*****Gotta give some credit where credit is due: Thanks to http://www.fifibear.com/emergence.html

for the information on Emergence May Day Music Festival in Tompkins Square Park May 2, 1999

(yes, I changed the date to fit my story J). Thanks to http://www.wigstock.nu/history/index.html

for all the information on Wigstock, which sounds like a fun place to be (even though I don't cross-dress.

Did you think otherwise? Hehe). Oh, one more thanks to give: Thanks to the RENT book for telling

me exactly where Tompkins Square Park is in relation to the loft. Okay, that's all…for now.*****

After five days of being hospitalized, Mark was released to go home. Although he was still considerably weak and socially unstable, the doctors couldn't hold him in any longer. Mark felt caged in the hospital, and, even though he knew his strength was not yet up to par, he needed to get out of there. All that treatment and those needles and tubes and that damned heart monitor with its continuous beeping was enough to drive him insane.

So, Roger carefully helped Mark home, and was sure to only stand near him and not offer help. The last thing Mark wanted to hear was, 'Do you need assistance?'

Once they reached the loft, Mark's eyes lit up and a smile stretched across his pale face. "Home sweet home," he said with a chuckle.

Roger smiled too and fell onto the futon in the corner. "Ahh, it feels good to have an actual bed underneath me. Those lobby seats were killing my back."

"Yeah, the hospital bed wasn't any better. All that plastic and…" He shuddered. "Yuck."

Roger laughed, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Mark sit carefully down on one of the folding chairs. "Feels good to be home, huh?"

"Yeah…you bet." He smiled, picking up the camera that sat, wrapped in a big red bow, on the table. "Ah! I can finally hold it up and film!" He bit his lip, as excited as a little puppy – and just as adorably youthful, too. He flung the bow off, and, turning on the camera, he panned across the loft, narrating soothingly. "Here we find the loft – with its futon beds and illegal wood burning stove – in all its glory; untouched and pure, with the elegant grace of a poor-man's Shangri-La."

Roger shook his head, raising a brow. "Are you talking about our house or a woman? I can't seem to tell."

"Cute, Roger. Real cute."

Roger pursed his lips, winking and turning to lie on his back. "I try." He stared up at the cracked ceiling and smiled happily. Things were finally returning to normal. Or so he thought.

Two days passed peacefully with everything returning to the usual routine. Mark walked slowly, but steadily, around NYC – careful to stay away from alleys – while Roger sat for hours writing – or attempting to write – songs for the movie that Mark would surely finish before he even got through a full song. Benny promised to return for the rent in two months time, at which time he would demand three months' rent with interest – that is, if he was in a good mood. Joanne and Maureen were in a lover's tiff, as usual, and had split up for a period TBA. Mark, with all his old habits returning, offered Maureen a place to stay, and she, being always in her usual habits, had agreed readily and had taken over Roger's corner futon. Roger shrugged it off, letting Mark do what he pleased, just to make things easier. Besides, it would be useless to argue with Maureen. She won every argument – or didn't mention those she lost.

"Roger, listen to this!" Maureen cried, jumping atop the table in the middle of the room, clearing her throat. Roger looked up from where he sat (on the floor, leaning against the wall across from her) and set down his guitar momentarily. This was her third interruption. "Okay, this is it! This is the one!"

Roger rolled his eyes, forcing a smile and nodding. "Go ahead."

"When at last I had found myself freed from the chains that bound me, I was left panting and drooling over the large burnt turkey in the corner street window…."

Roger's thoughts strayed elsewhere. Maureen was protesting, yet again. What was it this time? Sometimes, it was hard to tell. However, Mark had explained that she was protesting the capitalists' Thanksgiving. Roger could care less, though. He hated listening to Maureen ramble on. He often wondered if she was an artist or a politician. Sometimes, the lines between were blurred.

"….And as I reached in my pocket, I found it bare!" she continued, oblivious. "Bare – nothing but my craving for the marrow of life! I screamed," here, she inserted a long pause as her eyes surveyed an imaginary audience, "But silence abounded beside my exposed ears and everyone scrambled away from my poor façade, as if I were cursed with leprosy…."

