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#newsies oneshot
heliads · 1 year
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All in the Words
Based on this request: "race and some of the newsies are hanging out with yn and yn is acting all tough. They keep trying to make her drop that attitude by making jokes, and race flirts with her as a joke. Yn gets all nervous and blushy so he just keeps going thinking its adorable until yn fires back and he kinda dies"
me when i flirt with someone and they instantly perish
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Dawn comes and goes, and you are not there to see it. Normally, this would fill you with more than a small amount of fear– miss your morning schedule, and you’ll be hours behind when it comes to selling newspapers. Newsies live in the daylight hours, shouting slogans and catchy headlines as long as there are still people out on the street who can see enough to hand you coins. It does make it difficult to get up so early each morning, but it’s not like you have a ton of options otherwise.
Yet when you open your eyes this morning and see not sunrise but a well established day, you feel not a bit displeased with yourself. After all, why should you? Today, as it turns out, all newsies across the city will have a day off. The newspapers don’t like printing on holidays, so you can get off scot free for the whole set of twenty-four hours. Nothing says special like that.
For newsies, days off are a bit of a mixed bag. There is, of course, the immediate response to hearing that you won’t have to get up at dawn and spend too many hours out on the streets hawking papes. That would explain the shrieks and calls of glee from some of the younger newsies. Older ones, too. The second Jack Kelly heard about the holiday, he muttered something about having to talk to someone and hurried off in the direction of the New York Sun. You have a feeling he’s tracking down a particularly pretty journalist.
It’s great to think that you won’t have to work. However, you aren’t a newsie for the thrill of it. Not working means you don’t get paid, and that’s far less fun than one would care to imagine. That’s why you’ve been carefully saving your pennies for weeks now, just trying to make sure you’ll have enough to cover today’s costs before your job comes back the next day. It’s a life spread thin, to be sure, but it’s what you’ve got, and you don’t intend to waste it.
Still, sleeping in is pretty nice indeed. You allow yourself one last moment of leisure before dragging yourself out of bed. Most kids in the Manhattan Lodging House have partaken in the same delights– more than half of them are still sleeping peacefully in their bunks. You do your best to get ready as quietly as you can, and shut the door silently behind you.
By the time noon rolls around, the rest of your friends are up and at ‘em. Most of you are choosing to either kick back and relax in the Lodging House or go look for trouble somewhere else in the city. You heard Spot popped in once to check on a deal with Jack, but other than that, there are no threats in sight.
None to your physical health, at least. Threats to your peace and quiet still exist. You’ve barely sat down on your favorite threadbare armchair in a corner of the main room (the title being won by a good few rounds of fisticuffs, all solidly settled in your favor) before your name is being tossed around by some of the newsies nearby. You have a feeling that they’re trying to be discreet, but their whispers sound more like shouts when you’re indoors instead of yelling to be heard in the streets of Manhattan.
Four boys are causing trouble today, as it appears. Race, Jojo, Albert, and Romeo. All of the newsies are good friends– you have to be, at any rate, or you’ll lose your head with the godawful conditions of being outside all day– but these four are no exception. They’re the closest of anyone here, exceptions being Jack and Crutchie.
Today it seems they’ll be proving their camaraderie by trying to get a rise out of you. This isn’t anything special. You have a bit of a reputation for being stone cold, but can they blame you? Girls have to fight twice as hard to stay alive in this city, so what if you’re more here to keep yourself afloat than make friends? You’re nice when you have to be, but you keep your distance when you want it. Just because you’re not flirting all the time doesn’t mean you hate the rest of them.
The ‘Hattan boys know you don’t hate them, but that doesn’t stop the four newsies nearest you from trying to win you over anyway in the only method they know best:  being annoying and turning everything into a joke. Romeo tries his luck first, shooting his shot with a tip of his cap and a wink. You arch one derisive brow, which is all it takes for him to give up and head back to his friends.
Albert is next. He starts off strong with a story about a dream he’d had last night about pretty girls going out with him, but you cut him off thoughtfully with a recollection of a dream you’d had recently where all boys left you alone under pain of death. Struck out, he gestures for Jojo to take over.
Jojo’s attempts at flattery are so awful that you give up on trying to entertain yourself by watching them fail. You reach over for a paperback Katherine had left behind on her last visit to the Manhattan Lodging House. The book serves the dual purpose of letting you ignore the laughter of the boys and also hiding your face for the last of their attempts.
See, you can ignore Albert or Romeo any day. They’re just friends, just coworkers. You’ll never see them in any sort of romantic light. The problem comes with Race. Race is charming. Race is cute. Race is the only one who has ever been able to get through the strongest of your walls. It doesn’t matter if he’s just doing it as a joke, if Race flirts with you in the slightest, you will be affected by it.
Best to make sure he can’t tell, then, so you prop up the book in front of your face and pray he can’t see the slight smile that makes its way across your lips when Race tries his hand at flirting. It wasn’t even a good pickup line. Still, it worked, and that is absolutely devastating to your reputation.
The worst part is that he knows it, too. Even though you do your best to act as if you’re absolutely fine, you can tell by the triumphant tilt of his head that he knows it. Y/N’s got a weakness at last, and it’s Race. Of course it is.
The other boys don’t seem to have caught on, though, they’re just laughing raucously amongst themselves about the usual. Albert calls something out to Race about wanting to go take a tour of the shop next door, but Race doesn’t even look back, gesturing for them to go on without him without turning even once.
“You should go with them,” you say as indifferently as you can.
“Why?” Race asks, cocking his head to the side, “I’ve got a far prettier sight in front of me right now.”
You roll your eyes, but even you can feel the slight heat pricking your cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”
“Apparently not,” Race muses, “or you wouldn’t be smiling at me.”
You do your best to hide the offensive expression away, but your best attempts at staying serious just make your smile more stubborn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” he says happily, “it’s not just because of me, is it? I bet Y/N L/N would never be susceptible to something like a boy.”
“Not even to a cute boy?” You ask, eyes wide with pretend surprise.
This, of all things, makes Race stutter over his words. You didn’t think it would be possible for Race to get nervous over someone flirting with him, but apparently you were wrong, because he’s all but shaking in his boots right now.
“That’s sweet of you,” he manages to eke out.
You grin. The tables have turned. “Funny,” you say, “I didn’t think Race Higgins would ever be susceptible to something like a girl.”
“I love it when you pay attention to me,” Race retorts, but it carries far less of the easy confidence he’d had earlier. In fact, Race looks like he can’t believe his eyes.
“I’m sure you do,” you muse, “Shame it doesn’t happen more often. If I knew you were going to react like this, maybe I would have started flirting back earlier.”
“I think you should keep doing it anyway,” Race whispers.
You laugh. “Only if you flirt back.”
“Oh, always, sweetheart, you know that,” Race says.
It’s easy to smile after that. Maybe Race has been flirting with you for a while, but maybe he’s meant what he said all along, too. It’s good that you’ll have plenty of time to figure him out, then. Yes, plenty of time indeed.
newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie
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ethereal-bumble-bee · 3 months
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for the oneshot requests could we get maybe get some javey?
maybe some javey in winter and jack climbs through davey’s window because he got caught in the blizzard and can’t make his way back to the lodging house and now he’s cold and sad and hungry but davey’s there so he knows it’ll be ok <3
(Note: I love this prompt so much and I really enjoyed writing it!!! Javid is by far one of my favorite ships- I love their dynamic and how cute they are! Enjoy some fluff!)
The night was freezing as it could be, a blizzard raging through the streets of Manhattan and burying the streets in a thick layer of blinding white. Jack shivered in his snow-soaked clothes as he lifted a numb arm to knock on the Jacobs’ apartment door, praying that they were home. A shot of relief went through him as he heard someone fiddle with the doorknob, and Davey peeked out through a small crack in the door.
“Jack!” Davey’s visible eye went wide as he opened the door the rest of the way, taking in Jack’s pitiful self standing in front of him. “Oh my god, why are you outside in this kind of weather?” he demanded, and Jack smiled awkwardly as he wrung out his sleeves.
“Got caught in the snow comin’ back from selling.”
Davey scoffed. “Come inside.” He stepped back to allow Jack to enter, a look of worry spelt out on his face. Jack plastered on a grin to reassure him that he was fine, and he stood silently in the living room as Davey called out, “Mame! Jacek tu jest. Musi się rozgrzać!”
After a brief exchange of hurried Polish with his mother, Davey lightly nudged Jack towards his room, nodding at the door. “We need to get you into some dry clothing. Wouldn’t want you getting hypothermia.” 
Nodding dumbly, glancing around him, Jack waited as Davey rummaged through his closet. Wow, he’d never been in Davey’s room before. It wasn’t much- just a neatly made bed, a night table layered with books, a few scraps of paper pasted on the wall- but Jack marveled at the touch of home Davey had given the space. It was so very Davey, in a way; organization mixed with chaos, neatly packed and strewn about all the same.
Jack was startled out of his thoughts as Davey stood straight with an aha, holding up a shirt that seemed two sizes too big for the both of them. “This was a hand-me-down from a cousin of mine. It’s way too big for me,” he said, holding out the shirt along with a pair of trousers he’d found at the bottom of his drawer. “It might be too large for you also, but could you try these on?”
“Uh, sure thing,” Jack replied, a blush blossoming on his cheeks as Davey left the room with a pleasant smile. The clothes smelled like him, though they’d probably never been worn, and Jack sighed as the soft fabric warmed his skin.
Suddenly, his mind returned to the reason he was there. The snow still came down hard outside, relentless in its fury, and Jack knew it wasn't going to be letting up any time soon. His mind filled with worry about his boys back at the lodging house, and he hoped they weren’t too worried about him. “They’re probably safe and warm in bed,” he told himself. “Ain’t worried about a thing.”
