A/N: Don't know if anything like this has been done. And I'm not sure how many RENTheads out there are still reading fanfics. The Rent fandom's died down a bit since the show's close, but I think keeping the spirit of RENT alive is very important. Also, I'm always looking to improve my writing for school and on my own, so feedback's welcome!
PSA: For those of you on LJ, I created a RENT livejournal comm to keep the RENT love going. It's called rent_islove. Hope some of you can join up; once enough active members join, we can start posting.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Rent, or the TV show How I Met Your Mother, off which the premise of this fanfic is based.

THE YEAR 2007

"Dad, what are you doing?" Fourteen-year-old Andrew raised his eyebrows and glanced at his father, who sat down in a chair across from him.

Andrew's sister, Angela, sat beside her younger brother on the couch, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She reached up to move a strand of blonde hair away from her face. "I was talking to Jessie on the phone about something really important, dad, can't I just---"

"It probably wasn't that important, Angela," interrupted her father, a small smile tugging at his features. "Okay, kids. The 15-year anniversary of your mom and me is coming up."

Andrew nodded. "Yeah. So?"

"So, you know how every time you two ask how your mother and I met, we always answer with, 'It's a long story?'" The father asked, leaning back against the chair.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Angela replied, "But I just figured it was too lovey-dovey and cheesie for you guys to bring up in front of me and the dweeb over here." She made a face toward her brother, who punched her arm. Hard.

"Ow! Andy, that hurt, you're such an idiot!"

"Alright, guys, settle down." The father's voice was stern, but his expression softened after a moment. "As I was saying, I think it's important for you to know how me and your mother met each other. And I think you're old enough now to understand. It's more of an interesting story than you might think."

"How long is this gonna take?" Andrew asked, crossing his arms behind his head, "I was gonna go watch the hockey game on TV."

The father sighed in exasperation. "Come on, kids. I think you'll appreciate this." He took a deep breath, adjusting the glasses that lay loosely on his nose. "But before I get right to it, I have to go way back to explain a few things, first. A lot of factors contributed to how your mom and I met. A lot of things that I've had to wait to tell you until you were mature enough."

"Oh, great . . . " Angela muttered.

"It started when your Aunt Maureen broke up with me---"

Andrew shuddered. "That's so gross, dad. I can't believe you and Aunt Mo were dating."

The father chuckled. "Yeah, sometimes I can't believe it myself. Anyway, it started in November of 1989 . . . "

"Mark . . . pookie. I think we need to talk."

I looked up from my cup of coffee and stared into the bright brown eyes of Maureen Johnson, my girlfriend. God, she was gorgeous. But the tone in her voice was telling me something not-so-good was about to happen (And, yes, kids . . . she called me "pookie". Get your laughs out now).

"What's up, babe?" We were sitting in a little cafe I always liked to take her to.

Maureen took a deep breath. "We're gonna have to break up, Marky."

At first, I had no idea what to say. We sat in silence for a moment before I could muster, "...Break up? Why? I mean . . . is it something that I . . . "

And then she used the stereotypical line almost every breakup consists of: "It's not you, pookie, it's me!"

Yeah. She went there. Except, she wasn't wrong in saying so. It was her fault. All her fault.

"Mark, we have to break up, because, well . . . there's someone new in my life. And I don't want us to hurt each other, you know?" Maureen was talking nonchalantly, as if we were discussing the front page of The New York Times.

"Who . . . who is he?" I gulped, wondering who could've swept her off her feet without my even noticing.

Maureen smiled a little, her gaze shifting to something beyond me as she dreamily replied, "Joanne."

Um . . . what? "His name is Joanne?"

She giggled. "No, Mark. Her name is Joanne."

Oh.

My.

God.

"We've sorta been . . . seeing each other for a couple of weeks, now, Mark," Maureen said, fidgeting with the straw in her glass of soda, "And I know it wouldn't be fair to you. So I'm just gonna break it off now, and you can focus on your filmmaking career, and---"

"What the hell, Maureen?" I cried, interrupting her. The couple sitting across from us turned to glance in our direction awkwardly. "I can't believe you'd do this to me! And with a girl? Honestly? What could a girl give you that I couldn't?"

"It was totally spontaneous, Mark. I couldn't really control how I felt about her. It just happened. I'm sorry, baby."

I stood, throwing a few dollar bills on the table. "Maureen, just . . . do what you want, okay? Whatever."

"Maaaaaaaaaaaarky, wait!" Suddenly, her whining didn't seem so cute anymore.

I glanced back at her once more, and walked away, leaving her sitting there at the table alone.

"Oh, my God, Dad! Aunt Mo left you for a girl?" Andrew Cohen was clutching his sides, laughing.

Mark sighed. "Yeah, kiddo. She did. She left me for your Aunt Joanne."

"That's . . . really sad, Dad. Like, sad enough that I'm shocked you're actually telling anyone. I'd keep that kind of thing to myself," Angela said with a smirk.

"Well," Mark replied, "the reason I don't is that if your Aunt Maureen hadn't broken up with me, I would've never met a certain group of people who---"

"Let me guess," Andrew cut off, "Helped you meet Mom."

"That's right."

"Oh my God, Mark. She was cheating on you with a woman? That is freakin' hilarious." (He used the other 'f' word, kids. Your mother would kill me if I didn't censor half the things that flew out of the mouths of me and my friends back in the day.)

My best friend Roger Davis (yes, kids, that would be Uncle Roger) fell back against the couch at our loft, chuckling wildly.

Though he was laughing at my expense, I couldn't help to feel a little relieved about the fact that Roger was laughing at all. He didn't do that much, not since April had died.

April Ericsson had been Roger's girlfriend for a long time, since the end of high school. But when she found out they both had contracted HIV, she went to drastic measures. She committed suicide, leaving Roger to deal with it all on his own.

I hadn't been able to bring Roger out of his depression since it happened a few months prior, and ironically, my own misery was helping him just a bit.

"Shove it, Rog," I replied bluntly, flopping onto the couch beside him, "What the hell am I gonna do? I was her production manager for all her stupid protests. I was supposed to help her with her 'rising acting career'. We dated for two and a half years, Rog, and I did everything for her."

Roger nodded. "Yeah, man. I know." His tone was serious, now. "That sucks. Wanna get drunk?"

Ah, Roger. He always knew how to cheer me up---not.

"I guess. Why not?" Drinking was better than Roger resorting to shooting up. Which, thankfully, hadn't happened for quite a long time.

But Roger was my best friend. I couldn't help but worry about him, no matter what.

We toasted our half-consumed bottles of beer to girlfriends who don't cheat, and to possibly getting some heat in the freezing apartment in which we lived in the dead of winter.

You have to understand, kids, that your Uncle Rog and I weren't the biggest fans of paying the rent.