Again, Roger blocked out her voice, staring at her but not seeing her at all. Her image melted away into nothingness as his mind wandered. It was now the day before Thanksgiving and he had much to be thankful for, but something was tugging at his stomach muscles, making them churn uneasily with an apprehensive prediction of a catastrophe soon to be. Mark had been called down to the police station twice to try and identify the men who raped and beat him. Both times had yielded nothing. Mark recognized no one and knew that when he did, it would not be good.

"….Their hands grabbed my wrist, where that intolerable ticking was tocking as I strolled! They made me bleed and writhe and yet I found myself saying, 'Money is everything. Money is good. Money makes the world….'"

That's where Mark was right now: down at the police station, checking the lineup once again to see if he recognized any of them. Roger worried over this. What would happen if Mark did, in fact, recognize one of them? He might faint or something worse….

"….And then I scream out with my lungs full of hate! I've given in to that corruption! I've given up my innocence to those insensitive bastards who…."

Mark was still weak, although he didn't admit it to anyone, and he still was afraid to let anyone touch him. Every time Roger got within an inch distance (which he didn't allow himself to do often, for Mark's sake), Mark would tremble and break out in a sweat and would have to lie down for a while. These instances scared the hell out of Roger. And, since Mark had been gone most of the day, he was worrying even more than usual.

"….As they bind my hands behind my back, I struggle and break free, shouting, 'Viva America!'" Here, she took a long breath and sang out with all her might, "'Viva America!' Say it with me, Roger! 'Viva America!'"

Hearing his name yelled out so loud and high-pitched, he was shaken from his musing trance. "Wh-What?"

"Say it with me! 'Viva America!'" Her eyes were wide and bright as she reached out to him with both hands, egging him on.

"Uhh…Viva America?" he asked, confused.

Maureen's shoulders drooped heavily and she rolled her eyes, stomping off the table. "Were you listening at all?"

"Uhh…"

She growled in a huff and threw her hands in the air. "I don't know how anyone can expect me to put on this damn production piece of shit tomorrow! I seriously think you all want me to be lousy! And that damned girlfriend – ex-girlfriend of mine with all her shit-spinning…."

Roger stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes momentarily. He could stand this for about two more seconds – maximum. "Maureen, please, just –"

"….And with all that crap I've been put through as she accuses me – me! – of flirting with Mark and Benny and God knows who else! And then, you have the gall to –"

"Maureen!" Roger yelled, louder than he'd meant to. "Please! Shut up!"

She glared at him harshly and plopped down on his futon in the corner (which now belonged to her), but not before her middle finger rose triumphantly as her tongue was pointed directly at him. "Shithead," she whispered under her breath, pouting.

Roger rolled his eyes, leaning his head back. He wished that she and Joanne would just make up already so that he could go back to living normally with Mark. It was such a burden having her always nearby. Just as he was about to tell her what he thought of her – and her so-called performance – the door swung open slowly, revealing a very disheveled Mark, camera in hand at his side, off. He looked as if he'd just waken from a two-day nap.

"Mark?" Roger whispered, cocking his head to one side.

"Hey guys," he replied with a strained smile. "What's up?"

"You okay?" Roger continued, oblivious to Mark's question.

"Um…yeah, I think so." He closed his eyes, sighing and taking a seat in a folding chair.

"What happened at the police station?" Maureen asked, having already forgotten that she should be angry with Roger.

"Oh," Mark exhaled with a shrug, "They found two of the guys."

"That's great!" Maureen smiled.

Mark's fake smile reappeared. "Yeah…"

"Shit!" Maureen exclaimed, glancing at her watch. "I've gotta go, honey. I need to recruit performers to help with tomorrows protest. Wanna come? I could use the company."

Mark shook his head, setting the camera down on the table in front of him. "No, but thanks anyway. You should call Joanne and make up. She would help, you know."

