A/N: Warning: Lots and lots of angst. XD Hope you enjoy this, nonetheless.
The pronouncement was made at exactly 6:53 PM on February 11th.
The doctors and nurses seemed to flock around the hospital bed in big clusters. Mark was convinced they were only pretending their attempts to avert the inevitable.
Everyone knew it was too late.
Yet they shuffled about in the tiny room, and there were shouts and pumps and electric currents.
But Mark wasn't stupid. He'd seen it all, many times over. There was nothing any of them could do. There was nothing he could do. Not anymore, anyway.
So at 6:53, he wasn't surprised when a nurse took his arm and began speaking in a hushed voice, telling him Dr. Tate had tried his best, but there was nothing more they could have done . . .
Her voice seemed to be drowned out by the sound of the heart monitor that had long since flat-lined. It grated against Mark's ears, piercing through his every thought, every movement.
He made the necessary arrangements. Answered all the questions. Made sure the decisions he went through with were ones that the person lying dead in room 302 B would've approved of.
And then Mark Cohen went home.
The first thing he did when he arrived at the loft was flip on the light-switch. Benny was being exceptionally gracious this month; they still had power in their tiny apartment despite being behind on their rent as usual. They.
Mark threw his key onto the couch, and sat down at the table. He stared at the cup of coffee he'd neglected to finish that morning.
It was brown and ugly and stale, and something was clearly floating in it. Mark cocked his head to the side a little, trying to find his reflection in the dark liquid. Squinting, he brought his face closer to it, smelling the old water and probably stale coffee mix.
He couldn't find it. He couldn't find himself. Then again, maybe there was nothing left to find anymore.
Mark stood up again, pacing a bit, his mind completely blank. Finally, he stumbled to the telephone and dialed a number. The dial tone was the first sound he'd heard in a while, and it was a shock to his eardrums.
It was so loud.
"Hey! You've reached Maureen and Joanne. Leave a message!''
"He's gone." Mark let the phone clatter to the floor after he spoke.
February 11th, 1992. A seemingly insignificant date to Mark in the past. Now, it would resonate in his mind like a terrifying nightmare.
Except Mark's nightmare was reality.
Mark knew the disease would take his friends one by one, eventually. It was just how things had to be. This kind of thing wasn't supposed to be so shocking to him anymore. He should've been used to all of it by now, he chastised himself.
The pain, loss, isolation. It was nothing new, and yet it was always different each time.
"Hey! Mark! Get your ass over here to throw down the key."
He heard the voice of Collins, who was on break from work this week, calling to him from outside, and at first Mark didn't have the strength to walk to the window at all.
"Mark? Come on, man, I know you're home, your bike's here."
Mark didn't want to let Collins into the house. But he didn't want to leave him outside, either. Freezing weather led to catching a cold which led to so much more than a cold for someone like Collins in his condition and oh God not him too oh no please no---
He practically sprinted toward the window and hurled the key down to Collins without a word.
Within a minute or two, Collins had come up the stairs and slid open the loft door.
"Hey, man. What's up? You ain't at the hospital. Finally catching a break?" Collins took off his leather coat and absently threw it over a chair.
Mark said nothing. In the amount of time he'd waited for Collins, he had shuffled back to the couch, sat on the edge, and brought his knees up to his chest.
Collins blinked. "Mark. You okay?"
Everything was suddenly beginning to hit Mark with a piercing clarity. He's dead. He's gone. He suffered for years and now he's gone.
"Mark, what the hell?" Collins placed his hands on Mark's shoulders firmly, trying to make eye contact with him.
Finally, concerned brown eyes met piercing blue.
"Roger's dead." The words made everything all the more real, and Mark suddenly felt ill. Bile rose in his throat and he struggled to keep it down.
Collins' eyes widened. "Oh, God . . . oh, shit . . . "
He sank down into the couch beside his friend and buried his face in his hands. "Shit, shit . . . "
Mark turned his head a little to face Collins, having no idea what to say. He was numb, and yet he looked down to find his hands were shaking. "Oh, God . . . " he whispered.
Before he knew it, the compassionate Collins had pulled him into an embrace.
There wasn't much to say. Mark figured Collins was more afraid than ever, because he knew his time would come soon enough. And he'd go far away like Roger, and leave Mark all alone.
"Did you see him . . . before . . . ?" Collins asked, and Mark knew full well what he meant.
"I held his hand. I didn't give a fuck whether he thought it was girly or not." Mark realized he was rambling at this point, but Collins didn't seem to mind. "I held his hand as he went, and I told him it was okay to go when I knew it wasn't because he was my best friend and I can't stand being so alone like this." His voice broke. "You knew it was coming; I could tell by your face when you talked to him yesterday. He knew it. We all fucking knew it, Collins."
"I know, man. I know. Knowing it's gonna happen doesn't make it any less hard. Losing Angel taught me that. It's never gonna be easy, Mark."
Hearing Collins' deep, reassuring voice amongst all this was a little soothing, Mark couldn't help but think. They continued to sit, side by side, in silence for a while.
"Roger was my best friend," Mark repeated, "No matter what stupid shit he did. No matter what stupid shit I did."
"I know. He never wanted to admit it, but deep down, he had a good heart." Collins took a shaky breath, lifting a hand to sloppily smudge some tears away. "But he's with Mimi now. Happy somewhere."
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't. But you gotta believe something in this screwed up world," Collins muttered, "Whatever it is, you have to believe something, or you're done for."
More silence.
Long after Collins had left the apartment (after asking many times if Mark wanted him to stay the night, initially unwilling to accept Mark's continuous refusals of "I'm fine"), Mark sat in Roger's room, alone.
At 6:53 AM, as he stared down at the guitar Roger hadn't the strength to play in months, Mark knew all too well he wasn't fine. He was far from okay.
And he couldn't help but think, as he brushed a hand against the hollow wood of the guitar, that Collins was wrong. There was nothing to believe in anymore.