Summary: Ellen, a dancer at the Cat Scratch Club, finds herself rescued from

her dealer—but not her addiction—when a certain filmmaker decides to interfere.

Fate pushes them to be in the same room when they can’t stand each other—but
when Ellen falls ill, he’s the only one who can help her.
Author’s Note: In a bout of shameless self-promotion, check out my RENT
oneshot Grey Eyes! This chapter was by far the hardest to write—I kinda mirrored
Ellen in this chapter with mental struggles. :D And…it got off track a little, too. But it
needed a break in tension.

The next day I walked down to Cohen’s work—it had some funny name…but I
couldn’t remember it for the life of me. Not that I cared. I waited around for hours in
the cold, before finally I caved and went inside for a while.
When I saw Cohen come out of the elevators, I dashed out the door. By the
bus stop, I paced around, torn with indecision. On one hand, I was fucking down
there already—I should talk to him anyway. But on the other hand, I hated him…so
I’d probably end up pissed off.
My mind was made up for me when Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold,
went up and started to buy a bus ticket. I groaned softly, and then ran up to him
and made a grab at his sleeve. I accidentally grabbed his hand instead—I jerked my
arm back, trying not to blush.
He straightened, looking confusedly at me. “Um…hi, Ellen,” he said, frowning.
I swallowed. “Do—do you think you could…um…walk, today? I…I wanted
to…” I looked at my boots. “…talk.”
“You’re really going to take me up on my offer?” he asked, raising an
eyebrow.
Nodding, I blushed a little. “Look, if you’re just gonna tease me about it then
never mind,” I snapped, starting to walk off. I knew it was a bad idea, I just knew it.
But then Cohen caught my hand. “I won’t tease you,” he promised. “I’m glad
you’re going to talk about it.”
I realized I was glaring at him, and tried to force it away—but I couldn’t. I kept
glaring at him. I didn’t trust his promise.
“Let’s just walk, ok? Come on.” And he pulled me with him, still gripping my
hand with his as we walked. I would have torn my hand out of his grip, but his hand
was warm and mine was icy cold.
I shivered as a gust of wind hit my exposed neck. “So…how…how did you…
find out?” I asked softly.
Cohen sighed. “I found out when Roger’s girlfriend, April, killed herself.”
Without meaning to, I sucked in a breath. “Damn. That’s…that’s just
horrible.”
“Mmm. It wasn’t fun.”
I rolled my eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.” I held my breath and counted to ten,
forcing down my anger. “How…how did he tell you?”
“He didn’t,” Cohen replied softly.
I almost stopped, but his hand was still locked with mine—I was pulled on.
“What…what do you mean?” My voice barely came out. I hadn’t expected that at
all…and despite my hatred, I felt sorry for him.
Cohen sighed, and I realized I was bringing up long-hidden painful memories.
But I wasn’t stopping now, and neither was he, apparently. “I found her…in the
bathroom, still bleeding a little and warm. I—I couldn’t move…not even when I
heard Roger come in. I remember-remember trying to make some sound, to let him
know that he shouldn’t come in.” He broke off, and I consciously made the decision
to squeeze his hand. “But you couldn’t,” I whispered, filling in the blank that he
hadn’t managed to fill himself.
“No. I couldn’t.”
That closed that subject—he shut his mouth tight, his lips forming a thin line.
I felt…kinda bad for bringing that up. I wasn’t upset that he hadn’t continued…I
could picture it for myself. Roger coming into the bathroom, seeing Cohen standing
there, staring at his dead girlfriend…
I swallowed. These guys had a life that belonged on TV. Throw me and Cyn
into the mix, and you’ve got a whole fucking party. “It takes a bit, you know,” I
murmured. “For it to set in. I still can’t believe Cyn has—has…” I choked back tears.
Cohen let go of my hand—only to take it with his other and wrap his arm
around my shoulders. I clenched my teeth at the closeness, but the wind picked up,
and I found myself happy—he never seemed to feel cold…or maybe I was just so
much colder myself.
And then little white flakes fell from the sky. I cursed softly and pulled my
coat around me.
“Cold?” laughed Cohen, giving me a little squeeze with his arm.
I laughed too, surprising myself. “Not at all,” I said, rolling my eyes. Snow
blew itself down my coat, and I jumped, shivering and rubbing at my neck. “Stupid
fucking coat,” I grumbled. Cohen was laughing, clutching his sides and doubled
over.
Looking around, I noticed we had gotten to the park. Snow was gathering on
the ground, and I grabbed up a little in my hands. Cohen didn’t notice. I squished it
together into a rough snowball, and threw it into his face. He straightened, face red
with cold—and he didn’t look amused. He wiped his face off, cleaned his glasses…
and then calmly threw a snowball at me.
I squeaked, turning away so it only hit the back of my head. A little snow fell
down the back of my coat, and I shivered. I rounded on Cohen, trying and failing to
glare. I resorted to just flinging snow at him, and he did too.
Eventually I was cold and wet, and I stopped. “Truce,” I panted, looking up
from my position on the ground.
Cohen nodded, flopping down next to me. “Truce,” he agreed, laughing. His
cheeks were flushed from the cold—still—and he was grinning at me.