Maureen pinched his cheek. "She'll call when she's tired of being lonely," she said with a huffy attitude. "Ta-ta!" She made a fashionable exit, flinging her purse over her shoulder as she flew out the door.

Mark watched her leave with a silence that made Roger wonder what was up. Mark's quiet manner was not normal for some reason. Something must've happened.

"Mark? You sure you're okay?"

Mark didn't answer right away, but after a short pause he shook his head, smiling. "Yeah, fine."

Roger took a seat next to Mark and watched him. "Somehow I don't believe you. What happened?"
"Oh…. Well, I IDed the two guys and they're looking for the others now."

"That's it?"

"And…."

"What is it, Mark?"

Mark let his head drop to rest in his hands and, by the trembling of his body, Roger could tell that his best friend was sobbing.

"Mark! What happened? Tell me!" Roger reached out helplessly, knowing he couldn't do anything – not even hug him for comfort.

"One of the guys…. They…they…" His voice trailed off through the sobs. "He… he had…. Oh God, Roger! The man…he had AIDS!"

Roger's jaw dropped and he unknowingly reached out, in more of an unconscious reaction than anything else, and gathered the tremulous Mark into his arms. Mark cried out, but Roger persisted, fully aware of what he was doing now. Mark's eyes slammed shut as images flashed before his eyes.

"No, Mark, it's okay! C'mon, calm down."

"No! Let me go! Oh God, please!" Mark cried, pushing his arms in between their bodies. "Please, please!"

"Mark! It's me, Roger…. I'm not going to hurt you!" he whispered urgently, trying to get Mark to recognize him. "It's me, Mark! It's Roger." Mark twitched and cried out, and Roger held him at arm's length away from him by his arms. "Mark, look at me! Look at me! It's Roger, your friend, your roommate! Open your eyes, Mark, and just look!"

Slowly, Mark's eyes opened and he was breathless for a few moments as his body calmed and stopped shaking. Their eyes held each other's for a few tense moments before Mark slipped down from the chair and slid to the floor, falling forwards on his stomach. Roger was swiftly down, kneeling by his side.

"Mark! Mark, are you okay?"

"N-no…." he breathed so softly that Roger almost couldn't hear. Mark's head lifted and his eyes timidly met Roger's. He was trembling still, but at least he could stand to be near Roger again. Just as softly as before, Mark spoke with quivering words, "I don't wanna die, Roger…. I don't wanna die."

"You won't die!" cried Roger, reaching for Mark. But, Mark jerked away, crawling back until he was against the wall. "Mark…. Maybe the tests are wrong… Maybe –"

"No, the tests weren't wrong…."

"Maybe you don't –"

"I don't wanna listen anymore, Roger. Just leave me alone. God, for once in your life, just leave me alone!"

Mark held the camera before his face and filmed absentmindedly. "Close on Mark Cohen, who is a weak, stupid kid who can never manage to catch a break…." He sighed, leaning back against the wall.

He hadn't moved a muscle (literally) since Roger had left, provoked by Mark's harsh words, which he now regretted. Roger had been the only one to ever help him with his problems. Of course, Collins would listen, if he had the time, and Joanne would most assuredly take time out from her busy schedule, but he always felt like a nuisance around her, and maybe even Mimi would coo and tell him everything would be all right. Benny and Maureen wouldn't care…. Well, maybe Maureen, if she felt like it. But Roger was always the one who worried over him, whether he had the time or not. That was just one of those things that made Roger his best friend; that kept him as a best friend for all these years.

