It started off okay. It was just mild cough. A sniffle here or there. A slight fever. Everyone gets these little sickness from time to time. Even Roger.

And even though every time Roger gets a bit sick it worries Mark completely out of his mind, he doesn't ever show it. He knows that he is probably overreacting, that even people with HIV get a little bit ill now and again and that it doesn't spell the beginning of the end for them, but even though he knows this it always seems like it will be the end of Roger. By now Mark is used to losing his greatest friends to this goddamned virus. Angel. And Mimi. And Collins. At least, he feels like he should be used to it. But it isn't the kind of thing anyone ever really adjusts to. So his obsession over Roger's health has become somewhat manic. He hates saying anything, he hates bringing it up to Roger, reminding him of all the horrible things that one little cough could mean. So he keeps these dark thoughts to himself. Locking them away is what he's always been good at.

And normally the illness passes and so do Mark's dark thoughts and anxious fears. But this time it's not, and Mark's head has become even more morbid. Just like how Roger's coughs have become more hacking and painful sounding, and how his fever is steadily climbing into dangerous regions, Mark's thoughts and imagination seem to escalate, until every little thing sends his thoughts reeling into a horrible spiral of possibilities. His filmmaker's mind often likes to conjure up images when he thinks and imagines things, and the things it's coming up with for him now are just too horrible to face. Roger wasting away in his little bed in the loft. Roger actually dying. These are by far the worst images, Mark's mind just has to supply him with every possibly detail in these scenes. Everything from a death rattle to what Roger's cold, dead skin would feel like. How would it react to the lighting in the room, would it be any different from the real, living, breathing Roger?

The loft is full of Roger, full of whatever cold he has now, full of these images, and Mark needs to get out.

Roger's currently sitting under a pile of blankets on their couch, leaning against the arm rest and seemingly ignoring the fact that he has an outrageous fever. He can't seem to feel this, he still shivers and Mark is sure that it's a sign of a more serious illness. He sighs. "I'm gonna go out and film," he tells Roger, gesturing outwards with his camera.

"Okay," Roger agrees, nodding his head. The nodding appears to be a mistake, for Roger shuts his eyes immediately afterwards and sways a little bit.

Mark crosses the room at once and kneels, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder to steady him.

Roger's eyes flutter open and his shoulders roll, shrugging off Mark's hand. "M'okay," he mumbles, trying to sound reassuring.

Mark frowns at him, but stands up anyways, placing the back of his hand against Roger's forehead as he turns to leave. It's burning. Mark wouldn't be surprised to see literal flames engulfing Roger's body. He feels like he should say something before he leaves, but he can't really think of what to say (or why he wants to say something so badly) and Roger just sits beneath his hand. "I-" Mark begins, but the first syllable of some phrase gets caught in his throat and Mark chokes on it, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. Instead of saying anything he just flips his palm and brushes the edge of Roger's hairline with his thumb before heading out the door.

Once he's out of the loft the stagnant air in the building is more suffocating than trying to talk to Roger, and before Mark knows it, he's sprinting down the stairs and bursting onto the street, gasping in huge lungfuls of sharp New York air. No passerby spares him a second glance and he slowly sinks against the side of the building. He doesn't know he's shaking until he's trying to lower himself down on shaking legs.

He'd hoped time away from Roger and the possibilities of HIV and AIDS and death would help steady his thoughts into something manageable. As it just so happens to turn out, it's quite the opposite. When Mark's alone and doesn't have to hide his feelings away from others they burst out of him with a sudden, fierce intensity. All of a sudden he can't seem to get enough air to his lungs and they start working overtime, his breaths become short and quick. But it doesn't work, he's having a panic attack, and as his lungs burn and beg for oxygen, his mind races onwards imagining all sorts of horrendous scenes, each one worse than the last, and Roger in a hospital, Roger in his bed, Roger in a coffin, and Mark all alone, and cold, empty, drafty loft, and Roger Roger Roger Roger.

"Mark! Mark!" someone yells in his ear, snapping their fingers in front on his face. "Mark!"

It doesn't help much, but it does give Mark something to focus on and with a massive effort and a shuddering breath he brings his thoughts back to someplace close to sanity, but the attack doesn't subside and his breaths still come in short, unhelpful gasps.

"Mau-reen," he gasps, recognizing the face in front of him. There's another face too, crouching besides Maureen's.

