Disclaimer: On behalf of Alex, I would like to say that she does not own RENT. Neither do I.

Note: This story was written by my dear friend Alex Janes who kindly is allowing me to post this story on my account. Woo-hoo! It's a companion story to MY "Lullaby of Broadway" story, "Fade in on Mark". Read this one first.

Lullaby of Broadway – Close on Roger

Written by Alex Janes

"We begin on Christmas Eve," Mark narrated into his camera.

I looked up from the newspaper I wasn't really reading, feeling... well... I would say bitchy, but Roger Davis does not get bitchy, Maureen and people like that did. I smirked. "You've said that thirty nine times today," I informed him, amused.

Mark glared at me for a moment, then picked up his camera, stuck out his tongue, and retreated to his room, the door closing with a loud bang. I looked up at the ceiling, wondering why I had decided to push him.

It had been thirty nine times, you know. I counted. I have nothing better to do. I ticked them off mentally.

Attempt one- 7:21 AM. Standing outside the door of the loft.

Foiled when- He realized he forgot the key and I refused to let him in for twenty minutes.

Attempt two- 7:50 AM. Filming out the window.

Foiled when- I demanded he shut the window, because it was freezing.

Attempt three- 8:04 AM. Our bedroom, with me in the bed. (Yes, we share a bed- for heat purposes)

Foiled when- My mother called, ugh.

On it went, through to:

Attempt thirty eight- 7:49 PM. Sitting Indian style on our kitchen table.

Foiled when- Benny called and we barely dared to move or breath until he stopped calling seven minutes later.

Attempt thirty nine- 8:00 PM. Still sitting on the table.

Foiled when- I interrupted rudely.

Geez, took me ten minutes to go through all that. Who'd have thought of Mark as that persistent? Not me, at the very least.

I guess I don't give the boy much credit. I never have, and I've known him for... God... four years I think? Yeah, four years. Seems like so much longer. It always has, even when we moved in here, a year after we met. We were nineteen then. We're twenty two now, and it seems like we're so much older.

Because of April... and for Mark, Maureen had something to do with it. I never quite liked Maureen. She annoyed me, because she used Mark, and he never realized it, he was so infatuated. Then she left him because she 'realized her true sexuality'- bull, she knew and we all knew, except Mark, all along that she was bi.

I sighed, laying back on the couch and thinking. I hadn't been letting myself think a lot, but now I did. About how mean I'd been to Mark lately.

I mean, Mark was a good guy. The kid had been my best friend since he lied to his music teacher at a community center about me being part of his class. It was my only way to get lessons, and I never felt like I repaid him for it, because music is one of the big things in my life.

He's pretty scrawny, but he can take care of himself. He's not a tough guy, but he know his way around the town, and how to do what he needs to. He's got these big dreams, too.

Dreams I'd been crushing under my heel since April killed herself.

Honestly, it was sad. Mark was one of the people who'd always been there for me. Whenever I thought of giving up music, whenever I got upset, he was there with a hug and something to say to make me feel better. How did I repay him? I got moody and ignored him, except to step on his career.

Gee, some friend, huh?

I should go apologize, I thought. But, stubbornly, I laid on the couch, morbidly letting my thoughts continue.

Even throughout this long depression after April's death, he was there for me as I ignored him except to yell at him and accuse him of everything. Actually, at first, I was pretty sane. I think I was still in shock for a while. She killed herself in mid-June, and even though it was hot, after I found her in the tub, I couldn't get warm. I wouldn't show the others, but I'd be freezing- when I was in my room, I'd gather all the blankets I could get and put on all my jackets one on top of the other and try to get warm. It never worked.

I didn't sleep, either. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her note.

Roger-

We've got AIDS.

Love you, baby. Goodbye...

All written in her damnably neat, small handwriting.

So for just over two weeks, I didn't sleep, I barely ate, I gave Mark and Maureen fake smiles and saw how confused and worried they looked when they thought I wasn't looking. I always was looking, though- to make sure they weren't looking too closely at me.

It all kind of came crashing down on the Fourth of July. I'm not sure why then. I think because it was always one of those odd things about April- she was kind of, 'eh, yeah, I'm American, whoop-de-doo' most of the year, but come Fourth of July, she was bursting with American pride. I think part of it was the fireworks. She loved them, and I loved looking at her lit up by them.

I hadn't touched the drugs since April died, but that day, I couldn't stop myself. Literally- I didn't stop when I knew I should.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital bed. A few nurses and doctors were swarming around my bed, talking in low voices about the patient (which I didn't realize was myself), and I was feeling worse than ever.

