Before we begin, I'm gonna set the scene a little because I let the creativity go a bit wild with the circumstances of this one!
COMPLETELY AU. Tom Collins had a strict upper-middle class upbringing and instead of being sent to a state school where he would have met Mark & Roger & so on and cultivated a bit of bohemian spirit, he was sent to boarding school. But he's the same Collins inside, so even now, a Professor at NYU, his forced marriage is a loveless one & he feels suffocated and trapped. Angel is living with Mimi and is the same life-loving, pickle tub drumming, gorgeous Angel we know. We'll say for convenience that neither of them has AIDS, but it doesn't come up at allanyway.
Okay, on withthe fic...
Another Road, Another Way
Professor Tom Collins clutched the bulging file of term papers to his chest as the crowd surged up the steps of the subway and the sharp freshness of the November breeze hit him wonderfully, blowing away the stuffy, clammy, claustrophobic feeling of rush hour. He turned away from the crowd when he reached the sidewalk, the breeze now ruffling his shirt and wafting the incredible smell of hotdogs and pretzels from a nearby vendor. His stomach complained as he walked past the cart, but he couldn't stop; his briefcase under his arm was slipping and his two hands were occupied with carrying his morning coffee and desperately trying to prevent four nights worth of marking from falling and scattering all over the sidewalk, and undoubtedly then being carried away by the increasing gusts of wind and ending up all over Lower Manhattan. He chuckled inwardly as he imagined the Head of Department's reaction to that possibility. Somewhere inside him, buried by an oppressively normal upper-middle class existence, his inner mastermind anarchist longed to throw the papers, the briefcase, the coffee, everything in the air and run, hard and fast, in the opposite direction. Escape the soul-crushing feeling of being a hamster in a wheel in a cage, going mad. But this impulse, as usual, was never given enough fuel to surface. Life continued; routine and order. After all, if he didn't clock in on time at NYU day to day, who'd pay for the mortgage, the electricity, gas and water bills, his wife's weekly visit to Bloomingdales? And so Tom Collins hurried on; a brisk, steady pace, his regulation patent black leather shoes clicking on the sidewalk in monotonous rhythm.
As he turned the corner another rhythm drifted into his subconscious, seemingly with the refreshing breeze. Lively and infectious; the non-stop beat of a drum.
Angel huddled into his coat as he hit the sticks against his pickle tub. He was working his magic, getting into the rhythm, and it helped thaw his icy numb hands and take his mind off the chill that ran through his insides. Mornings had been getting colder lately, but he didn't mind, just knitted himself an extra layer and played faster and harder to keep warm. He'd been up since 5am, when Mimi crashed home ready to party and her infectious enthusiasm drew him sleepily from his warm huddle of perfume-smelling blankets. And once Angel was awake he couldn't go back to bed, never could; there was too much to do with a day to waste it in bed. This morning, on a whim, he stationed himself a couple of blocks down from his regular corner. He was pleased to find that this spot was on the NYU-route, and the generous pile of coins and bills he had accumulated was worth the chill.
As he approached Angel, Tom Collins twisted awkwardly, trying to glimpse the time on his silver plated Rolex without dropping his papers, briefcase, coffee. As he did so, he saw Angel out of the corner of his eye. His life, his breath, his heart stopped for an eternal second. A life of order gave way to chaos. There were absolutely no words to explain why; all he registered were the most beautiful, expressive soft brown eyes he'd ever seen, his pointy pink tongue poking out over his top lip in concentration, and an inexplicable glow that he seemed to emit to the dingy, boring, normal world around him. Maybe it was the pinks and purples in his woolly jumper, but Collins' mind didn't even register that he was male. In that short-long second, when he felt the thing that had been brewing within him all his life lift and stir for the first time, Collins' conscious mind stopped functioning for long enough for his term papers and briefcase to clatter to the floor. Luckily he kept his grip on his coffee.
"Oh, honey!" The drumming stopped and Collins realised he was helping him. Flushing all over, he bent down, mumbling an apology, and began to scrabble with him for the fallen papers. The wind was now picking up and beginning to scatter them. Collins apologised over and over, but it was all he could do to resist the urge to hold the beautiful boy's hands and say "Fuck the stupid papers, wanna show me how to live?" when he heard him giggle. Collins was shocked at himself, and at the same time this was perfect, couldn't have been planned better, albeit long overdue. His wife, his job, the whole rest of his unoriginal, uninspiring life faded away when he saw this magical boy.
They collected all they could too quickly, and when their skin touched and their eyes met as the boy held out a hand to help him up, Collins desperately searched for something to make him stay. He'd been in his life for less than two minutes, but Collins already knew that he wouldn't be able to bear it if he left. Opportunity so rarely presented itself in his stilted, monotonous daily grind. But this boy was a light, an escape gap. He was love and anarchy and freedom and pleasure and love, love, love.
"Thanks" was all Collins could say, stumbling over the word, still holding his hand.
The sparkle in his eyes, the playful tilt of his head, the breathlessness when he spoke made Collins wonder if the boy felt something similar to what he was feeling, exploding in his abdomen. He slowly let go of Collins' hand, their skin brushing. Soft skin.
"I'm Angel" he breathed, twinkling.
"Angel..." Collins repeated, mesmerized. His name epitomised the fantasy he represented.
Angel was giggling again, his mouth puckering adorably as he tried to hold it in.
"Do you have a name, honey?"
Collins' face had never felt so hot. "Oh...yeah...Collins...Tom. Tom Collins...friends call me Collins." fumbling for words, his scholarly eloquence was lost.
Angel leaned in towards him and Collins froze when he felt gentle lips brush his cheek. Angel's chest was barely touching his but he could feel his heart beating erratically through the wool and the shirt and the tie, making an odd, wonderful rhythm with his own furiously pounding heart.
"You be careful now Collins." Angel whispered near his ear before he pulled back, grinning. His accent made the 'o' sound like an 'a' and even as Collins was noting this, storing it in the head space he kept for important details, he noticed with urgency that Angel was retreating, back to his drumming on a...pickle tub? Collins smiled widely at the creativeness, even though he felt a tug more powerful than he'd known he could feel as his feet, apparently independently, began to carry him back on his way.
He kept his eyes on Angel for as long as he could, and Angel watched him steadily as he picked up his sticks. Collins searched frantically for something to say; something appropriate, funny, intelligent, anything that would make Angel laugh or smile or want to spend time with him.
"...bye." was the best he could do. But he didn't have time to berate himself because the next thing he knew Angel was waving brightly and shouting, they were that far away from each other now, "Bye Tom Collins! Come back tomorrow!"
And he did. And the day after. And the day after. And forever.
This was written a one-shot for the Livejournal community speedrent, but it's screaming at me to make it into a multichapter full-on story. However I'm impossibly busy at the moment, so whilst it may grow sometime in the future, it won't be anytime soon.
Thanks for reading! Please feel free to share your thoughts...