Sometimes I wonder why I struggle to make ends meet everyday. Why, everyday, I grope for just enough money to keep us alive. Even on the warm May days (such as this one) where I can leave my accessories at home. But most of the time, I wear them just to preserve the starving artist look. On these days where I can stand on the roof and see the kids just out of Alphabet City ride their bikes in the street. I remember riding my bike back in Scarsdale. And now, I am hungry and (somehow!) still cold here. Aren't I just one big fucking ray of sunshine as of late. I head towards the door of the loft and fiddle with the settings on my camera.

I stop before I actually get inside. I don't really want to go in, now that I think about it. It means I have to look down in the armchair and have my heart broken with the hopelessness of what I see. But I know he knows I'm here, and he'll be waiting for me to making him something to drink. I took tea packets from the Life Café. They'll do.

I enter the living room and circle around to the front of the chair, sitting in a seat placed there weeks before. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Rog." I say gently.

He movies his head towards me;I can see the gesture takes up an amazing amount of his dwindling energy.

"Hey, Marky." He manages in a whisper and gives me a weak smile. "How are you?"

I shrug, and look at him. He is curled up onto the chair in a position that has got to be uncomfortable, and I figure he didn't have the energy to move. Not sine those purple and brown lesions have appeared on his skin has he been able to move much. He can barely talk, even. Leaving the loft is more then impossible.

I stand up and sigh and put some water in the ancient teakettle on the hotplate, staring at it, unwilling to look at Roger even though I know he's staring at me. I can barely stand the information itself, knowing what's eating him from inside out. Knowing what's happening here, and not being able to deny it.

Roger is dying.

I wipe the tears from my eyes before they can sizzle in the water, so Rog doesn't know that I'm crying over him. I collect myself over the teakettle and head back to the scrunched-up Roger.

"Are you comfortable?" I ask him.

"No." He whispers back. "But moving…"

"I will." I stand up and grab his feet, wrenching them out from under him and untying and removing his boots - how long has it been since he took the boots off? – how long has he been in this chair alone? I pull over another chair and make him a makeshift ottoman for his feet. I grab his shoulders so he's facing forward and not to the side and cross his arms in front of him. I feel like I'm working with a wax stature that's about to cool. Roger is so flaccid.

If I hadn't just moved him, and if his eyes weren't half-dead and he didn't have those sores, you'd think he just worked up from a snap. A bitter snort escapes me, but it's hidden by the sudden whistling of the teakettle. I'm grateful.

I pour some of the boiling water into one of the chipped mugs we have. I add one of the stolen teabags and take the mug over to roger. He still hasn't moved.

"Can you hold this?" I whisper to him.

"I don't think so." He nearly mouths.

I bring the cup to his lips and allow a few drops of the tea to go into his mouth. He swallows with effort; this is the worse he's been so far. Yesterday he could bite down and nearly-almost chew the toast I had given him. Today, it looks like he can barely swallow. H won't live to next week, some part of me says. It's Thursday.

My own throat closes up and I give him a few more sips before standing up and turning away, feeling the tears build up behind my eyes. Come on, Mark. Compose yourself. You have to stay strong for Roger. The tears can wait till he's asleep.

I successfully squash down the sob and turn to face him. He's looking up at me, then glancing away. And then at me. And then away. And at me. And away. I follow his gaze.

He wants his guitar. It makes me smile.

I pick the guitar up and place it on his lap, putting the strap over his shoulder and placing his hands around the neck and over the strings, as if he were actually playing. He strums the air above the strings (we both know he's too weak to actually play) and murmurs half-done songs along with it.

Now that he's in his own (dying) world, I turn back to the kitchen area. I sit down on the table and hold my head in my hands (not before removing myglasses) and silently cry.

If I strain my ears hard enough, I can almost hear him playing the song he wrote for Mimi when she jumped over the moon that December.

You can scarcely imagine to what it feels like to know that you're going to watch you friends die, and you'll keep going. It's a mind-wrenching, heart-stabbing and life-stealing thing to know.

