A/N: ::sigh:: This chapter is Liss's fault. She said I wouldn't, and I could never resist a challenge. I'm not quite sure where to go from here, so any ideas would be most helpful! --Larissa

It's not that I am thinking of the past

And consequently feeling older

--Matt Caplan

Roger POV

On nights when I can't sleep, I slip out Mimi's living room window onto the fire escape, where I dangle my legs off the edge as I rest my chin on the bar and let the cool wind blow over my face. It's surprisingly peaceful at three in the morning, when the rest of the world is sleeping. There are occasional signs of life--a light on in the apartment building across the street, or the alcoholic stumbling home after last call. But mostly it's silent and deserted, with no one to bother me or disturb my thoughts.

I used to do this when I lived in the loft. The fire escape was right outside my bedroom window, and I'd come outside for a breath of fresh air, and to escape from the hell my life was quickly becoming. My music was going nowhere as I became less and less interested in playing my guitar, and more concerned with my next fix. It was funny, really, because in high school, I'd never touch shit like that. It wasn't until after I met April that I got off on the long road of self-destruction.

My friends blame her for that. I knew what Benny and Collins were saying, that April was a bad influence on me, and she was destroying the promising career I had in front of me. It's true that she fell into the crowd of users and junkies before I did. But what my friends don't understand is that I followed her of my own free will. Call me crazy, but I loved her, and I thought I could save her.

But I couldn't, not because April was some sort of anti-Christ dedicated to my destruction, but because I was weak. I was arrogant, assuming that one little fix wouldn't hurt me, and might give me some insight into why it had such a powerful hold over my girlfriend. And because I was human, I succumbed to my addiction almost immediately.

April tried to stop me at first. She knew how badly smack could fuck up your life, and she didn't want me to follow her into the black hole of addiction. Later on, she became too wrapped up in her own problems to think of others. I did too, to a lesser extent, and maybe this was why I didn't recognize the signs when I saw them.

She was more withdrawn than usual those last two weeks. At the time, I thought it was simply the addiction. Heroin had screwed with her personality, made my sweet, shy girlfriend turn snappish and sullen. I was used to her withdrawing from me for one reason or another, to changing her tune completely the next day and being the warm, funny person I remembered falling in love with. At the time, her behavior seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. Looking back, I can't believe I was so blind.

The day it happened is permanently etched in my mind. I had promised April I'd be home by four so we could go out to dinner to celebrate her birthday. On my way to the Food Emporium, I ran into some friends of ours, who had just come into some money and splurged on an extra large bag of smack. They invited me to join them, and before I knew it, it was seven o'clock and I was completely wasted.

I managed to stumble home on auto-pilot, prepared to throw myself on my knees and beg for her mercy. I was so sorry, I'd tell her. I'd make this up to her if it was the last thing I did. I was still rehearsing my speech when I staggered into the loft, and found myself face to face with my roommate.

"Jesus Christ, Roger," he muttered, shaking his head. "Not again."

I felt my hackles rising. "Fuck off, Mark," I muttered, brushing past him and starting for my room. Usually he knew better than to mess with me when I was high, so I was surprised to feel him grab my arm and whirl me back around to face him.

"Roger, we have to talk," he insisted. "Something important has happened."

"I said fuck off," I snarled, yanking my arm out of his grasp. "How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?"

"April's dead," he blurted out.

I stared blankly at him. "That's not funny, Mark."

"She's dead," he repeated. "I found her in the bathroom when I came home an hour ago."

To this day, I don't know whether it was the heroin or the shock that made me grab him by the collar and shove him against the wall. "I said that's not fucking funny."

I released my grip and stormed over to the bathroom, where I threw open the door. "See, nothing here!" I yelled. "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

Then I saw it. The bundle in the bathtub, covered with the old red blanket that used to lie folded on the arm of the sofa. I approached it slowly, my heart racing. My hands trembled as I pulled back the faded wool cloth and stared into my girlfriend's face.

It wasn't like in the movies, where the dead look like they're simply sleeping. This girl in the bathtub was almost a stranger to me. She had April's dark hair, and the mole on her left cheek, but the sparkle in her eyes, and that bewitching smile were completely missing. There was nothing left in this body of the girl I had loved.

