Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to Jonathan Larson - I'm borrowing them. Except that April is pretty much mine. I'm just borrowing her name/situation from Jonathan.

Notes: Please review. Pleasepleaseplease? I need validation. ;D

For Chris. Obviously.

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It's our anniversary. One whole year. I'm so proud. They never last this long. I never last this long.

He's the one. I know he is. Which only makes this harder.

I read the results again and again on my way home from the clinic.

April White: HIV antigen test: positive.

Funny how positive is suppose to be a good thing. I fucking hate that word. Positive. It even sounds evil. I suppose it always has been, it's just that much worse now.

Positive is something I've been told to be all my life. When my dad went to rehab after almost choking my mother to death it was, "Just stay positive, April. He's out of your life now. He can't hurt you or your mother or your brother again." When my ex-boyfriend almost put me in the hospital it was, "Look on the bright side, you're alive. Think positive thoughts." If I was having a bad day and I came home fucked up and my mom threw me out again, everyone reminded me that to 'be positive' because it 'could have been worse' and 'at least she only kicked you out'.

Yeah, well, I'm finally fucking positive. HIV fucking positive. And don't you all feel like idiots?

How could this happen? How the fuck could this happen? We were careful. At least, I thought we were. We used to be.

He probably fucked around on me. That's gotta be how this started. He fucked around on me with some dirty, disease infested slut and got us sick. I would never fucking do that to him. I never fucked around. I.. procured the necessary items to keep us from illing. So what if that involved a bit of persuasion. The Man's a lot more generous if you give him a reason to be. And it's not like Roger never did it either. I just don't think he ever sharedequipment.

Okay, so what if it is my fault? Is there supposed to be honor among thieves now? Who's the worse bad guy? Who fucking cares? The point is that we're sick. Not just sick – we're dying. And it's because of me.

He loves me. At least he says he does. And he's the only man who's told me that after sex, after a kiss, but not after a fist. Never after a fist.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with him. I can't face him now. How are you supposed to tell the only man you've ever loved that you killed him. 'I love you too, baby. Hey, by the way, there's a deadly virus in you. Happy anniversary.'

Why today of all days? This couldn't have waited a week or two? We're supposed to be so happy today. I can't tell him. I can't. I won't. There's got to be an easier way out of this.

I throw open the door to the loft and am slightly relieved that Mark, Collins and Maureen are nowhere to be found. If I'm lucky, Roger won't be home either.

"April? Is that you, baby?"

Fuck.

"Yeah, it's me."

"C'mere. I've got a surprise for you."

No more surprises, please. I rip the results up and throw them away before going into our room. As bad as my mood is, I have to smile at what I see waiting for me. Roger is laying on our mattress wearing a birthday hat and the sheet tied around his waist like a sarong.

"Happy anniversary, baby. A whole fucking year, can you believe it?" He beams at me and pulls me into his arms, kissing my face.

He looks so happy. I want to cry.

"Something the matter?" It kills me to look at him. He's genuinely concerned. I smile and do what I do best – lie.

"No, I'm fine, babe." Grinning, I climb on top of him and run my hands down his sides. "Happy anniversary, by the way." I kiss him playfully and he flips me over, laughing. "Wait, wait. I smell bad. Let me go wash up first."

"Oh, come on, April. You're just gonna smell worse when I'm done." He's so cute when he's.. well, he's always cute. I wish I hadn't already made up my mind.

"No, please? Just let me pretend that I give a shit. For once." I slither out from under him and head toward the bathroom. Halfway there, I turn back and go to him. I kiss his forehead and tell him I love him, then I disappear into the bathroom.

"You'd better not fucking take forever. I'm horny."

"I won't."

"Five minutes and I'm comin' in."

I close the door behind me. I don't bother to lock it.

I run the bath and take off my clothes. For what seems like forever, I take my last look in the mirror. It's that moment that it occurs to me that unless I leave him something, he won't know. I look around for a pen and paper, but can't find any. Just my luck. I rummage through the medicine cabinet and under the sink until I find my makeup kit. This will have to do. I scribble something on the mirror in lipstick, a quick goodbye that's more of a newsflash than a farewell and step into the tub.

The water is cold, but that's New York for you. I think briefly on when my next fix would have been and when Roger's will be. Will he mourn me right away or will he already have the shakes by then?

I look at my arm as I drag the dull blade across it, tracing the largest vein. All along the blue lines are small imperfections – some bruised, some scarred, some still weeping. It's beautiful and sad and funny and tragic all at once and as I begin to lose consciousness and slip into the red water, I think of Roger and what this will do to him. I would cry for him if I wasn't dead. For the first time in my life, I feel content. Happy. Positive.

Positively dead.