(no subject)
When Roger had first began his life as an AIDS patient (he had no time to be PC), his ailments had mostly been hemophilia and the occasional horrible bout of the shits. These were things that were true, and -- like being PC -- he didn't want to waste his time stepping around them. After that it was the cold sweats and persistent cotton mouth, but that could have been the 'experimental' meds that later became a supplement to his AZT. Sore throat could be added to that, but with how much Roger smoked and drank, he couldn't place too much blame anywhere else. After that, he's on an island, and any doctor would call that an x factor. The symptoms came on strong at first and then miserably slowly, until he's sitting in a Turkish bath in a towel congested to the point of mouth-breathing, head pounding, palms sweating. Being out in the London air makes him feel like he's bogged down from the feet up to his shoulders by heavy weights. So he's sitting, focusing on his breathing, ignoring the way it rattles in his chest. He's alone, but he's sure that won't be for long, if he knows how this place is. And he does.