Let's see...I don't own Rent, and I hate writing fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderous! But really, what else is new?
He's walking down the street, and the first thing he notices is the light.
It's not sunny— it's rarely sunny in New York— but it's bright. He looks up at the sky, but has to squint. There's no blue and there's no yellow, only bright white clouds covering the sky, letting in the light.
He keeps walking, and he notices the smell. It isn't clean, and it isn't of chemicals, but it's just different from what he is used to. Fresher, maybe, he thinks to himself. Or maybe it seems different because he is so used to the inside of the hospital.
The hospital...the hospital? Yes, he had been there, he realizes suddenly. But he doesn't know why and he doesn't know how and he doesn't remember going in or going out, so he keeps walking.
It's not too quiet either, he realizes. Or empty, for that matter. There are people all around him, talking and laughing and walking. But they seem softer than normal people in a normal city. Or, maybe, it's because of the drumming that he can't hear them clearly.
Because suddenly he's aware of a beat coming from the opposite corner. He isn't sure if it has been there from the beginning, or if it only just started. Or maybe it just came about when he thought of it. But there is something so familiar about it that he crosses the street and stands in front of another person, sitting on a bench and drumming on a tub.
Looking at her— and he doesn't know why he thinks of her as a she, even though she looks like a man— he feels another wave of familiarity. Again, he doesn't know why. She doesn't look like he could pick her out from a crowd; she's wearing jeans and a red jacket and a blue winter hat that covers her ears. She doesn't look up from her drumming, and she doesn't see him.
He looks down at her hands, moving so fast that they look like a blur, and sees flashes of blue. Blue nail polish. It hits him suddenly, but he feels his stomach drop as it does. This is a dream, he decides. It has to be, because there's something that tells him that all of this is impossible, that even though he doesn't know who she is, she can't be here.
But even if it is a dream, he thinks, then he might as well be polite. He reaches into his pocket for some change, but only finds a bill. It's ten dollars, and although he feels that he shouldn't be able to give that much, he drops it on the ground next to her.
"Thanks hon—" she begins as she looks up at him.
As soon as he sees her face, he wants to smile. Why though? He doesn't even know if he's ever seen her before. She seems to recognize him though, and she smiles. He doesn't feel as weird then, and smiles back.
"-ney," she finishes, still grinning.
He can't speak, and he doesn't know why.
"Are you sure you can afford to give me that much?" she asks.
"I'm a professor," he answers, but once again he feels as if he hadn't realized it until he'd spoken.
"A professor," she repeats. She doesn't say it as if she's impressed or even surprised, but only as if she's faking interest in a subject that she already knows all about. She doesn't seem mean though, so he keeps talking.
"Computer-age philosophy," he says.
"Really," she replies, a soft smile playing at the edge of her lips. He feels like if anyone had said it that way, he would have felt mocked. But he doesn't. He just feels that she knows something he doesn't. "Tell me about it," she says, extending her hand to have him pull her up.
"I didn't get your name," he says, but he holds out his hand anyway as she grabs her bucket and drumsticks in her left hand. He takes her other hand and feels a shock charge through him. He looks up at her eyes and, in that instant, everything changes.
Because suddenly he's on a different street on a different night and it's dark and it's cold and wet and he's hurting and he's looking up at the face who's helping him stand and it's the same one who's holding his hand now. It's the same face rescuing him, telling him that everything will be alright. And right then he wants to cry because even though he doesn't know who she is, he seems to know everything about her and it takes his breath away.
But then it's over. It was only a split second. He realizes that he must have staggered, or at least taken a step backward, because it seems as if he jerked her toward him and she's fallen on him. He can't breathe. She's too close. She's leaning on him, her face right on his neck. It's too close, but he doesn't know why it matters because he realizes that he knows every inch of her and every fact about her but she needs to leave so that he can figure out what's going on and figure out why and figure out her name.
She tilts her head up and kisses him on the cheek.
And then he's on a different street again, on that same night as before, and it's cold and wet but there's no pain and it's happy. And he's holding her and he knows that she's all that he wants.
It's over in a split second, but he doesn't go back. Instead he's flying through a thousand different other memories of the two of them, and they have that same feeling of warmth and purpose and happiness. They seem to last for years but they're over in seconds, and then he's back to where he was before, in that bright place with the noiseless people with a beautiful person leaning on him and looking up at his eyes.
"Angel," he says.
She smiles. "Indeed," she whispers. And then she takes his hand and leads him down the street.