A/N: So...the last time I submitted a RENT fanfic was April 24, 2009. That is almost exactly a year-and-a-half ago. And now, here I am again. You can thank my university for deciding to put on this fabulous musical. I went to see it twice, and it reminded me just how much I love this universe. I guess you can say "She's just coming back from eighteen months of RENT withdrawal!" Oh, how I've missed this fandom...
Oh, and this story - it's angsty. Of course. And sort of Mark-centric. Of course. :) I haven't changed much.
Disclaimer: I do not own RENT.
Too Late
The last few years, it seemed, had been nothing but a long series of "too lates."
The first was April.
She'd claimed she wasn't feeling well that morning, but she insisted that Roger, Mark, and Maureen go visit Collins in his new apartment, anyway.
"I'll be fine," she told a worried Roger. "It's just a cold. Tell Collins I said hi."
They should have known something was wrong by her smile. April usually had a dazzling smile, but today it was half-there, if that. They attributed it to her "cold," and that was their mistake.
When they returned later in the afternoon, the Loft was quiet. Roger headed straight to his and April's bedroom to check on his girlfriend, but Mark had to go to the bathroom. The door was open slightly.
It was Mark who found her, lying in a tub that was three-quarters full of water stained as red as her hair. It was Maureen's shriek as she saw the scene over her boyfriend's shoulder that brought Roger running.
"No!" Roger gasped, pushing past his friends, now kneeling on the floor together just outside the tiled threshold. He took April's body by the shoulders, shook it. "April, baby—wake up!" Her head lolled like a puppet's, her green eyes glazed and open wide.
Maureen moaned at the grotesque scene, her fingernails digging into Mark's arm.
"Stop it!" she sobbed. "Stop! She's gone! It's too late!"
Roger collapsed on his knees next to the tub, shaking. "Why?" he asked softly. "Why?"
His eyes darted wildly around, searching for some explanation, and it was in this way he spotted the piece of paper resting on the edge of the counter. He opened it, read it, and choked out a strangled sort of noise. He turned to his remaining roommates.
"Don't come inside." And he handed the note to Mark before shutting the door in their faces.
With shaking hands, Mark held the piece of paper up to his glasses. His heart clenched at the three words scrawled there, in April's all-too familiar handwriting:
We've got AIDS.
Leaving Maureen sobbing on the floor and Roger crying in the bathroom, he went to the phone and called 911.
But it was too late for April Erickson.
/
The second was Angel.
It hadn't been easy visiting her in the hospital, especially when the group was so splintered. But they tried to hold it together for she and Collins—Maureen and Joanne, and Roger and Mimi, tried their best to be cordial to each other when they had to interact in Angel's presence. They knew she didn't have much time left.
It wasn't fair that it had to be Angel, the liveliest, most optimistic one of the group. It wasn't fair because she and Collins were so in love and never fought, unlike the others. It wasn't fair.
"Why don't we have a party for her?" Maureen asked one day as the group was leaving the hospital. "Halloween's coming up, and it is her favorite holiday, after all."
Smiles flared at the idea, and then withered. It was hard to put on a happy face anymore, except when they were with Angel and had to pretend.
"I'll talk to Collins about it," Mark promised.
They planned the party for Thursday the 28th, because it was extended visiting hours. Mark and Roger visited the day before to go over the final details with Collins. Angel didn't look any better or worse, but she was glad to see them and proudly displayed the blue nail polish Mimi had applied earlier before work. She didn't seem to suspect anything, but with Angel it was always hard to tell.
They left after two hours with a casual, "See you tomorrow." They never considered tomorrow might not come for their favorite drag queen.
Something felt off that night. Mark and Roger tried to shake it off by barhopping, something they hadn't done together since before Roger's withdrawal. They didn't return home until the early hours of the morning.
It was only then they got the message.
"It's over."
Angel had died in Collins' arms an hour earlier. They were too late.
They never got to say goodbye.
/
Mimi was the third.
It was a blessing to find her that Christmas Eve, a blessing she didn't die right then, that they got to spend one last holiday with the feline of Avenue B.
But it was so different from the year before. Angel's absence was the elephant in the room. Mark didn't film anything, too afraid that his prophecy would come true—that he would capture life through a lens and by doing so somehow drain it out of reality. Maureen and Joanne clung to each other in a way they certainly hadn't 525,600 minutes ago. It was as though they were afraid of losing each other, the way Collins had lost his lover. The way Roger was losing Mimi.