Mark set the camera down, letting his head rest against the wall behind him. "Nice going, Mark," he spoke to himself in a light whisper, "But why should I care about him? Damn it, why? I've got enough problems to work out on my own. I probably have AIDS, I've been raped and beaten severely, and I'm still so fuckin' unstable that I can't handle anyone touching me! So, why let Roger try to help when I know he'll only hinder?" Closing his eyes, he felt hot tears burning. He wouldn't allow them to fall, though. He'd cried enough today already…. He just couldn't forget all the things he and Roger had just said:

"Leave you alone?" Roger cried, more hurt than angry. "Why? I'm only trying to --"

"I know, Roger," Mark growled, wrapping his arms about himself. "Just go…. Please, I don't want –"

"Don't want me to help, is that it? Goddamn it, Mark! Don't you get it? I'm trying my fuckin' best to just be there for you and be your friend, but if you're not even going to try –"

"I can't help it!" Mark screamed, jumping to his feat and stepping up to Roger. "I've been fuckin' raped, damn it! Do you have any idea how I feel?"

Roger glared, now angry. "If you think I sat there by your side in that stupid hospital because I didn't know how you felt, then I don't know how we're still friends!"

Tears flowed from Mark's eyes and he thrust his fists forward towards Roger, pounding against his chest with all the built-up rage that he'd been trying to mask for the past week. "Damn you, Roger! Fuck you!"

"Mark! Mark!" Roger cried, holding his fists still with little effort, for Mark was still weak. "What's wrong with you?"

"Get the hell away from me! Stop touching me! Do you have any idea how you're hurting me?"

"Yes!" Roger threw Mark's hands away. "And I'm trying to –"

"Well stop trying!" Mark cried, sinking to his knees and then falling back to his original position against the wall. "Please…. Just stop…."

"Fine! If you wanna be like that, fine!" Roger grabbed his coat and slammed the door behind him. "Fuckin' fine!"

Mark hadn't stopped Roger from leaving. He'd let him walk out for an unknown amount of time. Would he ever even come back? Roger was prone to fits of rage where he might stay out 'til all hours of the morning, wandering NYC aimlessly. But, Mark was still angry, and he told himself he didn't care if Roger ever did come back. It would be better if he didn't, he told himself. But, of course, the one thing he wanted was his best friend. Nothing else mattered – not if he had AIDS, not his brutal incident with those men in the alley, not Maureen's performance tomorrow, not the rent due in two month's time: nothing.

Meanwhile, Roger wandered the street, as Mark would have suspected. But, Roger was not only doing this because Mark was angry and had said things he didn't mean; he was doing it to find the other men who'd beaten on Mark, if he happened upon them.

He had stopped by the police station and asked the cop on duty what the other men looked like, presumably. He'd found the photos the other men had supplied them with and had gone out with the faces imprinted in his mind. If he saw them, they would die – no second thoughts, no regrets.

In all truthfulness, he didn't want to find them and give them what they deserved. He needed time away from everything that was troubling him – mainly, his friends. He didn't feel upset that Mark had told him off, or that he himself had been just as ignorant to Mark's feelings. He just felt tired of life in general and everything about the status quo. He and Mimi hadn't discussed the child they were to have at all since that day at the hospital. He needed desperately to talk to her, but lately she'd been absent every time he was free.

He stopped wandering when he reached Tompkins Square Park. He needed a distraction, and where better to get one than the park famous for fun and relaxation 24/7? He smiled slightly, watching the crowd before him. It was the Emergence Day Music Festival, 1998. This was the third of such festivals held in the same dingy old park, which was in surprisingly good condition after the riots of the '80's and the large riot last year after Maureen's performance, located between the cross-sections of Avenues A and B and 7th and 10th street. The celebration this year would last all day, and it was nearing nightfall as he walked upon it. In fact, Maureen's performance tomorrow afternoon would be held just outside this park. He grinned, thinking of all the people who would join her protest and vow never to eat turkey again because of its capitalistic beginnings. How would she ever manage to persuade them with that crappy narrative of hers, which he hadn't heard but a few words of?

