Chapter Text
To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering
- Frederick Nietzsche
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Racetrack Higgins wasn’t known for being a coward.
He had braved bulls, soakings, and even the threat of jail with little more than a smirk and a joke.
But here, standing on the courtroom floor, damn if he wished he couldn’t run and hide.
-
Days since the Rally: 1
-
The rally had been brutal
Boys fighting, bleeding, falling
Arrested or lost to the wind
Their leaders missing in the chaos
The rally had been brutal
Somehow, the court was worse
-
“Hey, Spider!” Race called, ice dripping from his soul even with the might of his newsies around him, and a particular borough leader steadfast by his side. “Where’s Cowboy, ay? Where’s he at?”
“An’ where’s his Mouth?” Spot added, crossing his arms. “They gettin' the VIP treatment? I’m insulted.”
“Yeah, he’s insulted!” A voice echoed, Mush probably. The boys laughed, Race piping up again.
“Lemme guess, Cowboy gave ya’ the slip again? Who coulda' possibly predicted that?”
The air filled with snickers again, some of the boys throwing in their own insults, a few just shouting to shout, the noise growing until old Movealong gained some semblance of sentience and fumbled his gavel into a call for- "Order!" -the sound echoing in the small courtroom. Fixing the urchins with a look that could only be described as "unamused", glasses perched dangerously on the edge of his nose, the judge leaned over the mass of newsies (not at all quelling their smaller chatters or quiet jabs), slamming the gavel a second time. "I will have order in this courtroom!"
“Oh yeah? What's he gonna do, bore us to death?” Boots muttered, rolling his eyes as the crowd tittered lightly.
Another round of frantic banging did little to silence them, the boys still carrying on, their volume and clamor continuing to escalate in spite of the adult before them doing everything he could to regain his power, seemingly at a loss for what to do (besides yelling and pounding) from the safety of his seat.
The merry resistance was nearing full-swing when it died as suddenly as it was born, the din cut by the shrill screech of a constable's whistle, echoic memory reminding the assembly of the very present police force, a few of the bulls spaced along the perimeters of the room seemingly a little too eager to escalate their use of force against the newsies, the smacking of a club against bare flesh quelling the rabble faster than any hammer or sounding block.
The judge settled, carefully gazing over his captive audience before calmly resuming (as though he had not been screaming at the top of his lungs mere moments prior), the voice of the cantankerous arbiter thundering menacingly within the eclosed space. “You have the right to remain silent.” It was obvious to all assembled that Monahan, in his many years presiding, was used to controlling his courtroom from his position on high, his voice and status naturally cowing the defendants unfortunate enough to cross his bench.
Unfortunately for him, Racetrack Higgins was not so easily stymied.
“Hey, I got the right, but not the ability.” The boy plastered on his most charming smile, more feeling than hearing the laughter of the other Newsies, bolstering his courage to tackle the other shark of the courtroom, presently discussing quietly with the easily-bought arbiter. “Face it, Spider. We gotcha this time.”
The judge's conversationalist smirked, something more reminiscent of an oil slick than a human being. It only took a few silent paces for the courtroom to silence (this time of its own volition), even the non-newsboy occupants realizing the gravitas of the situation, the lively rebellion doused in thick, cloying ink.
Race fought his instinct to turn and run, his heart stuttering even as his insides turned to a mass of writhing eels, the lot threatening to escape his mouth at the Spider’s approach. Those eyes, the eyes that he still saw in restless sleep and lurking in dark corners, were now fixed on him and him alone, quickly dispelling any imagined power the other newsies had given him, their unnatural paleness stripping away the safety he had foolishly assumed came with numbers, their unblinking stare of emotionless patronage exposing him bit by bit until he wasn't the Second of the Manhattan Newsies, he wasn't Racetrack, he wasn't anyone...just Antonio Higgins, painfully aware of how very small he was, surrounded on all sides by a crowd of his allies and feeling as naked as he'd ever been.
“You poor boys. I suppose someone should tell you the truth-” The Warden’s smile grew, exposing a portal to a soul as foul as any sinner’s, perhaps even more compromised than that, juxtaposed to the crisp jacket and pressed shirt on the outside concealing the rotting evil inside. “-about Mister Francis Sullivan.”
“Sullivan?” Racetrack barked out a laugh to distract from his trembling frame, throat burning with the force of it. “Ain’t we talkin’ ‘bout Jack Kelly?” He elbowed Spot, perhaps a bit too roughly, the Brooklyn newsie sent stumbling into a nearby bull. The impassive wall of a man steadied the small teen for only a moment before shoving him back into the pack. The batteree in question brushed himself off in annoyance, spitting curses under his breath like a startled cat but following the Manhattan second’s prompt to the letter.
“You finally gone an’ lost what marbles you ‘ad left, Spider? Even I know ‘Cowboy’ is Jackie-boy Kelly, an’ I don’t even live here.”
The other boys followed suit, hesitant chuckles forcing their way into the open, fronted bravado fading sharply as the smiling man did nothing in response except stand…and smile. It may have been a trick of the flickering gaslights, but before the eyes of the assembly, that wretched smile seemed to widen, oozing outwards, transforming the already unsettling visage into something almost inhuman, a scarecrow splitting at the seams, yellowed teeth bared in place of straw.
“Oh, how you’ve all been misled, deceived, lied to.” The hiss of the snake echoed in the room, the press of small bodies doing nothing in the form of soundproofing. They were insignificant anyway, Snyder’s following directed to the man of the hour, Judge ‘Movealong’ Monahan gazing on disinterestedly. “The boy’s name is Francis Malcom Sullivan. His mother is deceased, his father is a prisoner at the state’s penitentiary-”
“You’re lyin’!” Mush screeched, giving into the urge to fling himself headlong at the far larger adult despite every element of the hostile surroundings prepared to put down such an insurrection. Had Blink not caught his friend’s sleeve and hung on for dear life, even as the other teen fought like a feral cat to throw himself forward, Mush likely would have succeeded in his own brutal repression, the bulls leering from the sidelines in their thirst for blood and superiority. “You’re lyin’ you dirty bastard, I swear I’ll soak ya’ for that!”
The others could only stand and stare, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.
Mush thrashed harder, unable to free himself. “Lemme go, Kid! The back biter’s throwin’ mud on Cowboy and he ain’t even here to say somethin’! Kid, come on, what’s wrong with alla yous? Why won’t you do something! Come on-”
Race took a stumbling pace backward, dropping a hand on his longtime friend’s shoulder, shaking his head silently. Mush quieted at the touch, even though their eyes never met, his friend refusing to break contact with the Refuge Warden.
"Am I lying?" Snyder tilted his head, as though possessed by a simpering dog. "You were always such a clever boy, Antonio."
Race growled lightly, fighting the urge to cross his arms protectively across his body, the newsies shifting uneasily on the fringes of his vision, Snyder fixing him with a delighted smirk.
“Mister Sullivan and Mister Jacobs are not in my custody, nor were they ever. No-”
“So, they escaped!” Blink hollered from behind the front line. “They slipped you and now you’re gonna-” Snyder reassigned his focus, the boy falling silent, an ant beneath a magnifying glass.
The adult cleared his throat, straightening his string tie, well aware of the eyes of the courtroom, perhaps even Lady Justice herself, fixed on him. He considered his audience, sufficiently silenced. “Better.” He turned to the judge. “As I said, your honor, you must cull this behavior while they’re young, or they will overrun society with their filth. My Refuge is surely the only hope for these boys, lest they travel from the streets to the jail, and perhaps carry straight on to the gates of hell.”
The judge let out a quiet hum as Snyder returned to the seething mass of boys. Children. So defiant, yet so helpless…and hanging on his every word.
“As I said before I was so rudely interrupted-"
Blink bristled but did not engage, physically biting down on his tongue.
"-Mister Sullivan and Mister Jacobs are not, nor were they ever, in my custody. That is correct, as they were, in fact, in the employment of Mister Pulitzer and myself.”
Race blanched. No. No, he was a liar. Snyder was a liar, everyone knew it!
“...They collected quite a tidy sum in exchange for a few worthless rats.” Snyder’s face crumpled in a facsimile of sadness, wiping away an imaginary tear. “How touching.”
And then he laughed.
There was a moment of silence…followed by utter chaos as the courtroom erupted, the sweet sounds of anger, betrayal, and grief rising in the air like the most exquisite choir, even the screams of the officer's whistles doing nothing to stop the madness as the boys lashed out at him, at the judge, at the assembled authority, at each other.
The Warden grinned.
-
If Denton hadn’t appeared to pay their bail…
-
“What do we do?”
Spot was more stone than human, his only motion betrayed by the muffled protests of the note crumpling in his hand.
“Spot?” Race placed his hand lightly on his friend’s shoulder. “Spotty, we can’t stay here. We gotta make a plan.”
“A plan?” The Brooklyn newsie’s voice was incredulous. “We already got one.” He set off down the courthouse steps, the smaller yet faster Manhattan trailing in his wake.
“Plan?” Race jogged ahead, turning back and forth, hoping to extinguish the fire burning under his skin. “What plan?”
“Simple.” Spot didn’t even break his stride.
“We win.”
-
They betrayed us.
They sold us out.
They lied.
-
“He’s back!”
“Race!”
“Is Jack with you?”
“Race!”
The other boys swarmed around him, wanting answers. Answers he couldn’t give. Not now.
“Specs!” He did his best to be heard over the din. “Grab the boys and whatever you can carry. We have to leave no-”
“Hey!” He was stopped by a fist to the hip, looking down into the tear-filled eyes of Les Jacobs. “Where’s my brother?”
Race exhaled sharply, barely noticing the motion of others in the background, his focus narrowing to the tearful boy in front of him. Les stomped his foot, the old wood creaking beneath the force of his fear and fury. “Where is David? Why ain't he with you?! You promised!”
Race felt the breath leave his lungs, incapable of the barest means of communication. How do you tell a kid that their brother’s a traitor? That he sold them out. Cut and run.
How could Dave Jacobs betray his brother like that? How could Jack-
Race muffled his own emotions, angrily swiping the tears from his eyes. He couldn’t crumble. Not now. With a heavy exhale, he yanked the small boy into a hug, smothering the distressed sobs in a vest still stained with the blood of his friends.
“I’m…I’m sorry, kid.”
-
Deep underground, a door creaked open, a lantern held by a burly arm revealing the boy there, tied in the dark. Snyder nodded to the other man, his companion obediently hanging the lantern delicately in its designated position, a long-rusted hook settled into the crumbling stone walls. The bound boy flinched back from the light, eyes already obscured with blood and tears, body filthy from his former struggles for freedom, flights of fancy that landed him here, cords practically sewing thin limbs to a wooden chair, forcing him upright. Snyder smiled, tugging off his white gloves and tucking them in his breast pocket, striding into the room with a grin that might rival the cheshire cat.
After all, why shouldn't he smile? He got what he had wanted, what he had been working for, the result of years of effort. Francis. Finally, finally, back where he belonged.
This was going to be so much fun.
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Notes:
'Tis the spooky season, and what better time to update this story?
Hoping to have this finished by Halloween, but we'll see.
I'm going to put a few warnings in the bottom notes for this chapter. Please if you might be sensitive, scroll to the bottom before reading. Nothing is too graphic but I'm being careful.
As always, I love feedback!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
-
Days since the Rally: 1
-
“Sullivan. Mister Pulitzer sends his regards.”
The boy lifted his chin from his chest, the motion looking like it took all the strength he had left in his tired body to move those scant inches, clumps of hair falling limply around his face. The endeavor was pointless, his head lifting only to drop again as the dim light stabbed into red-rimmed eyes, one of them nearly swollen shut.
Snyder smiled, drinking in the sight, drawing a few steps nearer and leaning down to peer at the boy's face. What a pity, his eyes were closed. “I do hope you aren’t too tired for me, Sullivan. You’ve barely been here a day, and already lazing about?” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty boy."
He stood, straightening his lapels, and began to pace a slow circle the teenager; a vulture preparing to tear into weakened flesh. He couldn't help but grin, watching as the boy's shoulders jumped with every click of the metal-tipped cane against the stained concrete floor. "I see you remember some aspects of your time here, Francis. I'd feared that you'd learned nothing, but look at you," He chuckled, the sound deadened against stone walls. "I'm so glad." He came to a stop behind the chair, leaning forward, so close he could nearly rest his chin on the boy's shoulder, lips inches away-
"I'm glad you remember." Snyder murmured sibilantly, the words sharp despite their volume. "Because I remember." He moved closer. "I remember every bastard that ever came through here, Francis, oh yes. Every. Single. One." He let the stick in his hand drop, nearly laughing at the jump the sound elicited. "I remember the saints, the sinners, the squealers," He gave the shoulder before him a little pat, watching fine tremors pass over the boy's skin like ripples in a pond. "-the criers; I remember them all." He reached a hand forward, letting his fingers drag a few strands of hair back from the boy's ear, leaning even closer to his prisoner. "Yes, I certainly remember. But you know, I could never forget the mouthy ones." He smiled slowly, letting the strands of hair trickle away like wet sand. "The pretty ones."
