XVIII.

March 15, 1991

"MARK!" Roger shouted in a hoarse voice at him from the couch where the musician lay, immobile under a pile of blankets, his hair tousled and his eyes wide. "Are you crazy? NO!"

Mark almost laughed, but kept it in. The situation would've been pretty funny since it wasn't one Roger wanted to be in, but the reality of it all was pretty dire, so Mark really found nothing to laugh at: Roger was bedridden with a high fever and was so sick that he and everyone else had actually already suggested a visit to the hospital, but the musician wasn't having it, and no one could really make Roger Davis do anything if he really didn't want to. Mark would have stayed home since Mimi really couldn't care for her husband when it came to something like this, but he was running out of excused absences at work, and they couldn't do without the money Buzzline paid. So he'd called in backup.

"Don't shout, baby boy, it'll only make your throat worse!" Maureen scolded from the door as she put her coat away where Dodge couldn't reach. Dodge yapped around her legs and she picked him up and petted him.

"Okay, Mo, the times of the meds are all on the fridge, make sure he takes the AZT and Tylenol and all those other fever medicines at the right time, okay?" Mark wound his scarf around his neck.

"Yeah yeah, sure, Pookie. I'm sure Dodge and I can handle Trouble for the day just fine." Maureen was cooing distractedly at the puppy as she spoke. Mark sighed, wondering if he'd made the right decision. If he was lucky, Roger wouldn't have killed Maureen, Maureen wouldn't have had Roger OD on cough medicine and the loft would still be intact by the time he came home later.

"Joanne can come and help later, she said…" he suggested.

"Yep, she told me. Bye, Marky! Say bye-bye to Uncle Marky, Dodger," Maureen raised one of Dodge's small yellow paws and had him wave bye.

"MARK!" Roger called still. He looked panicked/mortified at the thought of the drama queen being there with him the whole day. Mark pitied him for about a couple of seconds before dismissing it as the best option. Better that than Roger be left alone when he needed to take a lot of meds. Often, the musician forgot to or took the wrong dosage.

"You want anything from the supermarket, you guys?" Mark said before he left. "I'm going to get the groceries later."

"Ooooh, get me some of that nice veggie pizza, will you, Mark?"

"GET…HER…OUT…OF HERE!" Roger exclaimed in the loudest voice he could. Maureen clucked.

"And maybe some hard liquor in case Trouble here's gonna play hard. Your Daddy's bad, isn't he, Dodge? Yes, he is."

"Right, I'll see you guys later. Thanks, Mo. Feel better, Rog!" Without another thought, Mark exited the loft, almost eager to leave. Maureen and Roger together, plus a very hyper puppy, usually meant a lot of trouble, but it had to be done. Roger was just too weak.

Mark couldn't put his mind at ease the whole time he jogged downstairs, hearing Roger's muffled shouts from upstairs. He knew Roger was hiding something. He'd kept an eye on his best friend for the past few days and had concluded that the musician wasn't as healthy as he let on. There were some afternoons when he'd come home early from work when Roger would be alone in the loft with Dodge, when he'd hear the coughing, dry and sounding almost like pings, from the stairwell. Three afternoons he'd witnessed that, and he knew it was anything but 'nothing', as Roger had told him about what the doctor had said when he'd gone for a checkup nearly a month ago.

The other day he'd gone home to a silent loft and had chanced upon Roger sleeping on the couch with a blanket draped over him and with part of his socked foot showing, while Dodge wasn't anywhere to be found. It had been so peaceful in the loft that it didn't seem as though they lived there. In fact, it had been eerie and had made chills run up and down Mark's spine as he'd entered, but that hadn't been the main reason for it happening.

There was something about seeing Roger with his eyes closed that frightened Mark. He had had thoughts before about him coming home one day and discovering his best friend had died while he was away, specifically while Roger looked as though he was just taking a nap on the couch or on his bed. God forbid, the thought and the huge possibility of it happening scared the fuck out of him, which was why he always went home early enough. So when that sight had greeted him upon coming home, he had literally stopped in his tracks as his breath got caught in his throat.

Oh my God…stay calm. He's probably asleep…just sleeping…he'd thought.

His frantic mind had been thinking up all sorts of thoughts and his heart had been racing with fright. Eventually he'd found the guts to approach his friend. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that, yes, Roger was breathing so he was only asleep.

Oh thank God. Jesus.

Mark had released a relieved sigh and had studied the musician. It was nearly impossible to get a good look at Roger when he was awake since he was constantly in motion or refused eye contact since he was always writing or strumming his guitar. Roger was the absolute opposite when he was asleep: he barely moved, and at that moment had enabled Mark to see if there was something in his friend's physical features to tell him if anything was wrong.

