Disclaimer: I do not own Mark nor Roger. They belong to Jonathan Larson. I could never take credit for them.

Author's Note: This is a one-shot I wrote a while back. It was really short and lame, though, so I took it and fixed it up. Because I like it. I wrote the original in honor of Manley Pope's last night as Roger on Broadway (December 29, 2002 if I remember correctly). I adore Manley, he was a brilliant Roger. This is my tribute to a job well done, hehe.

Roger stares up at the dark ceiling of his frozen room. He is buried in almost all of the blankets Mark could find, but he is still shivering. The guitarist shakes with the effects of a fever and night sweats, and he feels, inside of him, that he will not last much longer.

Everything is a blur to him. He does not remember what got him so sick, he doesn't remember the visit to the clinic to get looked at, nor does he remember what the doctor said to him. He does not remember how he felt when he heard that the virus had finally started to take hold of him. He remembers the look on Mark's face. The filmmaker lost all color. Roger thought that even he had to look better than Mark at the moment. He remembers Mark crying.

A rough cough leaves Roger. The guitarist clutches at his chest in slight pain, and tries to get his breathing back in order. He cannot stand lying there, in his room, waiting for death. This is not how it's supposed to be. He decides that, if he's going to die, he is not going to die in bed like this. He is going to die with his head held high. This decided, he gets out of bed.

Immediately, a wave of things hit the songwriter. The first thing he notices is the pain in his stomach. He has not eaten anything in days. His appetite has diminished significantly, and so has his weight. Roger makes a face. He is hungry, but does not think he can stomach the food.

Next, Roger notices how bad his fever is. His room is swimming before him. His head aches. He feels as though he's on fire, but, at the same time, he is chilled to the bone. The third thing he notices is how cold it is when he isn't under the protection of the thing quilts. The cold, December chill of the loft clings to him like a lonely child. It infuses the sweat that Roger is drenched in. It is like ice. Regardless, Roger stands up.

He is not surprised when he nearly falls over again. He's no longer in the same condition he was merely a week ago. This knowledge disturbs him. Picking up his guitar, Roger shuffles noiselessly to the living room. He collapses on the window sill, where he leans his head against the smooth, cold window pane. For nearly ten minutes, Roger clenches his eyes against the pain coursing through his body. He can't help but smirk slightly. He thought withdrawal was painful. Finally, Roger looks out at the city.

It is a gorgeous night, Roger thinks. The snow is falling gently to the streets, twinkling in the lights from the many buildings all around the loft. Everything is quiet. Almost dead. Roger would snort in amusement if he could care enough to be amused. He does not want to die this night. It is too peaceful. Almost mocking. As he turns to go sit on the couch, another coughing fit takes over him.

Roger stands up to return to his room, before he wakes Mark. His weakness finally takes over and he falls to his knees, pressing his forehead to the hard floor. He continues coughing, and vaguely hears the sound of Mark's door opening. Before he can think, he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. He hears Mark's voice in his ear.

"Roger … Take a deep breath. You need to breathe, alright?"

Roger knows Mark has no idea what he's talking about. Despite this, he tries to take deep breaths. For Mark's sake. Mark is not satisfied. The filmmaker helps his best friend stand, and he takes him back to his room. The moment Roger is back in bed, Mark runs to get a thermometer. He takes Roger's temperature and swallows. The thermometer reads 105.1.

"Hold tight, Rog …" Mark's voice is barely above a whisper. He rushes to the bathroom and wets a facecloth, returning in seconds. When he places the cloth on Roger's forehead, he has to fight back tears. Roger is shivering uncontrollably (or is that himself?). He doesn't know. He smoothes back Roger's hair. For the first time, he doesn't know what to do.

Roger starts coughing once more. Mark winces at the sound of it. It is rough and awful, and with every cough Roger looks like he's in more pain. It takes what seems like forever for it to die down, and Roger's eyes get slightly wide.

