A/N: I don't own RENT. The setting is self-explanatory, and very much AU.
It's a one-shot. I debated continuing it, but there were so many ideas and not enough time to write them so I kind of rounded off with a summatative paragraph. If it were continuing the chapter would have ended at the previous one. There's a possibility I may pick it up waaaay in the future, but I'm not in the zone right now.
Orphanage
Little Angel Lopez hovered nervously in front of the heavy metal door to the Downtown NY State Orphanage.
He raised a tiny, grubby finger and jabbed at the brass bell. The resounding ring echoed inside and he heard it a little through the closed door. He felt scared and it made him tremble a little as he stood there pulling at a loose thread on the bottom of his baggy t-shirt, staring intently at it, not looking at the door. Doing his best to avoid whoever was going to come out and whatever they were going to do with him.
It had been about six minutes since his older sister Carla, sixteen and a half and ready to take care of herself thank you very much, had left him there. That's how long it had taken him to build up the courage to ring the bell as instructed. He'd toyed with the idea of not ringing it at all, but he had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, so he had little choice.
When the door opened and a kind but firm face greeted him expectantly, he spoke the words Carla had taught him, still staring at the hem of his t-shirt, his voice light and his words mumbled,
"Hello. I'm Angel. I'm eight years old and I'm from this neighborhood. My mommy died and I have no-one else to look after me, so I need to live here please."
He stumbled a little on the longer words - although he was rather intelligent for his age, English was not his first language. But the apparent relief at having managed the speech made his head shoot up confidently. He looked at the woman with the naive, wide-eyed expectancy of a child; a quality that he would not loose as he grew up, even when he was fully grown.
Her heart broke a little at the sight of him, even as she was mesmerized by his beautiful doe-eyes, and she ushered him inside, through a smaller wooden door, and into a square room. It had white walls and ceiling, but they were decorated all over with children's artwork; pictures and paintings. The woman, smiling warmly and introducing herself as Mrs. Levenstock, led Angel to sit in a large blue chair. He liked the chair; it was padded and comfortable, and he could swing his legs over the edge and tap out rhythms with his heels on the clickety material of the chair's legs.
He spent a few hours in the chair, whilst Mrs. Levenstock quizzed him about his life, his past circumstances, his family members, and he rattled off the story, as he had gathered it, from his eight year old perspective, of his mother: drug addict and AIDS sufferer, part time dancer and prostitute, died young.
As an eight year old, Angel didn't fully understand much of what he was describing. But Mrs. Levenstock was able to decipher it from his description. Prostitution from the "lots of different angry men who played with mommy upstairs and shouted", for example.
Angel didn't cry once during his account, in fact didn't become emotional at all. Just narrated steadily, with a calm but powerful energy. He had loved his mother because he was supposed to, and because she told him she loved him. But no one really spent time with Angel aside from the basic care required to keep him alive. Of the someones that could possibly have paid him more attention, there was only his mother and his sister Carla, and both were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice him. So Angel had developed somewhat of a detachment from them. He was by no means emotionless, however, and used the rest of the world as an outlet for his misguided love; often befriending cats and dogs and other young children on the street or in the park. Angel was the type of friend who made the day brighter just by being there.
When Mrs. Levenstock asked him, Angel couldn't remember his last name. She smiled - poor thing - and said he could pick one.
Bouncing in his seat excitedly at this opportunity for creative expression - even at a young age it was evident that Angel had a natural creative flair - Angel sat up on his knees and glanced rapidly around the room.
His eyes landed on a discarded newspaper on the small desk near Mrs. Levenstock's elbow. Leaning as far forward as he could without falling out of the chair, Angel read with difficulty, "Dumott Schunard".
Mrs. Levenstock laughed at his unusual choice, but once he'd said the two words, he was petulantly attached to them. Even this, she noticed, he did adorably.
She mused that it would be no problem to get him fostered. Although he was apparently unaware of it, he had a strong natural presence - a goodness, a sweetness; she was being charmed by him already.
