Disclaimer: All Jonathan's. RIP

AN: I usually write Angel as a 'she', but not in this fic, because he is a boy for most of it. Thanks so much for the lovely reviews I received for my first RENT fic. Everyone here made me feel so welcome and inspired me to continue, so thanks!

17-year-old Angel was nervous when he first decided to tell his mother he was gay. Nervous, but not worried. After all, it was the father who was more likely to be angry his son liked dressing as a woman. And due to the absence of a father figure, Angel wasn't too anxious. Even so, he decided to break it to his mother gently. Rather than appearing in full drag, Angel climbed to the top of his wardrobe to his box of 'secret clothes' – dresses, skirts, tights, and a bag of makeup – to retrieve only his short, black wig and his favourite red lipstick. He applied it carefully, and, adjusting the wig atop his head with one hand, he made his way down the stairs to his mother's room.

'Mama? I have…something to show you,' he called. He rounded the corner into her bedroom where she was folding some laundry. He stood in the doorway and cleared his throat slightly. She looked up, and stopped folding, and stared. Angel watched her face carefully. She looked surprised, and then confused, then slowly a dawning look spread across her dark features. She opened her mouth, then closed it, wetting her lips, and opened it again.

'Angelo…you are trying to…t-tell me something?'

Angel nodded, a knot twisting in his stomach. He hadn't expected this, this…hesitancy, this doubtfulness.

'I'm…Mama, I'm…I want to be…like this…' he trailed off, regretting his decision to tell her at all, he should have waited, he should have told her without the wig, without the lipstick, he should have-

There was a resounding smack as his mother strode to the doorway and slapped him unsparingly across the face. Angel blinked and gasped slightly as his mother stared at him, fury etched into her forehead, before pushing past him and stalking down the hall. The slam of the front door echoed moments later.

He hadn't noticed his legs were trembling until they gave out beneath him, and he sank to the floor, the tears finally coming as he pulled the wig off his head, defeated.

The next day his mother came home, her eyes puffy, and looking like death. As soon as she saw him resting on the couch (he'd stayed up to wait for her to come home), she ran to his side, and scooped him into her arms, rocking him and kissing the top of his head, whispering that she was sorry, that she loved him, and that she'd accepted him. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, silently thanking God, and had hugged her back, crying once more.

But good things don't last long, or so Angel learnt. Of course his mother had assured him that she was okay with his 'habit', but a little part of him was crushed every time he left the house in drag and she never looked at him directly. Or whenever he found his makeup shoved into the back corner of the bathroom cupboard where she didn't have to look at it. And then there was the alcohol. Those were the worst times.

Angel's mother had enjoyed drinking, perhaps at times, a little too much, ever since Angel could remember. Apparently it had started when Angel's father had left. Angel couldn't remember his face, but had received a Christmas card one year from Santa Fe where his father was now living with an elementary school teacher. Angel had thrown it out without looking at the return address. He didn't think he needed a father. Not when he had his Mama.

But every so often, his mother would stagger in the door, the smell of spirits hanging around her like flies. Angel would be expecting it, because the laundromat where she worked would have rung to see why she hadn't turned up that day. And every time this happened, Angel would make her bed, cook some dinner, put some aspirin next to her pillow, and wait for her to arrive home. When she did, spitting insults at him in her drunken state – 'what did I do to deserve a fag like you for a son?' – and using the palm of her hand to show him how she felt, Angel would quietly tuck her in, after offering her food that she nearly always refused and threw at him. He'd calmly deflect her insults until he was sure she'd passed out, before he cleaned up the kitchen, crawled into bed and cried himself to sleep, knowing she wouldn't remember in the morning, and praying that he didn't either.

School was, surprisingly for a homosexual immigrant of his age, a pleasant refuge. He used to duck out during study periods and bolt down to the corner store with Mimi Marquez, a Hispanic girl a couple of years below him. She was the only one who knew about his fetish for women's clothing, after they had bonded over a skirt Mimi had created in a textiles class. One time, as they walked back to school, eating cheap Chinese takeaway out of cardboard cartons, Mimi turned to him.

'Angel?'

'Hmm?'

'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure, honey'

'Is everything okay?'

Angel nearly choked on a mouthful of noodles. 'What brought this on?'

'No need to get defensive, I'm just asking'

'But…why?'

'Well…uh, it's your face, sweetie'

Angel was confused. 'Am I…not happy looking?'

'No, Ange, it's…you have…' Mimi trailed off as she stretched her hand toward his head. Angel impulsively stepped backward. Mimi stopped, raising an eyebrow.

'I'll be gentle' she slowly touched his hair, brushing his scruffy fringe to the side. Her eyes widened 'Oh, Angel…'

A bruise stemming from inside his crop of black hair was situated just above his temple. It was a soft purple colour. Angel pulled away, hurriedly smoothing his fringe back over it.

Mimi watched him 'What happened?' she asked quietly.

Angel laughed 'Nothing, chica. I bashed my head on my locker door a couple of days ago'

Mimi didn't look convinced. Angel sighed exasperatedly. 'Relax! I put ice on it but it didn't help much…don't look at me like that, I'm fine. Honestly. We gotta get back to school, now hurry!'

He grabbed her wrist and dragged her up the street, talking loudly about the heinous shade of green that their economics teacher was wearing.

