Disclaimer: I still don't own Rent
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"Where've you been?"
"Nowhere."
"I was just wondering; you're really late."
"I haven't been anywhere, Mark, leave me alone!"
Mark pouted and turned back to the footage he was looking over. "No need to yell at me. I was just—"
"Worried?" Roger spat. Even as the venom left his mouth he wondered why he was so mean to Mark all the time. "Always worried. You're as bad as your mother."
"Sorry…." Mark muttered, getting quiet.
Roger took off his jacket and stuffed it into the closet beside the door, not bothering to hang it up. It joined the pile of jackets, hats, scarves, and gloves on the floor. He went up behind Mark and looked over his shoulder at the screen. Images flashed across it. Birds picking at garbage in the park, close up on a moldy lemon peel. A dead flower, stepped on after a moment by an uncaring boot. A tight shot of two guys kissing, followed by a guy and a girl holding hands and talking, their words unheard. A man at the drugstore, wanting change for a ten. Someone yelling at the camera in the lobby of a theatre gesturing to get the hell out. Mark and two random teenagers passing around a bottle of Coke and drinking from it. The same two guys from before pulling apart from the kiss and looking at each other. Then a grave. At first the shot was from far away, slowly closing in on the stone. Cut. By. Cut. When the camera was close enough to see the grave, you could see that all it said were the words "Long Forgotten."
Roger did not understand the meaning or artistic interpretation of the film. But it was a cool trick.
"How'd you do that?"
Mark cleared his throat and swallowed hard, grimacing as he did. His voice sounded dry and a bit scratchy. "My secret."
Roger nodded. He wanted to ask what the film meant, but he knew better. Ever since Collins died, Mark's films had been getting weirder and more random, with vague messages that no one but Mark could possibly understand. He asked once, after a particularly strange film, what message Mark was trying to give, and he had said, "It's not so much a message. It's a feeling. I'm trying to convey thoughts and feelings. I didn't expect you to understand."
Mark studied the images over and over. "Um, is it finished?" Roger asked. Mark just flipped off the small TV and sighed.
"Not even close. It's crap."
"Are you okay? You sound kinda off."
Mark shrugged, straightening his glasses. "I don't really feel well. I have a sore throat. Have all day, but it's getting worse."
"Why don't you go to bed?" Roger suggested.
"Why don't you tell me where you were?"
Roger ran a hand through his hair and sighed loudly. "Look, I was at the cemetery, okay?"
Mark looked at him, his features stony. "Who were you visiting?"
"Mimi. Went to see Collins and Angel for a minute too, though." Mark just nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor, suddenly looking upset.
"I'm gonna go lie down. I'm exhausted."
"Okay."
He disappeared down the short hallway to his bedroom, then Roger heard his footsteps stop suddenly, and heard him shout, in an almost panicky voice, "Rog, please don't forget your AZT."
"Mark?"
"I'm asleep."
Roger chuckled, went in to Mark's darkened room, and turned on the lamp beside Mark's bed. Mark did not sit up, just looked at Roger, squinting a little. He looked like he had been trying to sleep, perhaps hovering in that space between consciousness and slumber for an hour or so, but had not managed to drift off. His hair was on end, his glasses on the bedside table, his face splotched with pink.
Careful not to spill, Roger set down a mug of tea on the table, placing beside it a tablet of aspirin. "For your throat," he explained.
Mark smiled. "Thanks, Rog, you're the best." He sat up slowly and took the pill, swallowing a sip of hot tea with it. He made a face like the drink had burnt his mouth.
"You okay?"
"Won't be able to taste for a day, but it could be worse."
Roger laughed a little. Mark smiled, but it disappeared quickly and he squeezed his eyes shut. Roger's eyebrows knitted together. "What?"
But Mark shook his head, then said a quiet "Ouch," like the movement had hurt. He rubbed his neck, and smiled feebly at Roger. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I hardly ever get sick."
"You'll probably feel better in the morning," Roger said with a shrug.
"Yeah. Thanks for the tea."
"No problem."
"Goodnight."
"'Night, Mark."
Mark closed his eyes, sighing sleepily. His eyelids looked so heavy as they closed, Roger could almost feel that itchy sensation of needing sleep.
But Roger had not slept properly in one month, one week, and six days, and he did not feel like trying. He wandered to the living room and sat down on the floor with his guitar. He strummed as quietly as possible, singing in whispers his song he had written for his Mimi.