Because they all knew that for Mimi, Christmas Eve hadn't been soon enough. She was dying quickly; her return to them wasn't to be permanent.
Mimi was all smiles, but she talked as though she knew she was spending her final moments on the earth.
"Collins," she said, pressing her friend's hand, "I promise I'll take good care of Angel. And I'll make sure she's wearing that nail polish you love when you make it up there with us."
"Mimi, don't…" Roger croaked, but Mimi kissed him softly and shook her head slightly before turning to the couple huddled nearby.
"Maureen, Joanne, I love you guys and you're absolutely beautiful together. Don't fight so much, because you've got a long, healthy future together." The implied And Roger and I don't, was a stab of reality, and the two women could do nothing but nod and hold each other more tightly.
"I'm sorry," Maureen murmured, but it wasn't clear to whom she was apologizing.
"Mark," Mimi said matter-of-factly, and the filmmaker looked up cautiously from where he was practically melting into himself. "Thank you. For everything. And…please don't be afraid. We have to forget regret, or we just live in fear. You know?"
He looked petrified, but he nodded wearily, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "I know."
Last, she embraced Roger, her frail body folded into his lap.
"I love you, Roger," she said quietly. "So, so much. And I'll try not to fight with April over who gets you. When it's time."
Roger couldn't find the words to tell her it would be her, it would always be her, but she seemed to understand.
And then…she died.
Right there in the living room, in Roger's arms, as the clock ticked down the final minutes to Christmas Day.
Mark called the paramedics, again, as Roger broke into silent sobs.
/
The fourth was Collins.
He was becoming weaker and weaker—and then he got pneumonia. The virus attacked his weak immune system, battering down the defenses keeping the man alive.
Collins didn't even want to live anymore. He wanted to be with Angel, needed to be with Angel. It had been half a year since he'd held her, and it was worse than half a year of withdrawal. For this reason, he didn't even try to fight.
The doctors couldn't do anything; the illness was too far along.
Mark couldn't do anything, either. Roger was seriously depressed with Mimi gone, and most of the time Mark felt like Collins was the only one he could talk to. But this wouldn't be true for much longer.
"Please don't die, Collins," he begged. "I don't know what I'll do without you. You've just…always been there."
Collins smiled weakly from his half-conscious state, and tried to pat Mark's arm.
In the end, Mark knew he was being selfish. In the end, he knew Collins wanted to be with Angel, and it wasn't fair to expect him to live.
In the end, he told his friend that Angel was waiting, and she wouldn't be happy if he was late.
Collins had been in the hospital for under a month when he died. Only Maureen was present at the time.
She said he looked at peace when he died—he was smiling, and she swore she could hear Angel's drumming in the distance.
/
And now it was time for Roger to go, too, only he hadn't waited for the HIV to get him.
Never one to waste a dramatic opportunity, and filled with despair and desperately missing Mimi, Roger had decided to play the reckless Good Samaritan when he saw a young man being mugged on the street.
His heroism had resulted in a fatal gunshot wound in the stomach, and it was soon after that Mark found him, bleeding out into the gutter. It was too late to call the paramedics. It was time for Roger to be with Mimi.
Mark couldn't even hug his friend, give a proper goodbye. He had to sit several feet away, pain contorting his face and tears flowing down his cheeks, because he was to be the one to survive.
"Why are you such an idiot, Roger?" he murmured brokenly. "Why couldn't you have died quietly, like you were supposed to?"
"Because…I'm Roger Freakin' Davis," Roger said breathlessly. "Had to…go out with a bang." He laughed, and his body jerked and blood trickled out of his mouth.
Mark couldn't take his eyes away from the sight, couldn't tell Roger to shut up, because Roger was dying anyway, and what was the point of denying him his last few laughs?
"I'm going to miss you, buddy," he said instead, and Roger's eyes rolled over to him.
"You…should have made…better friends."
This time it was Mark's turn to laugh. "You guys were the only friends I ever wanted. I guess now it's too late to make different choices, huh?"
Roger shook his head slowly, coughing up more blood. He was going; his eyes were dimming, and they slowly slipped closed.
"Not...too late. Not for you."