But, putting all thoughts of Maureen and her sure-to-shock protest tomorrow aside, Roger entered the free festivity with mostly wonder, but a little of doubt mixed in. He didn't want to forget all his problems and enjoy himself, but what else was there to do? He couldn't go back. Mark wanted space for a little while, and it was the least he could do to give that to him, although he knew it wasn't what Mark truly wanted. Besides, this festival was an interesting Tompkins Square Park tradition and had been since the Greatful Dead concert back in the late '70's. He almost laughed aloud as a few teenagers skipped past him wearing the now in-style skin-tight shirts, baggy jeans and backpacks with stickers blanketing them. These kids mixed in nicely with the park regulars who came every day to chill out and enjoy life's simple pleasures: perhaps a game of chess at the chess tables, or maybe a glance at a dog run on the opposite side of the park. In any rate, the park was full of Electronica freaks. Yes, this celebration was after the famous Summer of Electronica. Roger didn't particularly like this type of music, but anything to get his mind off of life.

To his surprise, he saw Collins sitting at a chess table, preying on an unsuspecting teen, who surely didn't know his pawns from the chessboard.

"Collins!" Roger waved, rushing up to him, glad for the company in this strange environment.

"Hey Roger!" Collins grinned, looking up from the game. "What are you doing here?"
"I'd ask you the same thing. No work?"

"Naw, I get off once a year or so," he replied with a grin.

"Why haven't you come by the loft?"

"Maureen's practicing her speech, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

"That's why." He resumed the game, staring at the kid across from him. "C'mon kid, give up! I've got you right where I want you." He grinned, maliciously.

"Hell naw!" cried the kid, scratching an imaginary beard thoughtfully.

Collins relaxed, sitting back and folded his arms, turning his attention back to Roger with interest. "So, what brings you here? I thought you hated all this bass."

Roger shrugged. "I do, but Mark didn't want me around because… well, for reasons of his own, I guess…."

"Mark's stubborn as a mule." Collins reached out without taking his attention from Roger and moved a chess piece without a second thought. The kid looked astonished to find himself cornered with no alternatives. "Checkmate."

"Aw, hell!" The kid grunted and scratched his head, standing to his feet. "You always win," he pouted.

Collins laughed, standing and shaking hands. "No, you always lose."

"What's the difference?"

"Not a thing, but I like saying you lost." He smirked. "Come back tomorrow, Jimmy, and we'll play another game. I might even teach you a few pointers."

"Naw, not tomorrow," the kid replied with a frown. "The next day."

"Still not 'out'?"

Jimmy shook his head, somewhat disappointedly. "See ya," he whispered, running off.

"What's tomorrow?" Roger asked, watching the kid take off and taking a seat opposite Collins.

Collins laughed heartily. "Thanksgiving."

Roger rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I know that. But, what with the talk of, 'still not out'?"

"Oh, that…." Collins shrugged with a sad smile. "Tomorrow's Wigstock."

"Wigstock?"

"Yeah…. You want the backstory?"

"Seeing as how I have no clue what you're talking about, sure."

Collins cleared his throat, narrating proudly: "Late one night in the spring of '84 a drunken group of friends, seeking more diversions, closed the Pyramid Club and traipsed over to Tompkins Square Park, six-packs in tow. The friends, Brian Butterick, Michael "Kitty" Ullman, Wendy Wild, The "Lady" Bunny and a few members of the Fleshtones, were horsing around in the bandshell when someone (no one remembers who, it's all such a blur) came up with the idea of putting on a show - a day-long drag festival - and calling it Wigstock. And thus," he concluded while straightening his posture, "Wigstock was born."

"What an…interesting story," Roger laughed. "How come you're going? Well, I assume you're going."

"And I am. It's nice to meet all the people there. It's nothing like you'd think it'd be, Roger. And…it reminds me of Angel." He smiled softly. "It's a nice reminder."

Roger nodded. "But, why doesn't the kid want to come? Does he not approve of cross-dressing?"

"He's gay, but can't admit it to his parents yet. He also has AIDS, but no one but me and a select few gang member friends of his know that."

"He's a gang member?" Roger asked, surprised. "And he's got AIDS? Poor kid…"

"Yeah. I'm trying to clean him up, if that's at all possible."

"Well, you got him to play chess. That's a start."

Collins smiled happily again. "True." He paused for a short moment. "Care to join the festivities tomorrow?"