For a long time, I considered asking Mimi to give me HIV, just so I knew I would go with them. So I wouldn't be left alone at the end, and have to care for my friends as they dropped like flies.

It hurts. And as much as the disease is killing them, the fact that I don't have it is killing me.

It was only a few days ago when I realized why I'm going to live through this: it had been after I had met with Collins, talking about Roger and Angel. He knows what I'm going through. He was telling me everything he remembered about Angel, like how much warmth was in his eyes and how she was always smiling and hugging and being optimistic and having a beat. Then he was telling me everything I had to remember about him when he 'went on' (he means dying – 'went on' is his particular euphuism), like that he loved to laugh and that the was a philosopher of the 21st century and a hundred little things that made Collins….Collins.

Then the metaphorical brick hit me and I realized I have to go on to remember them. It's me who'll stop their memories from fading.

After that, feeding Roger wasn't as painful anymore. It gave me excuses to be around him, to remember everything I wanted to remember –his music and his dedication and his (somewhat angry) attempts at Musetta's Waltz and the no-nonsense grin he wore.

I never did ask Mimi for that needle. I never intend to. As long as I'm around, so is Angel and Roger and Collins and Mimi.

I don't have to go on for my cold poor angsty starving artist self – but for them, I will.

I peek into the living room to check on him. He's discarded the guitar (it's on the floor next to him) and has curled up back into the chair. I sit down next to him and he turns his head towards me.

"Marky?" He whispers.

"Yeah?"

"If the going gets tough," he pauses for breath. He's so tired he can barely talk. "You can sell my guitar."

"No!" I nearly shout. " I won't ever sell your guitar, Rog. Even if I'm on the street, your guitar is coming with me."

"Mark…" He's trying to sound exasperated. I can tell.

"Roger, stop it."

He tries to sigh (but has no breath to do so) and turns away from me. "Call Collins and Mimi." My heart stops. No no no no no no no this can't happen it can't I refuse for it to happen this isn't fair it's not fair no no no -

I sprint to the phone and pick it up, slamming down on the numbers. "Mimi? Come quick!"

"Mark?" Her voice is concerned; she can hear the choked quality of my own. "What is it?"

"It's Roger…..He's……." I can't say it. What comes out instead is a choked sob.

"Oh no.." She whispers, and hangs up. I can nearly hear the stairs banging already. My next call is to Collins.

"Hello!"

…that's not Collins' voice. "Maureen?"

"Yeah, Marky! What's wrong?"

"It's Roger…."

"COLLINS! JOANNE!" She screams into the rest of Collins' house. Why is she at Collins' house? "We'll be right there, Mark." She says, and hangs up as well.

I sprint back to Roger, praying he hasn't died yet.

He hasn't. He's curled up on the chair in a puddle of sweat. I feel his forehead; he has a scorching fever. He's shaking from the cold, with his eyes screwed shut. I gather as many blankets as I can from where ever I can find them in the loft and pile them onto his shaking form.

"Mark….." He barely whispers.

Mimi arrives first, out of breath and panting. She drops to her knees and takes Roger's head in her arms and holds it to her chest. She strokes his hair and whispers words of comfort to him. He forces himself to turn towards her, holding a hand to her cheek.

Collins, Maureen and Joanne come next, in that order. All three of them crouch around his chair and behind Mimi.

Me, I turn away. I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw. This isn't happening.

Roger is dying.

I can't bring myself to look at him. How dare he go after I've nursed him for so long. How dare he succumb to this disease when we've ignored it and pretended it isn't not there (it still isn't, he's just dying) and how dare he let it eat away at him like this.

…..no. no no no no no.

"Mark!" The voice is distant. A hand on my shoulder. Collins.

"You're hurting yourself, Mark." His hand unclenches mine – I didn't know that my nails were long and sharp enough to cut myself. My palms are bleeding.

"Roger wants you." He says.

I can barely drag myself f over to him – I don't want to see him die. I can't.

I stare down at him once Collins has lead me over. His hand feebly reaches for mine; I take it, squeeze it.

He looks at me from between Mimi's hands and smiles as much as he can.