Still, anxiety kept eating at him, and he couldn’t quite shake the worry as he left the now sopping-wet clothes he’d been wearing on the bed, hoping it wouldn’t be a problem, and stepped out into the hallway to look for Davey.
“Do they fit alright?” Davey questioned, studying Jack for just a moment too long before seemingly deciding there was nothing amiss and nodding with approval. “Don’t hesitate to keep those, either. I’ll never fit in them anyways.”
“Thanks, Dave.” Jack wrapped a hand in the fabric of the shirt, feeling suddenly extremely shy. Was it the circumstances with which he was there, or the way Davey was looking at him- as if he was studying him under a microscope? “Is it… is it okay if I, uh, sleep here tonight?”
“Of course!” Davey chuckled, brushing by Jack and re-entering his bedroom, Jack following like a lost puppy. Smoothing out the blanket and placing the old clothes gently on the floor, Davey patted his pillow. “You can take the bed- I’ll lay down a couple blankets for myself.”
Jack held up his hands, shaking his head. “I can’t take your bed, Dave. I’m used to sleepin’ on the ground anyways. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re my guest,” Davey insisted, his tone saying that he wasn’t to be argued with. Holding back a smirk at Davey’s concerned tone, Jack relented and sat down on the bed as Davey spread an old quilt down on the floor.
“Y’know, you don’t hafta sleep on the floor.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew it, the offer hanging in the air between them as Davey stopped half-crouched on the makeshift bed.
“Really?” If Jack wasn’t seeing things, he thought he could see just a slight blush spread across Davey’s face, just as adorable as ever. He nodded, praying that he wasn’t messing things up.
“Yeah, really.” Jack offered a friendly smile. “I don’t mind. Plus, I need the extra warmth, don’t ya think?”
Davey considered this for a moment before standing up and moving to the bed, untucking the blankets and crawling in next to Jack. He sighed as Jack wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, relishing his warmth and smiling into his hair.
He could stay like this forever, Jack thought, warm and safe with Davey by his side…
“Goodnight, Jackie,” Davey murmured, his voice already sleepy. Jack planted a soft kiss on the top of his head, rubbing small circles into his back.
“G’night, Dave,” he whispered to him, his heart filling with warmth as Davey dozed off in his arms, all worries leaving his head and his eyelids drooping.
And so they slept, waking up to the dazzling sight of brilliant white snow blanketing the world outside, clean and crisp and pure.
They’d surely be snowed in the rest of that day, but it wasn’t a problem to them- as long as Jack had Davey to keep him warm, it was all going to be alright.
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collecting-stories · 10 months
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November 29 - Racetrack Higgins
Request: can I request a little racetrack or finch x fem!reader where she has press night for a broadway show they’re in (your choice!) and he is just admiring her, maybe with a little 62 and 80 from prompt list?
A/N: I decided to set this in 1899 instead of doing an AU so I changed the zipper line because zippers weren't used on clothing until 1925. The play is Ben Hur, which premiered on Broadway on November 29 1899 and was a massive success at the time.
Broadway Masterlist
✰✰✰✰
You didn’t want to admit it but you were terribly nervous. Katharine was there in the bustle of people and press who had the privilege of attending the show that evenings, a rather exclusive who’s who of New York City elite, and you felt out of place, even in your new dress. It was nicer than anything you’d ever worn before, the sort of thing meant to impress wealth and prestige and yet, it felt like it was suffocating you. 
As your co-star answered questions about the play you stood beside him, listening but hardly able to pay attention. While Katherine’s presence was reassuring, it didn’t quite provide the calm feeling that you were looking for. What you really wanted, as silly as it may have sounded to these people, was to be back at the boarding house with everyone. With nobody to impress, or at least with people who didn’t need you all dolled up in fancy clothes that felt like they were suffocating you, flashy red shoes and rogue on your cheeks. You just wanted to be back sitting on the rooftop with Racetrack, trying to stay cool in the summer and listening to all the sounds that threatened to keep you awake. 
Katherine called your name softly as she came up beside you, offering the sort of well-mannered greeting (a polite kiss to your left cheek and a reassuring hand on your wrist) that belonged in upper society circles. “Seems you have an admirer.” She teased and you finally looked away from all the stuffy jackets and skirts in the room. 
“What?”
“Look,” she instructed, nodding her head back so that you looked just beyond her shoulder. Standing there near the exit, in nicer clothes than you knew him to own, was Racetrack. Jack was standing with him, grinning at all the people hobnobbing their way about the lobby. Racetrack was looking right at you though, nothing seemed able to distract him as he stood there, grin on his face, watching you receiving praise from all the wealthy theatre goers of New York City. 
When he realized that Katherine had told you he was there, he waved and mouthed a silent ‘hello’ to him. You held your hand up just enough that he could tell you were waving back and then you pointed off to the side, nodding your head in the same direction just in case Racetrack didn’t get the message to meet you at the side door. He nodded. 
“You think anyone would mind if I sneak off?” You chanced asking Katherine, “just for a moment?” 
“I’ll cover for you, promise.” She replied. 
You snuck off as quietly as possible, weaving through the crowd and then slipping through the double doors into the theatre. You walked the empty aisle down to the stage, through the back and to the side door where Racetrack stood, already inside.
“You were supposed to wait for me to let you in.”
“Picked the lock,” he shrugged, smiling at you. There was a deep blush across his freckled cheeks as he stared at you, “you look beautiful, prettier than those Gibson girls.”
You couldn’t stop the smile on your face as you moved closer to him, taking his face in your hands and kissing him. You and Racetrack had been friends for as long as you had been living on the street and you had liked him just as long. You’d wasted money on dances before, gone along with friends who were looking for a more secure future than a newsie had the means to offer, but nothing had ever stuck. You loved Race and you knew you did and whether it was the way he was looking at you or the fact that all your nerves had been calmed at the sight of him or even just the knowledge that it was your name on the marquee outside tonight, you wanted to make sure that he knew how much you loved him. 
“Wow,” Racetrack looked a little dumbstruck when you pulled away, a dopey smile on his face, “thanks.”
“Thanks?” You nearly laughed, “...your welcome?”
“No I didn’t mean...I just meant...aw hell,” he shook his head before leaning forward initiating another kiss. 
You had a marquee with your name on it and hundreds of guests crowding into the theatre to see you but all that felt like second best to the feeling of kissing Racetrack. You felt like there were butterflies in your stomach as you leaned back against the dressing table that had been set up in the tiny closet of a room you’d been given backstage. Outside the closed door you could hear footsteps and voices, people bustling around now that the preshow cocktail hour was over. Soon you’d be expected, ready and in costume, to go onstage. 
“Racetrack,” you pushed gently at his chest, “Racetrack, I have to get ready.” 
He nodded his head in understanding, though he didn't look ready to let go of you just yet, "I know," he lamented. And then, leaning in again, "I know I've kissed you like ten times but just another ten please?"
Before you could protest, a knock on your door let you know that you were expected out on the side stage, ready for your entrance. "I have to go," you insisted, pulling away. This time he let you though you didn't get too far, turning your back to him and looking over your shoulder, "can you help me do up this dress? Since you've somehow managed to undo it." 
Racetrack smiled, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers, "nimble fingers," he replied. He did up your dress though, the brightest smile on his face the entire time. "Beautiful."
You could feel your face warm at his compliment. Racetrack always knew how to give your butterflies in your stomach. "Wait until I'm gone," you asked, checking your makeup in the mirror behind him, "I don't need anyone thinking I'm a charity girl."
"That'll be comical...after tonight you'll be the one giving me gifts for favors." Race teased, laughing when you swatted at him, "you think they got a name for that? A bloke who gets gifts from his girl, instead a the other way 'round?"
"I'll see you after the show," you promised, opening the door just enough that you could sneak out of your dressing room and blowing him a kiss that he caught and pressed to his heart.      
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thekadster · 2 years
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we will not give up on love now (a jackcrutchie songfic)
Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types)
Word Count: 2,279  
Trigger Warnings: None!
Author’s Notes: Inspired by Orpheus - Sara Bareilles. My first time writing Jackcrutchie, it was pretty fun :D
❝ Of course, Jack was happy that he finally got his dream, even more so that he got to share it with his best friend. A chance at a better life was something that kept a lot of newsies going, and for him, it was Santa Fe.
Even so, they couldn't help but reminisce. ❞
(@himbos-hotline i did the thing :0)
also read it on ao3!
After a long day, Jack and Crutchie were glad to be sitting by the fireplace. They had just finished dinner several minutes ago and were now unwinding over warm tea.
It had been two months since they’d moved to Santa Fe, and they’d been adjusting quite nicely. The two of them had new jobs and worked at a pace that was more to their liking. As such, they had more time to explore the town for leisure, rather than for selling papes.
“Say, Jack– you ever heard of Orpheus and Eurydice?”
He tilted his head at the unusual names and shrugged. “No, why?”
“They’s part of a Greek myth,” replied Crutchie, shifting on his end of the couch. “Davey told me a long time ago, and I read about it again in the library today.”
“What’d they do?” asked Jack. “They heroes or somethin’?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Maybe Orpheus, the guy was a poet. He was real good at music, too; the best anyone ‘ad ever heard,” he explained. “Eurydice was the girl – a nymph – and they fell in love. They got married an’ such, but it wasn’t long ‘til she died from a snakebite.”
Jack frowned. “Jeez.”
“That ain’t where it ends.”
“Oh, my bad. Go on.”
