Eeeep, I suck. I've been meaning to write this all week but I never got around to it Dx Sorry, guys! And I'm sorry if this chapter feels rushed but we're literally THIS CLOSE to canon and I'm sort of ready to get there. And post-canon because I have some ideas about that too ;) I know I usually do a chapter with Maureen's perspective and then one with Roger's, etc, etc but this time, it's going to be a mix; a little of Maureen, a little of Roger, some Mark and maybe Collins and Benny thrown in for good measure. It's probably angst-ridden too. C'est la vie. Enjoy! And I'm sorry if Roger is a douche again ;) Or if any of it is wildly OOC…I just can't seem to get Mark's voice right!

WARNING—Very long chapter ahead that includes two character entrances and a little sensitive subject matter. I'm trying to be as careful as possible with it. Also, I went with movie!Roger's hair. I don't care, I like the long hair :)

Heat of the Future's Glow

Dad's guitar was dusty. It had been laying on the window seat, unused, for…God, how long had it been? Roger was no longer sure. He did not seem to notice little things like the time anymore. Time was irrelevant. It could be light one moment, then he would blink and it would be pitch-black. It was summer, but temperature never mattered either. One moment, Roger would be hot, far too hot; the next, he might be cold. Regardless, he was always shivering.

All he could bring himself to focus on was the pain. The shakes never seemed to stop; his limbs and muscles ached even though he rarely moved from the ball he was curled up in; he slept fitfully, always awakening to a sweat-sodden and a cramping stomach. He was tired and disgusting and miserable and he could no longer imagine a life without this agony.

Roger turned away from the guitar. He could no longer look at it.

May 1995

Collins was not sure who to feel sorrier for.

Was it the scared, dying young man groaning and shaking in his room? Or the pale, white-faced boy sitting on the table, staring into space?

Pfft. This loft was getting depressing.

"Hey, Mark," Collins smiled awkwardly, nursing his coffee cup and standing in front of Mark. Mark's eyes refocused on him and he blinked, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Hey, Collins," he replied quietly. Collins' heart constricted in sympathy for his friend.

What kind of fucked-up world was he living in if a few good kids could not turn a corner without having more anguish thrown at them?

"You gonna visit Maureen later today?" he asked delicately. Mark flinched and Collins backtracked immediately. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean—"

"S'okay," Mark said flatly. A moment's silence passed. Collins shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes, wondering when the residents of this loft would get a little good luck.

"I didn't even know," Mark mumbled, "I didn't know she was…" He trailed off and clamped his eyes shut. Collins could have cried at the look on the younger man's face; of course, some day he would relish it as it would be the last genuine emotion he would see on Mark Cohen's face for a long time.

"She's gonna be okay, Mark," Collins assured him, and patted his shoulder. He knew this; Collins did not have much faith in the government in general, but the hospitals and medicine did their best. Collins had felt pretty well treated when he was diagnosed with HIV and he had no doubt Maureen was being well taken care of.

It had been forty-eight hours since Collins had been roused from sleep by Mark's shouts and stumbled onto a hysterical Maureen lying on blood-soaked sheets. It had not taken long for Collins, being a genius, to deduce the situation: Maureen was pregnant and obviously losing the baby. Mark had been confused and terrified, Benny was with his associate/girlfriend/whatever-the-fuck, and Roger could barely move, let alone be any help. So it was Collins who had called the ambulance, loaded Mark into the back with Maureen and then stayed up all night taking care of Roger and hand-washing the red-stained sheets (no flow for a Laundromat, after all, and the rusty old machines in the basement of the building had been broken for as long as Collins had lived there). Collins had had to postpone his journey to Massachusettsbuthe simply had to be there for his pseudo-family and MIT had been very understanding. Maureen was now still in hospital following a minor procedure to ensure the process of the miscarriage was completed—Mark had come home and emotionlessly told Collins she had needed a dilation and evacuation and had not left the loft since.

"You should go," Collins told him, trying to look a little encouraging, "She'll be happy to see you."

For a few moments, Mark just looked at him. Then, he said, "She told me to leave her alone."

Collins was finally silent. What the hell could you say to that?

Mark scooped up his camera, "I'm going out to film for a while."

If Collins had stopped him, forced him to open up to him, perhaps that stupid camera would have never become the shield Mark would come to hide behind. Perhaps everything would have turned out differently. Instead, he watched as Mark pulled the door closed behind them and he sighed.

Faces came and went; mostly Mark, sometimes Collins, once or twice Benny bearing glasses of water that went ignored. Only one face hardly ever appeared.

