Title: So What Happens Now?
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: T (um... just 'cause it's RENT.)
Summary: PostRENT. The New Year brings with it many new things, events, and feelings, and the Bohemians find their family slowly unraveling. Oneshot. Sort of songfic.
Notes: This was inspired by the musical Evita. Specifically the song, Your Little Body's Slowly Breaking Down.
All quotes in ITALICS are sung. :)
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Each box, each nook brought with it another memory. Each tear carried a story, and a wave of grief that rippled through her body.
Each gentle squeeze of her hand brought with it a sudden feeling of warmth, of safety.
It was a little into the New Year now, and this brought with it potential. Potential had always fascinated her, and captivated her to continue moving, if only for the ability to see how things would actually turn out.
So what happens now?
The day that Collins finally arranged for them to sort through all of Angel's belongings and move them from her vacant apartment was a week and a half after the first screening of Today 4 U: Proof Positive. He had told her that seeing the compiled images of his Angel and her smile brought with it a new strength.
But to her, it brought with it instead an unfamiliar sensation.
Uncertainty. Anxious curiosity.
And although she had once pledged to herself to live each day as if it were its own separate lifetime, this would be one of the moments that she found herself listless in mind and body, but overwhelmingly restless at heart.
This was one of the moments that she would dare to think that she didn't know what to do next, that the world was spinning, and the only thing holding her to the ground was Roger's strong but tender grip as his arm draped across her small shoulders.
Collins kneeling, silent on the floor told a thousand stories without speaking, and she and Roger merely stood back and listened to what he had to tell. His head drooped low, he stared impassively into another box, lifting a shaking hand to caress the glass of the frame that was pressed against his lover's cheek, the photo inside bringing with it its own hollowed memories.
Roger was glancing distantly about, an almost nervous air about him. His eyes would dart conspicuously to her every few moments, his obvious discomfort replaced by a steady beam of love that she could physically feel, like a light that filled her with a heat that rose from her toes to the ends of her tousled brown curls.
She would force a small, sad smile back, tears running freely down her mocha-colored cheeks, bringing with them traces of mascara that gathered to smudge in little pools at the crest of her chin.
The world seemed an alternate reality to her in moments like these, as if her feet beneath her refused to move in they way she desired them to... as if time was slipping by much too quickly, seconds falling through her fingers like grains of sand. The small, cozy, apartment of Angel Dumott-Schunard had once been like a second home to her.
Now it couldn't feel more foreign. The tiniest shreds of certainty no longer shone through her soulful brown eyes as the tiniest shreds of the life Angel once lived only barely existed. Anything concrete was now dulled over by the weakness of not knowing where to go next, despite having the love of her life and a second chance to survive by his side.
She felt lost by all meanings of the word, even though she was mere minutes from her own loft, in territory that had long since been familiar.
For the first time in awhile, Mimi Marquez didn't know how next to move on. Standing in the middle of Angel's abandoned apartment, she wept not only for the dredging up of memories of her beloved friend and her loss... but also for the loss of the future that hadn't happened yet.
The future she'd had plans for not long ago; plans that now lay derelict in her soul, as a piece of something she didn't quite recognize had torn deep rents into whatever strength they'd once possessed.
A floorboard creaked beneath her slightly unsteady footing as she took a step toward the wall, feeling quite faint and detached.
A framed photo, adorned with sloppy, hand-drawn hearts contained and image of a past that she once knew as her own- which now seemed as if it had been a different life completely.
The ghostly reality, the sense that emanated from the photo within: Angel's gleaming smile as she cast a sisterly look to a slightly younger, stronger-looking Mimi, caused her to bite her already chapped lip.
A hand on her shoulder was felt only on the farthest reaches of her
perception, and something within her broke.
She turned into Roger, the smell of his worn leather jacket filled her nostrils and his warmth had never seemed to her more welcome than at that moment.
"So what happens now?" She half-sobbed into his shoulder, her voice only minutely above a whisper.
"Take your picture off another wall." And she found herself accepting the frame that he'd gently tugged from its place, cradling it softly in her arms.
"So what happens now?" She repeated, tracing circles over the fullness of Angel's rounded face, remembering how it was before the disease had worn it into gaunt, pock-marked face that barely managed to mask true sickness, though tried hard as Angel did to do so.
"You'll get by, you always have before." And his reassurance connected with her mind, flowing through her bloodstream and bringing back an ounce of the strength he was referring to.
She allowed her rose-tinted lips to curve up into a sideways smile. She mustered up enough confidence toward her imminent future and blinked softly, fresh tears cascading unnoticed unto the surface of the glass. She rested her head in the crook of his neck as she silently implored her dearly departed friend.
"Where am I going to?" She asked desperately, and upon seeing in Angel's eyes no answer, she threw herself into Roger's arms at the expected outcome.
