***Lyrics are from Ani Difranco's Falling Is Like This. Yes, I finally managed to put a closer on this epic RENT-fic. I'm quite frankly as amazed as you are, because I took about a year's time off for school purposes, and God help me, I'm moving onto college this fall! ::gasp:: 'lil Tiara's growing up. Anyways, enjoy. I'm glad I could finally finish it.

P.S. Sorry about spelling errors. x___o;; I'm so damn lazy.***

            Here I am. I find myself, once again, in a car that's going nowhere and everywhere all at once. My camera in hand - after a relapse that seems so long - I seem to find it strange that all my life I've chosen to stay behind and sit idly by while things happen around me. I'm a wallflower, sitting while life passes me by. But now, the moment it takes the most courage to return to the place I fear the most, I am sitting in the passenger seat of a beat-up, 1980 Ford Taurus with Toby, riding along to a future unknown and a past that's probably best forgotten. I find myself daydreaming, caressing the smooth, black plastic of this machine in my calcium-deprived fingers as if it were something alive...and maybe it is.

            The radio is playing. You know that song Camera One? It's rather ironic, too, I guess, that I'm listening to a song that parallels film to actual reality. There's so much reality in life, though, so it shouldn't be as odd as people think. That's what I've always tried to do with my films, but I've never quite succeeded. Even when I did Confessions and I thought I'd made my statement and closed the curtain on that chapter of my life, it wasn't enough. It never will be enough.

            Toby's talking. He's been telling me that Roger's sick...even worse than when I last saw him, and he wants me to reply -- that's why he keeps glancing over my way at intervals of three and two. Silly, silly... Silly to think everything would have frozen just the way it was until I got the balls to return. I've barely been away and everything's changed. Toby has changed, too. Can you see it? The way he brightens up when I smile at him, the way he's driving so assuredly without a backward glance -- like he knows the city so well.

            And it's Christmas. How unbelievably cliché of me to return on such an important day for Roger...for me. Like that's going to make everything better. Merry Christmas, Roger -- I love you, don't you love me? Now we can be together forever! Gag me.

Turning the camera out the window, I ignore Toby's voice for the moment. He's got to understand that I just need...thinking time. Yes, we're back to thinking -- Mark Cohen's biggest enemy. I'm thinking how it was really stupid of me to tell off my dad like that; thinking how it was also very brave of me; thinking maybe I can finally be proud of myself for acting on a whim, for saying what I felt and living in the moment -- Carpe fucking Diem; thinking how I'm making a film without even meaning to, how the camera has a life of its own once its placed in my able hands again; how Toby is silent finally, staring ahead as we enter the city; thinking how...thinking how...

            "Oh damn it," I curse. Toby quirks a brow at me, as if to ask what my problem is. "I'm out of film."

            "I've got some in the glove compartment -- never without it." He beams.

            "When the hell did you get so smart?" I quip with a laugh, finding the film easily and beginning to load my camera.

            "I dunno...the moment you left?"

            "Hardy-har-har."

            "So what are you going to say to him?"

            "Him? Who? Oh...him." I sigh, placing my film carefully in the container of his for safety. "I'm sorry? Or how about I'm home?"

            "I think he'd like to hear that."

            I smile, getting a few good shots of the city as we enter. "So, where have you been staying?"

            "NYU."

            "You're still in? I thought you didn't like it there."

            "I don't...but my parents are paying."

            I laugh lightly, turning my camera on him, sizing up the familiar childish face in my lens. "Close on Toby -- his life is shit, just like mine, but somehow he gets money to boot."

            His face flushes slightly red. "Mark..."

            "Mark thinks Toby could stay with Roger, if he wanted." I peer around from the lens and offer a cock-eyed smile. "It is still your place, too, y'know."

            "No, he's not even living there because of Benny, and --"

            "Ah-ha! The root of the problem is always Benny. Well, fuck Benny. And that's on the record."

            "You're a good friend, Mark."

            I shrug and turn the camera back to the city. "I know."

            The city has changed...again. No matter how much I want it to be the same -- to see the same homeless ladies waltzing down the streets like they own the place; the same gangs with their red bandanas on the same corner as always selling the same Tommy watches as always; the same little children playing in the streets, rolling a snowball into its proper size -- I know things have got to move on. It's not like the moment I leave things are going to freeze for me; at least, not freeze in time, because it's fucking cold here right now.

