A/N: Hope you enjoy this and Merry Christmas!

The little improvements started right after Maureen had left, and Roger had apologized. He was no longer violent. He no longer asked for smack, though sometimes I still caught the glint of want in his eyes. He seemed surly, but I supposed I could understand that.

I was also doing better. Or so I liked to think. I hadn't cried when Maureen had left, already to use to locking up my feelings, but I had felt like my heart broke again with every single breath I took. I started sleeping on the couch for awhile because I couldn't bear to be in the same bed that Maureen and I had shared and well, you know, in.

Sometimes I would lie awake at night, on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and often times I found myself muttering weird phrases about Maureen, like, "How could she?" and " I can't believe she's gone." My emotions swirled in the most awful of ways, anger and hate, to longing and love. I couldn't deny that I missed her, but it hurt too much, so I did what I had done before when I was hurt, I hid those feelings, pushing them down, saving face for myself and my roommate.

Roger stayed in room a lot, but I stayed in the living area, always prepared, knowing that before Roger had made bids for what he considered freedom. I thought I would lose my voice from my almost solitude. I hardly spoke to anyone, now that Maureen had not only dumped me, but also fired me from my production manager position of her protest that was to be performed on Christmas Eve. Even though I was seriously glad to see even the small advances in Roger, I felt I may go insane before he ever began to speak again.

One day, I came face to face with Roger as I headed to the bathroom and he headed from it. He smiled at me, and muttered a quiet, "Hey."

That smile and single syllable, helped me remain sane in one of the worst months I had ever found myself facing.

I first noticed a major improvement in Roger at the end of November, and throughout early December. He began to join me at the table, or on the couch for meals. He was still very quiet, he rarely spoke. And when he did utter a single word, it was in a rough cracked voice, from lack of use. I wondered if he would ever sing again.

I still monitored him closely, afraid that these good times would quickly turn to bad, Roger had been known to relapse, how was I to know this time would be different?

But still, Roger no longer locked himself away, and though he didn't eat much he did eat. And he didn't try and avoid me any longer. Since Maureen had left I had been feeling very lonely, and even having Roger sit beside me silently, was better than pacing an empty loft.

It's nearing the end of December, and the end of Roger being clean for about half a year. I'm silently celebrating, but Roger is still being quite moody. I'm not sure that will ever change. Then again, if I think back, Roger had always been moody, it was just more pronounced now.

I made us both coffee, and handed him a mug, as he drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the side of the worn-out couch. "Mark…"

"Yeah, Rog?" I instantly replied, happy that lately Roger seemed to be at least talking on a regular basis.

"I want to play my guitar – but I don't know where it is… did I…" Roger trailed off, unable to complete his unspoken fear of a broken instrument.

I smiled, and Roger looked relieve, "I have it, hold on."

I slowly walked to my door, and reach under my bed to retrieve the keys to the padlock that keeps my tiny closet closed. I unlocked the lock and slid the door open, carefully retrieving the old, but still in good condition guitar.

I brought it out to Roger, and he grinned, sending my heart soaring, any smile from Roger during those days was a miracle. As I handed it to him, his grin quickly faded as he ran a hand to down the strings and instead of a pleasant chord, and unpleasant noise was heard.

I had decided to be done with scripts, and was going to make a documentary. I sucked as a writer, but maybe just maybe I could succeed as simply a director, especially if I had real-life situations to help me along. Now that Roger was a lot better than even a month ago, and supremely better than after April had died, I could enjoy my passion again. I had missed filming.

I cranked the camera and paced the loft, trying to warm myself in the heatless loft. "Smile," I said; half-joking, half-encouraging as I glanced at Roger strumming his guitar with a frown on his face. "December 24th, 9pm, Eastern Standard Time, from here on in, I shoot without a script, see if anything comes of it, first shot, Roger, tuning the fender guitar he hasn't played. in a year."

"This won't tune!" Roger complained.

"So we hear," I retorted, what did he expect, a perfectly tuned guitar? That instrument has been locked in my closet for the past year, it's obviously a bit out of shape. "He's just coming back from half a year of withdrawal," I narrated.

"Are you talking to me?" Roger asked.

"Not at all," I protested, and it was true. I had been informing what I hoped to be my future audience. "Are you ready? Hold that focus steady, tell the folks at home, what you're doing Roger."

Roger reluctantly complied, "I'm writing one great song," he started to sing, but was cut off with the phone ringing.

"Saved," Roger muttered.

"We screen, zoom in on the answering machine." As soon as I figured out that my mother, I zoned out and focused on Roger and smiled. I was so glad to see him with his guitar again. Music and Roger were just meant to be. I hadn't been able to trust him to not destroy his pride and joy before. But lately Roger had been a lot better. Six months ago I wasn't even sure if Roger would live to play his guitar again.

As Roger laughed at my mother's advice about Maureen, I can barely hear the "Love, Mom!"

I quickly turned the attention back to the absent-mindedly strumming Roger, "Tell the folks at home what you're doing Roger!" I tried again.

"I'm writing one great song…"

I groaned, as the familiar sound is heard again. "The phone rings!"

"Yes!" a grateful whisper from Roger is heard.

"We screen…"

A deep and comforting voice greeted us, singing, "Chestnuts roasting -"

"COLLINS!" Roger and I shouted in unison as I picked up the phone.

"I'm downstairs!"

"HEY!" we both shouted again.

"Roger picked up the phone?" Collins questioned, sound surprised but please.

"No, it's me," I answered quickly.

"Throw down the key," Collin's requested.

I ran to the fire escape and tossed the keys, a little farther to the left than I was intending and Collins had to lean down to catch them.

"A wild night is now pre-ordained!" I completed, not even realizing how very true those words would later prove to be

THE END

A/N: I can't believe it's over! But I just needed to finish it and I promised a quicker and longer update! Also, I believe that this a perfect time of year, because since I have finished writing this at 1:36am, it is less than 24 hours until Christmas Eve… which is where my journey ended, but RENT began. Poetic is it not? Also I used the musical opening as opposed to the movie opening, I feel it fits better. As always R&R.

MERRY CHRISTMAS BITCHES!