A/N: New fic! Huzzah. This is sorta random and I don't like the ending, but oh freakin well. Squee moment...I SAW ADAM AND ANTHONY!!! it was incredible and i love them forever and another friend of mine got to hug Adam and I shall grrrr at her (grrrrrrrr). Anyways, they are amazing and I shall never forget them.

Squee moment over. Heh. Timeline: a few days post RENT.

"One of those red ones…it's sorta frilly and soft…like that," I say, pointing to one of the bright white flowers bundled in a bouquet. The flower vendor follows my finger and brightens when he sees what I'm talking about.

"Carnations?"

"Yeah. But not white, red…do you have any?"

"Lemme check," he says gently, getting up and shuffling back to look over his merchandise. He's an old guy, probably Italian. I've bought flowers from him before; not that I buy flowers a lot. They're too fragile and short-living for me. My mom used to have these big arrangements sitting around the house all day. She would trim the stems diagonally and buy supplies of plant food to dump into the water, which she'd change every day. I never had the attention span for something like that. I wanted my beauty ready at a moment's notice and I wanted it to last without any effort on my part.

I buy flowers for friends sometimes, but never carnations. They're too…well, plain. I like the acid pink blossoms with flecks of maroon on the petals, or maybe those roses that've been dyed blue and purple. Carnations are ordinary. Pretty, but plain.

That's what I thought until I saw someone light up the world when she danced with carnations in her hair.

"Here, ma'am, you got the last bouquet," says the vendor, reappearing with a slightly wilted bunch of red carnations and a large smile. I hold up my hands to stop him.

"No, I don't really want a lot. Just one's good for me…can I take a look?" He shrugs and hands the flowers over. I look over them and finally locate the least wilted specimen, fully in bloom and blazing crimson against the dark green of my glove.

"This is perfect. Thanks a bunch…here you go." I pay him and turn to head down the street when I hear the vendor say something.

"Who's the flower for, miss? A Christmas present for that lucky boy? You'd look a very pretty sight with that in your hair, if you don't mind me saying so," he chuckles, winking warmly at me. My mouth feels a little dry, but I try my best to smile back.

"No lucky boy…and it's not for something like that. Just a little something to give a friend. But thank you again and…and merry Christmas," I reply, returning the wink. He grins and gives me a small wave. I wiggle my fingers at him and turn to leave again, this time walking so fast that I wouldn't be able to hear him even if he called out again. I don't want to talk to anyone else before I get to her. I want to look at my flower, so small and bright that I feel like I'm carrying a lit firecracker in the palm of my hand.

The cemetery is too far away for me to reach before dark falls. By the time I get there and work my way to the correct patch of ground, the sky is a hard ebony color and snow has started to drift down like particles of mist from the night's own clouded breath. The grounds themselves aren't dark: candles are all around me, flickering warmly through the snow. I pass hunched figures wrapped in overcoats and scarves as I head deeper into the cemetery and they make their exit, their grief and memories trailing almost tangibly behind them. I see one little group—a woman and two small children, both swallowed in purple down jackets—stoically touching each gravestone as they walk towards the exit. I see a tiny mittened hand brush over the name of someone long dead and probably forgotten. The fingertips wipe a clean trail through the fuzzy dusting of snowflakes.

I know where I'm going and it doesn't take long to get there once I'm on the right path. It's small: maybe eighteen inches long and twelve wide, with neat words chiseled into the granite surface. The gravestone is raised slightly off the ground, and the snow is already deep enough to have reached the top edges. Kneeling, I brush snow from a small space on the ground and sit back. My legs are crossed and I hunch against the cold as I reach into my pocket and draw out my own candle—a fat, dark pink one that I stole from the putrid selection of holiday candles Joanne's mother sent her for Christmas—and a book of matches. After a few tries, my shaking fingers manage to light the match and in turn, the candle. It burns with a small, oval flame that seems to make the surrounding air shimmer. The light throws the words on the gravestone into sharp relief. Angel's name is defined by the flickering candlelight, the letters moving as though they have life in them.

The red carnation is between my fingers. I twirl it slowly back and forth, watching as the snow drifts down and crystallizes momentarily on the fiery red petals before dissolving into dewdrops. One drop slips off the flower and trickles down my finger. It makes the cold air seem even colder against my skin. Slowly, as though the flower is frozen to my hand, I lower it to the gravestone's surface and let it drop with a soft rustle onto the snow-dusted stone.

