A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating. Something was up with the site and I couldn't log in. Hehe. But that doesn't mean I haven't been working! I've changed the summary since I finally figured out where the story's headed. Thanks to all those who've reviewed!I'll hurrythe uploadingup since I'm already onPart 2 so you guys can read a lot more about our favorite rock and roll prince. :) Adios, amigos!

V.

February 11th , 1991

Clink! Swish! Clink!

Roger went after the basketball as it sailed down from the net to the concrete, his breath coming out of his mouth in the form of clouds. Dragon's breath, he and Mark had called it when they were kids. He smiled at the memory of him arguing with the little geek about which one of them it was that had bigger dragon's breath. Mark's older sister, Cindy, had resolved it by saying yeah yeah both of them had breaths that smelled so bad it was seen, but so what. After she'd said that they shut up for good about it.

He got the ball and dribbled it a few times, preparing for another shot. Jesus, it was cold. He had been there only for a little while but already he felt as if he were getting frostbite, as well as the all-too familiar shivers that crept up and down his spine. Mimi had made him wear three layers of clothing as well as a coat and still he was shivering. Normally he'd lambast himself by calling himself a big pussy, but the thought of him never feeling warm enough chewed on him a bit. Fevers came and went too but they were the least of his problems. Lately his chest had been feeling a little tight, too. Maybe he should see a doctor…

Whiiirrrrr…

Roger rolled his eyes at the familiar sound and turned around. Sure enough, Mark was there behind the chain link fence, on his way home from work. It was already night out but Roger could see him clearly with the help of the spotlights that surrounded the public court.

"Give it up, Mark!" he said as he dribbled the ball some more. He made a jumper with it but it hit the rim and bounced off from the net. Damn. His skills were slipping. Roger jogged after the ball and dribbled it back to the center of the court.

"Up for one-on-one?" Mark challenged, the camera still running. Roger had to stop dribbling and turn to look at his best friend. The filmmaker had entered the court through the open gate and was approaching him, his bike leaning on the fence.

"You're challenging me?" Roger asked him mockingly. He held the ball between his arm and his hip then brushed a lock of his hair back to keep it from falling into his face. "Did I hear you right, Cohen?"

Fleeting memories of him and Mark as they'd played ball in the driveway of the Davis house ran through his mind. Before he taught Mark, the poor guy was terrible on the court. As they got older, Roger had seen some improvements and Mark could play a fair enough game. It astounded him, however, to no end whenever Mark challenged him because most of the time, he (Mark) would end up on the concrete, howling about a broken nose or some other bone he'd (Roger) apparently broken. In short, Mark always lost and always managed to get hurt in the process. They hadn't played in a long while though…

"I don't want to hurt you again, Marky Pooky," Roger smiled evilly.

"You and me, Davis," Mark answered confidently. If he were one of the Scarsdale bullies they'd known and encountered back then, Roger would have been proud. But he guessed that if, at that moment, they never knew each other, Mark wouldn't even come near him or look at him, even if he were good at basketball and desperate for a game. The guy was a wimp and his social skills depended on the person he was face-to-face with. Had been that way his whole life. Strangely though, Mark Cohen was one of the few brave people Roger knew, even far braver than he was, now that he thought about it.

He watched as Mark turned off the camera and set it down. "Whaddya say?"

Roger grinned cheekily at him with one eyebrow raised then threw the ball in his direction. Mark caught it easily, his hands slapping sharply against the leather. Roger had to grin. Eighteen years ago Mark Cohen wouldn't have even thought of catching the thing. He'd have just stood there, wince in anticipation and get hit, then go crying to his mother. Roger felt like Yoda. At least he was able to teach the guy something, the same way Mark had labored to teach him French and Science during highschool.

"You're on," Roger took his place on the court and attempted to block Mark. "What's the game?"

"H.O.R.S.E. Only, let's spell it A-N-G-E-L," Mark said, dribbling the ball in front of his legs. Roger nodded mutely. He couldn't have thought of a better game.

Roger got the first two letters in easily, but Mark put up a good fight and managed to tie the score in a matter of minutes. If he were in better shape, Roger would have creamed his best friend, would have cheated a little by tackling even, because that's how their basketball was played. But as Mark slipped past him to shoot G, he was already breathless and struggling to stay on his feet. He felt as if someone were sitting on his chest even though he was standing up.

Clink! Swish! Clink!

"Oh yeah! There's the 'G'!" Mark raised his arms triumphantly.

"Mark…" Roger wheezed. "Hey man, we gotta stop a bit…I…I have to catch my breath…"

He let himself fall to his knees on the ground and laid his palms on the damp concrete, feeling himself break out in a cold sweat. Roger bent his head and closed his eyes, concentrating on how he was going to regain his breath. He was so tired all of a sudden and felt like he had fucking asthma. He'd never even had asthma before but Mark had and he'd seen how Mark had had trouble breathing before. He suspected it felt exactly the same way he was feeling now.