To his credit, the boy didn't move; but the Warden could see the calloused hands trembling beneath their bindings. He straightened to his full six-foot height once more, smiling as the form before him tensed, the man making his way back into the boy's field of view, clacking metal tip still sending shockwaves through his captive.
“Really, Sullivan? Nothing to say?” Snyder tucked the cane under his arm in favor of dragging his fingertips through the tangled mess of hair again, relishing in the boy’s flinch at the sudden contact. “You were always so chatty for me, practically singing like a little bird.” He yanked his hand away as his fingers became ensnarled in a particularly matted section, already wiping away the dried flakes of blood on his handkerchief and tucking the evidence away in his pocket as the boy let out a strangled sound, pressing himself away from wandering hands. The man let out a low chuckle, patiently chasing his captive while Francis jerked away from his touch (well, he certainly tried), only able to move scant inches, the ropes and chair refusing to do more than dig splinters and fibers into chafing skin.
"Be sensible," Snyder wheedled, relishing the terror that he could elicit from just his fingertips as they strayed down the boy's face, teased at his throat, played with his bandana, tugged open a torn collar. "We've played this game before, Sullivan. You know there's nowhere to run." The Warden glanced around, as though to be sure there was no one else to witness them, and gave into temptation, chancing his hand beneath the ill-fitting shirt to feel the boy's pounding heart directly, his sweaty palm pressing insistently against a chest that was smooth and dry; skin cool to the touch. He let himself linger for a moment, marveling at the stressed muscle beating frantically against slender ribs, bones beneath which lungs struggled to expand as the boy's body threatened to shut down from his very presence. So fragile. So delicate. So easily broken. Whether skin and bone would stay whole, whether that heart would keep beating, those lungs breathing, was once more his decision...as it should be.
The very thought sent a thrill through his body, pants beginning to feel a bit snug...
Oh. He had missed this.
Allowing himself a few further fleeting moments of pleasure, nearly drunk on the power over the life in his hands, he resumed his path with some reluctance, his steps tracing that slow, taunting circle. “Well, if you insist on keeping quiet, I’m sure the pretty schoolboy might be more willing-”
“No!”
---
Jack jerked his head up, trying his best to sound tough while squeezing his eyes tightly shut, the world swimming even through the dark. The words nearly died in his mouth, throat rubbed as raw as his wrists from screaming and shouting alike, the night of the rally still fresh. Still, he tried, words forced from between cracked and bloodied lips beyond desperate for reprieve, nausea threatening to escape with every grating syllable.
“Don’t you dare touch 'im, you hear me, Spider?”
The Warden grinned, knowing he had found a sore spot, the boy practically panting before him with the effort it took to speak. He tucked that knowledge away. “Oh, so you are going to sing for me?”
"Yeah." Jack forced his eyes open against the glare of the light that threatened to split his skull, defiance still kindled deep within him sparking in his gaze. He spat into the dirt what little moisture he had in his mouth, the pitiful attempt barely dampening the dirt coating the concrete floor. "I got somethin' to say to you, Spider.”
The Warden suppressed a shiver, something celebrating within him. Yes, this was going to be fun.
“You do?”
“Yeah. I do.” Jack grinned, baring his teeth, gore flecking his smile.
“Fuck. Off.”
He tossed his head, flinging hair away from his field of view, making sure the spider could see him. "And my name is Jac-"
Crack!
---
The boy’s head was violently turned with the force of the blow, the imprint of the Warden’s hand already darkening the skin split over his cheekbone.
“Oh Francis, look what you made me do.” Tsking disapprovingly, sounding for all the world like he was reprimanding a small child, Snyder pulled out his handkerchief once more, scrubbing the liquid from his hand, the expression on his face appearing as though he had dipped his hand into a fetid cesspool instead of a teenager's blood. “There. That's better.” Tucking the cloth back in his pocket, the large man bent down, hands on knees, piggy little eyes straining to memorize every detail for eternity, even as the boy again refused to look at him (or maybe he was stunned), keeping his face turned away from where he had been struck. “You know better than to use such impolite language. Surely no way for nice boys to behave, wouldn’t you agree? And after we spent so much time on rehabilitation-"
The boy flinched, face still tucked into his shoulder, brow furrowed, eyes staring off into the dark.
"Like I said, I’m sure little David wouldn’t dare to use foul language with me-”
This remark was not dignified with a response.
Snyder stood, tugging his cane from under his arm, still pacing, only to watch the boy slowly pull his head back up, seemingly willing to face front if it meant that he wouldn't be facing Snyder himself. The man took a breath, blood boiling, resisting the urge to tear into the boy then and there, to remind him exactly who was in charge here, whose custody he was in, who he belonged to-
He let his frustration release in a twist of the wood in his hands, the walking stick creaking in protest, threatening to snap like so many others. He exhaled a sharp breath.
The boy would remember.
A longer breath.
He would make him remember.
A final breath, blood reduced to a bare simmer.
The boy was his. And Warden WIlliam Snyder was going to make sure he knew it.
He let himself pause behind the chair, this time propping his cane against the sturdy wood. “Well, Sullivan, I've decided to let it slide, just this once." He allowed his hands to rest heavily on boney shoulders, relishing in the jump he received in response.
The boy stayed silent.
Snyder frowned performatively. "Francis. I'm doing you a favor. Is that any way to respond when someone does you a favor?" He squeezed. Hard. The boy's breath left him in a short gasp, pain electrifying him. "Well, Francis?" Harder. "I'm sure you remember..." He released his grip for a moment, letting his hands hover.
The boy drew in a wet sigh, the air shuddering in tight lungs. His tight voice was barely a whisper, venom dripping from his throat. "...thank. you."
"Hm? Thank you to whom?"
The hesitation was less. "...thank you- Mister Spi-"
Punishment was swift, the forgotten cane striking swiftly into an unprotected side before being returned to its resting place, the boy left sputtering for air, choking on his own insults.
"Try again." Snyder rolled his eyes at the pitiful coughing response. He gave the skinny teen a shake. "Now, Sullivan."
"...Thank you-" the hands rested lightly on the boy's shoulders once more. A warning.
The boy bowed his head.
"Thank You...Mister Snyder."
Good.
The hands returned, heavy, purposeful, as though they were the only thing holding the boy in his seat, his thumbs tracing circles into prominent collarbones though the rough fabric of the stained shirt. "You see, Francis, I’ve always had such a soft spot for you," One thumb strayed, tracing a line down a jaw free of stubble to tuck itself in the hollow of the boy's throat, pausing beneath the knot of the ever-present neckerchief. "...don't you remember?”
The boy shuddered visibly. The hand at his neck moved once more, swiping away a lone tear tracing a path through the dirt on his cheek.
Snyder popped the wet thumb into his mouth almost causally, the boy frozen beneath his other hand even as fingers dug sharply into his captive's collarbone.
He took a breath.
He smiled.
“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”
-
Davey flinched hard, squeezing his eyes closed in the naïve hope it would block out the sounds from the room beyond. What was this place where they could freely beat children with no repercussions? Hell, where they could kidnap kids off the street?
His hands burned in the ropes, skin sloughing off with his frantic movement. He didn’t know if it was the pain emanating from his wrists, their current situation, or Jack’s blood-curdling scream from next-door...but the reason didn’t matter.
The tears still burned.
Notes:
***content warnings
-references to SA, references to child abuse, references to animal abuse, violence, Snyder being a creep, slurs
Nothing too graphic, much of this is alluded to.Again, feedback is welcome.
Let's get spoopy.
Chapter 3
Notes:
And we are back! With a real chapter!
I only ask that you all continue to be patient with me, I'm doing my best (much like Kenny Ortega did in 1992).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Days since the Rally: -1
-
“Hey, gimp!”
Crutchie jumped awake as his crutch slammed into the metal bedframe scant inches from his face, the impact setting the whole structure ringing, vibrations coursing through his sore body (he knew there were bruises, there were always bruises, but he didn't have the courage to look).
The larger teen wielding the stolen aid laughed, his friends joining in, the ringleader making to ram the crutch at their chosen victim again.
Properly awake now (thanks in no small part to the adrenaline coursing through his veins) the tall boy pulled himself up slowly, the collection of bullies before him still chortling at his expense.
“Awww, I think he might cry!”
”You miss yer’ mam? Go’on!”
Crutchie set his face and did his best to channel his inner Cowboy, unable to prevent a flinch as his tormentors struck again, the wood of his namesake nearly splintering from the force of the blow aimed for his already lame appendage. From the sounds below, his bluff didn’t work.
”Oooh, watch out boys, I think we’ve gone an’ made ‘im mad!”
”He’s a real tough one! See, I’m shakin’!”
”Hey, crip, hurry it up we ain’t got all day!”
Jack would never let them get to him. He'd fight back. He'd talk back. He'd...what would Jack do?
“Hey, you’s listening?”
”Hey, crip!”
BANG
”Hey! We’s talkin’ to you!“
”Hey!”
"HEY-"
--
“Hey, kid.”
Charlie struck out wildly at the sound of the voice, still curled in a ball on the unforgiving pavement, stomach aching where the polished shoe had met his stomach, blood hot on his face against the cold stinging of the winds of early winter. “Go ‘way!”
“Can’t do that, kid.” The voice was nearer, like the speaker had sat down on the ground beside him (who would do that, he was disgusting). Charlie tucked his meagre collection close to his chest, the pennies clinking dully against one another. That was probably what he wanted, what they always wanted. The rich boys, the ones in the clean uniforms, the ones that feigned pity for the crippled kid, that would only beat him before stealing whatever he’d manage to beg from passers-by. They'd laugh at his tears, ignoring his pleas for them to give it back, merely lining their own pockets and spitting on him before continuing on their way, wrapped warmly in scarves and gloves, hats tucked on their heads, lining their own pockets with the lifeblood of a kid on the streets. It may have been pennies to them, pocket change, but to Charlie, it was one more night alive.
It wasn’t only the other children who bothered him, though they were among his larger tormentors. In the weeks he’d been here, curled on this street corner after being thrown out by don't think it don't think it don't think it, it was either the roving groups of schoolchildren or men who would have a go at him, declaring him the scum of society, a leech, a blight, a curse…not like he’d never heard those words before don't think it. Ladies were usually nice, but they were few and far between, usually accompanied by men who would block him from their sight (understandable, no lady should have to look at him, they were too pure and sweet), or by their children, who they would rush by him, as though afraid his vagrancy would spread like the disease that left him like this, alone and disfigured-
Don't think it
His disjointed thoughts prevented him from hearing anything his new tormenter had said, but he certainly felt it when a hand splayed across his back, the warm palm pressed into the knobs of his spine. Charlie flinched away, yelling some obscenity he’d heard from his fath-don'tthinkit, the hand withdrawing for a moment before returning, gently (gently?) rubbing up and down, the voice chuckling for a moment.
“Damn, kid. Scared me there for a moment.” The hand was joined by a friend, the proffered appendages feeling smaller than what they first seemed, softly helping him to sit up, patiently waiting for him to breathe (cough) through the reminder of his last visitor, and respecting when Charlie scooted away, moneys still clasped close, the hands withdrawing.
He almost missed the warmth.
“Take ya’ time, kid. We got plenty of it.” The voice, a bit raspy, was clearly young, though its possessor clearly dropped his pitch as much as he could, copying the deeper tones of those older and more respectable.
He didn’t know any schoolboys who did that.
Still reluctant, a turtle cautiously poking its head from its shell (he couldn’t count the number of times he wished he could be like the turtles he used to see in central park, cozied up with protection and a house and little turtle friends…), Charlie turned to face the other boy, head lifting a bit at a time, brain racing to comprehend what he was seeing.
Dirty boots, clearly worn and studded with patches, equally dirty pants tucked in their tops. The pants themselves were overlarge, almost comically so, and appeared to be held up by a rope, knotted carefully around a thin waist, though nearly entirely covered by several layers of shirts and a threadbare coat, the sleeves too short. Hands in gloves missing their fingertips, exposed skin flushed with cold, fiddling with…a cowboy hat? Clearly intended for an adult, the felt massive in those hands, definitely belonging to a child…like him. Charlie jerked his head up, skipping neatly over the red bandana (also overly-large) coming face-to-face with the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen (or maybe he was faint with hunger, he hadn’t eaten in over a day now), what must have been brown glowing gold in the setting sun (already?). He shivered, dreading the drop in temperature that always followed, the other boy’s bright smile shrinking slightly, concern crossing his face in well-defined lines, out of place on someone so young (right?).
