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When Roger woke up at noon after he and Mark had pulled another consecutive all-nighter writing lyrics, he realized that the few hours of sleep he had gotten between the time they’d run out of steam and given up on writing at sunrise and now were the longest he had slept in over 72 hours. Despite the fact that he’d slept less than five hours, he felt surprisingly refreshed, and was ready to go back to tackling the songs they’d been trying to finish for the past week.
As he walked into the kitchen, he saw that Mark was sitting at the table, staring blankly at nothing. A bowl of cereal sat in front of him, untouched; it had clearly been sitting there for some time from the looks of its disintegration.
Yawning, Roger walked over to the table and waved a hand in front of his roommate’s face.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he greeted, laughing, but the filmmaker didn’t respond, just leaned his head against one hand and continued to sit there silently.
“Mark?” His friend looked at him in concern. “Are you okay? Did you sleep at all?”
He shook his head feebly, and the songwriter clicked his tongue, making a “tsk” noise in response.
“You need to take a nap, now.”
“I… I’m not sure I can get up,” Mark whispered. “I feel…”
“You don’t look so good.” Roger placed a hand against his forehead worriedly. “You’re burning up! I should have forced you to sleep…”
The smaller boy shook his head weakly. “I should have made you sleep.”
“You did!”
“For four hours,” Mark mumbled. “After almost three nights being up writing.”
“I don’t have a fever!” the musician protested. “You shouldn’t be awake. We have to get you to bed.”
Even in his weakened state, Mark managed a wry smile. “I should have a joke about that, but I’m not going to even try.”
“Shut up, smartass.” Roger smacked him on the arm, and then immediately drew back in alarm. “Sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I’m not going to break,” Mark joked faintly, and his roommate sighed, taking him by the arm and helping him up from the chair.
“Lean on me,” he instructed, and unable to argue, the ailing filmmaker did so, letting his friend guide him down the hall to his room, where he curled up into a ball on his bed, shivering. Roger pulled the blanket up over him and disappeared down the hall, then returned with a thermometer, a glass of water, and a bottle of Tylenol.
“Open,” he instructed, holding the thermometer up to Mark’s mouth.
“Rog, I’m fine,” he protested. “I probably just have a minor cold or something, but you should get away from me; I might be contagious... Where did we get a thermometer from, anyway??”
“Dude, you’re sick. Do what I say,” Roger warned sternly, “or I will call your mother.”
Mark winced. His roommate knew that invoking the wrath of Mrs. Cohen was the worst threat he could make, under the circumstances.
“Fine,” he croaked, reluctantly opening his mouth for the thermometer. They waited for it to beep, the songwriter patiently sitting on the edge of his friend’s bed, Mark closing his eyes and resting his head on his pillow, unable to stay sitting up. When the shrill noise finally sounded, Roger took the thermometer and examined it.
“Man, you have a temperature of 102,” he informed him, eyes widening. “A minor cold, whatever! Take this!” He shoved the water into the filmmaker’s hand and shook two Tylenol into his palm, holding it out to him.
Mark obeyed meekly, then tried to open his eyes. “Roger, it’s not a big deal. Don’t freak out…”
“Stop talking!” he shot back. “If I had a fever of 102, would you be all, ‘Oh, it’s all good, Rog, just sleep for awhile and you’ll be fine’?”
The boy in the bed was too feverish to get the words out, but his mind still said If I have a fever of 102, I’ll probably be in bed for a few days and back to normal by the end of the week. If you had a fever of 102, you could end up in the hospital. He opened his eyes long enough to look at Roger, who nodded in response, taking his friend’s silence as acquiescence.
“Yeah. I thought so.”
“Is it just me, or is it freezing in here?” Mark whispered hoarsely, huddling under the blanket.
His roommate looked at him sympathetically. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“Go away,” the sick filmmaker murmured, no strength behind his words. “You shouldn’t be in here. I’ll be fine… just need to sleep…”
Roger didn’t bother trying to argue. Typical Mark, he thought to himself. Trying to look out for me even when he can barely keep his eyes open.
When the taller boy returned, Mark’s eyes were closed and he was asleep, lying on his side, clutching the side of his pillow like a child would clutch a stuffed animal. The songwriter took the extra quilt he’d gone to retrieve and spread it over the blanket, and then sat on the edge of the bed once again, watching Mark sleep, listening to his erratic breathing anxiously.
An image suddenly popped into Roger’s head, one he tried to ignore, but couldn’t… the loft, cleaner and more furnished than it was now, and the same bedroom, but with the signs of two people sharing a life scattered all over it. In the image in his head, he was there, sitting at the side of the bed as he was now, but the bed was larger, with two pillows, and he had a different place there… a partnership more significant than this one, a partnership with a name he didn’t dare think of for more than a second. Not gonna happen, he scolded himself. Don’t think it. Don’t dream it. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
He is your best friend. He’s always been there to take care of you, and now you’re the only one here to take care of him, he told herself firmly, trying to banish all distracting thoughts from his wayward mind. But then he looked down at Mark again, suddenly so vulnerable in his sleep, and he couldn’t help reaching out, gently stroking his blond hair, and, against his better judgement, dropping a featherlight kiss on his hot forehead.
I’ll take care of you, he thought, cursing his mind for betraying him as he got up to turn off the light. Don’t worry, Mark. I’ll be right here.