"Uhhh…."

"You don't have to cross-dress, Roger!" Collins chuckled, standing to his feet. Roger did the same. "I'm not going drag. It's not my style."

"Not mine either," Roger said while they walked.

"Uh huh, only on the weekends, right?"

"Right." Roger smiled.

"Well, come anyway. C'mon, it's either this or Maureen's performance." They both cringed.

"I'll come."

Mark sat on top of the folding table, watching the door intensely. Roger had been gone for nearly half the day, worrying Mark to death. Maureen had come back, only to say that she and Joanne were cool and that she was moving back with "Jo-Jo". Mimi had come home again but had fallen asleep waiting up for Roger.

Holding the camera up to his face, Mark filmed, turning away from the door. "Once again, the solitary filmmaker sits – alone – wishing for something to keep him going." He paused thoughtfully, sighing with a frown. "Why are some of the best films those which have never been seen?" he asked with quivering lips. "And those which cost millions are never quite as big as they seem when viewed in close-up; the pixels become blurry and the picture is distorted. Why is it when everything seems to be going perfect and fine, something just has to happen to fuck it all up and send you spiraling down the lens, praying you get out before they turn the projector on? For, when they flip the switch to view your life, you find out it's a sham…. And why am I constantly the one to be pondering life's inconsequential inquiries? Why am I unaccompanied and by myself – so much alone?"

Roger stood in the doorway, leaning against it, holding something small in his hands. He was silent, listening contently to Mark's ramblings. How else could he know exactly what his best friend was thinking?

Mark zoomed in on his own features. "Let's take a close-up view of the biggest fraud in NYC," he whispered sadly. "Am I really such a hypocrite?" His eyes were distraught and fuzzy in the camera's lens – exactly the effect he was looking for.

Roger shrugged, choosing now to speak, before Mark went further into depression. "Not really." Mark nearly dropped the camera, jumping a little off the table. "But, you do have a tendency to break out into poetic verse and talk with yourself." Roger smiled slightly.

Mark mimicked the thin smile, and, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, he spoke, "Hey, Roger."

"Hey," Roger replied, stepping inside the loft fully and moving to sit next to Mark on the table.

"Where've you been?"

"I went to see the Emergence Day Festival and ran into Collins."

"Oh? How was it?"

"What? The Music Festival?"

"Yeah."

Roger laughed, swinging his legs and watching them. "Pretty lame," he laughed.

Mark slipped off the table, taking his camera along and pretended to fix it further away. "Have fun?"

Roger looked up and cocked his head to the side. "No."

Mark stopped momentarily and then went on. "Not even with Collins?"

"Well, yeah, Collins is fun…. But, I really didn't want to be there."

"Oh?"

Roger rolled his eyes, sighed, and jumped off the table, walking towards Mark. "You know I didn't have any fun. Whenever we fight, especially over nothing – what else do we fight about? – I feel like shit."

Mark nodded, but didn't reply.

"Geez, Mark," Roger said, shaking his head, "You're so stubborn."

Mark glared, turning his head and setting the camera down. "So? Some find that an astonishingly handsome trait."

"Are they human?"

"Shut up, Roger."

"Look, I just want to say that I'm sorry for whatever I did that upset you. I know it wasn't the fact that I was trying to help. I know what's eating away at you, Mark, and you know it too – you're scared."

"I am not –"

"Don't try to deny it, because I've been exactly where you are right now, and I was terrified. I felt like nobody understood, no one cared, and that no one wanted to care."

Mark sighed, slumping into a chair.

"Is that how you feel, Mark? Tell me it is, and we'll work through it together. You know I'll do anything to help – anything at all. I'll be there for you like you were for me when April died."

Mark looked up and swallowed. "Roger, I'm so fuckin' scared that I can't breath…. It's eating me alive."

Roger sat down beside him and sighed, offering him what he'd been holding in his hands since he'd returned. "Here, have this. It'll make all your problems go away. It's a present from Collins."