            I had Toby drop me off at the Life Cafe and promised him he's welcome at the loft...until I remembered that Roger doesn't live at the loft anymore. He lives in a run-down apartment only a few blocks away, Toby said. He's living in poverty because he refuses to write, claiming he's too sick.

            I sigh as Toby drives away. I promise I'll call him once I find somewhere to settle in, and he says he'll smuggle me into the dormitories if I can't find anywhere. I had to smile at that as the snow twinkles from the waning night sky. Christmas is so much different in the city.

            Looking at the faded sign for the Cafe, my smile seems to widen. As much as the specials of the day -- Tofu Soup and Vegetarian Steak -- sound delicious and heart-warming (not to mention cheap), I force myself to look at the dark windows and black interior. They're closed. Of course they're closed -- it's Christmas.

            I look at the address in my hand and sigh. There's so many things I want to tell Roger, but I'm still so afraid... One thing comes to mind though: I'm here, I'm queer -- get used to it. The slogan somehow fits my life now, isn't that odd? Collins would be proud of his protégé.

            Walking down the snow-covered streets of Alphabet City, I feel the wind so roughly beating against my face and gusts of snow blanket my glasses more than a few times. Wearing my faded scarf and old plaid jacket, it seems to me that I'm in dire need of new clothes. What a thought to have while going to pronounce my love for a dead man.

            "Hey mista'," comes a voice to my right and I feel myself tugged a little ways into an alley. "Got a dolla'?"

            "No, sorry... All out," I reply with a frown. It's a little kid. He can't be more than six years old, and he's out here begging for money from a man who's as broke as he is cold. He's bundled in layers and layers of clothes, arms wrapped around him to keep out the chill, but I'm sure even that is a poor substitute for a good indoor heating system. "Actually," I confess with a soft smile. "I have a candy bar. You can have that, if you'd like." I reach into my coat pocket to produce an age-old Snickers bar.

            "It's prolly poison," the kid snaps, appraising the chocolate bar carefully before he snatches it from my hands, ungratefully tearing it open without so much as a thanks. His silence signals that the moment of pleasant conversation we shared is over, so I walk on.

            The streets are changed, somehow – brighter than they were when I lived here. There are more lights around to keep the streets safe, and the crack heads have moved to new corners. Even the absence of litter surprises me.

            I turn the corner, looking down at the address one last time, though I already have it memorized. The apartment building I approach is rank with sweat and the putrid smell of sex. I nearly gag as the plethora of cheap perfumes from various whores waft through my nostrils, tingling them with the bitter pinch of the odors. It's probably designer stuff that was sold on the black market for ten cents a bottle. What a deal.

            The door to the apartment building itself is unlocked, and I'm thankful. I want my first words to Roger to be face-to-face. I want to see his reaction when he tells me to fuck off and go home to mummy and daddy. I want to see the bitter tears recoil from his bright eyes as he tries in vain not to hug me, not to smile at the sight of my porcelain-pale visage; white from lack of sunlight and outdoor activities – locking myself in a room for over a year will do that to me, I suppose.

            Ascending the creaking staircase, I shudder with fear. I doubt these flimsy wooden steps will even hold two people at a time, and with the many doors I pass walking down the hallway, I realize that occupants probably have to take turns going up or down so the wood doesn't crack underneath them. I find that Roger's apartment number, 15B, is the very last one on this floor, on the right-hand side. I step up, admiring the sign on the door that says, 'Go away – you're not welcome here.' Cute, Rog. Real cute.

            Despite the growing knot that's tying itself in my stomach, making quite a comfortable home there, I raise my trembling fist bravely and rap a few times at the door. No answer. I knock again, a little louder. Again, no answer. Of all the possible scenarios that I concocted on the way here about meeting with Roger again, his not being here was not one of them.

            "Roger, it's me, Mark, are you there?" Still, I receive silence as my reply, but I place my ear against the door and hear a rustling of clothes and the soft clinging of glass bottles. "Roger, come on…" I plead. "You've got to be in there." Sighing, I try the doorknob and find that it's open. Frowning as the knot grinds into my diaphragm, I turn the knob.

            "No! Don't!" comes the frenzied cry from inside. "Don't you dare open the door, Mark!"

            His voice is so gruff and hoarse that I take an automatic step back. I can almost hear the malice in his voice, taste the constriction of his throat when he tries to talk. "Why not?" I ask meekly. Fuck, I'm terrified.