He'd noticed before that Roger had gotten thinner, but the lack of color in Roger's cheeks had worried him. His skin had almost been translucent, making the dark circles under his eyes (which Mark only noticed just now) more obvious. The thin hands with the tapered fingers that Mark had seen play Musetta's Waltz and other assorted songs on the Fender a billion times before, had trembled as they clutched the blanket. Roger had been shivering. Mark had reached out and placed his hand on the musician's forehead.

Roger had been burning up.

It had been the nth time that Roger had gotten sick for the past three months. He got fevers on and off, which wasn't really a good sign. Fevers were a sign of a more serious illness, but whatever it was, Mark had no idea and he was almost afraid to find out. He had been about to withdraw his hand when Roger had woken up, revealing hazy green eyes under heavy eyelids.

"God, I'm glad you're home. Didja bring any food?" his best friend asks weakly. Mark almost laughs. Typical Davis.

"I can go to the grocery store now, if you want anything. The fridge is near empty, I'm guessing." He squats to get to the musician's level. "What the hell happened to you?"

Roger gives a half-hearted shrug and places a hand on the side of his head as if it hurt. His eyes are half-closed. "I dunno…Just didn't feel well all of a sudden. So I lay down…and slept."

Mark doesn't believe the 'all of a sudden' part. He knows Roger Davis doesn't usually lie, but he can very well force himself to when he wanted.

"Roger, what exactly did the doctor tell you during your last checkup? Maybe you should go back. I'll go with you…" He tries his best not to sound interrogative because Roger usually clams up whenever he feels he's being grilled. His best friend's face twists into a frown.

"It's a cold spring, Mark. Flu season and all that stuff. Germs are everywhere. What does the checkup have to do with anything?"

"'Cause maybe you should go back and…"

"I'm fine." Roger says it with an I-don't-want-to-hear-anything-more-about-it-tone.

"Yeah, but maybe you could…"

"I said I'm fine."

Mark looked up at their apartment building before he got on his bike to go to work. He was worried. There was something Roger wasn't telling him. The 'fine' wasn't really relevant, with all the physical evidence the musician had that wasn't even remotely close to 'fine'. He sighed again. That's all he was good at doing now: sighing. Fuck.

Roger didn't need a doctor to tell him what he already knew. He knew his pneumonia was getting worse. He felt it get to him more and more each day. There were some days when he could barely get up and he'd just lie down the rest of the day. There was also days that he'd be absolutely drained after doing something as simple as taking a shower, and the pains, God. He felt like an old man sometimes. It was almost ridiculous, his lack of strength, and it frustrated him, but he told no one. Mimi suspected nothing, but he sensed Mark had started to pick something up. It wouldn't be long now before the filmmaker would force him into going to the doctor's chaperoned. Fuck. How long could he keep this up? He was going to have to consider being either a better liar or actor.

Yesterday he'd thrown up several times. The first two times, he'd actually thrown up something, but the next three times, he'd just gone to the bathroom and just gagged; his stomach had had nothing more to bring back up. It was disgusting. He was getting tired of all the pain and the constant medication. It was too much sometimes. To top it off, Maureen Johnson was there, acting like a babysitter. He couldn't believe how much of a traitor Mark was. Shit. He'd rather die a thousand deaths than be stuck on the couch, completely helpless, and knowing he was going to have to depend on Maureen the whole day. Ah fuck.

"Are you warm enough, Pookie? You want anything?"

"Mimi." He told her, sniffing, because his goddamn nose was clogged, making him sound like some sort of crybaby. He wanted to have his wife hug him tight. He wanted to feel her in his arms and smell her scent in. "And you to go. I can take care of myself."

"Right. And Napoleon was French." Maureen rolled her eyes as she passed. "Face it, Rog, on some days you're just going to have to admit you need someone to help you. Stop being such a damned martyr. We all need a little help sometimes."

"Napoleon was French, Mo. Try again. And I don't need your help." It hurt. Everywhere. Fuck. He tried to move, but then his joints screamed in pain. Dodge barked worriedly as he moaned.

"There, see, you've gone and hurt yourself," Maureen appeared out of nowhere. "Just stay put baby boy, and I'll handle everything."

"I'm not a cripple, Mo!" Roger gritted his teeth. Oh, the pains in his chest were back. Why oh why…it felt as though someone had beaten him up but only on that part. He groaned in pain as Maureen helped him to lie on his back again and placed a hand on his forehead.

"See, Davis, your fever's still there. Just lie down. Jesus, how can Mimi stand you? You're worse than a bratty second-grader." She tucked him in again. Roger couldn't protest. With Maureen standing less than a meter away from him, her heady perfume quickly got to him. He'd never minded how she smelled before, but he had always found it a little too strong. Now, even with his nose clogged, he felt as though he were drowning in a flower field. His head throbbed and his throat tickled even more.

