A/N: I hope you guys don't get confused when it comes to the different points of view. I don't want to put 'Mark's POV' or 'Roger's POV' in 'cause it just doesn't look nice. Hehe. Ruins the flow somehow. Anyway, I'll try to make it as obvious as possible, whose POV it is I'm channeling. Thanks again for r/r! (BTW I think I've completely messed up the timeline here since I remember now that Mimi's near-death happened on Dec. 24, 1990. So Angel didn't really die, like, a year ago. More like months. Anyway, I'm siding with artistic license. My timeline says that Angel died over a year ago.)

XVI.

March 10, 1991

Roger studied his face in the grimy bathroom mirror. He'd lost weight, he could see, though he couldn't understand how. He'd been trying to eat as much as he could, just so he could keep his act up. It didn't look as if it were working. Dark circles were under his eyes and his skin was pale where the light in the bathroom hit it. He slapped himself to see if he could improve the color then cursed out loud when he felt how much it hurt. Okay, stupid idea.

"MOTHERF—"

Roger hunched over the sink, feeling as his chest pains returned. They appeared out of nowhere sometimes. One minute, he was fine, and the next he'd almost be bowled over with pain. Sometimes it felt like a cannonball had hit him, other times it felt like someone was squeezing his lungs.

He groaned softly, placing a hand on his chest. Right, as if that would do anything. Smart, Davis, very smart. He wondered if there were some sort of pain reliever in the medicine cabinet…

His gaze fell on the bathtub, where he'd just been showering. Almost instantly, he felt the familiar feeling of guilt creep into his nerves.

How long had it been? Two--two and a half years…?

A memory came back like a bolt of lightning: April's body in the bathtub, wrinkled and cold, soaked in crimson water, her head leaning lifelessly on the white porcelain; 'We've got AIDS' on the wall, written in her blood; Him screaming on his knees, the bloody water soaking through his clothes; Mark shaking as he dialed 911 and unable to speak properly as the operator asked him what was wrong…

Without drying himself off properly or waiting for the pain to recede, Roger staggered out of the bathroom noisily, where he was instantly embraced by the incandescent light from the kitchen, where Mark was eating a candy bar, hunched over in the darkness of the loft. The filmmaker was startled at Roger's sudden appearance and jumped in his seat, almost dropping his camera.

"What the hell---?" Mark exclaimed in surprise. When Roger saw that Mark recognized him, his best friend's face twisted into a scowl, mostly because he had almost dropped his precious toy. "What the hell's wrong with you, man, you scared the fuck out of me!"

"Sorry…sorry, man…jeez…" he stammered an apology.

He was breathless, not only because of the chest pains. There was a reason why he rarely stayed in that bathroom for too long. He wasn't scared of ghosts, sure. But the memory of that day was so strong that Roger often had to shower quickly as possible so as not to choke from it. He hadn't remembered it that night until after he stalled instead of just getting out of the shower right away. Damn, he shouldn't have stopped to look at himself in the mirror…

"You okay?" Mark's voice was suddenly laced with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost…"

Roger raised a wet hand. "I'm fine, I'm…cool. I just…I just thought I saw something."

He watched as Mark nodded carefully. He knew the little nerd probably didn't believe him, since Mark was getting his suspicious look again. But Roger wasn't really lying. He had seen something, though he was sure it was only a figment of his imagination. He veered away from the topic. Reality set in again. The noise of nighttime in New York filled his ears: cars honking, bikes ringing, the occasional people yelling, and slowly, the horrifying scene in his mind's eye vanished.

"Anyway…sorry I scared you…I'm okay…" He made his way to his and Mimi's room, his heart now getting back to normal again. Shit, when he'd dashed out of the bathroom it had felt as if it were going to pop out of his ribcage.

"Throw a shirt on. You'll catch a cold." Mark called out to him from the kitchen.

"Will do," Roger called back before entering their bedroom and pushing the door closed. He immediately felt relief as soon as he did and instantly forgot any remains of the incident in the bathroom that his mind hadn't yet discarded. A comforting sight met his eyes: Mimi was in bed with Dodge, reading to the puppy from his Winnie-the-Pooh book. She was changing her voice and everything, the same way his Mom had done when he was a kid, and Dodge was just there, looking like he understood everything. He almost laughed, seeing just how much Mimi was getting attached to the dog, but he understood her all the same. She treated it as if it were a kid, something Roger knew Mimi wanted, but would never have. God knew he wanted one too. Maybe it was a good thing Joanne had given them the puppy, though Dodge sometimes drove him up the wall. They still had a long way to go with the potty training.