It sometimes seemed as though memory was slipping away from him; all he could remember with clarity was the scarlet of April's blood, the shine of a needle as it slid into a bulging vein, the relief of heroin pumping through his body in tandem with his blood. The thirst for a hit was almost more than he could bear.

There are dents from fists on the wall that Roger cannot remember punching.

July 1995

"You're late," Mark commented as the woman strode into the loft. Her mouth stretched into a grin that did not quite reach her brown eyes. Her lipstick was smeared, almost as though by another pair of lips.

"Sorry, Pookie!"

Mark frowned, "Pookie?"

The stranger shrugged, "What? My parents used to call each other Pookie," she smiled again, this time with a knowledge that would possibly always remain secret to Mark, "I think it's cute."

"Pookie," Mark repeated in disbelief. The woman nodded and then tossed her jacket onto the table. Her dress was dangerously low cut. There was a bruise on her neck.

"Where were you?" Mark wondered aloud. The woman blinked at him, teetering on the verge of telling him the truth and shattering the little illusion they both were pretending they still were under. For a moment, Mark's heart rose hopefully.

"Out clubbing with a few friends."

No such luck.

"Roger okay?" she asked. For the first time since she got home, her voice is filled with something genuine: concern. It was not surprising; nowadays, Roger was the only thing he and this stranger had in common. Their protectiveness over their vulnerable mutual friend dwarfed any of their own issues.

"As good as can be," Mark offered. The woman's face fell.

"So still pretty bad," she translated. Mark nodded, a little disappointed that he could not give her more. The physical symptoms of detoxification had more or less worn off; he no longer suffered the shivering and cramps and Roger was sleeping a little better. However, physical health did not equal to emotional health. Of all people, this woman in front of him had taught—was still teaching—him that. The psychological hold had still not been broken. Roger would often be found pacing or pulling at his face or angrily punching the wall until his knuckles bled in an effort to fight the desperation he felt for smack. He never threatened either of them though; there were concerns, especially now that Collins had left and Benny was hardly ever there, but Roger did not pose a danger. He did to the walls or the furniture, maybe, but not to his friends.

He never spoke though. He could not look out of the window or even at his guitar anymore either. Ironic, really; Roger was casing himself inside, this woman was always on the outside and Mark was sort of nowhere anymore.

"Damn," the woman muttered and Mark looked at her. For a moment, he imagined that he saw Maureen in her, but that was gone as quickly as it came. She was not the woman he had fallen in love with anymore.

Mark wondered if she still thought about him; if she ever thought about the child that never quite was.

"I'm going to bed," she chirped, abruptly cheerful again, "G'night, Pookie!"

She flounced into the bedroom without so much as a glance and Mark pretended that the whiff of perfume he caught was perfume that she owned. He pulled his legs up onto the couch and fiddled with his camera, thinking of nothing but the wiring and circuitry and possibilities of documentaries. He did not dare to muse on the facts that he was dirt-poor and his friend was hurting and his girlfriend was a whore and he had only learned of his baby when he was losing it.

Mark leant his head back and disconnected from the world.

It was the middle of the night. Mark had finally given up and gone to bed but Maureen had been unable to sleep. Instead, she was here: leaning against the doorframe, watching Roger sleep.

There was something innocent about him at this time. Awake, he was tortured and angry and depressed. Here, he looked so much younger. It helped that he had stopped using nail varnish and eye-liner and hair dye—all of those signs that he felt made him part of a rock band. There had been no word from Finn or Dean or even Henry since April had died, so it was safe to assume that the Well Hungarians had officially broken up. Now, Roger looked more like the boy Maureen had first met. The dye had grown out and dark blonde hair was beginning to curl around his ears. Maureen fought a smile as she looked down at him.

Still wearing that sweater I got him, she thought with a chuckle, and those God-awful pants.

There was something cleansing about this little ritual Maureen had of watching Roger sleep. It might be a little strange and Maureen would never hear the end of it if anyone found it but tonight she needed it. She could still hear the thumping of the club's music in her ears and feel the scratch of the man's beard as he kissed her neck. Looking at her best friend let Maureen pretend that she was not cheating on Mark; that she was not becoming her mother; that she was not letting down her friends and the life that could have been by abandoning them and what they once had.

Tears burned the back of Maureen's eyes and she turned away, squeezing them shut. No. She could not think like that. Did she not have a right to a little enjoyment after the year she had had? Did she not deserve to be with someone who cared, if only for a few minutes? Was she not allowed to feel appreciated, loved, worthy? Roger was trying to scrape what was left of his life together, Mark was balancing his determination to help him with his passion and had no time for the woman he loved, Collins was in a different state, and Maureen missed them. So she filled the hole in little ways and tried to find fulfillment with other people. But, so far, no-one could emulate Collins' good spirit or Mark's loving gestures or Roger's protectiveness and determination.

