Disclaimer: I don't own Mark or Roger, and I think they're pretty relieved about it, because boy, if I did own them…

---

Twisting and turning constantly, he got caught up in the thin sheets that had been saturated through with sweat. Pain panged on every inch of his body, an aching without purpose or reason. He was unbearably hot but at the same time felt a deep-rooted chill that would surface sporadically, causing him to shiver so violently one might think he was having a seizure.

Finally he awoke from his feverish slumber, blinking and looking around, everything suddenly still, like the world settling after an earthquake. Roger took note of the eerie silence that dominated the atmosphere of his room and swallowed painfully, becoming aware of the frigid air that seemed to turn the sweat on his exposed skin to frost. He was displeased to find that the insatiable itch in the back of his throat that had plagued him for weeks hadn't left.

It bubbled up in the back of his throat but he refused to cough for fear of hacking up a bit of his lung. He had coughed too much for too long that he wouldn't be surprised if he were passing off a haggardly pair of shredded balloons as his respiratory organs. But holding back the cough made his eyes water, causing the room from his perspective to become dimmer and blurred. He knew he couldn't win; the cough nearly exploded from his mouth and he hunched over, coughing so forcefully that he threw up a little bit in his lap.

He was so stunned by the severity of his coughing that at first he didn't notice the fact that he couldn't actually hear himself coughing. But when he let out a little sob of anguish at the hopelessness of his situation as he watched his stomach contents mix with the sweat in his sheets, he realized that he couldn't hear his own voice. Perhaps he had lost it from coughing so much; he wouldn't be surprised if he had completely eroded his voice box into oblivion. That won't be good for my career, he joked bitterly, knowing that if he didn't recover from this, which was a likely scenario, he'd have no need for a voice or a career.

Wiping the fluid that had accumulated at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Roger stared at the door directly across from his bed. His brain was delirious with fever and working slowly since he had just woken up, and his memory failed to let him know what the day was. Was Mark home? It wouldn't hurt to give him a call. But when he opened his mouth to give a little cry, nothing came out. He had felt some slight vibration in his vocal cords, but they had failed to produce any sound at all.

Distressed and helpless, two feelings he wasn't very accustomed to, Roger gave an inaudible whine and wrapped his arms around his body, which seemed to have gotten much thinner since he last checked. His fingers grazed his ribcage, and Roger realized that he had managed to wrestle his shirt off again in the throes of his fevered and restless sleep. In the dark he groped around on his bed, pushing past the chilled, soaking bedsheets, but came up empty-handed.

He was about to get down on the floor and search for it when the door was thrown open suddenly, casting a pool of light over Roger, who recoiled in surprise. Mark saw his discomfort and dimmed the lights in the main room a bit, and Roger, panting from the shock, stared at him pleadingly. He needed comfort, warmth, relief, something…

Mark's mouth began to move but he didn't say anything. Heart beginning to race, a disoriented Roger looked at Mark questioningly, feeling a panic build up inside of him. What the fuck…?

Mark closed his mouth, looked at Roger with the same questioning look, then opened his mouth again as he came over to Roger's side and kneeled. Roger began to breathe more heavily, but this only encouraged the itch in his throat, and he turned away from Mark and began coughing, nearly throwing up again. He could feel Mark's warm hands on his back, and seconds afterwards the gentle breath of whispered reassurances in his ear, but he couldn't hear Mark's words over the unnatural silence that clogged his ears and prevented him from hearing his own coughing. What is this? What's happening!

Finally he felt his throat tighten as he gagged, then hurled the meager dregs of his stomach onto the floor. He gagged again and dry-heaved, with nothing left to throw up, then collapsed on the bed and began to sob. Mark remained at his side, his face close to Roger's, speaking words he couldn't hear. I can't hear you, Mark… I can't hear!

"I can't hear," he tried aloud, his breath muffled into the mattress; his mouth had formed the words and his voice box produced the sound to back them, but the sound never reached his own ears.

"I can't hear!" he tried again, shouting this time, his vocal cords straining to make his sentence as loud as possible; still nothing.

