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Growling in frustration, Roger tried in vain to tune his guitar. He'd been sitting there for the last hour trying to get the G chord in tune but his mind was still covered with a thick fog from the last party he'd been at, and his fingers couldn't seem to get the strings to lose the high sharp pitch it was emitting. So, finally his boss had come backstage and asked him to leave. Permanently.

Fired.

On his way out he hit quite a few of the customers with his guitar case, jammed his elbow into someone's ribs and stepped on a few feet, which wouldn't have normally been a problem, but Roger was wearing his steel-toed boots. He supposed this hurt a hell of a lot more, which made him feel better.

He didn't have the chance, or the cash for that matter to give a visit to Leo tonight, so he went straight home. Fully expecting April to be the only one awake, he was surprised to see Mark was still up.

"Hel-" his greeting stopped short when he noticed that he was covered in... blood? "What happened?"

"I-" Mark ran to the window, stared down at the street. "Jesus, where are they?" He started to pace.

"Where are who?"

He didn't look at Roger. "The ambulance. If they don't hurry..."

"What-Why did you call...are you ok?"

"I'm fine. I'm-" He turned back briefly, then looked down at the street again. "Roger, it's-it's April, she-"

Roger's eyebrows knitted together. Sure, she'd been sick off and on for the last few weeks but he didn't think it was serious.

"Is she sick again...?"

'"No, no, not sick." Again with the window. "Roger, she-look, just don't go near the bathroom."

He didn't listen, though. He pushed past Mark and headed for the bathroom. The sight would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't gripped the doorframe. His eyes blurred till all he could see was the haze of white and green tile mixed with red.

Someone was speaking. Probably Mark, but it didn't matter. Roger couldn't even make out what was being said.

After a moment, a hand closed around Roger's wrists and tried to pull him back out of the doorway. Roger gripped it tighter. He wasn't going to leave her. Not yet.

He let out a small cry and blinked a few times when he noticed the paper sitting on the rim of the sink. He pulled out of the grasp and sloshed through the water and picked it up. He unfolded it carefully and his eyes went wide when he scanned the paper. This time he sank to the floor next to April and he gave a choked sob, letting the paper fall to the floor.

His mind was racing, his thoughts were blurred together not making any sense except those three little words scrawled in her handwriting.

"We've Got AIDS..."

AIDS... He gave a shudder and pressed up against the wall, burying his head in his knees blocking out every sight and sound surrounding him.

He wasn't sure how long he was on the floor, eventually he snapped back to reality and let Mark help him up off the wet, blood-soaked floor. Roger clung to Mark, buried his face in his shoulder.

Mark patted Roger's hair, hugged and tried to comfort him, still covered in blood.

Oh, fuck.

Roger pulled back and looked at Mark. Despite the fact that he was still shaking he managed to blurt out, "Mark, you-need to get that off... Now."

Mark blinked. "Get... what off? What're you talking about?"

"Just do it! Please, Mark. Please."

Reluctantly, Mark backed away. He pulled his sweater up and off over his head, leaving another red streak up his cheek. The new smudge made Roger cringe and look away as he continued.

"You need to get the blood off..."

"I can't-the shower's a mess." Mark was out of his slacks now-his legs stained with red patches, too.

Roger practically yelled, "Then use the kitchen sink! Just get it off!"

Soap and water didn't do anything more than make the water a little pink. "It's not coming off."

Any color that Roger had left drained from his face-that was NOT what he needed to hear.

Still, Mark kept scrubbing. "What's going on? Roger?"

Roger stared at him for a few moments and walked back to the bathroom, which was now empty, and brought back the now water-stained paper. Roger held the note out with unsteady hands and sighed heavily.

"Here-"

"What's this?" Mark took the note, read it once to himself. Roger saw him blink and Mark mouthed the words as he read it again.

"Oh, God."

Mark looked up from the paper. "Oh, my God, Roger-"

He abandoned washing and hugged Roger again. Roger tensed and tried to back away, but Mark did it anyway. "How-I don't-you'll be alright." He nodded. "You'll be alright."

"Mark, we should-" Here, his voice gave out and he coughed. "We should talk."

After a minute or two, Mark let Roger go and looked up at him. Green eyes in a white face, stained with red. Just like the bathroom floor. "Roger, what-"

Roger's mind blanked at the sight and he tried to get away from Mark, and retreat to the safety of his room, but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

"Roger, what-"

Roger shook his head firmly and gave a few shaky breaths. "It's...complicated."

That's not the truth, but it's not a lie either, Roger's mind tried to reason with itself. The truth was that he didn't want to tell Mark what was going on, but he had to.

Nodding, Mark kept staring at Roger. "I'm listening."

Roger paced back and forth for a few minuets, muttering to himself, before he turned away and started for the front door. "I'm going out..."

Mark stepped in his way, the first time he'd done that since high school. "No. No, Roger, you're going to tell me what's going on."

"I-I can't."

Gripping Roger's shoulders gently, Mark looked him in the eyes again. "I know it's hard to talk about. And you have a lot on your mind and you're stressed and you're scared. Ok, I know. But I need to know what's going on. Please, Roger-you can trust me."

Roger bit his lower lip and turned back around. Sitting in the nearest chair, he pulled his jacket off, rolled up one of his sweater sleeves and exposed his bruised arm. He didn't look up at Mark; instead he just stared at the floor.

Mark took a breath, held it. "Roger... why didn't you tell me? Before-" he gestured vaguely at the loft, "before all of this?"

Roger blinked a few times and turned back to Mark. "I-I don't know..."

"You don't know." Mark took off his glasses and started to clean them before realizing he didn't have a shirt to use. He jammed them back on his face and looked down at Roger. "That's... all you have to say..? Roger, April's dead!"

He breathed, lowered his voice. He didn't sound angry, but... hurt? Disappointed? Fuck, why wouldn't he just scream and lecture and get it over with?

"...And you can't even tell me why..?"

Roger's eyes squeezed shut and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. So much for, "You can trust me." "No, Mark. I can't." His voice was rough and low, almost a growl. "But at the moment, all I have to say to you is go. To. Hell."

Mark sighed and started picking up his discarded clothes. Then he shook his head. "I'm already here."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean...?"

"Where else do you go to find out your best friend has AIDS, a dead girlfriend and a drug problem?"

Roger would never admit it but Mark had a very good point.

"I never said it was a problem."

"Then what is it, Roger? A fucking vow of poverty? Because that's where our grocery money goes. Did you even think of that?"

"I use my money. My tips, my paycheck. My money."

"Yeah. You use your money, Roger. While mine goes to feeding us. And keeping us warm. Or don't you remember last winter? We had three blankets, Roger. Three! And four of us living here!"

"Fine. I'll make things a little easier for you, then." He stalked past Mark to his room and tossed a few things into one of his bags. He shoved Mark out of his way with an, "I'm outta here," and started down the stairs.

"Roger, don't be stupid!" Mark followed him out onto the landing, trying to pull his pants back on, at least. "I never said you had to leave-I-"

But Roger kept walking. And, if he looked back, who would have noticed? He was just another homeless man.