Watching Roger was beginning to ache a little. Maureen backed into the main room and resolved not to do it again.

August 1995

"I'm moving out," Benny declared. The loft was silent. Roger was gazing at the ceiling, not bothering to react; Maureen, hung-over, had her head in his hands and just groaned in response; only Mark attempted to look vaguely surprised.

"You are? Wha—well, where are you going?"

Benny shrugged, "Allison's condo. We thought it would be better for me to live with her, especially given that her father is an important man and he just gave me a higher position in the company."

Roger scoffed. Maureen, Mark and Benny all stared at him, stunned. It was the first time he had made any real try to communicate in months. When he did nothing else, attention quickly returned to Benny.

"You're just leaving? Like that?" Maureen asked. Benny looked startled and a little hurt by the venom in her tone.

"Is that that huge a surprise?" he retaliated. Maureen slammed her mug onto the table, spilling coffee over the surface.

"Of course not! You're barely living here as it is!" she groused, "No, it's not like you were here when we needed you so no, it's no big surprise!"

Benny scowled and moved forward as if to confront her, "Look, Maureen—"

"Guys, guys!" Mark interjected, waving his arms to draw their attention, "Can we not fight please?"

Maureen sulkily perched on the armrest, glaring at Benny. Mark rolled his eyes a little at the sheer drama she always dragged into a situation and looked back to Benny.

"Congratulations. When are you leaving?" he asked, hoping that he sounded earnest, not anxious to be rid of him. Benny frowned at him; apparently, Mark's hopes culminated in nothing. As per usual.

"Actually, this afternoon," Benny replied suddenly and then glowered at Maureen, making his feelings obvious: he could leave whenever he wanted but had no intention of being around her any longer than necessary. Rage boiled within Mark's chest—Maureen did have a right to feel upset by Benny's lack of support, he supposed—but kept his mouth shut and instead cried, "Wow, that soon? Well, do…do you need help with bags…?"

"I should be fine," Benny answered curtly, before storming to the bedroom, "I just need to pack."

Mark and Maureen awkwardly shared glances once Benny was out of sight. Roger scoffed again.

"What are the odds Daddy dearest promoted him to make him move in with Muffy?" he commented in a rough voice, still staring at the ceiling. By now, the brown rug covering the skylight had been replaced by a white tarpaulin. Maureen blinked at him.

"Muffy?" she repeated. Roger just shrugged, silent once again. A pause, and then Maureen chuckled.

"Poor old Muffy," she grinned. Mark rolled his eyes again but could not find it in himself to chastise them. After all, when was the last time things had felt this…normal?

Then he watched as Roger's eyes clouded over with something unidentifiable and the other man stood and strode out of the room. Then he noticed the blue ink on Maureen's hand as she lifted it and pinched the bridge of her nose: a row of digits and then, in almost elegant cursive, Joanne.

He did not say anything. After all, by now, this was what is normal.

October 1995

She was pretty, in an unusual way. She had soft features, even if her demeanor was almost stern. She was not someone who Maureen even pictured having lunch with.

"Sorry it could so long for me to call you," she giggled, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger. By now, she was an expert at this flirting game. She knew how this would pan out: the young woman would melt for her charms, she was pay for Maureen's lunch, they would go to her home, have sex, then Maureen would return to her distant boyfriend and "forget" the number again.

She received an unexpectedly bland smile in response and a comment of "That's okay."

What Maureen did not know was that Joanne Jefferson was anything but usual.

It was winter again. It had been a long time since Roger had been aware of—well—much. But he had woken up one morning and suddenly wanted to shower. And dress and look out the window and talk to Mark. Perhaps this was the end; he had finally reached the end of his ordeal.

Ha!

For him, the ordeal was only just beginning. No more withdrawal, sure. But now he was dying. He was grieving and depressed and terrified of the outside world. Getting clean was not what Maureen had promised; nothing was better, he was just a hell of a lot more aware of it. What about his music? His loved ones? His impending death? A simple fucking cold could kill him now, he was sure. And what would he leave behind?

Mark and Maureen would be okay; Mark had his camera, Maureen her performance arts. She was closer to achieving that dream than ever. At some point in the constant party her life had become, she had penned down some ideas and persuaded Mark to be her production manager. They did not need him. If anything, losing him would be better—they would not have to worry about poor, unhinged Roger and his AZT. No more money worries. Collins had MIT; Benny had Muffy and selling out. He had hardly spoken to his family in years save for their occasional phone calls and his occasional postcards to assure them he was alive.