I gathered her into my lap, rocking her back and forth against me, completely oblivious to the patches of blood that were beginning to stain my shirt. I knew I should be crying, but it didn't seem to be real. This had to be a hallucination, or a dream. If this wasn't happening, then why should I cry about it?

"Roger."

I slowly turned my head to glare at the figure standing timidly in the doorway. "Not now, Mark," I growled.

He looked about ready to cry himself, as he set a post-it note onto the bathroom sink. "She left this for you."

I gently placed April back in the bathtub, kissed her softly on the lips, and covered her back up with the blanket. I felt completely numb as I picked up the post-it, scanning April's familiar handwriting over and over, trying to make sense of it.

Roger, we have AIDS. I'm so sorry. April.

We have AIDS.

I'm so sorry.

We have AIDS.

Roger, we have AIDS.

"No," I whispered. "No."

Mark took a tenative step toward me. He looked terrified, and I didn't blame him, after the way I'd shoved him earlier. "Roger, it's all right."

"No!" I howled, dropping to my knees and letting the post-it flutter out of my hand. Colors were swimming around before my eyes, reds, blues, greens, all flowing together until they finally exploded in a burst of light before darkness came up and overtook me.

I found myself shivering as I returned to the present. From the cold or from the memory, I didn't know. I climbed back into Mimi's living room, shutting the window behind me. The last thing I needed would be for her to catch a cold on my account. I didn't need any more blood on my hands.

I'd never forgiven myself for what happened to April. If I hadn't stopped to get high, if I'd been home when I said I would be, would she be alive today? I could have stopped her. I could have talked some sense into her, calmed her down. On that matter, I could have stopped her from using instead of sliding into the addiction with her. I had screwed up, and now she was dead.

When I verbalized this to Mark he told me not to be ridiculous. He said that April was in an extremely fragile emotional state, and chances were that even if I'd been here, there wouldn't be anything I could do about it. "Trust me, Roger," he'd said. "If you're determined to do something like that, there's not a whole lot anyone can do to stop you." When I asked him how he knew this, he shrugged and changed the subject.

Speaking of Mark, I hadn't seen him in over a week, not since my birthday party. And he'd run out on that early, I remembered. Probably upset after seeing me and Mimi, I thought guiltily. Why did I keep doing this to him? Did I get some sort of perverse thrill out of making him suffer?

The day I met Mark, all I could think of was dorky I thought he was. Here's a guy who's never had a day of fun in his life, I remember thinking. I worked hard and played hard, while this guy seemed content to hide behind his camera and film the world going by. I never paid him much mind, not until a party I was at got a little out of hand, and I ended up in jail for throwing a couple of punches at a cop.

I strutted into the city jail cocky as hell, but as the night wore on and the buzz from the alcohol wore off, the guys in my cell looked scarier and I became less certain I wanted to try to make it to morning. Benny would have been pissed as hell if he got wind of what I'd gotten myself into--he still thought I was a no-good punk--but at least Benny's wrath was familiar. He'd yell, he'd threaten to kick me out, but he wouldn't beat me senseless or do God knows what to me. Finally around four in the morning, I flagged down a guard and got him to take me for my one phone call.

"Speak!" the answering machine sang. Damn, everyone must be asleep. Of course they would be. Wasn't everyone, at four A.M.?

"Uh, this is Roger," I began, not knowing where to start. "I know it's late, but--"

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered. Not Benny's, thank God.

Saved! "Mark? It's Roger."

"What time…" His voice trailed off, and I was scared to death he'd gone back to sleep.

"Mark, you've got to help me!" I exclaimed. "I've been arrested and I'm in jail and you've got to get me out of here!"

"Okay, okay," he mumbled. "Be there in a few."

The guard took me back to my cell to wait, and I sat tensely on my bed for the next forty minutes, praying that my cellmates wouldn't wake up and that Mark hadn't fallen asleep again. If I ever got out of this, I would be a changed man. No more wild parties, no more booze. I'd live straight from now on, honest to God.

"Davis," the guard growled. "Get your things. You're out of here."

