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Gone and Back Again

An In the Heights/Hamilton crossover fic no one asked for :)

Summary: There probably wasn't ever a great time to remember your past life, but you couldn't get much worse than the middle of a blackout in Washington Heights.

——————-

Chapter One: Memories

Usnavi knew exactly what was happening and yet had never been so overwhelmed in his entire life. Maybe it was the stress of the night, the heat, or the push and pull of dozens of people that triggered it. He remembered the pulsing lights, red, white, green, blue, and it smelled like sweat and liquor, and he had just a bit too much to drink and Vanessa, she left him behind in the crowd of dancers. What the hell was he supposed to do? Go after her? Did she want him to go after her? Did he want to go after her? She was having a great time, huh? Course she was. Why did he agree to go clubbing of all things? He wanted to sit and talk to her.

And then someone threw a punch, and the crowd of dancers became this roaring, massive creature, rippling with violence. They needed to get out of here. He spun in a circle, ducked away from two men barreling into each other, and found himself, with a thud, against the wall.

Was there an exit? Where the hell did door go? Where was Vanessa? I’m going to die, he thought, which was irrational. He knew it was irrational. I’m going to get trampled and Vanessa is gonna get hurt. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have made her come with me. A panicked buzz in the back of his brain started up. But then the lights went out, and everything got so much worse.

People screamed. Someone slammed an elbow into his stomach and Usnavi let out a yell. I’ve been here before, he thought. He should have fallen back against the wall, but the wall vanished.

Knee-deep in water and so cold he wished he was dead. Fireworks popped around him, lighting up the pitch-black forest in angry red. No, not fireworks. He dropped against a tree and clung to his own weapon. His fingers shook as he tried to load it. I can’t die here. I have so much to do. Other soldiers were running past him. Running away. Why were they running? What was going on?

And then he was in another place. A ballroom lit with candles. The summer night air drifted through the window, and a woman’s hands were in his own. “Look how bright the moon is tonight,” the woman said, and Alexander loved her.

Alexander sat at his desk. His neck ached. He needed more candles. A little metal click startled him out of his half-asleep state and the flicker of a candle finally hushed, leaving him in the dull streetlights out his window. Behind him, he heard the rustle of sheets. Someone lit another candle, and he had an idea. “Betsy?” She looked up from their bed, her hair loose, and she blinked dark, curious eyes. “Would you write for me if told you what to say? I am near expired as it is.”

His brother clutched his hand as they watched a black boy bury their mother in the hillside. “We can’t bury her in the churchyard,” the priest said. “It simply isn’t proper.” Alexander looked past the mahogany trees, down to the sea, while the priest droned on. He felt so weak his legs hurt just standing. What were they going to do now?

He is in his office and there is a pile of gold coins on his desk. He forces a polite smile at the man on the other side of his desk and slides his papers out from under the money. What sort of lawyer does this fool think he is? “I’m afraid, sir, I cannot offer my services.”

A tall yellow hall on a winter celebration. A lopsided wedding hall filled with people Alexander didn’t know, and there she was, radiant, finally at his side. My father didn’t come. Why did I think he’d come? He should be enjoying this moment. He wanted to so badly be happy.

Seven barrels of salt. Two dozen bags of flour. Herring. The mules we’re expecting haven’t come in yet. If they are here by tomorrow, perhaps that will make up for the sugar loss last week…

He’s standing on a table in bare feet. “Repeat after me, now,” says an old woman who gives him sweets when mama isn’t looking. “Wai'da'beyr e'lo'him eyt kol had'va'rim ha'ey'leh ley'mor…”

They’re pulling into the harbor. The buildings are so much bigger than he imagined. “I am born on this ship. I died, and now I am born anew.”

He can’t feel his legs, he’s on his back, the priest looks like he’s going to be sick, and his Bible shakes. “I cannot administer communion in good conscience…” He didn’t think this would actually happen.

He was at the cobblestone seaside. The rain roared. It fell so hard it felt like it whips. He watched in horror as a building collapsed under the strength of the wind and a barrel larger than he was tall flew overhead. He ran, screaming, down a dock, chased by the incredible power of the sea and he thought, God must be furious.