Mark smiled, shaking his head. It was a Fugi Camera. His smiled was melancholy, however, and he hung his head, setting the camera down. "God Roger, how the hell do I get through this? How did you get through this?"

"Unfortunately, I didn't…. But, Mark, you don't know that you have AIDS. Don't worry about it until you know for sure. There's no use terrifying yourself out of your mind if you don't have anything to base it on."

Mark tried to smile. "Didn't I say that to you a week ago about Benny and Mimi?"

Roger laughed. "Yeah."

"Geez, has it been that long since everything was normal?" Mark whispered despairingly.

"Yeah…."

"And tomorrow's Thanksgiving." He frowned heavily. "Roger, please, you gotta help me…. I don't think I can hang on much longer…."

"Don't say that, Mark! God, I'll help you in whatever you need, you know that! Don't worry, pal; you'll make it through. I promise."

Mark hung down and placed his head in his hands. "I just don't want to suffer anymore, Roger…. No more…."

Roger hugged him gently, and, for a moment, Mark trembled, but soon he ceased and was silent. For the first time in a long while, Mark allowed himself to be hugged and to feel weak in front of another person. Mark clung to his best friend – the only friend he felt he had right now – with a determination that was heart rendering.

Through choked sobs, Mark whispered, "Thank you…."

To which Roger could only reply, "Any time…"

"Rise and shine, shnookums!" cried Roger, messing with Mark's hair while he tried to sleep. This time, it was the musician's turn to arouse the filmmaker.

Mark opened his eyes lazily and grinned, rolling over on his back and glaring up at Roger. "Why Roger…. You're up before me? What's the occasion?"

"Get your ass out of bed and I might tell you."

"I've heard that line before."

"You should have. You said it."

Mark sat up and yawned, stretching out his limbs freely as Roger walked away. The smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes filled the air and Mark was instantly drawn to it. "What smells so good?" he asked, his mouth watering.

Roger grinned. "That's breakfast-ala-Collins."

Mark quirked a brow. "What happened?" He paused, his eyes widening as he jumped from the futon. "Uh oh, did you break my camera again?"

"What?" Roger questioned with sarcasm. "Why would I do that? And what makes you think I did?"

"Well, two reasons: 1) because you have before, and 2) because you don't cook – ever."

"Okay, two reasons I resent that: 1) because it wasn't my fault the first time, and 2) because you said you liked my chicken fritters last night." He winked, laughing. "Now, sit down and relax. Don't be so jumpy."

"In this house? Who's not jumpy?"

"Not me!" cried Mimi, bounding into the room from outside, carrying a tall jug of milk in one hand and a bag in the other. "Morning everyone." She pushed Mark down in the futon, sitting beside him.

"Hey, calm down, Mimi," Roger berated, "In your condition, you shouldn't –"

"In my condition…. In my condition! You hush over there, cooky-boy, and let me be."

"What kind of a man would I be then?"

"A good one?"

Roger grumbled. Mimi twirled a finger around Mark's hair and giggled. "Did ya sleep well?"

"Uh, I –"

"Good! Roger, how's breakfast coming?"

"I slept fine. And how about you?" Mark continued quietly to himself.

"Coming along nicely," Roger replied with a grin. "In faaa-aact…." He appeared before them with a tray full of breakfast foods. "Here it is! Voila!"

Mark watched, slightly horrified, as Roger set the tray down in front of him and Mimi jumped to her feet.

"Okay, what the hell's going on here?" Mark asked, confused. "Breakfast in bed? What's gotten into you two?"

"Nothin'," they both cooed with big smiles on their faces.

"Just felt like doing something nice for you," Mimi said.

"Yeah, what's the matter? You don't like it?"

"Oh no, it's wonderful." Mark laughed and started eating. "Just curious," he continued with a mouthful of pancakes.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," chimed Maureen, entering with gusto from the front door. Every entrance was planned and executed perfecting. She wore a white, skin-tight shirt with the words 'Turkey + Capitalism = Thanksgiving = Evil' written in big, black, bold letters. Along with that, she wore baggy tan pants and big combat boots.