"'And then he had a Clever Idea. He would go up very quietly to the Six Pine Trees now, peep very cautiously into the Trap, and see if there was a Heffalump there…'" Mimi read with as much fervor as a kindergarten teacher would to a class of five-year-olds. Roger listened as he went over his closet and pulled out his plaid pajamas, mouthing along to the words. He'd already memorized parts of the book from reading it so many times. It was a guilty pleasure right up there with chocolate milk and mac n' cheese.

Dodge barked from behind him as he pulled on one of his old hoodies over the shirt he'd just put on.

"What, baby? You want Daddy to come here too and cuddle with us?" Mimi said in a babyish voice. Roger laughed out loud, then was reminded with a sudden jolt that his chest was in pain the minute he let the first laugh escape his throat. He stopped, but kept on grinning. This was too good to pass up.

Daddy?

"'Daddy?'" he asked his wife. "Mimi, are you feeling okay? You do remember that Dodge neither understands nor speaks."

Mimi opened her mouth in mock shock, then placed her hands on Dodge's ears as if to cover them.

"Oh, Daddy's being mean again! Bad! Bad Daddy!" she slapped Roger lightly on the arm as he got into bed and lay down beside the two of them. Dodge barked repeatedly, as if he sided with Mimi. It made Roger's head hurt since it was a high-pitched puppy bark, so he lifted a hand to pat Dodge to make him stop.

"Hey, hey, fine, cool it. I'm sorry." He petted Dodge. "Stop barking. I was wrong, sheesh…"

He turned to Mimi. "He's a little ball of complaints, isn't he?"

"Aaaaw, he is not…don't listen to him, baby, you know Daddy's just jealous…" Mimi got Dodge, who immediately curled up contentedly in her arms.

"See, back then I was your only 'baby'." Roger said, pretending to be hurt. "I have to compete now with him. I mean, c'mon, Meems, he isn't even of the same species as us. I can handle being 'Daddy' if that weren't a canine…" He scratched Dodge's velvety puppy ears as he spoke.

"Well he's the best we've got," Mimi smiled at him, confirming Roger's belief in how his wife saw the puppy. It stung, but the truth always hurt. He let it go. "So get used to it."

Dodge had his little mouth open with his tongue out and looked as if he were grinning. Roger stuck his tongue out to rile the puppy, but the darn thing was just too happy to be with Mimi. Damn, if he were Dodge, he'd be happy too. Lucky pup.

"Wife-stealer." He joked.

"I just don't want him to be alone or cold tonight. Mark said puppies are like babies…they need the attention."

"Mark wouldn't know a penny's worth about anything related to dogs, and besides, husbands are like babies too…" Roger pathetically tried to sound as if he'd been abandoned, but he just sounded bad. He almost laughed at himself. Mimi was sitting up, leaning on the headboard of the bed and he moved up to imitate her position. "Besides, how can we have a little action with him watching?" He looked at the puppy again. "It's R-18, buddy."

Dodge barked.

"Oh Rog," Mimi laughed. "You had my attention, I believe, just this morning?"

"Aaaw, babe, but…" He let his nimble fingers dance lightly on Mimi's sides, where he knew she was the most ticklish.

"ROGER!" Mimi screeched, bursting into fits of giggles. She wasn't mad; Roger knew she was enjoying it, though she was also surprised. "Oh my God, I'll kill you! STOP! ROGER!"

Dodge leapt out of her arms, whining, and sought the safety of the nest of blankets nearby, choosing to bark from there as he surveyed the scene.

"Hah! I finally got you!" Roger declared triumphantly, placing himself on top of his wife who was finally free from her precious little bundle. Mimi was still in mid-giggle, her hair splayed out on the sheets. Roger grinned at her, enjoying her delicious little laughs. She smelled of baby powder and…lavender? Mmmm. Heaven.

"Why Mr. Davis…" Mimi said in her sexy bedroom voice. "Before you do anything, I should tell you that our door's unlocked…"

"Bah, it's just Mark…" grinned Roger. "Besides, we're husband and wife. It's not illegal. In God's eyes it's right…"

Mimi giggled more. "Shut up and just kiss me, Davis."

"Will do, Mrs. Davis…"

Dodge went over and nipped at the end of Roger's pajama leg as the latter leaned forward and silenced his wife.

