Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson is the Supreme Creator of RENT and worthy of utmost respect. Only this silly story is mine--characters, etc. belong to Mr. Larson.

"Meems, you'll never guess, I had the strangest dre--"

Roger stopped speaking when his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was possible for him to ignore the shape and size of the hand on his shoulder, much larger and squarer than Mimi's. It was possible to ignore that his companion smelled of cheap soap and store-brand toothpaste rather than honey and sweat. But Roger could not ignore the looming image, a spiky-haired, bespectacled blond man. Mark.

Roger rolled onto his side, facing away from Mark. "Shove off," he murmured.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Mark asked. Roger said nothing. "Okay. Well, I'll be in my room if you change your mind."

"I can't decide who I'm angrier with," Mark admitted. He sat in an uncomfortable chair, staring straight ahead. "I can't believe she kept a stash around. I can't believe he…" I can't believe I, he did not say. I can't believe I let Roger down. Can't believe I let Mimi down.

Mark had known Mimi would die. He had expected it. Christmas Eve was a miracle. It was not Mimi but the magic that faded after it. She never fully recovered. She would sit on the edge of Roger's bed, feet dangling to the floor, with Roger beside her, helping her clumsy hands bring a spoon to her mouth. Will I lose my…

If Mimi lost her dignity then, it was not to Roger. It was not to desperate, clinging Roger, who hardly left her side. It was not to his voice, eerie as an echo in the loft as he sang her love songs and lullabies and anything he could think of. It was not to his trembling hands, afraid to release her for a second, touching her shoulders and back and knees and hands, never going farther than she allowed. It was not to his gullibility, believing when she said she was well again, well enough, that last night.

"Take care of him," she had said, smiling like a little girl.

But Mark hadn't taken care of him. Mark had lapsed, and now Roger was here, maybe dying. "I don't know who to be angrier with," he repeated.

"Him," Collins answered, without pausing a moment to think.

Mark let his head roll to glance at Collins. "How d'you figure?" he asked.

Collins continued to stare ahead, elbows resting on his knees. He had the look of a man who had cried long and hard, without the red-rimmed eyes left by tears, telling signs of an ignored need. "Because he's alive," he said with conviction. Roger was alive. Roger would be alive. Collins refused to think any other way.

"What if he--"

"He won't," Collins interrupted. "Do you think she was still using?"

"Why else would she have drugs?"

"Why does Roger keep his pocketknife?" Collins retorted. "Sometimes you need to be reminded of the things you are stronger than. Sometimes you need to know what you hate."

Mark blinked. He remembered Collins' patience with Roger after withdrawal, all but holding his hand through tough times. He remembered wondering why it was that Collins counseled when Roger looked lost and told him, at times, "I'm proud of you." It seemed a strange thing to say to a friend. "Good job," Mark thought, might be more apt, though still condescending. That more than anything had bothered him: the clear implication of a difference in standing between the two.

Now he asked, "Why were you… the way you were after Roger's withdrawal? You treated him like a child." It was almost an accusation.

"He was a child. He had broken a behavioral pattern he'd followed since he was ten, he had no idea what to do."

"Roger wasn't using that early," Mark protested.

Collins nodded. "No, he wasn't. Aaand, yes, he was. An addict's an addict, regardless of his addiction." He remembered Roger's face, grinning, after he noticed Collins' glance at his arms. "I don't do that anymore. I have something better. Something stronger, the happiest thing in the world."

"So--"

Before Mark could finish his question, an intern poked her head into the room. "Hey," she said. "You're… you're with the man in 304, aren't you?" Mark and Collins found themselves sitting up straighter and nodding. The intern opened her mouth, but before she could speak a P.A. announcement summoned Dr. Samson to room 212, and she dashed off.

"There's news," Mark muttered, slumping down in his chair.

Collins stood up. "Come on," he said. One way or another, it was better to know.

To be continued...

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