I have no idea how to describe this, to be honest. Why don't you read it and describe it for me?

He had expected the cold bite of the winter wind on his feverish skin to be soothing, but it wasn't. All it did was chill him, eliciting deep, jarring shivers that did nothing about the beads of perspiration on his forehead. Every so often a cough constricted his chest, burning and spasmodic, something that the cold air only managed to exacerbate. But he had to be up here. He couldn't let Mark see him like this, not tonight.

Oh, Mark. The wind picked up again, this time filled with sharp, stinging flecks of sleet. Roger braced against the chill, trembling, callused hands clenching into tight fists. He didn't know what to do. He knew he was sick, but he didn't know what to do about it. Mark was out, and would likely be gone for another hour at least, capturing the beauty of the city with his camera.
I need you here, Mark. He walked unsteadily over to the edge of the roof, leaning hard against the wall, letting it take his weight. His eyes travelled down to the city that looked miles away, and his head began to spin. Maybe that wasn't such a good idea. A headache kept time behind his eyes, perfectly matching the beat of his heart.

How did you let it get this far? He knew better than to let himself get sick, knew that catching so much as a cold could be dangerous for him. This is your fault. Uncharacteristic tears welled in his tired eyes; he was willing to chalk that up to the effects of the fever.

Mark's gonna be mad. Mark was always at him about staying healthy, telling him things like stay warm, you have to eat something, take your AZT. Take your AZT.
I've been taking it, Mark. I swear. His mind conjured up the image of that yellow bottle, the so-called miracle cure that obviously isn't worth shit because if it was, he wouldn't be feeling like death right now.

Don't think that. You're not dying. You're not dying. You're not dying.
I found my song. It's okay. I'll be okay. He started to hum it then, the sound painfully cracked and off-key, but it managed to soothe his nerves slightly.
Until he saw a flash of white-red-gold and felt his stomach drop. He couldn't turn to see her properly, she hid in his peripheral vision, but he knew that April was there, burning with wordless fury.

I'm…sorry. You left me. I'm so, so sorry. He could feel the heat of her anger searing his skin, and he instinctively cowered away from her, afraid of being burned.
Mark, I need you! April never liked Mark, so if he came back, maybe she'd go away. But Mark didn't show and she drew closer, close enough for him to smell but not see her, the cloying scent of cheap perfume and blood another reminder of her presence.

I'm here! Screaming at him. I'm here, look at me! He shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears, trying to block her out.
Go away. Leave me alone! Please…! Oh god, she was so close. April! April, I'm sorry, don't hurt me, please…!
And then he was falling from who knew where, and there were arms around him, and instead of April's searing heat, all he could feel was an intense chill.

"Easy…easy, now. I've got you." Wait a minute… He knew that voice! Slowly and cautiously he opened his eyes, still irrationally afraid of what he would see. His vision was blurred and broken into fragments: he focused on a pair of blue-grey eyes, lost in a pale-yet-comforting haze.

"Mark?" he managed to grate out breathlessly.

"I've gotcha, Rog." Mark glanced up, concern showing on his features as he slowly swam back into clarity before Roger's eyes. "What the hell were you doing up there?" Roger too looked up, looked at the wall. He thinks I was… no, no, I wasn't trying to…Mark, I don't want to die, Mark, I'm sorry…!

"…'m sorry," he murmured; it was suddenly difficult to form the words. Mark slowly helped him to stand, supported him as his vision ebbed and swam and his legs threatened to give out. He was suddenly incredibly tired, though Mark's hand in his hair helped to keep him grounded.

"Let's get inside," Mark said atonally – was he mad? He couldn't tell. He tried to call his loftmate's name again, but only managed a barely audible whisper that was stolen by the biting wind.
Burning red-gold out of the corner of his eye again. He turned his head, reluctantly, saw the blurred, burning form perched birdlike on the wall. He could make out very little of her face, save for the ice-cold crimson smirk that slashed it in two like a fatal wound. She was waving, giggling.

See you soon, Roger, she whispered, her voice crystal-clear in his mind in spite of the howling wind. See you soon, love.

Days later, Roger Davis sat frozen in the clinic, staring down at a piece of paper that told him everything he needed to know. He barely understood most of the medical jargon, but the message was as clear as one written in lipstick on a grimy bathroom mirror.
We've got AIDS.
You're dying.
See you soon, Roger…

The echo of April's laugh rang through his head once more: chilling, mad, triumphant.
See you soon…

Fin.

Well, I hope you liked that. No, I don't know why I like portraying April as a ghost so much, I guess I'm just weird. I've actually had this piece floating around half-finished for a while now, and tonight I decided to clean it up and publish it. Maybe not my best work, but... hey.
For those of you following Goodbye Love... well, I'm sorry, for starters. I wanted to continue it, but I got stuck, and then I got caught up in a bunch of deadlines at school, and then I got a job... and now I'm watching Sherlock. I will update it eventually, just as soon as I have a worthwhile idea. Whenever that may be.
Anyway, read, review, do whatever it is you do, but flames are dangerous and tend to burn things, so avoid them, 'kay?