Collins-
The life support group is organizing a memorial for those members and loved ones of members who have died in the past couple of years. We would be honored if you would attend and perhaps make a speech about Angel Schunard-if you think it would be possible.

Thank you,
Paul




Collins stared at the piece of paper in his hand blankly, slowly reading it over once, twice, and a third time, before setting down on the bed next to him. Everything around him was silent. Mark had gone out. Roger had also. He was the only one left.

Both days and nights had been almost equally hard for Collins in the past couple of months. Losing Angel had drained him of everything. It was just two weeks ago that he had firmly decided to regain control of his life. Coming to terms with himself was painful, but he continued to tell himself that all his suffering was for Angel. And for Angel, he would do anything.

The letter had come that day. Plain sheet of paper, plain penciled hand writing. There was nothing special about the letter itself, or it's contents really. But, dispite his continued drive to live his life fully, the idea of making a speech about Angel in front of the attendants of the memorial made him shake all over. Not for the first time, he questioned his ability to do it.

A million thoughts raced through his head. Should he go? That was a given. He would go, if only to pay homage to his beloved. Should he make a speech? That was the real question. If he did, then it would have to do justice to Angel-that would be hard. Collins fell back on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Slowly, one hand reached out to the side table and he pulled over a picture of Angel that had been taken on Valentine's day. Tom cherished that picture. He loved it. The sweet smile that lingered on the perfect lips. The amber eyes that sparkled with mirth and a love of life. The radiance that hung over his entire being. It was Angel, captured for eternity.

"Well Angel? What do you think? Should I write the speech? Could I read it?" Collins voice was quiet, and questioning. He often talked to the picture as if it were really Angel. Somehow, it managed to bring him comfort.

The picture said nothing.

"I'm not sure. I don't know whether I'd make it all the way through. I can hardly mention your name without feeling like I'm going to burst into sobs. You've worked me through so much...but I don't think I'm strong enough to-" He stopped, and looked at the photograph for a minute. Silently, he let a tear stroll down his cheek. "Maybe-maybe this /is/ the right thing to do." Another tear, before he tenderly whispered, "I miss you so much..."

Collins forced a smile on his face, dispite the dampness of his eyes. the photograph smiled back, and the eyes seemed to laugh with gentle joy that was so characteristic of his deceased lover. One dark finger came up to brush the picture's cheek, before setting it face-down on his chest and staring up at the ceiling again.

It was dark when Collins woke up. An insistant rapping at his door had roused him from the sleep that had slipped over him during his silent reverie.

"Collins?"
"Come in."

Mark walked in, smiling. Ever since Collins had slipped back into despair, Mark had tried to stay comforting. Seeing his friend back on his feet had brought the filmmaker an incrediable amount of joy.

"Hey. You were asleep when we came home."
"Sorry."
"Naw, 's okay."

Mark smiled, and looked at Collins. A picture lay facedown on his lap, where it had slid when Tom had sat up. Instantly, M. Cohen knew what it was.

"So, anything interesting happen while we were gone?"
"I got this."

Collins held out a slip of paper, the letter he had received earlier. Mark read it over quickly, and slowly raised his eyes to meet Collins'.

"Are you...gonna make a speech?"
"I guess. I've yet to write it though. I'm thinking I might do that tonight."
"Well then...we'd like to come with you."
"I wouldn't dream of going alone."

Smiles were exchanged, before Mark backed towards the door. "Call us if you need anything."
"I will."

With that, the door shut softly. Collins watched after Mark for a moment, before scrummaging around for a piece of paper and a pen. Once acquired, he scribbled down the first two words.

"Angel Schunard-" The pen dropped again, and a line was stretched through it. Once again, he started. "Angel was-" Another line slid through the words. One hand came up to the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do this. It's too hard. I'm just gonna-" Collins stopped, his eyes turning to gaze on the picture by his side. With a melancholy sigh, he picked it up once again and looked at it, one finger slowly stroking the photograph's face. "Well? Have you any ideas? What could I possibly write to make people understand how much you meant to everyone you came across? How could I make people understand how much you meant to me?"

Once again, the picture remained silent.

"Maybe I shoud just write what I think. That would work, right? Oh, sometimes I just don't know what to do without you here holding my hand. Angel, baby, you did so much for me. Maybe I should write about that."

The picture continued to smile knowingly.

"For once, the drag god is out of advice." Collins sighed. "Ah well, I can't exactly expect you to start talking, can I? Still, I need your help with this. I can't do it alone. I can't do any of it alone."

Silence reigned over the room for a few moments, before slowly, a drawled humming sound rang in Collins' ear for a moment.

"Tom-" The humming seemed to whisper at him, "write what you feel..." The phantom-like voice stopped. Collins waited. No sound returned to him. Closing his eyes, then opening them again to look at his precious picture, Collins bent over the paper, and gingerly wrote down exactly what had begun to form in his head.

"Two years. It had been two years since I met Angel. Two years since I first knew what love really was..."

Diligently, Collins worked on the piece throughout the night. It was close to 12 when he had finished, and quietly set down his paper and pen by the bed. With a solemn thought towards the last couple of hour's work, he closed his eyes, too emotionally worn to worry about changing for bed. In a moment's time, he was fast asleep.