Disclaimer: Rent belongs to Jonathan Larson. Please don't sue me.

Office hours were boring. That was one very apt manner in which Collins could describe them, but it was not the only manner. There were others: for example, unnecessary. Maybe a tenth of his students, a twentieth, came to him after class or set up appointments. Once in a while he had visitors in need of recommendations. Two years ago he had a student visit his office hours every Tuesday and Thursday from her first week in his class until graduation.

But mostly, office hours was a couple of hours in which Collins sat around, did some grading, spun around in his chair… basically, a waste of time. So he wasn't in the best mood at the cusp of that particular hour one very wet Thursday in February.

Angel was sprawled in Collins' chair, his feet—or rather, his tennis shoes propped up on the desk beside a set chess board.

That, he had not been expecting. Collins smiled and dumped a stack of newly collected assignments on the desk, then slumped in a chair opposite Angel. "I didn't know you played," he said.

Angel took his shoes off Collins' desk. He hadn't been in the mood to bother with things today. Lately it had been one annoying little thing after another, like trying to use the soap when it was just a tiny sliver, and trying to unwrap a new bar of soap with wet hands when the wrapper kept sticking and breaking into tiny pieces; like being down to two pieces of bread and they were both heels; like staying inside with Collins all Saturday because he was miserably hungover, even though he hadn't asked.

All these things piled up, so that when something not so small happened—when Mimi had a fight with Roger, for instance, or Angel had a call from home—he was simply not up to handling it. Today Angel needed things to change, was not even in the mood to be noticeable. He wasn't up to doing his make-up, painting himself real. He had gone to NYU in threadbare jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket, like a boy who woke up on the wrong side of the bed and hadn't even brushed his teeth that morning.

"I didn't know you went to office hours."

Collins laughed. "I can't play hooky every day." Maybe he didn't actually mind teaching. Sometimes you met someone worth talking to, or fun to argue with. The latter was more common. Collins moved one of his pawns forward. He had barely taken his fingers off the piece but Angel moved, his piece seeming to slam down. Collins looked up in surprise. "Ang…?"

He smiled. "Playing to win, honey."

"All right," Collins agreed, laughing. After another three moves, Angel captured a pawn and Collins asked, "This isn't strip chess, is it?"

"Mmno," Angel murmured, his voice low. They hadn't really done anything serious together, even when they mentioned death and dying and G-d and the secrets of the universe, conversations usually taking place in bed at two a.m. Even those conversations had been light, punctuated with kisses and touches and sweet nothings instead of commas, semi-colons and periods.

This chess game on a rainy Thursday was the first serious conversation they had had. Collins didn't dare say a word. Anything he could think of would be wrong.

He picked up on Angel's style fairly quickly. When Collins played chess, he started with the same three moves then tailored his game to his opponent's style. With someone like Roger, someone young and insecure, Collins played conservatively to prolong the game. With Benny, there was talk, an air of forced recreation, to cover discomfort, causing discomfort. With Maureen, chess was like sex. Angel was a fairly crude player, taking as many pieces as he could, as quickly as he could. So Collins played offensively, trying to collect Angel's pieces.

Actually, it turned out to be a lot like checkers. It was a sort of chess-checkers hybrid. Collins liked it: less pressure than chess, but more entertaining than checkers. In the end he let Angel take his king.

Angel placed his hand over Collins' and twisted his watch to see the face. "Good," he said. He stood up and cleared the chessboard, then shoved it into his ratty pink backpack. "We can g'home now."

Collins grabbed his papers. As the headed out of the university, he slipped his hand around Angel's gently. "Thanks for that," he said. In truth, Collins was still reeling slightly from how aggressively and inelegantly Angel had played. He hadn't thought him a great chess player, but not aggressive. But Angel had come to see him, to play chess with him, when he needed someone, had found him again in a horrible moment. "You're really an angel, aren't you?" he murmured, leaning close to him.

In the subway, Angel let himself lean against Collins, jolting into him when the train moved. He mulled over the question, though he knew the answer.

"No," Angel said when they reached the apartment. He tossed his backpack on the floor and stepped on his heels to yank off his shoes.

Collins was already digging through his pockets for a joint. "Hm?"

"No," Angel repeated. He stepped close to Collins until they were almost toe-to-toe, Angel's chin tilted up to compensate for the difference in height. "I'm not an angel. I'm not Heaven-sent." His jaw was set, and his eyes bore into Collins', unmoving, unflinching. "I get pissed off. I can be greedy and aggressive and selfish and stupid."

Collins had the rare sensation that he simply did not get it. "Baby, what's goin' on?" he asked.

"I'm not an angel, Collins. I'm human just like you."

He nodded. "I know." And somewhere inside him, he had always known. It wasn't easy. In fact, it hurt. But he loved Angel, and Angel was human, and that was okay in a low, quiet sort of way.

Angel stood up on his toes to kiss Collins. "Is that okay?" he asked.

Collins placed his hands on Angel's hips, which made both of them feel warm all over. "Are you sure? You don't have to do this. Humans… Angel, humans… we bleed."

Angel smiled. He blinked.

"I'm sure." He stood on tiptoe again and kissed Collins with every failing in his frail, dying, gloriously human body.

the end!

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