I shivered and pulled my knees up to my chest, and Cohen put his arm
around me, pulling me close to his side. It was the same sort of motion as the night
before—completely without romantic intent…just friendly. Maybe before my
withdrawal I would’ve yelled at him…but like the handholding thing, I was just
fucking cold. Cold, I told myself. You’re cold, he has body heat. Sure, it bothered
me…but I didn’t push him away.
Until I realized the snow was soaking into my skirt. I jumped up, and Cohen
followed, realizing what was happening. I tried to look and see if I was soaked, but I
couldn’t. “Fuck—I’m supposed to be flexible,” I growled, spinning around in circles
to try and see.
“…What are you doing?” asked Cohen, laughing. He seemed to be doing a
whole fucking lot of that today. And at me. I hit his shoulder, but not too hard.
“Trying to see if my skirt got soaked,” I said.
He grinned. “Want me to check?”
 I stared at him for a second, taking in the fact that he was fucking serious.
“No fucking way!” I cried, backing away from him. Cohen was grinning
mischievously, advancing on me.
I ran away behind a bench, glaring at him. “You are not looking at my ass,
Cohen.” I sat down on the bench, facing away. I had suddenly remembered my
reason for being out here with him in the first place. I shivered—from the cold and
from my memories. This little exchange had reminded me too much of Cyn…before
the drugs.
‘I hate snow,’ I muttered, glaring at the white drifts.
Cyn grinned at me. ‘Why? It’s fluffy and white and…you can catch it on your
tongue.’
‘And it’s cold and wet,’ I added. ‘And it hits you in the face.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘But that’s part of the fun! You’re such a spoilsport.’
Sticking out her tongue, she threw a bunch of snow at me. I squeaked, turning away
to avoid getting it in the face.
‘Cyn! What the heck?’ I shouted, shaking the snow out of my hair.
Cyn was laughing her head off, doubled over. She fell into the snow, and I
threw some on her.
‘Oh, look who’s getting into the fun!’ she giggled, brushing herself off and
standing up. ‘See? Snow isn’t all bad.’
I grinned. ‘No, it’s not.’ And I threw a snowball at her face—missing, of
course. She laughed again, shaking her head.
“Ellen?”
I blinked, coming back to reality. “What?” I was too surprised to remember to
snap.
Cohen was staring at me, frowning. “What were you thinking about?” he
asked, sitting down next to me.
“Cyn,” I whispered. I then dropped the bomb. “Do you think about it a lot?”
“Think about what?”
I bit my lip. “About…about when Roger’s going to die.”
Cohen sucked in a breath. “Yeah. All the time. I try not to.”
I stared at the untouched snow in front of me. It was still falling, catching in
my hair and going under my collar. I sighed. “I’m trying not to think about Cyn.
But…it’s hard.”
Cohen laced his hand with mine. I only noticed in passing, barely paying
attention. “It’s not easy. Being the one to watch your friend die…and it’s really hard
at first.” He squeezed my hand. “But it gets easier.”
It was then that I noticed he was still holding my hand. I pulled it away,
stuffing my hands into my pockets. “It doesn’t feel like it will,” I muttered childishly.
“Not now. Not yet. But eventually it will. I didn’t think it would…April’s lipstick
note on the bathroom mirror stayed in my dreams for ages. ‘We’ve got AIDS. I’m
sorry. I can’t do this.’ That’s all she wrote…all she left for Roger. And I kept seeing
those words. They didn’t go away. Roger fell into depression, not playing his guitar,
barely eating or sleeping…” Cohen’s voice was shaking, and I thought he was going
to cry if he kept talking.
So I stopped him. “And then he quit, right?” I had to get him on track—he was
running himself into a hole.
Cohen nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. I found him sitting in his room,
staring at the two syringes…and then he threw them out the window. ‘No more,’ he
said. ‘I’m not doing this shit anymore.’ And he didn’t…for a few months. Then he
got his hands on some, and started up again. Collins had to stop working for a while
to help me.” He broke off, sighing. “Is Cyn quitting?”
I shook my head. “Little fucker said she wasn’t gonna,” I whispered, tears
gathering in my eyes. “She said—said that she as gonna enjoy life because she had
so little left. And she…” I felt a raw sob tear itself from my throat, and hot tears
spilled down my cheeks. I took my hands out of my pockets and put them over my
face, sobbing as quietly as possible. Cohen pulled me close, and I buried my face in
his chest, glad for the comfort.
Why did Cohen have to be so fucking nice? It was like…all he cared about
was making sure the people around him were happy. And I hated him…right?
But I kinda doubted it in that moment. I’d let him hold my hand, hug me…I
even had a fucking snowball fight with him! I wanted to pull away, but I was warm
there and he hugged pretty damn well… Besides, he was keeping the snow from
going down my coat.
Eventually I pulled away and wiped my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.
Cohen shrugged. He looked embarrassed, but I couldn’t tell if he was
blushing—stupid cold air. My cheeks were probably red too.
