*PLEASE READ* I received a review last night that brought to my attention the fact that a few of the lines/themes in this chapter were incredibly similar to em0xstatic's "The Actress." On reading the review, I went back and reread that story, and discovered that the two were very similar. I just want to say that I am very sorry for that, and that it was purely a coincidence. This is the first chapter the way I originally had it written before I lost my nerve and decided I didn't have the medical knowledge necessary to write it this way. I ask you to go back and read it again, so that you don't miss an important plot element that has been changed. Again, I'm sorry, I never intended to use lines that had already been written by someone else. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, and I ask that you keep reading so that you may determine whether or not your conjecture is correct.

Author's Note: Okay, first of all none of these characters belong to me. They all belong to the late Jonathan Larson. They are just choosing to live inside my head right now and give me no choice but to find a way to occupy them. *MAJOR* angst warning for this story. . .as in . . I made myself cry. For an hour. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to continue it, but I have an idea in my head and it's sort of something that I need to do. On that note I will say that I love reviews, but please be nice. Oh, and this whole story will be written from Mimi's perspective. I'm actually gonna stick to it this time. . .I hope. . .I'll let you know if I change. Okay, enough of my rambling, grab some tissues and read!

Chapter 1: Tidal Wave

~~~**~~~

It's dark outside when I hear the door slam, signaling Roger's return. I sit up and glance at the clock, wondering how long I've been asleep and wishing that I could work normal hours and be awake during the day along with the rest of humankind.

Past eight. Roger was supposed to be home by five. It was supposed to be a routine doctor's appointment. My heart is hammering in my chest as I quickly throw on an old fuzzy sweatshirt and go out to investigate what's wrong. I'm tempted just to go back to bed and pretend I don't know there's anything wrong. But I can't do that. I'm tough. I'm not afraid of dying. At least, that's what Roger thinks. I'm not about to let him know it's a lie. At least, not right now.

"Rog-"

The sight of him stops me in my tracks. He's standing slumped against the kitchen counter, staring out the window. There's a glass of water in his hand and three new pill bottles on the counter.

"Roger?" I whisper, walking up behind him.

He doesn't respond, but I can see his shoulders shaking slightly.

"Roger."

"Go away." He says it so softly I almost wonder if I've really heard of just imagined it.

"Roger, babe, what is it? What did the doctor say?"

"I said leave me alone," he says, louder this time. He still won't face me.

"Tell me what's wrong." I insist, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"NO!" Roger explodes, rounding on and grabbing my arm so hard it hurts. I stumble backwards and pull away from him, surveying the damage.

"Roger, what the hell is wrong with you?" I choke, silently cursing the tears that are stinging my eyes.

"Just go!" He's screaming now. It's all I can do not to turn and run away. "Go! Leave. Now. Get out of my sight and never come back."

"Roger!" I protest, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nothing!" he yells, tears streaming down his face. "Nothing."

"Babe, what's wrong?"

I walk over to him again and wrap my arms around his neck. He nearly collapses into my arms, sobbing into my shoulder. My mind is reeling with questions, but I think I already know the answer. I almost don't want him to tell me, because then it will be real.

Silently, I wrap an arm around his waist and help him over to the couch. He lies sprawled across my lap, still crying softly. I rest my cheek on the top of his head and run my fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

"I love you, Roger."

"Don't," he groans, as though it hurts him just to hear me say it. "Just don't."

"What did the doctor say, Roger? Please tell me."

Roger sighs, his breath on my leg making me shiver.

"It's over, Mimi," he says in a soft, broken voice. "Kaposi's sarcoma. The death sentence."

I feel my throat close up and I force myself to swallow hard. It hurts. My head is spinning and my entire body hurts.

"How long?" I hear myself ask.

"The doctor said. . .maybe. . .maybe three months. If the treatment is successful."

I force myself not to flinch, to simply nod.

It's a fact, take it as a fact. Then that's all it has to be. It doesn't have to be real, not yet.

I can't handle it if it's real.

"What are your options?"

"Chemo. And some form of new experimental gene therapy."

"So then-then there's a chance you could get better?"

Roger sits up and shakes his head.

"I've already decided I'm not going."

The words hit me like a bullet to the heart.

"You mean—refuse treatment?"

He just nods again.

"Roger, you can't do that! Are you insane? Just because you're sick doesn't mean you have to give it all up! There's still hope as long as you're fighting, but if you stop? Then it's only a matter of time."

"Mimi, listen to yourself," Roger says gently, "You're hanging onto a thread of a dream. Miracles like that don't happen. They just don't. So it's easier if you don't expect them to. I'd rather die peacefully then go down fighting. You know the treatment'll just make me feel like shit. What's the use prolonging the inevitable if I don't even get to enjoy my time left?"

He pulls me into his lap, gently kissing my forehead. I lean up and capture his lips with mine, tasting the salt of his tears in the kiss.

"Does Mark know?" I ask after a moment.

Roger nods.

"He was with me," he laughs bitterly, "He was with me when I was first diagnosed, too. Remind me not to take Mark to the hospital with me anymore. It might kill me."

I close my eyes, picturing Mark through all of it. He would be the way he always was. Quiet and collected and utterly detached. What I wouldn't give right now to be like Mark.

"Where is he?"

"What?" Roger asks, as though I've brought him back from some far away place.

"Where's Mark?"

"Out filming. Said he had a project he wanted to finish. Strange how he only finds inspiration when he's upset."

I nod, and lay my head on Roger's shoulder. I'd never thought of that before. Mark and Roger both have an escape. I have yet to find my so-called inner talent. I can't sing or play or capture truth through images. The only thing I've ever been known for is being the best lay in town.

I slide off Roger's lap and stand up.

"It's late." I say, stating the obvious.

Roger nods and stands up too, stretching cautiously, as though afraid his body will betray him. I swallow again and turn away.

"I'm gonna go lie down."

"Okay," Roger says from behind me, "Let me take a shower and then I'll join you."

I wait until I hear the water start, then get out the photo album Mark gave us last Christmas. Everyone looks so happy in all the pictures. They're like a snap shot of time. A time that's gone now. My eyes sting with tears. I swipe at them roughly, then put the photo album back on the dresser and lie down on my back in the bed.

I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands until I can feel blood. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.

Dontcrydontcrydontcry. . .

I feel weak, like my body is tearing itself up from inside. Nothing will ever be the same again. I take a deep breath, desperate to stay in control. I'm floating on a tidal wave of emotions. If I give in, I'll be torn to bits and drown.

~~~**~~~

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