(A/N: This is kind of a rewrite of two things—one, my previous multi-chapter fanfic, in which a lot of this drama originated; two, the original first chapter of this, which has undergone extensive edits. R&R, please! All original characters and situations are property of the late Jonathan Larson & his family.)

February 23, 1991, 10:34 PM, Eastern Standard Time.

Outside, the snow was falling heavily against a navy backdrop. A gentle breeze ruffled the pine needles, the wind whistling between the trees. All was silent, the only light coming from the moon and the stars, and the reflections off of the snow. Upstate New York was serene and beautiful this time of year.

In New York City, however, the atmosphere was anything but serene and beautiful. The sky was dark, but all was illuminated by the City's millions of lights. Dirty snow sat beside the curb, the only type of snow that most of the City's youth would ever see. Taxis and the occasional resident-owned vehicle sped down the road, tires squealing in an attempt to keep in control on the black ice, and horns blaring. People sat on the curbs outside, drinking vodka straight from the bottles, the tips of their cigarettes glowing.

Mimi Marquez could see all of this from her bedroom window. She sat on her bare mattress, skinny legs bent awkwardly underneath an emaciated—failing?—body. She was skinnier, paler, with big purple circles under her eyes and a constant headache.

It was the best she'd felt all year.

With a groan and a wince, Mimi pulled herself out of the lotus position. The only source of light in the room was a large white candle on the nightstand, which gently illuminated her path into the kitchen. The light above the stove was on, humming gently as the burner below wheezed in an attempt to quickly heat her tea water.

She did enjoy a good cup of those legal herbs before she retired.

Then, from the large room (the common room, she called it, in a vain attempt to make it look like more than a giant empty room with a loveseat and a bookcase), two things happened at once: the phone rang and there was a loud rap on the door. Ring, ring! Ring, ring! Boom, boom, boom!

Sighing, Mimi turned the burner on low, yelled, "I'm coming!" to the door (choosing to keep a few expletives inside her mind, where they belonged) and slipped her ratty old slippers on before padding in the direction of the large, unlocked door.

"It's open, you know," she told the person on the other side, before heaving her whole body against it and forcing it open, just enough for one average-sized person's width to make their way through. There were only a few people who'd answer at this time of night…

"But isn't it impolite to just let yourself in?" The voice, which she heard before she saw the visitor, was low and gravelly. It sounded like he'd been out all night, chain-smoking, downing vodka and screaming into a hissing mic.

"Roger!"

Traditionally, Mimi made it a rule not to squeal and throw herself upon other people—when she was fifteen, her mother had warned her against this, told her that this behavior was only suitable for cheap whores. Of course, Mimi had found her mom's baggie of coke right after a long anti-drug conversation, so she ignored this rule (and many others) as she jumped up into Roger Davis' arms.

He laughed and gave her a quick squeeze, before setting her back on the ground. He turned around to shut the door and grimaced slightly—a grimace to challenge Mimi's "out of lotus" expression mere minutes before—as he pushed it shut. Roger rotated again, so he was face-to-face with Mimi once more.

For a good minute or so, it was silent, until Mimi said, "Come sit down, I'm making some tea." She must have noticed Roger's puzzled expression, because she laughed and said, "It was the only thing even kind-of caffeinated they'd let us have."

He nodded and followed her into the kitchen. The kettle was already boiling, so Mimi shut the burner off and reached into the cupboard, careful not to cut herself on the jagged glass around the door, grabbing two small cups.

"Pick your poison," she said, motioning to the straw basket of various tea-bags. Most of them she'd stolen from restaurants or from The Center, but the Earl Grey was a purchase she'd made all on her own, on her way down from Up North that morning.

"What's good?" Roger asked her, peering into the basket. She'd forgotten—he was a coffee-drinker. This was probably his first cup of tea in a long time, since his days in the house of Davis.

"This one has some orange and peppermint," Mimi said, holding up a neon-orange package. "It's this new-age stuff, supposed to make you look and feel healthier."

It was at this time that Mimi and Roger got a good look at each other, sizing up their disease-ravaged bodies. He too looked skinnier, paler—certainly, he was starting to look like his roommate and best friend, Mark Cohen. Still, Mimi decided, he doesn't look too ill, not today.

"I'll take it," he said finally, his hazel eyes looking somehow fuller—and sadder—as she opened the packet and dumped the little tea-bag into his cup. For herself, she chose an equally neon-color (an electric blue, said to improve your complexion) and gently poured in the water. She watched him watching her as she picked up the kettle, her hands shaking from the weight as she carefully nudged the bubbling water into the tiny cups.

"Let me get it," Roger told her, reaching over to get the kettle. She shook her head, her eyes looking up to meet his.

"I've got it under control," she replied, looking back down and biting her lip hard as she finished pouring the water. Mimi handed him a cup and a spoon, took one for herself, and motioned for him to join her on the loveseat.

"So," she said, when he'd finally joined her, carefully balancing the cup between his two hands (calloused from his guitar playing), "what's been going on with everyone?"

"Not a lot," Roger replied slowly, blowing on his tea after he'd completed the sentence. "Just, you know, life."

"Well, that's nice," Mimi said, adapting a fruity English tone. "But, Mister Davis, something interesting must be happening, correct?"

He laughed at her rendition of the proper Brits and responded, "Life has just been going on. There just…it's been…"

"What?" She said, leisurely setting her cup onto the rickety coffee table, her large and dark eyes upon his.

"Nothing," Roger said definitively, smiling—though Mimi was almost certain it was for her sake—before adding, "Shall we retire, m'lady?"

She nodded, appreciative of his own refined accent and agreed, "At once, Mister Davis."

Hand-in-hand, Mimi Marquez and Roger Davis made their way into her small, chilly bedroom, not to reemerge until late the next morning.