He unlocked the door, and I stepped outside, unable to believe my luck. Beside him stood my roommate, looking much smaller and timider than usual, if that was at all possible.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Mark. I owe you one."

"There's nothing to thank me for," he insisted. "We're friends. That's what friends do."

I'd never thought of him as my friend before. Just as my shy, weird roommate. But truth be told, what Mark did for me that night was a hell of a lot more than my so-called friends had ever done for me. When the police grabbed my arms and snapped handcuffs on them, they'd run off, intent on saving themselves. Which I couldn't blame them for. But Mark had pulled himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to bail out a guy who'd barely given him the time of day. If that wasn't friendship, then what was?

Mark deserved so much better than me. He deserved someone who would fully appreciate the wonderful person that he was, and someone who would put him first for once. That was Mark's problem, he was so damn giving of himself. He never put himself first, and it was just too easy for a selfish bastard like me to walk all over him.

And yet I couldn't give him what he needed. To admit that I remembered everything about that night, all these months later, would hurt him far more than my silence ever would. I couldn't do that. All I could do was be his friend, and hope that was enough.

I was planning on going up to the loft to visit Mark the next morning. I really was. But I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed, and then Mimi brought back coffee and muffins from the local bakery, so we ended up sitting together on the bed and watching TV together. It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I was able to get out, and while I felt guilty about that, it wasn't like it was actually hurting anything. Mark didn't know I was coming at all, so what difference did it make if I showed up at ten or at four?

I knocked on the door, feeling strange as I did so. I had lived here for so long, and I was used to coming right in. I still had my key, but it didn't feel right anymore. After all, I had chosen to move in with my girlfriend. I had chosen to leave Mark behind. Did I really have the right to come marching back into his life whenever I felt like it?

There was no response. I knocked again, louder, in case he was in the shower and couldn't hear me. "Hey, Mark, open up!" I yelled. "It's me, Roger!"

Still nothing. He must be out somewhere. I shrugged. No one could say I didn't try.

I scribbled a brief note, Hey, Mark, what's up? Call me! --Roger, and shoved it under the door. My stomach began to growl, and I traipsed down the stairs, trying to figure out whether I wanted pizza or Chinese, and attempting to remember if Mimi was working tonight, or if I should bring some back for her. It was just starting to snow when I got outside and I cursed myself for not bringing a coat with me.

I was about to go back inside for one when I caught a glimpse of a familiar plaid jacket and black and white scarf across the street. Mark. Both of his hands were weighted down with groceries, and he didn't see me as he stepped into the crosswalk.

He didn't see the light turn from green to yellow to red, or the string of cars that lurched forward toward him. He didn't hear my yell, or the roar of the red Mustang as it sped toward him, the driver oblivious to the figure in front of him. I stood rooted to the spot, one part of me leaping into the street after him, pushing him out of the way, the other firmly grounded to the sidewalk, staring in horror at the spectacle that was about to unfold.

As I watched helplessly as the car raced toward my former roommate, I heard Mark's laughter the night of Benny's wedding, when we got drunk and I performed a rousing rendition of I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts while wearing a pair of boxer shorts on my head. I saw his smile when he walked in on the surprise party I'd arranged for his twenty-fifth birthday, and I felt again the sweetness of the kiss we'd shared, the warmth of his body next to mine, the comfort of being so close to someone again.

On the street, the car continued on its path toward my friend. Tires squealed, horns honked, and there was a sickening thud as the two collided.

When it was over, the Mustang had swerved onto the curb and stopped. Groceries were scattered all over the street, and my best friend was lying in a heap on the asphalt. "Mark!" I screamed, breaking my paralysis and racing out into the street, not caring if I got hit as well. Oh, God, please, not Mark. Please, please, not Mark.

I knelt beside him, putting my hand to his face. The driver of the Mustang had gotten out of the car and was nervously approaching us. "I didn't see him!" he exclaimed hysterically.

"Shut up!" I screamed at him. "Just shut up!" I turned back to Mark, clutching his hand tightly between both of mine. "Oh, God, Mark, please wake up."

He showed no signs of movement. The snow continued to fall as I bent over his body and sobbed.