DISCLAIMER: here we go again. no, i still don’t own them. yes, once i do you’ll be the first to know. no, i don’t see that happening any time in the near future. oh yeah, and my title comes from a song from A Little Night Music, written by the immortal Stephen Sondheim.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: continuing the series that i’d almost forgotten. yup, still that finale. Collins’s turn.

Perpetual Anticipation
by kaydee falls

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“Perpetual anticipation is good for the soul, but it’s bad for the heart...”
--from A Little Night Music

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Mark’s got his camera out again. And here I thought he was finished with his film. Old habits die hard, I guess. I can see him zoom in on Roger and Mimi, hear the faint whirring of the video camera beneath all the chatter going on around me. He lets the shot rest on them for a moment, then his restless curiosity takes over and he pans away, intent on cramming as many of our emotions as possible into film immortality. Except himself. He never films himself.

I can’t blame him. As I see the lens focus on me, I have to swallow down the sudden urge to smack the device out of his hands. What the hell is he filming me for? I don’t belong here. Sometimes I envy his ability to hide behind the camera, letting himself disappear. I wish I had an escape like that.

I grin at Mark, suppressing a sigh, then glance over at our happy couple. Roger and Mimi, that is -- Joanne and Maureen are another story entirely, although I think they might actually be at peace with each other for the moment. But Roger and Mimi are, well, euphoric. I think that’s the only way to describe them. It’s a beautiful sight.

I wish I could hide.

But that’s not my nature, is it? No, not Collins. Collins is the strong, supportive member of this dysfunctional family. Collins never crumbles, never falls to pieces, never acts ridiculously or irresponsibly. Collins is a limitless supply of kindness and fatherly love. When Collins has emotions, he lets them show. He doesn’t hide, or run away. Not Collins.

I smile wryly. I can’t even blame the others for making me live up to this image. It’s a picture of myself I’ve devoted my life to creating and maintaining. Normally, I’m proud of it.

Normally.

What the hell is normal?

This pretty little picture certainly isn’t. AIDS victims don’t normally have near-death experiences. We just have death experiences, period. And yet Mimi bounced back. I wonder -- when it’s my turn, will Angel shoo me back, too?

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. That ‘bright light’ is the only thing I have left to look forward to, and when I bump into my lover there, he had better welcome me in, not keep me out.

I smile, almost in spite of myself. It’s impossible for me to think about Angel without a smile. He was so kind, generous, warm, perfect. I loved him so much.

I remember the few weeks after Angel’s funeral, the flurry of activity. I had to be doing something at all times, to swallow my grief. And in a way, it worked. I could get through whole days at a time without breaking down and crying.

Never mind that my pillow was damp with tears when I woke up every morning.

All in all, though, keeping busy is a marvelous antidepressant. Having plans always gives you something to get up for in the mornings. Preparing for an event occupies your mind. Anticipating a new activity keeps you energetic, hopeful. I should’ve thought to recommend this to certain former roommates -- not that they ever listen to me.

Rewiring that ATM was the most extensive project. It’s more than opening up a panel and clipping a few wires, you know. There are so many details to be planned, variables to be accounted for. It thrilled me.

And it wasn’t just designed to spew cash in response to a code. What my friends don’t yet know, what I’ll never tell them, is that for every amount of money they withdraw by punching in A-N-G-E-L, twice that amount is deposited into another account.

I’ve called it the Angel Fund.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I went to Joanne to have a new will drawn up.

“Why?” she asked me, tiredly. I could practically read her mind. It was bad enough that Angel was dead, Mimi was missing, Roger was somewhere west of the Mississippi, and Mark was moping around the loft. Now Collins was getting ready to die, too.

“It’s reasonable,” I insisted. “My old will left most of my ‘estate,’ whatever that is, to Angel. He can’t inherit it anymore, and besides, now I’ve got all the stuff I got from him to take into account.” Angel had left behind a far larger hunk of cash than any of us had expected, myself included. “I need a new will. Please, Joanne, you’re my friend. Don’t argue with me about this.”

She gave me a searching look. “I just feel like there’s more to this than you’re telling me.”

I shrugged.

Then I told her about the Angel Fund. And how, after my death, every penny in it was to be donated to an AIDS research center.

She smiled sadly, and obeyed my wishes.

After that, I tried to get myself involved in a few other projects, but nothing seemed to take. My heart just wasn’t in it, anymore. That’s when I realized that there was only one thing I was still looking forward to. And that while some anticipation can be exciting and energizing, this indefinite period of waiting was beginning to wear me out.

The day I came to this realization, this finally knowing what I was waiting and longing for -- that was the day I stopped taking my AZT.

It’s been two weeks now, and if anything else, I feel better than usual. My doctor told me to expect this -- this period of seemingly improved health -- while the virus multiplies unchecked in my body. He says that it will undoubtedly be followed by a rapid decline, and then....

And then, my resolution, the end of my perpetual anticipation.

I hadn’t expected the days to wear away so slowly. I hadn’t known how hard it would be to keep my mind and body here, while my heart is already pulling me elsewhere. It aches.

God, I miss Angel.

I want to disappear....

Mark’s got the camera aimed at me, yet again. This time, I shake my head slightly and turn away. I catch the vaguely worried flash in his eyes, but he shrugs it off and pans over the lovers again. Watching them is the hardest part of waiting. They aren’t stuck in the anticipation rut anymore. They’re complete already. I stare at the floor.

“And I swear, Angel was there....”

He’s here. I know it. I can feel him, sense him. I swallow hard, trying to ignore his spirit. This isn’t a ghost story. This is real life. In real life, my Angel won’t ever come back for a visit.

But I want him so much. I miss him. I need to join him.

‘Soon,’ a phantom voice whispers in my ear. ‘Soon, love.’

“Angel,” I whisper.

‘Soon.’

And the feeling is gone, leaving me wondering if it was just my imagination.

I hope it wasn’t.
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::blinks:: i have no idea where any of that came from. maybe i’m just very, very strange. i had planned for this to be such a NORMAL fic, too! oh, well. may i learn how to write collins better sometime....