Mark POV:

            "Rog?"  I grab my coat from the closet and knock on his door.

            The door swings open as I slip my jacket on and he looks at his watch.  "It's 2:00, I just had lunch two hours ago, you can't tell me it's time for dinner already!"

            I laugh.  "No, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving for work now."

            I can't help but laugh again at the look of utter confusion on his face.

            "Work?? Since when do you have a job?"

            "I got a job as a waiter at the Life. Not the greatest job in the world but we could use the extra money. Anyway, it's just temporary, until I can find something better."  I turn to leave but suddenly find myself being pulled back by my arm.

            "Are you sure that's the greatest idea, Mark? Maybe you should just stay home. I mean, you've been looking kind of sick lately…"  He drops my arm and looks me over for a second, his questioning gaze searching me before finally meeting my own.  "Have you been taking your AZT? You really don't look so good…"

            I drop my eyes to the floor and stare at his boots for a second before responding.

            "Yes Rog, you know I have been. I'm just tired, I didn't get much sleep last night."  I hurry across the room and pick up my black and white scarf from the kitchen table, draping it over my shoulders as I say, "Make sure you eat dinner, Roger," and am out the door before he even has a chance to react.

            Once on the street, I wrap my arms around myself, attempting to retain any semblance of body heat. The day is cold for mid March and I'm freezing, although I'm clad in two long sleeved shirts, a wool jacket, and a scarf. Shivering, I make my way to the Life Café, staring at the pedestrians walking by me in their short skirts and shorts, tank tops and tee shirts, who are seemingly immune to the cold that is making my body turn to ice and shake with chills.

            Finally I reach my destination and walk into the café, grateful that the air conditioning isn't cranked up and blasting like it usually is. I take a few minutes to warm up before heading over to my first table of the night.

            I approach the middle-aged couple and smile, hoping my cheerfulness will get me extra tips.

            "Hello sir, are you ready to order?"

            He opens his mouth to say something but I can't hear the response due to the hacking cough that has suddenly overtaken my body. Oh this is wonderful, I think to myself. What a way to win over the customers and make a good impression my first day at a new job!

            I finally gain control of my body again and the awful coughing spasms stop. The couple looks at me with horrified expressions and I can feel myself turning red and my face growing hot. I'm not sure if it's from humiliation though…it could be from the same thing that's causing white bursts of light to explode before my blackening vision, or whatever it is that's making me suddenly lose my balance and slip to the floor with a dull thud as my body succumbs to the total blackness that is enveloping me quickly, pulling me away and leaving my unconscious body lying on the floor, still under the wide-eyed gaze of the couple in front of me.

Roger POV:

            I walk into the kitchen and start rummaging through the refrigerator and cabinets, looking for something to eat. I think vaguely that this is the first time I've eaten alone in over six months, I could get away with it…But I quickly push the thought out of my mind and pour myself a bowl of Captain Crunch, bringing it to the table with me. I raise the spoon to my mouth and am about to eat it when the phone rings.

            "Saved…"  I pick up the phone, expecting it to be Mark, nagging me to eat dinner.  "Hello? Yes, this is Roger Davis…What? …Yes of course, I'll be right there."

            I slam the phone down and rush out of the loft, barely even touching the four flights of stairs as I fly down them, and run the six blocks to the hospital since I have neither the patience or the money to stop a taxi.

Mark POV:

            "His T-Cells are extremely low, that's why he passed out. I'll have to run a few more tests to be sure but I think he has a condition called Pneumocystis carinii, or PCP, which isn't uncommon in people with HIV who haven't been on any sort of medication. My guess would be that he stopped taking his meds, because his T-Cell count is very low, under 300."

            I feel myself in an unfamiliar location and I try to open my eyes and sit up but they are leaden and seem to have a fifty pound weight holding them down, making it impossible to move or open my eyes.

            "Is he going to be okay?"

            This voice sounds anxious and concerned, much different from the patient, droning voice that had spoken moments ago…and much more familiar too. Though I still can't place it in my black, hazy mind.

            "Yes, he should be fully recovered in a few weeks, a month at the most, provided he takes his AZT and Dapsone, which is what I'm prescribing for his PCP. Make sure he comes in once a week for blood tests. AZT and Dapsone sometimes cause a nasty reaction together.

            "But we don't have health insurance…"

            At this statement I'm able to place a name with the voice. It's Roger.

