Disclaimer: Don't own them.

A/N: Hello again. First of all, I must apologize for not having posted a new chapter for over two months. I need to make more of a commitment to this, but that won't really happen until summer. School is hectic and I've failed a few tests, but lately I've been spending more time studying instead of using the internet and I've been getting more excellent than failing grades. I'd like to keep that up until the end of the year, and that means there probably won't be a new chapter after this one until the summer, as I'll be devoting my free time to studying. I'm sure those of you in school can all relate to my dilemma and hopefully find it within yourselves to forgive me for my absence. I made this chapter super long to make up for the two months of nothingness you've received. Because I haven't written a lot since the last chapter, my writing might be shaky or weird-sounding, so for that I also apologize. I tried to put as much emotion as humanly possible into this, but near the end of this chapter my mom started watching TV and it was distracting, but I NEEDED to finish this, so I continued until the end. So blame my mother for that one.

This, sadly, might be all until the summer, unless one of the weekends between now and then clears itself up. Please enjoy this and review. Let me know how you feel about how the story is going, because my worst fear is letting you all down.

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The rhythm of Mark's heart became more sporadic as the day outside darkened into evening. Dressed in the best clothes he owned, he perched himself on the arm of the couch, his usual post, with his eyes locked on Roger as he ran a comb through his hair. The bathroom floor was still wet, a reminder of the dilemma that had occurred earlier in the day. Since then Mark's heart rate only seemed to increase, serving as another reminder of the terror he had felt when Roger fainted.

Roger's hair was still damp, with droplets of moisture clinging to each individual strand. The last time they had a blow dryer take up permanent residence in the apartment was when April was alive. Mimi would bring one up with her when she stayed, but since she lived just downstairs it was much more convenient when she used her own bathroom. With his thoughts on Mimi, Mark now found himself smiling at a picture he had taken of Roger and Mimi on the swings at the park. There was a leaf stuck in Roger's hair, and both his and Mimi's cheeks were pink from the frigid air. I miss those days, Mark thought sadly. Days where they were still healthy, if you could even call it that. Healthy enough to go out in the cold for more than ten minutes at a time.

Taking the gaudy frame composed of cardboard slabs with glued on macaronis and Fruit Loops (a gift from Angel that during periods of starvation they had surprisingly enough managed to avoid eating), Mark brushed his thumb over the image of Roger's face. It gave him a feeling of contentment, but the feeling was short-lived, as it vanished the instant he remembered Mimi was in the picture as well. A mixture of emotions assaulted Mark, ranging from jealousy to confusion to absolute disgust towards himself. Mimi's an amazing girl and I'm happy that Roger has someone like her, Mark told himself sternly. And I'm his best friend. Just his best friend. And that's all I'm ever going to be.

The sound of hoarse coughing drew Mark's attention back to the bathroom. As soon as his eyes had met with Roger's the guitarist ceased coughing and smiled grimly at Mark. Roger had been so tied up in the task of trying to suppress the coughs he didn't seem to notice Mark jumble with the picture frame before slamming it back into its spot, causing a few loose Fruit Loops to detach. Despite himself Roger let out a few more coughs just before clearing his throat forcefully and grabbing the glass they kept at the sink for water. Mark gave up trying to steady the frame and watched with concern as Roger filled the glass to the brim and guzzled it. Sputtering a little as another cough seized his lungs, Roger forced the rest of the water down, turned to Mark to grin again and signed "Just a tickle."

Less than convinced, Mark nodded solemnly as Roger dumped the remaining water down the drain and shuffled out to get his jacket. Struggling with the feeble scrap of fabric, Roger finally got his arms through the proper holes only to discover that the zipper was broken. Mark furrowed his brow as Roger wrestled with the zipper, wondering how much money they could afford to put towards a new coat. Once Roger had curbed his aggravating attempts to fix the zipper, he glanced at Mark, trying to hide his frustration but failing miserably. Mark figured now would be the best time to introduce the idea of getting a new coat. "Do you want to visit the flea market on our way to the Life?" Mark signed swiftly, pretty excited himself, anxious for Roger's reaction. "Perhaps pick up a new coat?"