"You look like you're out to stop a revolution," Roger said, shaking his head as he looked over the outfit.

"I am!" she replied in a huff. "The Capitalist revolution."

"Ah…."

"Mmm! Somethin' smells good!" She sniffed her way over to Mark and sat down beside him with a cute smile on her lips. "Can I –"

"Don't even think about it!" cried Joanne from the doorway, entering. "Get your hooker ass away from Mark!" she continued with a laugh.

"Hey, don't insult us hookers," Mimi retorted, sticking out her tongue. "We work just as hard as the lot of you! Don't we, Roger?"
Roger grinned. "O'course we do."

Mark stood. "Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore."

"What?" asked Collins, entering the loft. "You don't like my breakfast?" He pretended to pout. "And after all that trouble I went through to buy it all!"

Mark smiled, throwing his head back in laughter and falling back down onto the futon. Holding his sides, he rocked back and forth. They all stared at him in confusion.

"Mark? You okay?" asked Collins, raising an eyebrow.

Mark wiped a tear away from laughing so hard and smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine." He stuck a fork in his breakfast and started to eat again. "C'mon, I'm not gonna be the only one eating. Grab a plate – if, that is, you can find any around here – and have Mr. Cook Collins over there fix you all something."

Collins grinned, laughing. "In all truthfulness, I don't cook. I went out to McDonald's early this morning."

Mark leaned against the wall, smiling gently. "I figured."

Wigfest '98 was to be the biggest and best of all the previous of such festivities. It was expected to draw 11,000 or more people this year. Among those attending this year were Collins, Mimi, Mark, and Roger. Joanne had gone along with Maureen to help with the performance and the others had sworn to be there in time to view it, although none were too excited about it. No one, that is, save Maureen herself.

It was a bit odd for the four friends to find themselves among the thousands of drag queens, but they found it a very homely experience. Oddly enough, they were used to it. New York was an interesting place, after all, and ever since Angel's death, all of them had been given a different outlook on cross-dressing. Collins seemed right at home, mingling among the attendants, and Mimi found herself going along with him. Roger strolled around just taking it all in. And Mark? He filmed.

"Isn't this great?" cried Mark happily, turning the camera every which way to try and catch everything as it unfolded. "What a reel this will be! I'll be sure to get some amazing footage from this!"

Roger shook his head, laughing. "Sure. Sounds good."

Mark barely heard Roger as he continued to film, panning his way to the stage, where one of the more attractive drag queens was singing a song, complete with an orchestra behind her. Mark smiled, watching her strut her stuff provocatively across the stage, waving and receiving catcalls from various members of the audience, one of which, he noticed was Collins.

Roger was quiet, just watching it all. He was having a good time, despite how sick he felt inside. Mark was happy – for now. But what would happen when the doctor called today – today, of all days! – to give the results from Mark's blood test?

"C'mon, Roger!" Mark nudged his friend out of his musings with an elbow in his side, playfully. "You don't seem to be enjoying yourself."

Roger put on a smile, shrugging. "I am."

"Don't lie." Mark turned the camera off. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I swear, I'm happy."

Mark rolled his eyes and took a seat at an open bench. Roger sat beside him. "I don't believe you." Mark frowned suddenly. "Are you thinking about the call?"

Roger let out a breath, nodding. "Yeah."

"Me too…. But, if we dwell on it, I'll lose it."

"I know. I'm sorry, I just can't stop thinking about it."

Mark laughed lightly. "You can't stop thinking about it? How do you think I feel?"

He shrugged. "I know…. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Please, stop being sorry. I can be sorry enough for us both."

Roger nodded. "Well, c'mon, Mr. Filmmaker. This is your day – Thanksgiving. What do you want to do first?"

Mark grinned devilishly. "You won't like it."

"What? Why not?" He thought a moment and then shook his head. "No. Oh no…"

"Yes!" His grin widened. "I want to see Maureen's performance."