Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson is the Supreme Creator of RENT and worthy of utmost respect. Characters not mine. Situation not mine. Nothing is mine.

The cafeteria was dim and mostly empty. Vending machines hummed a gentle glow, offering sugar and caffeine in abundance. Circular tables sat unused; plastic chairs shimmered emptily. At one table, the room's sole habitant sat, leaning on his elbows absently.

Mark hunkered deeper into his coat. He remembered when he first clapped eyes on the thing: he was sixteen, a bit bigger then thanks to steady meals and a jock for a best friend. He had never learned how to refuse those puppy eyes and a sad, pleading whine: "Come on, Mark. Just for an hour, I promise, and I'll spot you…" And thanks to those days in the weight room, full of Zeppelin and Duran Duran, Mark Cohen actually had some muscle to him.

The cool September wind blew dried leaves along the pavement. Overhead, a clear blue sky grinned coldly. Cindy gave a loud shiver and pulled on her sweater. Mrs. Cohen paused, sighed, and pulled a list from her pocket. She pursed her lips, then carefully drew a line through 'notebooks & writing supplies'. The fragmented family (somehow Mr. Cohen was constantly absent from these little trips) stood on the pavement outside a strip mall, back-to-school shopping.

Mark tugged at his sweater. He hated that sweater. Despite his mother's insistence that it was perfectly unisex, few boys at Mark's school wore V-necks, and none of them wore their sisters' hand-me-downs. But Mr. Cohen had been out of a job the previous year, and finances were tight. Now that he was working steadily, the family enjoyed less fights, more heat and food, and back-to-school shopping.

"All right," Mrs. Cohen said. "New sneakers--"

It was then, as Mark glanced around the lot wishing he could be heading off to college like his sister (instead of back to high school for two more years), that he spotted the coat. It was hanging on a rack in the thrift shop, its dulled colors enticing him. "Can I get a coat?" Mark asked.

Mrs. Cohen looked at him, and for a moment could not seem to remember who he was. The interruption threw her off balance: her quiet Mark usually barely spoke without prompting. "Um… sure, honey. If there's time."

"I want that one," Mark added, pointing.

His mother frowned. "Used?" she asked, a tint of disgust to her voice.

Mark nodded vigorously. "That's the coat I want," he said. "I'll go buy it while Cindy gets her shoes, okay?" In Mark's mind there was no question as to whether the coat would fit. It would. He knew that--and he was right.

So many times people had called it "more a blanket than a coat". Now it was neither blanket nor coat, but mail. Small rings of steel protected Mark from harm. It could not protect him from the glare attacking his tired, aching eyes or the tightness in his head. It could not protect him from the betrayal in Roger's weakness. But it kept him safe from the cold and it kept him comfortable, physically at least.

"Hey."

Mark blinked. For a brief, brief moment, he had thought it was Roger speaking, Roger sitting opposite him, even the pale, too-thin Roger in a paper hospital dress, but Roger. The blink of an eye and turn of an ear told Mark that Roger's voice was higher, his frame more lithe and his skin lighter.

"Hey." Of course it wasn't Roger. Roger could not stand on his own two feet, literally.

"You okay?"

Mark shrugged. "No more than you," he said. Collins laughed. Oh, right, Mark thought. That. Rather than bother asking how Collins could laugh at a time like this, Mark nodded. "Do you think he'll be all right?" he asked.

Collins nodded. "I think so," he answered seriously. "He woke up, that's got to be good." Then, in a tone that Mark could not read and only half-hoped was a joke, "I'm still gonna kick his ass."

Mark bit his lip. He had not mentioned this to Collins before-- he had not mentioned it to anyone before, since it was Roger's secret and Roger tried to hide it. Mark had always known Roger's secrets. "Thomas?" It was code: this is important. This is serious.

"Hm?"

"Roger's been pretty depressed lately."

Mark gave a serious look, the last push Collins needed to knock the question off his theory. He shook his head. "I don't know, man. Roger's always been a pretty sick puppy, but I don't think he would go that far."

"You're very angry with him…" Very angry for someone who doesn't think it was intentional.

"Yeah. He was stupid and selfish. Come on." Collins stood.

Mark blinked in confusion. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Home. Come on, let's get back to the loft. We can come back tomorrow."

Mark bit his lip. He wanted to stay. If anything went wrong, he wanted to be there. Maybe if Roger just knew he wasn't alone… But Mark's eyelids were heavy, and when Collins' hand guided him gently by the arm, Mark floated through his dreams out of the hospital.

Thomas Collins had stopped thinking about Roger. He forced himself, now that his friend was awake, to worry more on the matters that would follow them and affect the future-- namely, how were they to pay the bills?

TBC

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