XX.

March 16, 1991 (continued from previous chapter)

Mark watched as Mimi sat by Roger's bedside, brushing her fingers gently through his hair as the musician slept, holding his hand in her own and kissing it softly. She couldn't stop looking at her husband, and Mark felt as though she was trying to memorize every inch of Roger's face. Their room was lit by a lone incandescent lamp, casting a yellow light at Mimi on the chair and Roger on the bed, curled up on his side with the blankets up to his shoulder, a damp washcloth on his forehead and his features relaxed in a relieved expression, as if he was so glad to be on his bed again.

Mark massaged his forehead; a headache was forming from the day's events. He watched tiredly Mimi whispering little things into Roger's ear, not caring if she was heard or not, stroking her husband's cheek lovingly, holding back tears that Mark knew threatened to fall any minute. Alexi wanted cutting-edge life drama? Fuck, he was living one. His best friend was dying, as well as two more of his close friends. And he was going to have to live with that fact, as well as the fact that he was going to be there to helplessly watch them waste away, take their final breaths and be buried six feet under the ground, for the rest of his life. But among all the people he'd encountered in the twenty-six years he'd been on this damned earth, the most love he'd felt and seen had been from them, his friends whose days were all numbered. He'd never experienced that sort of love before, that togetherness and that support, not even from his own mother. Fucking ironic, it was. That was drama.

"Meems," he finally broke the stillness and the young Latina looked at him. "C'mon, let's get some food…"

If she could, Mark knew Mimi would sacrifice herself for Roger so he constantly had to keep an eye on her as well. Thankfully, Mimi wasn't as hardheaded or stubborn as the musician, so he often had an easier time in getting her to do stuff she had to do, like taking her AZT or eating. Mimi looked hesitant in accepting his invitation, but Mark cocked his head in the direction of the kitchen, meaning he wanted to talk as well as eat, which he knew she'd agree to. He didn't wait for her but continued on to the kitchen, where he heated up some water on the stove for some tea. There was some takeout in the fridge from Joanne so they could have that too. Neither of them was picky when it came to food anyway.

He was preparing the food when Mimi stepped out of their bedroom, stopping by Dodge's 'bed', which was a crib they'd recently gotten from a secondhand store and where they had the puppy sleep in, to check on him. Mark gave a small smile as he watched her discreetly. Mimi was a caring type. Roger was lucky to have her.

"How is he?" Mark asked as Mimi sat down at the kitchen counter adjacent to him. He passed one of the takeout boxes to her.

"Sleeping. Safe." She sighed. "Burning up with a fever. Again. God…"

She speared the noodles fiercely with a fork and bit her lip. Mark reached out and held her hand. She was scared. He was scared. The day had just been a really bad one, from feeling terror that afternoon upon discovering Roger unconscious on the landing about two flights down from where the loft was, and even up to the events that had transpired after that, in addition to his already fucked-up day at Buzzline. Mark had felt he was going to have a premature heart attack from all the emotional stress.

Roger is alive. He's sitting up and leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. Mimi is holding on to him, crying and shaking, looking frightened out of her wits. The air is sour with the smell of vomit.

"Oh God…" Mark feels as though his lungs are about to burst. He's pedaled as fast as he can to get home as quickly as possible. To see Roger there, sitting up, alive and breathing, when he thought just minutes ago that he's going to have to face a doctor telling him his best friend will never wake up, just gives him an indescribably ecstatic feeling. He wants to run to Roger, hug him, hit him, whatever, just to make sure he's there and he's okay.

"He's okay…he's okay…" Mimi says in between sobs, turning her head so she's facing the filmmaker. "He woke up…"

"Mark…?" Roger groans as he lifts his head. He looks terrible. A sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead and his skin is ashen. His shirt is stained. The vomit's come from him. "Oh shit…"

"What the fuck did you do to yourself? Why'd you leave the loft?" Mark knows that now isn't the right time to be reprimanding the musician, but he can think of nothing else to say. A million different thoughts and emotions run through him like a bad New York traffic jam. "I'm calling 9-1-1…"

"No!"