Crutchie smiled. “Orpheus travelled to the underworld to bring back his wife. Of course, it was dangerous, bein’ where souls go after people die an’ whatnot. But his music was so good that it made everythin’ stand still, and he gots through without a scratch.”
Jack’s eyes widened. He nodded for him to continue.
“Yeah! And it even made the king of the underworld cry; name’s Hades, if I’m rememberin’ right,” he spoke. “He and his wife Persephone agreed to let the two of ‘em get back to the normal world. But there was a catch: Orpheus couldn’t look behind to see if she was followin’ behind.”
“Hold on, but don’t that mean Hades could’ve just tricked ‘im?” asked Jack.
“And that’s exactly what he thought!” He watched the way Crutchie’s eyes lit up from both the excitement and the flicker of the fireplace. “As they was makin’ their way back, he couldn’t help but doubt if she was really there or not. Even if they’d left together, he couldn’t even feel her followin’.
“And so, just before they was about to step out, he caved and did what he knew he shouldn’t. He turned around, and Eurydice fell all the way back down to the start.”
They were silent for a while. Jack’s eyes drifted to the dancing reds and oranges of the fireplace. “Well, that sucks.”
Crutchie frowned and shrugged. “Yeah…It’s a sad story.”
“‘S that it?” He looked at the boy beside him. “Did he try goin’ back again?”
“They wouldn’t let him back in no more,” he answered.
“Damn. Poor guy,” mumbled Jack. “Why couldn’t he just hold her hand?”
“I…ain’t really sure about that one,” chuckled Crutchie. “Probably ‘cause she was a ghost?”
“But how about callin’ out Marco Polo? Or lettin’ her walk in front of him? Literally any other way could’ve saved their asses!”
“I don’t know!”
The painter sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Case in point: Orpheus is an idiot.”
“Hey–”
Crutchie lightly nudged him and the two laughed. Jack was always one to make people laugh, especially if it was his best friend. Even if they were a bit older and living in a new city, he found that some things never change.
The blonde leaned forward and raised his cup of tea to his lips. “Would you ‘ave turned around?”
Jack paused and tilted his head. “I guess not, no. If Hades was a man of his word – and he was – then I’d just ‘ave to trust him. And ‘course– I mean, it’s my wife; I gotta be strong for her. I gotta find some way to get through it.”
“You’d play Marco Polo on the way up?” he joked.
“Exactly. Or y’know, just run straight out of the underworld.”
Crutchie chuckled.
“How ‘bout you?” asked Jack, pouring his own tea. “You think you’d do it?”
The boy bit his lip and hummed. “Eh…I dunno,” he replied. “I’d like to think not, but I can only imagine what it felt like. I dunno why he doubted if she was really there or not, but I’d probably think of somethin’.”
Jack nodded. “Eh, fair. Must’ve been hard for the guy.”
The two grew quiet, taking in the subtle sounds of the evening. Even two months after moving, they weren’t used to nights this…calm. The world seemed to go by more slowly after the sun went down. They didn’t have to be anywhere else after dinner, which allowed them to kick back and enjoy a warm drink after a long day. And with a place to call their own, no one could tell them otherwise.
Of course, Jack was happy that he finally got his dream, even more so that he got to share it with his best friend. A chance at a better life was something that kept a lot of newsies going, and for him, it was Santa Fe. He first heard about it as a child from his father. His old man described it as a dusty desert town with kind folks and a wide-open sea of stars. It was a childhood fairytale that he stubbornly held on to; a promise he swore to keep to both his family and friends that he’d get out of New York and start anew. That he and Crutchie would be more than just newsboys.
Even so, he couldn’t help but reminisce.
“Say – and sorry if this is a bit weird – but you ever think of turnin’ around?” 
Crutchie looked at him. “Well, not really; I feel like if I was Orpheus, I’d be pretty–”
“No, no, I ain’t talkin’ bout him.” Jack waved his hand. “I mean like turnin’ around. Like goin’-back-to-New-York kinda turnin’ around.”
He paused and his mouth gaped. “Oh…”
He thought about it for a moment. Their old life in the city certainly wasn’t perfect, let alone envied, but it wasn’t all bad. A part of him missed the tall buildings, the streets, the Lodging House, the fire escape. He missed the selling spots, Jacobi’s Deli, Medda’s theater. And more than anything, he missed the people who made New York so special.
He missed the newsies – both of them did. They were their siblings who somehow, someway found a family. The kids who braved through every day with a smile, or at least a little bit of hope. He also missed people like Miss Medda, who he saw a little bit of in the kind folks of Santa Fe.
The world had often been cold and cruel to kids like them. New York was no exception, but he and Jack felt like they’d found a soft place to land within its gritty, grimy walls.
Crutchie swallowed a lump in his throat. “Well…not really, I guess,” he replied, finding his voice. “I’ve thought about what’d happen if we didn’t move at all, and life would just go on like it used to. We’d still be newsies and we’s workin’ on the streets until we’re too old to. I don’t think I wanna do that forever.”
He chuckled to himself. He turned to Jack, his eyes distant as he held his warm mug of tea.
Crutchie studied his expression. “Do you…ever think of turnin’ around?”
The other boy blinked. “What– no, ‘course not!” he replied. He smiled and gestured to the house, their house. “I mean, we been dreamin’ of this for so long, and we finally got it. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but…”
Jack grew silent, his smile faltering. He stared off as his mind searched for the right words, grasping for something that was only almost there.
Crutchie raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. He followed his lover’s gaze and found that he wasn’t staring at the fireplace, but at the framed pictures sitting on the mantle. Pictures of their friends, of their family.
His expression softened. “Jack…”
The painter was quiet.
“You miss them, too, don’tcha?” asked Crutchie.
It took a moment for him to respond. “Just ain’t used to not seein’ em everyday,” he sighed. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout them sometimes.”
“Yeah, I hear you.” He shifted a bit in his seat. “I mean, we’s been together for pretty much our whole lives; it’s pretty hard not to.”
“Yeah, but–” The brunet sighed and gestured to the photos. “You’d think after two months I would’ve started thinkin’ of ‘em less. It’s like I’m always wondering what the fellas are up to, whether they’re okay or not.
“I miss bein’ with ‘em. Sometimes, I catch myself wantin’ to be a newsie again, like the old days. Like I wanna be there where they are, but I also don’t wanna go back, but I wanna see them again?”
He groaned and leaned back into the couch. He couldn’t pinpoint what he was feeling, for the life of him.
He wasn’t one to dwell on the past, but for the past few days, he was plagued with how things once were. Just before daybreak, he swore he almost heard the chime of the morning bell. In the bright afternoon sun, he remembered walking with his friends down familiar city streets. Memories flew back to him in warm meals and baked bread and newspapers and postcards. They lived in laughter and lampposts and paintbrushes, and the ghost of his newsies’ footsteps followed him like a shadow. It was almost as if he could turn around, and they would be right there.
Crutchie’s mouth stretched into a thin line, his finger drumming on the mug in thought. Before he could respond, Jack interrupted him.
“It’s stupid,” he mumbled.
“No, it ain’t,” insisted the other boy. “Maybe…Maybe it ain’t such a bad thing.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Whaddaya mean?”
“Missin’ the newsies,” he answered. “It’s normal you’d miss ‘em after all this time; you was their leader, for Pete’s sake!”
“But I kinda feel like I’m supposed to just…move on. I finally got what I wanted, movin’ here. Shouldn’t I be happier? I’m sure Manhattan’s doin’ fine, what with Race takin’ over.”
“But they miss you.” Crutchie put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “They miss us, I bet just as much as we miss them. We’s been a family for this long; I’m sure it’s takin’ em some time to get used to us not bein’ there, too. It’s…hard sayin’ goodbye like that.”
Jack's eyes didn’t meet his, still deep in thought.
“But we’re here now.”
The blonde softly held his hand and laced their fingers together. Jack looked over at him. Crutchie’s eyes were soft and warm, like the glow the fire cast on the room, tracing their features. They were familiar, like the city lights he’d always see from the fire escape.
“It’s hard goin’ back now,” he added. “But we’s here, you and me. We wanted to be here, and we made that choice. It ain’t wrong that you’re missin’ New York, and it ain’t wrong that we moved away. It’s just what we ‘ad to do.
“And maybe, right now, that’s all that matters.”
Jack’s mind lingered on those words for a while. The noise in his mind seemed to die down a little. At that moment, the world felt more quiet. He finally paid enough attention to notice the crackle of the fireplace and the subtle song of the crickets outside. Something of a warm feeling began to stir in his chest as his eyes traced the little details and dents in the walls. He looked down at his hand – his hand intertwined with Crutchie’s – and the beginnings of a smile formed on his face.
He ran a thumb over the back of the other boy’s palm. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Wonder if they’re thinkin’ ‘bout us right now.”
“They probably are,” replied Crutchie. “You sent ‘em a postcard this week, right?”
“Yeah. They haven’t written back, though.”
He shrugged. “Maybe they’re just busy.”
“Probably. Just hope they’s doin’ okay.”
“They’ll be fine.” Crutchie gently squeezed his hand and smiled. “We’ll be fine, Jack.”
The brunet sighed to himself and smiled back. “Yeah…I think we will.” He leaned down and kissed the back of his boy’s hand. “And, for the record, I’m glad you came with me.”
Crutchie giggled. “Just glad to be here.”
This new chapter in their life felt strange but pleasant. It was like a weight, familiar like a friend, finally lifted off of their shoulders. It wasn’t gone entirely; they still had to work, after all. Much of it was carried away by the old western breeze, but more importantly, they were there to carry it together.