            "You didn't answer any of my letters. Why the hell did you think I'd let you in?"

            "I never got any of the letters, Rog… My father….he –"

            "Fuck you. Go away."

            I rush up to the door and turn the knob again, frantically trying to get in. There's something terribly wrong with him, and as much as I don't want to know what it is, I have to know. Morbid curiosity? No, more like I love the man with all my heart and I want to help him. "Roger, I'm coming in." As I push the door open, my jaw drops and my eyes widen. I can't believe that it's him. His hair is matted down to his forehead, plastered with sweat, even though it's a chilling temperature inside his place. I bet he doesn't even have heat. His clothes are all but hanging off of his too-thin frame, and there are huge bags under his eyes, making it look like his skin is turning black. He's backing away, avoiding eye-contact, stumbling into empty beer bottles and vodka bottles that are thrown about his floor. There's heroine shots littered about the table; no containers of AZT in sight. "Roger…?" I ask, half-hoping that this isn't him. This is his new roommate who's a druggie and an alcoholic. This isn't the Roger Davis who used to look so strong, who used to lift me up in the air and spin me around over his head just to prove he could, who used to arm wrestle with Benny and Collins and win out every time… "Roger, are you –"

            "I said go away!" he snaps, pointing to the door with his whole arm that quivers furiously. "I poured my fucking heart out in those letters, you bastard! And you didn't even have the decency to fucking send me a fucking postcard? Fuck you!"

            I can feel the tears biting at the backs of my eyelids, and I bite down – hard – on my lower lip to keep it from shivering like the rest of me. "Roger, please… Let me explain it. My father –"

            "Enough about your fucking father! I don't fucking care if he –" Interrupting his angry sentiments, he erupts into a fit of heaving coughs, falling to his knees and shivering all over. Even from where I stand, I can see the sweat rolling off his face, wetting the hairs on his head further.

            For a long moment, I'm speechless and unmovable as stone. My heart swells with worry and the tears are fought back as usual. He's dying. Everyone tried to tell me he was getting closer and closer. Everyone warned me that I would be screwing things up if I didn't go with him to Santa Fe, if I went off and hid myself in Scarsdale. And I have. I've botched things up so badly that I can't even move over to him and hold him, wipe the sweat off his face or try to get him help. I just stand here, trying hard not to cry, and finding that even if I wanted to, my eyes are parched and burning. My knees tremble weakly underneath my weight, and I reach out, as if to go and get him. "Rog…"

            "Fuck….off…." he manages to breathe out, his words so far apart that it's barely a sentence anymore.

            Ignoring the way every step is another dagger in my heart, I race forward and fall at my knees beside him, wrapping my arms around his drenched form. "Jesus fucking Christ, Roger… You're soaked!" I look around desperately for a phone but find none. "Where's your phone? Let me call a doctor."

            "Fuck off," he snaps again, more clearly this time, as he swats my caring hands away.

            "Shut up and let me get you some help," I argue, pulling him easily up to his feet and dragging him back to where I'm assuming the bedroom is. "How long has it been since you've taken your AZT?"

            "You have no fucking right to –"

            "Stop being so goddamn self-righteous and answer me!"

            He sighs in my arms as I lay him on the bed, shoving all the beer bottles off first. "There's no phone. I sold it."

            "Sold it?"

            "You fucking heard me, Mark…." He coughs, his whole body shivering, even as I wrap him in blankets. "I needed the money."

            "Jesus," I mutter. "What about the AZT? I can tell you haven't been taking it, or else you'd –"

            "AZT only numbs the pain, Mark," he retorts angrily. "It's not like it was helping any… I was still in pain whenever I forgot one, I was still getting sick and lightheaded from them, and I sure as hell wasn't progressing any healthier because of them. So fuck them."

            "So you're killing yourself? Is that it?"
            "May as well die knowing that I've ended it…not some fucking hospital."

            "Roger!" I snap, groaning. "Fuck that. I'm going to go find and phone and get you help." I start to move from the bed but he suddenly grabs my wrist and holds me still with a surprising amount of strength.

            "Don't…" he pleads, his eyes imploring. "I don't want to go back there… I hate the smell of hospitals… I hate the tubes in my arms, and I hate how they look at me, Mark. Please…just let me end this my way."