He feels Roger grab his ankle as he makes his way up the stairs to the loft. It's a weak hold, one Mark can easily pull away from, but he doesn't.

"What the hell--? Roger, we have to get you looked at…" He isn't sure if Roger really understands what's going on or if the musician's really in his right mind, so he speaks slowly and carefully. He also does it to calm himself. Shit. He wants to puke or pass out himself from extreme fear or extreme relief or maybe both.

"I know what just happened…I passed out…I'm tired that's all. You're right, I never should've left the loft…and I'm sorry…but please, Mark, no…no doctors, no ambulance…" his best friend pleads weakly. Mark swallows a wad of spit that threatens to choke him, frozen to the spot. Roger is begging. The sight of the musician, the prince of pride, on the floor, holding on to him like a child, begging, hits home.

He watches as Mimi holds on to her husband, not caring about the remnants of vomit on his clothes or the fact that he can barely keep his eyes open, desperately whispering something in Spanish into his ear and watches as Roger holds her close to him with as much strength as he can.

"I'm okay, babe…ssshhh…it's okay…" he hears Roger tell her feebly, his hand on her head. "I'm sorry…you got scared…"

Mark remains where he is. He wants a doctor to look at Roger, to tell them all what the fuck is going on. This can't be normal, these fevers, and now fainting fits, and it worries him to death. But he doesn't move. He doesn't move one inch to call anyone.

Maybe he is fine, he finds himself thinking in desperation, Maybe we're all just paranoid…

He knows it's a lie. But he feels helpless. Half of him doesn't want to know what's wrong with Roger. He knows it can't be anything good. He doesn't want to know how long his best friend's got to live.

"I should've called 9-1-1…" Mark said, shaking his head, regretting the fact that he hadn't had the balls to do it since Roger was sick again. "I should've…shit…"

"Sssh, Mark, don't blame yourself. I should've called 9-1-1 too…I was just…I was just too scared and my first instinct was to call you…" Mimi told him gently. Her big brown eyes were wide with fear Mark knew she hid. "I thought…I really thought he was dead…and I didn't want anyone with a white coat on telling me that he was…knowing they have the power to save other people's lives but can't save him…that they're not going to even try…"

Mark gulped. That was exactly what his fear was: calling an ambulance and having them, the people who are supposed to cure, just stand there unable to do nothing, because nothing can reverse death or save anyone who's been sentenced to it. He ran his hand through his hair and, from behind him, the kettle whistled. Their hot water was ready.

"I told him not to go out of the loft," Mark said as he poured them both a cup of tea. "I don't know…I don't know what the hell he's thinking sometimes…" He glanced at Mimi, but she was looking at the doorway of their room worriedly. He didn't know if she'd even heard him.

"He's gotten so thin…" Mimi turned her head and Mark saw the tears glistening in her eyes as she spoke. "He doesn't think I see…but I do…oh Marky…"

The filmmaker nodded. They'd both gotten Roger upstairs. Despite his protests that Mark was too small and Mimi was a girl and shouldn't be doing things like lifting her husband, they'd draped his arms over each of their shoulders and had wrapped their own arms around his waist. Mark had felt Roger's bones from underneath the jacket and was alarmed at how light the musician was.

"I'm scared that…I'm scared that he might be…he might be the next one to go."

Mimi bit her lip, but it didn't stop her tears from finally escaping. They cascaded slowly down her cheeks and plopped onto the kitchen counter. She held her head down, as if she were ashamed of what she'd said. Mark swallowed. He'd felt that too, but had always banished the thought. Fate was easily tempted.

"We can never know for sure, Meems…" he reached over and wiped Mimi's tears away with his thumb.