Nothing was ever the same ever since they got on that train out of New York. Hell, nothing had ever really been the same ever since they both agreed to move to Santa Fe. But as they sat in silence with their heads leaned on one another, they thought that maybe it was for the best. As much as they were once newsies – and always would be, at heart – they both knew that old city couldn’t box them in for too long.
Maybe the myth would turn out different this time. They wouldn’t turn around, and instead bring along their memories like old songs. They would go into the underworld singing, and return just the same.
Maybe the present – maybe love was worth holding onto.
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Text
TW: Death
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There had only ever been two deaths in the Manhattan Lodge House.
13 years ago, a 12 year old boy named Rocky. A kid who'd been in the refuge for 8 years of his life and seemed to have contracted every virus he could've caught.
He went out quietly, passing away in his sleep and never waking up. An older girl, Nifty, was the one who found him and quickly informed Kloppman, who had him buried later that week in the patch of grass outside.
The second time was after the fight.
Everybody was sleeping soundly, aside from Race and Albert. Jack was nowhere to be found, so until further notice, they were now the ones in command throughout the house. They couldn't bring themselves to fall asleep in case something were to happen, so they were trying to keep themselves awake as long as possible.
They were simply lying there, Race tracing random patterns onto Albert's thighs with his thumb, while Albert smoked his cigar, trying to relax after such a rough day.
At around 01.36, Tommy Boy rushed over to their bunk, tears spilling down his face and panic in his eyes.
"Jesus Tommy, what's happening?" Albert asked, quickly showing himself to a sitting position. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I think I did-" He stuttered out. "Splasher ain't waking up. We shook him, said his name, slapped him a few times but he still ain't wakin' up-"
Race swung himself off the bunk, Albert following suit and running to Splashers bunk, praying to whoever was up there that the situation wasn't as bad as they were thinking.
At the bunk, Buttons could be seen holding Splashers limp body in his arms, sobbing to himself.
"Buttons...is he-" Race began, before being cut off by Buttons slowly nodding his head.
"He's gone." Buttons whispered, wiping his cheeks as dry as he could get them. "My baby brother is gone."
A few more people were starting to wake up at the noise they were all making. JoJo had caught onto what had happened, and while his shake had come back, he was ushering some of the younger kids out of the room, making the situation easier for the ones in charge.
"C'mon Ike, outta bed." He whispered, Mike asleep on his back and Mush at his side. "Yeah, we's gonna go on a little midnight walk, aye?"
"Jo, yous are shakin'." Specs uttered, putting a hand on the other boys arm. "That ain't happened in a while, you sure you's are good?"
"I'm fine." JoJo replied, walking the kids out of the room. "Call for me when we can come back in."
Specs nodded, walking over to the group at the bed.
Albert had run downstairs to go and grab Kloppman, let him know about the situation on their hands, leaving Racer, Buttons, Tommy Boy, Specs, and poor Splish-Splash.
Tommy Boy was holding onto Buttons, who was now sobbing into his shoulder. Racer had Splashers body covered with a bedsheet, a few specs of blood from his injuries seeping through.
"Christ." Race sighed, unable to break his watch on the body. "Kids only what, eight? Still had everythin' ahead of him."
Soon enough, word had spread to everybody in the room about the death, Kloppman running in with Albert beside him, confirming the fact for everyone.
That night, Splasher stayed lying on that bed with the sheet remaining atop of him.
The next morning, Finch and Henry were sent outside to dig another spot in the ground where they'd lay Splasher just a few hours later.
Much like with Rocky, it was only some of the older Newsies who went out to witness the burial.
Tommy Boy and Buttons were crying again. They'd just lost their little brother, the kid they'd practically raised throughout their childhoods. Now he was gone, just like that, all because of that stupid rally. Kind words had been said, but that doesn't bring back the most important person in their lives.
Race and Albert were dead silent, practically unable to speak from shock and fear. How had Jack done this for so long without cracking? It was their first day, and a kid had just died. They'd been told that it wasn't their fault by Kloppman numerous times, but it just couldn't sit right with them that a child died under their supervision.
JoJo was leading a small prayer service. He hadn't stopped shaking, making a short note to himself to tell the nuns how long this one seemed to be going on for. He'd been in charge of keeping the little kids occupied and distracted, but he knew deep down that there was only so long he could hide the death of one of the loudest kids in the house. He was just praying the day wouldn't be sooner but much later.
For multiple years after, they would look out the window and see the graves of Splasher and Rocky, remembering two kids who ended up dying to fend for themselves and their families.
It wasn't about pennies from that moment onwards. It was about remembering the newsies lost selling to help their family and striking to help future generations.
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inkblotsandpapertrails · 11 months
Text
Loves Me, Loves Me Not [A.D]
Pairing: Albert DaSilva x Reader
Description: Working as a florist means expressing a person's love for them, writing out their love story in an array of petals and blossoms and messages hidden in between it all. It does not mean falling in love yourself. But then the newsie starts selling outside your shop, and your whole routine goes out the window.
Tags: Oblivious reader, shy reader, flustered Albert, canon era, florist au, flower language/floriography, gender neutral reader, oneshot
A/N: OHHHH you didn't think ol ANGSTY MCGEE could write 10k of sheer toothrotting fluff now didja?? hm?? didja bitch?? well jokes on you cause i wanted to branch out with my reader types and there's nothing i love more than turning the token Tough Guy character into a squirming flustered puddle of a man. anyways i'd say take a shot for every repeated motif in this thing but you'd probably die of alcohol poisoning so just sit back and enjoy the self indulgence!
It is important to note that this happened entirely by chance.
You really can’t stress that enough. There are a thousand things that could’ve caused it, and another thousand things that could’ve led to the whole thing being avoided altogether. But of all things, it had to be chance. And newspapers, you suppose.
Yes, newspapers, har-har. It’s ridiculous, such a simple cause for the whole thing. Something that, again, could’ve been entirely avoided. You know it’s not especially pretty to wrap your painstakingly arranged bouquets in newspapers of all things. It’d be better to use parchment paper – something plain, but rustic, something that drew attention to the blossoms without looking too vulgar, perhaps lined with coloured tissue or lace if you were feeling particularly showy – rather than the same wastepaper the fishmongers used to wrap their catch. But you can’t help it. It’s an in-joke, of a kind; the idea of something growing out of yesterdays news brought you comfort, absurd as that is. So you don’t care if the ladies and businessmen wrinkle their noses at the crinkling paper and running ink wrapped around their lush roses and baby’s breath – they could stand to be humbled some, in your opinion. A rose by any other name, after all.
So, yes. Newspapers. Not the grandest way to start a story, but it’s yours. You like reading them, when the days get long, looking over yesterday’s stories. It became a game, almost – you’d read about the horses favoured to win at Sheepshead and laugh, knowing full well that Admiral Shucker would stumble and come dead last, leaving Zippy Skip to take his first ever victory and render every gambler at Sheepshead penniless. It’s a comfort, knowing exactly what was going to happen. Knowing precisely how the story ended before you read the first line. Which is why, when you ran out of newspapers for your bouquets, you were entirely unbothered – because you knew precisely what you were going to do. You would close for a few minutes, go down Park Row, grab a cheap and terrible hotdog lunch from the park vendor, and then walk until you reached the Promenade, where pack of newsboys would no doubt have stacks of papers ready for the taking as they waited for the double-whammy lunchtime rush of the University and City Hall. And then you’d hurry back, cramming your hotdog into your mouth, and re-open for the lunchtime rush yourself. Same as every Friday.
So you shut your register. You flip your sign to closed. You walk outside and lock the door behind you, and fuss with your pockets distractedly as you cram it back, because that is what you always do at lunchtime on a Friday.
Walking directly into someone’s back, however, is not.
“’Ey, watch where ya-!” Someone snaps as you stumble, tripping over your own feet. You make a rather embarrassing squeak and shut your eyes as you brace for the floor, reaching out blindly for something, anything-
“Whoa – Jesus-!”
You grab the something between your fingers, and then the something grabs ahold of you, hands squeezing your waist tight enough for you to feel rough callouses through your clothes. You open your eyes and – ah.
Well.
That is unexpected.
The boy’s your age, thereabouts. He’s pale, underneath the freckles and sunspots, with eyes cornflower blue. His face is close enough for you to make out the little threads of colour in the iris, like the veins of a petal, and the feather-down of his lashes – orange, you realize, orange and fluffy, like celosia plumes.
You both stare at each other for a moment, as the initial panic subsides. And then you remember the hands on your waist. And you feel the rough wool of a vest clutched between your fingers. And you realize he’s holding you at an angle from where you fell, so you’re dipped just a bit backwards, the way you’ve seen gentlemen dip their lovers for a chaste kiss after they proffer their bouquets.
You clutch your hands to your chest with a small squeak, and the boy leaps back as if you’d burned him.
“Sorry!” He says hurriedly. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t-“
“No, no!” You say, equally panicked, as you wipe imaginary dust from your clothes. “My fault, entirely my fault, I should’ve been looking, I-“
You both stammer over the other, fumbling apologies and excuses, until you both seem to simultaneously trail off, realizing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. You laugh sheepishly, and the boy chuckles with you.
“I-I really am sorry.” You say sheepishly. “I, um – people aren’t really around here before lunch, they’re usually working…”
The boy raises an eyebrow and jostles the bag he has slung over his shoulder.
“Well, s’pose I am workin’.”
You frown, glancing from him to the bag of – newspapers!
“You’re a newsie!” You gasp, clasping your hands together. The boy blinks, his cheeks dusting pink, and you bite your lip anxiously – you suppose he must find you quite strange, knocking into him and then getting excited over newspapers, of all things.