Mark slept very late the next morning. Roger was already up and dressed, had walked to the Life Café for a coffee to-go, and had arranged a gig for next week and still heard no sign of life from behind Mark's door.
A little worried (though he would never actually admit it), Roger opened the door slowly and peaked inside the dim room. "Mark?" he whispered.
The figure in the bed stirred, then Mark's eyes opened blearily.
"Didn't mean to wake you up," Roger said untruthfully.
"I was awake already."
Wow. Roger was a little blown away by the sound of Mark's voice. It was quiet and strained and weak. Barely more than a whisper, and a very painful-sounding whisper at that.
"You okay?"
"I'm sick," Mark rasped needlessly.
"No, really, I couldn't tell. You sound awful. Do you need anything?" He made to walk over to Mark's bed, but Mark said,
"Wait!" He paused a moment. "Maybe you shouldn't come in here. I mean, if you catch my cold…."
Mark did not need to finish the thought.
"I'll be fine, quit being paranoid," said Roger.
"Rog…."
But Roger, knowing he had the upper hand in being (outwardly) in better health than Mark, crossed the cluttered floor of Mark's bedroom, stepping on discarded dirty clothes, and over film equipment that Roger neither knew nor cared to know the use for but that looked important. He put his palm on Mark's forehead. "I think you have a fever."
"Get out of here!" Mark insisted in his hoarse voice. "Did you take your meds this morning?"
"No."
Mark sat up quickly, then clutched the back oh his neck with a grimace on his face. "Ow, shit…."
"I was just kidding!" Roger told him quickly, reaching out to help Mark lay back down again. "Sarcasm! I took them. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
"I dunno…. That was really weird. My neck was stiff last night, but now it hurts really bad…."
Roger's eyes shifted a bit. "You just… stay where you are then. Do you need anything?"
"I need you to get your AIDS ridden body out of my room before you die!"
"Shut up!" Roger snapped. "I can take care of myself."
"Then go take care of yourself!"
A retaliation to this, involving how Roger would rather take care of Mark, formed in his mind, but it sounded stupid and corny rather than threatening, so he kept his mouth shut. He stormed out.
And returned a minute later with pain pills and a glass of ice water. He slammed the cup down on Mark's bedside table.
"Take it. And don't say I never do anything for you."
He left the room to go play his guitar and calm down.
How could Mark act like this? He was sick and he thought that Roger didn't see the danger of it. Did he think Roger was completely stupid? It wasn't like he was going to go drinking off of Mark's straw, or lying in bed with him. He just wanted to help and not feel fucking useless. He had been fucking useless when Angel was sick, and then Collins, and then Mimi. Always useless. This time there was something Roger could do. Mark wasn't dying, so Roger could take some of his pain away. He could be useful.
So he was. For the rest of that day and the next, he took the best care of Mark that Mark would allow, getting him pain medicine for his throat, borrowing an electric heating pad from Joanne for his neck, making him tea and bringing him cold water. Mark protested, but he did not really have the energy to protest well.
It felt good to have something to do, someone to care for. It kept Roger from dwelling too much in the past if he could occupy his mind with present matters.
Like Mark's spiking fever.
But nothing to worry about there. Nothing a little Tylenol, a cold cloth, and one less blanket couldn't solve.
Right?
Roger had band practice tonight, and they had a gig soon. He really couldn't miss.
But Mark was getting worse.
That morning, Roger went into Mark's room, and the moment he turned on the light, Mark moaned.
"What?"
"Shut that off, it's hurting my eyes."
His voice was horribly strained, like each word was a terrible effort to expel.
Roger flipped the light switch down.
Even in the darkness, Roger could see how awful Mark looked. His skin was splotchy with a weird-looking rash and his eyes were sticky and swollen. Roger smoothed Mark's hair off his forehead gently as he felt his temperature.
"You are positively burning up. How's your neck feel?"
"Ow," was all Mark said in reply.
Roger squatted down beside the bed. "Look, I have practice tonight, do you want me too—"
"Go."
"But what if—?"
Mark squeezed his eyes shut tightly as some sort of reply.
Roger hesitated. "You sure you'll be okay?"
"Yes." Mark whispered.
Still. Roger did not want to leave him by himself. What if he got really thirsty or something? He almost felt stupid that he was so concerned over a bout of the flu, but he couldn't help it. Mark felt awful, it was obvious.
There was only one solution.