            "Yes, I know. That's why I'm suggesting Dapsone. It's the least expensive treatment for PCP, only about $30 a month. However, if you would like to discuss other options I would be happy to-"

            "No, no that's ok. Just as long as it makes him better…We'll get the money somehow…" He says this last statement quietly, almost to himself.

            Suddenly it's like the weight has been lifted from my body and I'm able to move a little and open my eyes.

            "R-Roger?"  My voice sounds weak and shaky, and I regret speaking. I am suddenly aware of my surroundings and I look around the white room, wondering where I am.

            Before I know what is happening Roger is at my side, looking down at me anxiously.

            "How do you feel?"

            "Ok I guess…where are we?"

            He swallows hard and blinks back tears.  "The hospital. You're sick because you haven't…your T-Cells are low. Like really low, under 300."  He pauses and by the look on his face I can tell what's coming next.  "You, um…you haven't been taking your AZT have you?"

            I sigh and shake my head slightly. No use lying now, I've been caught and backed up by medical figures. Damn.

            He talks so softly that I can barely hear him and he looks right at me, his deep brown eyes begging me, pleading with me to tell the truth. I also notice a bit of anger hidden beneath the surface, trying to come out but I can tell he's suppressing it. Sad angry maybe.

            "Why not Mark? You said you were."  He sighs sadly.  "How long have you been off it?"

            I stare down at my sterile white sheets and mumble, "I was never on it."

            The anger he was trying to hide beneath the surface of his face comes forward as rage replaces the sadness in his eyes.

            "Why the hell not? Mark, you know how dangerous that can be! Why the hell would you not want to take the thing that's keeping you alive?"

            His words hit me hard and I feel fury rising up in myself as well.

            "Because we have no fucking money, Roger! With your meds and your therapy there's absolutely NOTHING left for me!"  As soon as the words are out of my mouth I instantly regret them when I see the hurt and guilt flash across Roger's face. Shit, I haven't seen that look in six months.  "Oh God Rog, I'm so sorry…"

Roger POV:

            You bastard, the voice in my head chides at me. You stupid selfish bastard.

            "Mark, I'm so sorry, I had no idea…you should have told me, I could have helped!"

            "No, don't be sorry. It's not your fault, there's nothing you could have done."

            I shake my head.  "No, I could have stopped therapy, or gotten a job…"

            "No way! There's no way I would've let you do either of those things! You're still recovering, you almost died a few months ago and I'm not going to chance you relapsing by letting you stop therapy or get a job. You're sick."

            "So are you."  He pauses and I know he has no argument.

            "Ok Rog, well point is your stuff was more important than mine. I'm only sick, you could have died."  I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off.  "Yes I know in the long run I could have died too but we're only talking temporary here. And I swear Roger, I'll start taking AZT right away. We'll find a way to get the money. Don't blame yourself, okay? You're not the one who forced me to not take my meds, I did that on my own. My own free will."

            I want to argue, to scream that that's not true and that it is my fault but the look on his face stops me and I just nod, knowing he wouldn't believe it anyway.

            Suddenly the door bursts open and Maureen. Joanne, Collins, Mimi, and Benny rush into the room. I tense when I see Benny enter. Who the fuck called him?

            Maureen rushes over to Mark and flops down beside him in the chair next to his bed.  "Roger told us what happened, Pookie. Are you okay?"

            "Well, he hasn't taken his AZT in over a year," I mutter under my breath. Benny and Mimi, who were standing within earshot glance at each other and I see Mimi whisper something to Benny, who clears his throat and looks at Mark and me.

            "I'll pay for your treatment and AZT for a while. You know, until you can get something else set up…"

            Mark looks about as shocked as I feel and he smiles widely, though somewhat uncertainly.  "Thanks Benny."

            After chatting for a while, everyone decides to go to the cafeteria and get something to eat since it's 8:00 already and most of us hadn't had dinner.

            Maureen, Joanne, Collins, Mimi, Benny and I, walk down the winding halls of the hospital, trying to find the cafeteria. Everyone is silent, sensing the tension that hangs heavily in the air. They don't know how much better I've gotten when it comes to eating in public, or even that I've pretty much gotten over my anorexia in general. But, I can't help questioning myself, if I've gotten over my eating disorder, why is my heart pounding in my chest like it did so many months ago? Why am I having trouble breathing and why am I breaking out in a cold sweat?

            We finally find the cafeteria and when we get on line to buy our food I'm struck with the worst food anxiety that I've had in half a year. I can't breathe, my heart is racing, my hands shaking, and the voices that I've always dreaded so much return to the back of my mind, criticizing, patronizing, and belittling me as always.