Mark slept late, even when he knew he had work the next day. He just couldn't find sleep. He could lie there on his bed, pretending he wasn't hearing anything from Roger and Mimi's room through the thin walls of the loft, waiting for his eyelids to feel heavy, but he often didn't. Most of the time, he went out of his room to think on the fire escape or he played back old film reels on the projector, when he was sure that both Roger and Mimi were already fast asleep and had no plans on coming out.

It was 1 AM. He'd been sitting on the couch in the dark doing nothing for approximately two hours now. He still wasn't sleepy, even though he was already very very tired. Somehow, he seemed sapped of his energy every day, as if something were sucking the life out of him. What had he done that morning? He'd gone to work…then he'd come home to find Mimi and Roger at wits' end because of Dodge's not-so-successful toilet training…then he'd actually helped them with the toilet training…dinner (which consisted of some coleslaw from the fridge and half a baloney sandwich)…reviewed a reel…Roger had scared the fuck out of him…

Mark blinked and yawned, then removed his glasses and rubbed his face. Damn. He was exhausted, but nowhere near sleepy.

Ha lay back on the couch and draped one of the blankets lying around over his body. What had his mother told him when he was a kid?

"Count your blessings, Marky, not sheep."

Mark almost snorted in laughter, realizing how ridiculous counting anything in his head just to fall asleep sounded. He hadn't done it since he was nine but he eventually decided to try out the idea, knowing he had nothing to lose. If he didn't fall asleep soon, he'd be a zombie at work the next day.

Blessings, blessings, his mind worked in overdrive.

My friends (one).

He decided to list them all down as individuals so there'd be more to count.

Namely: Roger (two), the first friend I made in Scarsdale, and my best friend; Mimi (three), nice girl who can cook a mean meal given actual ingredients to work with; Collins (four), who looks after us and who gives the greatest pieces of advice; Joanne (five), who backs us up with extra money and stuff and actually cares for our well-being and whether we've eaten or not; Maureen (six), who's funny as hell and the only really affectionate one in the group, which we need; Angel (seven) who now watches all over us and is one of the nicest people I've ever met and probably will ever meet.

He yawned. There, he was feeling sleepy now. He continued counting.

Food in the fridge (eight). Money for Rog and Mimi's AZT (nine). Dodge (ten), I guess, 'coz he's cute, though he's a whole lot of work. He makes Meems pretty happy though…Benny, that ass, having the decency to heat the loft up sometimes (eleven). Collins, Mimi and Roger not being sick (twelve). Collins, Roger and Mimi still being here (twelve)…

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but the next thing Mark knew, his eyes suddenly flew open as he was suddenly jerked awake. Something heavy had fucking landed on his chest!

"OHJESUSCHRIST!"

"HOLYMOTHERFCK!"

He sprang up on the couch, his hand ready to seize anything within reach to use as a weapon, but then almost immediately came face-to-face with a wide-eyed, equally scared Roger Davis. His eyes had adjusted quickly to the darkness, and there was no mistaking that mess of blonde hair. He grabbed his glasses and put them on. Yes. It was Roger.

"What the fuck are you doing there?" Roger demanded. "I almost sat on you! Jesus Christ, I thought I'd sat down on someone who'd broken in or an alien or something!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mark hissed, regaining control of his racing heart. Holy hell. That was the second time Roger had almost given him a heart attack from fright that night. "And keep your voice down!"

"Fuck…I'm sorry…sorry…"

Moonlight shone in through the windows and Mark could see quite clearly his best friend looming over him. He stared at Roger, who was running his hands through his hair again. Something wasn't right.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked. It was the first time he'd noticed that Roger had gotten thinner and paler. He was wearing his plaid pajamas and one of the hoodies they'd brought back from Scarsdale. The last time he'd seen Roger wearing the hoodie was back when they were seniors in highschool and Roger had fit into it pretty well. Now it looked frighteningly loose. "What were you…what are you doing?"

Roger lifted his head and looked at him. His best friend looked tired. Generally.

"What's up, man?" Mark persisted. It took a lot to get Roger to talk. Most of the time, the musician didn't want to, but Mark still tried. Sometimes, he got lucky and Roger would actually tell him what was bothering him.

"Nothing…nothing…" Roger sat down heavily on the couch beside him and buried his face in his hands.

"What, you scared the hell out of me for nothing?" Mark sat up properly so there'd be more space. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"What are you doing sleeping here, man?" Roger asked, his face still hidden.

"I fell asleep here." Mark surveyed his best friend's body language. Hunched shoulders, head down. "I thought you guys were sleeping already…"

"We were…then I woke up." The musician answered simply. Mark rolled his eyes.