He had not sent a postcard in a year. Just as well, because he was as good as dead.

November 1995

Roger was staring wistfully out the window when Mark came home. For once, his camera was not reeling. Mark's scarf was wound tightly around his neck; his face was red from the cold he had just exited but there was something else. Roger looked at him.

"You okay, Roger?" Mark inquired in a carefully level voice. Roger nodded and watched as Mark dropped his bag on the table and began removing his coat and scarf. There was something different about his movement; they were slow and deliberate. After a second, Roger realized why. Mark's hands were shaking.

"Did you take your AZT?"

Roger scowled and looked back out the window. He waited before asking, "Where's Maureen?"

The sounds behind him stopped. He turned back to see that Mark had frozen, eyes fixated on a random spot on the wall. A few moments later, Mark slowly resumed his motions, speaking in that same even tone.

"She broke up with me,"

Roger felt his eyes widen. It had been some time since he had felt any true, overpowering sensation so the shock was so strong that he could have been pushed off the seat with a feather. Maureen? Dump Mark?

"Wh—?"

"She's staying with her—" Mark broke off, stopping again, before clearing his throat as though nothing had happened, "—her new partner."

He sounded so damn normal. Somewhere deep inside, Roger felt a stir of empathy for his friend. Neighboring it was complete surprise and indignation at Maureen. This just did not seem like her; to just up and leave Mark after everything? Without even mentioning it to him?

At this thought, Roger immediately forced those feelings away. He had hardly been an upstanding friend and confidant to Maureen in recent months. He had his reasons, sure, but that gave him no right to think about her like that.

"Did she say—?"

"We've just grown apart, Pookie," Mark snapped, startling Roger with an almost accurate impersonation of Maureen's voice, "We haven't been happy, it was all sooooo dysfunctional, you cared more about your CAMERA than me!"

Then he slumped against the table and buried his head in his hands. Roger was torn, wavering between speaking and standing up to go and comfort him. But Roger had not really been touched in a long time; even simple little things like how to console a friend threw him off now.

"I'm sorry," he settled on uncomfortably. Mark lifted his face and smiled weakly at Roger.

"Don't worry about it," Mark replied smoothly, any trace of anguish wiped away, "It's just … it doesn't matter."

"Mark—"

"She was right, I guess," added Mark, a little forlornly, "We have been growing apart, ever since…"

He trailed off again and looked up to meet Roger's eyes. He attempted to smile again.

"Take your AZT," he told him. Roger exhaled heavily and leant back against the wall, looking back out the window. He remembered the day the skylight broke; how tempted he had been to feel what April had felt, to shove that shard of glass right into his wrist, through all those flimsy, toxic veins and arteries, and put an end to it all. Maureen had made him reconsider. She had held him and told him things would get back. But they had not and now she had gone too.

But there was Mark. There was Mark and Roger, who did not really have anyone else but each other. Maybe Mark deserved better company but, for now, surely this was something?

Mark was organizing the kitchen now, talking almost to himself considering Roger was barely listening. Somewhere in the middle of his rant, Mark threw out, "I wish her and Joanne every happiness!"

Of course, that Maureen had left him for another woman would be the one thing Roger picked up. He could not remember the last time he laughed like that.

Christmas Eve 1995

Roger had it figured out. All he needed was one song and that would be it.

Mark had his camera. Someday, he would find a pretty girl and settle down and make his movies. Maureen had Joanne and her performance. Her first show was taking place soon and Roger wished that he was not going to miss it but the thought of leaving this loft made his stomach churn. Anyway, Maureen would have all the fans she would need—her ex-boyfriend, her new girlfriend, Collins (back from MIT with a huge grin, a habit of smoking pot and full-blown AIDS). They did not need a depressed, dying, washed-up musician there. Technically, he did not need them. All he needed was one song to make his life worthwhile.

So he dusted off Dad's guitar and set about tuning it and tried to write. It would have to be about love, of course, because that was once all that Roger had strived for: love of a father, love of an audience, love of a girl. It would have to be about redemption, his redemption. And it would have to come from deep within his soul.

But the guitar would not tune properly and Roger's talent would not cooperate and suddenly he was doubtful; doubtful that the guitar would ever be played again, doubtful that he had ever been able to write, doubtful even that souls fucking existed.

Doubtful that he would ever write one great song before he—

Three knocks at the door. Mark must have forgotten something.

Irritated, Roger turned back towards the door and slid it open, "What'd you forget?"

The hallway was dark but the moonlight filtering through the windows made the warm brown eyes in front of him glitter.

"Got a light?"