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

Mark clutched the receiver tightly, pinning his ear flat with the cold plastic. "Thomas?" he asked. His breath formed clouds against the telephone.

Thomas Collins, wayward philosopher and professor of Does Anyone Care Anymore, would have grinned to hear Mark's voice. It had been less than four months since Christmas, and already homesickness closed in a vice around his heart. Collins had found employment at Columbia University; theoretically, being occupied kept him from thinking about Angel and worrying about the boys in the loft.

As Tom Collins had learned, the greatest theories died as splinters in the sea. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

Mark's voice did not make Collins smile, because Mark's voice was crying. Collins heard Mark gag on spit and bile.

"Roger and I…" Mark began, then shook his head. It was not the two of them. Foolish words rang in his empty heart: You hungry? I'm starved. Let's go to the Life… You sure? All right, if you're sure. You don't mind if I go, do you, Rog? "Roger was going through Mimi's stuff. He found her stash, and--"

Voices blurred together, the students carousing outside and, behind Mark, a stream of voices, some distorted and metallic. Collins' blood ran cold. "He didn't!" After over a year off drugs, the months in which he withdrew and relapsed again and again, after the fevers and nightmares and violence of detoxification, Roger Davis could not return to drugs. It had been so long Collins did not consider the temptation.

"Uh-huh," Mark said.

Against his will, Collins ground his teeth. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead. That little idiot. "I'll kick his ass. Where is he? Put him on." There was a period of silence, long enough for Collins' anger to fade. "Mark," he said, slowly. "Where's Roger?"

"Buh--" Mark coughed, gave a dry gagging noise, and began to sob. He pressed his forehead against the wall, jammed the phone against his ear, and sobbed, hot tears spilling over. His face flushed and his glasses fogged.

"Where are you?" Collins asked.

"Saint Luke's," Mark managed. He took a deep gulp of air. His tears slowed and slowly his temperature began to drop. Collins was silent as Mark collected himself. At last satisfied with his state, Mark said, "I'm at Saint Luke's Hospital." He shuddered and broke down again. "Collins…"

Collins nodded. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he promised. "He'll be okay, Mark."

Mark shook his head, his face hot and sticky with tears. "You don't know that," he sobbed. "The doctors don't know that."

"He'll be okay," Collins repeated, stressing every syllable. At least until I get to him…