Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's

The Last Days

Collins

I spend the two days after finals in my office, doing my last office hours at New York University. A few students drop by. One girl pokes her head in, says hello, and stammers too much for me to know exactly what she's saying, but I have as much of a conversation with her as I could muster. It's strange, she never shut her damn mouth in class, but now, she's like… well… Roger.

I never do learn what she wanted to say. As she leaves she says "thank you", then dashes out.

Travis Buckley says hello. He's gay.

Last comes a shy knock and Meredith Davis. She sits down without being asked. "You're leaving," she observes.

Word gets around.

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

I nod. "Roger knows." She winces. "Meredith, if Roger wants me around, he can have me around." At that, she raises an eyebrow, but when I tell her everything, Meredith is sated. She stands to leave. "Meredith."

She pauses, turns. She doesn't forgive me. She isn't angry. She doesn't know what to think, and I think that this is a precursor to what I'll face with Roger.

"Goodbye."

I offer my hand. She hesitates, but in the end, she shakes.

I leave NYU. I haven't been there long enough to be missed, nor to miss it. As I walk off campus, I search for a feeling, but none arises. I'm leaving. It's as simple as that.

Things at home are slightly more complicated.

I don't start packing yet. Hell, I'm not leaving for a few days, why pretend? Why leave before I leave? There's a wrenching pain in ending what's not yet ready to die.

Roger barely looks at me. He has a habit of scampering off when I come into the room, and not emerging from the bedroom even when Mark arrives.

It's my second-to-last night in the loft, which suddenly feels so much bigger, and emptier. It's odd, that. The loft never felt too empty with Mark and Roger and me. It always felt like home. But the thing is, the loft is empty. It's like how we have furniture, but it's all in these little masking-tape islands.

Usually, though, nothing felt lonely. There was me and Mark and Roger, and we were enough. We were enough until Roger wasn't enough for Mark. Things became an issue when Roger wasn't enough for Mark, when Mark began collecting every corner and drop of Roger from anyone else.

The rape was a blessing in disguise for Mark.

I roll over and hug myself. Roger needs Mark now, badly. Roger needs his boyfriend to hold him and listen to him and try to understand. Roger needs someone, and Mark needs to be needed, but the trouble is that Mark needs to be the only one who's needed.

And he's not enough.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don't like it here anymore.

"Roger?"

It's a faint whisper from across the loft—faint, and I can't really hear that, can I?

"You talk to Collins today?"

I must be imagining this.

"I know." Still Mark talking. Roger's responses are mumbles. "You'll miss him, baby. And you won't be happy if you don't say goodbye." A pause. A mumble. "All right. Well, try tomorrow, okay?" Pause, mumble. "Yeah." Giggle.

I stuff my fingers into my ears. They could've waited to celebrate until I'd actually gone.

I bite my cheek. That was stupid. I don't think that. I'm not so foolishly juvenile.

Aw, who'm I kidding? Yes I am, dammit!

I chuckle and fall asleep.

I pack the next day, all my clothes into a worn bag, a half pack of cigarettes, some books, a lighter. It all goes so quickly that I upend the bag and pack it again. Once that's done I roll a handful of joints.

I'm considering repacking a second time when I hear a noise behind me. It's not much, a scuffle, but it's enough.

Roger stands there, leaning against the doorjamb, looking at me, then the floor, then me. Then he sniffles.

"Roger…" He looks bad. He's too pale. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his fingers twitch at his sides.

He looks at me. His lip is practically wobbling. I can't think of anything to say to the kid. It'll be okay? How will it, though? You've got your Mark? Ha! As though Mark's nearly enough.

And then there's what I planned to say, and that's the very last thing I can tell him, for no other reason than my own damned cowardice. I can't say a single thing, so I look at him, sigh, and hold out my arms.

You don't really hate me, do you, Roger?

He doesn't. In half a heartbeat Roger is pressed against my chest, holding me, sniffling. He whimpers, unable to think of anything to say, either.

"Shh." I get the easy job now. I stroke his hair. "It's all right."

Roger shakes his head. "No," he whines. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. You'll be all right."

"What's wrong?" he asks. "What is it? It'll be all right, we'll see it will, me and Mark. Whatever it is, we'll fix it, Collins."

"No." I'm sorry, Roger. "You can't."

"We can--"

"Roger, stand up." To my surprise, he does. Roger pulls back from me and stands on his own two feet. He's not crying, but I know he wants to. "I can't stay here anymore, Roger, not with Mark. This possessive thing… I can't watch him do that to you, and I can't let him do that to me. He used to be my friend and I'm hoping that can happen again."

"But then distance--"

"Is precisely what we need." Roger looks at me, his eyes wide, practically whimpering. I sigh. "It's not you, Roger. You know, if… if…" How can I say this? "Do you want to come?"

"Hm?"

"To Cambridge. Come with me, Roger. I have housing through the university. It'll be heated, and proper housing, not an industrial loft. You'd like it there." I'm lying. I have no idea if he would like it there or not. "You'd have access to the libraries and everything, and it'd be a chance to be with people your own age." And you'd be with me, and not with Mark. "I'd like it if you would." I'd like to have him around. I do like having him around.

Roger bites his lip. He looks at me, then at the floor. "Stay," he whispers.

"I can't."

"I want you to have this." He slips something onto my wrist. I can feel that it has sharp corners, but not too sharp. Looking down, I see a string of paper cranes, dunked in something thick to protect them, linked on a small, elastic string. "I made it a few years ago."

I'm not the sort to wear bracelets. That's more of a ten-year-old girl kind of thing, and I know I won't keep this on long. I can't let Mark see it, or there'll be hell to pay, mostly for Roger. And that, again, is why I have to leave. "Thank you."

"I can't go." But he wants to.

I nod. I touch his cheek, let my palm rest against it, and I can feel him trembling. "I'll miss you, Roger." I kiss him, softly, with my eyes closed. I mean to kiss his cheek, and I do, though the corner of my mouth touches the corner of his.

Then, to business. I draw away from him. "Find a reason to live, Roger." He's still suicidal, just not actively. It's a passive suicide. It's a place no one can revive him from but he himself, and maybe, if he finds his heart... Mark. "Mark does love you, in his own way, he loves you."

Roger hugs me again. "Come home," he says. "Come visit us. You'll visit us at Christmas, won't you?"

Christmas. It's not even summer yet.

"I'll try, Roger."

"Call."

"I will."

Damp barely kisses my shirt, tears he can't stop from bleeding out onto his eyelashes. "Be good."

"I hate you for leaving. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know." And I know he doesn't mean it. "I'll call."

"'Kay," he chokes, then he releases me and scuttles back into Mark's bedroom.

To be continued!

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