Uhm...
Mark's thoughts, usually...
flashback(centered)
And...oh god, no one thought this was how it would end. All he could think was, oh, how am I going to tell Angel? How am I going to tell her that-- that-- But he couldn't complete the thought. He was frozen and scared and clutching desperately at his scarf on the floor in Collins' living room...why did I take it off again? He couldn't bear to reach for his camera it's just over there, there--by the door. He took a step closer, and--god-- it hurt.
It was so familiar, though the circumstances had been cruelly altered. His mind reeled and over the scene in front of him, he saw a wild-eyed redhead, the blood oh god, the blood...everywhere... A terrifyingly quiet groan shattered his thought and he realized it was his own. And then he simply sat. He sat on the carpet of his friend's bedroom in his lonely, cold apartment. He sat down and oh, god, Collins...Why you? He sat down and he could still see his friend, his friend's face... The calm was unbearable.
He shivered. He leaned forward onto his hands and knees. He crawled. Collins... dead...wake up, please let this be a joke. It's funny, see? And he laughed. He laughed, almost cackling, as he crawled to his friend. His dear friend who was there, lying on the mattress, peacefully beneath the colourful blanket. He looked asleep. If you missed the blood caked around his mouth and chin where it had dripped from his nose. If you missed the wide open eyes, staring blankly towards the door. If you missed the awful, terrible, cruel stench of death that couldn't exist, but god, why can I smell death? It isn't there and I sense it, oh god--
It's...again, again. Why Collins? How could you do--How could-- You knew I'd be here... Fucker. You goddamn motherfucker, why? Whywhywhywhy? He was kneeling there now. He leaned over and touched the dark skin covering a cold --why are you so cold, Collins? -- hand. The plastic bottle was small; it was there, though, underneath that hand. He didn't know what it was, probably never would. He wasn't going to look at it. Where's the note? You left a note for Angel, didn't you? Where is it? It says "We've got AIDS" oh god, I can't find it. I can't find it and now Roger won't know and he'll die and he'll die, he'll die, Collins. God April, what have you done?
Another moan. He snapped to the present, trying to erase the thoughts, oh his thoughts. They were taking over his mind and he couldn't stand it. But he couldn't feel anything, so the thoughts didn't mean anything, did they? Why was he moaning a name? Who's name? He couldn't be sure if he was more scared for April, for Angel what is she going to do when she finds out?, for Roger, for Collins, for himself. Maureen and Joanne aren't going to like this... Oh god, but they'll be so mad. So mad. I have to tell them, I have to tell someone--someone--April, April is gone. Distantly, he knew he was confusing two different moments, two different times. Distantly, he knew he was being ridiculous. But also distantly, he knew he should be crying, screaming, hurting, -feeling- this, but he couldn't. Feeling was too much for him just now, and he needed to collect himself.
He gently reached up to Collins' face. He brushed the eyelids closed. God, what are you staring at, Collins? Why won't you look me in the eye? He considered washing off the blood, but his hands were badly chapped from the harsh January winds. Is this what you meant? You said you might not live without her much longer. You said it, and Roger gave you such a heartbroken look, Collins. He was so torn. You said it and we were standing there watching Mimi fade in that hospital bed. You said it this morning. His hand hovered over Collins' face and then curled into a tight fist. How could you say that? How could you say that and then--and then this? What are you playing at, jackass?
He reached down, feeling the floor for something to throw, to break. And empty bottle of vodka was all he could find, and he hurled it towards a wall. It didn't even make it there, and it didn't break. He didn't really care. He'd forgotten the attempt in seconds anyway. Besides the bottle he found it. Here's your letter. Here it is. You're three last words. "We've got AIDS", "We've got AIDS", "We've got AIDS".
It was a few sheets of paper, folded, Collins' chicken scratch writing on the part he could see. "Read this later". All he could do was choke. No one, especially not him, had ever wondered or worried about this...this unreal thing that happened. And...oh god, it's real. Why is it real? Collins had always--always--been thoughtful, in love with life, dependable. Now here he was, dead. DEAD. You're DEAD, Collins! WHY? He was dead and no amount of his numb realizations could stop it. You're JUST LIKE HER. You...you...you can't handle it and instead of coming to me, coming to the rest of us, you just GIVE UP.
He was trembling now. Shaking like he might never stop. Throwing the papers to the ground, he scrambled to his feet and unsteadily left the room. He swallowed down bile and stumbled to a phone. Have to...have to tell Angel, Benny. Benny will know what to--god, where's Mimi? Mimi can handle this and I, oh god, oh god, oh god...
"Mark? Mark, is that you?" Roger's voice. He didn't even remember dialing the loft, but there was Roger's voice, and, "Mark, where are you? It's late and you--"
"Angel, Angel, I have to tell Angel, and oh my god, April. She-- she-- Roger? Where's Roger, oh god, the note. The note! It--it--"
"Mark! Calm the fuck down!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just got here and she was--and the blood--and it wouldn't stop and the note, god, the note! Roger, you've got, oh my god, you've got...the..."
