Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters. ("Doubles! Collins is out of jail again!")

"Thanks for meeting me."

"It's no problem." Joanne blew the steam off her coffee before taking a sip. "What's going on?" she asked, her brows drawn close with concern.

The loft was cold. Mimi pushed her feet between Roger's legs. He gave a strangled yelp and squirmed. "Aah, Mimi…"

She pouted, though he could not see her, and nestled closer against his chest. "You don't want my heart to freeze, do you?" she asked.

Roger laughed. "Your heart's not in your feet," he said. But he could not help but wrap his arms around her, rubbing her back gently and pulling her close. Mimi closed her eyes as her entire body relaxed against Roger.

Mark unwound his scarf and held his mug of tea, touching the ceramic sides as much as he could with his cold hands. It was cold for September, the day windy and chapped. "Lately…" He had tried to plan an introduction, but even in his head he could think of no adequate words. "I think I need help, Joanne."

Joanne pressed her hand over Mark's mug as he began to tremble, jarring the mug against the tabletop. It took the sternest stuff she was made of not to react dramatically. "It's okay, Mark," she said.

It was cold that night, very cold, and Mark would say, if anyone asked, that it was the cold that woke him. He would not say that the loft was large and open, and sound carried. He would not say that he had been listening all night to Roger and Mimi's conversation, curled over a pain in his gut.

"What am I supposed to do without feet?" Mimi asked.

"I would carry you wherever you needed to go."

Mimi groaned. "It's impossible to play with you when you're sweet," she moaned.

He shook his head. "No, no, I…" He took a deep breath and said, "I think… I need to see a doctor. But I can't afford--"

"Screw that, I'll pay," Joanne interrupted. "Whatever you need--"

"No, Joanne, listen, I-- I want to see a therapist."

Joanne paused. Her heart rate slowed to normal as the fear of words like "cancer" ebbed. She nodded. "Okay," she said.

Mark looked up, shocked. "Okay?" he asked. "That's it? You don't… think there's anything wrong with that?"

"Mark," Joanne said, "you know I don't. Otherwise, why would you have come to me?"

"If you ever need a friend, Mark, you can always come to me. Whenever you need."

Mark wandered to the bathroom. He threw the switch and blinked as harsh light burned his eyes. He closed the door behind him, used the toilet and washed his hands. Then he fumbled through their medicines cabinet. Here were the medicines, prenatal vitamins and Zidovudine and Tylenol. Mark knew them by color and shape, but without his glasses he could not read the labels.

"Shit."

A bottle of pills clattered into the sink. Mark lifted it, but it was slick with soapsuds and slipped from his hands to smash into his foot, raising another obscenity, and clattering on the floor. Shaking his head-- "I don't need this right now, I don't need this…"-- Mark knelt to lift the bottle. "Where is it?"

"Mark?"

He looked up.

"Mark, are you okay?"

Roger's worried tone tipped Mark off to how the scene appeared: Mark, without his glasses, kneeling by the toilet.

"I'm fine," Mark said, perhaps a touch shorter than was completely necessary. "I just dropped the--" Realizing, Mark paused, squinted, then asked, "Are you naked?"

Roger glanced down, as though realizing for the first time. It was a strange feeling, becoming newly aware of the body he had known for years. "Does that bother you?" It certainly did not bother Roger. He had nothing to hide. Should he be ashamed of displaying the scar from an operation when he was twelve, the tattoo on his lower back, his penis? "You've seen me naked."

"No," Mark said. "I haven't."

Roger chuckled. "Now you have."

"I can't see a fucking thing."

"Right. Come on." Roger offered a hand to Mark.

Come on, what? Mark thought, suddenly angry. What are you going to do, Roger, put me to bed? "I'm not through in here," he said. "I need some privacy."

Roger nodded. "Okay," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

"Fine," Mark repeated. He remained on the floor as Roger turned and left the room, returning to the bedroom. Briefly Mark heard the sound of Mimi asking about him and Roger's murmured replied, then the door was shut and they began to make love.

Mark's stomach twisted. No, he thought. I'm not, it's wrong because he's taken, he's not for me, I don't feel that. Yet he could not help but wish that was his voice crying Roger's name.

Mark replaced the bottle of pills and found a small box of razor blades. He sighed. She-- his therapist-- said this was bad, at least agreed when he said it, but Mark wondered or he didn't care. He placed a small line on his arm, near his elbow, and enjoyed the sting as a few drops of blood puckered up through the skin.

And for a handful of moments, it was all okay.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be awesome! Please?

(at this point, I don't know if Mimi is going to have the babies, but I'm loving how riled up everyone is over that!)