III.
February 3rd, 1991
It was nighttime and Roger felt as if he were in the desert. He sat up on the bed, careful not to wake Mimi, in an attempt to make his body feel cooler. He felt the cold floorboards under his bare feet and the draft that caught his legs, making him shiver. It was an unwelcome feeling. Now he felt as if he were in the fucking Arctic. Shit.
He felt his forehead for a fever and was irritated upon discovering he had a temperature. His head throbbed and he took a deep breath. He was getting tired of this.
He stood up and got his sweatshirt out for him to keep warm. The loft was spinning as he made his way towards the kitchen and he felt as if he wanted to puke. By some miracle, he managed to seat himself in one of the chairs by the fridge.
Milk. He needed milk. It was the only thing he could stomach whenever he felt like shit.
The light from the fridge almost blinded him but it was all made up for once he saw that Mark had kept his promise and had bought chocolate milk. Unconsciously, a giant smile crept across his face as he got the carton and his mug out. Good old Marky. What a pal.
He poured himself a little chocolate milk and took small sips as he curled up on the couch. Another draft caught him and he shivered more violently, almost making him drop the mug. Fucking hell. Now he felt as if he were out in the snow without any clothes on. Damn it, was he getting sick again? Fuck fuck fuck.
Roger placed the mug on the floor, not trusting his hand to hold on to it much longer. He hugged himself in an attempt to keep warm but he only felt cold. Where the hell was the draft coming from? He felt pain as his muscles cramped up from the shivering. Oh God, he needed Mimi…but he knew he couldn't have her come and see him that way. He was sick, sure, but he was no selfish bastard. He could deal with this by himself. He always did…
His stifled moans echoed softly throughout the apartment and thankfully, neither Mark nor Mimi heard a thing.