A/N: Got this idea while eating lunch. Amazing the things you think of while staring at a bowl of tomato soup. Anyway, it does have a point, I swear, you just have to wait a while to get there lol. It's kind of slash, kind of not, kind of those, "If you want it to be slash, it can be," fics. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Roger or Mark or Collins or CBGB's or Tropicana Orange Juice. Oh, you'll see...

"I'm not leaving, Roger, until you're completely comfortable."

"But you have to go film." Roger said. He'd been fighting Mark to leave for at least twenty minutes now. But he never meant what he said.

"You heard me and I'm not saying it again. Now, what do you want?"

Roger sighed and curled up on the couch. He had to walk home the previous night from CBGB's and since it had been raining hard in the East Village, he woke up that morning sneezing and coughing dangerously. And Mark knew, with Roger's infected immune system, if not carefully treated, it could prove fatal.

"I guess you could get me a blanket." Roger answered, pointing at the crocheted green blanket that Mark's grandmother had made him. Roger liked it. Mark slept with it every night so it had his scent on it.

Mark walked over to the chair it was hanging from, grabbed it and draped it over his sick roommate.

"Anything else?"

"Well...a glass of juice would be nice."

Mark stared at Roger blankly. "We have juice?"

"Collins stopped by yesterday when you were out. He'll be back soon."

"Oh..." Mark opened the fridge and muttered a "Hmm..." as he saw the carton of Tropicana sitting there, staring back at him.

Mark grabbed a glass, one of the few glasses they had, and poured the cold orange juice. He walked over and handed it to Roger.

"Anything else before I go?"

Roger stared at the glass of orange juice in his hand.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace."

"Do we have any soup?" Roger asked, an idea springing in his mind.

"Soup?" Mark walked back to the cabinets and saw three cans staring at him. "Tomato, chicken noodle, and clam chowder."

"Okay, umm...tomato?"

Mark opened the can and poured the contents into a pot, mixing it with milk before putting it on their hot plate. After a few minutes, he heard his roommate's voice again.

"Um, Marky? Can you make chicken noodle instead?"

"I already started making the tomato, though."

"Oh...then um, never mind, it doesn't matter."

"No," Mark sighed. "It's fine."

He washed out the pot and emptied the can of chicken noodle. A few minutes later, as the soup was cooking, Mark heard the voice again.

"Uhh...what about clam chowder?"

"Roger! What the fuck!"

"What?" Roger asked innocently. "I want clam chowder."

"Is this even about the soup?"

"Of course it is. A man's gotta eat."

"You're allergic to shellfish."

Roger covered his feet with the blanket. "So? I'll eat around the clams."

"Roger...what do you really want?"

Still looking down at the blanket surrounding his thin, fragile body, Roger muttered, "I want you to stay home with me."

As frustrated as he was, Mark couldn't help but smile at his roommate's childish actions.

"But you said Collins will be back soon. Don't you want him to take care of you?"

"It's not the same..."

Mark walked over to Roger and brushed a strand of dirty blonde hair out of the man's face. "Okay, I'll stay home if it makes you feel better."

Roger smiled, leaning into his roommate's body. "Mark?"

"Yeah, Rog?"

"...I really did want soup."