"I'm doing this for you," I say, my words hardening into ice as the snow snatches them up. "You always said to me that clichés were corny…but they wouldn't be clichés if someone didn't do them once in a while. So here I am…with the flower and the snow and the candle. I'm here, Ang…" My throat tightens and I have to swallow painfully to force the next words out. "I'm here because I need you so bad that this is best I can do."

The snow is picking up, and wind is driving it back into my face. My ugly, squat little candle still burns, though its flame jumps and bends. My cheeks and ears sting; I pull my ski cap down farther and pull my scarf up to my nose. The carnation is whitish now, covered by a translucent layer of snow. I brush it clean and for a moment that red shines so brightly through the haze of flying snow that my eyes start to water.

"Remember Christmas last year? You had that gorgeous Santa outfit…and flowers in your hair—I mean your wig. I never asked you if they were paper or real, even though I wanted to…but I always sort of knew they were real. And they looked like carnations, so…goddamn it, I'm trying not to be this idiotic, emotionally-swollen person who has to go talk to a piece of rock to feel human again, but that's what I am, so deal with it!" My voice doesn't seem to be coming for me now. Tears are on my face, stinging from the wind, and I have no idea how they got there. All I know is that right now Angel is not only below me, she is above and beside and all around me. And more than anything, I want to stay with her. Because I am not this person, I am not the one who breaks down and does things like visiting graves in the middle of the December night. But somehow I have ended up here in the snow with a flower and the tiny memorial to someone I loved like family and friend put together. I am here and I don't know why, but I can't leave.

The ground is cold, but the gravestone is colder. My cheek instantly numbs as I curl up on the ground, the ground acting as my bed and the gravestone as my pillow. The candle still struggles to stay alight inches from my face, though I can't feel any warmth from it. My flower—my little red flower—is simply a red-white blur through the now thick snow. The cold is gone; I am only numb, so numb that my thoughts seem to be numbing along with my body. Mimi and Roger and Mark and Collins and Joanne…they all seem so distant now, like a dream or a fleeting idea. My eyes flutter shut as the snow embraces me in gentle arms that remind me of someone who I loved and lost…so long ago…and the sweet sleep pulls me down into darkness…

The next thing I know, the solid ground and gravestone have disappeared and I'm being cradled in two real arms, not of snow but of flesh, and they're rocking me back and forth as the person holding me walks forward. My head is foggy and dense, and I just want to go back to sleep. That sleep was so peaceful, like the sleep of a young child on its mother's lap. I want the numb of cold to relax my limbs again…and I want to have the light of my candle shining through my eyelids. I want to sense my red flower nearby again. But these arms are holding me tightly against a firm chest and my head falls forward to rest against a warm shoulder. The warmth hurts. I want to be cold again.

The rocking motion slows and suddenly the snow and wind are gone. The cold is swiftly decreasing, and I can feel the arms around me bouncing slightly as my carrier goes down stairs. Suddenly the cold disappears altogether from the air around me…and the cold inside attacks full-force. I shiver once and then I can't stop; my teeth are chattering in my skull and my head is aching like someone used it as a hammer. Without opening my eyes, I cling to the chest I'm pressed against, the fabric of the coat still wet with snow.

Time seems to blend into the intervals between shivers; before I know it, I can hear a great rushing sound and feel the belch of warm air as subway doors slide open. The subway car is warmer than the station, so I shiver harder. The arms cradling me shift as the body attached sits down, and then I feel the hand, warmer than all else, gently brush over my cheeks and forehead, wiping away the trace snow. As soft fingers rub circles around my eyes, I slowly let my eyelids rise.

I knew it would be him the second before I saw his face. Cheeks darkened with chill, melted snow glittering in his knit cap, the collar of his leather coat turned up—Collins sees my eyes open and half-smiles, his hand combing through my hair. He's still cradling me in his arms, and for the first time that night I feel a spurt of warmth in the one place that has not thawed: my heart. Suddenly I can feel the sogginess of my clothes and my ski cap tucked into my pocket. My stomach flips as another sick shiver shakes my body.

"Take it easy…you're going to be pretty out of it for a while," he says softly. The subway car hums beneath us, flashing lights whipping past in the windows. I shiver again, and he tightens his hold on me. His fingers are still gently massaging my face, while mine are hooked into the fabric of his shirt. The aching in my head is subsiding and I can finally start to think.