"Mark …" Roger looks over at the filmmaker. He swallows, and breathes heavily. "I can't breath properly … I'm sore … I don't … This is it, isn't it?" Roger whispers those words. It sends chills up Mark's spine.

"No … No, it's not …" Mark isn't entirely sure he believes himself. For years he's though about this happening, but, now that it is, he can't believe it. He feels his breath catch in his throat. Roger can't die. Not now. It's just a false alarm … Mimi didn't die. She did eventually, though, Mark remembers. He grasps Roger's hands. "You're not going to die, Roger … You … You can't die." The tears take over, and a sob escapes Mark's throat. "You can't leave me alone here."

Roger watches Mark. If he's crying himself, he can't tell him. His face is already wet with sweat. He holds Mark's hand tightly.

"You're not alone," is Roger's breathy reply. For a moment, the only sound is him trying to breath properly again. "Never alone." Roger realizes now why everyone else was so brave to go. They had to be brave. For everyone else. Roger doesn't want to be brave, but he will be. For Mark.

"Yes, I am!" Mark buries his head into the blankets on Roger's stomach. He's shaking as much as the guitarist now. He has never been more scared in his life. His throat is constricted. He feels closed in.

"I don't … I don't want to die." Roger can't bother to be brave. "I haven't … Done anything. I can't die …" He closes his eyes. It takes too much effort to keep them open now. Mark only replies with a quiet cry. "If you … If you say goodbye to everyone … For me … I'll say hello for you …" The songwriter swallows. He can't feel anything anymore.

"I don't … What?" Mark wipes furiously at his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Say goodbye … To the others. Collins, Joanne, Maureen, and Benny … I'll … I'll say hello to April, Angel, and Mimi … They'll want to know … How you all are."

"Oh, God …" Mark grips Roger's hand tighter and blinks away his tears. "Don't talk like that, Roger … You're going to be fine … You aren't going to die, alright? Just … Relax for the night … By morning everything will better."

Roger nods a bit. His hair is sticking to his forehead but he does nothing about it. It won't matter for much longer. He and Mark don't speak anymore. They stay there through the night, with Roger lying down, trying to breathe properly and get some sleep, and Mark trying to lower Roger's fever without success. It isn't until the sun starts rising that Roger breaks the morbid silence.

"Mark …"

Mark looks up at Roger. He is nearly falling asleep with his head Resting on Roger's stomach, but something in the songwriter's voice wakes him up. He has never heard Roger sound so lifeless before. A pin hitting the floor would've been louder.

"Yeah?" Mark swallows. His throat hurts from doing that so much during the night, but it's all he can do to keep from crying again. He doesn't want to hear was Roger has to say.

"I can't …" Roger pauses to breath. He looks pained and abused. "I can't hold on anymore. It hurts. I just … I want it to end."

"Don't give up!" Mark's voice takes on a panicked tone. He clasps Roger's hand in both of his. "This isn't anything, Rog. Please, don't leave ..." He can feel fresh tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I've got to, Mark … I can't … I can't cheat death anymore. We both knew this day was coming."

Mark is astonished. For years Roger has let it be known that he's afraid of dying. Now, suddenly, he is accepting it. Mark can hear it in the guitarist's. It is not defeat. It is truth. Roger knows this too. He looks at Mark.

"Take care of yourself. For me." Roger smiles weakly. He grips Mark's hand with all his strength. "Get your film out there. Next time I see you, you'd better be famous." He feels his breath slowing down.

"That's not funny, Rog …" Mark words are barely audible through his crying.

"Who said it was supposed to be?" Roger takes a deep breath in. His pain is slipping away. It feels good. He opens his eyes monetarily and looks at Mark. "Bye, Mark …" He closes his eyes, feeling his own tears escaping his eyes. "Goodbye glory," he whispers.

Mark lets out a strangled sob, and Roger's hand slips out of his grasp.

Author's Note: There you have it. I think it's a bit lame, personally. I was crying as I wrote it, haha. Reviews are always welcome.