Angel dragged his feet through the door of the apartment and practically fell into the bathroom. He was tired and hot, having been chased home by a gang of angry homophobes who he'd somehow managed to offend. Luckily, he was smaller and naturally more athletic than them, and had managed to shake them off. He pulled back his hair and stared at the bruise, furious he hadn't been more careful to hide it. He was sure Mimi didn't believe his locker lie. He reached into the back of the bathroom cupboard and unearthed his makeup bag. He applied some foundation and concealer. It dulled the colour, but didn't cover it. He was just about to scrub his face and start over when he heard the front door open. He swore to himself and hurriedly began shoving the makeup into the bag. An eyeliner pencil dropped to the floor and rolled into the hallway. He shut his eyes, and exhaled slowly, waiting for the explosion.

Sure enough, his mother appeared at the doorway, the pencil in her hand. Without looking away from his eyes, she snapped it deftly in half and threw it at his feet. Her eyes were bloodshot and bright. She'd obviously been drinking, but why this early in the evening, Angel couldn't figure out. The silence stretched out before them like a never-ending song. Angel hesitantly bent down to pick up the pencil when-

'Why the hell can't you just be normal?' her scream reverberated off the walls of the tiny bathroom. Angel jumped, unused to the harshness of her yell. Then he realised she was crying.

'Oh…Mama…' he moved toward her, slowly, and went to put his arms around her, but faster than he could blink, she'd lifted her hand and hit him so hard he stumbled backwards. He blinked, as his vision swam in front of him. Then, slowly, an excruciating pain spread across his forehead. He touched his head lightly and grimaced as his hand came away red. He could feel warm blood dripping down his cheeks and over his nose. He focused on the object in her hand. It was a glass bottle, the broken shards lying around his feet. He stumbled forward, pushing past her and staggering into the hall. He half jogged to the kitchen, aware he was dripping blood everywhere, but too numb to care.

'Get back here!' she screamed. He heard her coming after him. He pulled the tissue box down off the cupboard and ran into his room, shutting the door and latching it. The echoing bangs sounded moments later as she attempted to force her way in. They both knew he would never hit her back, he would never shove her in self-defence, yet she seemed to take this as further offence regarding his sexuality. 'Men hit back, Angelo! When are you going to start being one!'

Angel stared into the mirror on his wall. One eye was swelling as he watched it, and he felt himself retch at the sight of his own blood staining his clothes. He began to sponge away the blood, mentally blocking out his mother's screeching insults. Then he heard something that made his heart stand still. His mother had stopped shouting. He looked at his door. As he watched, she slid her driver's licence through the crack on his door and pushed it up, unlatching the catch. The door swung open, and Angel held out his hands in front of him. She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.

'Be normal!' she shrieked, gasping as tears poured down her face and she slapped him. Angel wrenched himself away and ran out of his bedroom toward the front door. His mother ran after him and grabbed him just as he grasped the handle.

'You're not leaving! You live under my roof! You'll obey my rules!' she shoved him into the wall. She advanced on him again, when suddenly, the doorbell rang. They both froze.

'…Hello?' a voice sounded after a couple of seconds 'Angel? It's Mimi. I know you're home, I can see the light on.'

Angel's mother held a finger to her lips in warning.

'Ange! Fine, I'm coming in.' Angel's mother looked horrified as she realised she hadn't locked the front door. She dove for the lock, but before she got there, Mimi had entered. There was a horrible, horrible silence as Mimi stared from Angel, beaten and bloody, to his mother, tearstained and clearly intoxicated.

'Angel, run' Mimi spoke softly, but moved quickly, shoving Angel's mother onto the stairs and grabbing Angel's wrist. She pulled him out the front door, and slammed it behind them. Angel let her drag him, his legs moving almost unconsciously, too tired to care. They didn't stop running until they reached the next block, where Mimi's apartment was. She rapped on the door.

'Juanita!' she called and rapped on the door again. The door swung open and Mimi's aunt Juanita stood there staring at her youngest niece, clearly surprised to see a nearly unconscious boy hanging off her shoulder.

'Juanita, let us in!' Mimi cried more urgently. Juanita seemed to come to her senses. She ushered them inside, and after Mimi had reassured her she'd call when she needed her help, she pushed Angel into a chair and delegated her medicine bag to Mimi.

'Honey?' Mimi asked after Juanita shut the door. Angel's response was to moan as she brushed his hair back. Mimi bit back tears as she saw the full extent of the damage. 'Do you…do you want to tell me what happened?' she began sponging his head, tenderly wiping the blood away, Angel savouring the cool sensation of the wet cloth. He shook his head weakly.

'M-Mama's not well…' his head rolled backwards as he was overcome by a wave of fatigue.

Mimi tucked herself into bed that night after checking on Angel, who her aunt had positioned on the couch to sleep. She hated – HATED – to admit it, but in all honesty, she wasn't surprised by what she had discovered. She should have known Angel would never turn his own mother in. Angel, sweet Angel, who always looked for the good in people, would never blame his mother for what she did to him. And she wasn't surprised that night either, when she awoke to find him climbing into bed next to her and burying his face in her shoulder, his body heaving with ragged sobs. She wrapped her thin arms around him, letting him cry and wishing that just for once, Angel would realise he didn't always have to be the strong one.