“Uh – yeah…” He says awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, um – I was lookin’ for a new sellin’ spot, heard this place was kinda up an’ comin’, and, uh… I like… Lambs.”
You blink at him, turning to glance at the wooden sign that hangs over your shop door. You’d always loved it, the wee lamb snoozing in a meadow with the words Little Lamb Flowers painted below in curly lettering – perhaps some would find it cloying or childish, but you liked it found it adorable. Still, the idea of this newsie, with his big arms and rough hands and his hat on backwards, being drawn to your shop over a painted lamb… You couldn’t help but find it charming.
He's somehow even redder when you turn back to him, looking at the floor like he’s begging it to swallow him.
“Uh – not, not that I, not to say, y’know, I’m not – I ain’t, like-“ He flounders, and you try not to smile. “The sign’s… Good.”
It’s so awkwardly charming that you can’t help but giggle. He full-body jerks, staring at you with wide eyes.
“Yes, well.” You smile, bunching the hem of your shirt between your fingers. “I like pretty things, I suppose.”
The boy makes a stifled noise, something a bit too sheepish to be a laugh.
“Yeah, s’pose you would.”
“Hm?” You cock your head, and he flushes.
“Uh – nothin’!” He says quickly, looking away with a wrinkled brow, as if the sidewalk had personally offended him. “I just – I-“
“No, um – You’re right!” You try to smile reassuringly – you hope you aren’t making him uncomfortable. You know you can be a little over-the-top, but you wouldn’t want to frighten him off, not after he helped you. And, well – perhaps you were a little intrigued by the gruff, abrasive newsie that liked paintings of lambs. “I mean, I’d hardly be a good florist if I didn’t.”
The boy is silent, glancing around at the quiet street. You fidget with your hands, opening your mouth, then closing it, your body quietly reminding you that you’re supposed to be going to Park Row, because that’s what you do every Friday, and if you don’t get back in time you’re not going to have time to eat lunch, but why would you go to Park Row when there’s a newsie right here? It’s not your routine, perhaps, but – even you can’t deny the convenience.
“Could I-“ You say, stuttering over your words. “Could I perhaps – goodness, this is going to sound awful strange, but, um – I-I don’t suppose I could take a hundred, could I?”
The boy’s neck jerks towards you, hard enough to make you wince.
“Only if you have it!” You say quickly. “I-It is a tall order, if – if you don’t, I can just run down to Park Row-“
“A hundred?” The boy manages to splutter. “What’cha need a hundred for, a pape for every flower?”
You’re sure he’s not angry, just confused – it’s a peculiar request – but it’s enough to make you duck your head anxiously.
“I, um.” You try to laugh, but it sounds a bit pathetic. “I-I like to – wrap the bouquets with them? It’s sort of a… Personal joke, I suppose? It’s silly, sorry, I didn’t mean to bother-“
“No!” He says quickly – you chance a glance towards him, and you’re almost shocked at how scarlet his face has become. “I, uh, no, no, I mean – I’d be a lousy newsie if I said no to a hundred papes…”
He pulls his entire stack out of his bag and pushes it into your arms. You grin, cradling the papers like a prize.
“Gosh, you’re my hero!” You laugh without thinking as you fish the change out of your pocket. “I sure hope you stick around, that just saved me twenty minutes!”
You slide your hand over his and slot the coins into his palm. You try not to shiver as you feel his callouses brushing your skin. He’s staring at you, you realize, mouth parted and eyes wide, and you feel your face beginning to warm up. Goodness, what a state you’ve made of yourself – there’s still pollen on your fingers, no doubt there are stray petals in your hair, and you’ve gone running into a newsboy and taking all his papers and – Lord, this is not how Fridays are meant to go.
“Sorry.” You say sheepishly. The boy quirks his brows, chuckling inquisitively.
“F’r what?” He asks. “Ya just sold me out and the lunch rush ain’t even hit yet, I…” He swallows and tangles his hand around the strap of his bag. “Thanks, uh…?”
“Oh!” You gasp. “I beg your pardon, I’m so rude – [Y/N].” You stick your hand out, curtsying as best you can with a stack of papers balanced in the crook of your elbow. “[Y/N] [L/N].”
The boy makes a noise, half-chuckle, half… Something else, and clasps his calloused fingers around yours.
“Albert DaSilva.”
Now that he’s looking at you properly, not ducking his head or avoiding your gaze, you can make out the subtle twinges of bluebeard-grey that dapple around the ring of his iris, little gleams in the sunlight. DaSilva, indeed.
“Well,” you smile sheepishly, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, Albert DaSilva.”
His grip tightens by a fraction as his eyes widen, just a twitch. You frown at his sudden awkwardness, glancing at your hands and-
“Oh!” You pull your hand away – he immediately yanks his own back like you’ve pricked him. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I got pollen all over you!”
Albert blinks, holding up his fingers and peering at the yellow dust clinging to his skin.
“Oh, uh – nah, ain’t no big deal,” he says quietly, glancing at you through his feathery lashes. “I pro’lly-“ he blanches as he looks at your hands. “Aw, shit, I got ink on ya! Ah-!” He tenses again, his whole body going suddenly ramrod straight. “Fuck, I said shit – dammit-!”
You can’t help it – you laugh. It’s all just so absurd, so strange, so not what was meant to happen today. And you like it. It’s ridiculous and stupid and, against all reason, you like it, this bizarre newsboy who’s landed on your doorstep. He watches you as you giggle, positively perplexed, and chuckles awkwardly alongside you.
“I, um,” you manage to say between little giggles. “I-I should really get back inside.”
Albert nods, swallowing hard enough to make his Adams apple bob.
“Yeah, uh – s’pose I should go back to the Square.” He smiles smugly to himself. “Hell, I got a whole day off today!”
You snicker again, feeling just a bit proud of yourself for being the one to make him smile like that.
“Well…” You hug the paper stack to your chest, trying to hide your expression – you must look like a dope, giggling like a fool over a boy you just met. “Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Because it would be convenient, of course. That’s the only reason you ask, for the convenience – it’d beat walking all the way to the Promenade and walking all the way back with a stack of papers, having a newsie so close. That’s why you ask. Not because of lambs or cornflowers or any other ridiculous reason. Still, Albert looks almost surprised that you asked, eyes wide and pretty and nooononono, that’s not what you should be noticing right now!
“I – Yes!” He says it far too loud, and realizes that unfortunate fact quite suddenly, slapping a palm over one red cheek. “I mean, uh, yeah. Cool. Sounds good.”
You bounce on your toes and offer him another sheepish farewell before ducking back into your shop, feeling far too warm despite the breezy spring weather – and you realize with a twinge of fear that your routine is about to become very, very different, in ways that you can’t possibly expect.
You bite your lip as you fuss over your arrangements. This was why you always read yesterdays paper, for goodness’ sake – there’s no surprises when you know what’s coming. Now, you’re going in blind, and it’s – it’s scary.
But then you think about Albert. All the little peculiarities you’ve found out about him in the span of just ten minutes.
It could be a bit fun, too, you suppose.
You go on like that for a while, you and Albert. He becomes a fixture of the store, as permanent as the dried flowers in the window, or the Little Lamb sign swinging overhead. You hear him when the door swings open, barking a headline, and you see him through the window, wandering up and down the storefront, his dandelion-mane ruffling in the breeze.
You try not to get to attached. It’d be like naming a freshly picked flower while knowing full well that within a week, it’d be withered and gone. But you can’t help it. You liked your old routine, you really did – you liked the gentle monotony of your cozy little shop, you liked wandering the shelves and fussing over the flowers, you liked making polite conversation with the customers, from the bashful lovers planning a proposal to the suave businessmen looking to surprise their spouse, to even the flustered housekeepers running errands for their mistresses. But now there’s Albert, rough and unkempt Albert, sprouting between the cracks of your life like a stubborn thistle, prickly and rough around the edges, but… Then he’ll hold the door for you when you’re stumbling out, juggling an armful of flowers. Then he’ll persuade some passer-by on the street to stop in the shop after they buy a paper. Then he’ll lug a whole stack of papers over every Friday and drop them off at the door for you, offering you a stiff smile as he tips his cap.
“You’re an angel.” You say gratefully as you press the dimes into his palm. “I used to have to walk all the way to Park Row and back for these. I’d barely have a lunch break at all!”
Albert nodded wordlessly as he fumbled over the coins, almost dropping one before he shoved them into his bag, face flushed and rosy. Perhaps you were being clingy, but you were beginning to get a bit concerned over how red Albert was all the time – sunburn, perhaps? You knew he was pale, but it didn’t seem right for him to be so flushed all the time…
“Try walkin’ all day,” he chuckles, a bit stiltedly. “M’ready t’keel over by the time the second bell rolls ‘round.”
And that sticks with you as you fidget around your little apartment above your shop. You know Albert didn’t mean anything by it – you’d never heard him complain once, not after a long day’s work, not when he heaved a stack of papers all the way down to the Financial District every week, not even when you got distracted by your keys or your flowers or whatever else and went knocking into him as you exited the Little Lamb. Perhaps he just didn’t want to tell you about stuff like that – it’s not like you know him particularly well, you suppose. Still, it didn’t feel right, having him work so hard for so little.
You frown at your butterknife as you prepare your lunch, and chance a glance towards your open window. If you strain your ears over the bustle of the street, you can hear Albert hawking away.
You shouldn’t get attached. You really shouldn’t. You can pick a flower and sear the stems or press it between books or dry it from the ceiling but eventually, it’ll still wilt.
Against your better judgement, you poke out of your shop with a wrapped sandwich in one hand and a tin mug of coffee in the other.
