Disclaimer: Rent is fabulous; however, I don't own it.

Author's Notes: I'm on a big writing streak because of the movie and the sudden inspiration that comes with my parents finally agreeing to buy me the original soundtrack before Christmas. And it should be here by the end of the week which means next weekend will have a lot of updates as well.

Thanks for the reviews, and I'm glad that you all thought that the last line was so good. I'll try to keep stuff as good.

Italics are still flashbacks.

Chapter Three

"What?" Roger's guitar playing stopped abruptly. He looked to Mark, who was starting to stir, his eyelids fluttering.

"I always knew that if I went to hell that Musetta's Waltz would be playing." Mark continued his muttering as the left eye opened. Roger watched as he tried to move his slinged arm, and then hissed in pain. "I just thought when you died you weren't supposed to feel any pain."

Roger reached out to put a hand on Mark's uninjured one. "Mark you're in the hospital."

"Hell has a hospital?" It was clear Mark was still out of it, as he started to turn his head very slowly.

"Mark, it's me Roger. Me and Collins found you outside." Roger grabbed Mark's spare glasses and gingerly placed them on Mark's face, careful to avoid the bruises. The swollen shut right eye was nearly touching the lens.

A smile formed on Mark's face. "Hey Rog." The smile quickly faded as he began coughing. In a hurried manner Roger reached for the cup of water he had used earlier and helped Mark take a sip. "Shit that hurts."

"Yeah, you're beat up pretty bad." For Roger there was no point in hiding the truth, he figured Mark would call him on it anyway. But for a moment, he couldn't think of anything else to say. It was weird for him to be talking to Mark while he was in a hospital bed; it was weird for him to see weakness in Mark, but here he was seeing it. "You've been out for a couple days. Had us worried there."

Mark glanced to the clock, and noticed the change in his vision, as well as the late time. "These are my old glasses." He pointed out as though Roger wouldn't know. The old prescription was annoying him already, but he had always kept them around just in case. "My other ones broke?"

"Beyond all recognition." Roger had to laugh a little at the look on his friend's face. The one that said he hated the old glasses.

"What the hell is under my pillow?" Mark could feel the lumpy object underneath his head.

Roger reached back, and pulled the object out.

It was a small old teddy bear. It had soft, brown fur that had been tugged, snuggled, and exposed to all sorts of childhood adventures. Around his neck was a red bow. Well, it used to be red. It was made of a silk material that with age had changed into a rust color. The bear had some stitches to keep the stuffing from falling out, including some all around his neck from when its head had been ripped off. The bear should have been in the garbage years ago. But when the bear was in Mark's line of vision his eyes lit up, and then he looked over, confused. "You brought Roosevelt?"

Roger had gotten back to the apartment from his late night visit to the Cat Scratch Club, only to hear muffled groan as he passed by Mark's room. For a moment he didn't think anything of it. He was just a little bit drunk and it might have been a figment of his imagination. But then he heard it again followed by a shouted, "Leave me alone!"

It had been two years since the encounter at the gas station, and Roger still knew little about what Mark's past was all about. But he knew that Mark was responsible, more responsible than he'd ever be. Roger knew that if he had been on his own when he was fifteen he would have gotten into so much trouble, but Mark…Mark took every penny of money that his mom sent him, and he put his part of the rent forward, followed by his part of the grocery money, and then he put the rest of the way in a savings account…where it stayed, and was only spent for school supplies and film for his ancient camera that he always had. It wasn't spent frivolously like Roger knew he would have done.

Mark was quiet, but he was still one of Roger's best friends, even being his junior by five years. He was always helping Roger out, and drunk as he was, Roger couldn't ignore that his friend was calling out for help. So he opened the door without bothering to knock.

He was lying on his bed, although lying wasn't the proper word. More like tossing, turning and twisting the sheets on his bed. Mark was clearly having a nightmare. "Mark, wake up." This was a lame attempt to get him up, but Roger couldn't think of anything else. He never claimed that he was good at helping people. "Mark!" This was shouted louder and caused the shy filmmaker to tumble out of his bed. It was that, that snapped him awake.

He looked around for a moment, breathing heavily, with a sheen of sweat across his face. "What's going on?" He asked as his eyes settled on Roger.

