Title: Metronome (Chapter 4/?)
Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)
Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.
Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.
MARCH 4TH, 1993, 8:42 AM, EST. Angel Dumott-Schunard
"Angelito!" he sings as he throws open the curtains. I stuff my head under the pillow, and contemplate the various methods left to me to convince Nathan that my name is Angel. Just Angel. No variations thereof, thank you very much, sugar. "It's time to get up, cutie; we've got a busy day!" Normally, I'm a morning person, but Nathan's over-enthusiasm—about everything, might I add—occasionally gets to me. But he's right, and he's trying to be sweet, and I think I smell french toast from the next room, so I swing myself out of bed and stretch luxuriously. Nathan looks at me appraisingly, and murmurs, "Damn, girl." I'm wearing the linen pants he bought me and nothing else. He likes when I dress this way for him, at least in bed. I think he likes me to look more butch. I can, however, only comply with his wishes for so long. Today will be difficult enough; I cope with life better when I know I'm stunning. I'm trying to choose between the eggplant velvet and royal blue lycra when Nathan comes back into the room to say that before I make myself lovely for the world, I should eat something.
I must say, I will miss this boy's breakfast-making skills. Not that we're on the verge of a break-up any time soon, it's just...some relationships are obviously destined for a longer shelf life than others. Ours, while fun, and relaxing, and nice, just isn't...It. I hold out hopes of finding someone who looks at me with the exact same loving glance no matter what I'm wearing. Someone who could debate gender politics all night with me, if we wanted to—but wouldn't let his views interfere with how he treated me. And, lastly, someone who will not shrink all of my finery when it's his turn to do the wash. In other words, I hold out aspirations of the Impossible Dream. Can't blame a girl for dreaming, can you? And Nathan, while charming, engaging and sweet, isn't Mr. Right. But he does make the best damn french toast in the city.
"Do you have your social security number?" he asks me, handing me the maple syrup. I nod, and he smiles at me across the table. I wonder if he's nervous. Before we started sleeping together, we had been on our way to dinner out when some guys—kids, really—started up from across the street with the usual catcalls and prepubescent commentary. I ignored it, mostly, as they seemed content to stay on their side of the block, but Nathan was flabbergasted. It took a while for me to explain how lots of people really don't like to see a penis in a dress. Really, really don't like it. He was shocked when I explained that I was even hassled by gay men. In fact, he was so shocked and had been so sweet that I found myself telling him that sometimes people tried to hurt me with their words, and sometimes they tried...in other ways. It's a tough town; sticks and stones are the least of your fucking worries. After I had detailed a number of incidents that had, more often than not, left me in an alley with a bruised face, a ripped dress and a distinct aversion for sitting down for the next few days, Nathan had taken my hand and held it carefully. He kissed my knuckles. He apologized for the assholes of the world. By the time he told me I was lovely, I knew we were going to bed together that night. And then he did something I hadn't expected: he asked me if I'd ever been tested for H.I.V. Truth be told, I was surprised. I hadn't been tested; at the time of my...encounters, I simply hadn't expected to live long enough for it to matter, and once my life had obtained a degree of stability, I thought it best to leave well enough alone. But standing there in the middle of Third Avenue, Nathan's question opened a door. I was happy again, a little older than the teenage drag queen who'd been beaten and raped, a little sturdier and a little firmer in my view that the world was an essentially good place where sometimes shit things happen to good people and you deal with it and move on. If I was sick, I should be taking care of myself. I was kind of attached to my life. And, if I was going to bed this man next to me, it would be only fair. I told him I'd think about it.
Which leads us to today, a few months later, and as I tap out a beat on the dishes I'm washing, Nathan is trying valiantly to locate his health insurance card, to make our long wait at the clinic a little shorter. "Try your extra wallet," I offer from my spot at the sink, and I can here the rumble of opening and closing drawers. I search myself for fear or dread, and find a little, and a little heartache, because somehow, I'm pretty sure what they will tell me. However, life today is good. I have a roof over my head and a stomach full of New York's finest french toast. I will be stunning when we leave this house, and I will still be stunning when we return. I am, I realize, warm water running between my fingers, pretty happy. And that's reason enough to continue being happy. Maybe I'm simplistic. Maybe I'm downright simple. Or maybe I'm just being philosophical about the whole thing. Today, I'm just going to worry about today.