Disclaimer: I own nothing. RENT belongs to the genius known as Jonathan Larson.

I don't know where the idea for this really even came from. I think it's a mixture of lack of sleep, sleeping pills and caffeine.

Six weeks. He's been gone for six weeks. Six long weeks ago Roger left for Santa Fe and I haven't heard a word from him since. It's been four days since I've touched the razor and I couldn't even remember the last time I'd got a decent amount of sleep. I sat on the couch with my head in my hands staring at the blade that lay on the table. My muscles tensed each time I imagined myself picking up the blade and sliding it down my arm. I tightly shut my eyes and turned my head as I started to imagine the crimson beads that would soon follow only to find that doing so just made the image even more vivid. I shot up from the couch and in a failed attempt to maneuver myself across the room I stumbled forward catching my balance on the edge of the table. My head was pounding and for a few minutes I couldn't even see straight. I felt like I was seeing double of everything and it was all spinning faster and faster.

Dammit, Cohen. Calm down…just relax.

I ignored the tightening feeling in my throat and mentally tried to calm myself down. After a few seconds my breathing began to even out again. I glanced over at the blade a second time and then quickly turned my head away again. "I can't…I can't do this," I said to myself, my voice was so off I barely even recognized it. I clenched my fist so hard my nails were starting to dig into my skin, but I could barely feel it.

I felt the tightening feeling in my stomach this time and just as I thought I was going to be sick I twisted my body around and leaned my back against the couch. Again I glanced over at the blade. It was the only thing lying on the table and with each passing second the feeling of its sharp blade against my skin became more and more irresistible. Within seconds I was overwhelmed with the feeling and reached over to grab it.

I now sat there with the blade in my hand just staring at it. The little amount of light in the room hit the edges in a way that made it gleam in an almost perfect way and that was it. I placed the edge against my skin, pressed downed and pulled the blade towards myself. I bit my lip as a line of that crimson savior soon followed behind the blade. I was so distracted by it that I barely heard the door to the loft open and close.

"Mark…?" Roger's voice had a mixture of panic and concern as he dropped his bag by his feet.

"Rog-" I didn't even notice the razor drop out of my hand and fall to the ground making a light clanging sound. I couldn't even get my words together. "You're..how..why.."

He ignored my rambling. "What are you doing?" he asked. He didn't take his eyes off me.

I couldn't say anything, I just watched him slowly walk towards me and kneel down in front of me. Or maybe it was just my mind working in slow motion. I opened my mouth to speak, but still couldn't.

"I told you to call if the burden became too much," I'd never heard his voice sound like this. So soft and kind. He reached his hand towards me and brushed his fingers just under the fresh glistening red lines tracing his hand down to follow them. He took my other hand and pulled up my sleeve revealing patterns of raised lines, scars from the previous nights spent alone. He traced his fingers over every bump.

"I-I haven't heard from you…in six weeks.." My voice was cracking and my throat was getting tighter. His calloused fingers lingered on the skin of my arm. "I know.." he whispered.

I couldn't take my eyes off the ground in front of me. I couldn't handle the look of disappointment on his face. "I'm sorry," I said. It was so quiet that I barely even heard myself say it.

"Don't be," Roger quickly said. His voice came out louder than he meant it to and I flinched at sudden raising of his voice. "I should have called…hell I shouldn't have left you in the first place," his voice was back to the soft, kind sound like it was just moments ago. A few moments of awkward silence passed so much slower than I could ever imagine.

"We should get that cleaned up," he said glancing down at my arm. He helped me to my feet again and then helped me get onto the couch. I still couldn't manage to say anything else.

I watched every move Roger made as he walked towards the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel and ran in under the sink for a few seconds. When he came back he placed the towel onto of the fresh marks on my arm and lightly pressed down. I flinched as the pain suddenly shot up and down my arm. "Sorry," he said softly.

I still couldn't believe how openly kind Roger was being. This wasn't Roger, he never showed his emotions to anyone.

"How long have you been doing this?" he asked. His voice was still quiet. I just shut my eyes and looked away. I couldn't even begin to explain this to him. I thought back to Roger's past…then again maybe he was the only one who could actually understand.

"It's okay, you don't have to talk about it yet," he said. His voice was getting more and more unusually soothing. Then I felt him place his arm over my shoulder and pull me closer to him. I still couldn't figure out what was going on, this wasn't like Roger at all. Even so I sighed and gave in resting my head on his shoulder.

"Does this mean you're staying this time?" I asked. My voice wasn't nearly as shaky as I expected it to sound.

"Definitely," he said. "This time I am never leaving you."