Bahahahah! This is finally finally finally finished! I'm so happy to finally get something out! Yay! :)

Disclaimer: Rent is not mine, sadly.

Dying. It's like waking up in a dream. You find yourself in a place you've seen before. Some how you know just where to go and what to do there. But you can't seem to remember how you got there in the first place. All the unfinished business you left behind is still following you...and it always will...

Another gust of wind sends the dead leaves at my feet dancing into the air again. I pull my leather jacket tighter around my body, expecting to be overcome with the sensation of cold. Strangely though, nothing comes, and I release my tight hold my garments. The cold has never bothered me much, so this hardly comes as a surprise to me. The sun is shining directly over head despite the obvious chill of the winter day. It glints off the steeple of the church to my left causing me to squint at my surroundings.

I take a moment to pause and survey my whereabouts. The large white church stands still and haunting next to me. Giant glass windows stare down at me, depicting pictures of the Virgin Mary and other various saints I never took the time to learn about. Around me, there's not a soul to be found. I'm in the middle of an empty parking lot at the entrance to a dusty narrow path. Decaying leaves scatter around me across the parking lot and out into the grass. Gnarled and twisted trees, barren of leaves, stand on either side of the path. Down on the right side I see the gaunt shadows of the headstones, standing in perfect rows. The absolute stillness around me is suffocating, threatening to crush me at any moment.

Vaguely I wonder where Mark is. There's something I have to tell him...

Without thinking much about it, I start down the path. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure why I'm here in the first place. I haven't had a reason to come here since...well since Angel died. She's the only person I'd come to see. Unless you count April. Admittedly, I'm a bit of a masochist, but I hardly torture myself that much.

Angel's buried relatively far back in the cemetery. They stick all of "us", all of us druggies, AIDS cases, and dirt poor artists, over there. It's best we're kept as far from the public eye as possible, as we're considered the unimportant ones, the failures and shames to the human race. Not to mention we can hardly even afford the plot in the first place. None of the high class yuppies want us near their relatives, especially since it's been rumored that a dead AIDS patient can be even more contagious than a live one. There's supposedly some scientific evidence behind it, but honestly it's the biggest load of bull shit I've ever heard. I scoff to myself, feeling bitter and angry, as I begin to trudge in the general direction of my dear friend's headstone. It's not fair. A person makes one mistake and they're condemned for the rest of their lives. It's morbid, I know, but I can't help thinking that someday Mimi, Collins, and I will wind up back there. Probably Mark will too, but it'll be a lack of money, not a disease that puts him there.

I meander through the rows of headstones, glancing at some of them as they flow past. It's a sea of names and letters, most of them meaning absolutely nothing. Every few steps a last name will leap out at me. One that sounds familiar and can put a clear picture of someone's face in my head. Last names shared with old band mates, school friends or teachers, childhood neighbors, or people from Life Support. I wonder if it's their graves I'm treading on, their bodies six feet deep in the earth. McMurrer, an old bass player. Elliott, my tenth grade english teacher. Sanchez, Life Support member. Gritelli, my cousin. Ohlig, my first girlfriend. Cohen, my best friend, my roommate, my... Wait Cohen?

I panic slightly, irrationally, and then realize this Cohen died in 1977 and was named Ella. Feeling slightly idiotic, I let myself take a deep breath before continuing.

Mark. Shit...I don't think I remembered to leave him a note concerning my destination. Now he'll get all worried and probably spend the rest of the afternoon pacing the loft wondering where I am. I hate to see him so worried and even more that I'm usually the cause of it. I should have just told him where I was going when I got up this morning. He was probably out filming by the time I got my lazy ass out of bed though. I start to think, brow creased in concentration. What time did I get up? Did I eat breakfast or go straight for lunch (not that we have food for either meal)? Did I take my AZT? If I didn't Mark is going to fucking murder me...

My questioning rant is cut off as the name Schunard finds its way into my peripheral line of vision. I'm only two rows from the cemetery fence now and the graves have become a little closer together. Angel's headstone is slightly brighter and less weather-worn than some of the others around it. I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts.

"Hey Angel," I sigh. "Well...I really need some help. You were always really good at that. You know...helping." I fold my arms over my chest and survey the area before crouching down infront of the headstone. I wonder if Angel can actually hear me.