No one ever looked at him like that. Not since-don't think it
“There ‘e is. You good, kid?” Those eyes darted up and down, the smaller boy feeling vulnerable in their gaze. “Shit, you’s bleedin’,” the gloved hands abandoned the hat in his lap, already searching his pockets.
Charlie frowned. “M’name’s not kid.”
The other boy froze, halfway through unknotting the bandana at his neck, barking out a laugh. “You got some fight in you kid, an' that's the truth.” He put his hands up, easy smile returning. How ‘bouts a trade, name for a name?”
Charlie stared on, crossing his arms. “Why’re you callin’ me kid? You’re a kid.” The other boy laughed again, slapping his knee.
“A deal then,” He tugged off one of his gloves, spitting into his palm and offering it to Charlie, clearly intending him to do something. Charlie stared impassively, eyes darting back and forth between the hand and the face. The other boy sighed, balancing his arm on his knee. “Come on, uh, k-id?” Charlie frowned deeper. The brunette sighed, “Listen, I know I said we had time, but the sun’s settin’ low, an’ you don’ wanna be on these streets after sundown-“ He let his eyes meet Charlie’s again. “I think you know it.”
Still keeping his hand with the pennies tucked close, Charlie spit into his palm, awkwardly reaching across the gap to shake, resisting the urge to screw up his face at the feeling. The boy wiped his hand on his pants, Charlie mirroring the action.
“Right, the name’s Kelly, Jack Kelly, though most of the folks ‘round here call me Cowboy.” He ducked his head towards the hat. “You seem like you got a brain, kid. You can figure why for yousself. Now,” he turned sightly, fully facing the crippled boy, still tucked into a ball distrustfully. “You gots a name to go with it?”
The response was barely audible, voice quiet from days of begging and silenced sobs don't think it.
“…Charlie.”
Jack smiled wider.
“Good to meetcha, Charlie. Say, you ever thought 'bout bein' a newsie?”
-
Things had gone very quickly after that. The other b-Jack was certainly…something.
Jack, had used his bandana to gently clean Charlie’s face, despite the other boy insisting he would only ruin the clearly treasured item, Jack scoffing that it has seen far worse and come out fine (though that stain never had come out, despite repeated washings and apologies. Jack always waved him off, claiming it “added character”), Jack allowing him to hold onto the fabric while he helped to gather Charlie’s meagre possessions.
Jack was kind and patient beyond measure, merely vanishing into a nearby alley, returning with an ‘L’-shaped piece of wood to help prop the smaller boy upright after Charlie had snapped at his new…acquaintance?...at Jack’s offer to carry him to, wherever they were going (“I don’t need nobody carrying me, never!”), Jack tucking himself under his other arm to help him, the two stumbling their way towards the newsboy lodge house. Huh. They were met at the door by an elderly man who had given them a cup of tea to share and help thaw them out, kindness present in every wrinkle on the man’s face, even as he chastised Jack for his penchant to “bring home strays”, Charlie blushing at the mention. A small, dark-haired boy about Charlie's age had come rushing down the steps to throw himself bodily at Jack, who took the extra weight with little more than a grunt and a wider smile as he helped Charlie into a chair. The small boy (who Charlie would come to know as “Racetrack”), shouted up the stairs for someone named “Deputy” (Jack assured him he’d have a nickname of his own soon, and Charlie wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that), the name belonging to a much older boy who came halfway down the stairs, looked at Jack, then at Racetrack, back at Jack, at Charlie, Jack again, moaning quietly about “not again” before slapping a hand over his face and declaring that Jack would be sharing his bunk.
Neither of them minded.
From then on, Jack had been a constant. Helping Charlie to navigate being a newly minted newsie-
“Yous got that bum leg, and trust me, that ain’t no bad thing. Don’t give me that look, you know how many guys on the street fake a limp for sympathy? Heaps. Now, just stand there, do a little frown, not like that, geez, ok, that’ll do. Put up those sad eyes, step right in their path, and then just do what we practiced. You got it made, kid- Charlie! Sorry! Don’t hit me, ya bum, c’mere!”
-to helping him select a name-
“Jack, I been doin’ some thinkin’,”
“Well shit, did it hurt?” Charlie swiped up at his friend, the two giggling as the good-natured tussling devolved into a wrestling match. They were up on the roof, escaping the heat of summer that seemed to settle in the bones of the old building and fester, the rooms barely inhabitable, even at night. Jack returned to rubbing the lingering pain out of joints that no longer worked, but still felt pain with every shift in humidity. “I was thinkin’ about names,”
Jack hummed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I wanna, I, I was thinkin' about Crutchie-“
Jack froze, eyes seeking out the curly-haired boy’s, Charlie frowning at the loss of the massage.
“What?”
Cowboy shook his head. “Charlie, is you, you're sure 'bout this?”
The other boy rolled his eyes. “Well sure I’m sure, didn’tcha hear me? Sides,” He waved off Jack’s spluttering. “-it’s the first thing folks notice ‘bout me every time. Might as well name myself ‘fore they get the chance.”
Jack shook his head again, shoving his friend good naturedly. “Crutchie it is.”
-to teaching him how to deal with scummy soakers-
“Anyone gives you shit, you get cold as ice. Hard eyes, no expression, maybe a little boredom if you can manage. Show them they ain’t affectin’ you, no matter what they say. It’s bum luck, but you’s a target on account of that leg a' yours, and cause you’re the sunshine of Manhattan - yes, that’s the look, but don’t give it to me, you know I’m right – and they’re insecure. They’s gonna think you’s easy, but you show ‘em that you ain’t.”
-and helping him to be a person again, instead of just another crip on the street.
---
Watching the group of teen guffaw in front of him, teenage Crutchie struggled not to kick himself (not that he could).
...Fine job he did returning the favor, landing himself in the refuge, even after he had seen what it did to Race, to Jack, even after all Jack had done to warn him away, keep him out of danger.
And he had gone and fucked it up, like he always does don't think it.
Geez, Jack had looked heartbroken when he dropped by (why’d ya have to complain about a few bruises, huh? You tryin' to make him feel bad?). Jack had faced way worse-and he was still Jack. Crutchie, on the other hand, was just another fucked up kid with no future, no wonder he kept getting himself into don't think it.
Enough with the pity party, Morris.
Jack had risked everything for him, coming back here, and what was he doing, sitting around moping that he got a little banged up? No. No more. At the very least, he could make Jack proud, show him he could support himself now. And when Jack came back, like he promised, Crutchie would prove it. He wouldn't be a victim. Not of Snyder, not of the Delanceys, not no one.
Crutchie mentally shook himself.
Time to be Jack Kelly.
Crutchie forced himself to be still, hardening his eyes, refusing to so much as blink even as his own mobility aid crashed mere inches from his bad leg. The boy wielding the crutch looked disappointed, dropping the wooden piece to the floor with prejudice. Crutchie resisted a smile.
So far, so good.
“Say, you fellas here to be the maid service? Bein’ so nice with the wake-up call? Or is there a purpose for the kind visit?”
The leader snarled, stepping closer to the thin teen as Crutchie plastered on his trademark grin, perhaps with a hint of Jack’s cocky smirk. He was preparing to further regret his life choices when a voice came from the doorway.
“Morris, Hooper, break it up!”
Crutchie had never thought he’d be grateful to spot one of the refuge’s many guards, this one tapping his billy club impatiently.
“Morris, get a move-on, Mr. Snyder doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
...he wasn't that grateful anymore.
Notes:
Just wanted to explore our favorite ray of sunshine for a few minutes, and account for his change in demeanor at the refuge and prepare for his role later on.
More to come (as always, I adore feedback)
Don't do a doctorate, folks.
Next chapter... what have our boys been up to?
Chapter 4
Summary:
I'll fix the summaries eventually. Jack and Snyder
TW for some descriptions of blood and injury
Actually, this whole chapter is its own TW- Snyder is a creep
Notes:
Here we go again!
Chapter Text
Days since the Rally: 1
-
Jack tried his best to steel his nerves as Snyder paced in and out of his field of view, the newsie praying his stomach wouldn’t exit through his mouth on every pass (as though he had anything left in his stomach to be sick), the drag of that fucking cane’s metal tip seared into his brain as well as it was stamped into his flesh. Untrusting of his voice, he forced oxygen into constricted lungs through his nose, deeply inhaling and exhaling to the point that some might have considered it hyperventilation, eyes never leaving the innocuous weapon tracing thin trails in the dirt, yet mysteriously remaining clean enough to reflect sparks from the lantern by the door, Jack pulling his eyes back to stare blankly ahead as the man once more walked beyond his sight.
The voice that came from behind him shouldn’t have affected him. He was Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan Newsies, he wasn’t afraid of no-
“You don’t even know why you’re here, do you?”
Jack jerked away reflexively, sweat trickling down his spine to soak into his stained undershirt, quickly returning his gaze ahead of him, blurry though it was...
“You should know that the mayor has kindly allowed me to use whatever means necessary to stop your street rats from destroying the city with violence." Fuck. Fuck that fucking smile. That smile that lingered in his thoughts and around every turn and every dark corner, leering for him late at night- "I don’t plan to disappoint him."
“How d’you plan to do that?” Jack shot back, already cursing himself. “There’s hundreds a' Newsies out there, you don’t got a chance!”
“How?”
Jack shook, hearing the man behind him inhale, the deep breath doing nothing to keep the eagerness from his voice as he leaned closer, mouth oozing with poison. “Oh, Sullivan.” Closer, lips trailing against the shell of his ear, no chance for the whisper to go awry, oh god, he could practically feel the slimy tongue again-
'leave me alone! please! leave me alone!'
-that disgustingly soft hand coming to rest oh so delicately against the outside of his throat, the teen freezing, unable to do anything except stare out at his dark prison and pray-
"Oh, Sullivan. You are going to tell me.”
The hand trailed up, fingers sliding into sweat-slick hair...and tightened, yanking Jack's head back, frantic brown eyes forced to stare into the face of his nightmares, neck stretched so far it felt like it might snap-
'letmegoletmegoletmego'
Relishing in the feeble struggles beneath him, Snyder smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
'fuck this fucking chair he couldn't run, couldn't move'
“You always were such a clever boy, weren’t you, Francis?”
The hand pulled further...and further...strands began to pull away...the chair began to tip, more than chair legs lifting into the air-
He let go.
Jack slammed forward in his restraints, shockwave racing up his legs to the top of his head and back again. He fought the urge to vomit, choking on bile and oxygen, forcing the fear anger down, swallowing tears even as they streamed down his face, vision clouded with more than emotion, head pounding-
'Come on, Cowboy. Get your shit together! What the boys would think if they could see me now, cryin' like a baby when he's barely touched me. Some great leader...'
Snyder said something, the sound muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. Jack stiffened, still panting.
‘Don’t react.’
‘That’s what he wants.’
‘That’s what he always wants.’
'You've already said too much, you and your big mouth.'
‘Just sit, and don’t speak, and don’t mov-‘
“I didn’t mean you any harm.” A leaden hand dropped onto his shoulder, fingers digging into his collar bone until it ached, the dirty thumb gently tracing the back of his neck, forcing him upright again, spine crushed into the structure of the chair. “Sullivan, you know better than anyone that I want to do what’s best for the city. What’s best for you and those little...rats, you call Newsboys.”
Jack held his breath, ribs creaking in protest, throat screaming, head aching.
“Out of the goodness of my heart, I take on the criminal youth, destined for nothing but a life of sin and misdeeds, out of pure selflessness, I rehabilitate them.” The hand vanished, Snyder reappearing before him, pacing primly, tilting his head to be sure that Jack saw him. “But you, Sullivan. You were different. Yes.” The man nodded sagely. “You. Determined to be the hero to your little societal underbelly. King of the worms.”
The verbal assault didn’t end there, each step of Snyder’s polished shoes punctuating another, and another, and another.
“A thief.”
“Rioter.”
“Bunter.”
Jack lost face momentarily, body jerking in his bindings as if taking a physical blow. There was no quarter.
“Vagrant.”
“Coward.”
“Traito- .”
“I ain’t!”
'Damn you, Kelly.'
The man paused, turning to look at the teen who seemed stunned that the words had even left his mouth, quickly setting his face once more. Snyder blinked, folding his hands.
“Is that so, Sullivan?” He took a stride closer. “Because your little friends seemed very certain that you were already, what’s the word? Ah yes, a scab.” The word floated over on a cloud of poison, the teen feeling tears prick his eyes. They couldn’t- they didn’t think- he wouldn’t -
Snyder nearly clapped his hands with glee, watching the boy struggle.
“They already know.”
Jack shook his head vehemently, instantly regretting the action as the room spun in a nauseating blur around him. There was blood on his cheek. It itched.
“Tell me what I want to know, and you’re free to go.”
'He's lying-'
"They already despise you. Why protect them? Tell me what I want, and I'll release you-"
'He will never let you go.'
“Fuck you.”
'Fuck me.'
