April always loved the fourth of July. The only time of the year she ever got patriotic, and even then Roger was convinced that it wasn't so much patriotism that was the cause of her excitement, as a fascination with fireworks. Nevertheless, whatever the reason every year she'd have one of those tiny little flags you could get for a dollar at the grocery store, and she'd drag them all down to the beach to watch the fireworks over the water.

Except for this year, because she wasn't around to do that. Because a month ago she'd slit her wrists in the bathroom. Because now there would be no more April dragging Mark and Maureen and Benny and Collins and a most reluctant Roger to the beach, spreading out a blanket on the sand and practically bouncing with excitement as she waited for the fireworks to start. Because fireworks and beaches and blankets and the fourth of July mattered less than one word in black and white on her blood test results.

Roger never thought he would miss those compulsory trips to watch the fireworks. Now he was certain he would have gladly died if he could just have that one more time, with her…

As he sat there, on one of the abandoned crates on the empty ground floor of the loft building, he stared quietly down at the needle in his hand, balanced on his palm, and all he needed to do was stick it in his arm and let it help him forget… His expression, looking at the syringe, was contemplative, studying, as if he'd never seen it before in his life, as if he couldn't fathom how it had gotten there. None of this was true, of course, and his thoughts ran perpendicular to anything his expression might suggest. Today, of all days, he needed to forget, yes. Needed something to smooth over the jagged edges of pain, needed something of oblivion just to help him get through, but on the other hand…

If he forgot her, even just for a little while, even just for tonight, what was to stop him from forgetting again, and again? What was to stop her from fading away entirely?

Something loud cracked outside, crackled like gunshots – probably some punk kids setting off firecrackers outside – and that made up his mind.

The needle was in his arm before he had a second more to consider it.

"April, I really don't want to be here."

She gave him one of those impossible to argue with looks, the kind that meant she had dug her heels in and would not budge, the kind where she'd tilt her head just a little to one side, and frown, and press her lips together and just watch him until he backed down. "Roger, it's once a year, and it's fun. We'll only be there until the fireworks are over, okay?"

He sighed, but there was arguing with her like this. "Okay, I'll go."

And then she smiled, bright and more beautiful and stunning than any pyrotechnics display possible.

He closed his eyes as the drug ran into his veins, bowed his head, and slowly drew the needle from his arm, leaning over to place it carefully on the bare concrete floor. Please, just a little while to not remember, to forget who he was, to not exist, to go to a place her memory couldn't find him, anything at all…

Images flashed behind his eyelids like scenes cast by a projector, distant words spoken long ago, fuzzy and blurred by time, ringing in his ears.

Roger had sand in his shoes, and the breeze off the water was making him shiver even in July – he hadn't thought to bring a sweater. He sat cross-legged on the blanket April had brought, glowering out at the ocean and the dark sky where you still couldn't see the stars, never could in this city. "It's cold," he murmured to April, who sat beside him, half-bouncing as always with far more excitement than Roger thought the occasion warranted.

"Your fault for not bringing anything to keep you warm," she said, turning to grin at him teasingly, and even in the dark her expression made him a little dizzy, made his head spin a little, her eyes and her smile all alight even in the dark, and she was like light, all energy and shining and lovely.

"I didn't think it would be cold in summer," he protested, but it didn't quite have the resentment his first comment had.

She laughed softly, and scooted across the blanket to sit beside him, almost on his lap, if not quite, and wound her arms around his neck, one of her hands holding the stick of that little miniature American flag she'd been carrying around all day, and the cloth part of the flag brushed against his neck and tickled but he found he didn't particularly mind just then. "Well then, I'll keep you warm, baby."

He was still dizzy, his head still spinning, and he couldn't decide if it was from the drug or from the memory of an angel's smile. He still couldn't breathe, and he wasn't sure if it was because he'd maybe injected too much, too pure, or if it was because he could almost still feel her arms wound around his neck.

He opened his eyes, and his vision was darkening, going to black, and he realized vaguely in the back of his mind that perhaps he ought to be alarmed, perhaps he ought to care… that perhaps he had overdosed and perhaps he was dying… but it didn't matter, because he could still see her, almost, and so he closed his eyes again.

"When is it supposed to start?" he asked impatiently.

"Soon," she murmured, now twisted around so that she actually was in his lap, and his arms were around her now, and her head leaning back against his chest.

"How soon?"

Her eyes fixed on the sky and the water, she shook her head a little. "I don't know, Roger, I don't have a watch…"

She fell silent as bright trails of light streaked into the starless sky and exploded at the apex of their trajectory in brilliant orbs of red, with a resounding crash that Roger could feel in his chest like a loud drum, and a wavering reflection over the ocean. April's eyes remained on the sky and the fireworks, but Roger could only look down at her, her mouth slightly open and faintly smiling in awe and pure joy, her eyes bright and glimmering in reflection, her entire face lit with a vaguely pinkish glow from the fireworks that faded and then slowly fell into darkness.

And he still couldn't breathe, still couldn't think, and this time he was sure he was dying and still didn't care, still was clinging to that image in his mind, bright and brilliant but fading and fading…

Something exploded in his head, brilliant white – and then there was just the darkness.