"What…happened? I was at the cemetery, and—"

He interrupts my hoarse words. "I was going to spend a little time with our girl myself…and imagine my motherfucking surprise when I get there and I find you covered in about three inches of snow. I thought you were a homeless person for a minute or two."

"Oh, that's nice," I say, coughing a little. His fingers are bringing feeling back to my features. I try to sit up more, but he gently pushes me back.

"Like I said, you'll be out of it for quite a while. Spending a couple hours in temperatures like that is going to mess with you."

"I didn't mean to," I tell him. "I just wanted to visit her…leave her a flower…and the snow was so cold and I got sleepy and I just wanted to lie down there with her…" I trail off as I see Collins's eyes. He half-smiles again, though this time I can see pain in it. And then he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. My eyes widen as I look at my bright red flower, still damp and somewhat flat from being in Collins's pocket…but still there.

"I know the attraction, Maureen…but after a while, you learn that it doesn't do anything for you: lying down and remembering…that's not what she wanted, for one thing. Angel…she wants us to live, not to lie and sleep."

I'm not sure what to say. The whole situation is sort of surreal: I almost froze to death in a cemetery and now I'm in the subway, trying to explain to my best friend why the hell I did something so stupid in the first place. But now he stops massaging my face and slides me off his lap into the seat beside him. I feel watery, unsteady; I lean against his shoulder and his arm goes around my shoulders. I close my eyes and breathe in and out in rhythm with the subway. My red carnation is lying on my lap, small and delicate.

"Collins, did you know I was going to be there?" I ask after a few minutes. He doesn't answer at first. Then I hear him sigh and shrug slightly.

"Maybe. I don't know. If I did, she told me." Collins sounds tired. I want to say something to comfort him, but the only thing that comes to mind is another question.

"Mimi said she saw her on Christmas Eve. I want to see…I want to believe that I can see her too. And you…do you see her?"

His voice sounds hoarse when he replies. "If I'm dreaming…and it's just quiet enough outside…I think she sits down beside me on the bed and I can see her then. She can't talk to me…but I can see her. And…" He swallows. "And Mimi was right. She does look good, she—she's still beautiful."

I nod and reach across his lap, entangling my fingers with his. He squeezes my hand and I can feel his wrist against my knuckle, his pulse slow and steady. The subway is still going: all around us are tired, happy people and tired, depressed people, all of them suffering from holiday pain. It's funny about the holidays. Last year, Christmas was one of the best nights of my life. This year…well, it was the most painful and the most wonderful time I think I've ever been through.

"We'll make it," I whisper fiercely. I'm not sure what I mean, but I have to talk, I have to let some of the feeling inside me out through my mouth. "You and me and Mimi and everyone else. We'll bitch at each other and we'll miss Angel and we'll crash into brick walls again, but we'll make it. This is the East Village; here, people don't get a choice about it, they make it whether they want to or not. We'll go on," I squeeze his hand again. "And we'll do it together."

Collins glances at me. His eyebrows are arched. "Viva le vie boheme?"

"Viva that and all the crap that comes with it," I say firmly. He smiles again, this time a real one. The subway doors belch open again, and we get to our feet. I lean on him as we walk; I still feel like shit. Out in the station, a homeless man sits on a mat of newspapers and dirty army blankets, gloomily holding a coffee cup in his chapped hands. I look at him as we approach; then, pulling away from Collins, I manage to make my way over to the man. He starts and gazes up at me, his coffee cup still loosely clutched in his fingers. Reaching into my pocket, I bring out the few coins the flower vendor gave me for change. With a series of soft thumps, they fall into his cup.

And as an afterthought, the carnation follows.

He pulls it out of the cup and scrutinizes it curiously. I feel Collins take my arm and support me, though he doesn't try to pull me away. Finally, the homeless man gives me a small smile, his brownish teeth glinting in the station lights.

"Something I'm s'posed to do wit' the flower?" I shrug and shake my head.

"Just…have it. I guess…anyway, Merry Christmas." I awkwardly pull Collins towards the stairs. I know that he might understand what I did, even if I don't. All I know is that last Christmas, when Angel spun and danced and lived with that red carnation in her hair, I felt just as alive. And even though that man won't know what it was like to watch her…he'll look at that carnation and see how bright it is, and how the petals are so soft and thin.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll feel alive for a second or two.