Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson and Iamnotworthy!

Roger was well known as 'not a morning person'. He had adopted a routine to accompany that reputation, beginning each morning with a long stint of sitting by the window nursing a cup of coffee, waiting for his body to come to speed with his boiling mind.

The first thing he was aware of was a steady beeping and light through knotted eyelashes.

"What is it?" Mark asked. His voice was harried, afraid and hopeful at once."What's going on? He doesn't look much different to me--"

"His eyes, man."

"What? Oh. Roger!"

Roger finished opening his eyes. He blinked. "What…"

"Roger!" Mark repeated. He grabbed Roger by the shoulders, decided this was not enough and pulled him into an awkward hug. "Roger, Roger…"

"I'm okay," Roger said. Where am I? What's going on? The last thing he remembered was the slam of the door as Mark left the loft. Roger's brow furrowed. They were sitting on the floor, sorting through Mimi's belonging. He had not forgotten her death, but the sudden reminder sent a jolt through his chest. Ouch. "What--"

Mark pulled away from Roger. Briefly, Roger caught sight of an unusual glimmer in Mark's eyes. Then Mark turned to Collins. "He's all right," he said.

Collins nodded.

Mark turned back to Roger and smashed him across the face with an open palm. Roger swallowed his surprise and said nothing. The doctor said, "Jesus Christ!" and hurried around the bed to restrain Mark. In the moments it took him to round the bed, Mark got in a few good smacks, then grabbed Roger by the shoulders and began shaking him and sobbing.

Throughout all of this, Roger kept his mouth shut. He watched Collins, who stood back, allowing Mark his tirade. When Mark was led less than gently from the room, Collins followed. Roger saw Mark collapse against Collins in the corridor. He heard the sobs before the door to his room was closed.

"What did I do?" Roger asked aloud. He thought back to his most recent memory, sitting on the floor with Mark, sorting through Mimi's clothes and knick-knacks. "I don't know if I can do this," Roger said suddenly, dropping the first shirt he had picked up.

Mark immediately crossed the room and wrapped Roger in a hug.

"I'm not ready to let her go yet," Roger whined.

Mark nodded. "Okay. Okay. We don't need to, not yet. Let's… let's play Life. How about that?" He coaxed Roger out of the room and set up the board game. They played a few unenthusiastic rounds. It was an ironic game for the boys. Mark's real life had followed the board for only a few squares. Roger's had not followed at all.

After a while, Roger managed to laugh at Mark's weak jokes, the game grew rowdier, and they finished pleasantly. "You hungry?" Mark asked. "I'm starved. Let's go to the Life… " Roger shook his head. "You sure? All right, if you're sure. You don't mind if I go, do you, Rog?"

"No, go. I may…" A meaningful glance at the bedroom told Mark what Roger wanted.

"Okay."

Roger waited for Mark to leave before returning to the bedroom. He took a deep breath. He could do this. He could do this alone. It would be okay. He knelt amid her clothes. Maybe touching the cloth wasn't so wise. That held too many memories: her body, the lingering scent of her perfume, his hands against the fabric… Many of Mimi's things had once been Angel's. Roger could not touch them.

He reached for her jewelry box. It was a childish little thing, with faded pictures of ballerinas on pink backdrops. Roger remembered a similar box in his room when he was a child; of course, it was a box for his small toys, plastered with images of Winnie the Pooh.

He opened Mimi's box. A handful of bracelets covered the top shelf. What Roger knew he should have done was think, How will I use these? No, no, they should go to Goodwill. He was not thinking that. He was not yet there. Instead, he thought of her.

Beneath the bracelets, fitted neatly into compartments, were dangling earrings and pieces of Bazooka bubble gum. She had a stack of the comics, too. Roger's eyes closed against a film of tears. They had never talked about Bazooka Joe, and yet here he was, the same sugary comics Roger had pasted to a notebook in his mother's house.

Roger lifted the top shelf. And that was when he saw it, beneath her bottles of nail polish and tubs of lipstick: the neat glassine bags, full, inviting…

Lying in his hospital bed, Roger closed his eyes tightly. "I should've died," he whispered. "I should have died."

TBC