            Mark is sitting in that hospital bed because of you. It's because of you he didn't take his AZT. You're so fucking selfish, all you ever think about is yourself! You don't deserve food…you don't deserve anything you selfish bastard. You don't deserve anything except pain and punishment because that's what you cause for everyone else, and that's what you deserve in return.

            It's true. The haunting voices are right, as usual. I don't deserve food. There's no fucking way I'm eating now.

            So standing in that line behind my friends, I make a decision right then and there. For as long as Mark is in the hospital, not a single bite of food will enter my mouth. I'm determined to punish myself for doing this to him…again.

*~*1 Week Later*~*

Mark POV:

            Roger helps me up the stairs to the loft since my legs are still a little weak after spending the past seven days lying in a hospital bed. But aside from that, I'm feeling a lot better. I still have that hacking cough, but it's getting better with each passing day. I started taking my AZT and Dapsone, compliments of Benny, and my T-Cell count has gone way up, much to the delight of all my friends and doctors.

Since my doctor said I wasn't in immediate danger anymore, he discharged me today and let me come home to the loft, provided that I go back to the hospital once a week for blood tests.

            But as Roger and I walk the four flights of stairs up to the loft, I can't help but notice the change in our roles. As we get closer to the top, Roger needs to lean on me more and more for support, and suddenly it's me that's supporting him. And surprisingly, I'm able to do that with no problem whatsoever. He seems almost weaker than me and I've been lying in the hospital with Pneumocystis carinii for a week.

            "Are you okay Rog?"

            He turns to look at me with lifeless eyes and nods, exuding exhaustion with every movement.

            When we finally reach the loft we walk in and Roger collapses on the couch. I, however, stand frozen in the doorway, looking around at the obsessively organized and spotless loft in shock and suspicion. I go over to the kitchen and open a few cabinets, confirming my fears. One of them contains a few cereal boxes, arranged in both color and alphabetical order, another is filled with color arranged snack foods, one of them contains pasta, another with dairy products, and so on and so forth.

            "Roger! What the hell is this?"

            He snaps his head up from where it was resting on the arm of the sofa, looking shocked. Probably because I've never spoken to him so harshly like that before, unless we were fighting. But I can't help it, we've both worked so hard for him to get to the point in his recovery that he's at now and I refuse to let him relapse now. Not now, when he's almost all the way there.

            "What are you talking about?"  His voice sounds like an almost forced angry.

            "You know what I'm talking about!" I exclaim, motioning to the cabinets and all the other ridiculously organized things in the loft.

            "I did that to welcome you home! Jeez, you don't have to have a heart attack about it."

            I look at him skeptically, wondering if I should believe him or not. My heart is telling me to but my brain is protesting and won't let me fall into this trap.

            "Oh please, Roger. You don't honestly expect me to believe that?"

            "Jesus Mark, I only cleaned up to welcome you home! I didn't want you to have to come home to a messy apartment and I thought the dust would irritate your cough and make you worse! I've been fine for half a year now, stop being so goddamn suspicious all the time!"

            I sigh, still debating whether or not to believe this. Finally, I give in to my heart and drop my suspicions…for now anyway.  "Alright Rog, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act so suspicious but…I just don't want you to get sick again. You have to understand that."

            His face softens a little and an expression I can't quite read –maybe guilt? – flashes across his face.  "I do understand that. I'm fine though, you know that. I'm not going to relapse, I'd tell you if I started having problems again. Haven't I always in the past?"

            I nod, glad that I can't argue with that.  "I know. Just, let me know if you do need help, okay?"

            He nods and then gives me a small smile before scampering into his room, closing the door behind him.

Roger POV:

            Shit, that was close. Too damn close. I should have known he'd be so observant. But thank God he seemed to believe me. I feel guilty lying to him but I can't let him know I'm doing this again. I'd forgotten how good it feels to be so in control over everything. It almost compensates for the constant burning pain in my stomach that remains with me every waking moment of the day. Almost makes up for the intense fear and feeling that I'm about to have a heart attack whenever I so much as look at food or think about eating.

Almost. But oh well, there's no turning back now. And I know I deserve this pain, this punishment. The little voice in the back of my mind reminds me of that every time I see Mark, or think about how my therapy and my problems stopped Mark from taking his meds, which landed him in the hospital…because of me. Always because of me. Dammit, why do I always end up hurting him so much when all he ever tries to do is help me? It's just not fair.

Mark POV:

            I look at my watch and frown. It's 7:00 and Roger still hasn't come out of his room for dinner. Ever since our argument when I came home from the hospital last week, I've been trying to lighten up on him, trying to give him a little more freedom.

