Disclaimer: RENT, either movie or play, belongs to someone else. I am merely messing with it.
February 19, 1991, 5:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time:
Paige is stirring something in a large pot on the hot plate in Mark and Roger's kitchen. She hears the apartment door open and slam shut again.
"Roger?" she calls into the living room, not looking up from her cooking.
"Yeah?" he answers.
"Come here for a second, I need to talk to you."
She hears the soft thud of this guitar being set on its stand and the taps of his shoes on the wooden floor. He comes up behind her and peers over her shoulder. "Something smells good," he says. "What are you making?"
"Tomato soup, but it's not for you," she warns.
"Who's it for then?" he pouts.
"That's what I need to talk to you about." She puts the lid on the pot and turns to face him. "Mark threw up this morning."
"Is he ok?" Roger asks, clearly concerned.
"I'm pretty sure he just has the flu, and he should be better in a few days. But with him sick, and your current health status, I think you might have to stay with Mimi until he gets better."
"So basically you're kicking me out."
"Basically," she chuckles. "And since I'm likely to get it from him anyway, I'm going to camp out here and make sure he's ok."
"Do I have to go?" He sticks out his bottom lip like a child.
"Roger, healthy people die from the flu every year. What do you think it will do to you?"
He folds his arms across his chest and scowls. "Can I at least have some soup?"
Paige laughs. "It's not done yet, so go pack your clothes and stuff first. Then you can have some."
Roger smiles and pulls her into a hug before heading to his room. Paige continues cooking. He returns a few minutes later with a bag of clothes and his guitar case. He sets them on the table and sits on the counter by Paige. He looks worried. "Is Mark really going to be ok?" he asks.
Paige turns off the hot plate. "He'll be fine, don't worry," she says. "He'll probably be calling you guys all the time anyway, making sure you take your AZT." She pours half of the soup into a Tupperware bowl and snaps on lid. "Here, for you and Mimi," she says, handing it to him.
"You're the best, Paige." He jumps off the counter, kisses her cheek and leaves.
Paige pours some of the rest of the soup into a small bowl and takes it to Mark's room. She taps her knuckles lightly on the slightly open door. Mark is awake, although he looks as though he would rather not be.
She sets the soup on a crate by his bed and touches her wrist to his forehead. "Feeling any better?" she asks. Droplets of sweat cling to his temples, and Paige can feel that he has a fever.
"I feel like crap," he grumbles.
"The flu has a tendency to make people feel like crap," she teases. "Do you think you can eat something? And not throw it all up two minutes later?"
"Depends on the something."
She picks up the bowl and holds it in front of him. "My mom used to make it when I got sick."
Mark sits up and takes the bowl and spoon from her hands. He hesitates. She laughs. "I promise if you don't like it I won't be mad," she says. He tastes a spoonful. "What's the verdict?" she asks.
Mark tries to smile, but being sick makes it difficult. "It's good," he says. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," she says. She kisses his fever-warm forehead. "Just get better." He finishes the soup, hands her the empty bowl and lies back down. She stands to leave and stops in the doorway with her hand on the knob. "I'll be out on the couch, so just make some noise if you need anything." He nods weakly. She pulls the door shut.
11:22 p.m. Eastern Standard Time:
Paige hears Mark stumble to the bathroom. A moment later she hears the telltale sound of puking, and the toilet flush. She gets up off the couch and waits outside the bathroom door. "Mark?" she calls through it.
He opens the door with his foot because the bathroom is small enough. He rinses his mouth out with water from the faucet and spits in the sink. Paige feels his forehead again; no change.
"Everything hurts," he mumbles as she helps him back into bed. She sits on the edge and pulls the blanket up to his shoulders.
"What hurts the most?" she asks.
"My head," he moans. He takes her hand and presses her cold fingers against his forehead.
Paige stands reluctantly, causing Mark to whimper from the loss of her cool hand. "I'll be right back," she promises.
She returns with two aspirin and a glass of cold water, which he takes gratefully. She lies down on the bed next to him and runs her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes sleepily, but snaps them back open. "You shouldn't be in here," he says. "I'm going to make you sick too."
"I'll probably get sick anyway," she whispers. "I'm around you too much for my own good."
"I don't want to make you sick," he starts. She stops him with a hand over his mouth.
"Shhhh. Stop worrying about me, and just worry about getting better." Mark closes his eyes again, and falls asleep to the feel of Paige's hand in his hair.
February 20, 1991, 10:20 a.m. Eastern Standard Time:
Mark watches Paige from the doorway of his room. She is sitting on the couch, leaning against the arm with her back to him. Her jet-black is sticking up strangely from sleep. She is fiddling with something in her hands, but he can't see what it is. He silently walks forward, picking up the edge of his blanket so it won't drag on the floor. He manages to get halfway across the room before he starts coughing.
Paige turns. Mark gives up his attempt to scare her and sits beside her on the couch. The coughing ceases. He looks up to see what she's doing.
She holds a pair of knitting needles in her hands, a long rectangle of black fabric being formed from them. "I didn't know you could knit," he says.
"I'm a woman of many talents," she grins. She sets her knitting down and looks him over. "You look better," she says. Some of his color has returned.
"I still feel like crap," he mutters.
She nods understandingly. "Roger and Mimi called earlier to see how you were feeling. They said to tell you they took their AZT." The corners of his mouth curve up slightly. "There's some soup left if you're hungry," she offers. "I can heat some up for you."
He nods and follows her to the kitchen. He eats the soup slowly, desperately trying to keep himself from throwing up later.
Paige can feel herself beginning to get sick. She feels her throat tightening, her stomach beginning to feel uneasy, her muscles aching and her head throbbing. She knows Mark has given her the flu. She takes some aspirin and tries to hide it.
February 21, 1991, 2:47 a.m. Eastern Standard Time:
Mark's door is open. He can hear Paige coughing in her sleep on the couch. He tiptoes out into the living room. He shivers from the difference in temperature between the two rooms. The skylight still hasn't been repaired, and the wind blows cold air inside.
Paige's hair is plastered to her forehead by sweat. She shivers under her blanket. Her breathing is raspy, and her coughing seems to rattle in her chest.
He shakes her arm lightly. "Paige, wake up," he whispers. Her eyes take a moment to focus on him. "You're sick, you shouldn't be out here."
"I'm fine," she states.
"You're not fine," he argues. "You look worse than I did."
"I'm just tired. I just need some sleep."
Mark feels her forehead. She's burning up. He slips one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees. He lifts her easily; she is awfully skinny for her height.
"I'm fine," she protests. "Put me down, I'm fine."
"You're freezing and you're sick. You need to sleep somewhere warmer." He carries her gently into his room and lays her on the bed. He wraps his blankets around her in addition to her own. He holds her close, feeling the chill of her skin touching his. Her shivering gradually ceases. They sleep.