"Marky…thanks. Thank you for everything." He can barely breathe. "I would have gone a long time ago, if you hadn't…. cared for me…I would have never been able to touch the guitar…again." He lapses into silence. The speech has exhausted him. "Stay near…?"

He nearly-smiles again. This time, I smile back, and squeeze his hand again.

It's only now I realize what Mimi is saying: Roger's song to her. Your Eyes.

In the middle of the song, he closes his eyes and leans back against Mimi. His grip slips from mine.

He went on.

…Roger is dead.

My mind refuses to wrap around this. I pick up his hand from where it fell and squeeze it so desperately. He needs to come back. Like Mimi did. He has too, oh god, Roger, please, wake up, for my sake. I need you. I know I'm crying, hugging his arm to my body. All I can think about is the future.

They'll be no Roger to star in a film, no Roger to point out the facts that that this-and-that leaks and such-and-such is broken or tell me what leaks and what doesn't. They'll be no rifts drifting through the flat and no constant beeping three times again. There will be no Roger.

Oh god. Oh no.

I don't noice that I've got Roger's body in my hands, holding him under his arms. My head is on his shoulder.

Sometimes tries to pull me away, but I scream. I won't let him go. I will never let go of him. To let go of him means that' he's really gone. Maybe if I keep holding on, he'll come back.

I don't know how late it is when I finally come to. I know it'd dark, and the time is probably Roger's beeper; that's what woke me from my stupor.

Roger's body is cooling, and turning a sickly grey. I set him – it – down, gently, and look up.

"Are you alright, Mark?" Mimi asks. I have no idea how long she's been ssitting on the moved table.

"No."

"You were holding Roger for a long time – Collins kept trying to move you, but you kept screaming and crying and holding him tighter. Him and Maureen and Joanne left almost 45 minutes ago." Her eyes are read. She's been crying. Probably a lot.

"Mimi.." I stagger away from Roger's corpse. Mimi hops off the table and catches me before I hit the floor; she guides me over to the couch. She sits me down and sits next to me. "

"It's okay, Mark." She whispers.

"It's not okay." I reply hoarsely, staring at Roger's body.

"I'm going to call Collins and Joanne and Maureen and tell them you're alright, okay? Don't move."

I nod numbly. I'm not okay, though. I'm never going to be okay with him.

Everyone comes back and sits around me, trying to be comforting. Maureen is hugging me and Collins and Mimi and Joanne are sitting around – I don't know. I don't care. Roger is dead.

"Go away." I whispered. "Just…leave me alone...please. Call…the church, or the cemetery, or something. And…just go away."

It's Maureen who moves first, unlatching her arms from around me. Then the rest of them. Mimi is last. I wait till Mimi is completely out of the loft before picking up my camera and winding it up.

"May 24th…" I hear myself say. "Roger Davis is dead." I focus the camera on his body for a minute, then turn it off.

I stare at the camera for a long moment fore hurling it across the room. It hits the wall with a thud, then falls to the floor. There is a faint tinkling noise. Shards of the lens fall out.

The next thing I jump for is Roger's guitar, grabbing it by the neck and raising it over my head.

In the middle of slamming it into the ground, my brain refocuses. I set the guitar down as gently as I can, then dash over to kneel next to my now-broken camera. Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. I try to fix the lens; it's hopeless. There are a thousand tiny pieces on the floor.

"Well." I say to myself bitterly, feeling the tears well up again. "My camera and Roger. I might as well kill myself now too."

The glass is sharp enough.

I glance back to Roger's body. I remember the way he used to sit there and play empty rifts and beat off my comments about being a bum.

I remember Collins telling me that I'm the recorder. I remember him telling me that as long as I'm alive, Angel and Mimi and himself and Roger will all still be alive.

Roger is alive as long as I'm alive.

I put down the fistful of glass and nearly smile. My next stop is to the kitchen, to wrap my hand in some paper towels. It's bleeding again. I lean back against the counter and close my eyes. If I concentrate hard enough, I can barely hear Musetta's Waltz somewhere in the loft.

It was time for a new camera anyway. A new leaf, a new life, a new camera. Fitting.

I already know what I'm going to say at the funeral.