            I can feel the tears stinging again, and my face contorts in pain as I place my cool palm against his frozen cheek. "Fuck, Roger… I would've come back sooner if I'd have –"

            "I know…"

            "I mean, you know I didn't mean to –"

            "I know, Mark."

            I pause, stroking his deathly pale cheek with my fingertips and his hand falls freely from its grip around my wrist. "Please let me call someone, Rog… I'll get you help. I'll find a way to pay for it, too. You won't even have to worry at all. I've got old films I can sell. I'll find a way… I promise."

            "You're only delaying the inevitable Mark," he whispers, his eyes so sad and lost that it breaks my heart. "No matter what, I'm going to die. Soon."

            "How soon?" I ask, my voice trembling, despite my attempts to control it.

            "A few months, tops."

            "Did the doctors tell you that?" I gulp.

            "Yes… But I don't need them to tell me when I'm going to die. I can feel it, Mark. You have no idea the pain."

            My frown seems to grow at his words; words that I know are true in his heart, although he has no idea my pain and how it festers to think he's slipping from my easy grasp. If only I could have kept my head on straight and gone with him to Santa Fe, or if he could have stuffed his pride away long enough to stay in the loft with me, then none of this would have happened. I would have nagged him night and day to take his AZT, to stay clean off of the drugs, to stop drinking, and to just love me like I loved him. That's all we needed back then; love. Right now, he needs a good doctor, and he's not going to be willing to do that because of his fear of what they'll do to him. I still remember the images of Collins, Angel, and Mimi in the hospitals – it's no wonder none of the remaining gang likes to go in those places.

            Sighing, I wrap my arms around him without another thought and pull him up against me. "I know the pain, Roger," I answer, kissing his cheek with no second thoughts, no horrors of thinking how he might respond. "Believe me…I know the pain."

            "Mark…"

            "I don't want to watch you die," I snap, almost angrily. "I came back because I was worried and I wanted to see you again, and I hated the person I became living with my parents again. I came back to see you and to live with you again and to love you." His cold hands cling to my back, his cheek against mine – both pale now. One warm, one clammy. "I'm not going to sit here and do nothing. I know the hospital isn't your favorite place –" his fingers cling tighter, "–but I won't let you just kill yourself because you don't want a good needle in your arm."

            "I can't, Mark. You know I can't go there." His lips ghost across the shell of my ear, and I melt. Even when he's so damn cold, he makes my entire body hot. "Please don't take me there."

            My eyes close, lashes trembling against my cheeks. I can feel his every muscle against mine, and I wish I would have come home sooner, so that I could enjoy it. Pulling away, I settle him down against the mattress and move away.

            His eyes are wide and he reaches forward. "Mark, don't—"

            "I'm not leaving. Don't worry."

"Wait!" he cries, and I turn to look at him, waiting as directed.

            "Merry Christmas, Mark."

            "Merry Christmas, Roger." With a forced smile, I retreat from his bedroom, running my hands through my already-sweaty hair, wondering where the hell he keeps the bottles of AZT.

            He's asleep now. I've been filming him this way for months, and he looks terrible. Every day, his luscious hair gets thinner, his bright eyes grow duller, his tan features slither paler, and his strength is corrupted to nothingness. I can still remember that day in the Life Café…where I remarked how handsome he was to myself, and where we ran our fingers through each other's long locks to make sure they were really real. How we had embraced there, carefree and lively, without a momentary care in the world, as if life, as we knew it, had been put on hold to remember a friendship that would never, at that moment, die. It's dying now. He's dying.

            You know something? I feel damned guilty. Looking at him lying in this crap-ass bed, his face so peaceful, my fingers running through his chilled and soaked tendrils gently, I want him to stay like this forever. This is peace for him, the sleep that he loves. And not just that either… It's the fact that I want him to stay sick because this is the only way he'll let me love him; this is the only way we can understand one another enough to know that tomorrow may not be an option, so wasting any moment is not feasible, nor do we want to take such a risk ever again. Hours become precious when life and death are concerned, and we cling desperately to a hope that life will win in this ultimate battle.

            And I…his best friend, solace, and now lover…I want him to remain sick so I can have that sort of fucking stability. What the hell kind of sick shit wants that for the person he loves more than life itself?

            I'm so pathetic that it pains me to think about it. I'm pacing, wandering around his room, wondering where the fuck I can take him to ease his pain instead of leaving him here to die to appease my own insecurities. I love him, though. One can be sure of that much; I love Roger Davis.