I knock on his door and get no reply. I frown again. Come to think of it, I don't think he's come out of his room once today. I try the doorknob but it's locked. Figures. Oh well, I know how to get him out of there real fast. I go into a coughing fit, the dry hacking coughs that have been wracking my body for the past three weeks. Although the coughing fits are now few and far between. It works though, Roger comes rushing out of his room, rubbing my back and trying to sooth my body. I almost feel guilty for tricking him like this.

            "You okay Mark?" he asks when I'm done coughing.

            I nod.  "Yeah. Are you? You haven't come out of your room at all today."

            "Uh, yeah…I was sleeping."

            "Oh. Well, it's almost 7:00 now. You must be starving, do you want something to eat?" I ask hopefully.

            "Um…no, that's ok, I'll have something later. I'm working on lyrics to a new song and I can't take a break or I'll lose them."

            I look at him suspiciously.  "You just said you were sleeping."

            He pauses for a second before responding.  "Yeah, I was before but I woke up and started working on the song."

            I shake my head disapprovingly.  "Roger…"

            "I swear! I can prove it."  He goes into his room again and returns a minute later with a piece of paper with some lyrics scrawled on it.

            I scan the paper and then sigh. "Fine…but, you'll have something later right?"

            He nods.  "Yeah, as soon as I'm done with this."

Roger POV:

            I go into my room quickly and shut the door, leaving behind a very confused and most likely suspicious Mark. I put the yellow piece of paper back on my desk and go back to what I was doing: organizing my drawers by color and types of clothing.

            An hour later I hear that annoying knock on my door again. I groan, knowing I can't avoid this forever and open the door, coming face to face with Mark holding out a bowl of soup.

            "Hungry now?"

            I sigh, knowing I can't fool him forever. For the past two weeks I've managed to get away with not eating by conveniently having rehearsal or going out with friends at meal times. And when that failed, I managed to trick him into thinking I was eating by dropping the food in my lap or spitting it out in my cup when he wasn't looking. But that won't work forever and I know he's already starting to get suspicious again.

            I sigh again and stare at the chicken noodle soup being thrust in my face.  "Okay, fine."

            I sit down at the kitchen table and manage to choke half the bowl of soup down my throat but the pain in my stomach from having food in it for the first time in days and the racing of my heart let me know that I won't be able to manage much more. So, looking at Mark sitting on the other side of the room, pretending not to watch every move I make, I decide that I can't take this and since he probably already knows what's going on anyway, I decide to make a run for the bathroom.

Mark POV:

            As I flip through the pages of the New York Times, I suddenly hear a chair scraping against the floor and look up just in time to see Roger get up quickly and run to the bathroom. I throw down the newspaper and run after him, reaching him just as he's about to close the door. I grab him around the stomach but draw back quickly when I realize that most of his stomach is made up of the material of God knows how many layers of clothes. I could barely feel his stomach there at all…but there were plenty of bones.

            "Shit Roger, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

            He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, obviously not having an excuse for shedding about 20 pounds from his already way too thin148 lb. frame in just two weeks.

            "You haven't been eating have you?"

His face looks desperate and scared and for a second I think he's about to protest but then he slams the bathroom door shut, locks it, and turns on the shower faucets. Even though he knows full well that I know what he's really doing in there.

            I try to pry the door open for a few minutes before finally giving up, realizing there's nothing I can do to get in there and make him stop throwing up. But there is something else I can do.

            I go over to the phone and look up Dr. Gomez's number, praying she's still at her office. The phone rings once, twice, three times, and after the fourth ring I'm about to hang up when I hear her voice on the other end.

            "Hello? Dr. Gomez?"

            "Yes, who is this?"

            "Oh, um, I'm Mark Cohen. Roger Davis' friend."

            "Oh yes, Mark, how are you? And how is Roger?"

            "Wait, haven't you still seeing him?"

            There's a pause on the other end. "No, Roger stopped therapy about three weeks ago…I assumed you knew…"

            "No, I didn't know. Um, is it still too late to schedule him for appointments again?"

            There's another pause and I hear papers shuffling before she responds again.  "Well I'll be available in two weeks, I'm sorry, I'm booked until then."

            I sigh.  "Okay, that's fine. I'll see you in two weeks."

            I slam down the phone and cringe as I hear gagging noises coming from the bathroom above the running water. There may be nothing I can do about this now but we are definitely going to have a talk when he comes out of there.