Roger watched intently, and then nodded to show his comprehension, his lips curving slightly with signs of a smile. Mark was aware that he had strict rules when it came to money; he liked to put it all towards Roger's AZT, then let the rent and price of food eat up whatever money remained, if any. But he knew that a decent coat was just as important to his friend's health as the medicine he took at intervals through the day. Besides, after all he'd gone through since his hearing loss Roger deserved something nice, something he not only needed, but wanted.

Fingering the small mass of bills in his jean pocket, Mark led the way out of the building, glancing back as he hurried down the stairs to make sure Roger didn't lose his footing. The two men stepped out into the street, the air crisp and cool beneath a magnificently black sky. On their way to the Life they passed a small market that specialized in clothing and accessories. Before purchasing the coat that Roger chose for himself he and Mark marveled over a barrel of walking sticks. Roger smirked as he picked up a smooth wooden one, then proceeded to parade about the sidewalk in a stately manner, swinging the cane. Mark couldn't help but laugh as he took the cane away from Roger like a mother prying something dirty or dead out of her child's grasp and dropped it back into the barrel.

The Life wasn't as cluttered as usual, which was a good thing, Mark supposed. He kept in mind that Roger was just being reintroduced back to society, and though it wasn't the first time this was happening, he still wanted to keep things as comfortable and calm as humanly possible for him. Of course, Mark knew that would be a difficult thing to achieve when he spotted Maureen's glowing face pressed against the window.

She mauled Roger the second he and Mark entered, clutching his gaunt face in her hands and squeezing his cheeks like a solicitous aunt, though Roger had gotten so thin that his dimples had grown fainter and there wasn't much cheek left to pinch. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Maureen slid her hands to the top of his head and clutched a handful of his freshly cut hair. "Look at you!" she crooned, delighted at the sight of Roger's haircut; Mark couldn't help but beam with self-satisfaction at his successful attempt at grooming Roger.

Despite his appreciative smile, Joanne could see that Roger was growing uncomfortable with Maureen's prodding, and she pried her girlfriend away, massaging her shoulders persuasively when she whined in protest. After a few seconds of enjoying the unexpected back rub, Maureen broke away from Joanne, but instead of fussing over Roger again, she came barreling towards Mark. Grabbing his hand before he could escape, she lowered her voice and smiled at him sadly. "And how have you been, Pookie?"

He had assumed he would feel the usual pang of nausea at the mention of his old pet name, but surprisingly he felt nothing. It came as a huge relief, especially since he had more important things on his mind and there was no room for remorse over a relationship that had ended years ago. "We've been okay."

Her brown gaze was fixed intently on his face, pinning him against the wall like a butterfly in an insect collection. "But Mark," she said, sounding utterly serious for the first time in… well, forever. "How are you?"

Before Mark could formulate an answer that would satisfy her, Joanne called from one of the many tables in the café, where she and Roger had taken their seats among the others during Mark and Maureen's private, albeit brief, chat. Mark was grateful to find that everyone was sitting at an inconspicuous table situated in the corner of the room. Wonderful. For once we won't be attracting attention to ourselves. Mark thought. The waiters will be pleased as well, I'm sure.

With Mark's hand still in her grip, Maureen led him through the throng of people waiting to be seated. Once Maureen released him to reassume her spot on Joanne's lap, Mark took the empty seat next to Roger, who was looking sheepish and shy with Mimi on his other side. While the two, who hadn't seen each other in over a week, got reacquainted, Mark was introduced to Collins's new companion. "Mark, this is Ray," Collins said, gesturing to a young albino beside him. "Ray, this is Mark, one of my old room-mates as well as a very good friend."