I took a deep breath, and finished my sentence. “She was saying her
goodbyes. She gave me back this old sweater of mine…” I stopped to swallow the
lump in my throat. “I really…I just don’t want…” I couldn’t let myself cry again.
I felt Cohen catch my hand, and I readied myself to go on. “I don’t want her
do waste her life away. If she’s using her money for drugs…then she isn’t using it
for AZT!” I wiped a few stray tears, and then whispered, “I don’t understand it.”
About an hour later we got back, and I went right to bed and laid there—I was
emotionally exhausted, and more than a little physically exhausted from the
snowball fight. Cohen and I had stayed out as long as we dared, talking…and it
helped. It fucking surprised me, but it had helped.
We covered a range of topics—I cried a lot, which was very fucking
embarrassing…but Cohen didn’t seem to mind. He told me everything that had
happened when Roger found out: first, he hadn’t really reacted, just like Cyn. He
walked around in a daze, saying stuff and then not remembering it. He woke up
laying on the floor in the middle of the loft a lot.
Then came the anger. Cohen had described it as “a wall of anger. Something
that you can’t stop, can’t control, can’t go over or under…and so you have to go
through it.” I could only imagine what he went through with Roger.
The third stage was becoming suicidal. That scared me—would Cyn try and
kill herself? Or had she already passed this stage and that was why she was still on
the drugs?
And finally was the halfhearted acceptance. Roger had taken his AZT, and
regained his quality of life. And he’d quit using. Somehow I didn’t see that with Cyn.
Now I was messed up in my mind, having a fucking internal argument with
myself. I kept seeing Cohen holding my hand, putting his arm around my shoulders,
holding me against his chest as I cried…and it was so…so fucking sweet. He didn’t
seem to care that I hated him…he treated me like any other of his friends.
Some part of me wanted to just give up and accept his friendship. To just…
stop hating him—as must as I could—and try and be civil. It might make staying at
the loft easier—if we weren’t going back and forth fighting or exchanging snippy
remarks, a whole fucking lot of tension would just disappear.
 But…could I really just do that? I knew without hesitating—yes. Especially
after today. I wouldn’t have too much trouble putting aside the majority of our—
well, my—differences and just…being civil. Friends…not yet. Well…maybe.
I hit my pillow in frustration. Why couldn’t I fucking let things stay the same
way? Because you let him hug you, hold your hand, laugh with you, and be normal
with you…it’s your fault. You liked being friendly with him today. The answer was
too easy to get, and I hated everything about it.
I mean, this was Cohen! Mark fucking Cohen, the person I’d basically told to
fuck off the first time I met him.
Before the drugs, an evil little voice said. He was right all along, and you just
don’t want to admit it. I swallowed. Fucking voice was right. He hadn’t gotten to me
because he didn’t have AIDS or HIV…but Roger had. If the situations had been
switched…I would be fine with Cohen and be calling Roger Davis.
I glanced at the clock—it read 9:37. “Oh, fuck it all,” I groaned, rolling out of
bed. I couldn’t stand it any longer—I fucking had to talk to Cohen, and for the
second time in a day. But I couldn’t keep sitting there, going around the same circle
in my head all night.
I hate him.
He’s nice. Why do you hate him?
He came to me at the wrong time.
So? You’ve done what he said to do in the first place. Why not be civil with
him? Why not be friends? Why shouldn’t you give it a try? If it doesn’t work…then
everything can just be like it is now, and it won’t matter.
No, it doesn’t matter. Wait…yes it does! Hate doesn’t go away! I hate him.
I walked to the door, and then leaned against the wall, tears suddenly flowing
from my eyes. Why the fuck was I crying? I kept wondering why as I sank to the
ground, curled my knees to my chest, and sobbed. I hadn’t cried like this since
withdrawal…and this was worse. Somehow, it was worse—it was like my whole
world was breaking into small pieces, and the pieces were being burned. In
withdrawal, only one piece of my life was being broken, being burned…
The door creaked open. I tried to stop myself from crying, but the deep sobs
kept coming. I dropped my head against my knees and wrapped my arms around
my head, not looking at whoever had come in.
Someone sat next to me and held me close, stroking my hair and whispering
soothing nonsense to me. I clung to them tightly, wondering briefly if I was
restricting their breathing.
“Ellen…shh, it’s alright. Everything’s alright now.”
A fresh round of sobs tore from my throat. Cohen…Cohen had come in. I
didn’t know why, maybe it was to see if I was alright or asleep… And now he was
here, sitting on the floor and doing his best to comfort me. I was…I was fucking
touched. He was so nice, so…sweet.
Fuck. Sweet? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sweet—Cohen was sweet. Was he?
Yes, that fucking half of my mind said.
I knew it was right. He tried to make everything ok for me…me, the
emotional nutcase. I couldn’t keep myself straight, and I wasn’t the one with AIDS.
Suddenly I felt Cohen shift, and the floor wasn’t beneath me. I stiffened and
opened my eyes slightly—Cohen was carefully laying me down in my bed, gently
pulling the covers over me… I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be the person who
needed someone to pick up the pieces of their broken emotional psyche.
 But that was what I was. And Cohen had stepped into Cyn’s place to do just
that.