Well, that's quite obvious.

Mark was about to open his mouth to say something else when, to his surprise, Roger spoke again.

"I…I dreamt…about…her."

Roger's face wasn't in his hands anymore, but he stared straight ahead at nothing, his hands pressed together on his lips, and his elbows resting on his knees. Mark raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand.

"Who? Mimi?"

Roger shook his head slowly but never looked at him. "No." He visibly gulped. "Her."

Mark followed his best friend's gaze and quickly realized what Roger was staring at: The closed bathroom door. Her.

Fuck.

"Oh…" He didn't know how he was going to handle this. This was the first time EVER that Roger was going to talk to him about April. After she'd committed suicide, they'd mostly avoided the topic, as if pretending it had never happened. This was one big-ass Pandora's box they were going to open.

"What about…what about her, Rog?" Mark had to really get a hold on himself in order not to stutter. Half of him wished he'd never asked what was bothering the musician, but he quickly banished the thought, for his and Roger's own sanity. He knew even back then that they would eventually stumble upon that topic.

"I…I…" Roger spoke haltingly, and by that time, he couldn't look at the bathroom door. "I dreamt about…what had…what had happened. Like…like what we saw. It played over and over in my head like some…some fucking movie."

The hairs on the back of Mark's neck stood up. He knew what Roger was talking about. He had those dreams too sometimes. He'd been the one who'd seen April first.

"April! Baby, c'mon, we're going out!" Roger yells into the loft. Mark pockets the keys to the door as Roger goes straight to the kitchen to hunt for a soda. They've just gotten back from band practice. Roger asked him to film them for God-knows-what purpose.

"There's a new pizza place around the corner." He tells his roommate as he makes his way towards the bathroom to wash his face. Roger's still banging around in the kitchen, but lifts his soda can in response.

"Sure thing, Marky." Roger lifts his head then calls April again. "April! C'mon! Hurry up! Are you asleep or something?"

Mark sets his camera on the table first before continuing to the bathroom. He hears as his best friend clomps towards his and April's bedroom and yanks the door open. He pays no attention to him and opens the bathroom door.

He almost gags at the sight that meets his eyes once he does.

"Oh fuck! OH FUCKING HELL!" Mark stumbles back, feeling his knees almost give way. "ROGER!"

Roger's alerted by his yells and is instantly by his side.

"What the h---APRIL!"

Mark watches as his roommate rushes into the bathroom. April. Holy fuck. The bathtub is filled to the brim with bloody water, and some of it's overflowed to the floor, forming a red pool that Roger's boots splash on as he rushes to his girlfriend, who's lying inside the tub. Mark knows she's dead. He knows she's dead even before Roger reaches her, yelling her name over and over again. He can't move. He watches as the musician gets on his knees and cradles April's head in his arms, making the most horrible moaning sound he's ever heard.

"APRIL! NO! No, no no! FUCK! Don't do this! Don't do this to me!" Roger's saying over and over. "NO NO NO!"

Mark wants to pass out, but he doesn't. He suddenly notices something that's written (oh fuck, is that blood? Oh Jesus, he wants to puke) on the once-white tiled walls of the bathroom. When he reads it, he can hardly breathe.

"R-Rog…" he stutters. "Roger…Roger! Rog…April wrote something…on the wall…"

He sees as Roger lifts his head to read the message. It's blunt: We've got AIDS

"Oh fuck…oh God…NO!"

Mark struggles to get on his feet. The phone…he has to call 911…fuck…fuck…He almost trips on his way to the phone and can hardly dial the three numbers once he reaches it. He can't breathe…can't think…Roger's yelling at the top of his lungs, and it sounds so terrible Mark wants to cover his ears. It's like they've both entered some nightmare.

"911, what's your emergency?" a voice on the other line asks. Mark wants to tell her so many things at the same time and he opens his mouth to do so, but something's stuck in his throat and won't budge.

"A-A-Av-venue B-B, please f-fucking hurry. My b-best frie-friend's girlfriend's j-j-just kill-killed hers-self."

"This…this is going to be with me forever, isn't it? It's never going to leave me alone…" Roger said softly.

Mark couldn't think of anything to say. He knew of the guilt Roger felt. He had infected April with the virus unknowingly since they shared needles. Roger had gotten sick first through sharing with some other person, though he hadn't known back then. Both he and April had taken smack like there was no tomorrow.

"…I deserve to die."

Roger's words cut through him viciously and he felt as if a knife slashed through his heart.