Ray was slender, with short, fluffy white hair, delicate, almost feminine features (though, unlike Angel, he was anything but a transvestite), and pinkish red eyes. His fidgety demeanor and the nervous way he blinked reminded Mark of a rabbit contemplating crossing a busy road. Beside the dark Collins, the whiteness of Ray's skin was magnified, and smushed between Joanne and Collins, Mark couldn't help but see him as the cream filling of an Oreo cookie. Ray's pale lips curled up in a small, shy smile as he and Mark looked each other over, and then reached simultaneously across the table to shake hands. "Nice to meet you," Ray said softly, and Mark replied likewise.

"You two will be great friends, I'm sure," Collins assured them. "Ray, this is the guy that made that documentary you saw the other night. He's a filmmaker."

"Really?" Ray asked, suddenly showing a genuine interest in Mark, not just interest feigned for the sake of politeness. "I'm a playwright. I've never actually written a real script for a real movie, but some of my work's been performed by amateur troupes."

Maureen perked up at Ray's words and immediately stole the conversation away before Mark had the opportunity to respond or show his appreciation. "In case you ever need someone strong, beautiful, and independent to fill a lead role," Maureen breathed dramatically, leaning over Joanne so Ray could get a closer look at her. "I'm an actress."

By now Mark had decided he over-satisfied his Maureen quota for the day. Opening the menu he knew by heart, he scanned the pages for anything new, but nothing seemed appealing. In the background Mimi talked about her new job at the Rojo Calor, about how the boss fired another girl to make room for Mimi and that every trek to work was like a game of survival; the girl she replaced wasn't quick to forgive Mimi for sending her into the streets without a job. Zoning out, with his menu still open, Mark secretly concentrated on Roger, whose congested breathing could be heard over Maureen's chatter. He wondered if anyone else heard it; if they did, they weren't saying anything. Or maybe they just didn't care as much as he did. Mark Cohen, that is a terrible thing to think, Mark reprimanded himself. You think you're the only one who cares about Roger? Just look at all these people, here to support him.

Despite what he told himself, it barely seemed anyone was acknowledging Roger. Mark understood that Ray was shy and didn't know Roger that well, and Joanne and Maureen didn't know any sign language other than the obscene ones Collins taught them when they were all drunk. Mimi knew a little, Collins knew more, but since they sat down, neither glanced in Roger's general direction. Just a smile from Collins or a peck on the cheek from Mimi would have sufficed, but Roger received neither. Did they think he changed? Were they afraid of how he'd react to them?

Peering across the laminated surface of the menu, Mark watched Roger as he stared dully down at his napkin, creased from having been folded numerous times. Perhaps it was just the abnormally dim lighting, or maybe his prescription was failing him, but through Mark's lenses Roger seemed to be an unhealthy sallow hue. Suddenly Roger's breathing was cut short, as if something was obstructing his airway, and in one subtle movement he brought his napkin to his mouth and coughed, letting the fabric muffle the sound. Everyone was too caught up in their own prattling to regard this, but Mark couldn't pry his eyes away from his friend. The fit only lasted for a few seconds, and Mark tried to relax, but afterwards every cough from Roger or even just the clearing of his throat or a sniffle left Mark feeling tense and fearful.

Shortly after they all settled down, the waiter arrived, licking the tips of his finger and flipping to a fresh sheet in his skimpy notepad. Finding himself suddenly without an appetite, Mark only asked for a small order of cheese fries, knowing that was all he could afford anyway, aside from Roger's dinner. Next to him Roger scrunched up his forehead, squinting down at his menu with as if the words were all jumbled. "And you?" the waiter asked, addressing Roger, who continued to let his eyes wander over the menu, oblivious to the question.

Mark tapped him on the shoulder and at once Roger sprang into alertness. His eyes met Mark's for a few seconds, then raised to the waiter as he hovered, hawk like, above him. Suddenly embarrassed, Roger glanced down sharply, looking briefly over the menu again before waving his hand dismissively. "Roger, honey, you have to eat," Mimi demanded, her full concern now resting with her boyfriend.