“And here you claimed you never liked our lessons.” Snyder lifted the cane, digging the sharpened tip beneath the teen’s jaw, forcing his head up, making contact with eyes that were…wet. Oh. The Warden shifted slightly, letting the polished stick trace down torn linen, the boy holding impossibly still, frozen, (His.). So pretty. The perfect present to unwrap…
Jack grit his teeth, feeling the small eyes roam his body as the indignance boiled over inside him, shoving the fear rage down.
‘Don’t react.’
The man smiled, letting his hand follow where the wood had been moments before, fingers tangling in the little neckerchief. How...foolish. Did he think he'd wear it forever? That it would disguise him, maybe? Hide him away? No. Snyder wiggled into the knot, a few tugs loosening the tie until the fabric fell away, baring the slender neck fully (he was unable to resist holding the pilfered bandana to his face, taking a quick inhale before tucking it quickly into his breast pocket...for safekeeping).
Jack flinched, heart spiking to pound along with his head as Snyder whipped away his dignity, the walking stick falling to the floor, a bare hand dragging over his face. A finger, nails filthy and dark, pushing between his lips to drag over his teeth. He fought down another wave of nausea (though not from the almost-certain concussion) as the man continued speaking as though nothing had happened, unseen, the ever-present cane clicking in tandem with heeled oxfords.
“You never learned, Sullivan. Even after all I tried to teach you, all our lessons. You still had…nerve.”
The cane clanked again, and was silent
The lantern creaked, and was still.
“...You don’t scare easily, do you, Sullivan?”
More silence, followed by the sinuous ooze of a wet smile.
“...I like that.”
Jack nearly passed out then and there, his vision blurring at the edges, his chest stabbed from within, the hummingbird that was his heart beating on its cage in horror-stricken flight.
'No.'
'No.'
'No, no, no, nononono- '
Snyder continued talking, seemingly oblivious to the state of his captive, his voice overlaid with small clinkings and shufflings of things in the dark, the room thick with fear and excitement.
“I want to know everything, Francis. Everything. What your plans are, where your little co-conspirators are…” Snyder’s voice trailed off. “That’s a good place to start. What about the other rats in your gutter, Sullivan?” There was a sound of rustling cloth. “Tell me, how is little Antonio since I saw him last? The wop?”
Still reeling, Jack practically snarled, a wave of protectiveness crashing over him and clearing his vision, coming back to himself with a shout into the nothingness.
“You keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth, you hear me, Spider?! He’s worth ten a’ you! Any Newsie is, an’ he ain't stupid neither! He'll never-”
“Is he their new leader?” Snyder made his reappearance like a bat into hell, coat gone, greed shining in his perpetually scrunched eyes. Jack’s voice vanished mid-sentence, anger evaporating into cloying, choking, terror. “Is he going to carry out all your little plans?" Simpering, smiling. "He always was so small…though not as pretty as you.”
Jack shut his mouth with a click, doing his best to sit up straight and harden his eyes, even as his bones protested the very thought.
Snyder sighed theatrically, rolling his eyes for emphasis. “Come now, Sullivan. You can’t mention your little boys and then hold off on where they are.”
Jack turned his head, energy spent.
‘Don’t react.’
‘Don’t give him what he wants.’
‘Don’t speak. Don’t mo-‘
Snyder leaned close, relishing in the fear emanating from the teen in front of him, lifting a hand to caress the sweat-slicked throat, fragile and soft. “I wanna know who the new leaders are.”
The hand pressed down. Jack tipped his head back as far as it would go in his restraints, struggling for breath, straining against his bonds while still making eye contact, the fetid breath drifting in his face further compromising the air. “Sullivan-” The hand tightened again, Snyder grunting along with the teen, one in exertion, one in desperation, the sound dying in the packed earth and solid stone of the small room. Jack kicked out his legs involuntarily, searching for purchase while firmly tied down, his torso beginning to twist reflexively, seeking some way, any way, to escape. To breathe.
‘Please- don’t let him- don’t let me die here’
Black spots faded into his vision, the world graying as a response. For a moment that lasted a lifetime, he was senseless, and then-
Jack exhaled sharply, simultaneously trying to drag in the biggest breath of his life, the oxygen slicing into his lungs like knives, coughing helplessly while the lantern flared in his vision, so bright it might have been the sun.
Snyder watched the proceedings with near disinterest, plucking a pocket watch from his vest and examining the time before returning his attention to the boy before him, ragged gasps falling from cracked lips, bruises already darkening under the filth that smeared his skin…
“Well, Sullivan?”
His question was met with a wet cough, rasping breaths interspersed with a thin whine it seemed the boy was oblivious to making.
He had missed that sound.
The Warden clicked his tongue. “No answer?” He propped a foot on the chair between Jack’s legs, toes wiggling forward beneath shining leather, Jack forcing himself back towards unyielding metal, anything to avoid that touch…and that smile.
“Remember, I can ask your new boy, David. Oh, what was it you called him?” Snyder grinned, a small noise of satisfaction escaping as Jack glared at him with eyes set to kill, lips pulling into a white line even as he panted like a mutt. "Davey?" The staring contest held for only moments before Jack once more averted his gaze, staring into the beyond. Snyder moved a bit closer, enjoying the fruits of his labor. “You have to admit, he is rather pretty, even if he is a kik-”
Jack took the opportunity to ram his head into the warden’s face, sending him staggering across the floor, clutching at his bleeding nose. Despite his current state, Jack allowed a bit of satisfaction to show on his face as Snyder wandered back over, swiping blood off his chin with Jack's own bandana-turned-handkerchief.
“You think that’s funny?”
Jack blinked slowly. Snyder scowled, stepping closer.
“You think you’re a real laugh, don’t you Sullivan? Think highly of yourself?” Jack blinked again against the flying spittle; jaw clenched. He kept it that way, even when Snyder returned the favor, levying a fist into the teen’s face.
“Now, I want to know what your plans are." The man withdrew a pocketknife, snapping the blade open even as the boy struggled to pull himself together, head bowed as far as the restraints would allow, blood dripping to the dirty floor from a split lip. Snyder aided the body's efforts to contract, slicing easily through the ropes that bound the boy's chest to the chair, leaving the rest of the cords intact, ensuring the abdomen, arms, and legs remained firmly attached to the splintered furniture. The sudden freedom had the teen jerking upright, the misguided attempt for freedom quickly halted by another hit, this time to the stomach, driving the air out of struggling lungs and sending the boy collapsing forward once more, back exposed to the stale cellar air.
"I want to know where your rats are." The knife returned to the pocket, Snyder smiling and shifting his stance until he was comfortable. "And I want to know now.” He raised his cane.
Jack caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, pupils dilating in an instant. "Wait- no!"
Snyder struck, the worn wood whistling through the air to land with full force, Francis crying out as a new mark was added to the collection surely hidden beneath his shirt. And another. And another.
“Sullivan!” Another, blood dripping and vanishing in the dirt, flecks splashed across the aggressor. "Now, Sullivan!" Another.
To his credit, after his initial outburst, the boy was nearly silent, biting down on the noises that threatened to escape with every strike (just like he used to), even as blood dampened the back of his already filthy shirt, welling where the skin had split under the brutal assault.
"Well, Sullivan?" Snyder panted lightly, tracing the new wounds with the sharp tip of his stick, relishing in the short whine that escaped from his captive. "I'll be nice. Tell me about your rats, and this-" He ran his hand delicately over torn cloth and skin, another choked sound reaching his ears. "-ends now."
Silence, well, as silent as the boy could be, with his 'condition'.
"If you insist-" The man chuckled, a smile splitting his features. He raised the cane once more-
And then Jack screamed.
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Summary:
The plot thickens...
Are you paying attention?
Notes:
And look who's back?
Me.
And just in time for the spooky season!Two chapters in one day, that's like...a lot of words.
I will eventually finish this, but I have also made it impossibly complicated, so strap in!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
-
Days since the Rally: 0
-
Nelson McSwain was not a young man. While he was relatively new to his position as the Chief of the New York City Police Force (he’d be lying if he claimed it to be an uncontentious appointment), he was not new to the police-game, having walked his Brooklyn beat every day for nearly 40 years. He had witnessed murders and robberies, he had broken fights, broken strikes, broken bones, had seen proud men turn to piles of meat and proud buildings to ashes. You name it, he he’d seen it; twice. Even so, this had to be the wildest night he, and indeed, anyone else, had or would see in their lives.
It was sheer pandemonium, no, pandemonium didn’t begin to describe it. Boys darting to and fro, some emerging from the theater where the show of force that could only be described as a wall sent them turning and running straight into the arms of their pursuers. His officers surrounding and infiltrating the scene, struggling to regain control of a situation that was hopelessly lost. Screaming, yelling, blood, and fighting spilling into the streets. Some boys attempted to cross the line, to slip into the growing crowd.
Every attempt failed.
One fell to the ground, nearly trampled by a spooked horse, the animal stomping anxiously at the ground, head thrown back and pupils blown. Another boy, one eye covered by a patch, made a leap for the jostled man of the law, managing to drag the uniformed officer to the ground with him, the other boy vanishing into the melee.
Forget pandemonium, this was chaos. Pulitzer had to be mad, hell, McSwain might as well christen himself with the title for dragging his force into the mix. No lousy dollars (or “escaped convict” – the desire to roll his eyes at the media mogul’s dramatic declaration were strong) were worth this mess.
The Chief watched-on with disbelief well-hidden behind professionalism, forced to bark orders he had no faith in as his men corralled the unruly newsies into the wagons, each fight overpowered as easily as a naughty child (he ignored the part of his brain reminding him that they were, in fact, children), eyes alighting on a scuffle that remained unresolved. As those resisting nearby were moved along, the relative resolution of the situation outside allowing resources to be reallocated inside Irving Hall, two officers continued to tangle with a particularly scrappy boy, his features hidden in the shadows of streetlamps, the desperate newsie laying into the two men with what appeared to be a stick, screaming the whole time, only keeping the edge due to skills hard-won on the streets and sheer desperation, his small size belaying his ferocity.
Nursing bruised ribs (and egos), one of the men stumbled back, cursing, the other managing to land a hand on the boy only to jerk back a moment later, the same hand clutched to his chest.
“The little bastard bit me!”
“And I’ll fuckin’ do it again if you lay anudda fuckin’ hand on me, peeler!”
McSwain sighed, drawing his club, striding forward as the three engaged once more. This had gone on long enough; it was time to put this night to rest. A single solid blow had the skinny - teen? He was certainly small - boy laid out on the ground, the two officers staring up gratefully.
“Thanks, Chief,”
“Guess what they said about them Brooklyn kids ain’t wrong, right?”
Brooklyn.
The two men clamped cuffs over the skinny wrists, dragging the boy into the light, his face glistening with blood from the fresh cut above his eyebrow, a few drops falling to land on his-
Suspenders.
His red suspenders.
Spot. Fucking. Conlon.
Shit.
Shit.
Things just got complicated.
-
Days since the Rally: 1
-
“Mr. Pulitzer, sir?”
“Speak up or leave, Jonathan.” The man remarked, magnifying glass in hand never lifting from the writing laid front of him. “I don’t pay you to stand in my doorway.”
“A mister-“ A loud cough sounded from behind the nervous man, the subject shooting a dirty look towards the interruption before clearing his throat and continuing in a rather nasal tone- “A Warden Snyder to see you, sir.”
“Send him in. And Jonathan-”
“The Chief has been notified, sir.”
The assistant shot the portly man a nasty look as they passed, silently clocking the large bruise that spread across the man’s face, plain as day despite the clumsy attempt to conceal the injury with powder, remains still lightly dusting the front of the knockoff suit. The temptation to release the purr of satisfaction currently rising in his chest at the sight was strong…
“Good day, sir,”
…but Jonathan wisely kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.
The door clicked shut. The current ruler of the World turned his page, ignoring the round barrel of a man sweating in his presence. “Well? Tell me about the boy. Tell me about this,” The man made some indistinguishable comments, the words muffled into his beard. “This, Kelly.”
Snyder swallowed, dabbing a handkerchief about his brow, unwittingly smearing his attempts at a coverup across his face. “Well, you see, his name is actually Sullivan. Francis John Sullivan,” He swallowed again, straightening his shoulders, bravado easily returning for a topic he knew much about. “You see, the Kelly moniker was simply to prevent my catching up to him, though he knew it was only a matter of time-”
“Sullivan is a tough nut to crack?” Pulitzer cut in idly, eyeing the stained fabric in the other man’s hand with disdain the Warden failed to perceive, the other man huffing loudly, chest pushed out as far as it could go.
“Perhaps it was his time on the street that made him that way. I certainly don’t remember this kind of defiance the last time he lived within my walls. Why, when I-”
“I have no interest in your petty squabbles with a boy, Warden.”
