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"Visiting Angel again, man?" He nodded. Roger and Mark exchanged a concerned glance. "Let us come with you, we don't want a repeat of last time."
Last time. He didn't want to remember last time.
Collins had sat down on the snowy moss, his back to the freezing stone that was engraved with the words "Angel Dumontt-Schunard, beloved lover and friend.". Earlier, he had placed flowers on the ground hoping to bring some life to the area. His knees pulled to his chest. He wiped tears from his eyes, his brows furrowing as something like grief ate away at him.
He felt like a light had been snuffed out of his life.
He rubbed his hands together, clasping them and huffing into his palms for some heat. It was getting darker and colder, and he should probably start heading home. He had moved back in with Roger and Mark, as a half-assed attempt at denying himself to get lonely. He buttoned his jacket, burying his nose in the fleece and tugging his beanie down over his ears.
It had been a few months. He should really get over her, as there was nothing to bring her back. But he couldn't. Snow fell from the sky. He supposed it was crying with him. It lightly coated his shoulders and hair, dampening him. "I moved back in with the guys, lover." He mumbled, sighing. "It's not bad..." He trailed off, letting out a breathy laugh. Angel would be bored. He was certain that he bored her most days they were together, but she seemed to not mind him, obviously. "...I really miss you."
He could almost hear her hum in response. He scratched the back of his neck, cringing as snow began melting down his back. He clapped his hands to get the snow off his gloves, and pulled his hood up to evade this issue. "I'm tired. I'm really tired." He pinched the bridge of his nose, continuing to talk to the stone in the ground. He didn't notice the temperature steadily dropping as he spoke openly, rambling about what had happened in the past month, seeming to sink into the moss beneath him.
"You told me to keep on living, but you're making it so damn difficult." He said, and a small puff formed in the air as he spoke. He hugged himself, frowning. "Lover, surely you can't expect me to..." None of this was her fault, of course. He once again trailed off. He does that a lot. He pushed his glasses up, going back to rubbing his hands together. He eyed the dying flowers he had brought before, now sunk in the snow. He too sunk down, he back pressing further against the stone in the ground, shuddering and his clothes were coated in snow, dampening.
The sun had... set by now? He hadn't realized how late it got. The blinding lights of Manhattan flashed in his prefereal view, distant to him. Actually, they were right in front of him, but his vision had gotten sort of swimmy. His glasses were all fogged up, and he didn't feel like squinting. Collins turned in his spot that he felt like he'd been sitting in too long, his eyes glinting over the words on his lover's grave. He scooted closer to it, wrapping his arms around it and pressing his face to the cold stone, tears pricking in his eyes. How many times had that happened today?
His body was shaking.
Oddly, it was getting warmer, which didn't make sense. He took off his beanie with one hand before returning his arm to the stone. Everything in his body was trembling. Hot, hot, hot- cold, cold, cold… He got slowly confused, everything fading away besides the fact that he was close to his lover he lost. Cold wind whistled in his ears. Not long after, he shut his eyes, and the world went dark.
Mark and Roger sat on the couch, Mark plucking the strings on Roger's guitar as the man tried to tune it, laughing a bit as Roger hurriedly slapped his hand away.
Mark crossed his arms, leaning back into the couch and sinking into the hoodie that was too big for him. (Technically it was Roger's because Mark lost his, but whatever). "Shouldn't Collins be back by now?" He asked, deciding to leave the guitar alone. Roger shrugged, scratching out a line of lyrics on his notepad next to him.
His feet shuffled against the floor, anxiety prickling under his skin and pooling in his gut. Something was wrong. He huffed, resting his face on his hand, his chin in his palm. Roger played a faulty F major, frowning as his trembling fingers failed to play the barre chord. "Your hands are shaking, you okay?" Mark asked, sitting up and folding his hands in his lap. "Mhm. The fact that we've got no heat gets to me though sometimes, man." Mark supposed that made sense. "You sure that's it?"