"Well...Ang, here we go I guess. I-um-Jesus Christ I suck at this. I-it's about Mark... Actually I don't even know what it is about Mark, I guess you know what it is...you always know. There's something about Mark...something that's been bothering me a lot lately. I can't seem to get it out of my head...The thing is-"

Someone coughs loudly far to my left. I jump, stopping mid-sentence and looking up slowly. Shit, I must look like some kind of mental patient over here talking to myself...

I survey my fellow mourner. It's a man, short guy with wispy blonde hair wearing a brown fleece jacket and jeans. He stands about twenty five graves away from me. There's a pair of thick rimmed blue glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He's clutching a single white rose in his left hand and his right hand comes up to scratch at his nose. He has a thick white and blue scarf wound tightly around his neck. A shitty looking camera sits snugly in his leather bag, slung over his shoulder. He paws the ground with his sneaker, blue eyes trained on the dirt.

Mark? What the hell is Mark doing here? I blink twice, rubbing my eyes to make sure I'm seeing things correctly. My suspicions are confirmed as my chest clenches, heart speeding up, just like it always does when I see my roommate. Of course...

"Mark!" I call. He doesn't look up, just wraps his arms around his slender frame and shivers. "Mark! MARK!" I try again, louder this time. Still no reaction.

I murmur, "And he yells at me for not listening when he talks..." As I start down the row towards him I can feel my heart working a million miles an hour- this is not okay damn it! This is Mark I'm talking about- a light flush flooding my cheeks. Mark...why is Mark here? We don't know anyone else in this cemetary besides April and Angel, and Mark wouldn't come to see April. Have I missed something? As far as I know, we haven't lost anyone else from Life Support recently. And honestly we don't really have any other friends...

I stop walking a few feet behind my best friend. "Mark?" I reach out and place my hand on his shoulder, an electric current running through my finger-tips. Not now, Roger. Not now... Mark still doesn't acknowledge me and continues to stare at the headstone in front of us.

"Mark!" I repeat, more forcefully this time, as I shake his shoulder. "Earth to Mark Cohen!" I side step around him and turn so now we're standing facing one another, about a foot apart. My breath catches in my throat as our proximity registers, but I do my best to ignore it. Mark stares straight ahead, eyes glassy and fixed on a point beyond me, almost as if I'm not there. He looks sleep deprived and worn out, huge dark circles protruding from under his bottom lid.

"MARK! MARK ANTHONY COHEN!" I practically scream in his face. I bring my left hand up to his ear and snap loudly three times. "MARK! God dammit Mark this isn't funny!" I resist the urge to slap him. Instead I lean in and place both hands on his shoulders, bringing my eyes level with his. I find myself having to resist again, this time the urge to lean in even further and kiss him smack on the mouth. That certainly would get his attention- NO! Focus on the task at hand here Roger!. "Mark. MARK! What the fuck is going on Mark? Mark! MARK! MARK! Mark seriously-"

Mark takes a step forward. I close my eyes, bracing for our foreheads to slam together and for him to finally come to his senses. But it doesn't come. There's no collision, no startled grunts, no cries of pain. I open my eyes slowly, guessing he must have stopped mid-step or turned around or something, but again that's not the case. What the fuck?

"Mark...?" I cast my gaze downwards and find a pair of shoes, heels pointed upwards at me. I scream, loudly and rather girlishly but I don't care.

Mark is kneeling down...inside of me. Literally, we are sharing the exact same space and area. He's kneeling THROUGH my body, placing the white rose down on the grave bed. I freeze, not knowing whether to run or stay put, and start to panic. I'm not breathing, paralized with fear, as the world starts to spin before me. How is the possible? It's as if I'm not even here. I'm transparent. As if I'm a ghost...

With that, Mark stands up, pulling backwards out of my body, head passing through where my chest cavity should be. His face becomes level with mine again and I can see a single tear roll down his cheek. I've never see Mark cry, ever. In the entire twenty years we've been friends I've never seen a single tear in Mark Cohen's eyes.

I start to freak out. Holy shit... "MARK!" I cry out, voice raw and desperate. "Marky! Why aren't you answering me? Mark! Mark! MARK! Mark god damn it! MARK WHAT'S GOING ON? MARK!" My voice breaks as tears begin to roll down my face as well. "Mark. Mark please Mark. Mark." I'm sobbing uncontrollably, chest heaving and tears spilling down onto my jacket. My arms shoot out of their own accord, latching around Mark's waist and pulling our bodies together, holding on for dear life.