"Mark?" Joanne asks.

Mark just nods, trying to calm his breathing. It's not working and his thoughts are beginning to spiral again which makes it all worse and now he's panicking because he can't breathe, and Roger's going to die of some stupid cold because of his goddamn AIDS, and Mark is going to die of suffocation because of his fucking anxiety and air air air air.

"Mark, honey, focus on me, okay?" Maureen says, placing her hands on Mark's heaving shoulders.

"Try-" Mark can't even form more than a single syllable at this point and he's losing control of absolutely everything and the world is fucking collapsing around him, and it's the end, it's the apocalypse, and they're all going to die, and shit shit shit shit.

"Mark, you're breathing too fast for your body to take it all in!" Maureen yells anxiously over Mark's loud, hurried gasps. "Try to breathe with me, okay?" she urges. "In, out. In, out," she chants like some ridiculous monk, but Mark is way past this point and his fingers scrabble helplessly against the cement of the street, trying to find something for him to latch onto, as if that will help.

He's really convinced now that he's dying, against the wall of his stupid, cold, unforgiving, overall shitty building with its bastard of an ex-friend landlord, and roughly five stories above him Roger is dying too, lying against their shitty, broken couch where some of the springs poke through, coughing his lungs out because once he and his girlfriend were stupid druggies who used a dirty needle, and now not even Roger's body can take care of him like Mark can, but Mark can't do anything at this point, and he can't do anything at all if he's dead, which he will be soon if he doesn't fucking remember how to breathe, and Roger's going to die, and he's going to die, just like Angel and Mimi and Collins and death death death death.

Back in the world outside of Mark's head some part of his brain catalogues Maureen sighing a stream of curses before standing up. Then there's an intense, killer pain in his groin and the absoluteness of the pain brings him back into the world with one sharp gasp of pain, then a groan, and then he lets his front half fall, bending double, and he clutches his crotch. At least his breaths are now deep, slow gasps of pain, and the panic is fading, even if it's at the cost of possibly ever having sex again.

"Maureeeeeeeen," he groans from the ground, while above him Joanne is chiding Maureen.

"Now, really, don't you think kicking him in the nuts is the tiniest bit overdramatic?"

Maureen shrugs and points down at Mark. "It snapped him out of it, didn't it?"

"You could have slapped him," Joanne points out.

"Yes," Mark agrees in a groan. "Next time, smack me or something. I know you don't care about them anymore, but I'm actually rather quite fond of my dick."

Maureen laughs.

"And..." Mark groans again, "are you wearing high heels?"

"Sorry," Maureen says, stooping down again and pushing Mark up into a sitting position. Mark leans back against the side of the building and shuts his eyes, focusing on slow breaths to try and dim the pain.

"Mark?" Joanne says, slower and calmer than Maureen. "Now that you're calm are you going to tell us what that was about?"

Mark opens his eyes and stares at the two girls in front of him. "I-" he tries to start, but just like before he can't get more than a syllable out before his throat closes around the word. He shakes his head.

"Mark, baby, please?" Maureen asks, placing her hand on Mark's shoulder again.

"Roger-" Mark starts again, but then his throat closes up for a completely different reason. And before he knows it he's lost control again, this time succumbing to tears. Suddenly he falls forward again and sobs, but this time Maureen catches him, so Mark's bawling his eyes out in front of his shitty building onto his ex-girlfriend's chest.

"Shh," Maureen shushes comfortingly, hugging and stroking Mark's back.

Honestly, Mark can't really believe how much he's lost control in such a short space of time, he hasn't cried in the longest time, but here he is. Sobbing out in public in Maureen's arms. How fucked up. But it's not as if thoughts like that stop his tears and the same thoughts that fueled his panic before now fuel his despair and tears just come and come as if they're never going to stop, as if he's never cried before and he never will again.

"Oh, honey," Maureen whispers, rocking Mark back and forth.

Mark's entire body heaves with his sobs now and Maureen and Joanne just surround him, helpless to do anything but try and be comforting.

Eventually though there just seems to be no more water for Mark to turn into tears so he's reduced to just gasping in Maureen's arms.

"Shh," she says again as Mark pulls back. "Do you feel better now?"