One memory, and then another, like he was falling down a great chasm, or watching the flickering frames of a film run faster and faster until they blurred into a whirlwind. They surrounded him. He looked down the barrel of a gun on a horrible foggy morning. He wasn’t finished.

Alexander burst into the street, pressed forward by a wave of people. Sirens rang in the distance.

Washington Heights.

They were.

They were here, home, in the barrio. Hardly any time had passed, and yet it had been a lifetime. A lifetime did not do it justice, nor would near an eternity. The air was hot, but it wasn’t so bad compared to inside the club. He gulped down the air like he’d been drowning. What street was he on? How did he get here?

The crowd, the roar once overwhelming, now fell back, completely outside of him. Everyone was dispersing. Their panic subsided. It was just a blackout. He stood frozen in the middle of the street, eyes up. He wasn’t the only one. In the darkness, you could see fireworks peeking between the buildings for miles, and it was one of the most beautiful things Alexander had ever seen. Today was the 4th of July. He couldn’t believe people still did the fireworks thing.

“Shit,” they whispered. Whatever strength held them up suddenly gave away, and Usnavi dropped onto the curb unceremoniously, catching himself barely with a hand. He didn’t dare move for a long time. Instead, he looked at their hands. His hands. He could see them in the red light of the fireworks, but he only got glimpses. He was himself. Same hands, same clothes, same shoes. The same little scar on his thumb from trying to fix Abuela’s jacked-up swamp-cooler last summer.

Usnavi breathed in shakily and dropped his head into those hands. It was just his luck this had to happen right now. He had a store to run and rent to make and Sonny to take care of and he didn’t have time for this!

He needed… he needed to get out of the street. Alexander forced himself to stand. His head felt very empty and very heavy at the same time. When he was young, and his mother gave him pomegranates to dig into. He’d peel open the fruit only to find dozens and dozens of seeds he couldn’t see before. Yeah. His head felt like a peeled pomegranate. Suddenly, he panicked. Which mother? Which one had pomegranates? Perhaps both. It was difficult to pin down when you last ate a piece of fruit. Also, he wasn’t sure how often he would have had access to pomegranates back then, so perhaps… No, no, he was getting distracted. Every thought led to an onslaught of more thoughts, more memories, all hot and bleeding with immediacy.

Alexander rubbed his face with his hands. Off the street. He was trying to get off the street. Something bugged him, something he’d forgotten about, but there was way too much going on in his head right now to place it. Instead, Usnavi squinted at the street around him. This was… oh, yeah, this was right by the pawn shop. He could get home from here. The familiarity calmed him immensely, and he started walking. People were running around still. He could hear breaking glass somewhere. His shop was gonna be screwed.

He had a shop.

Huh.

Alexander shook himself and kept walking. He passed through the streets on near autopilot, and only realized where he was going when he reached Abuela’s doorstep. He didn’t hesitate. Usnavi knocked hard on the door. Locked, thank goodness. “Abuela, it’s me. Are you here?” His voice sounded odd in his own ears.

A moment later, the lock clicked back and Abuela ushered him in with a cry and a quick embrace. “Come, come inside, cariño!” It was dark in the stairwell, but Abuela had a flashlight, and the yellow flicker of candlelight beckoned them upstairs. She was wearing her pajama and well-worn slippers.

“I-I’m glad you’re safe. No one’s bothered you?”

“No, no. I locked the door when people started running by.” She flapped a hand dismissively and led him up the staircase to her little kitchen. “I have lots of candles, and Sonny just called.”

Oh, shit, Sonny. He forgot about Sonny. “Is he okay?”

“Sí, he made it to his father’s.” Abuela led him to the kitchen table and sat him down by the wall chair. Abuela’s kitchen was small and outdated and her fridge was covered in magnets, pictures, and fliers. On a little windowsill, she had half a dozen sort-of alive plants. She was right about having candles. She’d dotted the counters and the tables with a variety of them. Usnavi had been here a million times, and it felt more like home than anywhere else on the planet

“We have all that food left since we didn’t have dinner,” Abuela was saying. She bustled from the fridge to the stove. “Ay, and now it’ll go bad if the power doesn’t come back on… That man could have waited for us to eat before dropping such news on us all like a…” She pursed her lips. “Well. It is what it is. Are you hungry, niño?