Snyder nearly stumbled back a step. “Well, I-“
Papers and glass thumped to the desk, the force imprinting the emotion into the similarly marked mahogany. “I care only for the information you’ve managed to collect from him. Information that might just keep us all from ruin and keep you in business, Warden. So, tell me, where is the information I’ve requested of you? The reason why I’ve allowed your incompetence to proceed in my office?” Pulitzer steepled his fingers. “Warden!”
Snyder nearly jumped in his skin, hands sweating along his cane, the instrument clearly unfit for public use, a hair crack running its length. The red kerchief reappeared from his pocket, mopping his face quickly (further revealing his purpling nose) before tucking it away, his answer grit between recently unclenched teeth. “Nothing yet-“
The other man nodded, taking a prim sip of his tea. “And what about his mouthy friend? The schoolboy, er,” He snapped briskly a few times, motioning towards his guest. “The one that follows him like a dog, the boy, the boy-“
“…Jacobs, sir?”
Pulitzer nodded, hand now waving lazy circles through the air, “Yes, yes. Jacobs. David.” -and raised his eyebrows, Snyder scrambling to return a satisfactory response.
“Ah, sir, I was just about to go talk to him. But I had figured you’d want a, report, seeing as-”
Pulitzer lifted a hand, rising gracefully from his seat. “Allow me.”
-
Days since the Rally: -1
-
His crutch thumped too loudly on freshly scrubbed floorboards, the oil and beeswax long washed away by small hands, the long walk down a short hall a sentence for all who dared venture towards the spider’s web. Crutchie knocked briskly on the glass, hoping that his painted grin would hide the large lump in his throat.
“Heya Mr. Snyder, how was your supper?” He swallowed again, breath sticking partway.
The man barely moved, merely continued his late-afternoon paper, the thrice-damned dirty bastard. Of course he’d ignore the strike, he was as scabby as they come.
Somewhat pleased with his mental insults, Crutchie pushed himself forward, ignoring his aching everything, setting down the tray to begin cleaning the remnants of supper the boys of the refuge could only dream of. Quietly plotting how to best sneak the leftovers in the hall, the skinny newsie adjusted his grip on a dish, the discarded front page of the Sun catching his eye and the breath in his lungs as a face he knew almost better than his own smiled up at him from the surface of the scratched desk.
“Hey! That’s Jack!” Jack. His Jack, on the front page, with Dave, and Mush, and Specs, and- was that Spot Conlon? Scratch that, who the hell cared? His friends, his family on the front page! Their strike on the Front Page! Above the fold! Crutchie grinned, mentally noting to talk to Jack about this the next time he dropped by (he did promise to come back, after all). Unable to keep this small dose of pride to himself, the words came spilling out, the boy almost forgetting his lame leg in his desire to get closer. “He looks just like hisself!”
The sitting man’s head turned like an owl, sharp and unnatural, “You know this boy?” the wide eyes of a predator now giving their full attention to a boy who only moments before was as insignificant as the grime the boys washed from the floors.
Crutchie inhaled sharply, joy sliding off his face to splat somewhere miserably in the bottom of his stomach.
Oh. Oh fuck.
“I- I uh,” his heart pounded, the air in the stuffy room suddenly chilled below freezing, adrenaline pouring through him.
Fight?
Flight?
Freeze.
And he did, his veins turning to ice, his bone to marble, unable to do more than stumble away from the suddenly standing man, Snyder closing in with something skin to hunger in the dark pits of his face.
“No.” Crutchie held up a hand, marks under his clothes reminding him already how futile any resistance was. “Nah, nuh-uh.”
Snyder was undeterred. “You have a famous friend, this Jack. Do you know where he lives?”
Crutchie made to move back again, his back thudding painfully against the wall, unable to retreat any further.
‘Dammit, Morris, you’ve really fucked it this time.’
“I never heard of him, honest!” Crutchie thumped meaningfully at his own head. “It’s this brain of mine. It’s always makin’ mistakes!”
Snyder grinned, still advancing, the spider preparing to feast on its catch, the helpless fly still buzzing about, babbling on.
“It has a mind of its own?” The boy tried to ignore how utterly ridiculous he sounded as Snyder looked him up and down, somehow able to make him feel completely exposed while fully clothed. Swallowing hard, the teen edged around the man, making to get the tray and escape to the relative safety of the kitchens, the urge to filch the first food he’d seen in days tying itself into nauseating knots. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Snyder?”
The spider said nothing, merely reaching pointedly into the boy’s personal space, smoothing out the point of contention with relish, the fly beating a hasty retreat to the door, buzzing tinged with desperation, eager to leave the cursed paper in the past.
“Goodbye, Mr. Snyder.”
They locked eyes through the dirty glass of the door for the briefest of moments before the boy dropped his head, shamefully shuffling away under the watchful eye of the Warden, painfully aware that he had not escaped the spider’s wrath, the sticky tendrils practically clinging to his clothes as he did his best to pretend he’d escaped.
They both knew he’d never left the web.
He was caught, and soon, the spider would come to call.
-
Days since the Rally: 1
-
Jack had been silent for a long while.
More than long enough. God, at least when he’d been screaming he’d been alive-
Davey cursed himself for his selfish thoughts. What kind of monster wants to hear someone being tortured just to reassure themselves they didn’t cause their friend’s death?
That you didn’t cause his death? You got the both of you caught, after all…
The teen shook his head, willing his brain to shut the fuck up for once. Snyder clearly wanted them for a reason, that’s why he kept them alive instead of simply killing them.
Hostages?
No. What money could the newsies pay?
Bargaining chips. Not for money, but for the strike.
Oh. Now that made sense. Jack was right, Snyder was dangerous. He would set them against one another, and then reap the benefits. Would the newsies value their lives over their rights? What good was a Union President and Vice President at the price of the union itself?
Quite the moral dilemma. A speeding train, with two tracks. On one: You and Jack. On the other: Every Newsie in New York
Spot certainly wouldn’t hesitate to choose his boys, to choose Brooklyn, but what about Race? Mush? What about his brother?
Oh. Les, I’m so sorry.
Davey paled slightly, thinking of the boys he held in such high regard; boys whom mere days before he had walked past, never paying them any mind, the newsboys as dependable and fixed as the streetlamps. God, there was more than just Manhattan. There were hundreds of other boys, other boroughs; what would they decide? Would they really let them die?
This is the risk you wanted to take. You saw the trolly workers-
“This isn’t what I wanted!” Davey exclaimed to the dark of the (presumably) empty room. As expected, the room did not reply, his words deadened against dirtied stone.
But you knew the risk was there all along. Were you merely content to let others lay their bodies, their livelihoods, their lives on the line while you played leader? The great hero, David Jacobs. The Mouth of the Strike-
“I-“
Something scraped loudly on the other side of the door, the familiar sound of a key forced through a lock trying to echo in the small space.
Jack is used to suffering…what do you think they’ll do to you?
Davey bowed his head as much as his bindings would allow, muttering a quick prayer, the familiar language warming his heart for a moment, even as terror flooded through his body, quick and cold, threatening to extinguish the small flame he’d kindled.
You started this. Time to pay the piper.
The door opened slightly, bent hinges dragging the thick wood through the dirt, sticking and complaining all the while.
I did start this. I encouraged the newsies to strike. I planned the rally. I convinced them to go further. I was a part of this from the beginning, I wanted to be a part of it, lending my voice to the voiceless. These are our rights, and if this is the price I have to pay…I will.
He swallowed, sandpaper coating his throat.
Jack…wherever you are, please be alive.
Properly steeled, Davey set his face, prepared for whatever Snyder had to throw at him. But it wasn’t Snyder who came through the door. Well, it was, but it was who came first…
The captive newsie couldn’t help but let unbridled shock leech into his stare at the arrival of the imposing form of one Joseph Pulitzer.
Notes:
That's all for now! Feedback is always appreciated!
In the next chapter: What's going on with the newsies???
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Summary:
We gain insight into the past and the present.
Notes:
Guess who's baaaack?
It me.
This chapter is INSANELY long, so it's been broken into two! With that in mind, chapter 7 shouldn't be too long coming (take that with a grain of salt)
I hope it was worth the wait (if anyone is still reading this).
Again, I have no beta, so apologies for any mistakes!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
-
Days since the Rally:
-
New York City’s Police Chief McSwain hadn’t been born an officer of the law.
In fact, he hadn’t even been born in New York, remembering a sickening boat ride from a place where everyone spoke his language, where Mam had been happy and Da was alive, a place before an attic by the docks (both places leaking and stinking of rotten fish), before people that jeered in the street, before other boys that picked on him for his size and his funny accent and for begging in the streets to make rent.
In truth, upon arrival in New York harbor, shoved into a dilapidated metal building, poked and prodded by squinting people who yelled at him in a new tongue, tagged and forced to bear his new “American” name, the small boy couldn’t help but boil with resentment, largely targeted towards his parents - though others certainly weren’t exempt from his ire. But those others, the people who threw insults like stones, bigger boys who pushed and shoved, angry men who wouldn’t employ a paddy like his Da’, none of them were responsible for their arrival in the New World, in New York. No. They were merely byproducts of his rage. The true onus lay with his Mam and Da, the true purveyors of change.
For years, McSwain cursed their insistence on change, their unwavering belief that this New World (some dirty city) was somehow better for them, a “land of opportunity” (he was sure that was a phrase they picked up from another family, an older couple who reeked of smoke [“to cure my cough” the man had insisted] that traveled with them from home. He was also sure that neither of them left the building that day, the old woman arguing with the new people while her husband lit his pipe). He cursed his Mam’s reservations of love and care (her time stolen by a steady stream of needlework), his Da’s short-temper that landed him a long-walk off a short pier (they claimed it had been an accident, but no water-logged crate could cave in a man’s skull like that), and every moment of his childhood spent begging, borrowing, bartering, or stealing.
When he got his first job, a replacement for his father at the docks, Nelson McSwain swore he would never return to that life, to the little beggar boy, unfamiliar English catching and mangling in the back of his mouth, unsure of his next day. He would take advantage of the “land of opportunity” (land of bullshit), and do what his parents could not.
He learned to hide the accent, to stomp out the lilt and rolling r’s, replacing them with dropped g’s and “proper” pronunciation, imitating the old men that frequented the streets with pretty ladies. He labored at the docks and grew into his frame, muscle packing on like it was made to be. He worked hard, his efforts garnering higher positions, his intimidating stature earning him admiration and status, the boys who’d teased him unable to compete when the tables turned (proven in quickly-ended skirmishes after a day of sweating and straining for less coin than he took from those he defeated). Gone was the boy from the streets who begged in words that weren’t his own, replaced with a man who never stumbled in his footing or his voice, whom other men respected and envied in turn, whom the ladies flocked to and flirted with. He finally had the life he promised himself, the life his parents never could have achieved with their old-world ways. Success (to a degree), a comfortable living, casual friends, and most recently, a pretty lass woman whom he loved. His old life was gone, long in the past, and he could look forward to living his life, content in the new world he’d once spurned.
It didn’t last long.
They were all aware of the draft, and knew what laid in the crates they were loading, the splintered containers too heavy to be anything other than instruments of war. Men and boys vanished every day with their cargo, word of a fight spanning Texas to Pennsylvania flooding the papers, the violence spreading every day. And then, on the day he turned 20, he too joined their cargo on another sickening boat ride reminiscent of his childhood (though for a very different reason).
It might have been only a year he spent with the Union Army, but there was no one waiting for him when he returned.
It was good fortune that kept him from a life of clothes stiff with salt and smelling of bilge (how he could have pretended to be content with that life was beyond him. How could he possibly be, when he could be better-), a bobb- a policeman he’d fought alongside taking notice of him, redirecting his attentions from the slimy boards of the docks to a Brooklyn beat. He exchanged one uniform for another - a nightstick resting against his leg in place of a gun, and paced uneven cobblestones from Prospect to the Heights to Fulton- and back to the piers where he’d spent so much of his time.
That was how he spent the next 33 years. Prospect, the Heights, Fulton, and the aptly named “Navy-Yard” Piers.
In that time, he took notes and cues from Pinkerton in Pennsylvania, a refugee from the old-world (like him) who grew to fame and repute from his own Detective Agency. A man who knew the value of hard work and the shame of a sordid past, a man who maintained order and garnered respect. Besides, who didn’t appreciate the perks? If some rich up-and-up was offering a boodle to get a job done, what man who wasn’t off his chump would turn that down? Not Pinkerton, certainly. And not Patrolman McSwain, the seemingly permanent fixture from Prospect Park to the Piers, a cop on the beat yearning to progress, but seemingly insignificant among his peers and superiors.
Perhaps, all he needed was a demonstration of his competency, to be noticed for what he was, what he could be. But what could he do when all he saw were the same familiar faces day-after-day? A proper (if insignificant) City Patrolman knowing when trouble was afoot with nary a glance at his streets, greeting his regulars and scaring off agitators, a proper man through-and-through. A man fit to be chief of police...someday…if those above him would only take notice.
