Part Two – Others
When two people live in a confined space for so long, there are certain things they learn about each other. Even totally oblivious people like yourself. You didn't have his gift of observation, of seeing everything at once to capture on his mind's eye, as well as his camera, but even you could pick up some things if given enough time.
You knew he was anal retentive about really stupid things like making sure drawers and cabinets were shut entirely and that toilet paper ripped cleanly. You were even known to walk into his room just to open his dresser drawer a crack because he couldn't not get up to close it and that always made you chuckle.
You also knew that, when the occasion for such a luxury arose, he only ate natural peanut butter. The kind where you'd flip over the jar to read the ingredients and they'd say only "peanuts and salt." He liked to smear liberal amounts onto toast in the mornings, using the crappy toaster you'd hocked from who knows where that you had to watch carefully, else something would surely catch fire.
He had a tendency to talk to himself, you knew, a habit he'd picked up from his father. Likely the only one. It's what made it so easy for him to start narrating into his camera when he had abandoned scripts. In fact, you almost hadn't noticed that's what he was doing because you had been so consumed with your newfound need for eternal glory that you didn't realize his mindless prattle wasn't so mindless anymore.
And you knew that he loved you more than anything on earth. Beyond friendship, beyond splitting rent, beyond lesbian ex-girlfriends, beyond HIV, he loved you, and that was some undeniable truth, some universal bit of knowledge that was totally unquestionable. The earth revolved around the sun, water and oil didn't mix, the filmmaker loved the musician.
You knew that the day the virus in your blood would finally take you, he'd be sitting next to you, clutching your hand and wishing it was him. You knew he'd give up his life for you and you knew you felt the same way.
Yeah, you loved him. Of course you did. Really, how could you not? He was such an incredible part of your life—of you—so special and so unique. Completely irreplaceable.
Still, it was the focus of a bit of an internal war for you. Among other things, you didn't want the stigma of being gay, though you weren't really. Just in love with your roommate, the loyal filmmaker with the beautiful eyes and sharp sense of wit. And he certainly didn't care what people thought of him anymore, so long as it didn't question his work, and that made him a better person than you, which you already knew. You'd walk through fire and back, though, just to make him smile, so really a little label was nothing to obsess on. A moot point already, even though you were still technically friends.
That, admittedly, was your fault. You were afraid, scared shitless really. Not of the love, because you already were more attached to him than anyone and had been for years. You needed him and vice versa. Mimi had found that tiresome; you'd often heard her quiet sigh after you'd leave her to climb the stairs of the old building to be with him.
No, you were afraid of the consequences. You couldn't predict what would happen and there was no way of guaranteeing his safety. If he got sick because of you, you'd never forgive yourself. Another regret to add to the pile. 'Forget regret' Mimi had always told you, but that was such bullshit. You had plenty of regrets and they all dealt with him.
He'd risk the danger for you and that was so scary you couldn't put it into words. Once, not too long ago, when Collins had fallen ill and once again you were forced to face mortality dead on (pun intended, you thought, as you chuckled bitterly), your filmmaker had said something. He said if he truly was the healthy one, the one to survive, what was the point of living if no one else was around? If you weren't around, is what went unspoken there, but you'd heard it loud and clear. Collins had gotten better, though, and the conversation was dropped, so you didn't have to think of anything to say to that. For the time being, anyway.
Little did he know that was your biggest regret: leaving him. It was inevitable and that was fucking scarier than anything—not death but an existence without each other. Because of that, you had become so consumed with the need to leave something behind. Fame, money, glory? That was all great, an added bonus, but at this point you just wanted to leave something for him. Something he could have when you weren't there.
But you were healthy now and much, much too scared to really contemplate that day or being with him or being without him or a hundred other things that frightened you. Right now you were content to sit on the table, tune your guitar and grin at him, for no reason other than you loved how it lit up his eyes. Because after all this time together, you knew a couple things and they were all how to make him happy.