ROGER, UNCLE COLLINS, AUNT MIMI AND AUNT ANGEL!"

Luke waves as the two balloons take flight. Dodge barks at the commotion from the inside of the loft and Mark watches as the two balloons become smaller and smaller until they become two pinpricks of color before finally disappearing into the night.

For now just look for my star.

"Merry Christmas," he whispers with a smile, as he keeps an eye on Polaris, the only star bright enough to be seen in New York City. Their star, a lone beacon in the darkness. A metaphor to a friendship that's been through hell and back and still survived up to this time.

"Will it take the balloons long to get to Heaven?" Luke asks. Mark holds him close and ruffles his hair, smelling his little-boy smell of cookies, soap and Dodge. A bitter winter wind passes and tugs at Mark's striped scarf.

"No. I bet it's with them now..." he tells his little boy, and they stand in silence for a moment before Mark speaks up again. The wind is getting colder.

"C'mon, let's go inside where it's warm. It's time for you to get to bed anyways. Are you...are you too old for a story?"

"No way! Can it be…you know…." Luke looks up at him hopefully and Mark laughs. He knows that his son's referring to the worn thirty-something-year-old Winnie-the-Pooh book that Luke secretly keeps at his bedside every night and reads to himself under the blankets with his flashlight on, much like Mark himself did as a kid. Maureen and Joanne have reported that there have been many a time that they've walked in on their son doing exactly that.

"Sure, kid. And I won't tell anyone, I promise," Mark says. Luke gives him a grin that reminds him of Roger and rushes inside where Dodge is only too happy to see him. Mark lingers outside for a bit before he kneels down and pries the four candles, which are still lit, loose from the floor of the balcony,wiping away with his finger a small tear he's allowed himself to shed.

I'll see you...

He gives the night outside a last smile, before he turns around to join his son, warm from the glow of lights from the Christmas tree.

-END.

A/N: Okay, first off: THANK YOU ALL WHO'VE SUPPORTED THIS STORY. I love your reviews, seriously, and I'm glad you all enjoyed my little Rent-inspired world. I'm sorry I made you cry guys, though! For the headaches and the runny noses and the embarassing moments from being caught by your parents...Hahaha. :)This is the first story I've finished (yes, I'm a lazy bum) so it's quite a thrill for me. -pats self on back-

In this last chapter, I know Mark's Jewish and all but I usedwhat I observed from the playand movie: Mark actually drifts. He doesn't really follow tradition, but likes to make his own, which is why I just made him celebrate Christmas, since I feel that he's more comfortable with it because it provides him with a link to the past. And since Christmas is so commercialized these days, I guess he thinks it'll be easier for Luke, just so he can fit in.

My other Rent story, Exclusively Scarsdale, is still going to be up for a while. If you want to, you can check that out as well, though I might have a hard time updating it since I'll be very busy with school (yes, we unlucky ones have actually just started school). :)

Again, THANK YOU! You guys are lovely.