Chapter One

Roger

"Love's Not a Three Way Street"

Roger enlaced Mimi's cold fingers with his. They walked in comfortable silence down the street, crowded with holiday shoppers. They were perfectly content to simply share each others company.

The sun had already set behind the hard silhouettes of the New York skyline, and only a cold, heavy layer of ominous clouds remained. New Yorkers have always been survivors, and they were unperturbed by the cold, or the promise of snow.

As they walked the four blocks back to Mimi's apartment from dinner, Roger felt lost in the mass of humanity, and only the feel of her hand kept his mind from drifting away.

He kissed her on the front step. Passer bys, in normal New York fashion, seemed not to notice them as they shared intimacies in the shadows. She sighed into his embrace, and he tenderly pulled her closer. Their lips touched again before they whispered goodnight and Roger slid back into the crowds.

It was snowing now, a wet, slushy snow that managed to slide under the collar of Roger's leather jacket no matter how high he turned it up. He wished that he was back with Mimi's warm breath against his chest, not alone in the cold.

By the time he reached his own apartment, the snow was coming down thick and he was shivering.

"It's snowing." he informed Mark as he closed the door behind him.

Mark made an indistinct noise of ascent.

He was sitting on one of the two mattresses that they had dragged into the front room. They'd built an impromptu fire to give the illusion of heat; even with the steady blaze that was going Roger was no warmer than he had been outside. He was fingering the frayed edge of one of the blankets and resting his hand against the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?" Roger asked, taking off the old band t-shirt he had worn underneath his jacket that was now soaked from the snow.

Mark didn't answer. He didn't register Roger changing into an old pair of flannel pants and a clinging white t-shirt—something that usually made Mark blush and turn away, commenting on his friend's lack of modesty.

"Mark?"

"Huh?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just tired."

Roger scowled at Mark's deflection, but realized that he wasn't going to get anything more out of the man when he was in this state. He turned away and tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, when he'd turned back Mark had curled under his blankets and was pretending to be asleep.

"Goodnight, Mark."

Only silence answered.

Roger couldn't sleep.

He tossed and turned trying to find the one comfortable position on the old mattress. He was sweating under the many layers of blankets, even though the room was freezing.

Glancing at the clock, he discovered that it had only been three minutes since he'd last looked at it. 2:38. Roger sighed and climbed out of bed. He'd been lying down for too long and his restlessness had made his muscles ache.

Mark was breathing softly a few feet away. Roger glanced over at him jealously. He envied the other man's sojourn into dreams. Mark looked so innocent and child-like as he slept. The urge to reach out and brush a lock of hair from his forehead, nearly consumed Roger. He wondered what had worried Mark so desperately earlier, what had made him so distant and silent.

Apart from the words they had exchanged when he'd come home, Roger couldn't even call it a conversation; he couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken to Mark. Somehow, their schedules had kept them out of each other's way for the past several days. Before that, he thought their last conversation had been an argument about which one of them had finished off the box of Captain Crunch.

The fire was beginning to burn out. Though Roger was still sweating, he saw how Mark seemed to cuddle into the warmth of his blankets; he threw more wood onto the fire.

He went to look out the window. On nights like this, Roger hated New York. It was too bright, too noisy, too much a reminder that an entire city was not bothered by their lack of sleep. Amidst the normal yellow haze of New York lights, red and green Christmas lights flashed, all blending together in a nauseating hue.

Since having moved to New York, Roger had come to hate Christmas. Not only was it a constant reminder of the fact that he and Mark were financially barely scraping by, but also his own inability to enjoy the cheap, commercialized feel that Christmas in New York had.

Mark's breathing fell out of rhythm for a moment as he rolled over. Roger turned around, half-hoping Mark would wake up; he was tired of being alone.

Mark didn't wake.

Turning his attention back out the window, it occurred to Roger, that he couldn't remember what he'd bought Mark last year for Christmas… had he bought him anything at all?!

How strange.

He distinctly remembered receiving gifts from Mark. Last year, it had been new strings for his guitar; the year before that, a scarf that was more Mark's style than his, but that Roger had worn anyway.

Why hadn't Mark ever mentioned this? Roger frowned to think that Mark was some patient saint who had waited for his friend to remember him every Christmas and had accepted the disappointment with quiet dignity.

He'd have to buy him something nice this year. Tiptoeing across the room, he found his wallet on the coffee table.

It contained three dollars.

Angrily, Roger threw it back down on the table. He remembered that his last twenty dollars had gone as co-pay on his AZT. He mouthed every swear word he could think of.

Surely Mark had already purchased a gift for him. Sinking down on his mattress he stared at the other man in the darkness.

What kind of friend had he ever been to Mark?

Mark had suffered through countless nights when Roger had been withdrawing. It had been Mark who had talked him through those moments where the pain had been so intense that he was sure he would die. Mark, who had patiently accepted the words—and sometimes blows—Roger had rained down upon him during those nights. Mark had found April. Mark had held Roger as he sobbed, heavy tears, not only for April, but for himself as well. Mark had waited while Roger ran away to Santa Fe in some attempt to escape his own guilt, and then taken him back without question.

And Mark had never asked for anything in return. This had always been a one-way street. Mark gave and gave and gave, and all Roger did was take.

Roger watched him sleep. Mark's lovable, dorky nature seemed lost now. Roger saw only one thing: a man who gave love away and never seemed to receive it in return.

He turned away from the glow of the New York lights and curled onto his side under the blankets. This Christmas, Roger would find a way to give Mark that thing he had failed to truly provide to his best friend: love.

Roger fell asleep smiling.