Disclaimer: If I didn't own it last chapter, what makes you think I own it now?
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One hundred and six point one.
It took a few tries before Roger actually managed how to read the stupid thermometer he had purchased at the drugstore this morning, but when he finally figured out how to catch the light just so on the instrument, that was the reading he got.
"I don't think that's good, is it?" he said, turning to Maureen, standing behind him like a nurse to a doctor.
"No," she said. "I don't think it is. I remember my mother saying you go to the doctor at 105, the emergency room at 107, and the grave at 108…." She paused a moment to consider. "Or maybe it was—"
"Never mind, Maureen."
She pouted a little, then went over to Mark, squeezing his hand. "I called Joanne. She's coming home early. She says she'll try to be here by tomorrow."
"That's good," Roger replied distractedly. "Nice of her."
But his heart wasn't in his words, nor was his mind. He could not take his eyes away from Mark's pallid face. He was sleeping (or so Roger assumed; sometimes it was hard to tell) but looked as if he were in pain even as he slumbered. Mimi had looked the same way.
It terrified him.
That day was one of the most agonizingly slow ones that Roger had experienced. Maureen was in and out of the loft, doing who-knows-what. Roger stayed home with Mark, trying to keep himself busy, but failing. Mark was almost too weak at this point to tell Roger what he needed.
But he had to be bored too. He had done nothing but lie in bed for nearly a week.
So Roger grabbed one of Mark's favorite books out of the bookshelf and began reading out loud, sitting in the chair that Maureen had pulled up beside his bed. He didn't even know if Mark was listening at first, or if he was awake at all. But at a fairly funny sentence, Roger saw his lips curl upward a bit in a smile of sorts. So Roger read with more enthusiasm and intensity, trying to get Mark to picture the story, and trying to keep his own mind in it as well.
He read for a long time. His mouth was dry and papery, his voice tired, but when Mark gave a little groan to get him to stop, he didn't want to. He had developed a rhythm that he did not want to extract himself from. It was so disillusioning that he did not want to leave its comforts and come back to the real world where Mark was sick and Roger was sick and people were dead and more were dying.
"Mark?" he said quietly, brushing his friend's bangs aside. They were damp with sweat. Mark opened his eyes, squinting. "You'll pull through this. Are you feeling any better?"
"No," Mark mumbled in a voice that was not even a whisper. "Worse. Hurts…. Wanna… die."
"Don't say that!" Roger said sharply, standing up quickly. Mark closed his eyes and sighed pitiably.
"Rog?"
"Yeah?"
"…Play?"
Play? What the hell…?
Oh.
"Like, guitar?"
Mark breathed the word 'yeah'
Roger nodded and went to his room to grab his guitar. It took a few minutes for him to find a pick; he had not been carrying one around with him (something he usually would do) the past few days.
God, he thought when he came back into the room, he looks like he just got worse in the past two minutes. His breathing was heavier, more rapid.
"Mark?"
He didn't answer. Roger sat down in the chair and put his hand on Mark's rash-covered cheek. "Hey," he said quietly. "What should I play? Any requests?"
Silence.
"Mark?"
Silence.
"Mark!"
"Musetta."
"Stay with me, buddy," he said bracingly, placing his fingers on the strings. "You'll be okay. Really."
He started to play the chords softly, willing his quickened heartbeat to slow down to the time of the music. One two three, one two three. You too, Mark, slow your breathing. Not so fast. One two three, one two three.
Roger played until he was sure that Mark had fallen asleep completely. Once he was, Roger placed his guitar against the bedside table and looked at Mark, listening to his ragged, uneven breathing. It didn't sound normal. It sounded scary.
"Mark?" he said uneasily. When he got no reply, he took his friend's hand in his. It was positively on fire with fever. "You just hold on. I'm getting you to a doctor tomorrow whether you like it or not. I don't care if I never get AZT again." And then he did something that he had never done before, and doubted he would ever do again; he kissed Mark gently on the forehead. I was no more or less than the worried, loving kiss of a best friend. An expression of a connection deeper than any romance.
He fell asleep, half in the chair, half in Mark's bed, still holding on to Mark's hand.
Roger woke to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds over Mark's window. He lifted his head off of the mattress, where it had been resting. He had not even been aware of falling asleep. It seemed as though it was but moments ago that he had put his head down at all.
He was still holding Mark's hand. And it was cool. He smiled a little. Mark's fever must have broken in the night. Good. It was about time.
Getting up, he cast Mark a supportive look before going to the kitchen to get him a glass of water for when he woke up. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was already past noon. It would not be much longer before Mark woke, if he was really getting better.
Roger put the cup on the table, right over the watermark ring that had appeared over the past week.
Suddenly his eyebrows knitted together. He had a feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong…. Something was very, very wrong….
He looked back down at Mark. His face was even greyer than it had been. Roger studied him a moment.
Then his stomach clenched painfully.
Was it his imagination, or was Mark not breathing?
"Mark?" he said cautiously. Then he shouted it. "MARK!"
He leaned down frantically over his friend, shaking him back and forth, almost violently. "MARK!" Fumbling, he grabbed Mark's wrist.
No pulse.
"No no no no no…."
He put his fingers on Mark's neck, his other hand over his heart. No beating in either place.
He felt dizzy. He was suffocating. This couldn't be happening. Not Mark.
"MARK!" he screamed again. "Mark, please…. Wake up, please, you have to wake up! Your fever broke! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOUR GODDAMNED FEVER BROKE! NOW GET UP!"
But even as he said it, he realized it. Mark's fever had never gone down. It had gone up and up until his heart stopped and he grew stiff and cold….
"Please, Mark," he said quietly, hopelessly. "Don't do this. Mark…."
Roger knelt down beside him, pleading. "Mark, please. Get up, please." His voice grew choked and tears collected in his eyes. "Mark, I love you, I need you, you're all I have. You're my best… no, my only friend, Mark, please…."
But there was no answer.
"Collins!" Roger shouted. He needed Collins. Collins would know what to do. Collins could keep his head, could think. Roger could not think. The only person left in this world that he cared about lay lifeless before him. He needed Collins here.
Roger climbed onto Mark's bed and put his arms around his friend, saying his name over and over, tears streaming down his face. It would be okay. Really. Mark was fine. He would be fine. Roger told him that again and again, trying to make himself believe it.
The door opened slowly.
"Rog? Joanne's here. Is he asleep? Roger? What are you—?"
Roger just stared at the women before him, a haunted look in his eyes. Joanne walked over, clicking on the light as she did. After a moment, she grabbed Mark's wrist like Roger had, then dropped it and gasped.
"Is he—?"
Roger dug his fingernails into his palm, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as they could.
"Oh… oh my god." Joanne stammered, backing away.
"POOKIE!" Maureen screamed. Joanne looked over at her, but Maureen was not talking to her. She was staring at Mark.
"We… have to call…" was all Joanne said before bustling from the room.
Roger got off of the bed and away from Mark suddenly. Maureen was sobbing. Roger couldn't watch it. Couldn't stay here. He couldn't stay and watch as Maureen cried and Joanne took charge and the police came….
A body bag.
Like with April.
It was happening again.
Oh god.
This wasn't possible.
Not Mark.
This wasn't real.
Roger felt nauseous.
He could not watch this.
As suddenly as April's suicide, Roger left the loft, panicking completely. He clomped down the stairs, his ears ringing, dashing into the sunlight. How could it be so sunny and nice? He walked quickly quickly, trying to get out of hearing range….
But he couldn't. Behind his back he heard the sirens' howls.