            And these past few months he has loved me too. There's this unspoken warmth between us, flowing from our fingers when we touch them together, when I try to soothe the wounds I know bear him agony. There's a softness in the way he whimpers my name in the dark of the night when I'm curled up in his arms. There's a tender loneliness in the way he moves inside of me. And there's sensuality in the way we've kissed; love in the way he moves me.

            It sounds disgusting, doesn't it? That now I can say freely that we have kissed. And that we've made love; even when I know it could give me the disease that haunts him in his final days.

            It wasn't everything I had wanted and it was nothing he wanted, I'm sure of it. So we kissed, we held one another, and we lay sweating in each others' arms until he fell asleep against me. But I didn't sleep that night. I sobbed.

            Like a pathetic baby whose lollipop was stolen, I cried into his hair, careful to quiet my sounds of mourning so that I didn't rouse him from perfect slumber. It was a loss of some sort and a gaining as well. Though we've made love since and things have become easier, his body cannot take the way he moves in me, and though we both long for it, we know it cannot be. In a way…the trauma of our first time together was the way I wanted it to be the next several times, for when it became too easy, his body wilted away on me, and neither of us wanted it to be like that. I didn't want him to wheeze when I sucked against his skin, and I didn't want his face to go blue when we kissed for long moments in frozen time. We wanted it to end and it did.

            And now… Where am I? Where are we, Roger? What has this done to us, if but made us stronger? If only I could comprehend the song you keep telling me you need to write. I'd hold your guitar in my able hands and pluck the melody on every string until you told me it was right. I'd write it for you, if I knew I could. I know you hear it. I know you do, Roger…

            "So, how is he?"

            "Doing well, actually. He's just sleeping in late today, I guess." I shrug, holding a warm cup of coffee in my cold hands, bundled in scarves and coats galore. It's cold in September. "Better than expected, I'm sure." God damn it…why does my voice always betray me? And these fucking hands of mine won't stop trembling. He notices. Toby has come to notice the little things.

            Smiling gently, Toby refills my cup to the bubbling point. "I want to know the truth, Mark. I usually except your sugar-coated lies, but right now, I'm really concerned about him."

            "He's fine," I snap, looking down at the warmth inside this little white cup. With a sigh, I relent a bit. "Do you want me to tell you he's dying or what?" Silence. I hate fucking silence. "Well…?"

            "I just want to hear the truth, Mark," he says, sympathy and tenderness overflowing from his lips. It's like this every Sunday morning. Toby visits for the weekly checkup, offers to get Roger help, offers to pay the rent here so we can have heat to keep him well, offers his soul up for the taking. It's not that I blame him for worrying. Shit, I worry enough for us all, so couldn't he just lay off for now? It's already October, and I've kept him alive since last December, right? I can keep him alive longer than that. And I will. I have to. "Mark…?"

            I look up and smile softly. "He's sick, Toby. Nothing's changed since last Sunday. Things are shitty, I can't afford the rent, no one's buying my films, I had to ask my mother for money to buy food… Things are just the way they are. Can't we leave it at that?"

            "I can pay for your heating and rent, Mark," he offers; such sincerity in his young voice. I believe in that sincerity, too…the care he takes with us. "I can even get him a good hospital, if he wants it."

            "No, Toby."

            "Why not?"

            "We discuss this every week, you know."

            "And you never give me a good answer, you know. If he's dying and you don't want him to, you need to take precautions. This freezing cold shithouse isn't good for his condition and you know it. The landlords are getting antsy, and I'm sick of having to sneak up here to see you just so they'll think you aren't home. If you love him like you say you do, you'll start giving a shit about his wellbeing."

            Taking a long drink of the coffee, I inhale the aroma, ignoring the words that break my heart. The thing is…Roger wants to die, and sometimes, as much as I love him, I want him to have that final peace. He's in such pain sometimes that death might be better for him. The wheezing, the heart failures, the fatigue, the muscle aches…they'd all go away forever. The thought of losing Roger, though; that breaks my heart to pieces. I can't ever lose him.

            "Mark? Are you listening to me?"

            "Yeah." I nod solemnly. "I'm listening."

            "Well, say something then," he demands, half-angrily. "I'm tired of caring so much about you two while you sit there and plan his death."