He heard Mark's footsteps running towards him and a hand was placed on his back.

"Hey, Rog? You okay? Oh my God, are you all right?"

"Shut up…shut up…" Roger tried to snap. "I'm…I'm fine, I swear."

"What's the matter? Do I need to call someone? Fuck, what's wrong?" Mark was totally losing it, he could tell. His voice was starting to sound strained. To convince him, Roger smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand.

"Chill out…I just got…a little breathless, that's all,"

There. He could breathe again. But as soon as he drew a deep one in, he started coughing. And they weren't normal petite coughs either. They were booming, hoarse ones that made Roger want to gag, like someone was sticking fingers down his throat. He had to struggle to breathe because the coughs came in so fast and one after the other that it didn't leave enough time for him to draw oxygen. By the time it was over, he was practically facedown on the concrete, grasping his chest and wheezing.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck!" Mark was saying. "Shit, I have to call an ambulance…"

"NO!" Roger wheezed. "I'm okay!"

He lay there for a while, getting his breaths steady and making sure he wasn't going to cough again. He sat up after a while slowly with Mark's help, feeling his hands shaking and his body trembling. Mark knelt beside him, still blathering away about the need for them to call an ambulance. Roger tuned him out. He held his head in his hands, feeling a constant throbbing in his skull that wasn't there a while ago. He wanted a smoke. Hell. He'd never been so scared. Shit, he'd felt like he was dying. That he was going to fucking die there in front of Mark on a basketball court. Shit. He couldn't think of timing worse than that.

"Oh God…oh God…" he whispered as soon as he'd calmed down enough. "That…motherfucking …scared me…"

He couldn't see Mark's face since he didn't lift his head, but he was sure the poor guy's must've looked terrible. Whenever Mark was agitated his face became a pale gray, and he'd look like he was about to throw up. He felt Mark's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm taking you to the hospital now," he declared in a forcefully loud voice. Roger shook his head and looked up at Mark. Even though he could see that Mark pretended he wasn't, he knew that the filmmaker was shaking as badly as he was. His lips were pressed tight and in his eyes Roger saw a deep concern that made him feel guilty. He had never seen his Mark so terrified before and he immediately felt apologetic for causing the anxiety. Fuck, he hated giving his friends more problems in addition to the ones they already had.

"No…I'm great, Marky, I'm fine…let's just rest here a while…"

"No, Rog, you're coming with me, you jerk…"

"NO, Mark, damn it!" he snapped, jerking away from Mark's hold. He stayed where he was then hugged his knees to his chest. He was deeply upset as his mind replayed like a sick IMAX movie the moments when he fought to get air into his lungs. It had felt like drowning, only he was on land. He could remember how, in his panic, he'd thought of Mimi and how much he loved her and how he didn't want to leave her behind. How, when he left the loft a while ago, he should've kissed her longer since he might never see her again. He'd thought of other things too: Angel, April, Mark and how he was going to be left behind…he'd even thought of his parents and how his mother was going to react to the news that he'd died and how his father would be the bastard he was and maybe even say "Serves him right". He closed his eyes. To his surprise, he felt tears squeeze out. Fuck. He had to face it. He wasn't fine.

"Roger…"

"Look, man, I don't need a doctor right now…" Roger interrupted, feeling a little pissed at the persistence. He looked up again after having discreetly wiped away his tears and stared at Mark. When he saw how upset the filmmaker also was, he looked down at his sneakers, not able to stand seeing his best friend also suffer.

"I don't need to be analyzed or prodded or whatever…they can't tell me anything new anyway…"

He wanted to tell Mark how he felt. How he felt more and more afraid as his life slowly came to an end. How he knew there was nothing anyone could ever do no anymore matter how many prayers or wishes were said, because he was dying and he would go on dying even if he went to the doctor's every single fucking day. How it was hopeless and how he felt it now that fact had just slapped him in the face. He wanted to tell Mark, but he knew he couldn't. Not today, at least.

"Please, can we not go this once?" he pleaded softly. "I need…I don't need a doctor. Not now. I'll…I'll see one okay? But not now, please…I just need some company…I'm fucking scared, man, you know?"

Roger didn't look up at Mark as he spoke, feeling a little embarrassed about saying somewhat what he felt. He'd expected Mark to still force him into going to the doctor, but by some bejeezus miracle, Mark just sat down beside him almost dejectedly.

"I'm here for you, Rog, you know that, don't you?" he said in his sincere, Mark way. Roger knew the filmmaker understood and, God, he was thankful.

"Yeah…yeah I know. Thanks," Roger nodded, thinking how lucky he was to have Mark Cohen as a best friend despite the fucking camera he usually hid behind often.

It took a while before any of them spoke again.

"Hey, man…"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell Mimi about this, okay? I don't want her to worry…"

Silence.

"Swear on it, Mark."

"I won't if you keep your part of the deal and go to the doctor as soon as possible…"

"Thanks."

Silence.

"Let's go home."