Eventually, he had decided some time ago, he would go back into the loft. Eventually was a bullshit term, though-- everything was going to happen eventually. And everyone had his own idea of when, exactly that was.
Roger decided, some fifteen minutes later, that his 'eventually' happened to be now, though he didn't show any sign of acting upon this realisation. He sat and stared blankly off into space, shivering slightly. It was cold out here. Yeah. And he probably should have gone inside, but he had also decided that, if he did that, he would only further strengthen the impending thought that he was sick and he was going to.. He stopped himself there. Couldn't bring himself to say it, actually. Think it, rather. It was just too much to bear, knowing that he was, eventually, going to have to d--… he inhaled sharply, shaking his head. Goddamnit, he couldn't even let the thought cross his mind without a wave of sickening emotion.
And for him, that was something else.
Not that he was supposed to be one of those 'tough guys' or anything ridiculous like that. No, he just wasn't the sort of person to get upset over death-- well, his own, at least. Mimi's leaving him had hit hard, but then.. Well, Mark had been there. That had helped some, but he was still stuck in that rut and he couldn't bring himself to even think about his own passing. What would happen to Mark and Collins and Maureen and Joanne and the rest of them? And he almost felt that letting the disease claim him would be… not weak, exactly, but that was the word that came to mind.
He swallowed hard, shifting as he let his fingers stop abruptly over the strings and he bowed his head slightly, lidding his eyes for several long, painstaking seconds. And then he stood, picking up the instrument, heading back down-- he was shaking violently and his knees almost buckled underneath him when he delivered his weight onto them, causing him to stumble. Fortunately, he retained his balance somewhat and went on his way, though it did take him several minutes to actually reach his destination.
He looked awful now, and he knew it. The disease had ravaged his body, bringing him to this state, devoid of health. He looked.. Well, his only adjective would probably be, "like shit," and that was because it was true. No healthy glow was visible in his face, and his eyes were glazed and sunken-- deep circles surrounded both orbs, and he fatigued too easily-- not to mention the shivering, the almost constant shaking he suffered, even when he wasn't cold. He'd sleep under every unused blanket he could possibly find and he'd still tremble, despite the layer of fevered sweat coating his frame.
He headed for his room once he had made it into the loft, laying the guitar upon the bed and sighing before sitting down beside it-- not because he was upset, merely because the walk had worn him out. He felt pathetic, to say the least, seeing as it really wasn't that far of a travel from here to the roof or back again, but he was panting slightly. He dropped his head into his hands, raking shaky fingers through his hair-- he couldn't take this anymore. People he knew, people he cared about were dropping like flies, and he had this underlying feeling he was to be one of them soon enough-- but in his eyes, no one would actually care anyway. Maybe Mark would, but the filmmaker had been out late again. Sure, Roger had been up on the roof anyway, but had he noticed the blonde's arrival, had he come home earlier, maybe he wouldn't have been out there for the past who-knows-how-many hours.
But then again, it wasn't Mark's fault he was so stubborn, so really, everything was his fault, honestly.
Mark worried, and everyone knew it. In fact, if there was a competition based on worrying, the little blonde would have won a medal long ago. The little blonde had paced the loft for hours upon hours thus far and was, just as Roger headed back in from the fire escape, sitting on the small, slightly weak metal table in the middle of the tiny kitchen, scarf wrapped securely about his neck as he grasped the chipped mug by the handle, the other tiny, fragile appendage resting upon the other side of said mug. He had been peering down into the greenish liquid, wondering what on earth it actually was-- but that was okay, because Roger had made an attempt at being helpful.
In fact, the other blonde had run out yesterday morning, because Mark had mentioned his total lack of tea. And so, despite the filmmaker's protests, Roger had promptly headed out the door, returning no more than ten minutes later and proudly presenting the other with a box of tea.
And now he was sitting here, mug in hand, one foot tucked underneath him whilst the other leg dangled limply from the table, swinging back and forth, as he heard the door slam. He shifted, sliding off the table and setting the old mug on the steel surface with a slight click as ceramic made contact with steel. He managed to catch a glimpse of the taller man as he disappeared into his own room and shut the door, and Mark took this as a cue that he wanted privacy-- not, of course, that it was going to be awarded to him.
He lifted a pale, bony hand, knocking softly at the door before questioning a, "Hey, Rog'… you okay?"