The fear and confusion consuming me are the most intense emotions I've ever felt. Mark has always been there for me whenever I need him, but now it's as if I'm not even here. I need him, Mark, my Mark, to hold me and tell me eveything's alright, that he's just kidding and he can see me after all. Mark is my constant, that hand to hold, the one person I have to keep me alive when things seem most bleak. The thought of losing him, of him not being able to see me or know that I'm there, scares me so deeply...

"Roger," Mark whispers. His voice startles me. It's so small and broken, so different from the nasaly, sarcastic tone I'm used to. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorr-" His voice looses all power as he collapses into a fit of sobs as well. "N-not R-Roger. Oh g-g-od Roger..."

I pull back from him gently. Tears spill down my best friend's face, heavy sobs rocking his small frame. I stand there and watch him loose himself in emotion. I never thought I'd live to see the day that Mark Cohen gave into his emotions, much less openly cried in front of anyone. Time ticks by slowly until his gasping sobs subside to light tears trickling down his cheeks. He fixes his eyes on the point beyond me, seemingly looking through me.

I spin around slowly and follow his line of sight. A large black headstone sits in the freshly packed dirt before me. Mark's rose lays beside it, it's white flower in stark contrast with the black of the headstone. My eyes flicker to the name inscribed in the stone, the name of the person who is now residing in the Earth six feet below me. My breath catches in my throat, the entire world stops moving and all I can see are the words before me. I am unable to process what I see. It can't be. It just can't be...

Roger Davis
October 24th 1967- November 4th 1994

It's as if I'm not even here. I'm transparent. As if I'm a ghost...

The hospital room is blurring in my line of vision. Somewhere close by I can hear the urgent beeping of a heart monitor. My hands are clasped in someone else's. I struggle to turn my head to the left, but there's Mark watching me, both of my pale thin hands captured by his. He is wide eyed in alarm, body shaking.

"Rog! It's okay Roger, stay with me. It'll be okay. CAN WE HAVE A DOCTOR IN HERE PLEASE!"

The beeps get more and more frantic and I can feel it, the world slipping away. So this is what dying feels like...

"Mark..." I say, but it's barely more than a whisper. "Marky..." He turns his attention back to me. It's now or never, I realize. I hate myself suddenly. For being such a coward all this time. Now it's too late. I'm dying and there will never be another chance to say this... I have to tell him...

"Yeah, Rog?" He's whispering too. I can hear the fear in his voice. He's shaking even harder, the beeping getting louder and more and more frequent in the background.

"Mark...it's okay." I pause. "I should tell you..."

"What Roger? Rog...stay with me come on!"

"I-I..."

Mark's fading away, his face becoming blurrier and blurrier. It's as if I'm falling backwards down a long dark tunnel. I can see him screaming, screaming for me, but I can't hear it anymore. All I can process is the sound of the heart monitor flat lining. And everything goes black.

I gasp, a choked scream tearing itself from my throat. I sink to my knees as the realization sets in.

I'm dead. I'm gone. I died last night. I'm a ghost. My body is burried in a casket somewhere below my feet. Mark can't see me because I'm dead. Dead... And now Mark will never know... Mark...

"Mark!" I yell, voice cracking. "Marky!" I look around frantically for my friend to find he's still standing there, staring numbly ahead. I scramble to my feet and run to his side. I clutch his hand in mine and stare helplessly into his eyes. I have a thought to finish, even if he can't hear me. It needs to be said...

"Mark...I should tell you. I love you..." My voice breaks as the tears pour down my face. "I love you. I always have. I always will. I love you..." I sniff loudly as I begin to sob again, and I burry my face in Mark's shoulder, breathing him in. "I love you, Marky..."

Mark stands there with me for what seems like forever. Finally though he pulls away. He sniffs, wiping tears from his eyes, and turns to go. I watch him walk away, knowing there's nothing I can do to stop him. Not now... It's heart wrenching, but yet there's a strange sense of peace.

Suddenly, Mark turns back. He presses the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and points them back in my direction, just as Mimi had done when Angel died. He says something, his lips moving with the words before he turns and continues to walk. His words carry on the wind to me, barely a whisper as they reach my ears...

"I love you, too."

'OoOoOoO weee OoOoOoOo' or however that scary ghost music is supposed to sound...

Hope you all enjoyed! R&R if you please.