To his surprise, it was one of his familiar faces that would lead to his deepest desire, one particular face that grew to familiarity, yet was the most unlikely of candidates. A face belonging to boy who McSwain quietly thought might have shared his name once, a boy whom McSwain could swear was himself reflected in another time and place:
The uniquely red-suspendered Spot Conlon.
-
He’d met the boy while still a cop on his beat, encountering the small figure parading around the Brooklyn Bridge while hawking a mound of papers nearly as big as he was, and with an accent to match the most time-honored resident of their fair borough. There was no fanfare to his person, just an overly-large hat and the most brightly colored suspenders the city had seen. He became a regular of the metal structure, there day-in and day-out, just another fixture of the city McSwain had come to begrudgingly love. Another mundane addition to the beat.
It wasn’t until one particularly gusty day that the patrolman really saw Conlon for the first time…really heard him too. Thanks to the howling winds (barely short of a gale), McSwain heard something that was certainly neither mundane nor regular - a language he’d thought long-forgotten spewing out of the mouth of one very small, very angry newsie, all traces of the city once known as New Amsterdam’s vernacular vanishing in an instant along with what had to be nearly 100 papers, the latter tumbling merrily along the wooden slats and threatening to whisk themselves right over the edge of the nearly 11-story structure, the child seemingly ready to hurl himself after the few that had already succeeded in their escape.
Of course, upon taking pity on the small boy (it was simple work to stop a good third of the flying papers from blowing to a watery grave), the gaelic was gone, a snarled “give ‘em here, copper!”, all the gratitude the adult received.
McSwain figured that would be the extent of their interactions, as most of the working kids avoided the officers of the law like they carried the plague, and it was sure that this Brooklyn newsie would be like the others. The boy was careful to give the man a wide berth, unless it was assessed that he might need the day’s paper, in which case he could be easily persuaded to hand over an extra penny, or the threat of a beating for bothering him.
He was wrong.
Mysteriously enough, it was the oddly-named “Spot” who offered the first boon, the boy staring at him from across the street for several minutes in the fading sunlight, only crossing once darkness had truly fallen. He didn’t say much, but it was the quality of his words that held the true significance.
“Harmony Mills. ‘Round ‘bout midnight. Don’t go ‘lone.”
And then he was gone, vanishing into the evening mist,
Maybe it was a trap. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was crazy for requesting company outside his beat, staking out the abnormally silent textile productions on the word of a foul-mouthed child. Maybe it was a lot of things, but there was one thing for certain:
That foul-mouthed child was responsible for what may have been the largest bust of his career.
The success of that night propelled him onwards and upwards, placing him leagues above others nearly identical to himself, progressing once more in a career long thought by McSwain himself to be stagnant.
From that moment onward, it seemed that an unspoken understanding was reached, the unlikely duo often stopping to share a look, sometimes exchanging quick words, the need for secrecy implicitly understood in the strange tit-for-tat arrangement. Spot would warn of impending criminal activity (though McSwain was intimately aware this was only activity in which Spot himself was not involved, the cessation of which would benefit him in some way), and the man would offer stories and hints at headlines, any offers of protection rejected with prejudice.
Through the years, they operated like this, Spot’s net of informants growing until the boy seemed to have his “little birdies” chirping in his ear constantly, making the newly minted borough leader intimately aware of all goings-on within “his” city…such as the Manhattan boy that showed up one day to sell at the races, the only boy McSwain had never seen back down from Spot returning time and time again, no matter what threats or intimidation were tried, tactics that McSwain had seen work on countless other boys, this “Racetrack” seemingly blissfully ignorant, or perhaps uncaring, of the danger that Spot Conlon posed.
The officer himself knew the ease with which violence lingered among Spot’s capabilities, aware that the disappearance of the former Brooklyn leader was more than just coincidence, yet unable or unwilling to linger on the topic, as he himself was climbing his own ranks nearly as quickly as Conlon, his informant’s tips netting him very positive results for them both.
And so, it led to this, McSwain the Chief of Police, and Spot Conlon the King of Brooklyn, top of their respective worlds, both crammed into this noisy courtroom on very different sides of the law, both constrained by their choices and both utterly powerless to do anything about it.
McSwain exhaled carefully, controlled, and tried to ignore the voice in his head cursing him for ever accepting that lunatic Pulitzer’s proposal, for not pulling his officers before it got this far, for not warning the Brooklyn boy to keep himself and his boys far from that Bowery theater.
It was too late now. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it well, despite the constant whisper in the back of his mind that he owed Spot everything, and (sarcastically) how this was a fine way to repay him.
He could only hope that this message, hastily scrawled and shoved into a bruised hand before a brutal face-saving push, would begin to make up his outstanding debt.
-
Days since the Rally: 0
-
I fucked up.
Charlie Morris lay flat on his back, arms wrapped around his midsection so tightly he could practically feel (more) bruises forming where his bones ground against one another. Even without his self-imposed misery, the incessant pressure was inescapable with boys wedged against the rails on either side of him to avoid falling off the narrow bed (if it could even be called a bed), the claustrophobic conditions doing nothing to alleviate the suffocation of guilt laid thickly over his nose and mouth, wrapped around his throat like a hangman’s noose.
I fucked up.
Well, obviously he had fucked up. He didn’t see any other newsies in this hellscape some smartass had so ironically named the Refuge. He’d heard Jack talk about this place, late at night when shadows grew into monsters and reaching hands, Cowboy and Racer tucked tightly together, giving each other comfort that Crutchie couldn’t hope to provide, not even to his brothers, the only people he had in this fucked-up world. God knows he’d tried, but they’d only turned him away, ushered him back to sleep with the platitudes that they didn’t want to burden his mind with greater nightmares, protecting him from even the memories of this evil place, sending him off with the same warnings as they gave to all the other boys:
Stay Away from the Refuge.
But he couldn’t do that, could he?
Dumb crip’s just too damn slow.
Then again, he’d had the chance to escape, freedom literally knocking at the window, but his stupid pride kept him here, selfishness spitting in the face of that all Jack and Davey had risked to come here (god, Jack’s eyes had been haunted), but no. Pride goeth before a fall, and he had yet to come to a stop. Just blindly crashing his way down a mountain of mistakes, somehow dragging everyone else down with him.
He'd let himself become a pawn in this game, something to be levied, bargained with, because he was too blind to let himself be helped.
All he had to do after that was lay low, trust Jack and the boys, lay low, and just wait. Outlast whatever mercies the Refuge had to bestow upon him. But no, the ‘dumb crip’ had to fuck it all up…again. Just had to try to act like Jack, pretend to be something he wasn’t, run his big mouth, digging himself a shallow grave, and dragging his brothers into the quicksand that sucked them all down.
Jack would never have given in so easily.
Dumb. Stupid. Useless. Fuck-up. Crip.
A rat scurried across his lame foot in the dark, the teen jerking back reflexively, momentarily forgetting his tenuous (also stuck) position, the motion doing nothing but sending shockwaves of pain through his flayed nerves and dislodging his bed partner, the smaller boy whining before scrunching his hands into the dirty fabric of Crutchie’s nightgown, clinging tightly to the only person in the place who didn’t seem to want him dead.
The rooms were never silent, ranging from the occasional cough or sniffle to someone’s soft crying, to the muffled cries of a boy being “rehabilitated” filtering through the gloom. The sounds did little to dampen the scratching of the rats in the walls, many of the rancid creatures bold enough to venture in to the room and investigate for scraps of food (good luck, the boys had already scavenged every last crumb), often tracking over faces and bodies in their search, drawing squeaks and gasps of horror from the newer prisoners, the long-term occupants already accustomed to the late night visits (though no one was accustomed to the bites that usually accompanied the uninvited guests).
Crutchie did the best to ignore the lingering taste of iron in his mouth and the voice in his head, resigning himself to lying as still as possible until sleep (or the spider) came for him, almost able to pretend that the sounds around him were just the newsies back at lodging after lights-out, joking and whispering and sneaking into each other’s bunks and-
A door slammed, voices from below filtering up through the splintered floorboards or in through the window, Crutchie wasn’t sure, head foggy as it was.
“Whoa! That one’s a runner, grab ‘im!”
“This one's strong as an ox! What do they feed-”
“I said grab him!”
“Shit, 'e’s got ‘is damn mouth free!”
“Come here you little-!”
A shriek, and then, blissful silence.
-
“Hey, Ten-Pin, where’re the new intakes?”
The boy paused in shoveling gruel into his mouth long enough to shoot the crippled newsie a funny look, face scrunched up.
“The fuck’re you on about, Crutchie? We ain’t got no new kids, that’s fer sure.” He jerked his free arm over his shoulder before it dropped back to the table to shield his meagre meal, other appendage already resuming his furious scarfing, continuing through a mouthful. “Those lumps’d never leave fresh meat ‘lone.” He swallowed, wiping his arm with a stained shirtsleeve, already eyeing his companion’s dish. “Maybe you’s ears is broken like ya leg. You gonna finish that?”
Deeply confused, Crutchie wordlessly slid the crusty bowl across the table.
-
Days since the Rally: 1
-
The borough of Brooklyn was far from quiet, the afternoon sun keeping watch over the sprawling din, one player conspicuously absent from the regularly scheduled cacophony. Despite the undeniable note of excitement acting as an undercurrent to the summer heat, there were no newsies to be found.
The newboys were absent from the docks, the bridge, the alleys and streets. Sheepshead was ablaze with screams and shouts, but not one shouted headline could be found among the thrall.
Even the lodgehouse stood empty, making for one very confused individual turning in circles in the front hall, their pounding feet echoing on flights of abandoned stairwells, their shouts dying with no one to hear them.
It was clear to all, from the most passive patrons of the paper to the bobbies that combed through the city.
The newsies were gone.
-
On an unnamed block, down a particularly unassuming street, a church bell tolled the hour. On the opposite corner, a face peered out a broken window, mentally counting the chimes before disappearing again, a dirty blanket hastily pulled over the cracked remains of a portal to the outer world, sealing off those within.
It was a warehouse, or rather, it had been, as its size and lack of proximity the docks had relegated it to defunctness. It now served as a sanctuary for the remaining Brooklyn newsies, the Manhattans crammed among them like so many sardines. Despite the space restrictions, the boroughs had managed to sequester themselves from one another, the red-touting Brooklyn boys pressed along one wall, the Manhattans on the other, these two factions dissipating into smaller and smaller groups that conversed amongst themselves, whispers and glares flying back and forth across the narrow hall.
Specs shifted uncomfortably, longing to chance a look out the covered window again, but not at all willing to risk the wrath of the Brooklyn native who’d yanked him back before, the brawny boy hissing only that Spot had warned them to stay away from the windows and stay quiet before forcibly slamming the cloth back over the broken pane (hypocritically defeating the nature of the warning if you asked Specs) and scuttling back to his own group of friends. The lot of them were clearly discussing the bespectacled boy if their exaggerated gestures and darting eyes were anything to go off, the group barely managing to contain their chortles. A lesser boy might have given into the urge to make something of it, but Specs had the patience of a saint (for fuck’s sake, he lived with the chaos that was Racetrack Higgins). Or, (he reasoned with himself) he was just too tired to care. Why should he? One of his best friends had sold them to the literal devil, and his other, ahem, friend, hadn’t returned from Manhattan yet…and it was nearly half again what Dutchy’d promised.
Specs sighed and returned to worrying his damaged namesake between his hands, fingers itching for the tools he’d fashioned for moments such as these, the items abandoned in an old soup can under his bed back at lodging. Alas, he’d have to make do with what he had…which was nothing.
Another poorly smothered round of guffaws came from across the aisle. The Manhattan boy sighed, attempting to focus. Those bastards at the rally had gone and bent the frames.
-
“Skitty?”
The older newsie shook himself from his trance, watching Specs fiddle with his, well, specs, refocusing on the small boy sitting beside him, arm half-bandaged (how Skittery’d managed to secure a place to sit he wasn’t sure, the scramble for whatever items lay scattered about the building had been mad, but he’d come out of it with a tarp-covered crate.). The crate was hard and splintery under his ass, the tarp spread on the floor for the assortment of littles that clustered at his feet, like a lost group of sheep, nervously bleating, startles running through them like the wind through a farmer’s field. One by one they came to him with their hurts, and Skittery did his best to help them, practically chewing his own lips for how he itched for a cigarette.
“Sorry, Les. Nearly done now.”