And Mark was sitting next to me, his hand grasping mine tight as he could get without hurting me, singing under his breath to himself as he rocked back and forth, eyes closed tight. "The band begins to go to town, and everyone goes crazy..."

Later I found out from Maureen that he had threatened the doctor with physical harm to let him in. He'd been hysterical, she reported when she filled me in. Scared out of his mind... We were all upset, but Mark was crazy, he kept muttering he thought he'd lost you. And singing that damn song.

That damn song. The one he'd been singing when I woke up.

Lullaby of Broadway- the old classic, from 42nd Street, that old musical. Mark loved that song. He said it sort of summed up how he felt about our lives and his art- how we all felt, really, about our lives and our art. Whenever me or Maureen started to feel frustrated with the Bohemian life, whenever we wanted to quit, he'd hold us on the couch, rock us back and forth, and sing that song.

You have to understand something. Maureen and I are both great singers, not to brag- that's our branch of the arts (part of her branch, at least) and we have to be good at it, so we are. Benny never let us hear him sing, but if he was good, he would've bragged- it's safe to assume he's not. Collins had a horrible voice, extremely deep and you could tell it'd be nice, except he was one of those kids who had no interest in singing except to belt out songs on the radio in that way that damages your voice when he was a teen, so it was scratchy and untrained. He didn't care, though- he still loved to sing Christmas carols, or even old favorites that came on the radio from time to time, and shrugged his voice off as one of his weak points. He was that easygoing about everything, so it came as no surprise.

Mark's voice wasn't the greatest either. He'd had very little, very unprofessional training from his classes at the community center, all three weeks that centered on voice (six classes in all), and whatever they taught him he obviously forgot, because he didn't do anything the 'right' way. He just did what he felt like. His voice was rough, and deeper than mine (which surprised me when I first heard him sing), but something about it was comforting. It soothed me to hear him singing and bravely attempting to hit the notes of whatever song it was, or humming a song off-key. But nothing soothed me more than that song.

Thinking of all this accomplished nothing more than making me feel a lot worse than I already did. I sighed and slowly stood up, deciding I had to tell Mark I'm sorry- at least for interrupting his film. Silently, I made my way towards the bedroom door and cracked it open.

"Mark?" I called softly.

My reply was his soft, steady breathing. I opened the door wider to find Mark curled in a ball around my pillow, sound asleep. He looked lost, scared- hurt. I wondered what he'd been thinking of before he fell asleep.

I wondered if I could help him feel better.

"Come on along and listen to, the lullaby of Broadway"

I looked around in confusion, wondering where the voice had come from. It hadn't been Mark- he was definitely asleep, and anyway, it wasn't his voice. This voice wasn't just untrained, it was scratchy and unused and ignored.

"The hip hurray and ballyhoo, the lullaby of Broadway"

It was familiar, though. Really familiar. I listened closely.

Holy fuck. That was my voice. Unused for the longest time, almost painful, but... my voice.

Tentatively, I sang the next line- softly, so I didn't wake Mark.

"The rumble of a subway train, the rattle of the taxis"

Now that I was paying attention, it was more like my usual voice. Softer, more smooth, flowing easier. I fell silent, thinking about not much, but Mark twitched slightly when I did so, so I went back to singing, approaching the bed.

"The daffodils who entertain, at Angelo's and Maxi's"

I sat on the edge of the bed and placed my hand on his back, which was now facing me, and rubbed it softly through the thin shirt. I'm sorry, Mark, I thought, but I knew, somehow, that singing him this song said it better than I ever could.

"When Broadway babies say goodnight, it's early in the morning

Manhattan babies don't sleep tight, until the dawn"

I would've stayed there, rubbing his back and singing to him, had an idea not popped into my head- Mark wanted to see me happy, and he wanted his film to turn out special...

I knew what always used to make me happy. And I knew what would be special.

I stood up and creeped to the corner of the room, grabbed my guitar case, and snuck out to the living room. Taking a deep breath, I opened the latches and lifted the lid. My guitar stared back at me, untouched for so very long, covered in a thin layer of dust but otherwise just like it was a year ago.

I lifted I it out gently, perched on the table, and strummed a chord. An odd noise came out, and I winced. Dammit- I hadn't thought about tuning it. Annoyed, I strummed the chord again and began to fiddle with the tuners.

A few moments later, Mark came shuffling out of his room. When he saw me with the guitar, he stopped dead in his tracks. I looked up and didn't say anything, but I glanced at the camera and motioned with my chin towards the tripod that was still set up.

He smiled, and set the camera up. "We begin on Christmas Eve," he was narrating again at 8:58, and I may not have been the one behind or even in front of the camera right then, but I knew this time, it was right.