“Afternoon.” You try to smile away the tension in your shoulders. Albert glances over his shoulder, then double-takes, spinning around like a puppet whose strings have gotten tangled.
“Uh – yeah!” He blurts, then stiffens like he’s stubbed his toe. “I mean – afternoon! Again. Not, not that it’s afternoon again, just I – I already – you already-“
“No, I got it.” You say gently, bouncing anxiously on your toes. “Afternoon, again.”
You bite your lip and, before you can lose your nerve, shove the food towards him.
“For you.” You mumble towards the floor. “Y’know, a – a lunch break. Since you don’t normally… Get one.”
Albert stares from the sandwich to the coffee to you and back again. You can feel yourself sweating. God, this was a ridiculous idea. A newsie doesn’t want charity, for goodness’ sake, they just want to finish their shift and rest, like any other working kid in this city, they don’t want someone – waiting on them like a nursemaid, they-
Albert tentatively wraps his hand around the sandwich, his fingers brushing yours as he does so, leaving a little static twinge in their wake.
“Thank you.” He says softly, staring at you like you’re something he’s never seen before. You can feel your face warming up, and you have to force yourself to look away.
“It’s only chicken.” You ramble. “A-And lettuce, I didn’t – I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just-“
“It’s good.” Albert smiles at the paltry sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, and glances up at you with those cornflower eyes. “It’s really good.”
You feel your throat go tight. With stiff limbs, you shove the coffee towards him, a drop spilling over the rim.
“And coffee!” You say far too quickly. “I, um – I hope you like milk.”
Albert cups the tin mug between his hands and blinks.
“It’s hot.” He murmurs. His nose twitches – bunny-like, you think distantly, and then you chase away that thought with a stick because that is not what you’re here to do – and he beams. “It smells good!”
“Oh!” You smile. “Well, um – I hope it tastes the same, then.”
“I ain’t ever had coffee that weren’t stale.” Albert looks at you with a wide grin. “You’re… Thank you.”
You can feel warmth blossoming in your chest, bursting outwards like snowdrops after winter-
“Haveagooddayniceseeingyoubye!” is all you manage to blurt out before scurrying back into The Little Lamb.
Not getting attached, you tell yourself as you sweep the shop floor (to no avail, there’s not a speck of dust left, you’ve been sweeping for nearly thirty minutes now to avoid looking out the window). You are not getting attached.
(But if you chance a glance at Albert sipping his coffee and sighing, or smiling as he savours a bite of his sandwich… Well, who’s to say?)
Despite your best efforts, Albert becomes a fixed part of your routine. You bring him lunch every day. Sometimes you’ll even eat together, leaning against the window display and chatting about nothing at all. You’ll usher him into the shop when it rains (“Honestly, Albert, who would buy papers in this weather?” “Someone without an umbrella, I guess.”) and you’ll show him your floriography books, from Floral Poetry to Les langage des Fleurs (although you try not to read that one too often, since Albert’s face goes all funny when you read the French – perhaps it sounds strange to him). You’ll point out the different meanings, the different messages that can be spelt through each blossom, and he’ll nod and watch you like you’re actually saying something important. It was nice, being able to talk to someone and knowing that what you said mattered to them. You’d even brought him an aloe plant one morning.
(“For your skin.” You smiled, breaking off a leaf and scooping sap onto your finger. “See?”
Albert frowned, wrinkling his nose at the gooey gel.
“My skin?”
“You know.” You gestured to his cheeks. “Your sunburn. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable to be selling like that – this’ll clear it right up! Here, just like this…”
You swept your fingers over Albert’s face, rubbing in the gel as gently as you could, so as not to irritate his skin. He was already going crimson, the poor thing – honestly, you loathed to think about how uncomfortable he must’ve been.
“I – uh – yeah!” He squeaked. “Yeah… Sunburn.”)
It’s stupid. It’s so incredibly stupid, you know precisely how this story will go. Albert’s a newsie, the entire nature of his job is temporary. As soon as the spring crowds die down, he’ll go looking for a better place to sell, and then a better place after that, and another after that. It’s simply the way of it. But selfishly, you like having him here. You’ve grown used to your little lunch visits, to the Friday drop-offs, to his permanently red cheeks and his cornflower eyes. You tried to be sensible, you really did, but Albert had gone and nestled himself in your chest anyways, creeping around your heart like morning glory – and you just hadn’t the strength to cut him away.  
Seasons change. People change. Flowers bloom anyways. But you’ve gone and grown around him like ivy on oak, except oak doesn’t get to wander off to greener pastures when it needs to, so… So where does that leave you?
Well, you didn’t know the answer to that question just yet. You suppose you’ll just… Have to cope. So you cope. You go about your day, you tend to your flowers, you arrange your bouquets – and when the Little Lamb sign starts creaking around a patch of rust, you fix that, too.
Replacing the chains is always a pain. It’s finicky work, and you hate having to use the stepladder on the street – it sways with every little breeze, teetering left and right as you sway for balance. You grit your teeth and tighten the chain link around the clasp in the sign, gripping your pliers with white knuckles and pointedly ignoring the painted dandelion in the corner of the sign, absolutely not thinking about what the fluffy orange centre reminds you of.
“Right.” You mutter as you pull gently on the chain. It holds secure, without a creak, and you smile to yourself. “Job done.”
And now to-
“Extry, extry, sweetheart leaves idiot gawkin’ on the sidewalk, read all about it!”
You shriek at the sudden noise, the stepladder lurching beneath you as you stumble backwards, and the sign’s slipped out from under your grasp and your pliers have gone flying and now you’re falling and God, this is why you hate chain-repair days-!
You land with a soft – soft? – flop, a firm something stumbling beneath you as it braces, holding you close. Arms, you realize. Strong, bare arms, which is ridiculous because only a fool wouldn’t wear sleeves in spring, and-
Oh.
Oh, dear.
You glance up, your nose bumping against another, as your eyes meet cornflower blue.
“Y’okay?” Albert asks hurriedly. “I was gonna wait, y’looked busy, but fuckin’ Racer, he’s… Um…”
His rambling begins to slow as he peers down at you, and you’re overcome with a very silly urge to trace a fingertip over his freckles.
“Hi.” Albert says quietly, close enough for you to feel his whisper on your skin.
“Oh…” You manage to squeak around your dry throat. “Hi.”
“Oooh, hold it right there, Albie!” You hear someone say, their smile imprinted in the words, and you know Albert’s realized at exactly the same time you have that he is holding you the same way a groom cradles his newlywed. You both make a similar bastardized shriek as you scramble out of his arms and Albert backs away like he’s about to get attacked, holding his hands up in a gesture of apology or surrender or – oh, hell, who knows?!
“Al-bert!” That same voice whines petulantly – you whip around, face flaming, to see another newsie, tall and curly and grinning like a mischievous sprite, who’s holding his hands in such a way that his fingers make a rectangle, kind of like a camera. “I coulda gotten you’s on the front page with a shot like that! Perfect li’l pit’cha o’ domesticity, eh?”
“Wouldja shaddup?!” Albert snaps, and you don’t have to turn around to know his face is redder than a rosebud. “God, this is why-!”
“Racetrack Higgins, m’darlin’!” The other boy says just on the verge of obnoxiously, striding up to you and proffering his hand with an exaggerated bow. “A veritable pleasure to meet’cha!”
You can’t help laughing awkwardly at the way he stretches his voice over the unfamiliar words – very-table play-sure – and slip your hand into his.
“And, um, you as well, Mister Hig-“
You barely finish before he’s pressing the back of your hand to his mouth with an over-the-top smack of his lips. You squeak and yank your hand away hard enough to make you stumble, bumping into Albert’s front.
“Race!”
“Aw, was that Mister Higginsya called me?” Racetrack – Racetrack, what a peculiar name – grins at you, and you feel rather like a lamb about to be eaten. “Albie, ya hit it outta the park w’this one!”
“Oh, just-!” Albert slaps his shoulder, forcing the other boy away from you. “Lay off’a them, wouldja?!”
“M’only bein’ a gent, Albie! Maybe y’should learn a thing or two, might impress ‘em-!”
“Racer, if you don’t stop talkin’ right now-!”
“Well, whateva’ happened t’romance-!”
You watch, dumbfounded, as the two begin to scuffle, jabbing elbows and kicking shins until Albert manages to lock Race’s head under his arm and Race is snapping his teeth to try and bite at Albert’s wrist (“Ah, ya shit, get offa me!” “Y’gerroffa-mm!” “Quit talkin’ w’my hand in ya mouth, ya freak!”), and then they spin awkwardly in your direction, tangled in their playfighting, and realize you’re still stood there watching.
“Hello.” You wave your hand awkwardly. With the decency to look a little bit ashamed, Race spits out Albert’s wrist.
“Sorry to cause a scene, darlin’!” He laughs sheepishly. “Only that Albert talks about this place so much, I had to see it for myself – and c’mon, have you seen the fella?” He gestures vaguely in Albert’s direction. “Fuckin’ brute. Only natural for him to start wailin’ on a guy, y’know?” He twirls his finger around his temple. “Unhinged.”
“I – Race!” Albert yelps. “Don’t say shit like – stuff like-!”
You laugh, and the two go quiet.
“That’s funny,” you smile, hoping to make a good impression after – all that. “I can see why you’re such good friends.”
“Uh.” Race blinks owlishly. “I weren’t jokin’. He stole my cigar this morning.”
You frown.
“Albert doesn’t smoke.”
“Well – yeah.” Says Race, like it’s obvious. “He just… Takes shit.”
You laugh at his joke, rolling your eyes.
“Yep, that’s Albert!” You giggle. “Reeaaal barbarian, huh?”