Poor Les. The poor kid looked shattered (thankfully his arm wasn’t) and so, so lost, eyes stubbornly refusing to water as the older teen knotted the torn gingham fabric around the boy’s neck, forming a makeshift sling for the hastily splinted appendage. Skittery carefully sheathed the knife he’d been lent, mentally promising to return it to Hotshot when he was done (not now, geez, the glare on the other boy seemed enough to burst the object of his attention into flames- watch out Blink), handing Les the button he’d had to pop from the kid’s shirt-cuff (he’d send him to Buttons later to get it mended, lord knows that kid had his hands full already), the limb already too swollen to properly unfasten by the time someone noticed. Skittery offered what he hoped was a genuine-passing smile, refusing to let the expression falter as Les eschewed a hug, stomping off the furthest corner of the tattered tarp (and the room). “Done. Who’s next?”
Itey sheepishly raised his hand, untangling the other from Snitch’s as he rose to his feet shakily, waving off the other boy’s worrying hands and practically tripping to Skittery’s side, seemingly losing his bearings as soon as he was upright.
“Whoa, ok, sit- no not- shit!”
Itey missed the box by a mile, ass meeting the floor in a way that was almost comical, despite the gravity of their situation. Well, it would have been comical had Itey not then sat motionless amongst the dead leaves and ragged paperwork that littered the wooden slats, seemingly confused about where he went wrong in the simple act of sitting down.
Skittery resisted the urge to shake his head, ignoring the titters of the peanut gallery, merely reaching down to haul the smaller boy to his feet, and guide him to a properly seated position, already carefully running his hand through the sweat-slicked hair.
“Ok, kid. How hard did they whack ya-?”
He nodded absent-mindedly to the near-incoherent response, already wracking his brain for something, anything to divert attentions, to get these kids, kids, to stop looking so damn haunted…
“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Jack-“
The littles winced, Tumbler muttering out a stream of swears he most-definitely did not pick up in Manhattan (for fuck’s sake, they’d been in Brooklyn for three hours), Boots nodding sagely in agreement. Right, sore subject. Skittery pushed back his own anger at that two-timing bastard they’d called leader and friend, at the boy they’d let weasel his way in (poor Les), at himself-
He paused in his tending to look over his assembled crowd. “Alright, listen close, ‘cause Race would kill me if he knew I ever told you this-“
The small whispers ceased, the kids pulling closed to listen to the hushed tone. Good.
“You know why Race sold, sells, at Sheepshead?”
He was met with a flurry of headshakes and assorted variations of “no”. Good. Skittery smiled.
“Right. You lot better listen good, because this is the story of how our very own Racetrack Higgins got hisself banned from the Aqueduct Racetrack in Queens...on the very first day it opened…”
-
Finch couldn’t much be bothered with his fellow newsies. The betrayal was so fresh it stung- Finch paused in his movements as his slingshot complained in his hands, the worn wood threatening to snap under the sudden force.
Finch grimaced, forcing himself to relax even as his teeth grit against one another, muscles tense where he lay on the (undoubtedly dirty) floor (he’d dust himself off when he stood up, he couldn’t be arsed right now whether he was clean or dirty. What did it matter? Nothing fucking mattered.), spine pressed uncomfortably into unyielding wood, one leg crossed over the other. It was cooler on the floor anyway. Fuck that Traitor and his fuck-buddy. Fuck this stupid strike. Fuck Brooklyn, the smug assholes. Jesus, he needed to calm the fuck down.
Eyes closed, he attempted to tune out the grumbles of their unwelcome partners in misery, the unlucky fucks who got caught up after the rally. We never should have trusted them. He shifted lightly, hiding a wince from the shot of electricity across his lower back beneath the boiling of his anger.
“-you shoulda seen the peacock who showed up at the front door, mad as a damn hatter-“
“A what?”
“Right, you didn’t get that yet. When we get back to lodgin’-“
“If?”
“When we get back to lodgin’, I’ll find ya the book, I think Jake had it…anyway, this hoity-toity type shows up, hootin’ and hollerin’-“
Finch pretended he didn’t hear Les repeat “Hoity toity”, under his breath like something reverent…or a swear.
“-flappin’ his gums like someone was payin’ ‘im. And the whole time we’re just tryin’ to figure out where the fuck Race hid a horse-“
-
“Jesus, Mush, m'fine-“
“You are not fine, and you know it!”
“I’m not completely blind-“
Mush paused in his fussing, pulling back, the rag in his hand spotted with red, face as serious as Blink had ever seen it, trademark grin nowhere to be found, curls drooping with sweat and grime, reaching a shaking finger towards his partner’s face, Blink resisting the urge to flinch back (it’s just Mush, it’s just Nicky-) from the intrusive indication, fingertip inches from the freshly-obtained injury, the mark of the horse’s hoof plain as day.
“Forgive me for worrying about you-“ That wasn’t Mush. Mush was soft curves and laughter and warmth, who was this cold stranger- “Forget bein' blind, that could have killed you, Kid. And for what-?”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Mush’s voice broke, chest heaving under the stress of containing his emotion, his stress, his concern, eyes tearing. “For, for a lousy tenth of a cent? For some jackass who, who never gave a damn-“ He sniffed, hard, arms falling to his lap. “He- he didn’t even care that you almost died protectin' him- he sold us out…He abandoned us-“
Oh.
Blink wasted no time in yanking his distressed partner into his lap, mindful of the other boy’s ribs, still tender from the billy-club’s brutal mercies, pressing Mush’s head into the crook of his neck, uncaring of the dirt and blood that covered them both, whispering what he hoped were reassurances into his partner’s ear, silently promising with each kiss he pressed that if he ever met Jack Kelly again, he was going to kill him.
-
Upstairs, a door at the end of the hall opened quickly, a face peering out to observe the deserted corridor, the space filled only by the faint echoes of the boys below, their restless murmurs barely cresting the top of the stairs, sounds reflected to the observer by the shuttered doorframes that bordered the space. Spot listened for only a moment before slamming the door shut once more, turning and leaning back against the complaining wood to once more follow the other occupant of the space with tired eyes.
The agitated Manhattan had been pacing the length of room for quite some time, fingers buried in curls long unmade, the pomade worried loose. If Racetrack noticed his companion’s movements, he made no motions to acknowledge them, lost in his own head as he was, a flustered stream of consciousness pouring unbidden from his mouth, volume mounting with his panic.
“-and Les, fuck, what’re we gonna do with him? He can’t go home, he’s gotta be fucked up after that, fuck we’re all so fucked, Spotty, what are we gonna do? They sunk us! The two-faced bastards fucking sunk us with one goddamn move! The strike, the boys, oh, “my pal David says we have to stop soaking the scabs”, do you think he knew what he was gonna do, even then? Y'know, I bet the two of 'em planned it together! That way, if any of us caught 'em out they could get away without a soakin’; like Jackie wasn’t swingin’ at scabs yesterday! Tellin’ us to fight for our rights and not give in while he ratted us out at the first opportunity, sellin' us out to the same bastards he said ruined ‘is life! But I guess rats of a feather-”
Spot sighed, carefully avoiding the path of the other boy, Race still stalking and spitting like a wetted cat. The former paused to pick up his cane (surprisingly returned to him after the events of the previous evening), running the polished wood through his fingertips while again giving the de-facto Manhattan leader a wide berth to instead peer cautiously out the boarded window. Through the cracks of glass long-gone, the streets below could barely be seen, but the mere sight of the vacant street was enough, the teen’s shoulders forcibly sinking with a deep breath, brow still furrowed as he perched himself on one of the few pieces of furniture that bordered the neglected office (an ancient desk, still brimming with cast-off paperwork), folding his hands neatly atop his prized possession and stacking his chin on his hands, blue eyes still locked onto his stumbling companion, the other boy’s usual grace overtaken by stress and stolen sleep.
“-and we can’t even go back to Manhattan now, not if the cops are on us. How are we s'pposed to keep this up? Ain’t no one gonna strike if we stop - we know the other boroughs are follwin’ our lead, and then they win, and this has all meant a fat lot of nothin', and Jack knew that! He was our leader, and he just- he knew I wasn’t ready!” Race’s breath was growing ragged, catching in his throat as panic truly set in. “I can’t do this, I can’t lead a strike, hell, I can’t even keep control of the boys, can’t keep 'em safe, how am I, how do I-“ Race laughed, some horrible, distorted sound ripping from his chest, his eyes wild, face pale against dark hair, shiner on his cheek standing out like concentrated ink on new paper. “I can’t do this, Spotty! I can’t lead us, not like Jack, he fuckin' knew it! He knew it’d fall apart soon as I was…I can’t, I can’t, I’m not ready I’m going to get us all killed-“
He was cut off by a shove to the chest that sent him stumbling backwards into a chair he wasn’t aware existed, unable to even splutter out a curse or protest before a glass was thrust into his hand, its contents threatening to slosh over the edge and add to the stains that littered the floor. Race stared at the amber liquid dumbly, already rising to his feet again. “What are-“
Spot gestured insistently with the bottle in his hand, turning to resettle himself on the desk, legs crossed. “Siddown, shuddup, an' drink.”
“What?”
Spot sighed, raising the bottle in his hand once more. “I said drink, whatcha think, I gave it to ya so you could look at it?” Spot rolled his eyes, taking a dramatic swig of his own, not bothering with a glass for himself.
Beyond argument, Race took a sip and was somehow relieved and astounded to taste Irish whiskey, squinting indignantly at the other boy. “How did you-“
“Don’t worry about it.” Spot dropped a leg to swing carelessly below, heel thumping a battered crate that clinked suggestively. “Drink the fuck up and calm the fuck down.”
Race paused mid-sip.
“How can you say that?”
“Hm?” Spot wiped a sleeve across his mouth, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “What’re you on about, Racer?”
Race laughed, the hysterical note bleeding back into his tone. “Calm down- how could I possibly- how can you- it's like, this is so fuckin’ easy for you-“
“Easy?” Spot was on his feet in an instant, blue eyes flashing in the remains of the sun, bottle (now resealed) abandoned behind him. “The fuck-“
Race laughed again, his voice something cold and mechanical, forced. “You’re a riot, tellin’ me to “calm down” when nothing bothers you! You- you have, you’re always in control!”
“And you’re not?”
Race hiccupped; the spasm unrelated to the alcohol even as he slammed back the rest of his drink. “Of fuckin’ course not! It was you who got us out, you who had somewhere for us to hide, your contact who warned us what that spider was plannin’ with the judge and the bulls and-! I had nothin’ to do with it, I just followed you, like I always do. I follow whoever fuckin’ tells me what to do, how the hell am I ‘sposed to lead, ‘specially next to you…after…after Him-“
Spot sighed, dropping his head to run his own hands through his hair, cap abandoned on the ancient desk against the wall. “Jesus, Race, I don’t- Come on. Just, fuck that asshole and move on. Jackie-boy showed 'is true colors, an' he's gonna pay for it, mark my words. But now, we got enough shit to do without that traitor takin’ up ya-“ He looked up to face his friend, the words dying in his throat as he caught sight of the expression the other boy wore.
Race sniffed once, offering a sad facsimile of a smile, shrugging almost carelessly even as his face crumpled.
“…he said we were brothers, Sean.”
The contact held for maybe a moment longer, stony blue and wet, wet brown, before Racetrack Higgins drew in a deep breath…and broke.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed!
Feedback is always welcome.
Stay tuned for more...
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Summary:
Spot and Race have a tête-à-tête (and maybe a heart to heart).
Notes:
Hello friends! I am not dead.
I have been working very hard on this chapter, only to realize that it is about to be OVER 8K WORDS ALONE, and is nowhere near to being finished. SO, once again, it has been divided. This is the Spot and Race portion.If you haven't visited this fic in a hot minute (which, fair, my updates are not exactly consistent), I highly recommend reading from the beginning, as there have been a great deal of updates to existing chapters.
Fear not, my updates may be long-coming, but this will not be abandoned!
Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Shit!“
Alarmed, Spot barely remembered moving, coming back to himself only once he made physical contact with the other boy, pulling his closest friend as near as he dared, offering what soft words he could.
“...Tony-“
Race was too far gone, chest still heaving uncontrollably, eyes still wet, breath shuddering from his lungs, the Manhattan second leader so worked up he could be sick with the weight of it all. And then there was Spot, still stood before him, one hand braced on the back of the chair over Race's shoulder, the other resting delicately on the nape of his neck, callused fingers dragging feather-light through brunette curls, standing strong as the other leaned heavily into his midsection. Any trace of the proud boy Spot knew lay shattered on a courtroom floor, the remains here, slumped and shivering, falling apart in every sense of the word.
So focused was Spot on soothing the gut-wrenching sobs that spasmed like electricity through his friend, he almost missed the words Racer spoke, so soft and so pained they slipped out like a secret that couldn’t stand to be hidden even a moment longer, something dark and awful. Spilling out like dark ink between lips cracked with thirst and emotion, coming not from the mouth, but from the deepest recesses of the heart:
“…he said we were brothers.”
Spot, unsure how to respond, maintained his motions, silently urging the other on.