There was a long bout of silence from the other room. Closing his eyes, the former junkie shifted, picking his guitar up and setting it with a slight thunk before he shifted, swinging his feet up next to the bed next to him before lying down on his back, staring at his shoes for a moment. With a groan he sat up, beginning to untie his boots, fingers clumsy and numb from cold and lack of oxygen-- his breathing was harsh and ragged-- as he untied the laces on the beaten up black workboots, making an attempt at tugging them off. It should have been easy, but he sighed heavily and dropped his head back onto his pillow. His "bed" was really only an old mattress pushed up against the wall with a pile of blankets on top, and he simply lay there, staring blankly into space. No, he wasn't okay.. but he wasn't going to admit that right away. He was Roger. He was Roger Davis and he was going to be just fine-- it was just a little bout of withdrawal mixed with a cold or something. "...Mmh." he offered, lidding his eyes. He was completely exhausted, and he could barely keep his eyes open at this point. "Yeah.. I'm fine." he offered quietly, though he was barely even audible through the door. His hair tumbled haphazardly into his eyes, and his head lolled to the side just a little-- it was cold in here, since Benny decided to turn off the heat again, but he was sweating heavily, and he was hot enough that even standing a foot away from him, one could feel the waves of said heat radiating off ghastly pale skin, drawn tight over achy bones.
Mark frowned slightly, concern darkening those bright, oh-so-blue eyes of his, and he hesitantly placed a hand against the doorknob-- Roger, having shut the door, probably didn't want him in here, but that was too bad. He sounded awful, and the filmmaker was going to find out what the problem was. With a slight turn of his wrist he pushed the door open, sighing slightly upon noticing Roger's sprawling out on his bed, and he paused. For one, the rocker usually took his shoes off the moment he was in the door, if he'd even worn them at all.. Second, he never shut the door.. And third, he just looked absolutely terrible.
In no less than four steps, he was across the room, kneeling down by that beat-up mattress and pausing. "Roger, what's the matter?" he questioned, his tone soft as he gently removed the older's feet from his boots, setting the shoes aside as the other mumbled some half-assed complaint, something about his throat and his head hurting, and feeling "sick and dizzy." The blonde sighed softly, nodding and moving up to sit, as he always did when the other was ill, nearer his torso, gently pressing a cool hand to the fevered forehead. He sighed-- the other was burning up, and it wasn't a good sign when you had a rapidly dying immune system. The filmmaker shifted to sit more comfortably next to him, offering a sympathetic murmur and a stroke to his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, a faint smile tugging at his lips when the other shifted under his touch.
"Anything I can do for you, Rog'?" he questioned gently, as the rocker moved to lie, instead, on his stomach. Roger shook his head faintly, a slight sniffle escaping him as he closed his eyes. Mark paused, offering another sigh. "Want me to rub your back?" he questioned gently and, as Roger nodded childishly, lifting the hand that had previously checked the other's temperature and set it to work on the tired, aching back, palm easing away a little of the pain with large circles, fingertips running up and down his spine every so often. Through the gentle touch and the fact that he was already exhausted, Roger drifted off within fifteen minutes, lying peacefully, for the meantime.
Mark stood with a sad smile, leaning down and kissing the other's temple before pulling the blankets, which the rocker hadn't been able to pull over himself, up to the other's chin, turning and ruffling the dirty blonde locks before he headed out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click-- he wasn't tired, and so he returned to the cold tea he'd left in the kitchen, peering into the cup-- it'd been hot, when he had left to go check on Roger. They didn't have the money to waste, no, so he drank it anyway, returning to his spot atop the table, sipping carefully at it before merely downing the last few gulps-- he made it, so he was going to drink it before he went to bed.
He shifted slightly, heading to his own room after putting the mug in the sink-- his bed was no better, really, than the other's, though he had at least taken the time to find another mattress, to elevate himself a little off the floor. He sat down with a sigh-- he was worried, yeah, but he had to stay strong for Roger, because the poor rocker was miserable enough already and he didn't need Mark breaking down on him. He sat down on said stacked mattresses, and he sighed, removing his shoes and setting them on the floor, and then shifting to swing his feet up next to him and lay down, burrowing himself underneath the blanket and staring, worrying, into the darkness before he finally managed to drift off.