As his embrace enveloped her completely, she felt Collins' eyes lock into her own. With his gaze came a new wave of anxiousness, coupled with a sliver of hope, which she grasped unto like a lifeline.
"Where am I going to?"
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Collins died only seven short months later.
The strong, tall man who had at most times seemed next to invincible, had succumbed to the wrath of the virus, his body and heart battered at first by the absence of Angel, and upon this weakening, attacked by illness.
Losing Collins was naturally hard on all of the Bohemians. His funeral was held on a summer afternoon just as a thunderstorm was rolling over Manhattan.
Mark had remarked that Collins "would've been delighted to know that he went out with a resounding bang".
Benny had graciously paid for the funeral and then left for a two-week excursion to some beach destination with Alison, who for reasons the Bohemians couldn't understand, had taken him into her arms without question despite any previous relations with Mimi.
Mimi.
She had grown steadily weaker after her miraculous recovery the previous Christmas Eve, but Mimi had always managed to pull out of rough spots and move on, Roger by her side.
She huddled into him at the funeral, wishing that he could hide her from that terrible feeling of uncertainty that she knew was creeping toward her.
The limbs of her once lithe dancer's body trembled as Roger pulled her to him by her waist, kissing the crown of her head and then her temple.
He was deeply affected by the death of the philosopher, as was Mark. The two had spent a day or two numbly pacing about the loft, performing their usual routines also without so much as speaking, the shock chilling them to the core.
And Mimi had been subjected to watching them; sadly reflecting upon the future she didn't know, and was reluctant to admit that she was becoming slightly afraid of.
Though none of the Bohemians were as saddened by this event as Maureen. As she and Collins had been friends since they were learning to talk, Maureen had allowed herself to sink into a sullen, solemn state after the loss of her best friend. Joanne, though also mourning for Collins, had decidedly pulled through for Maureen's sake and agreed to help her through the crisis, without even being asked to do so. The two had tried a second time to commit to one another- and succeeded.
A week after the funeral, Maureen announced that she and Joanne were moving to California. The initial reasoning for the couples' relocation had been that a law firm in Sacramento had offered Joanne something she dared not refuse, and the Bohemians simply let this be the only reason, pretending not to notice the change in Maureen's demeanor: the fear, the restlessness, the yearning for some kind of happiness as she was lost in the abyss.
This would leave Mark, Mimi, and Roger.
Mark had started more personal film work, though no one had yet seen any evidence of a long-term project.
It was on the day that Maureen and Joanne were finishing packing for Sacramento that Mark dodged Roger's questions and escaped to Central Park.
Roger, chuckling softly at Mark's dismissal, was leaned against the door frame of Joanne's New York apartment some time later, Mimi pressed against him, examining her nails in thought.
Maureen, flitting past them brusquely, set another suitcase outside the door in the hall and sent Roger a nod before calling back to "Pookie" and asking if she'd packed yet.
She didn't hear Joanne's answer. She was staring sadly at the small valise that housed Maureen's belongings, lying haphazardly leaned against the railing.
Roger took her hand in his, and she allowed him to support the weight of her slowly deteriorating body. She smiled at him if only to assure him that she was going to be okay and he merely looked into her eyes, his mouth forming a solid line as he pondered her.
She sighed softly, the breath blowing past her lips. Things were changing so quickly that she'd barely had time to acknowledge the transformation. The sudden shifts in the Bohemian family tree had rocked her to the core, and she lived a vacant, overwhelmed shell of the woman she'd once been.
And things would never be the same again.
Maureen brushing past them again broke both her reverie and the tender moment she and Roger had shared. Maureen's thick curls bounced as she waved to them and stated that she and Joanne were off to pay one last visit to Joanne's landlord to tie up the final strings.
Sure enough, the lawyer stepped out not far behind Maureen and met up with her before the two descended the stairs and disappeared from view.
She noted sadly that Joanne had left another valise beside Maureen's, and now the two cases stood side-by-side, a testament to the times.
And as she stared she counted the times she'd felt remotely whole recently on the fingers of her right hand, letting Roger hold her as close as he wanted.
Finally, she realized that her shoulders were shaking. Roger seemed to notice too, and his hand fell from hers. He turned her around and cupped her face in his palms.
Mimi's lip quivered for a moment, and she dared to ask him, "So what happens now?"
"Another suitcase in another hall." His thumb wiped the tears she hadn't known were falling.
"So what happens now?" She looped her bony fingers through his jacket, and ran a hand through his hair.
"We'll get by, we always have before." And he pulled her to him, bringing her into his arms. She clung to him, the side of her face pressed to his chest.
And as she quietly wept, she thought that she had never before felt so tentative of what would happen, as the agonizingly slow events that had torn the family apart crashed upon her in one tidal wave.
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Her skinny arms where his own arms had once snaked through to hold her close were marred by many different tubes and wires. The artificial warmth of the starchy teal sheets did nothing to ease her chills.