“After, after everythin’ we went through in that place, survivin' months of fuckin’, fuckin’ torture, he said it made us family.” Race barked out an approximation of a laugh, sarcasm bleeding into his words. “Bull-fuckin’-shit, family. Yeah. Some family, when he just run away with his new- new friend the moment that slimy bastard waves a bit a’ money in his face – the same bastard that fucked up his life, fucked up my life – some lousy dough and he’s in the wind, hangin’ the rest of us out to dry, the lyin' backstabbin' traitor. And a fuckin’ hypocrite! Oh, ‘we’ll fight until damn doomsday’, sure Jack. Whatever you say!” He spat at the ground, nearly hysterical. “Family, you believe that shit? I did. Lapped it up like a fuckin’ dog, an’ poor Crutch too-“ Race froze, a wrench in the machine, stalling, gears grinding to a halt with such abruptness that Spot felt a touch of fear…
That was until the Manhattan teen jerked his head up, startling the other teen back a few paces, the pair locking eyes. “Shit, Crutchie, he’s still- ah shiiiiiiiiit. Shit. Fuck.”
“Jesus, Race.” Spot clapped a hand over his heart. “Warn a fuckin’ guy-“
“He’s still in the goddamn refuge, Sean.” Race wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, something like clarity dawning. “Fuck, Jack said he’d send someone to check on ‘im after he an’ Dave – to tell ‘im ‘bout the Rally, but then the bulls and- well fuck you were there, you already know.“
Spot nodded.
“And, and he doesn't know, it's gonna break him, he fuckin' adored Jack, how the fuck could that disgustin' double-crosser just leave Crutchie there? After all they done, it, it's just evil. Shit, I can't just, I gotta go-“ Race tripped over his discarded glass as he made to rise from his rickety perch, seemingly ready to leave right now.
Oh. Oh no.
“Hey!” Spot lunged forward, pressing the other boy back into his seat with a firm hand on his shoulder, the unstable chair nearly bipedal for a moment with the force. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til all this settles!”
“Well, shit, Spotty, what the fuck am I meant to do?!” Race pushed back halfheartedly, knowing perfectly well that Spot could hand his ass to him if the other boy was so inclined. “I’m fuckin’ useless! Might as well call me Jack Kelly with all this spectacular leadin' I'm doin'." He held up a hand, ticking fingers down as he went. "Can’t go to my city, can’t lead a strike, can’t run my own errands, can’t go see my br-other,” his voice faltered on the word, lump rising in his throat, pushing past it, slapping his hand against his thigh. “I had to risk one of my boys to go meet with Denton because I’m a useless fuckin’ coward-“
“Not a coward.” Spot interrupted flatly, his own testiness concealed. He poked a solitary finger into the other boy’s chest, parking the latter’s butt firmly in the chair. “Smart.” He pointed the same finger towards the slowly tracking sun, rays leaking through the tattered tarpaulin. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do if they got your ass in a jail cell, yeah?”
Race hesitated, but nodded, a reluctant acquiescence to the Brooklyn teen.
Resisting the urge to sigh heavily, Spot nodded back, turning away before he snapped at the other boy, disguising his frustration with movement, pausing to snag the forgotten glass from the floor before returning to the nearly-empty decanter of alcohol and quickly refilling the smaller vessel. If anyone were to ask, he most certainly did not startle at the noise behind him, setting the bottle down with perhaps a bit more vigor than intended before calmly turning to see Racetrack…smiling? Well, that wasn’t concerning in the slightest, especially given the completely sane behavior Race had been exhibiting over the past hour. Returning to the other boy, Spot chanced a look around the room, the passing of the drink to his friend accompanied by raised eyebrow, the source of amusement still a mystery.
Race shook his head, trying to stifle his snorts before he choked on the spirit. “My ass in a jail cell…what about the rest of me?”
Spot leveled a perfectly unamused glare at his friend, the latter giggling at his own joke, the former fighting to keep the smallest hint of a smile from his face, even as his heart steadied a bit in relief at the faint signs of the Racetrack he knew returning.
Race shook himself a bit, traces of the smile remaining as he caught his breath. “Why- heh, why the fuck're they even after us? You saw how Manhattan was crawlin' with bulls. I thought for sure one a' us was gonna get nabbed again (when Itey went and fell into that cart I was sure we were in for), though I ain't sure what they’d arrest us for. Denton already paid ‘em off-“
“What’s it matter?” Spot scoffed, scuffing his foot against the splintered floorboards, old papers scrunching beneath the worn boot. “They can do whatever they fuckin’ please. If Pulitzer wants us gone, those bastards are sure as shit gonna find a way to make us disappear.” He shook his head. “But that just means we got 'em scared.”
“Yeah,”
The room lapsed into silence –
“Gahhhhhhhh!” Race knocked back the rest of his drink, grimacing at the burn, practically screaming out his exhale, other hand buried in the knots of his hair, head dropping nearly to his lap. “I’m fuckin’ losin’ it, Spotty-“
“You sure fuckin’ are, Racer.”
“I can’t-“ Race froze, pulling himself upright. “Wait, what?”
Spot raised his eyebrows, looking his friend up and down. “You’s cryin’, laughin’, screamin’. One for the loony bin alright.”
“Thanks a lot, asshole!”
Spot shrugged. “Hey, you said it.”
Race sat up a bit, brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean it! But then again, who am I compared to the great Spot Conlon-“
Though the words were teasing, Spot still froze, warning leeching into his voice, what seemed like an eternity of patience wearing thin under the stress of the day, of the week, of life. “Racetrack.”
“-he’s got alllll the answers, and he’ll lead us to victory while Racetrack Higgins bitches like a fuckin' girl-“
Spot inhaled and exhaled purposefully, hands fisting at his sides. “Race-“
The hysterical tone was back. “Shit, I should hand ‘hattan over to you! You’ll have the strike won in a day, you’re more put together than the rest of us slobs! Who needs Jack Kelly when you've got Spot Conlon-“
“TONY, FUCK!”
Race paused mid-sentence, his own self-deprecation swallowed so quickly it made him hiccup, his own emotions taking a backseat at the sight of the other boy, back turned to the room, hands planted on the edge of the desk where he’d slammed them, fingers gripped tightly around the wooden flat-top, shoulders hunched and tense, head ducked, and eyes squeezed shut.
And then, Spot sighed, something long and heavy, the sound so unlike Spot Conlon it actually shut Racetrack’s mouth as, for perhaps the first time all day, he really saw his friend. He saw the press of his lips, a line so thin his lips nearly disappeared, lower lip bitten nearly bloody where it worried between his teeth. The clench of his jaw, only just now releasing with the rest of his body, tension and aggravation rolling off in a single shake of his shoulders. The bloodied wound on his temple where he’d been struck just the night before, hastily bandaged before Skittery had been waved off to tend the other boys. He saw his hands, now released, tapping and searching, perhaps for his cane, perhaps for a cigarette, perhaps for the key that still hung shining around his neck. He saw how utterly human the other boy was.
Race looked, and he saw himself.
A boy from Manhattan, and a boy from Brooklyn, utterly over their heads.
Race hiccupped again, quieter, guilt flooding in. Here he was, ranting and raving like a lunatic about his fears of inadequacy, his anger at the strike, his anger at Jack, at anything and everything while Spot, steady-as-a-fuckin’-rock (and just as stubborn) Spot Conlon fielded every curveball thrown his way with seemingly never-ending grace even when it was- when it should have been obvious that he was feeling the same way.
“...Spotty-“
The shorter boy turned, shoulders tensing and releasing, head dropping nearly to his chest, allowing light brown hair tangled with time and mud to slide around his face like armor. The back of his shirt was streaked with dirt, rucked up under the ever-present suspenders. When he breathed, it was like watching a sandcastle taken by the waves, the walls collapsing under their own weight.
“I ain’t in control of this no more than I control the east goddamn river, Racer. I mean, fuck,” It was Spot’s turn to wrestle his emotions, forcing them down and away, something for later. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ losin’ it here, Tony.” He raised a single hand, the tremor clear even across the room, visible for a long moment before the appendage was clenched into a fist and returned to the posessor's side, Spot forcing another deep breath. And another.
And then and there, Race watched a change come over his friend, the stress and fear, the pain and hopelessness flowing out of him like water, spine straightening and chest puffing, head lifting. He was no longer some struggling, beaten, newsie from Brooklyn, he was Spot Conlon: The Motherfuckin’ King of Brooklyn. Still, Spot did not turn, addressing the wall ahead of him, ugly wallpaper concealed by boxes of hastily compiled papers as it was, sounds dampened and confined to the space. “They, you, see control ‘cause that’s what they need. They need to see that we’re fuckin’ strong, Tony. They gotta believe in somethin’. We gotta believe, and we gotta make it past this bullshit if we’re gonna win.” He glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes seeking brown. “And mark my damn words Tony: We Are Going To Win.” He looked away again. “So, if I gotta play make-believe for ‘em to pick up and keep fightin’, you bet your ass I’m gonna fuckin’ do it.” Spot breathed again, something deep. Purposeful. “Here, in this room, you do what you gotta do. Cry, scream, cuss; don’t care. But the moment you walk out that door-“ Spot jerked his head. “You are the leader of Manhattan. Not me. You will be in control. They ain’t gonna see you break down ‘cause that ain’t what they need. They need someone to take ‘em through this, someone with a level-head, and guts, and the stubborn fuckin’ pride to pull through and win this thing. They’s gonna see what you want ‘em to see, and that’s Racetrack. Fucking. Higgins. A goddamn unflappable leader that’s gonna be 10 times better than Jackass ever was. Yeah?”
Spot huffed slightly, a little winded by his own speech, not waiting for his friend’s reply, finally turning to face the other teen, spots of color high on his cheeks only darkening at the look on the other’s face. He pivoted quickly, now avoiding eye contact entirely, the Brooklyn boy preferring to stare directly into the obscured sun than face his mirror. “There. I said that once, and I ain’t sayin’ it again. Getcha shit done with, and then get back on the damn horse and ride it to fuckin’ victory, alright Racer?”
“Shit,”
"Excuse me?"
Spot turned quickly to see Race on his feet, the boy taking a few unsteady paces forward to stand side-by-side with his friend, the pair of them gazing out at nothing.
“I mean, you ain’t wrong.” Race tacked on helpfully. “I uh, I didn’t, I mean-“ He turned his head oddly, bobbling a bit like a bird while trying to catch his friend’s eye, the other occupant of the room refusing to let him, still staring straight ahead at what little bit of the city could be seen from the broken window. “You too, you know?” Despite only having a profile to go off of, Race saw the question written on the other’s face before the words caught up.
“Hm?”
“You let me be an ass for the better part of an hour up here, I’m meanin’, well,”
“Race-“
“I'm tryin' to say 'thanks'-“
“We talked about it, and it’s done with-“
“And for what it’s worth-“
“Shit, you give a guy a kick in the ass and he won’t shut up-“
“You are a good leader, Sean.”
This made Spot turn, the duo now face-to-face.
Race found himself a little short of breath, the afternoon sun catching the pale blue of his friend’s eyes distractingly. He fought the urge to shake his head, forcing a bitter smile on his face. “And we’re gonna fuckin’ win.”
Spot chuckled a bit, rolling his eyes. “S’what I said!”
Race stuck out a hand. “Seize the day?”
Spot took it, gripping tightly. “Oh, you bet your ass we’re gonna seize the fuckin’ day.”
“Pulitzer and those lousy bastards won’t know what hit ‘em!”
“Oh, I want them to know,” Spot’s smile hid something wicked. “The newsies of New York, with Brooklyn-“
“And Manhattan-“
“Sure.”
“Spot!”
“…And. Manhattan. Leadin’ the damn charge!”
“Damn right.”
The pair let out a laugh, the stress of the past days evaporating to mingle with the motes of dust in the sunbeams, something intangible. Was this a fix? No, certainly not, but it was a chance for a new start.
The laughter died down, and then it was just two boys, right hands still clasped together, standing in the upper office of a long-abandoned warehouse, the sounds of the newsies beneath their feet a reminder of what was yet to come.
“One of us should really tell them to pipe down.” Race offered lamely.
Spot nodded.
Neither moved.
A sound echoed from below, louder this time, causing the pair to glance away for fractions of a second before returning to the moment.
When had they gotten this close? Nearly chest-to-chest, the afternoon breeze squeezing through broken windowpanes to ruffle Spot’s hair into Race’s eyes.
Hesitantly, Spot shook his hand free, raising it to rest his palm lightly against Race’s cheek, the other boy quickly layering his own hand on top, eyes locking.
“Spotty, I-“
“…Tony-“
Closer now, enough for breaths to mingle-
“GET THE FUCK OFF HIM-“
Notes:
Coming up: Pulitzer and Snyder visit a certain schoolboy. Elsewhere, the bulls come to call.
(comments are always welcome! And [as always] thank you for reading, and for all of you who have stuck with this fic through its many evolutions)
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