Okay, wow. It's taken me ages to actually update this sucker. Blame writer's block and school! Hope this chapter is decent. I know it's incredibly short, but I'm still trying to find out where exactly I'm going to take this story. I'm no superior at this sort of thing. Constructive comments are appreciated! There will be heaping piles of Angel and Collins goodness in the next chapter, I promise!

Mark's brows furrowed in concern, his initial anger giving way to a burning curiosity; what the hell was Collins so worked up about? He never yelled so profanely – well, strike that, the man had the mouth of a sailor – but he never lost his temper unless something life-threatening was occurring. Stumbling over his own feet as he ran to catch the phone, Roger stomped angrily out of his bedroom, that permanent glare of his dominant over any other feature on his face.

"What the fuck, Mark?! Who the hell is on the phone at this time at night?" He growled angrily, his eyes drooping heavily from an extreme deprivation of sleep. It was obvious the boy wasn't taking very good care of himself, but Mark could only do so much to prevent him from – well, he didn't like to think about it.

"It's Collins," he stated simply, the look of concern still apparent on his face. "Collins, man, what the hell's going on?" he asked, his voice wavering slightly from nerves. Collins wouldn't call at this god-awful time in the morning if something hadn't gone incredibly wrong. Wracking his brain, Mark blurted out the first question he could coherently think of. "Is Angel okay?"

A choked sob answered him on the other line, proving that something had indeed happened to Angel. His concern turning to fear, Mark suddenly turned to Roger and stared at him blankly, feeling his heart galloping painfully in his chest – what was going on? "Collins…what…what happened? Is she…is…she…" He couldn't formulate the words – it was hard enough knowing that he'd be the last of his friends to survive; it was another thing entirely to have one of them go before their time, which had already been shortened by a life-threatening virus.

Through the unidentified noise that was emanating from the other line – a series of high-pitched beeps and murmured voices – Mark could make out a quiet, yet sorrowful answer. "No."

Relief quickly swept over him – if Angel had died, he didn't know what he'd have done. True, he wasn't incredibly close with the flamboyant drag queen, but she was like the light within their group. Without the sun, there is no being – no hope, no dreams, no future. There would be only darkness and pain, a lifestyle Mark was too familiar with – he'd witnessed it within Roger after April's death. It had been almost as if Roger was dead himself, yet he still managed to move – still managed to live.

He was pulled out of his reverie by the sudden, shrill noise on the other line of the phone. His concern bubbling up once more, he inquired shrilly, "Collins, just tell me what the fuck is going on!" His worry was quickly turning to impatience – he could hear the depression in Collins' tone, but he'd never know what to do if Collins wouldn't voice why he'd called in the first place. Obviously, something had happened.

"She…I…meet me at the hospital," he said simply.

Mark opened his mouth to reply, but he was welcomed with the sound of a dial tone. Scowling, he flung the phone back down onto the cradle and stalked off to his room to grab a jacket. No sense catching a cold from the frigid weather outside. When he'd emerged from his room, fully dressed, he noticed that Roger was still standing there, looking at him as if he expected a logical answer for being awoken from his precious beauty sleep.

"Something's happened. I think Angel's hurt." He didn't bother to look Roger in the eye – he could feel the sudden change in his best friend's mood as his weight shifted slightly, a sense of unease sweeping over the rocker.

"We've got to get to the hospital. That's all he said."

Seeming to be explanation enough for Roger, he nodded once and walked off to his bedroom to retrieve his own jacket. Mark's eyes never left the door – he was in a daze and he would surely drive himself mad before the night was out if he didn't get some answers soon.

Soon enough, both of the boys were ready and they briskly walked out the door into the freezing night air.