Mark translated this for Roger, careful to leave 'honey' out. Sighing with defeat, Roger pointed indifferently to 'Broccoli and Cheese Soufflé', his eyes never returning to the menu. With a scoff of impatience the waiter jotted the order down before moving counter-clockwise around the table until everyone was taken care of. Mark watched the waiter strut off, an irregular anger frothing inside of him, but his attention was restored at the table with some more raucous coughing from Roger. This time everyone heard it, as Roger couldn't hold the coughs in long enough to muffle them into the napkin. "Okay?" Mimi signed, concern visible as deep wrinkles in her forehead.

Roger nodded but continued coughing nevertheless, holding the napkin against his mouth and turning away from Mimi to prevent exposing her to any illness he might have developed. He sat hunched towards Mark, who couldn't do anything to help except rub Roger's back as he dug his head into Mark's chest, clutching the napkin to his mouth. Everyone at the table, if not everyone in the entire café, was silent, save Roger, of course, as his inclement coughs filled the silent void. However, Mark's pacifying touch seemed to appease the paroxysms, and soon the spasms had subsided long enough to allow Roger a few gulps of air. Coughing only a few times more, with less intensity than before, he sat up straight and took a sip from his glass of water, trying to ignore the disquieted looks everyone was giving him.

Mark was the only one who didn't gawk; instead he directed his gaze down towards his lap where his hands were resting. The stillness in the room was as unsettling as Roger's still labored breathing. Risking a glimpse across the table, Mark saw Collins raise his hands and prepare to sign something just as Roger muttered "bathroom" and staggered out of his chair.

Everyone sat in silence for a while, staring at their utensils, but avoiding eye contact with each other. After a while, Mimi stood up with a gasp that might have been the beginning of a sob, pressing her palms against the table for support, every limb trembling with repressed anxiety. "I think I'm going to go," she declared steadily, trying to maintain an unruffled composure despite her trembling, which was progressing to the point of shaking the entire table.

Moving her hand to the back of her chair, she leaned unstably towards Mark, whispering with a quaking voice on the verge of weeping in his ear. "Go make sure he's okay, then send him outside. He's coming home with me."

Excusing himself, Mark helped Mimi to the door, where she hugged him quickly before stepping outside to light up a cigarette. Then, with his heart hammering away at his ribcage, he strode swiftly to the bathroom, trying to avoid looking at his friends, grave with worry, as he passed their table.

Panic snagged Mark's heart and squeezed it into pulp when he entered the seemingly empty bathroom. Holy shit, where'd he go? Where could he have possibly gone? I saw him go right into this bathroom, I swear I did! The sound of someone sneezing in one of the stalls recaptured both Mark's attention and sanity, and he sprinted in the direction the sound came from. Peering into the stall, he saw Roger clutching one hand to his stomach and holding a crumpled bunch of toilet paper in the other. He was leaning against the wall, with the clump of toilet paper pressed to his nose, and he was poised so that he could easily drop before the toilet and retch if needed. Mark could see clearly now, in the brighter, more natural lighting of the bathroom, that the ashen tone to Roger's skin wasn't an optical illusion. He really did look terrible.

Just as he spotted Mark Roger stifled another sneeze with the mass of tissues, his shoulders drawn taut as the force wracked his already weak body. A groan escaped his throat as he slid weakly to the floor, his eyes closed tightly. Mark watched Roger, the man he respected, the man he feared, the man he loved, shrink before him. How did he get so weak? He seemed okay a few minutes ago… is it possible that he was hiding this pain from us the whole time?

Before he could wonder anymore, Mark felt a set of bony fingers clamp around his ankle. "Mark."