"You were having a nightmare man. I wouldn't have got you up, but you were starting to shout. I was planning on going into my room and crashing and I didn't want you to wake me up." Roger tried to be as impersonal as possible. He'd been in this situation before, because his roommates always made him get the boy up.

Mark wasn't someone that would talk about his problems, but he would always get other people to talk about theirs. It was how things worked. "Thanks." He muttered, getting back into his bed.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." Roger started to close the door. "Night."

Mark's next words were muffled. Roger stopped closing the door when there was a small crack left and he watched as Mark reached between his mattress and the wall, pulling out a stuffed bear. "Hey Roosevelt." The teenager greeted. "I had the dream again. The same one I've had since I ran away…"

Roger laughed a little. "You didn't think I knew about him did you?" Mark didn't answer, just tucked the bear underneath the blanket so it was somewhere next to him. "Chill man. I've known since you were seventeen. It's cool."

Mark rolled his eye. But he didn't bring Roosevelt up again. "You said we earlier. Where is everyone?"

"They went home to get some rest."

"But you just couldn't leave your Marky-Man could you?" Mark teased.

Roger was laughing again. It's so weird that things could just fall back into place. Just hours ago Mark was unconscious and everyone was just sort of disbelieving the doctor's diagnosis, thinking that they were going to lose Mark, and now…Now Mark was awake, and already going back into their usual teasing, about how Mark was Roger's Marky-Man, and Roger was Mark's Roger Doger; two nicknames that had come up when Rodger had been very drunk, and come up with Marky-Man. It was the one thing that he had remembered the next morning, and he had chosen to continuously call Mark this name.

Mark just couldn't let this slide, so he had come up with Roger Doger. It annoyed Roger to no end, so they had called a truce, but every time they wanted piss each other off, they would bring them up.

"So what happened?" Roger abruptly changed the subject.

"What does it look like happened?" Mark challenged right back. Roger had to have known how stupid a question that was.

He laughed again. There was something about Mark that always made him laugh, no matter what he was saying. Maybe it was his tone…or the fact that without his hair, he looked like a melon. And with his face all purple it was a bruised melon. And to Roger it was as though nothing coming out of a bruised melons mouth could be taken that seriously. "It looks like you got beat up."

"Well then that's what happened." Mark leaned his head back onto his pillow.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Didn't think so."

Those three sentences were a habit. Whenever Mark had a problem, Roger could ask, Mark wouldn't talk, and then Roger would blow it off. Nobody could say he hadn't tried. Those three sentences were why Mark could tell anyone, just about anything about Roger, and most of what Roger could say about Mark was that he was a quiet filmmaker, who helped others and avoided talking to his mother like the plague. Because whenever Mark asked the question, Roger would be unable not to talk.

"Fuck my head hurts." Mark leaned back up.

He laughed again. Such coarse language from a bruised melon. Who wouldn't laugh at that. "Shit happens."

That was when Mark really noticed the clock. "Hey have you taken your AZT?"

"Yes Mom." Roger mocked. But then there was a paralyzing realization that when he had found Mark, lying on the ground, bleeding and hurt, he had touched him. He could have touched one of the cuts. And if there was just one tiny cut on his hands…

He could have just infected Mark. The panic was inset in his mind. By trying to save his friends life, he could have inadvertently given him a death sentence. Just the thought made it hard to look down for a moment. Mark was his friend, Mark was his roommate, Mark was his little brother, Mark was the one out of all of them that was going to survive.

Even though his hands had started shaking the second the thought had come into his head, he looked down. Spreading his fingers, he examined everything so carefully, and only exhaled the sigh of relief when he realized that the only thing on his hands were fading scars.

When he looked back up Mark was giving him a look. "What the hell are you doing?" It always came down to the fact that Roger was doing something that concerned Mark. And Mark would start with getting him to say what he was doing and then he would get him to talk.

"N-nothing." Not this time. He may have stuttered when he gave the answer, but he wasn't going to worry Mark over this. "I'm going to go get the doctor. He'll want to look you over."

"I hate doctors." Mark complained as Roger stood.

Now he could laugh again. "You would have loved the nurse that came in today and gave you a sponge bath. She was cute. I almost got her number for you."

"You're always teasing my like that…" Mark trailed off as Roger was almost out of the room. "Roger Doger."

There you go.