            "I'm not planning his death… He doesn't want a hospital, Toby. Hospitals haven't ever helped him in the past, so what's another clinic gonna do besides screw him over? Fuck their bullshit, alright? Roger will be fine." That's it…lie to yourself.

            "Mark…"

            I stand up and force a smile. "You should get going. The landlord will be up and awake any minute now."

            "How is he?"

            Shrugging, I force a smile, even though Joanne can't see it over the phone. It's October and I'm feeling fine; won't let myself cry. "He's doing okay, Jo. He'll be better in no time. He's started taking his AZT and the coughing fits have gone down, as has his temperature."

            "That's good to hear, Mark. I hope he pulls through…for your sake."

            "He will," I choke out. He has to."

            "I know, hon. Let me bring you by some soup and –"

            "Make sure to do it after midnight," I say with a soft voice. "The landlord has been asking around about us."

            She sighs. "I'll come around one. Until then, send Roger my love."

            A true smile graces my lips. "He appreciates it, I know he does."

            "How is he?"

            I sigh, hearing that for the fiftieth fucking time. It's November, but as much as the months have changed, it seems my friends haven't. "He's getting worse, Maureen," I answer truthfully as she runs her fingers through my hair. "A lot worse."

            "Wanna talk about it, hon?" she whispers silkily, wrapping her arms around me.

            "No," I reply. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

            "Mark, this is Benny."

            As my jaw hits the table and my eyes widen in surprise, I choke on the words 'shitface' and hang up. It's December and my life is hell. "Fucking asshole," I murmur under my breath staring at the phone, glancing quietly from the inanimate object to Roger's room, where I hear coughing and wheezing. I wait, and soon, I've picked it up and dialed Benny's number.

            "Why'd you hang up, Mark?"

            "Nice to talk to you too, Benny."

            "I wanted to offer some condolences…in the form of dollar bills."

            "If that's all you wanted, I'm hanging up."

            "And, you didn't let me finish, to tell you that I'm sorry." He pauses, and I can almost hear his heart breaking. "I'm really sorry."

            I nod. "You should be." I wait for the inevitable question, and like clockwork, it comes.

            "How is he?"

            I can't reply. Staring at my shaking hands, I start to hang up, but an impulse comes over me and I start to sob.

            "Mark…?"

            Sniffling back the tears, I croak out words that I can't imagine why I say. "I'm inviting everyone over for New Year's Eve. Come over."

            "How is he, Mark?"

            I sob hysterically, clinging to Toby the moment he walks through the door. "Please…help me get him help…"

            His eyes are so sad as he looks into mine and he just smiles so tenderly, patting my tousled hair down. "I'm right here for you, Mark, and I'll get you the help you need."

            "Just Roger… I'm fine, Toby; just get Roger help…please…"

I'm sorry I can't help you,

I cannot keep you safe

I'm sorry I can't help myself,

 So don't look at me that way

We can't fight gravity on a planet that insists

That love is like falling

And falling is like this.

            New Year's Eve couldn't look bleaker. Roger and I sit side-by-side on the floor, Roger leaning against my side like a flower leans to sunlight, his fingers twined in mine. The doctors told us not to exert any energy with him, to be gentle and let him rest until well past Valentine's, but it's fucking New Year's Eve, and we both agreed he was not going to be forced to be a vegetable, especially when all his friends are here for him.

            Maureen sits across from me, nestled in Joanne's lap, a bright smile on her face – so fake that I want to vomit – and a wine glass in her delicate fingertips. Joanne's arm is around her waist, holding her close, and every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Joanne's teeth nibbling at her neck and ear playfully. Such love stifles the melancholy mind. Roger's fingers tighten in mine as he feels me tensing, and I squeeze back to tell him all is okay.

            Toby and Jacqueline sit between the lesbians and the gays to my right and Benny sits alone with the candles and cake to my left; a large circle of friends and former-enemies. Of course, Allison couldn't make it. Probably fucking thought AIDS was contagious, the bitch.

            "How are you feeling, Rog?" Maureen asks with that smile of hers. "We brought you lots of wine, so if you're down, you can always use that to perk you back up. Either that, or I do lapdances after a few drinks; free of charge."

