So this is the end.
You're sitting there in the waiting room of the hospital, head bowed, eyes closed. Like that, you're spared the sight of pitying looks and uncertain glances of "what is he still doing here?" You know that there's nothing left to wait for. You know that no doctor or nurse will come out and tell you he's alright, or that he's going to be.
You're shaking and shivering, feeling cold, but in a soul-deep way that hasn't much to do with physical cold. The cold's in your bones and in your heart, and won't let go. You're sitting here until one of your friends comes to get you, because you've no idea where to go from here on your own.
Roger woke and found Mark cold and pale beside him, expression calm and relaxed as if he were still sleeping. His lips looked slightly blue, but for some reason it was his closed eyes Roger focused on, his eyelashes resting delicately against his cheeks. Roger felt certain that any moment he would open his eyes – Mark would, and be fine, or Roger would, and find it was a dream, either way.
"Mark?" he murmured, barely keeping panic from his voice, a sick feeling in his stomach. He touched his cheek, and found him cold beneath his fingertips.
You ought to be crying now, you suppose, though the thought is a distant one, and seems foreign, something that did not and could not originate from you. You cried when April died, and it was as much of a shock, but this you can't cry for. He never used to cry, for any reason. Anyway, that cold's started to numb you, and you don't even have to bother biting back tears, because they're not coming anyway.
Time passes, achingly slowly, and after a few minutes or an hour Collins shows up, at last. You don't even notice him until he touches your shoulder and asks what happened. You tell him, tone flat and even.
"Mr... Davis?"
The question brought Roger to his feet in a rush as he looked to the man who had just asked for him. "Doctor? Nurse? Which were the ones in the blue scrubs – and did it really matter? "Yeah, that's– that's me."
"Can I speak to you privately?"
Roger nodded and let the man lead him to another room, not paying all that much attention to where they were going. He held his breath as the doctor turned to him to speak.
"What happened to your friend Mr. Cohen is what's called an aortic anyeurism, and–"
"Wait, wait," Roger said, holding up his hands. "I don't really care what– I mean... Is he okay?"
"Alright," Collins says, and pulls you gently to your feet. "Let's get you home." You barely feel his hand on your arm, the way you feel touch in dreams. This isn't a dream.
He steers you to the door, and you let him, one slow wooden step after another. You notice absently that Collins is crying – quietly, and in that very calm, controlled way Collins cries, but Collins is crying, and you are not. Another time, you would feel guilty. Now, you don't care.
"I should call his mom," you say quietly, once you're both on the street. "She needs to know, I should be the one to..."
"I know, I know," Collins says soothingly. You don't need to be soothed. You're not feeling anything. "Wait until you get home, then you rest, then you can call her."
"He was so fucking happy last night," you whisper, and your voice breaks for the first time.
"You can't seriously expect me to sleep tonight?"
"I do, because people expect you to be not asleep tomorrow," Roger said, and wondered when he got to be the responsible one. The way Mark was grinning at him, though, he couldn't be bothered by it.
"I know, it's just..." Mark sat on the bed and looked up at him, with one of the brightest smiles Roger had ever seen on his face. "It's finally happening."
"Yes." Roger leaned down to kiss him, and Mark twined his fingers in Roger's hair, returning the kiss. Roger could feel him still smiling against his lips. "Starting tomorrow, you are going to be Mark Cohen, famous filmmaker."
"Wait, who am I now, then?"
"Mark Cohen, my boyfriend, who needs to sleep."
"I'll still be that tomorrow, right? Except for the part where I need to sleep?"
"Of course."
Collins doesn't say anything more until he gets you home, and you certainly don't. It's only his hand still on your arm that keeps you from walking out into traffic, or that stops you when you actually reach the loft. Slowly, you make your way up the stairs, Collins just behind you. You push open the door – you forgot to lock it when you left, and no one's going to steal any of your shit. You step inside.
The red light on the answering machine is blinking. You walk over, unsure why, and press the button to play, leaning against the table the answering machine's resting on. A familiar voice comes up, and you can't remember a name, but a face comes to mind – it's the guy you always call Mark's producer, but he's not, because Mark always corrects you and tells you a different title you can never remember anyway.
"Hey, Mark! Um... I'm not sure why you didn't show up, but I'm sure you've got a reason, so I just called to tell you the first screening went great, everyone loved it, and, um... call me back! I'll see you around."
Before the message ends, you're sobbing, watching your tears gather on the table's smooth metal surface.