He grew silent and the only sound heard in the whole loft was Mimi's soft sobbing. He pushed the takeouts and tea aside so he could comfort her properly. Fuck dinner. Neither of them was hungry anyway.

"It isn't fair…" Mimi said softly through sobs. "Now's the only time I've been really really happy…with you guys and all…but I can't even stay that way for long. It's going to be…it's going to be taken away like everything else I've had…it isn't fair…" Her shoulders shook. "It's like I'm not allowed to be happy…"

Something inside of Mark ached at Mimi's words.

Zoom in on the selfish bastard who had only always thought of his feelings and was only realizing it now.

How could he have been so goddamn self-centered? Every time he reminded Roger of every single pill, every single appointment he had to go to, Mark had always thought of himself. He wanted Roger to live so he wouldn't be lonely. He wanted Roger to live because he wouldn't be able to stand the silence that was never there when the rock star was around. He wanted Roger to live because no one else knew him more, from their exclusive Scarsdale childhood up to how they were still surviving in Alphabet City, and if he lost the musician, he'd feel like he'd have lost half of who he was. How could it have slipped his mind that other people cared about Roger too? For fuck's sake, Roger wasn't just his best friend, he was also Mimi's husband. Mimi, who'd run away from home at sixteen, had lived on the streets, had had barely enough to eat growing up and who considered this wretched bohemian existence the best life she'd ever known. Compared to his and Roger's pampered past, Mimi deserved more. She deserved more time, more happy memories with the man she loved more than Mark did. He was more than lucky already to have known Roger Davis more than half his life, back when they were both still healthy, spoiled assholes. He was ashamed of his own actions. To him, Roger was his brother, his odd twin, his oldest and dearest friend. But to Mimi, Roger was everything to her. Her life revolved around him. Roger had been the one she'd returned for after the scare they'd gotten two Christmas Eves ago. He was what still kept her clean and going. Mark just didn't have the heart to let Fate just take any of that from her without a fight, even though he knew he was going to have to move aside to let it happen.

"Mimi…Mimi…look at me…" Mark said gently, and two sad brown eyes met his own. "I promise, Roger's going to be okay, all right? He's not going to die. Not yet. I'm taking him to the doctor tomorrow. I'm going to find out what's wrong…and I'm going to get him the medicine, okay? Whatever he needs and whatever you need. I'm going to do everything…everything I can…Mimi…I promise…I want both of you to be happy…okay? Stop crying, please, Mimi…"

His throat was tight and he wanted to cry too. He couldn't stand it when Mimi cried. She was just a child, thrown into this world she wasn't supposed to have known, this world of death, poverty and pain…

'It's like I'm not allowed to be happy…'

Fuck. Mark's heart had broken at those words. What horrors Mimi had seen or gone through in the past was probably ten times more than he'd ever know. He wanted her to just be happy. He wanted both her and Roger to be smiling and laughing for the remainder of their shortened lives. He wanted her to know the musician as much as he had. He wanted Roger's remaining fun times to be with her. It was Mimi's turn.

"But Marky, you've got work…"

"I don't care. Roger needs a doctor and he needs it now. Alexi can just go and fuck herself," He placed a hand on Mimi's shoulder. God, why the hell did he not have a handkerchief or something? His six-year-old self wouldn't be as stupid looking as he was at the moment since that Mark Cohen would have had a handkerchief to wipe the ladies' tears. He felt like an idiot as he continuously went at Mimi's tears with his fingers. "You okay?"

A small smile was on Mimi's lips, set despite the tears. "I never imagined you saying anything like that."

"What?"

"'Alexi can just go and fuck herself.'" Mimi repeated, pushing his hands away and wiping her face with her own fingers. "Thanks. I'm cool."

"Roger's influence. Sorry," he said sheepishly.

Mimi smiled sadly. "I know," she stared at the simple wedding band on her finger. "He isn't perfect, but he's my guy, you know? He's perfect for me. He evens me out and…makes me laugh and holds me in his arms where I feel like nothing's ever going to get me, not even AIDS...I don't have to be scared when I'm with him…but without him…" she pressed her lips together. "Marky, I love him so so much…"

Mark nodded. It was painful to look at her, but he forced himself to. "I know."