Angel was shown to his room, which he shared with twelve others of a similar age, and his bed, which was very comfortable compared to the mattress he had shared with Carla in his old house. He settled in very quickly and made friends.
It wasn't until three days later that he met Tom Collins.
Tom had lived in the orphanage since he was a baby.
He'd lived with his father and grandmother until he was two, when they both died tragically. He was now eleven, and had developed into an extremely intelligent, considerate and sensitive young boy with a playful sense of humor, despite the sadness and disturbance in his past. As a naturally shy boy though, he rarely opened up to people. He was also very deep and often Mrs. Levenstock and the other teachers and his friends would hold conversations with him and wonder where he was, because his mind tended not just to wander, but to take great voyages, on a regular basis.
However, neither this nor his shyness stopped him from being one of the most popular boys of any age group at the orphanage. His winning smile, with its twinkle, and his natural air of coolness and quiet confidence saw to that.
His friends called him Collins; his gang all went by their surnames. They liked it because it made them feel cool, like secret agents; like Bond.
Three days after Angel had arrived at the orphanage, Collins was sitting with a large group of friends. They were considered "the older gang" by the younger kids, who feared and revered them, due to the fact that their ages went right up to eighteen, the eldest in the orphanage.
Tom, at eleven, was one of the youngest in the group, but easily one of the most popular. It was lunchtime and they sat on the cool stone steps leading from the back door of the large building to the small square play yard. The building cast a shadow over the concrete, so they could relax and chat in the shade. Collins was simultaneously engaged in a game of Battleship with his friend Mark and telling a rude joke to his friend Roger and a small crowd of listeners when a red ball with a big yellow star rolled right up to him and stopped at his feet.
It was followed a few moments later by a small Hispanic boy with huge pretty eyes. At first Collins thought he was a girl with short hair, except for the clothes. He was smiling brightly and bounded up to where Collins was sitting, whilst three of his young friends gathered tightly in a huddle and whispered, shooting nervous glances at the steps.
Collins couldn't help but admire the kid's guts; approaching a large group of older kids so confidently. Everyone was generally friendly at the orphanage, but children automatically tended to stick to their groups of similar ages. And when the kid spoke, still smiling, Collins felt his thoughts go off on one of their holidays as he got lost a little in the boy's engaging eyes. There was something about them that spoke to his soul.
When the kid had finished speaking - Can I have our ball back please? - Collins found that he was smiling brightly too; mirroring the boy's grin.
"Sure" he answered, and gave the ball a nudge with his foot so that it rolled towards the kid. His smile grew, gratefully and he bounced on the balls of his feet.
"Hey, what's your name? Are you new?" Collins was sure he would remember this boy if he'd seen him before.
"Yeah. My name's Angel Dumott Schunard." Angel, still bouncing on his toes, loved his new last name and used it whenever he had the opportunity.
Collins chuckled, "That's quite a name. I'm Collins. These are my friends."
No-one in particular was paying attention to Angel except Collins, but he didn't notice.
Angel began chattering animatedly to him, pointing at the Battleships board and squealing excitedly because he remembered one from home: his old home.
Collins nodded sympathetically when Angel explained how he ended up at the orphanage, and Angel patted him gently on the shoulder when he told him his story; the story he'd been told, because he'd been too young at the time to remember anything about them.
Sometimes he thought he saw his father in his dreams, but he figured that was just something his over-active mind made up. Before he knew it, Collins had shared this with Angel, who kept patting his shoulder, wide innocent eyes filled with compassion.
Collins was shocked - he wouldn't have said something like that to his closest friends normally. But there was something about Angel that made Collins unable to resist telling him - maybe it was the directness of his eye contact - because when Angel looked at him, Collins felt like he could...see…or read his mind or something.
Their conversation was interrupted when it came Collins' turn for Battleships. Angel chose his move for him - Collins said he could, because Angel remembered his old board at his ex-home - and whispered it in his ear, before sprinting off with the ball to a huddle of very impressed eight and nine year olds.
