The filmmaker bent on one knee, fingers tracing the simple stone that marked Angel's grave. God she was beautiful, probably one of the most beautiful people Mark had the honor of meeting. It was that beauty, that simple joy of being alive and living for the moment, that made him knew that she wouldn't be with them much longer. The Earth needed more people like Angel but they never seemed to stay long enough.
Digging through his bag, ark pulled out a drumstick, placed it on the earth in front of the stone and moved on.
Mimi's grave was next, she'd asked to be put beside Angel and even though they had to raise hell to get it that way, the group had managed it. In the end. Collins even said that it was only right, that someone had to keep Angel company, since he had always requested to be cremated. Mimi was Angel's friend, her best friend, it was only right they would be next to each other.
When Mimi first died, Mark was sure Roger was going to be broken beyond repair; that he would never be able to see that spark in the musician that he'd loved so much but after a time, he came back. Sure, there were days when he thought he would see Mimi on the street or something but mark figured that sort of thing was natural, a part of the grieving process or something like that. They all missed her and were shaken by what happened but they remembered what she and Angel had taught them; 'No day but today'.
Coming to his knees yet again, Mark picked through the bag until he found a scrap of paper. On it was one of the last songs Roger had written for her; something soft and sad and telling her that this time it was okay to go. One of the worst things for Roger had not been Mimi dying, but the moments leading up to it.
Taking a deep breath Mark moved to the last grave of the group. He hadn't been to Roger's grave since the funeral; he actually didn't think he could do it until a few weeks ago. Watching Roger fade was probably the worst of all. Collins had helped him, just as Collins always did, but still. Mark was sure that he would cave, that he would finally crack and break to pieces once Roger was gone. At the funeral that feeling passed though and he was left with nothing.
The nothing stung more than anything else he'd ever felt before.
There was so much he never told Roger, so many petty, stupid disagreements they never settled. Mark wanted to tell him that he loved him and he used to wonder if maybe, just maybe, things would have been different if he had. It was useless now though, he cold scream to the world that he loved the musician and it would do no good except maybe get something thrown at him.
Reaching into the bag for the last time, Mark pulled out the guitar pick, bringing it to his lips, then leaving it on the grave.
"I love you," he whispered to the winds, before picking him up off the ground and headed away.