By this time Mark had his arms around Roger, who felt his own hot, shamefully terrified tears scouring his face. He clutched at the smaller boy, who held Roger's head against his chest like a protective mother, whispering unheard words into Roger's hair. This can't be…

It can't…

I can't hear…

---

Trying to ignore the sound of Roger's incessant coughing, Mark stood in the kitchen area, preparing chicken noodle soup. With a humorless, ironic smirk, he counted the tidbits that floated around in the watered-down broth. One diminutive chunk of chicken, five noodles, one and a half baby carrots. Not very nourishing, but it was better than nothing.

"I hope Roger can hold this down," Mark said to his distorted reflection in the bowl of soup. "It's all he's going to get until Mimi gets paid on Friday."

Leaving the soup on the counter to cool, Mark sat down on the couch, his own stomach growling with hunger. He eyeballed the bowl of soup, and as unappetizing as it was he knew he'd gulp it down at the drop of a hat if Roger didn't need it more. It's a good thing the soup didn't have much of a scent, otherwise Mark knew he wouldn't be able to control himself.

He tried to take his mind off the food by listening to Roger's frenzied spasms in the other room. Closing his eyes, Mark could picture Roger on his mattress, causing it to slide noisily across the floor as he lurched from one end of it to the other, tangled in his paper-thin sheets, almost as though he were going through withdrawal all over again.

Mark's disturbing thoughts were broken by an even more disturbing scream from Roger's room. Had he been calling his Mark's name? Was he having a nightmare, or was he wide-awake and in need of assistance? Either way, Mark didn't hesitate to leap to his feet and dash towards the room.

There was an assortment of whimpers behind the door, some frustrated, some pitiful. "Roger, what is it?" Mark asked, his hand clasped around the doorknob. "Roger?"

There was a squeal and the sound of bedsheets being thrown about but no worded reply. Trusting his instinct, Mark threw the door open, a little too swiftly than he had intended. Roger sat on his bed, awake, but grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut when the light illuminated his room. Cringing guiltily, Mark felt for the light switch and turned the lights down a little.

Two fearful green eyes stared at Mark, begging for consolation. Mark's heart became heavy with remorse, for he had no idea what he could possibly do to make Roger feel any better. In the earlier stages of his sickness, Roger had found it comforting when Mimi and Mark took turns stroking his forehead and running their fingers through his hair. But now, with his skin clammy and his hair damp with sweat, these actions didn't seem to have the same effect.

"Roger, do you need anything?" Mark asked, trying to keep his voice steady as Roger's stare became blank. "I've made some soup… perhaps you're feeling up to a nice warm bath?"

Roger just stared in confusion at Mark, as though he had ceased to understand English. After a moment he let a little sigh escape his slightly parted lips, but he showed no signs of comprehending anything Mark just said.

Tentatively, Mark made his way to the side of the mattress and kneeled down so he was on the same level as Roger, whose eyes had followed him across the room and now rested on Mark's face. "Roger?"

Roger began to pant nervously, making a little wheezing noise each time he inhaled. Suddenly he threw himself to the other side as he was overcome by a bout of coughing. Mark winced at the terrible sound and clambered onto Roger's bed, a little unnerved by the feeling of the moist sheets against his skin. "Shh… Roger, shh," Mark whispered gently, rubbing Roger's bare back, which gleamed with sweat in the dim light. "Shh…"

Suddenly there was silence. Mark let out the breath he had been holding in, but suddenly drew it back sharply when Roger threw up over the side of his bed. It wasn't a lot; Roger hadn't eaten anything for days now, but that just made it a little more nauseating because it was all just stomach acid.

With a despairing whine of defeat Roger let the arms that had been supporting him buckle, and he collapsed. He curled into a ball, shoving his face into the mattress to stifle his sobs. Mark watched with tearful eyes, then drew Roger against him, kissing the top of his head reassuringly. "I can't hear."

Mark blinked. This was the first he had heard of Roger's voice since he had entered his room. "Roger?"

"I can't hear!" he screamed into the mattress before letting another sob loose.

He then clutched at Mark, who lay beside Roger, cradling his head against his chest. "Roger, it's alright," he said, but Roger didn't respond, merely continued sobbing. Can't hear?

"Roger?" Can't hear.

"Roger!"

Nothing but shaking sobs. Can't hear…