Thomas Collins finds it an odd and almost paradoxical thing, to watch Angel Dumott-Schunard go from her drag-queen persona in hand-made dresses, to his almost street-rat self with short hair and angular features that accent the masculinity that, Collins can admit, are what attracted him to the younger AIDS victim in their first meeting. He finds it an interesting transformation, from where he sits in Life Support as some masculine, fallen angel; to the effeminate woman with the short black hair and eccentric dresses that he walks easily with.
He falls, harder than he had expected, harder than he had ever 'fallen' before he got AIDS. It is not so uncomfortable now as it was when he thought of relationships before. Angel can see Collins, and can understand two things: Collins is going to die; and he can see just who Collins is, dejected over such things as failure and loss and other such nonsense things that, Angel says, should never get him down.
Angel comes willingly to Collins tiny little one room apartment, not far from Mark and Roger's loft where he had been a roommate, and smiles, looking around. She sways her hips when she walks, drawing attention to the fact that perhaps the hips aren't quite as wide as they should be, which reminds Collins that the shoulders are a bit wider than a girls, and that Angel really doesn't have much in the way of breasts, but he still makes a beautiful woman.
Angel takes off the wig and shakes his head a little, as though to settle the hair that he once shaved off and that is growing in now. He smiles at Collins, and sets the wig aside as he shucks his red jacket, swaying hips that aren't quite wide enough to be a girl's as he prowls over to Collins, wrapping his arms around him.
"What's wrong, hon?"
"Nothin', baby." And Collins kisses him—him, even though he's still in that foolishly eccentric dress and those silly green stalkings and those heels that make his legs look good—and wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him close.
Angel giggles, and pulls away, a little bit of a blush on his cheeks as he taps Collins' nose and somehow manages to get away. The duality of him is mind boggling; Collins watches him drop slowly out of the persona, and into the body he was born in to, which seems almost to weigh him.
He picks up pictures and trinkets, and smiles over his shoulder at Collins a bit, who loiters almost pointlessly in the doorway, just watching him. Finally, he laughs, and walks over, removing Collin's coat and vest and tugging him into the room by his shirt lapels.
"You're not a very good host," Angel points out, smiling and giggling slightly, toeing off the heels as he bounces up to steal random little kisses.
"Well, you're kinda distracting," Collins murmurs, almost a growl, spinning Angel around a little bit and smiling as he giggles and clings to his shoulders.
He decides that he could get used to this, hugging the slim body beside him and kissing the pink lips of the younger man. Perhaps, even, he could come to understand the metamorphosis that Angel goes through each day, going from what he is to what he wishes to be—and succeeds in being.
But for now, he will not focus on such things as change. Change means a change in demeanor and outlook on life; on how they hold themselves; a dip in their T-cell counts; a bad flu that knocks you out for almost a month instead of a week. Now, he smiles at Angel, and runs his hands slowly over the short, dark hair that caps his head, and leans in to kiss him, glad, for once, to have been given Death.