Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT; still wish I did.

A/N: I saw the movie for the second time last night; I still like the musical better. I'm really surprised at how little money the movie has brought in. It makes me really sad that people don't seem to care about the messages the movie sends. :(

Mark's POV:

"Mark, get your ass out of bed. You have your appointment in an hour," Roger growled. It sounded vaguely familiar. He had probably tried to wake me a number of times, but I was hung over. I was very badly hung over.

I was stupid last night. I ran into Collins when I was walking around. I offered to by him a drink; I just kept drinking to make me forget that I might be slowly dying. I didn't want to die like Angel or Mimi. They were so sick; they were barely strong enough to talk. Their dark skin had turned gray. I didn't want my last moments to be like that.

Collins didn't ask what was wrong with me. For that, I would be eternally grateful, but I'm sure that Roger told him last night. I don't remember much of last night.

"I'm going to pull that skinny ass of yours out of bed if you don't get up soon," Roger threatened, "I read somewhere that you can take AZT not too long after an exposure and stop the HIV virus from making you sick. I'll get you some cereal and AZT."

"Rog, that would require me to have had sex recently. Just don't worry about it," I replied as I pulled myself to a sitting position. The world began to spin around me. My head felt like a ton of bricks, and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton.

"I am worried. It's shitty having to take dozens of pills a day. It's shittier that all my money goes to AZT, 3TC, and that other one that I can't even pronounce. I don't want you to have to live like this," Roger said softly from the doorway, "Only one sick person in the loft at a time."

"Indinavir. That's the name of your other med," I replied.

"Mark, I'll go with you. Just get out of bed and shower," Roger said as he disappeared from the doorway again.

I pulled myself to a standing position and gathered up the semi-clean clothing that I had. I could already hear the water running in the shower. I could hear Roger in the kitchen doing something. This was all wrong. I was the one that took care of Roger. He shouldn't have to take care of me.

Roger's POV:

It was the first and maybe the last time that Mark was silent. He normally jabbered about his documentary or his job working as a technical arts aid at the rich people's theatre arts school in Manhattan. I always teased him about being the poorest AV nerd in Manhattan; he was probably the only poor anything in Manhattan. Despite that, he dutifully took the subway to work every morning. Every Friday, he cashed his check and brought it home. Half of it went into a jar for rent and utilities. The rest was given to me for meds or for food.

I hated the silence.

The first time I met Mark seemed like a million years ago. He was only eighteen . . . and NYU dropout. I met him by the way of Collins. The two men hit it off instantly. Mark never knew what it was like to grow up poor, but for a scrawny, white Jewish boy he had a sense of compassion that blew me away. He believed that he could change the world . . . that he could make a film that would expose the world he came from to the world that he was currently living in. I admired that.

I was a 'rock' star. I did smack like a rock star; I had a bad attitude like a rock star. Mark changed that. After April died, he cleaned up her mess and my mess. He cleaned up the blood with a myriad of cleaning products. He single-handedly kept me clean. Mark dealt with a lot shit, but he never complained.

"I guess we're here," Mark said solemnly as we stepped off the bus only feet away from the front entrance of the health department.

"It's just a blood draw. A small tube full of blood," I replied ineptly.

"A tiny tube of blood and whatever might be growing in me," Mark replied.

True. I couldn't refute that.

"Let's just get this over with," Mark said as I held the door open for him and waved him in.

He smiled. If I had to be a goofy jackass until the results came back, I would just to make him smile.

Mark's POV:

"Joanne?" I said as we approached the clinic.

"Mark," Joanne replied obviously at the same loss of words that I was.

"Maureen?" I asked.

"Maureen," she confirmed, "She's not doing well."

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"You know. Mark, how are you?" Joanne asked as a pained expression spread across her face. It was hard to know that someone you loved had HIV. Despite how shitty Maureen treated me, I still loved her. I hated that I loved her, but that didn't make me love her any less.

"I'm okay," I replied with the bravest face I could muster.

"If she calls you, just try not to get mad. She's actually surprised that she's positive. She'd never intentionally hurt us," Joanne replied as she rested a hand on my arm.

"It would be hard not to get mad," Roger grumbled.

"Why'd she get tested?" I asked.

"We were going to go to Vermont next month to have a real commitment ceremony. She wanted you to be her bridesmaid," Joanne said as a smile briefly passed across her face.

"If you love her, you should still go to Vermont," I replied softly.

"Mark, you need to get to your appointment," Roger said as he grabbed my arm and nearly began to pull me down the hallway.

"Mark, if you ever want to talk," Joanne said.

"Same for you. Take care of our girl," I said softly.