Call in backup.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hey!"
"Maureen? Could you come over here? Mark's sick."
"What!" she exclaimed, her voice changing to horrified….
"No," Roger said quickly, "not like that. He's fine. He's just got a sore throat and is feeling like shit. I gotta get to practice, so get your ass over here."
"God, can't Mark take care of his own cold? I'm busy."
"… With what?"
"Um, hello? A Friday night? Am I ever NOT busy?"
Roger sighed, getting pissed.
"Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?"
He thought he heard a little thump in the background.
Maureen said, "Do you?"
Thump.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I fucking DO, which is why I'm calling!"
Thump. "Damn…."
Pause.
"Maureen, are you playing darts?"
"… Yes."
"Please tell me you aren't too busy playing darts on a Friday night to watch after Mark. I thought you of all people had a life."
"I do! It's just… Joanne's pissed at me and threatening to kick me out again and I thought it was better if I stayed home tonight. She's not even here. Isn't that considerate of me?" Thump. "She'd be mad if I went over to Mark's…."
"Fine, you frigid bitch!" he shouted, about to hang up.
"Don't yell at me, asshole!"
"I'LL YELL AT WHOEVER I—" Roger suddenly remembered poor Mark trying to sleep on the other side of the wall. He dropped his voice. "At whoever I fucking well want to!"
"And you'll whisper at whoever you want to as well?"
"Maureen…."
She laughed. "I'll be over as soon as I can, okay? And don't worry, I won't let any harm befall your precious husband."
Roger just rolled his eyes, said thanks, and hung up quickly.
"Mark?" he shouted through the bedroom door. "Maureen will be over soon, if you need anything. See ya."
No response. He wasn't expecting one.
It felt good to hang out with the guys again, just laugh and jam and drink and not be concerned about tea and blankets. At first, he had still been worried, wondering if Maureen had even shown up. When Steve, the drummer, had shouted to Roger that his concentration was all off, Rog had had to resist the temptation to say why. The guys already thought he and Mark were closet-case lovers. No need to feed this incorrect assumption.
But after a few beers he loosened up and forgot about the sick filmmaker and thought only about how awesome the band sounded tonight and how they were gonna rock the hell out of their gig next week.
Back at the loft, Roger decided just to peek in on Mark and then go to sleep. He opened the door slowly.
Maureen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head leaning against the wall, mouth open, dead asleep. Her hand was on Mark's head, as though she had drifted off while stroking his hair.
"Maureen!" Roger hissed.
She woke with a start, looking around for a moment before her eyes landed on Roger. She leaned her head back against the wall.
"Hey," he whispered.
"You owe me," she muttered sleepily. "You didn't tell me he was this sick. I didn't know what to do with him. And if Joanne kicks me out, I so get your room—"
"Fine, whatever, you can have my fucking room," he said. "Is Mark okay?"
"How the hell should I know? Do I look like his mother?"
Actually, Maureen did look just a little like Mark's mother. Around the jaw area, and the eyes. Roger used to tease him about it when he was dating her.
Then she looked down at his face and ran a finger down his cheek. Her voice softened. "Actually, I don't think he is okay," she said. "I think he needs to see a doctor."
Roger ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have any money…. Well wait, there's the money we have saved for my meds and doctor appointments. Maybe—"
"No, Rog," Maureen insisted. "Mark would kill you if you compromised your own health for him."
"Who says we have to tell him?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't you think he'd notice if a chunk of money was gone from you guys' little stash?"
"I can miss one appointment! It's not going to kill me!"
"You don't actually know that."
She said it so bluntly, so matter-of-factly, that it almost made Roger shiver.
"Fine," he snapped. "Then what do you suggest we do? We have no cash, no insurance, and no way to get any. The stupid bank went and fixed Angel's ATM a month ago."
"Joanne has money. She's out of town, but gets home in a few days. I'll talk to her about it. You won't have to pay her back," she added at the look on Roger's face. "At least I don't think so. She's not like that."
Roger sighed, nodding. He was too tired and drunk to want to think about any of this. "Why don't you go sleep in my room? I'll take the couch."
"Ordinarily," Maureen said, standing up and stretching her arms above her head, "I'd take you up on that. But I've been in here with sick lil' Marky. I don't want you to get sick. Even I'm not selfish enough to get your bed all contaminated and whatever. But I do insist on as many blankets and pillows as you can spare, and one extra that you can't. I can't believe you still have no heat!"