Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns all, and I respect him immensely

My fantasies about Roger… they were never like this. I did, admittedly, dream of falling asleep and waking up in his arms, and those dreams have come true. More often, though, it was not his arms I dreamt of. I wanted him to be rough with me, use me, tease me, please me… I was a boy with a crush, and all I wanted was sex.

Mark stood at the stove. Finances were kind again, with Roger tending bar and Collins cheating the University of California at Berkeley, his latest employer, into buying his and Roger's AZT. Thus as Mark stood at the stove, he was not reduced to dreaming of a hot breakfast and trying to quell his rumbling stomach with gulps of water. Instead, Mark stood at the stove watching a battered egg cook.

Roger wandered into the kitchen, shuffling socked feet across the floor. He yawned, scratched the back of his head and gave Mark a quick kiss on the cheek. "'Morning."

"'Morning."

One of the first things I learned about Roger is that he has no idea how to kiss with his mouth open. The entire act confuses and scares him. He doesn't know what to do with his tongue. "Let's not," he would say. "Let's just… sit here." I spent more than enough evenings in Roger's lap, being held, talking quietly about nothing in particular. That was intimacy, to Roger, and he was right.

Roger filled a cup with tap water, gargled and spat. "That's not brushing," Mark told him.

"Didn't say so," Roger mumbled. "Coffee?"

Mark shook his head. Grumbling, Roger shuffled around the kitchen until he had the coffee on their trusty hotplate. "You're not eating enough," Mark said, sparking an old debate.

"Neither are you," Roger reminded him.

"You're sick."

"You're not."

Mark sighed. "There's orange juice."

"I'll pour a cup for you."

"Why don't you--"

"I'm having coffee."

Roger opened the refrigerator door. "There's no orange juice," he said.

Roger wanted to protect me almost as much as I wanted to protect him. The difference was that his body was breaking down. He would, in time, develop those horrid sarcomas, grow sick, die maybe from a common cold. I wanted to keep him alive. He wanted to make me strong enough to survive. Roger has always been too weak to understand strength.

They sat at the bench by the window, each with egg-on-toast and coffee. "How are you feeling today?" Mark asked.

Roger nodded. "Pretty good," he said. He took a bite of breakfast, filled the remaining space in his mouth with coffee, chewed a few times and swallowed. "I…" He savored the good news for a few moments before telling Mark, "I've gained weight."

Mark's face lit up. "Really?" he asked. Roger nodded. "That's… that's great, Rog."

"I'm still under," Roger added quickly. "But it's better now, it's… it's good." He jammed the toast into his mouth, stuffing his cheeks to chipmunk capacity before swallowing.

"Let's see," Mark urged. When Roger grinned and shook his head, Mark insisted, "Come on. I won't film if you'll do it now."

Roger blushed, but his grin widened to a canine degree. "The Mark Cohen pornos, featuring extremely obese, HIV+ men, cater to a surprising majority of middle-aged businessmen," he joked. He finished his breakfast and downed the remaining coffee.

"You're still underweight," Mark reminded him. Roger lifted his shirt: neither a KS lesion nor an outlined rib in sight. "Aww," Mark said. "That's what I like to see."

Roger let his shirt drop. "Okay," he said, "no more peepshow for Mark. Eat," he added, then rose and headed for the sink, dishes in hand. Mark grabbed Roger's arm.

"Hey," he said. Roger looked down. "Kiss?"

"Always." Roger pecked Mark on the lips, so short a kiss Mark almost doubted their lips had truly touched.

Roger will never give me an erection. He will never fellate or sodomize me, and I have accepted that. Our relationship isn't about sex. It's about love and protecting each other, and if keeping him happy means my sex life involves only chaste kisses, cuddles and tiny, tickling eyelashes blinked against my cheek, so be it. I'm in love. And, at long last, not unremitted.

END.

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