Author's Note/Disclaimer: I don't own it!

Portrait of a Songwriter

There are a handful of moments in your life that you will never forget. You will remember where you were, what you were doing – what time it was, who you were with. You will remember who was there, who wasn't there, your feelings, what you said, what you didn't, what you should've. These moments change your life – for the good, for the worse – no matter, they change your life and there's nothing that can change that.

Mark Cohen was a firm believer of these moments – he felt that they defined you, that they made you who you are. If asked, he'd ask you to sit on the ratty old couch of the loft, make you a cup of tea, and tell you whatever you wanted to know. He'd even listen to your moments, too, because he was just beautiful like that – always interested, always caring.

Mark's moments were heartbreaking and beautiful and sad and joyous and emotional, and he'd talk with his hands as he spoke about them, using his fingers and gestures as punctuation, something he was pretty known for doing.

"They're like mini-portraits of who you are," He'd say, pushing his glasses up on his nose and running his hand through white-blonde hair, "How you reacted, how you took in those moments – they all say something about you. Even how you remember them is a mini portrait of you."

For Mark Cohen, these moments spanned his whole life, from day one ongoing, and they were beautiful and sad and moving and happy and bittersweet- and they were all told through the poignant words of a writer and a filmmaker, who could always paint a picture through his dialogue.

Collins' last words were one, Mimi's faint smile the day before she disappeared, the first pure silence after Roger left for Santa Fe.

The Life after Maureen's protest, meeting Joanne for the first time, Angel and her drums.

When Benny moved out, Roger's fist when he had attacked him through the worst of withdrawal, the feeling of Roger shaking in his arms as he cried because of the pain that had replaced the heroin, April's pool of blood on the white tiled floor.

The day he decided to leave Brown, his sister's wedding, when he moved out of his house.

Graduation day, prom with Abby Miller, the first time he got to film a short movie for his video class...

…Getting the lead in the high school play as a sophomore, going camping in seventh grade, breaking his arm in second.

They all were moments – sparse and simple – but they were Mark and he was them. He loved talking about them, loved telling his stories, because he was good at it. He was good at making you laugh and then cry from moment to moment.

And Mark thrived on this feeling, because it was who he was. A filmmaker, a storyteller. He was their rock, the listener, the heart, the glue.

That's why as Roger stared at Mark's body in the tub, empty bottle on the sink, he couldn't help but throw up.

"They're who you are," Mark Cohen would say with a grin as he sipped his chamomile tea, quilt tucked around his body, "It's so weird, right? That these little memories all add up to who you are and what makes you you."

Roger never thought that this would be one of his moments, something that would define his life, would define Mark's life- define their life.

But as the sobs bubbled up, he realized that Mark had been right in some ways – he'd never forget this moment, kneeling in the bathroom over his best friend.

On the other hand, Mark had been wrong – because it wasn't just this moment that defined Roger. It was Mark who had defined Roger, and he would never forget a smile, the hand gestures, the glasses.

The heart, the words, the storyteller, the filmmaker.

Because Mark was, to put it quite simply, Roger's life.

Roger's best friend, cohort, conspirator, soulmate – even as Mimi held his heart, Mark held his soul.

He was Roger's portrait.