            Roger laughs and smiles at her, but then the wheezing starts up and I shoot Maureen a glare of warning, telling her to either knock off the lame jokes or get the hell out of our newly-heated apartment. She shrinks against Joanne, the two ladies exchanging concerned looks. Roger clutches my arm and I hold out the white towel to his lips as he coughs into it. Pulling the cloth away, I set it aside, catching a wide-eyed stare from Benny as I do so. I shoot him a glare too, but he motions to the towel, and I glance, my own eyes widening at the obvious blood spots on the white linen.

            It's okay…this has happened before, and he was okay as long as he took some more of the medication the doctor gave us. I excuse myself, kissing Roger's sweat-damp forehead, to go find some more of those horse pills, so big that Roger nearly always chokes on them. My hands shake so hard as I open the bottle that I spill the contents all over the sink, some of them slithering their way down the drain before I can scramble for them. Fuck! Those stupid things are expensive!

            "Mark, calm down," Roger whispers, his hands around my waist, leaning his front against my back and soothing my worry for the moment. "I'm fine."

            "I got worried. Sue me."

            "Does Joanne do pro bono?"

            I smile at his soft joke, turning in his arms and holding him close to me. "I can't help I worry… What else can I do, Rog?"

            "Come out and drink wine with us, that's what." He coughs into the bloody towel and I grimace, remembering why I came in here in the first place.

            "Take one of these, huh?" I ask, holding up one of the ugliest brown pills I've ever seen in my entire life. "Please?" Stroking his cheek as his coughing calms down, I place the pill in his mouth and hand him a glass of water, helping his quivering hands to hold it so he can drink, spilling most of the transparent liquid on his shirt, causing me to frown heavily as he swallows it finally. I lean forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Maybe you should go back and lay down for a bit? I mean…you can always come back out later, when your lungs settle and you've stopped coughing, but –"

            "Mark, I told you I was going to make it through today…"

            I nod. "I know, Rog. Let's get back out there then, lover." Smiling, I lead him back out into the so-called party, whose faces have fallen longer than I've ever seen. Tears are in their eyes. What? Did they expect a happy New Year's party? They should've known better.

            The whole thing happens suddenly. I feel like I'm moving in slow-motion as I guide Roger back to our spot on the floor where we're supposed to sit, all the party smiling at us like paper dolls. But not a moment later, Roger's eyes glaze and he collapses against me with a soft moan. Instantly, I'm on the floor, cradling him in my arms, Maureen and Joanne and Benny and Toby and Jacqueline all gathered around, offering help, but I can't hear any of them, their voices numb in my head. I tell them to back off and give him room, turning Roger in my arms so he can look up at me, and damn it all to hell if my own eyes aren't full of water. He's gone… Fuck, no!

            Sitting him up slightly, I brush those thin hairs away from his beautiful face and grab the cold rag Toby hands me, dabbing at the sweat that I barely noticed before. "Rog…?" I plead.

            "…I can't…breathe…" he moans, voice so stressed and pulled that I'm gasping for air myself, as if I can feel how hard it is to do what should be natural. "…M-Mark!"

            Distressed, I grasp his hand tightly and he closes his eyes against me, chest heaving once or twice. "I'm right here, Roger… I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Smoothing his hair, I look up to see that Maureen is on the phone, calling the hospitals, no doubt, and she gives me a worried look, sniffling and stumbling over her words. "We're all right here…" I'm choking, too, drowning on the words that feel like chiseled stone in my throat.

            He gurgles a reply, coughing into a raging fit once more, the blood gushing out of his throat and onto my fingertips as I try to stop it. Tears roll down his cheeks, out of tightly-shut lids that shudder with the rest of his body against me, and the crimson stains my pale fingertips. I coo softly into his ear, swearing up and down how much I love him, how much I need him to be here with me…just a little while longer. "Just a little while longer, Rog… C'mon… God, don't die," I plead. "I don't…. I mean I can't…"

            "I know," he murmurs softly, his fingers clutching mine desperately as he chokes on the blood.

            "The ambulance will be a few minutes, but they're on their way," Maureen informs us, kneeling and dabbing at the blood.

            I look up, almost half-surprised to see Benny frowning, tears in his eyes. "I'll pay, Mark. Don't even worry about it," he says, and I couldn't love him more for it.