"Pathetically, yes," Mark sighs. He pushes his hands up under his glasses and wipes the tears down from there and off of his cheeks, taking air in long gasps again. "I'm sorry you guys had to see that."

"Mark-" Maureen begins, but Mark shakes his head.

"No, I guess, I just needed to break somehow," he mutters.

"You can't keep everything inside forever," Joanne points out, trying to be soothing. "Talk to us," she encourages.

"It's Roger," Mark is able to admit, exhausted out of emotion and talking in a dead, emotionless voice. "He's sick. He's got a cold."

"Everyone-" Maureen begins, but Mark cuts across her.

"I know that," he says. "I know. But normally he gets better after a bit. But this is just getting worse and worse, and his coughs are so deep and his fever is so high, and, oh my god, what if it's over?" Mark asks, starting to get worked up again. "And I swear; it wasn't too long ago that he had another little sickness." A strange, strangled sort of sob works its way out of Mark's throat. "What if it's over?" he whispers, and voicing the possibility aloud is simultaneously the most releasing and the most horrifying thing he's ever done.

Neither Joanne nor Maureen have words for this and they sit in silence, simply putting soothing hands on Mark.

"Ah," Mark says after a bit of silence. "You guys came to visit, right?"

"Yeah," Maureen says, standing up and allowing the change of subject.

Joanne stands up to and helps pull Mark to his feet.

"Um," Maureen says behind them.

Mark turns around. Maureen is helplessly holding out Mark's camera. He must have dropped it when he collapsed on the ground. He takes the camera from her and winces as he notices several new dents in its body. But the worst part by far is the large crack running the full length of the lens.

"Shit," he mutters.

"I'm sorry," Maureen offers.

Mark shakes his head. "I've been saving up a bit. Guess I'll have to spend it on fixing this..." He shakes his head again. "It's my fault I dropped it." He sighs. "Well, come on. I mean, I'm pretty sure whatever Roger's got is probably contagious, so..."

"Oh, shut up," Maureen demands, striding past Mark and marching up the steps to the loft.

Mark rolls his eyes and shares a look with Joanne who simply shakes her head.

Mark gestures to the haughty retreating form. "Good luck with that," he tells Joanne.

They climb the steps after Maureen and let themselves into the loft where Roger and Maureen were currently glaring at each other.

"What the fuck?" Roger demands of Maureen.

"No!" Maureen yells back. "Why the fuck are you yelling at me?"

Roger looks completely taken aback. "Why the fuck are you just standing there glaring at me?"

Roger turns helplessly to Joanne and Mark in the doorway. "What did I do?" he asks.

"I don't know," the both mumble, each looking exasperatedly at the person they live with.

Roger's eyes flick angrily back to Maureen. "Stop fucking glaring at me!" he yells.

Joanne gestures to Roger, who's looking more angered and healthy than he's been since he's gotten sick. "Good luck with that," she says to Mark.

"Thanks," Mark says as Roger turns back to them and yells again.

"Get her to stop staring at me!" he whines at Joanne.

"Honey-bear-" Joanne begins.

Maureen turns to her and pouts.

"Why are you glaring at Roger?" Joanne asks.

"Because he made Mark cry!" Maureen blurts, giving into impulses yet again.

"Maureen!" Mark shouts, aghast. He loses control once and everyone has to know about it.

Joanne just sighs, and hides her face in her hands. "Sorry," she whispers to Mark.

Roger looks taken aback again, and utterly confused as he moves his head to look rapidly at Mark and Maureen, then back again. Apparently, despite his sudden energy, he is still sick as he groans soon afterwards and collapses back onto the couch.

As always, Mark is next to him soon afterwards, sighing as he puts his hand to Roger's forehead again. Still burning hot. "Don't do that if you're dizzy, you idiot," he mutters.

Roger doesn't answer, but he tentatively reaches out a finger and runs it down Mark's cheek. "You were crying," he mutters back.

"Maureen's just a bitch, it's no big deal," Mark says.

"Hey!" Maureen whines. Joanne stomps on her foot.

Roger drops his hand from Mark's face and turns to Maureen. "What happened?" he asks. "Mark's not going to tell me anything."

"Then it should be his choice to tell or not," Joanne says, cutting across Maureen who'd just opened her mouth.

Maureen and Roger both pout, although Roger's is more like a frown.

"Don't worry about it," Mark tells him.