Shivering madly, she lay in a heap on the bed, the smell of antiseptic and the white of the walls nauseating her.
And beside her, in an unevenly positioned chair, sat Roger, his fingers wrapped firmly around hers as he determinedly vowed not to let go.
She lifted her head as much as her weakness would allow and her vacant brown eyes bored into his tear-filled green ones.
He bowed his head for a moment, unable to look too long where he'd once seen such life.
Then, he swallowed a lump in his throat and address her, his voice cracking as his raw emotion seeped through. "Your little body's slowly breaking down..." He started, telling her what she already knew, but was unwilling to admit to himself just yet. "You're losing speed; you're losing strength...not style, that goes on..."
His gentle hand reached up and swept a lock of dulled dark chestnut hair from her face, and as he leaned forward, his salty tears saturated the gown she wore, though she cared not.
"Flourishing forever..." He continued, the ghost of a smile alighting his handsome but haggard face, "...but your eyes..." He emphasized meaningfully, and she caught the breath he had to take. "... your smile..." And he gathered himself, pulling her hand upward and kissing the back of it during the pause.
He shook his head. "...do not have the sparkle of your fantastic past." And at the ultimate sadness that was rolling off of him, when she tried to sit up a bit, tried to find words of reassurance to better his spirits, he quickly outstretched a hand and gently lowered her frail figure back into the security of the bed.
"If you climb one more mountain it could be your last." He choked, not willing to let her obstinacy make her weaker. He placed a small kiss to her temple with a meager grin.
She opened her mouth, seeing through the mask of his half-hearted smile. She rubbed his hand a bit with her fingers and replied, "I'm not that ill. Bad moments come but they go...some days are fine, some a little bit harder..."
He watched her quietly, and she could feel his heart aching, the lullabies it echoed syncopating with her own.
"But that doesn't mean..." She stated clearly, as strongly as she could. "We should give up our dream..."
Images of a fantasy life with him by her side flashed before her eyes as fresh tears rolled down Roger's cheeks.
"Have you ever seen me defeated?" She pointed out, though she knew that a miracle wouldn't save her when the disease threatened this time. It would have to be pure luck and strength. Neither of which did she ever seem to have much of anymore.
"Don't you forget what I've been through..." She whispered passionately, her lips tilting into the semblance of a smile. "...and yet I'm still standing."
She saw the biting potential reply to that, the retort that examined her current state, her limp body lying almost lifelessly against the hospital bed, but Roger didn't speak such words, as she knew he wouldn't.
He simply lowered his head, refusing to look into her expectant eyes, dulled over by the sickness that ravaged her without mercy.
"Mimi, you are dying." It was as if the words themselves tore a chunk of him from himself as he spoke them.
But they had no such effect upon her. She merely continued to sport that sad, yet almost content grin, though traces of tears were pooling in her eyes.
"So what happens now?" She rasped through erratic, machine-aided breaths. "Where am I going to?"
Roger's eyes met hers squarely, and he gently squeezed her fingers. She watched his tear-stained face as he slowly opened his mouth and replied, "Don't ask... anymore."
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Leaves crunched under the filmmaker's feet as he reached his destination. He bent down and pressed his fingers to the stone, face red from the cold and eyes slightly watery. His fingers, numbed by the air of the first frost, traced the name of his best friend.
Roger had lived an entire year after Mimi passed, though Mark could not honestly call it truly living. He never wrote another whole song again after her death, though he occasionally strummed random chords and bits of tunes, as broken and jagged as the Bohemian family had become. His body had wasted away quickly, and Mark had been forced to watch as he had shrunk in body mass, grown weak and tired, and eventually caught ill. He died in early fall, which Mark thought he would've found cruelly ironic, as he'd always whined about hating the season.
And now, as Mark knelt in the bitter cold of November, he found himself wondering how to continue on, and with what?
He had created other films after Today 4 U: Proof Positive, but none had initiated much pride or accomplishment, and now he filmed empty, vacant scenes, bereft of true meaning.
He was aimless; searching.
And it was then, on that cold, overcast afternoon at the cemetery that Mark realized that his films, script or not, were over.
He'd only filmed because of that passion, that drive- which he now found himself lacking. Which he knew only came from his friends.
And so, Mark slowly opened his bag and withdrew his camera, cradling the beloved object between his hands. Then, looking down at the headstone before him, he shook his head, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck.
"So what happens now?" He asked no one. "So what happens now?"
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Mark Cohen exited the cemetery, singing softly.
Behind him, alone, sat his camera, left among whom it had only ever thrived.
"Where am I going to? Where am I going to?"
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That was... one of the saddest things I've dared to write.
I was incredibly inspired by Evita. I might try and do a songfic for
Angel/Collins with a whole song from it.
Which would be ironic. Because Angel KILLED EVITA. ;)
Reviews? Feedback is loved and appreciated immensely.