A/N: Kudos to Starlight's Delightfor guessing this wish!

XVII.

March 11, 1991—April.

When he wanted to, Roger could remember April well. He could remember the rust-colored hair that would always faintly smell of baby shampoo, the little details she put on her painted nails with a silver pen (one time it had been 'APRIL' on her left hand's nails, 'ROGER' on her right), the little tattoo of her name composed of musical notes on her left shoulder as well as millions of other little memories. He didn't exactly know how long it had been since she'd been gone since he didn't want to think about it. But it wasn't because he had hated her or anything; it was just because it hurt to think about those years, when he was too reckless, too curious, had tried too hard to fit in…his life during those times had sped by without him actually knowing and now was actually just a big haze of bright lights, sounds and pain, in his head. He remembered how he'd known April: he'd first seen her in one of his concerts. A glance had turned into a stare, a peck had turned into a kiss, and the rest was history. Even that had been on the fast lane.

Roger treaded slowly and carefully as he walked through the cemetery, keeping his eyes on the ground as he inhaled the fresh smell of grass and dirt that had just been watered. It had only been once that he'd gone to April's grave and that had been during her funeral, with Mark leading him, but he still knew, surprisingly, where exactly it was. His feet seemed to work on autopilot.

He passed by Angel's grave on the way. It hadn't been an intentional stop, but he felt Angel deserved a visit as well.

Angel Dumott Schunard
February 9th, 1967-October 29th, 1989
Friend and Lover: I'll Cover You.

A vase of fresh roses rested by the gravestone. Maureen or Joanne had probably put it there, or Collins before he went back to NYU. Looking at Angel's birth year and the date of her death depressed him. She'd only been 22 years old. Twenty-fucking-two. Practically a kid, whose life had been snuffed out, like many other lives before hers, by one fucking disease.

Roger knelt down and brushed a few leaves off of the grave as he said hi to Angel in his head.

Hey, man…we all miss you like crazy. Life was more bearable with you around…you were always quite a good distraction…with your colorful clothes and those nice things you always did.

The first time he'd met Angel, that Christmas morning, he'd been shocked internally, but the drag queen had just been too nice and fun to dislike.

Do me a favor okay? When my time's up, come and get me, okay? If it isn't you, I swear I'll do my best to stay alive even when it hurts like hell. Well…you can come get me if I don't end up down there…I still don't know where I'm gonna be going but I figure if you get on the Man's good side, you can try and tell Him I'm a good guy? I'm sure he'll listen to you more than me.

Roger sighed. He wondered if Angel had already met April or his mother.

Tell my Mom hi for me. And I have one other friend up there…no I don't believe that people who kill themselves end up in Hell. That's bull. Her name's April…I'm supposed to talk to her after I'm done with you…wish me luck, okay?

Instinctively, he reached out and gave the grass growing on the grave a gentle, loving pat with his hand. Angel had always been far more mature than he was. What he'd give sometimes for a little more maturity and patience like the drag queen had had…

He remembered Mark as he continued on to where April was buried. Fuck, he would never forget the look of hurt that had appeared on his best friend's face after he'd accused him. He could've punched his own lights out. He hadn't been thinking when he'd said that; he'd known how Mark had felt about him having HIV/AIDS ever since, so he really didn't know what had possessed him to say what he'd said. He hadn't meant it of course, but when Mark had actually reacted to it…fuck it just tore him apart. This particular item on his list had actually been on its way to the trash since he was too uncomfortable about it, but for Mark's sake, Roger was going to keep his part of the deal.

April Ericsson
1966-1988

The grave wasn't as nice as Angel's and neither as neat. The simple gravestone had been weathered by the seasons the past three years, so it was cracked and tired-looking in some places. The grass over it was a bit overgrown, and no flowers rested anywhere near it. The sight of it broke Roger's heart. No one had ever come to visit April.

"Jesus…"

Roger got on his knees again, as he'd done with Angel's, and vainly attempted to make things look a little better, brushing away leaves and pulling out weeds and such. The inscription on the gravestone was pathetic; Mark had handled it since he'd been too overcome with grief to even bother with anything. It wasn't really Mark's fault since they really barely knew anything about April. She'd been a runaway from the West Coast and had appeared as if she'd wanted to shed whatever she'd been in the past as quickly as she could, like Roger had felt. He concluded that her parents, if she had any, were still clueless about her death. Mark had tried to contact any relative of April's when she'd died but ended up empty-handed. It had only been three of them who'd attended the funeral: him, Mark, and the priest who did the service. It had rained that day. No one had seen how hard Roger's tears had fallen that day because of the rain.

Roger gave up in making everything neat after a while, realizing it had been too long a time and it was going to need a lot of work to get it look nice and neat. He sat down, defeated, holding the single white rose he'd bought especially for April with trembling hands.

Fuck, he felt guilty. Not just for April's death but also for the pathetic excuse for a grave they'd let her have: her name, plus the year of her birth and the year of her death. She deserved more. He should have given her more, even in death. Looking at the grave made Roger feel as if April, from a bystander's point of view, had been a nobody: had just been a speck who'd suddenly appeared, lived and breathed and fought amongst a million other little specks for a few years before disappearing. Fuck, she hadn't been a nobody, at least not to everyone. She'd been somebody to him. He'd loved her as much as he loved Mimi now, as much as he loved his friends. He wanted the world to know that, but all he could give her was a cheap old gravestone with an inscription dotted with barely significant details. April…she'd been a sweet girl. She could never curse at Mark since she felt sorry for him since he already had a grouchy musician to deal with. She'd kissed the tips of his fingers lovingly after he practiced and they hurt like crazy. Unlike him, after taking smack, she'd still be in full control of herself, and she'd keep him on a tight leash to make sure he couldn't do anything stupid. She was sweet in ways Mimi had never been, and Roger loved April for it. The girl still held a special place in his heart.

