Silence by the docks

by Sleepy_pebble

Summary:

Racetrack Higgins is soaked on Brooklyn turf, so bad that it had Spot Conlon worried, leading to moments of vulnerability neither of them had ever expected, perhaps a little too much.

(CURRENTLY BEING WORKED ON)

Notes:

Hii! This is my first time writing a fic ever :D
I have no beta to read, English isn't my first language, and I'm dyslexic so I pray for you.

The initial idea was "What if Race got so hurt it brought him and Spot together and that's how their relationship changed?"

This is not finished, but I do have a second chapter already in progress and I've meticulously planned out how I want the story to go, so HOPEFULLY I won't orphan this fic, enough of the yapping now though

note: It may take a while for each chapter to come out considering my weird writing habits and also considering the fact that I'm quite insecure about my writing seeing as this is my first published work.
Hopefully my writing improves with each fic I write!

Chapter 1: The snow turning red

Today, Racetrack felt lucky. He pulls out a cigar he had stolen from some drunk out on the street the other week and chews on it as he makes his way out of the lodging house.

This morning he had woken up and felt perfectly rested. The water didn’t feel as cold and biting on his skin when he washed his face and he managed to gel his hair nicely without much hassle. He was even first in line for the papes today! Race had also been able to come up with some new and incredibly funny jokes that had the other boys practically doubling over in laughter. Race felt pretty proud about that.

As he made his way across the Brooklyn bridge, he was able to sell a few more papes than usual, leading him to pick up a little skip in his step. Traveling to Brooklyn always lead to smaller earnings, so being able to sell some papes now was always a bonus.

Sure, it was a little chilly, and the wind would make his skin prickle, but that was to be expected now that they’re entering the winter seasons.

Race was headed to his usual selling spot, Sheepshead, already thinking about who to talk to and what horses to bet on.

Just as he was rounding the corner, straightening out his vest to look more put together, there was a strong and harsh tug at the neck of his shirt. Stumbling at the sudden force and trying to orient himself, he squints up at whatever had just tugged at him.

There are two boys- scratch that they look like two men. They’re taller, older, more built and covered in dirt. Surprisingly, both were wearing newsie attire with well worn newspaper satchels hanging over their shoulders.

One of them steps closer to Race, “Hello there, you little rat,” he snarls, squaring his shoulders to seem more intimidating.

The other guy quickly followed the formers lead, effectively cornering Race against the cold brick wall behind him. Race backs into the wall slowly, softly hitting his back against it then very carefully lifts up his arms in surrender, truth be told he is incredibly confused as to why these guys decided that he was worth their while. He hadn’t done anything to piss these weirdos off, right?

“Heya fellas, what seems ta be the problem?” he asks in his most casual tone, picking up a friendly smile.

“You know damn well what the problem is!” shouts the first guy, he grips Race by his shirt labels, pulling him forwards, getting uncomfortably close. “Youse robbed us for all we got is what’s wrong!” he spits.

Ah, now, that is unfortunate. You see, two days ago Racetrack had gotten bored after selling all his papes, so he decided that to cure his boredom he could gamble.

To gamble you need participants.Can’t exactly do it on your own.

At the time he had spotted a group of boys sitting under the bleachers, seemingly taking a break from selling. So he made his way over and proposed a game, in which four of the seven boys had wanted to join in on, they played, and luck strikes as Race had won big. He thanked the boys and thought no more of it. He might have recognised a few boys from seeing them around Sheepshead, but there had been a couple of new boys as well.

Race would be damned, these two “boys” just so happened to be two of the four he had played with, and if they were new, they sure as hell did not know about the unofficial newsie code that had been protecting Race’s ass on this turf.

“Look, I didn’t rob ya! I won fair and square, you just gotta suck it up. When you play youse gotta accept there are risks,” he explained, nervousness was starting to dwell in his stomach.

The other guy, whose voice was a little deeper, speaks up, “Too bad we don’t play nice with thieves, you either give back the money now, or we gotta soak ya,” he says, cracking his knuckles loudly.

Well shit, “Fellas, I ain’t got that kinda dough on me right now, I left that money back in Manhattan. I could get it for you by tomorrow, sound good eh?” He tries to reason, simultaneously attempting to pry the first guy’s hands from his shirt, but in response is slammed back into the wall harshly.

“Nah, the deal was to pay up now or get soaked,” the angry newsie says calmly, “lookin like it’s the former.”

Now Race is in real big trouble, he can’t possibly take these two douchebags in a fight, he would call for help, but by the looks of it, it seems the streets are empty, people have probably made their ways into the Sheepshead races by now.

They might be new, but surely this would scare them off.

“Hey now… you don’t wanna hurt a pal of Spot Conlon now, do you?” He narrows his eyes at them, and frowns slightly when they look at eachother with a mutual look of confusion.
“You know, the almighty ruthless leader of the Brooklyn newsies?”

They look at him with blank expressions, and burst out laughing?!

“What the hell is he yappin about Tom?” the first guy asks through laughter, still keeping Race in a tight grip.

“I don’t know, but I ain’t ever heard of no Spot Conlon” Tom, it seems, answers, looking back at the other newsie in disbelief.

Race is personally offended for Spot, even the big guys of Brooklyn know to turn the other way when they see Spot or his boys.

“Whaddya mean youse never heard of Spot Conlon?!” Race asks with bafflement, he freezes when Tom looks at him as if he’s insane.

Panic floods his system as he realises they think he’s bluffing, he tries to break free of the unnamed newsies’s grasp but ultimately fails. Surely it can’t be that serious right? What, all this over two dollars?

