Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Collins took one last look back at his lover. Not him, he reminded himself, but he still couldn't think of him that way. Not his Angel. His Angel was too beautiful, so animated, so alive. His Angel couldn't be…

It was just supposed to be one look, one glance back, one final goodbye, but what he saw stopped him cold in his tracks.

"No," he breathed, so quietly, he was sure none of his friends around him could even hear.

But he should have known. He should have known Mimi would notice. Mimi. Of all his friends, Mimi was the one whose grief was likely just about as strong as his own. They had been closest to him, after all.

"Collins?" Collins barely heard her speak his name. All he could do was stare at the sight before him. He'd tried to stay calm, tried so hard not to let the emotions overwhelm him, but now… now he couldn't hold the tears back and they welled up, blurring his vision and burning his throat.

"No," he whispered again, the word sent out on a sob.

Ignoring the gentle touch of Mimi's hand on his arm, Collins staggered back toward Angel's grave. He heard voices behind him, but couldn't make out what any of them were saying. His entire world had narrowed down to the sight of Angel's coffin, being slowly lowered into the ground.

It had been hard enough for him to accept that Angel, his beautiful, sweet, bubbly Angel, was in there at all. He'd had to remind himself that it wasn't truly Angel, only a shell of the man he had loved. But it had been so hard. And now, seeing him being lowered into the cold, dark ground, Collins simply couldn't take it anymore.

"Angel!" he cried, his voice finally returning as he made his way through the rows of gravestones. He couldn't leave him here! Couldn't leave him alone! Angel didn't like to be alone!

A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, stopping him from moving any farther, and he fought against them. But he was weak from lack of sleep, from days filled with grief, and he was no match for them.

"Let me go!" he sobbed, "I have to go to him! I can't leave him here!" His eyes never left Angel's coffin, and a choked sob welled up inside him as it disappeared beneath the surface. He renewed his struggles against whoever was holding him, but the panic was overwhelming him.

"Angel! Oh God, Angel!" he sobbed, collapsing into those arms, body wracked with grief. His eyes never strayed from Angel's grave and his mouth formed silent words that he couldn't get out.

"Collins," he heard a familiar voice say, and he struggled to focus on it, "Collins, it's not him. It's not Angel."

"I can't leave him alone!" Collins wailed, reaching out to his lover.

"Collins!" the voice said, louder this time, and Collins turned in his grasp to look at him with barely focused eyes.

"Collins," he repeated, more gently this time, holding his gaze, "You know that's not him. He's in a better place now. He's not hurting. He's not scared." Even as he said the words, they sounded hollow.

But to Collins, those words seemed to penetrate the haze of panic and fear and grief that had overwhelmed him. The tears still fell, soaking the other man's shirt, but they fell quietly, and as he looked up into his eyes, he could feel himself beginning to calm. He knew he was right.

"What do I do now, Mark?" he asked, voice raw and laced with pain. He felt completely lost.

Mark said nothing for a time, and Collins saw his gaze shift to Angel's grave before moving back to him. He regarded him quietly, swallowing hard against the grief he saw on his friend's face before finally speaking.

"You live."