Collins waked in the door of he and Angel's little apartment, surprised not to see his lover in the kitchen dabbling with pots and pans, or practicing her drums. Come to think of it, the anarchist didn't see Angel at all, "Ang?" He called, closing the door behind him, and setting his bag on a chair.
Collins didn't hear any reply but a small cough. He felt a tremble of fear jolt up his spine, he raised his voice, "Angel?" he asked, heading for the bedroom, "Are y-you sick?"
Sick. The word came out of his mouth causing the large man to cringe. What if this was the last time he's ever get to see his Angel? What if this was the time her body couldn't defend against his disease?
Approaching the bedroom, Collins glanced in. There she was, her wig sitting to the dresser. It made her feverish body too warm for the percussionist to stand, "Darling?" Angel gave her lover a weak grin, "It think I'm getting a bit sick," she admitted, though the drag queen wasn't scared. She couldn't be perfectly healthy forever.
Those were the words the anarchist dreaded... and feared. Angel was, in fact, ill. He placed a hand to her forehead. His head was warm to the touch. Warmer than Collins had ever felt before.
"Darling, lay with me?" Angel asked, her voice calm and collected. Her tone was soft as silk.
"B-but we should head to a hosp-"
"Later. Now lay with me?" He sighed, looking at Collins with begging brown eyes, that had faint traces of bags underneath them.
Collins had to give in. How couldn't he give in to those beautiful eyes? How could he say no to Angel? He climbed onto the bed, opening his arms for her.
She crawled into his arms, slowly, "I missed you this last week," she said, looking up at him.
"I would have came home if you'd-"
"You were working," Angel replied as if Collins had only missed a show on TV, not her coming down with a cold.
"Why didn't you call Mimi? What about Mark and Roger? Why didn't you call them?"Collins wondered out loud.
"Meems was working a lot, and I didn't want to bother the boys, they have so much on their minds," she answered, with a shrug.
"Ang, nothing is more important than your health, they would have come over..." Collins sighed in regret, "Now let me take you to the hospital babe?"
"One second longer?" Angel asked, not wanting to be trapped in a hospital bed, away from her friends.
"One second..." he sighed again, rubbing his lover's frail back, worry clear in the anarchist's eyes.
"Stop worrying, Tom. Everyone gets sick," she said, though she knew her complication.
Angel.
Disease.
Young.
"But not everyone has A-
"Tom, stop. It was bound to happen. I was bound to get sick, eventually," Those words were fallowed immeaditly by a coughing fit.
Collins felt like there was a hand squeezing his heart as Angel coughed, "Now?"
Angel nodded, the horrible coughing still coming from her mouth.
Collins lifted her body into his arms and asked the drummer, "Want your wig?" Even though Angel shook his head, Collins grabbed the short black bob anyways. She'd want it later. He was sure she would.
He took Angel straight to the hospital, as fast as he could.
Two Weeks.
Angel.
Young.
The doctors projected that Angel had only two weeks or three weeks to go. Collins didn't know what he would do without his lover.
He'd promised he'd cover her. He would stay until Angel took her last gasp. He would honor that promise. He reached out for her hand.
Angel took his hand, "I love you, darling."
"I love you more than you could ever imagine," Collins assured.
"Call Mimi?" Angel asked.
"On it, Ang." He breathed.