“Not really. I feel kind of nauseous, actually.”

Abuela frowned and looked him up and down for the first time. Genuine concern crossed her face, and she stopped what she was doing. “Tea?”

“That sounds nice.”

She put on a kettle, and then, with a sigh, sat herself down in the wooden seat across from him. Usnavi picked at the table’s plastic covering. His hand was shaking. Abuela must have seen it too because she grasped that hand in her own.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened?”

Usnavi didn’t even consider not telling her, but it was still hard to say. So hard, that it took him several attempts where he’d open his mouth, almost start crying, close it again, and grip her hand tight.

“I just remembered some, um, things.” This was, in no way, an adequate explanation, but Abuela must have understood.

She sat back in shock, momentarily taking her hands away, before returning them immediately. “Dios mío.”

“Yeah. I was, dancing, ya know, with Vanessa, but then a fight broke out and it was like super-hot in there, and then the power went out and, and I guess it- well, I don’t know. I just started remembering and it was a lot, like a lot-a lot to take in at once, and I thought I was gonna die, and I almost did die a bunch of times, back then, I mean.” He broke off and bowed his head quick, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Abuela murmured, and her thumb gently rubbed up and down the back of his palm. “Cálmate, cálmate.”

“It’s just, I mean, I know this happens sometimes, but its rare, right? You don’t think, or, I never thought I was, and, and…”

“Shh,” she rested a hand on his cheek. Usnavi leaned into it with relief.

“Lo siento,” he said. He pulled back with a sniff and scrubbed his face with a hand. He was a grown man. This was embarrassing. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Behind them, the kettle began to whistle. Abuela’s lips were pursed tight. Her eyes shone as she rose to fetch it. When she turned back with two cups, she’d composed herself.

She set the steaming cup in front of him, and Alexander watched the steam rise and brown seep and swirl into the water. Careful, he cupped the warm thing between his hands. “Thank you.”

For a moment, they just drank their tea, and Alexander tried to think about nothing. He was not very successful. He sipped. It was sweet.

Finally, Abuela took a deep breath. “I worked with a woman who used to live in India in the 13th century,” she said. “She was a very quiet young woman, but she worked hard.” She drank some of her tea and squinted her eyes. “And I met a man on the subway once who told me he used to kill cats back in the 1800s.”

Usnavi blanched. “What, for fun?”

“No, they paid him, I think.” Abuela shrugged. “He could have been crazy though, I don’t know.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“I just mean that in a city this big, there are lots of old souls.” She patted his arm. “You’re still my Usnavi.”

Alexander breathed deep, took another long sip of tea, and nodded. She was right. This happened all the time. Well, not all the time. But like, one out of five hundred or something. He wasn’t any different than before. Probably. He just needed to calm the hell down. It wasn’t like he was dying right now. He swallowed thickly. “Sorry to spring this on you.”

“Ay, no, no. It is good you told me.” She smiled. “… do you want to talk about it?”

Talk about it? Usnavi could barely comprehend it all, much less put it into words. But, then again, maybe talking would help. He learned better out loud anyway. Usnavi considered the new space in his head, where all those damn pomegranate seeds hid. “I… don’t know. I think it might just make you sad, Abuela.”

Perhaps this wasn’t the best thing to say, because she looked sad anyway, but Abuela nodded. Then a spark lit in her eyes. “I have something that is going to make this night a little better.”

“What, good wine?”

“Ay, no, no,” she tutted. “You’ve had enough to drink.” Fair enough. “Let me get it.” She stood and made her way to the bedroom. When she returned, Abuela held a large freezer bag in her hands, the sort they used for taking lunch to the zoo when Usnavi was younger. It was full of… something, and heavy enough, apparently. Abuela dropped the bag on the table with a huff and gestured for him to open it.

Curious, Usnavi stood and unzipped the bag. He peered inside.

“Holy shit.”

To be continued..

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