Roger turns his frowning face to look at Mark. Mark just shakes his head. He's not about to tell Roger of his fears and make him feel even more upset. He would very much like to kill Maureen right about now. Roger frowns turns to a glare and it becomes an all out staring war between Mark and Roger, but Mark refuses to back down. They had plenty of similar wars throughout their friendship, and Mark knows that he has way more patience than Roger.

Sure enough, it isn't long before Roger grumbles, "Fine, don't tell me."

"Now be polite, we have guests," Mark chides him.

Roger snorts. "Guests?" he repeats, incredulous. "It's just Maureen and Joanne."

"Glad to know you think so highly of us, Roger," Maureen says. She never was someone to remain on the sidelines in any conversation for long.

Roger glares at her now. "I don't think highly of anybody who wakes me up," he grumps.

Maureen rolls her eyes and Joanne chides her. "You should have let him sleep; we can always come back later."

Roger sighs. "Don't leave now, I'm awake!"

"Well, you're certainly much more energetic now," Mark remarks, moving away from Roger a bit.

"I have all this pent up energy because every time I try and move I get dizzy and have to sit down again," Roger explains, except it comes out as more of a complaint. "I was sleeping because I was bored," Roger continues. "And I have this constant headache and I'm hot, but at the same time I'm cold, and I can't really breathe through my nose."

"That's because you're sick," Mark says, stating the obvious.

"Make me better," Roger demands, flopping his head back onto the arm of the couch.

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Mark asks, rolling his eyes fondly at Roger, who doesn't see this as his arm is currently covering his eyes.

"I don't know," Roger groans. "Ask Joanne. She went to college. She's smart."

Mark turns to Joanne and asks her by simply raising one of his eyebrows.

"Besides taking him to a doctor or to a hospital I've got nothing," she says.

Roger gives a little laugh that turns into a hacking cough. "Because we can afford that."

No one really has a reply (it's not as if they can deny it) and Roger just coughs again.

"I'm going to run down to the store down the block and buy some cough medicine or something," Mark says, voicing his new idea aloud.

"We can't afford that either," Roger points out.

"Bullshit," Mark grumbles. "I have a little bit saved, remember? That emergency fund."

"Oh yeah..."

"But, Mark, I thought I you were going to use that to fix your camera!" Maureen interjects.

Joanne puts a hand on her arm and sighs while Mark glares daggers and Roger just looks confused again. "Your camera broke?" he asks Mark.

"I dropped it when I went out earlier," Mar says. "Lensiscracked," he mumbles, trying to be unintelligible.

But of course Roger can understand him. He frowns again. "Fix your camera," he demands.

Mark looks at the ground and fiddles with the hem of his jacket since his camera isn't currently in his hands. "It's okay," he says. "I don't mind."

"I do," Roger insists.

They're staring each other down again, and the tension between them is awkward and practically painful.

"Come on," Joanne whispers to Maureen, tugging on her girlfriend's arm.

"But, Pookie, we just got here!" she whines, not even being partially subtle.

"We can come back later, like I said," Joanne insists in a hiss, gesturing and tugging towards the door.

"But-" Maureen starts and Joanne stomps on her foot a second time.

"This is something Mark and Roger have to work out between themselves," she whispers, trying to get the point across.

"But-" Maureen tries again; before Joanne cuts her off.

"It'll be easier if they don't have an audience," Joanne explains. "Now come on Honey-bear."

Joanne practically drags Maureen out of the loft, Maureen almost literally kicking and screaming on the way.

"Because that was totally subtle and didn't break the atmosphere at all!" Mark yells back at them.

"You don't need an atmosphere to go and fix your camera, Mark," Roger says firmly.

Mark stares him down again. "No," he says just as firmly.

"Don't be stupid," Roger insists.

"Don't insult me," Mark insists back.

"I'm not insulting you."

"You called me stupid."

"Your action is stupid. Not you."

Mark glares. Roger glares. Then Roger coughs. And then he shakes violently.

"See?" Mark challenges, ignoring the instincts that want to send him running to Roger's side. "You need something."

"I know I need something!" Roger snaps. "But it's just a waste. Stop wasting everything you have on me."

"Oh, God, not this again!" Mark shouts back. Finally understanding Roger's twisted logic doesn't make it any less annoying.

"You don't understand!" Roger yells. "You can't understand."