"No you don't, Rog. You don't. It was a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes…" Mark supplied quickly. "Shut up. Don't think that."

There was no way in hell that he was going to let his best friend think that death was the comeuppance for his deed. Sure, Roger had done a lot of stuff, but he'd paid for all of them. Drugs had been a mistake, and Roger lost April because of it. That was already hard to deal with. He was proud of the musician. Roger had already gone through so much. He was a good person. No one deserved to die.

"No one deserves to die, Roger. You don't. Collins doesn't. Mimi doesn't." he added, his throat constricting. Fuck, he hated talking about these kinds of things.

"But it was my fault…she got it from me…I…I practically killed her, Marky…" Roger turned to him and Mark saw his eyes: tired, melancholy green eyes who'd seen too much, too fast.

"You didn't kill her, Rog…she chose to do that herself. She could have lived. She could have really lived if she'd given it a chance…" Mark replied quietly. Mimi had the disease too, didn't she? But she was choosing to live. She was choosing to take each day as it came. "She gave up, Rog. And you couldn't have controlled that."

Roger looked away and Mark knew he'd gotten to him somehow.

"Still, Mark…she still got it from me." The musician sighed heavily. "And I can't help but feel responsible for that. You'll never understand."

Mark felt as if he'd been hit. Roger had no fucking idea how much he did understand.

"Don't judge me, man. I know fucking well how that sort of responsibility feels." He said, not helping as his tone became clipped. Roger frowned.

"No you don't. You will never fucking know how it feels to have someone die because of what you did or didn't do." The musician looked pissed, but Mark felt even more annoyed. Annoyed and hurt. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

"I do know. I feel that way every time I look at you."

Silence.

Time stood still as they both stared at each other. Mark wanted to say more but restrained himself from doing so. Roger being sick hurt Mark more than anyone would ever know. He felt completely responsible for it. He had always been the levelheaded one between the two of them and Roger was extremely impulsive. When they'd left Scarsdale, he'd voluntarily kept an eye on Roger so the latter wouldn't be dug into an early grave. When the musician had started doing drugs behind his back and later when he was diagnosed with HIV/AIDS, Mark had felt as if he'd killed his best friend because of his own negligence. He should've known, but he'd completely ignored the signs and now both of them were paying the price of actions gone wrong. He was going to carry that feeling of guilt around with him forever, the same way he knew Roger felt about April. Only Mark was going to be around longer to endure the psychological torture of it.

Roger immediately looked extremely apologetic.

"It's not your fault, Mark…it never was." He said, his head low.

"We all have baggage, Davis." Mark said carefully. "And what's done is done. We can't change what's already happened. April's gone, but you have Mimi. I…I can't do anything to heal you, but…I try…to make each day count."

God, it hurt thinking that there was going to be a day where Collins, Roger or Mimi wouldn't be around anymore. It ate at him like a million fire ants. He knew he was going to have to accept it someday, but not now. Now wasn't the right time. Fucking ironic, how people who were supposed to be at the prime of their lives were nearing the end. It was just unfair. Everything was unfair.

"Eventually…someday…we'll all be okay. All of us. Forget regret, right?"

Roger nodded.

"I'm sorry for being a shit head…I wasn't thinking when I said that…I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, man. Let it go." Mark offered his hand. "We're even?"

"We're even." Roger took his hand and shook it firmly. Mark felt tears sting his eyes the longer he looked at the musician sitting in front of him. Reality had sunk in before, but now it was staring at him in the face: His best friend was dying before his eyes and there was nothing he or anyone else could do.

"I'm sorry too for fucking up. I should've…" he started, but Roger stopped him.

"We've been through this before. It's not your fault, man. If you keep thinking that, I will seriously beat you up. Don't do this to yourself. I don't want you hurting because of me."

"I'm sure that's what April would tell you too. She loved you, Rog. You weren't just someone to her too." Mark replied softly. "This is killing me. We were supposed to look out for each other…you're like my brother, man. It's like I condemned my own brother to…to…die."

The musician's eyes pierced through his own, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"I'll…I'll forgive myself about April…when you're able to forgive yourself about me."

Mark swallowed. It was a long shot. But he could try…

"Mark. Okay?"

No. For Roger's sake, he was going to.

"I will…I promise. Deal?" His throat was hurting from unshed tears. No way was he going to start bawling like a girl, especially not in front of the bad boy rock star.

A small smile appeared on his best friend's face, and Roger appeared to look relieved.

"Deal."

And for half a moment, Mark felt as if everything was all right in the world.

TBC