Roger shuddered at the desperate voice on the other end of the line. He recognized those words. Those exact words, he'd heard them once. The only other time he'd ever heard Mark fall to pieces.
-SLAM-
"April? April! Come on, I've got the--"
"Roger? Roger? Oh god, Roger, help me..."
Roger kicked off his shoes, the July heat bothering his feet in those boots. He wasn't prepared for the sight in the living room. There was Collins; he was struggling to hold Mark down. Mark, pale, malnourished Mark, who was struggling and thrashing about, trying to get out of Collins grip.
"Whatcha doin' to Mark?"
"And you're high! You motherfucking piece of shit..." Collins growled out as Mark managed to knee him in the stomach. "Just come here and hold him down. He was trying to give her CPR or something stupid and he might get blood on him and..."
Collins moved over to let Roger sit on Mark on the old, shitty couch. He ran from the room, into the bathroom.
"What's goin' on, Marky?" Roger was feeling plenty fine, almost oblivious to the obvious chaos in the loft apartment.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just got here and she was--and the blood--and it wouldn't stop and the note, god, the note! Roger, you've got, oh my god, you've got...the..."
"Shut up, Marky. You babble too much."
"Roger--she's DEAD. She's DEAD, Roger and I could have, I should have saved her or, or, and oh god, Roger, please, please let me try! I have to try to bring her back and the ambulance is coming, but they won't get here fast enough..."
"Mark? Mark?"
Roger didn't stop to drop his jacket or take off his shoes. He navigated his way through random boxes and furniture and papers and books. He saw Mark's scarf, and kept walking, passing the phone, which was still off the hook. He put it back. Roger then continued down towards the door he didn't want to go through.
"Answer me, Mark, please..." He didn't expect an answer, and he pushed open the door. There was Mark, huddled on his knees next to the mattress on the floor in the cluttered room. He was muttering, and Roger chewed his lip. Mark looked almost insane there, but Roger knew better. Roger knew that Mark simply couldn't deal with things right away, especially not on his own. He knew that as soon as he got Mark to sit down and breathe for a minute or two, he would be fine and rational and calm.
Roger almost hesitated to do this, though. It was so rare that Mark could be broken, and though it was selfish, Roger wanted to just watch him for a moment. Instead, he turned, went back to the phone, and dialed an ambulance.
Collins, please, you wouldn't do this to me, you wouldn't, you wouldn't, you wouldn't. He chewed his fingers a bit, twisting the notes in his hands, careful not to tear them. Roger's coming, can you hold on for him, Collins? Angel waited for you. Can't you wait for us? We have to get Mimi here. And Maureen and Joanne. Please, Collins, oh, Collins... Mark heard a voice down the hall, but he dismissed it. He didn't care anymore. He had trapped himself here, kneeling beside his friend's body because that's all you are now, right? You're just a body, a shell, a case... Nothing in you... Where are you, Collins?
"Mark, come on, they'll be in a little bit." No, no, I have to wait for him to wake up. He will, won't he?
"Shh... Come here. Sit down." How did we get to the living room? Where did Collins go? I need to make sure he's alright. Roger--
"Breathe, Mark. It's alright. It's alright."
"Oh god, but it's not. It's not, Roger."
Roger was silent for a moment. Mark's quiet whisper was so true. Roger couldn't argue. It -wasn't- alright.
"I know, Mark. Just breathe, okay?"
They watched as some strangers carried their friend away. They watched as Maureen came and fussed, making Ramen for them, which they didn't eat. They watched her call Joanne, to come help her take care of Mark and Roger. They watched Joanne and Maureen silently work, cleaning and sorting and organizing, more to keep themselves busy than anything else. They watched how everyone avoided looking at the two silent young men sitting on the sofa in a loose embrace. They watched everyone move and shift and change and deal with it. They listened to the two women telling them to get up. Go visit Mimi, they said. She needs to know. Collins was her friend too. They simply watched, though. Mark wasn't up to much more than rationalizing everything in his head and Roger wasn't up to much more than reliving the guilt and blame and hurt at the thought of another loved one who couldn't stay.
Late that night, Joanne and Maureen had finally left Collins' apartment. Roger and Mark were still sitting there on that sofa. Mark was waiting for something to say. Roger was waiting for Mark to say something.
Finally, "I never thought Collins would..."
"Me neither."
"We should get home. To sleep."
"Probably."
"Roger?"
"Yeah?"
Mark didn't respond at once. Then, "I might cry."
"Don't worry about it."
And they both fell asleep there, with tearstains on their faces. Neither could place the feeling of something lost forever. It must be the end of the world...