Roger hesitated. "Yeah." The guitarist's hand failed to form the chord on again and he cringed, his eyes darting down for a moment. He shifted his legs, one immediately beginning to shake, automatically feeling uneasy about the fact there were missing factors between them. Mark sighed, nudging Roger a bit playfully, but really with concern. He gave him a look, one of his hands going to rub the other's shoulder. "I feel like I know what you're thinking. Trust me, you know i dont see you like that. Niether does Collins. Nor anybody. Fuck, you're definitely more intimidating and masculine than me if a stranger compared us." He said, his tone soft.
Roger smiled, his grip on his guitar weak as the Fender settled in his lap. "Yeah okay, me when I lie to myself..." He mumbled, though there was a laughing edge to his voice. Mark patted him once before standing up, running a hand through his own hair and eying his jacket, then the radiator in the corner that did nothing.
"I'm going to go look for Collins. You wanna come?" He shuddered as the words left his mouth in a flush of deja vu. From before everything happened. But this time, Roger nodded. "Yeah, okay."
They pulled on their jackets and Roger grabbed a flash light from a drawer, hitting it a few times before it turned on, checking it's battery. He gave Mark a thumbs up, pocketing it.
The two men headed out down the block towards the gated park that was the cemetery, their bodies slightly pressed together to add just enough tension that made it awkward. The blush that spread on Mark's cheeks was instantly blamed on the cold by both men.
Roger hurried ahead, swinging open the metal gate of the cemetery, the cold icey matieral sharp against his hands. Mark followed, and they both headed toward Angel's grave sight on the property. They both soon spotted a snowed figure slumped againt the stone.
Roger shone the flashlight down on it and Mark rushed foward in its light, moving the figure. He snaked his arms under it, lifting it up. Roger angled the light to the face.
Collins.
"No... no..." Mark mumbled. Considering Collins' situation, this was really fucking bad. He felt Collins' forehead, frowning. Sweat was practically pouring off of him. The man's cheeks, ears, and nose were dusted a deep reddish-pink. Mark pressed his fingers hurried to the man's pulse point. "Slow, but there." Mark said quickly, looking up to Roger. "Rog, c'mon, don't just fucking stand there."
Roger nodded, handing Mark the flashlight and picking up Collins' form. He gently hurled him up over his shoulder, holding him securly as he could. Mark grabbed Collins' beanie from the snow, pocketing it. It was too damp to put back on its owner. He gave his scarf to the man in Roger's arms instead.
The walk home was rushed, and scared. Mark fumbled with the keys as they made it to their flat floor. Anxiety and fear crackled in sick shocks between the two conscious men as Roger laid Collins on the couch. Roger threw a blanket over him and took his snowy, damp jacket off while Mark paced around the room. "Should we call 911?" He asked quietly. Roger shrugged. They then remembered that their power had cut out when the snow storm started yesterday, and the logical, hopeful solution faded.
They sat in the chairs acround the couch, eying their unconscious roomate and just praying for the guy to wake up.
Eventually, Collins sat up, his body still trembling as it was when he fainted. Roger and Mark immediately perked up. "Oh thank God..." Roger murmured. "Feeling okay?" Mark asked quickly. "Besides a splitting headache…" Collins said back, his words slightly slurred. He felt his face, numbness slowly melting, adjusting his glasses. They were still cracked. "M'cold…"
Mark frowned, looking to Roger for help. Helpful as always, Roger shrugged once again, his expression pained with something the photographer couldn't place.
"Yeah, alright. That's probably best." Collins replied.
The three men stood at Angel's grave, clutching fresh flowers. Each of them set them down at the foot of the stone. Snow was melting. As the sun set behind the highest hill in the cemetary, they turned to leave. Collins was the last to set his foot outside the gate.
Mark noticed his hesitation to leave, nudging Roger. "You okay, man?" Roger asked after prompted.
Collins clenched his fists and turned his gaze away, huffing. "Mm. It's..." He sighed, deflating. "... going to be okay."