Happy Birthday,
So here is..part of what I was working on. Just couldn't seem to finish it today but heres a sample to keep you occupied for a bit.
The rain fell in large wet drops onto Collins’ shoulders, soaking through his jacket but he didn’t move. He didn’t move the rain fell down along the bridge of his nose. He didn’t move when the rain had long since made the ink of the paper in his hand run in black rivers down his fingers.
“Collins, lets go,” Benny whispered, silently putting his arm around Collins’ waist.
“Shouldn’t have been him first,” Collins muttered, raising his head, his cheeks damp from both tears and rain. “Why him, Ben?” His voice was rough with bitterness and pain. He turned his head, his eyes wide and dark as they locked with Benny’s.
“I dunno, Col,” Benny replied. “Come on. Lets go.” He slowly led Collins away from the graveyard, occasionally casting a glance over his shoulder at the plain headstone Benny had paid for from what little money he’d gotten in his divorce.
Mark Cohen
April 1, 2004
Forever in close up…
Never alone
It struck Benny as bitterly ironic that Collins, the first diagnosed with HIV, was still alive, healthy, active. And Mark, their Mark, sweet, quiet Mark was gone now, killed while out filming a post-911 documentary that would’ve made his career, made everything he’d struggled through worth it.
A religious fanatic, steadfast in his belief that the attacks had been a way for God to weed out the nonbelievers, had stormed through the crew, wielding a gun. He only managed to get off two shots before he was tackled to the ground. One crashed through the glass of a nearby building. The other struck Mark in the lung, traveling down into his stomach. By the time the ambulance got there, he was deathly pale and coughing up blood as he struggled to the breath.
He died in the emergency room an hour later.
Benny got the call first, thinking it was someone’s sick idea of an April Fool’s joke until he’d seen it on the news. He fell to his knees, tears sliding down his cheeks.
Collins hadn’t cried at first. At first he’d gotten angry, punching a hole through the wall and breaking his fist, wanting only to find the bastard who’d killed his best friend and string him up by his balls.
He cried hours later, deep, gut wrenching sobs that tore at Benny’s already broken heart as he held Collins in his arms, his hands rubbing slow circles along his back, Collins’ face buried in his lap as he attempted to sooth the distraught man.
Collins and Benny fucked that night. Rough, angry sex that left them both sore and exhausted in the morning but hadn’t erased the memory of their friend’s loss.
When they arrived back at the loft, empty now without Mark or Roger or Mimi around, Collins tossed his shoes across the large room, followed by his socks and shirt, throwing his clothing about until he was completely naked, kneeling on the ground under the hole in the ceiling as the rain dripped down.
Benny watched sadly, slowly pulling off his coat, and tugging off his shoes, dropping them by the door. He padded in his socked feet to Collins’ side, crouching beside him. “Col…” he said gently, resting his hand on Collins’ shoulder.
Before he could react, Benny found himself, pinned beneath Collins and the floor, rough hands grabbing at his shirt as they attempted to rip it off.
“Col,” Benny said again, pushing Collins back enough to look into the other man’s eyes. His rested his hand lightly on Collins’ smooth cheek. “What…”
“Please, Ben,” Collins begged, his eyes large, his every emotion etched on his face in a way Benny had seen only once before shortly after Angel had died, his fingers wrapped tightly in the fabric of Benny’s shirt.
The rain fell in large wet drops onto Collins’ shoulders, soaking through his jacket but he didn’t move. He didn’t move the rain fell down along the bridge of his nose. He didn’t move when the rain had long since made the ink of the paper in his hand run in black rivers down his fingers.
“Collins, lets go,” Benny whispered, silently putting his arm around Collins’ waist.
“Shouldn’t have been him first,” Collins muttered, raising his head, his cheeks damp from both tears and rain. “Why him, Ben?” His voice was rough with bitterness and pain. He turned his head, his eyes wide and dark as they locked with Benny’s.
“I dunno, Col,” Benny replied. “Come on. Lets go.” He slowly led Collins away from the graveyard, occasionally casting a glance over his shoulder at the plain headstone Benny had paid for from what little money he’d gotten in his divorce.
Mark Cohen
April 1, 2004
Forever in close up…
Never alone
It struck Benny as bitterly ironic that Collins, the first diagnosed with HIV, was still alive, healthy, active. And Mark, their Mark, sweet, quiet Mark was gone now, killed while out filming a post-911 documentary that would’ve made his career, made everything he’d struggled through worth it.
A religious fanatic, steadfast in his belief that the attacks had been a way for God to weed out the nonbelievers, had stormed through the crew, wielding a gun. He only managed to get off two shots before he was tackled to the ground. One crashed through the glass of a nearby building. The other struck Mark in the lung, traveling down into his stomach. By the time the ambulance got there, he was deathly pale and coughing up blood as he struggled to the breath.
He died in the emergency room an hour later.
Benny got the call first, thinking it was someone’s sick idea of an April Fool’s joke until he’d seen it on the news. He fell to his knees, tears sliding down his cheeks.
Collins hadn’t cried at first. At first he’d gotten angry, punching a hole through the wall and breaking his fist, wanting only to find the bastard who’d killed his best friend and string him up by his balls.
He cried hours later, deep, gut wrenching sobs that tore at Benny’s already broken heart as he held Collins in his arms, his hands rubbing slow circles along his back, Collins’ face buried in his lap as he attempted to sooth the distraught man.
Collins and Benny fucked that night. Rough, angry sex that left them both sore and exhausted in the morning but hadn’t erased the memory of their friend’s loss.
When they arrived back at the loft, empty now without Mark or Roger or Mimi around, Collins tossed his shoes across the large room, followed by his socks and shirt, throwing his clothing about until he was completely naked, kneeling on the ground under the hole in the ceiling as the rain dripped down.
Benny watched sadly, slowly pulling off his coat, and tugging off his shoes, dropping them by the door. He padded in his socked feet to Collins’ side, crouching beside him. “Col…” he said gently, resting his hand on Collins’ shoulder.
Before he could react, Benny found himself, pinned beneath Collins and the floor, rough hands grabbing at his shirt as they attempted to rip it off.
“Col,” Benny said again, pushing Collins back enough to look into the other man’s eyes. His rested his hand lightly on Collins’ smooth cheek. “What…”
“Please, Ben,” Collins begged, his eyes large, his every emotion etched on his face in a way Benny had seen only once before shortly after Angel had died, his fingers wrapped tightly in the fabric of Benny’s shirt.