"Oh God…Mo…" Roger felt his face screw up to sneeze. His hands flew up to his face. "Ah-choo! Ah-choo!"

"Ohhh, poor baby." Maureen cooed, brushing back his hair. He wanted to brain her with a pillow and demand for him to be left alone, taking with her the strong perfume, baby talk and lipstick smears she left everywhere. She'd always annoyed him to death somehow, even when she was still going out with Mark. She wasn't that bad of a person, but God, Maureen was a clingy type somewhat, and he needed his goddamn space, even when he was sick.

"Just…go away…and I'll just…ah-choo!…get some sleep." Roger practically pushed the drama queen away to get her to move. His head was swimming. Oh God.

"I'll make us some lunch and…" Maureen cut herself short. "Is this Mark's, Roger?"

"What?" Roger forced himself to open his eyes and saw Maureen reaching out to get something from the coffee table. It took about three seconds for him to realize what it was. "NO, Maureen!"

It was his journal, lying vulnerable there, inches away from Maureen Johnson's fingers. If she read it, his secret would be out. Maureen was no genius, but his songs (which doubled as entries) were pretty easy to understand. She'd know right away about how he'd lied to Mark about the PCP diagnosis and everything. And the list. Fuck.

Maureen visibly jumped. "What the hell?"

"Don't touch it!"

It took all of Roger's strength for him to sit up, snatch the journal from the coffee table and hug it to his chest as he lay back down. The drama queen raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh I see. It's yours. Well you don't have to go shouting at everything, Davis. I wasn't going to read it anyway."

"Yes you would." He was sick, but he wasn't stupid. The saying "Curiosity killed the cat" suited Maureen Johnson very very well, especially when she was actually in her cat outfit.

Maureen feigned a look of shock. "How dare you accuse me! For your information, I have never read anyone's journal or diary in my life."

"You have and would and you wouldn't even feel guilty after," he scoffed. "Remember, that's how we all found out Benny had gotten hooked up with Muffy. You went through his diary-planner thing." The last words were caught up in a wheeze as he got into a coughing fit again. God, if there was anything he hated, it was the coughing. It just goddamn hurt. It felt as though his lungs were on fire. He didn't know how much longer his throat could handle the strain. He curled up, wanting to be left alone in his own misery, when he felt Maureen's hands on his back.

"Oh God, Roger, I'm sorry. Shit, Mark's gonna kill me for aggravating you…Are you okay?"

"Do I fucking look okay?" he asked, his voice stifled by the pillow he had his face shoved into. "Just leave me alone."

There was silence for a while. Maureen had probably given up.

"I'll just make the lunch, okay? Just lie there…just…rest, okay, Davis? Don't make this any harder than it already is." He heard as Maureen straightened up then as Dodge whimpered, begging the drama queen for her to pick him up. Roger heaved a sigh. He knew he was being a prick. He usually was when he was sick, since his temper was always radically shortened to a fraction of what it really was; he could actually almost hear his mother's voice in his head: "Matthew Roger Davis, how dare you speak to a young lady that way! Where are your manners, young man? There is no excuse for your behavior!"

His coughs ceased and he forced himself to lie on his back again, though he was more comfortable on his side. He was partly grateful for Maureen for putting up with him. Not many people did. A little dose of manners now and then wouldn't kill him.

"Mo," he called, feeling the scratchiness in his throat. God, could he ever sing again? He felt as though half of his throat was destroyed. "Maureen."

"What, baby?" she emerged from the kitchen, a box of mac n' cheese in hand and Dodge trailing behind her, a dish towel in his mouth. "You like this, don't you? 'Coz I really don't know how to make anything else, and your kitchen doesn't have any more food…what was it you were saying?"

"I'm…I'm sorry if I'm being…you know…such an asshole," he said after hesitating a bit. It was one thing to apologize to Mark, and it was another to apologize to Maureen. The latter usually involved a lot of pomp and circumstance, which Roger rarely wanted. The minute he said it, Maureen's face brightened up, this big smile spreading from one side of her mouth to the other as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He braced himself for any pinching, kissing, hugging, squealing or whatever girly shit Maureen loved to do.

"Well this is a first!" she said happily. She approached him in happy little hops and landed a huge lipstick-laden kiss on his forehead. "It's okay, baby. I understood long ago that men really can't help but be assholes. That's why I'm a lesbian! I'll be back with lunch!"

She went off to prepare the food before Roger could retort anything, but he found himself smiling instead of being pissed. Okay, so he deserved that.

"Thanks, Mo," he muttered, half-laughing to himself.