"Oh babe…" Roger stared sadly at the gravestone. "…shit…"

He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket since the tears had started coming sooner than he'd expected. He retained his sitting position, longing for the intimacy he and April had once shared. She'd been a fantastic secret-keeper as well as a great actress, some of the reasons why it had taken so long for Mark to figure out what they'd been messing around with.

"I'm sorry it's been so long…and…for this. Fuck, I didn't mean…I didn't mean to abandon you…shit…"

What could he say to cover this up? The deed had been done, he had abandoned her and there was no denying it. He just had to face the music.

"I have to admit…that I never thought once about coming back here." Roger decided to just talk. Just talk and talk and talk without thinking. "It…it hurts to think…to remember…what had been. It's Mark's doing…why I'm here now…but I'm not sorry I came back. Damn…you deserve more than this."

He remembered when he, April and Mark had lived in the loft together. She and Mark used to get into these trivial fights all the time and she'd more often than not, storm away after shouting at him, "You're a…a…GEEK!". The girl could never swear really at Mark, though he'd been the target of her nonstop cursing several times. She'd also had those Magic Markers all over the place. Damn, April had loved drawing. She'd doodled all over the place.

And of course, he remembered when he'd convinced her into taking her first hit.

"Are you sure, babe?" April looks at him with worried eyes. He's almost through in preparing the syringe so he nods. The craving for a hit is getting stronger and stronger and Roger feels almost manic as each second passes.

"Sure, babe, I swear, it'll make you feel all better. I'll go first then I'll help you do yours."

Roger's eyes gleam as the smack's all ready to be shot up. Fuck the tourniquet. He wants a hit and he wants it now. April watches him eagerly.

"I'm…I'm sorry, April…for turning your life into shit." Roger's voice had dropped into a whisper. He had to get this off of his chest. "I was wrong…I was an ass. I shouldn't have…I shouldn't have had you try…fuck. I was bad news. You paid for it. I'm paying for it now. God, I'm sorry…"

He unconsciously traced the track marks on his arm that lay underneath his jacket. He shuddered at the knowledge that they were there, and would always be: a permanent reminder of a deed that cost them their lives. He remembered Mark, who'd helped him go through withdrawal, withstood his shit, and had kept him clean at whatever price. The look Mark had worn on his face the night before would haunt Roger forever. This just wasn't about him and April; it was about the three of them who would all be paying, or who'd already paid, for his fucking mistake.

"I deserve the guilt, I know…but Mark…he doesn't." He felt like a little kid in the principal's office, finally admitting that he'd been the one who'd put the cherry bomb in the toilets after the quiet kid had taken the blame for it for months. "I was too fucking selfish…and I dragged both of you down with me. It's killing me, babe. You know Mark…he's always been the sensitive guy, the good kid…but fuck, I've never…I've never met anyone so goddamn selfless my whole life…I owe him peace of mind…I owe him this…I promised him…"

He placed the rose gently on the grave that was a bit neater now than what it had been a while ago.

"Forgive me. Please."

A bird chirped nearby. The wind whistled in the trees. The last of Roger's tears fell and he gave a sad smile. Something inside of him finally felt free.

He started to talk, about everything. He told April everything from the top of his head: Mimi and their marriage, Angel and the short but happy time they'd spent with each other, Mark and how Maureen had dumped him but how both were pretty happy now, and even Dodge and the not-so-successful training. He talked about how happy he was, how perfect everything was appearing to be, how he missed her now that he had the guts to bring her memory back, the fun they used to have that wasn't related to drugs…He had a lot to tell April. He was thankful to her for a lot of things almost as much as he was sorry. In a way, he owed her for bringing Mimi to him. He loved Mimi, even more than he loved himself, but his love for the girl who was his first muse would always be there, locked away in a secret part of his heart, even after he said his goodbyes to her.

When Roger left half an hour later, April's grave didn't look the same anymore: The weeds were gone; the grass was shortened to a more presentable level; a beautiful, fully bloomed white rose was lovingly placed near the gravestone; and the inscription on the stone marker had changed. Something had been written below the years of birth and death in a black permanent marker and then scratched in with a Swiss Army Knife, as if to ensure it would be there despite the rain, sleet and snow:

April Ericsson
1966-1988
My first real song: Thank you for everything.
I'm sorry for everything.
I love you despite everything.

A/N: Sorry it's short, but I'm starting to feel sorry for this particular character of Roger I'm writing about. He's so tortured it hurts to write about how he thinks and feels.So I cut the drama off at its knees. Sorry if you expected more. I just thought him feeling so bad about how the grave looked like and how empty the inscription was that he decided to put in his own inscription as so Roger since it's impulsiveness at its best. Lol. It's not meant to be disrespectful or anything though. I made April's character not as bad as she appeared to be on the film; from this chapter, you can get that Roger's worse than she'd been. Haha.