Before he knows it he’s being punched with so much force he falls down on the hard and freezing sidewalk.

Ouch, that’s definitely going to bruise. Race tries to get up but is punched once more, falling on his left side again, his shoulder already starting to ache.

“Hey-” he attempts, but is met with several kicks to his chest and stomach. It hurt, it hurt so bad, he groans out in pain, trying to shield his head with his arms as they keep kicking, keep punching, keep shouting and throwing him around.

Suddenly he’s being turned over, an angry Tom straddling him, landing several punches to his face. White pain shoots up his left eye as a fist meets it, he screams out in agony.

Then he’s being pulled into a dark alley by his hair, trying his best to hold onto the hand pulling his hair to somehow stop it from being too painful. He tries to scratch, bite, hit, anything to stop them, but the other newsie restrains him as Tom continues to beat him.

After what feels like an eternity later, he’s lying on the ground completely limp, everything hurts, he can’t even breathe without feeling every inch of his body ache, this is the worst soaking he’s ever had. That’s when he hears a muffled noise followed by a voice, “Tom, Tom! Lay off! We beat him real good, but God! You don’t gotta actually kill him! A murder charge would do us no good when we just got here, come on, let’s just take his stuff and go.”

Race can barely feel the roaming hands that check his pockets, taking the few pennies he had earned so far, his lunch money, and his pocket watch.

The one he had saved an entire month for. Selling twenty more papes a day, gambling and investing wisely for. He had wanted that pocket watch for so long. It was beautiful, golden with rose flower inscriptions. When he first bought it, all he could do was cradle it gently in the palms of his hands and stare at it. It was his pride and joy.

Additionally, the watch made him seem better off than he was, therefore more trustworthy when he enticed others to bet. It had gotten him far at Sheepshead, and in life.

He was barely able to keep his eyes open as two dark figures left the alley, now he was all alone.

Alone, in a dark alley, an alley that people walk by without thought. The boys back in Manhattan probably think he’s on his way back, safe and sound, ready to talk about his day and get into his bed.

Oh god how he misses his bed, safe and warm, surrounded by his family. He would do anything to get back to the lodging house, it didn’t matter if he had to deal with Jack’s rants that went on for hours, Crutchie’s poetry or the constant bickering between Specs and Skittery. Maybe they weren’t related by blood, but that didn’t matter. They were his family. And he missed them so incredibly much.

Instead he’s here, in the dark, cold, miserable alley. Bleeding out and unable to move. It’s impossible to cry. His entire body aches and he can taste the familiar tang of iron in his mouth. Eventually he starts shivering as the cold sets in, it just enhances the pain even more. He feels humiliated, beaten by two practically adults, robbed and left to die. His pride and ego have definitely been wounded.

Is this really where it ends?

Suddenly the future seems like a faraway dream. Will he ever be able to walk again? Talk again? Laugh, eat or play again? Or was he going to die here, at sixteen, an orphan boy beaten to death on turf he didn’t belong to. Not anymore, anyway. It was incredibly frustrating, not being able to do anything, what would Jack think of him now?

He was so tired. His eyelids started drooping and then-

-----

Chapter 2: Findings

Summary:

Romantic evening takes a turn for the worst

Notes:

I apologise for the long hiatus, writers block has been quite rough on me.
Not to mention how nervous I get about writing, it feels as though every time I read over my work it gets worse than what it originally was.

This is a short chapter, more of an apology gift.
I did keep my notes for this fic, and I still have some material left from when I had first started.
So let's see if I'm able to use it!!

 

Two newsies wander around on the streets, discussing the weather, they linger close to one another. One of them spots a dark alley, looping their fingers through their partner's suspenders, leading them both into the alley, hoping to have a moment of privacy from prying eyes. Just as the pair shuffle close and begin to lean in, one looks down in what seemed to be a bashful glance, but notices red splotches in the corner of their eye. Splotches leading further into the alley. 

 

Interrupting their partner, – who is quite disappointed –  they interlink hands and quietly tread closer, following the red path. With a new found horror, the newsies realise that they’ve found an unconscious and very unresponsive Racetrack Higgins. Who is adorned with bruises and cuts, his face pale, his lips turning blue- Who knows how long he’s been out here? 

 

Coming to their senses after the initial shock they realise something has to be done. The pair’s first instinct is to find Spot Conlon. This is his turf, after all. 

 

 

Every Brooklyn newsie knows to keep grudges against Race to themselves, lest Spot find out. 

 

It was plain to see that Spot and Race were close, talking whenever they both happened to be at the races, or Spot’s occasional ‘check ups’ in Manhattan to see "how his guys were holding up.".

The two lovers frantically search for Spot, eventually finding him by the docks, mid lesson about how to use slingshots for the littles. Painfully out of breath from sprinting over the bridge, the horrified newsies gasp and talk over each other, trying to explain just what they had witnessed. 

 

“One at a time!” Spot shouts, frustrated by the interruption and  incoherent sentences. 

 

“We-” gasp,

 

“We just saw the ‘hattan boy practically lying dead- ” another gasp,

 

 “In the alley ‘round the race-”

 

Before they even finish explaining, Spot is already on the move. They watch as he sprints into the distance, ditching his cane.

 

The pair eventually level their heavy breathing, realising they’ve been abandoned and now have several chaotic littles in their care. 

 

So much for being romantic …

 

Notes:

Comments with feedback are greatly appriciated <333

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!!