Race stares from you to Albert, who’s blush is growing darker by the second.
“What kinda fuckin’ witchcraft have you been sellin’ this kid-“
“Park!” Albert yells, clutching at his friend’s collar as if Race were a priest offering salvation. You stall, taken off guard again – truly, what is happening today? – when Race snaps his fingers with a smile.
“Oh, yeah!” He grins, digging his elbow into Albert’s side. “Yeah, that’s what we came for, ain’t it, Albie?”
Albert’s face drops, as if he’s suddenly realized something terrible.
“Wait, noooo,” he hisses, tugging at Race’s sleeve. “Nonono, Race-!”
“What you came for?” You ask curiously. Of course, it’s Sunday – everywhere’s closed for the Church services, that’s why you chose to do the repairs today. They couldn’t be here to sell. Perhaps they were buying flowers for a sweetheart? You felt your stomach drop. Please don’t let Albert be here for flowers.
“Well,” Race drawls as Albert yanks desperately on his sleeve. “We was just in the neighbourhood, y’know, it bein’ Sunday an’ all, an’ the fellas were all thinkin’ we’d hit up the park! And then Albie here-“ he smirks, draping an arm over Albert’s shoulder, who’s staring at the floor like he’s praying for it to eat him, “goes and mentions how close that is to his new favourite florists! So we was wonderin’-”
“Racer-!”
“If this favourite florist o’ his would wanna accompany some humble newsboys,” he places a hand on his chest and bows comically deep, “to the good ol’ City Hall gardens.”
“Favourite?” You laugh sheepishly – your stomach flips as you fixate on the word. “Well, I – I don’t suppose there are any others, so…”
“Oh, but of course!” Race says emphatically, as if the two of you are telling a joke together. “You’re just irreplaceable, ain’t they, Albert?”
Albert slaps a hand over his mouth and makes a noise like he’s in pain. You wince sympathetically, stepping forward to take a look.
“Albert, your face! Have you been using the aloe I gave you?”
Race’s head perks up like a dog smelling a bone.
“Well, aloe there,” he grins, “what’s this I hear? Givin’ gifts, are we?”
“No, no, not like that!” You say quickly, your voice trilling with nerves. “I just – well, Albert always gets so sunburnt, poor thing-“
“Oh, does he?” Race’s voice pitches high with glee as Albert makes another pained moan. “Well, we can’t have poor Albert getting sunburnt, can we?”
“Racer, I am begging you to shut! Up!” Albert snaps, and you realize – oh, damn it all, you’re embarrassing him. The last thing Albert of all people would want is someone fussing over him in front of his friend.
“Um – the park!” You say quickly, trying to change the subject – Albert shoots you a soft, grateful look, and you can’t help but melt a little. “Yes, I’d love to go, if – if it’s not too much trouble…“ You glance towards your closed-up shop, clicking your tongue. “Would you mind terribly if I brought some work with me? I-I just got some fresh flowers, I wanted to make them into crowns come Monday – it won’t be too distracting!”
“Weeell, we’ll just have to see about that, eh, Albert?” Race smirks, and you frown as you try to decipher what he means – apparently, it’s deserving of a quick smack to the shoulder, though, because that’s precisely what Albert gives him. “Ooh, someone’s testy! Don’tcha worry, I’ll leave ya to it.” He makes his way up the street towards Park Row. “Don’t go gettin’ distracted, though!”
You feel your cheeks warming as he presses on the word, distracted – goodness, had you really been that obvious? – and Albert grumbles under his breath as you duck into your shop for your flowers. You gather the bundles in your arms, your eyes just peeking out over the various blooms, and skitter out the door, not wanting to keep him waiting. You walk in awkward silence, avoiding each other’s gaze as Race prances ahead of you both, and you curse yourself for getting so stupidly attached.
You don’t talk for what feels like ages, not until you reach the park. The newsboys are all eager to meet you, grinning and shaking your hands and making comments that you don’t quite understand, but seem to drive Albert up the wall. You wince every time one of the boys says something to you that makes Albert grit his teeth – you don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but it has to be something.
It's only later, when you’re sat on the grass fidgeting with your flower crowns, Albert sitting cross-legged and stiff next to you, that you just can’t take it anymore.
“Sorry.” You say quickly, stumbling over the words, and Albert looks at you, his tense face suddenly soft.
“F’r what?”
“I, um…” You clear your throat into your fist. “I-I didn’t mean to be so… You know. Clingy? I just – you’re my friend, and I don’t want you getting hurt, I mean, hawking’s got to be hard work, all that walking, and you said you don’t get much lunch-“
“[Y/N],” Albert says firmly, enough to make your voice catch in your throat. He pinks as you look at him and glances at the floor instead. “Don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that, yeah? Just the fellas bein’ jerks is all, never know when to shaddup.”
You hum, not quite a response, and make sure to keep your hands clasped in front of you so you don’t invade Albert’s space. You can feel him watching you, his stare burning your skin, and he sighs frustratedly.
“Aw, c’mon, [Y/N], I…” His voice stops and stutters in his throat. He sighs, choosing instead to knock his shoulder against yours – the touch sets you alight. “You don’t gotta be worried ‘bout that, it… It’s nice. That’cha wanna take care o’me. Ain’t many folks that do, so…”
You smile, warmth blossoming in your chest.
“Well, that’s nonsense, then.” You say matter-of-factly as you weave the stem of a red tulip around your fingers. “Caring for you’s rather easy.”
The two of you go quiet again – a comfortable silence this time, simply basking in each other’s existence. You pluck a lady’s mantle from your collection of blooms, twisting the dusky pink against the red of the tulip.
“Those, uh…” Albert says quietly, so as not to break the peaceful tranquillity that’s grown between you both. “Those mean comfort, don’t they?”
“They do.” You nod, your heart fluttering in your chest – he remembered.
“And the tulips,” he continues, his voice getting a bit steadier, “those mean ‘good health’, right?”
You giggle under your breath.
“Almost. Those were pink tulips – these are red, see?” You hold the crown up to his eyeline. “Red tulips mean, uh – true love.” You have to look away as you say it, can’t bear to look into Albert’s eyes as the word love falls out of your lips. “And I’m going to add some Sweet William, too, for gallantry – the meaning’s a bit more masculine for that one, so if you put them all together, you get…”
Your eyes flick towards Albert, landing on his freckles before you force yourself to look away again.
“You get, um… Well, a hope, I suppose.”
Albert says nothing, only cocks his head towards you in invitation. Keep going. I’m listening.
“A hope for… For someone kind,” you say quietly, “and chivalrous, who – who comforts you and… Keeps you safe.”
You can feel him staring. You grab a Sweet William and start threading it into the crown, out of sheer need for something, anything else to do.
“How d’you do that?” Albert asks curiously. “The crowns n’ stuff.”
Thank God, you think to yourself, eagerly snatching up the subject change.
“It’s quite simple, actually – look, I’ll show you.”
You smile as you press his fingers underneath yours – you so loved sharing your knowledge of flowers with Albert. You were certain he didn’t understand a lick of it, but he always listened no matter what. Like it mattered.
“So, you just twist here,” you murmur as the two of you hold the crown together, “and you sort of – lock it under the second stem there, and you…”
You try to help him weave the stems around each other, your fingertips skimming over Albert’s knuckles, but you suppose doing such finnicky work with two sets of hands overcomplicated the whole thing, because the crown fumbles out from Albert’s grip.
“Ah, shit, sorry!” He winces. “God, it ain’t broken, is it?”
“Don’t worry about it!” You pat his shoulder reassuringly as you rescue the crown. “It’s difficult at first. Oh, I know!” You point at a cluster of sunshine-yellow growing in the park. “Would you grab me those dandelions? They’re much easier to work with. The stalks are more flexible, and they don’t snap so easily – it’s how I learned when I was a kid.”
Albert nods obediently, scurrying off to gather two fistfuls of dandelions.
“There we are – here, do what I do.”
The two of you crowd into each other as Albert follows your movements, looping one stem underneath the other and then weaving it back around the blossom, locking it into place.
“Hey, I did it!” Albert grins triumphantly. You knock your shoulder against his, just as he’d done to you.
“See? Easy.”
You half expect him to leave it after that – most boys didn’t find weaving flower crowns to be a particularly manly activity, and after how embarrassed Albert had been today, you were sure he wouldn’t want his friends to see him playing with flowers – but he stays. He grabs another stem and repeats the movement, chaining them together, one after the other. You smile to yourself – you can’t bring yourself to not be charmed. It’s sweet, how eager he is, the way his tongue pokes out as he threads the stems into loops.
“I just love dandelions.” You say quietly into the breeze, almost unaware that you’d even said it. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
Albert looks up from his work and frowns.
“Seriously?” He quirks a small smile. “Didn’t think you’d like weeds all that much.”
You scoff, the sound drawing his attention.
“Weed is a word made up by debutantes.” You say pettily. “It’s their way of separating what’s common to make pretty things seem prettier. But they’re all plants at the end of the day.”
You glance over at Albert’s clumsy crown and smile, tracing a finger over the fluffy centre of a dandelion.
“And dandelions are so cheerful,” you murmur peacefully, rubbing pollen between your thumb and forefinger. “They grow wherever they like, and no one can get them not to. Ask any gardener – you pull one up, and ten more grow back. They’re resilient. I bet the next time we come back here, they’ll be everywhere.”
You lift a loose blossom to your nose and breathe in the bittersweet scent.
“They don’t even have meanings, you know.” You say wistfully. “Not in any of my books. People just decided, oh, that’s a weed, and now… Now they don’t mean anything.” You brush your thumb over the feathery petals and smile as they tickle your skin. “But they mean something to me.”