Finally glad to be out of the Maureen-radar, Roger retrieved his journal from the recesses of the sofa and opened it to the page where the list was, making a mental count of what he'd already achieved. Half had already been done. He had to hurry and get the other half finished.

A clunking sounded from the kitchen, as well as the sound of his beeper from somewhere in the loft. His AZTs were due. Quickly, he shoved the journal back under the blankets as Maureen appeared again, several bottles in hand.

"Okay, Marky said the beeper tells when the AZTs should be taken so that's this one…" she isolated a white bottle and tossed it over to Roger, who caught it but almost dropped it in the process. "And…what time is it? Why don't you have a damned clock in your house? You're supposed to take this cough medicine at 12, and the one for fever at 11…do you need Tylenol?"

Roger popped his AZTs in dry. Shit, they were gross. "Mark has a watch, that's how he keeps track of the time. Don't you have one?"

"No, I don't have one…oh God, well what are we gonna do? You don't have a TV here either so we can't tell time from the shows." Maureen bit her lip, looking as if she were thinking really hard, which Roger doubted. "Well…we could always guess the time…"

Roger stared at her. "Then what? We're gonna count minute by minute after it up to when I take them again?"

"Well you get an idea then. Mark specifically said that you have to take them. I won't doubt that he's gonna count these pills when he comes home to see if you really did." Maureen thrust the rest of the bottles forward.

"Fuck them, I'm not taking any unless it's at the right time." Roger frowned. The cough medicine wasn't even in pill form; it was syrup. And he absolutely detested cough syrup. It made him barf. He lay down on his side and buried his face in the back of the sofa.

"Roger!" Maureen placed her hands on her hips, though she didn't exactly look threatening. "Fine, I'm calling Mimi up to see what time it really is, and when I find out, you have to take whatever medicine y'have to, okay?"

Roger listened as she stomped off towards the phone and dialed. It didn't take long to connect to Mimi and Maureen didn't take long either with the call. Moments later, she stomped back to the couch.

"The cough medicine is due at 9, 12, 3 and 6, Mimi told me, so y'have to take it now, plus the fever medicine, since it's now, like, 10:30."

Fuck no. Even Mimi and Mark had a hard time making him take that god-awful syrup. Maureen was going to have to put up a good fight. He pulled the blankets over his head.

"Roger Davis!" Maureen exclaimed, but he wasn't giving up that easily. The mutual truce that had been established a while ago from his apology had apparently disappeared and they were back to being themselves. "Stop acting like a fucking six-year-old!"

Roger could sense that it was going to be a long day.

Mark found both Maureen and Roger knocked out in the living room when he arrived home, groceries in hand. Dodge ran up to him and stood on his hind legs, begging to be petted, so Mark did, keeping an eye on the duo, fast asleep in the living room. The kitchen was a mess: a cheese-encrusted pot stood on the stove, while several bowls filled with a mac n' cheese mixture of a different color (more brown than yellow) stood on the counter. He placed the groceries next to the bowls and walked over to Roger and Maureen.

The musician was sprawled out on the sofa, almost half of the blankets kicked away as if he'd squirmed a whole lot, and his face was turned towards the back. Mark felt his forehead: the fever was down since Roger had broken into a sweat, but they still had to keep an eye on him. He turned his attention on the drama queen.

Maureen was on one of the armchairs, looking defeated, her head back and her mouth open, letting out little snores. Both her arms were splayed out over the rests and a mess of sticky syrup and pills was scattered on the coffee table. It was a good thing Dodge was still too small to reach the top of it. But he wasn't too small to get his paws on a few of their stuff, as several shoes were all over the place, as well as chewed-on magazines and newspapers. There was also the undeniable scent of puppy poop coming from somewhere. Mark sighed. He reached out to shake Maureen awake, and the drama queen did, her eyes bloodshot.

"Did…everything go well?" he was almost too afraid to ask. Maureen's eyes narrowed at him.

"Your best friend can be a real fricking sweetheart." She said. "But don't worry, he got all his meds down."

Mark nodded. At least that happened. He couldn't have cared less if they'd blown the loft up, as long as Roger managed to take his meds.

"His…fever's broken," he reported with a smile. Maureen stood up, brushed her hands on her pants and walked to the door.

"Good. At least he won't need a babysitter any longer. Good luck with him, Pookie. And good luck to Mimi too." It was clear she had no intentions of staying any longer, or of even getting the veggie pizza she'd asked him to buy. Mark understood. He knew what Roger was like sick.

So she left. And Mark sighed. Again.

TBC

A/N: To refresh your memories, Roger's been diagnosed with PCP, or pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, like a month back (Chapter 8). It basically hits HIV-infected people. I'm not entirely happy with how this story's going...hmm. I need to rethink it. Anyway thank you all those who keep reading and reviewing! The story's still basically going on because of y'all. :)