Collins and Angel saw each other again at dinner. There was a seat free next to Collins so Angel went and sat down. Collins seemed very surprised at first, but they were quickly chatting again, forgetting about the age gap and the fact they barely knew each other.
They soon became good friends.
Nearly a year later, Angel entered his fear of the dark phase and began having nightmares.
After a particularly nasty one, he lay awake; cold, rigid, staring at the ceiling. His stomach jumped beneath the covers as he thought about what he should do. He'd thought about doing it for many nights now. But boys weren't allowed to go into each other's beds. No one was allowed in anyone else's bed.
He drew the covers up further around him and took deep breaths; trying to sleep, trying not to think what, who might be lurking in wait for him the minute he let down his defenses. The second he closed his eyes, he saw nasty, evil, mean and they sprang back open.
He didn't cry because, sadly, he'd realized as he grew up, from experience, that crying gets you nowhere, gets you no love or pity or sympathy, and just doesn't help. He was also too scared to cry. He desperately wanted to feel safe. He wanted to be held and experience safety he'd never felt before. And there was only one person he knew who made him feel that way.
Pushing down his covers, Angel slipped silently out of his bed, and tiptoed out of his room, down the hallway, into Collins' room. He tried not to think of the consequences, only the feeling of safe. But as the door to Collin's room creaked slightly shut behind him, only a thin shaft of light from a gap in the curtains covering the long imposing windows - in a big house in the dark, everything is fuel for fear - a terrifying pang of worry shot through Angel.
What if Collins said no? What if he didn't want him in his bed? For some reason, this was twice as terrifying as all the horrible thoughts combined.
There was a feeling though, a certainty Angel felt somewhere in the region of his heart, that Collins would never turn him away. He would be just as happy to see Angel as Angel was looking forward to see him. As he felt this, Angel reached Collins' bed. He was curled on his side, eyes closed, one arm under the pillow, the other wrapped around himself, smiling in his sleep.
Angel whispered, "Collins."
Collins shifted a little in his sleep, snuggling further under the blankets and murmuring incoherently.
Angel whispered again, a decibel louder, "Collins."
This time Collin's eyes slowly opened. Angel watched as he blinked slowly, realizing where he was, and that he had an Angel by his bed. He looked at Angel expectantly. Their eyes met through the dark and no-one moved or spoke for a moment, but they both understood what it meant.
Then Collins' face broke into a sleepy smile and he wordlessly pulled back his blankets, shifting backwards a few inches to make room for Angel.
Angel smiled gratefully and felt his small fists unclench in relief as he climbed carefully into bed. Instinctively he reached out for Collins. Collins had automatically reached out at the same time, and immediately he felt his arms surround him. He buried his face in Collins' bed t-shirt. He smelled like home and love. Angel felt Collins kiss the top of his head lightly. He seemed so delicate and precious to Collins, like this. Like a treasure; his treasure.
He felt a warmth spreading and it was pride; that Angel had chosen his bed, that he trusted Collins to protect him. And Angel felt protected - Collins' arms were strong and warm and gentle. So this is safe, Angel thought.
He burrowed into Collins as much as possible, mumbling a muffled "G'night" into his chest. Soon he could feel and hear Collins' breathing and heartbeat slow, and knew he was asleep. It took him a while to drop off himself, but he did eventually. He wasn't scared anymore, because he was with Collins now. And when he closed his eyes this time it was just him and Collins, and Collins was his shelter from the bad things, and he was safe.
There was between them an undeniable SOMETHING, love in its purest form; connection, trust, security, happiness just by being with the other person. And deeply buried was the other something that began brewing, very slowly simmering, that night when Angel finally did make it to Collins' warm bed - a thought that was at the time subconscious for Collins and strange and alien and uncharted for Angel, but would one day grow into a beautiful, passionate, sexual love, as well as a spiritual one.