Close-up on the beautiful Latina girl dressed in one of Roger's sweatshirts and who's trying hard not to cry again. Beautiful brown eyes glistening with invisible tears, looking out of the window at New York City that didn't give a shit about them. Fade out on the little girl lost and alone in the big city.

Mark stood up, walked over to where Mimi was sitting and gave her a hug. Mimi didn't object. She let him hold her and he did his best to provide the comfort she needed.

"I'm sorry I suck at these kinds of things…Collins or Roger was always better at this…" he muttered.

"You do great, Marky," Mimi whispered. "You do great."

"I promise I'll do everything, Meems…"

Mimi pulled away from him and lovingly touched his hair, a sad expression on her face. "You have to remember you can't save everyone, Mark, sometimes not even when you really want to…"

"I know."

"I don't want you blaming yourself if…if something happens...because we…we all know that Collins, Roger and I really don't have…" her voice trailed away, but Mark knew what she meant. She was worrying for him. "Please, Marky."

"I still promise to do everything I can." He told her assuredly. "I'll be okay."

He wasn't going to give up. Anything he could do, he would, just for Mimi and Roger to have more time together. It kind of hurt that he was giving up, in a sense, his best friend, because he was still human, but Mimi needed Roger more. He'd had almost twenty years with the guy, for God's sakes. What was a few months or a year or two years maybe that Mimi was asking for? Besides it didn't mean he and Roger could stop being friends; he was just going to have to back off and let them have their space. He could do that.

The Latina smiled. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being so selfless." She seemed almost embarrassed to say it but she said it anyway. "I know it's hard…thank you, Mark."

Mark returned her smile. There really wasn't anything else to say.

"You're welcome."

Roger woke up in Mimi's arms. His coughing had jolted him from sleep and made him aware of the incredible heat his body was enveloped in. He felt like he was on fire, but also felt from within him cold that wracked his body in shivers to accompany the dry, painful hacking that rattled from his chest. He could hear Mimi crying, whispering assorted things into his ear, could feel her as she held him and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He wanted to comfort her. Shit this wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't how he was going to die. It wasn't time. He still had a lot to do before he could fully surrender.

"Mimi…" he gasped. The coughing interrupted everything, making his vocal chords seize up and making his chest burn, squeezing all the air out of his inflamed lungs. He could see her, a blur of wavy hair and caramel-colored skin.

"What, baby? Oh my God…tell me…Mark! Mark!" he could just barely hear what she said.

"I…can't…breathe…" he managed to wheeze. He couldn't stop coughing and could barely get enough air in to be able to breathe properly. He felt as though he were drowning. Fuck. He wasn't going to die of AIDS. He was going to die from asphyxiation.

Not yet…not yet, God, not yet, please…his soul was on its knees as the silent words ran through his mind in what he conceived as a heavenly plea.

"Mark!"

"9-1-1…I'm calling…Hello? Please I need an ambulance…Avenue B…"

Roger hunched forward as his body seemed to be adamant to expel something. His mouth opened to puke but nothing aside from gagging on air came out. He collapsed forward on the sweat-soaked sheets, wheezing. Holy fuck he was dying.

"Hang on, baby, the ambulance is coming…oh God, don't leave me please, baby…"

Somehow he found Mimi's hand and he gripped it with as much strength as she could. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Fuck. He couldn't go. He couldn't go without Mimi hearing him…

God, Roger found himself praying in desperation, if you're going to kill me now, just please let me tell her I love her…let me tell her one last time…

The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was Mimi over him, her lips forming 'I love you' over and over again.

A/N: And the previous cliffhanger is taken over by another cliffhanger. Reviews are MUCH appreciated and make me write faster. Hahaha. ;)