"All this time and you're still playing that card?" Mark's really shouting now in his frustration and Roger has enough sense not to immediately argue back. It's rare that Mark really yells, so it's for damn sure Roger better take him seriously when he does. Then again, it's Roger. And when has he ever done anything so smart? "I'm dying too Roger!" Mark yells.

Roger looks completely taken aback. "You...?" He doesn't finish the question but instead looks up at Mark, wide-eyed.

"We're all dying, Roger, if you want to look at it that way. You're nothing special, quit acting like you are."

"Well aren't you the pessimist," Roger taunts.

"No, you're the pessimist," Mark argues. "You're a self-centered pessimist."

Roger doesn't say anything in response. He simply glares and tries to murder Mark with his eyes.

"AIDS doesn't make you special, Roger," Mark presses.

"I never said it did! I never said I was special!" Roger explodes.

"Well, you sure as hell act like you are. Everyone's going to die eventually, why should you always act like your life is worth so much less because you have more of an idea of how you're gonna go. You might be wrong! A meteor could crash in here right now and we'd both die."

"Or become freakish mutants," Roger suggests.

Just like that the angry mood evaporates and Mark's mouth twitches into a smile.

"I'm sorry," Roger mumbles. "I know it upsets you when I talk like that."

"Then why do you do it?" Mark asks, his voice impossibly small.

Roger smiles through the serious mood in the room. "I just know how to press your buttons."

Mark isn't easily swayed back into a fully comical mood. "Why won't you let me pretend?" he asks.

Roger's face falls. "Pretend?" he repeats.

"I want to pretend that this is just a cold," Mark whispers. "That it's just something that will pass soon." He shakes his head softly. "I know it's probably not. I know it's probably the beginning of the end. I know that, you know that."

Roger doesn't say anything, but his eyes are locked intensely on Mark.

Mark takes a deep breath to calm himself. "I just...loose it when I think about it being the end." He starts shaking. "I can't, I can't. I can't do it anymore, Roger. I can't lose you!"

"Come here," Roger commands softly, gently.

Mark crosses the room and crouches in front of the couch to look Roger more evenly in the face.

"It'll be okay," Roger says, speaking slowly and evenly. "You'll be better off without this self-centered pessimist hanging around and bothering you."

Before he's even finished Mark is shaking his head violently back and forth. "No, no, no, no. I won't be. I can't do it. I can't be alone. You know that. You fucking know that."

"You won't be alone," Roger objects. "There's-"

"-my ex-girlfriend and the lesbian she dumped me for," Mark finishes for him. "Oh, and our ex-friend-turned-asshole-landlord. What a joy."

Roger frowns. "Why-"

"-did I decide to waste my life being friends with HIV infected idiots who just up and leave me in the end?" Mark bitterly finishes Roger's sentence for him again. He shakes his head. "I don't know. But what type of person would I have been if I'd left you all when we learned about the virus?"

Roger's silent.

"You would have died Roger, you know that."

"I wouldn't have-"

"Oh, don't even. I heard your rants about wanting to up and do an April. Remember? I'm the one you screamed them at."

Roger still has nothing to say.

"Let me pretend," Mark says. "Until it's too late and I have to face the facts. Let me pretend. Let me get you cough stuff. Let me pretend I can help." He's not begging, he's not.

"Okay," Roger agrees softly, nodding twice before he forces himself to stop, lest he get dizzy again.

"Thanks," Mark whispers, standing up. "I'll be back soon," he says. But what he really means is, I don't want to miss more time.

Roger just nods once more at him and Mark leaves to run (literally) to the nearest drug store and buys all sorts of sickness things for Roger. And he is pretending. He's pretending that is best friend is sick with a common cold and not a common cold with the aid of a destructive virus. He's pretending that he's absolutely sure that Roger will pull through.

And Roger is pretending too. Pretending that he believes Mark when he assures him that he'll get better. Pretending that he's not as sick and as scared as he really is.

It's all pretend, but it's what they need. Like little children who need to pretend they're magic, Mark and Roger need to pretend that they're well. It's not reality, not at all, but reality will come soon enough. But soon enough is not now. For now they can pretend, they can be in a world that's a bit prettier.

Fuck reality.

First ever RENT fic. Hope you like, despite all that angst. Please leave a review? Especially if you have a few words to say about my characterizations....;D