Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. The arrangement of the words, that's my choice, so yes, I sort of own that. But nothing else.

"Wait, wait here a minute."

Roger knew what Mark wanted to do. He groaned, but suppressed his whines. Mark didn't have to take me. Mark could've left me there in the clinic. Twenty-one days… It was the period for which Mark would essentially be Roger's legal guardian, a period otherwise spent in a rehabilitation clinic. Roger shuddered. The clinic had done him wonders, truly, but…

The symptoms had protected Roger. First he was exhausted but unable to sleep, shaking with the pain, sweating… After that, when he could walk three steps without falling, feed himself and make his way to the bathroom, when he should have been humiliated at being unable to be alone for five minutes, even for a shower, the depression cushioned him. Though he loathed himself, Roger was comfortable. He was safe.

Suddenly the corridor seemed huge to Roger. Suddenly he wondered, who would catch him if he fell? It was one thing to stand in a group forced to hold hands with those around him and chant out strength, but Roger knew. He knew the streetcorners where he could buy smack from The Man. Achingly he fingered the bills in his pocket. He hadn't many, but enough for a hit…

"Roger? Come on, come inside!" Mark was calling him. Obediently, Roger plastered a smile on his face and strode into the apartment. "November second, nineteen-eighty-nine, Roger Davis returns to the apartment he and I rented together…"

Through the lens, Mark saw Roger for the first time. He was unshaven and haggard, and he looked tired. Even so, there was his smile, not a grimace but a well-lied grin, his open posture, the fact that he was playing along. Mark lowered the camera.

"You wanna go lie down?" he asked.

Roger shook his head. "Nah. Some coffee, that's all. Still in the same place?" Without awaiting a response, he strode into the apartment, set down his gear then hurried to the kitchen and held a pot under the tap. A nap would have been nice. In fact, Roger's muscles were berating him for turning down the offer as he struck a match to create a flame under the water. But he needed Mark to know that 'legal guardian' was a technical term. He needed to prove himself a clean, self-sufficient man. "Do you want…?"

"No, thanks, I'm good." The assertion made Mark uncomfortable. Roger had always been independent, but never to the point of claiming not to need someone. Mark couldn't count the number of times he had held out a cup of coffee to his lethargic roommate, the number of times he had taken the cup. "So… Collins left," he said. "He's at, uh, MIT, teaching, you know, philosophy."

Roger nodded. "He came to visit before he left the city. Mark?"

"Hm?"

It humiliated Roger beyond imagining to admit, "That was... the first time." The first time. That was back in the summer, when Roger was released with a fair amount of his savings from his days as a successful musician, when Roger was released on his own resources.

"I'm sorry… I don't like being seen this way." Stop it, he told himself. In seconds you'll be crying like a little girl.

Collins had laughed. "Roger, you've got nothin' to be ashamed of here. We've all wanted you to get help for a long time, and we're all proud you're finally doing it." Collins said things like that, raw, honest things Roger would never dream of stating so baldly. He looked away, embarrassed by his friend's honesty. "C'mon, Rog. You're as much a man in a paper dress, shaking and kicking."

"Shut up, Collins. For my sake?"

"Okay. How about, I'll miss you while I'm away?"

"It won't be the same," Roger said. Nothing was.

Roger took a scrap of cloth and laid it over his thumb and forefinger, the two digits forming a circle, then he formed a bag of the cloth as though making a rude gesture. The resulting shallow was filled with ground coffee, the bag tied tightly with twine. "We need a proper coffee… um… pot?" Only the final word was a question.

Previously awkwardly watching Roger, Mark now had something to do, a query to respond to. What he wanted to say was, Maybe we can pick up a cheap one at a junk sale. But that would have offended Roger, who was touchy to begin with. Had he changed? Had rehab or the lack of smack made him a different person? A part of Mark wanted to know. That was the part of him that knew, somehow, he would learn to swim if he jumped into the deep end. Memories of that day surged vividly: bright, six-year-old Mark, sloshing wetly to the pool at the Jewish Community Center, the purity of the water color and the knowledge that if he submerged himself completely, without fear, he would bounce to the top and swim away, the painfully vibrant orange water wings unrelated.

"Yeah. And maybe some legal heating?" he commented sarcastically. Like the other first-timers, Mark had lined up that day and paddled his blue Styrofoam kickboard around the two-foot shallow end.

Roger laughed. "Yeah. Merry Christmas-Hanukkah, Mark. Here's a radiator and half the rent."

"Uh, speaking of which, I hate to bring this up, but--"

Roger raised his eyes from the pot, where he slowly trailed the bag of coffee through boiling water. "I know," he said. "I'll come up with it."

Mark nodded. "Okay."

"So, is Maureen still living here?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, she's… out."

Roger said what Mark left quiet, "You don't know where."

"Uh… no," Mark admitted.

Roger grinned at him. "I won't make the whip noises, but only because you've been good to me today."

Mark laughed, but the sound was painful and nearly as transparently false as Roger's grin. Stop it, please, Mark wanted to tell him. You know you can't lie to me. Stupid Roger. Stupid, false Roger. A serious of loud, electronic beeps interrupted his thought. At first the noise alarmed Mark, but he relaxed as Roger fiddled with a small black box, telling it to shut up. "What is that?" Mark asked.

"Nothing," Roger said. "It tells me when to take my pills." He poured them into his hand. Mark could tell they were multiple, but before he had a chance to zoom in Roger had swallowed them dry. Quickly, he poured himself a cup of coffee, leaving the limp, sodden 'coffee bag' on the counter to dry for re-use.

"What… what are they?" Mark asked.

Roger tried to shrug the matter off. "Nothing," he said again. "AZT um… it sort of keeps it--keeps the virus from remaking itself. I don't know."

But it keeps me alive.

TO BE CONTINUED

New chapter two: originally I set this in June, but a few plot changes (read: lack of foresight) caused a slight delay in events.

I have researched AZT, but I don't understand it completely, so if anything I wrote or proceed to write is glaringly inaccurate, let me know and I'll fix it. And thanks to everybody who reviewed, that's always a happy event.