Mark Cohen finds himself pacing the loft lately.
A lot.
His camera is buried beneath a pile of papers belonging to his roommate, Roger Davis. Musical lyrics and all that jazz.
It wasn't long ago that the camera had been in his right hand, filming the trials and tribulations of his friends, from Maureen Johnson and her girlfriend Joanne's bitter relationship to Roger and Mimi Marquez's romance in the park.
At one point, the camera had been focused on Tom Collins as he succombed to the sorrow that was the death of his lover, Angel Dumont Schunard.
Everything had recently fallen to pieces. Mimi died not long after her recovery in the loft. Roger didn't even have time to get her to the hospital. She died in the car. She didn't even get to tell him that she loved him.
Collins died not long after that. A visit to Angel's grave sparked in him a heart-attack. He died of something natural, something none of them had expected. The HIV had begun to affect him, but not enough for death to overtake. His last words were something along the lines of, "An Angel claims me." And then he died peacefully, in a hospital bed. As Mimi should have.
And now here is Mark, worrying about the state of Roger's health. He has stopped writing his songs. He rarely leaves his room. The only time Mark ever sees him is when he appears to go to the bathroom or to go out on the balcony and smoke.
Even Benny attempted to cheer Roger up. The bastard blew his cover easily, and, again, they aren't speaking.
Mark found himself at Roger's door, raising his hand to knock on it, and then pulling back when it opened.
He took in Roger's disheveled look and sighed.
He had once looked so good.
Now he looked like he didn't even have a bed to sleep in.
His clothes were wrinkled, as if he hadn't changed them in days.
Who knows, he may even still have the same clothes on he had the night Collins died. Mark wouldn't know. He doesn't pay attention to detail.
Roger grunts in signal for Mark to move.
Mark moves, reluctantly, eyeing his friend as he went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
"Roger." He states, tapping lightly on the door.
He hears Roger growl, and is quite surprised when Roger opens the door and peaks out.
"We need to get you out of the loft, Roger. You can't stay in here forever." Mark speaks.
Roger shakes his head and only grunts, as he has for days now. His words have been few if not rare.
Mark rolls his eyes and crosses his hands over his chest.
"Roger, I'm not your keeper, but I know what's best for you. You can't keep yourself locked up forever! You're only hurting yourself." He says slowly.
Roger raises his right eyebrow.
"Is that so? I've lost everything that ever mattered to me. Don't condescend me by sayng that you know what's best for me. You know nothing on that level." He says sternly.
Mark blanches as the words come out.
Roger scoffs.
"Don't act to surprised, Mark. You're the survivor, remember?" He asks.
Mark closes his eyes as he remembers Roger's words to him.
"Mark has got his work", they say, "Mark lives for his work", and "Mark's in love with his work". Mark hides in his work. From facing your failure, facing your lonliness, facing the fact you live a lie. Yes, you live a lie. Tell you why: You're always preaching not to be numb, when that's how you thrive, you pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive.
Mark's reply had been bitter, but true.
Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive!
Biting his tongue, Mark spoke.
"I'm the survivor, but do you think that means I want to watch everyone around me die?"
Roger rolls his eyes.
"I'm the last one, Marky." He speaks somberly.
Mark sighed.
"Make it last, why don't you? It can't be that hard!" Mark exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.