Looking down, he could see Roger's glazed eyes staring up at him pleadingly, his hand clasping quite firmly around his ankle, despite his weakness. Mark kneeled and pulled Roger against him, unfazed with the fact that he could throw up any second. Mark would have taken Roger's ailment upon himself if it would leave Roger completely pain free. He knew Roger would be too proud to ask such a favor, that is, if such a favor were possible. But at this point, Mark wasn't sure how much longer Roger's pride would last, if it hadn't already shattered. He is on the bathroom floor, Mark reminded himself glumly.

Mark patted the back of Roger's head, running his hand up and down the hair he was so proud of, drenched through with a cold sweat. Roger sniffled against Mark's shirt from both the effort of holding back tears and this sudden illness. Mark was filled with dread as he recalled that the flu season was rapidly approaching, but how could Roger be sick? Until now, we haven't left the house ever since he got sick… how could he have possibly been exposed to the flu?

And then it hit him. They hadn't left the house, not together, but Roger could have easily snuck out while Mark was at the food store. And as much as he wanted to trust Roger, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Roger!" Mark snapped, despite his efforts to remain calm.

He pushed Roger upright and held him at an arm's length away from him, both of his hands on his shoulders. "Have you been out of the loft before now?" he asked, trying to speak slowly so Roger could comprehend but speeding up unintentionally as his heart rate grew more frantic.

Though Roger's eyes were blank, Mark knew that he understood, but simply chose to not answer, hiding behind his deafness. "Roger!" Mark barked, losing all sense of reason and shaking Roger with frustration. "Did you leave the loft?"

Roger pulled away from Mark and leered at him, backing into the stall while Mark fumed with anger. He nodded defiantly, giving Mark a 'So what if I did?' look that only upset him more. "Why would you need to leave the loft?" Mark said, his voice high and hysterical; with his hands now free, he began to sign as well as talk, though his hands couldn't keep up with the words as they poured out of his mouth. "I brought you everything you needed and wanted. What could you possibly need that I couldn't get you? What was so important that you needed to leave the loft yourself, putting you health in jeopardy, to get?"

Whiter than the porcelain toilet behind him, Roger stared back at Mark, though during the tirade he had gone from ready to spit a slew of insults at Mark to ready to spit up much more. As sick as Roger looked, Mark had to know the truth. He had to know why his friend still insisted on lying and hiding things, even after all these years together, even now that Roger was on the brink of death. "Was it heroin, Roger?" Mark exploded, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "Did you sneak out to pay a visit to your old friend the drug dealer? Did you get a kick out of duping stupid old Mark who has been nothing but loyal and reliable to you?"

Silent tears slid down Roger's pallid face, but Mark would have continued to shout if Roger hadn't turned away from him to hunch up against the toilet. Mark's anger melted away the second the vomit hit the water, and he was behind Roger immediately, thankful that Roger's hair wasn't so long that it needed holding back. He waited until the pattern of choking and retching turned to dry-heaving before helping Roger up and letting him lean on him. "I'm sorry Rog, I'm sorry," Mark nearly whispered, his lips pressed against Roger's temple as he uttered the words. "It's going to be alright. We're going home now. You, me, Mimi, we're all going home. It's going to be okay."

He shuffled out of the bathroom with Roger, then hurried through the café to the exit without even sparing a glance at the table where they had been sitting earlier in the evening. He pushed open the glass door and helped Roger down the stairs, eager to get back to the loft, away from the intrusive eyes and ears that followed them out of the restaurant. He steadied Roger against him, wrapping his arm around his body and holding him close at his side for warmth and support. This isn't the end, Mark's mind persisted. I won't let these moments be his last. He won't die, not now. He'll live to see another day, another week, another month, if I can help it.

Little did Mark know that someone else very dear to him had suffered through their last moments just outside the Life Café while he and Roger were in the bathroom. He was so determined to get Roger home and into bed that the thought of Mimi didn't even cross his mind until he passed under the first streetlight just before the alleyway beside the café and saw the bloody footprints in the freshly fallen snow…