            Nodding is all I can do as Roger quivers in my arms, blood everywhere on my clothes and skin, but I don't care. I just want Roger to stop dying…I just want him to live in peace, to stop feeling so sick and so helpless. I want both of us to be able to love again, to hold each other again, and to lose ourselves in the kisses that tasted so sweet once upon a time. I'm crying now, Joanne soothing my shoulder, rubbing and massaging at it as I feel the weight double in my arms…dead weight. Limp in my arms is the only person I could ever truly love, the man who made me feel loved and wanted and needed. He's not moving and I can't feel a breath. My face set in stone, I realize he's dead.

            "Mark, do you want to say a few words…?" the priest asks gently. No one here is religious, but hell…he's got to have a good funeral.

            Standing in the corner of the crowd, in the very back, I shake my head, shivering all over. "Yeah." God, is that my voice? I sound like shit.

            Making my way up to the small podium in the front, next to the closed casket with flowers and ribbons atop it, guitar picks and sheet music strewn about, I choke on the words; a quivering mess of hatred and sadness am I.

            "There's not much more to…to say about Roger," I whisper, eyes downcast to study the wet grass around my feet. "I loved him. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life, and when he told me he loved me…I knew he meant it. I…I guess I'm supposed to say that I remember the good times, right? That someday when I die, I'll be with him again, and that everyone needs to stop and smell the roses before it's too late? That's all such bullshit." I hear gasps and audible whisperings about my sanity, but if they want me to speak, they're going to hear it, whether or not they care. "I'm not religious. I don't believe in God or Heaven or even Hell. I'm supposed to be Jewish, but I don't celebrate the holidays, and Christmas is merely a time for gifts from the heart… So, I don't really think he's in Heaven or Hell or anywhere like that. All I know is…he was a good person. He was hard to get to, that's for sure… I mean, his heart was always so shut-up and locked, and it took me, his best friend, years to really open it up again. He opened it for April and Mimi and Collins, maybe a little for Angel because we all loved her so, but that's it. When he finally opened it up to me…I don't know what that feeling was like or how to describe it." I smile softly, wrapping my arms around myself to keep out the sudden chill. "It's love; pure and simple. But nothing about our love was simple… I umm…I wanted to read something of Roger's…because I think it was his best song ever, and…and it always makes me think of him. So…here goes." Taking out the small piece of paper on which I scribbled the lyrics I know I heart, I begin to read, my voice breaking, trembling with agony as I realize the words are meant for everyone – not just Mimi. "Your eyes, as we said our goodbyes…can't get them out of my mind…and I find…I can't hide from your eyes; the ones…that took me by surprise...the night you came into my life." I choke, quivering and losing it altogether. "Where there's moonlight…I see your eyes…" Breaking down into tears, I cover my face and sob. I can't stand this! He can't fucking be gone!

            "How'd I let you slip away, when I'm longing so to hold you?" The voice is silky-smooth, a beautiful mezzo-soprano, and an arm around my shoulders accompanies the singing gesture. It's Maureen.

            "Now I'd die for one more day, 'cause there's something I should've told you," adds Joanne with the softest of smiles, gathering up against my other side. Her voice is not so beautiful, but it touches me like nothing ever has.

            And before I know it, the remaining gang – Benny, Maureen, Joanne, and even the newest member, Toby – are singing Roger's words. I smile softly, tears streaming down my cheeks as I try to hit the notes, letting them go on like Roger would have wanted. The small audience of friends looks astonished, and for the first time in a long while, Roger's mother smiles.

            "Yes, there's something I should've told you…when I looked into your eyes. Why does distance make us wise? You were the song all along, and before the song dies… I should tell you, I should tell you… I have always loved you." All of smile fondly at the breath we all take simultaneously, and I can't believe how my heart swells to sing the last line. "You can see it in my eyes."

            Silence like none other washes over me, Roger's casket is lowered into the ground, and I cry against Maureen's shoulder, holding her tight as other arms enfold me – Benny, Toby, Maureen…and other arms that I can't even recognize. Life as I knew it has changed. Those I loved most have passed away, the only man I could ever care for is dead, but I feel so much love right here… The warmth of arms entwined and bodies swaying in the chill of the winter is comforting, and I cry harder at this. I swear I can hear the faint notes of Musetta's Waltz…the ending to Roger's most beautiful and touching song, Your Eyes. It was written for Mimi, yes, but the notes cascade over my trembling body, through the mass of tangled arms and crying eyes, to piece my heart like it did when I first heard it.

            I should tell you…I love you, Roger; and I always will.

            The movie reel flicks to an end.