Albert’s quiet beside you, and you suddenly feel exposed.
“Sorry,” you chuckle, drawing away from him. “Suppose that’s a bit strange, um – I’ll just-”
You’re about to turn back to your flower crown when a calloused hand slides against your jaw. Your breath hitches as Albert turns your face towards his, his thumb drifting over your cheekbone until it brushes over your nose – and as he pulls away, you see the pad of his thumb’s stained yellow.
“You, uh,” he says quietly, his cheeks going pink in the sun, “y’had some pollen.”
“Oh!” You laugh stiltedly. “Gosh, um – sorry.”
“Nah,” Albert shrugs as he fiddles with his crown. “S’cute.”
You feel yourself going warm, even with the evening breeze. Your throat makes a small squeaking sound, and you try to make yourself focus on your crown when you hear Albert make a dissatisfied noise next to you.
“Problem?” You ask tentatively, and he holds up a little white puffball in response.
“Think this one’s shot.” He mutters, about to chuck it when you grab his wrist.
“Don’t waste it! It’s a clock.”
Albert blinks and turns to frown at the flower.
“Uh…” He tilts his head as he examines the fluffy ball of seeds. “How?”
“No – not that kind of clock,” you explain, “a dandelion clock. Here, hold it here-” You pull the little bloom between the two of you. “We’ll share it, see? Make a wish and, on the count of three, blow off the seeds. Ready?”
“I, uh-“ Albert stammers. “I guess?”
“Great.” You shuffle a bit closer and close your eyes. “Okay – one, two, three.”
You lean forward and blow softly, the tiny seeds billowing away on the breeze. You feel one tickle your nose and you laugh softly, opening your eyes to bat it away when- oh.
Albert’s… Close. Closer than before, even closer than the first time – the naked bud of the dandelion rests between the two of you, the only thing separating your slightly parted lips from his. In the evening breeze, it sways just enough to brush against your lower lip, Albert’s eyes flicking toward the movement, and you can’t help but think about how easy it’d be to just shift forward ever so slightly and-
“Well what’cha waitin’ for, Albie, don’t leave ‘em hangin’!”
You jolt backwards, nearly falling onto the grass as Albert leaps to his feet.
“Racer, I am gonna teach you such a lesson-!”
He sprints across the green to tackle the other boy to the floor, and while you quietly mourn the loss of Albert’s warm weight next to you, you can’t help but be grateful for the distraction – at least this way he won’t notice you flopping into the grass and groaning pathetically.
After you somehow regain your composure (and Albert as appropriately pummelled Racec), he walks you home, the two of you walking dutifully on opposite ends of the sidewalk, as if simply brushing one another’s clothes will set you both aflame.
“I had fun,” you say quietly as you reach The Little Lamb. “Even if it was…”
You try to find a word to describe how being around Albert makes you feel, but nothing seems to capture it.
“Yeah.” Albert nods, smiling sheepishly at the floor. “Um – hey!” He says quickly, just as you turn to open the door. “I, um – I…”
“Albert?” You frown as he flounders. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah!” He nods vigorously. “Yeah, I just – I was wonderin’… Say if I, uh, wanted a flower that – that said, uh…” He stares at the step under your feet so intensely you worry he might shatter it. “That I – liked someone. A-A flower that said I… I really cared ‘bout someone and, and that maybe they cared ‘bout me, too. What…” He swallows, honey-thick, and chances a glance at you through his lashes. “What flower’d I need for that?”
You feel your stomach begin to sink.
Oaks and ivy, alright.
Morning glory around your heart.
“Well,” you try your best to smile, “if you want to be traditional, you’d only need something small – one or two flowers and a couple of herbs. White roses are a good one, they’re very…”
God, it felt like you were choking.
“Innocent.” You manage to say. “Sweet. A sort of – tentative love.”
Albert’s lips quirk into the softest smile.
“Yeah?”
“And – and hyacinths,” you say quickly, because you can’t bear to look at him smiling like that. “Blue ones. Those would work. And then you could cover it all in heather and lavender for good luck.”
“Hope.” Albert says quietly, staring at the flower crowns you have cradled in your arms. You clear your throat and shove yourself against the door, forcing your way inside – you have to get away, you just have to.
“Yes, well,” you slap a tight smile on your face, “perhaps you can come by tomorrow and – and I’ll have some for you.”
Albert stares at you through the threshold like he can’t believe his luck. Your chest aches.
“You’d… You’d do that?”
No, no, no-
“Of course!” You laugh, on the verge of hysterical. “I mean, if you’re going to go – go courting someone,” (the word tastes like ash on your tongue), “then who’s better to help you than your favourite florist?”
Albert blinks, his smile dropping.
“What?”
“Yes, I’ll have the perfect selection for you!” You smile, because you just don’t learn, do you? “Not like it’ll make much difference, of course, they’d be a fool to say no to you…”
“I-“ Albert’s eyes flicker back and forth, as if he’s watching something unravel and can’t quite stop it. “Wait, but-“
“I’ll see you tomorrow!”
You slam the door, and try to shut your stupid, horrid thoughts out with it.
God. You should’ve just gone to Park Row.
You spend that night lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pitiful, yes, and painfully childish, but damn it all, you’re sad. You deserve to curl up and wallow for a bit. It serves you right, you suppose, doing exactly what you knew you shouldn’t’ve. It’s better to just stick to what you know. Colours and meanings and silly little facts that no one else but you care about. Getting your papers on Fridays, working alone on Sundays, not going around making lunch and getting attached to newsboys.
Why didn’t you just stick to yesterday’s news? To living in the background? To being the author of someone else’s love story? No one gets flowers for the florist, after all.
But then it’s morning, and… And Albert’s your friend. And if he loves someone, really loves someone, then you’re going to do your darnedest to get that person to love him right back. It’s what he deserves.
“There you are!” You smile as Albert pokes into the shop like a stray who’s unsure if he’s allowed on the furniture. Ugh, damn it all, he’s cute. “I have your flowers right here.”
You present them with a flourish, a pair of white roses entwined around a pale blue hyacinth, decorated with heather and lavender. You’ve trussed them up with lace and pretty pink tissue paper and they look splendid, thank you very much, because Albert deserves the best.
He smiles, something small and private and a little bit sad, and holds them preciously in his hands.
“Beautiful.” He murmurs, looking at you from over the blooms, and you try to keep your pulse from racing.
“Yes, well!” You say quickly, fumbling your fingers over your little pet project. “There’s also, uh-“
You shove it into his vest pocket before you can lose your nerve. Albert blinks, reaching up to brush a petal between his thumb and forefinger, the pads of which come away slightly smudged with ink. It’s a flower – well, not a real one, it’s actually a newspaper you’d fiddled and folded with until it took the shape of a rose, but… Well, you’d thought it’d look charming. Perhaps it was silly.
Albert chuffs out a small, disbelieving laugh, wrinkling his brow at the paper rose.
It was probably silly.
“Any fine gentleman looking to court needs a good boutonniere.” You mumble, a bit defeated. Ridiculous.
“I love it.” Says Albert, voice tender. He purses his lips, glancing from you to the bouquet for a moment before he plucks a sprig of lavender from the arrangement and slips it behind your ear.
“I – oh.” You murmur, feeling suddenly off-kilter as your cheeks begin to warm – and then your sensibilities come back to you. “Albert!” You scold him halfheartedly, swatting at his shoulder. “This is supposed to be for your sweetheart, you shouldn’t just go around wasting it! Go on, now, tell them what you want to say.”
“You’re perfect.” Albert says, then blinks suddenly as if waking up from a dream. “I – I mean-“
“Yes, yes, we can save the camellias for your next gift,” you mutter with a wave of your hand, as if you could brush away all your selfish thoughts. “Off you go, now!”
The next time Albert comes into the shop, you slap a smile on your face and ask him how it went, because you’re a good and not at all selfish friend, and Albert is very pleasing on the eye when he looks so wistfully in love.
“I just – I…” Albert flounders under your gaze, fidgeting with his hands, and your heart aches. Lovely boy, so nervous – you try not to envy whoever gets to see him this way. “What I wanna say – what I need to say-“
He tangles a hand in his puff of dandelion hair and groans.
“God, I just wanna be with ya!”
You’re almost taken aback by how desperate he is – and oh, don’t you just feel terrible now, envying the person who’s driving him so crazy. Honestly, you’re meant to be his friend. You smile sympathetically and pat his hand before you grab a cluster of rockfoil and press it between his fingers.
“It’s a bit peculiar,” you say reassuringly as he stares at the little white bells, “but rather charming.”
Albert makes a wounded noise, staring at you like you’ve just slapped him.
“Yeah, well – you’d know all ‘bout that, wouldn’tcha?” He huffs, more to himself than to you, before rushing out of the store and leaving you with a thousand different questions.
“Good… luck?” You try to say, but he only offers you a frustrated yell in return.
After that, Albert comes into the shop almost every day.
“I’m crazy for ya.”
You’d offer him a yellow pansy.
“I think about’cha all the time.”
You’d smile and hand him a blue salvia.
“I think I like ya more ‘an anyone else I ever met.”
You’d tuck an apple blossom into his vest.
“I’m sure they’ll love it.” You’d say every time, offering him a reassuring grin – and every time, Albert would look at you as if he were drowning and all but sprint out the door.
This goes on for a while – Albert will burst into the shop like a man on a mission, report whatever message he wants to give his love, and you’ll dutifully hand him a flower that matches. You never made him pay – a fact you’d beat yourself up about later in bed, when you’re tired and feeling sorry for yourself – but you can’t help it. It’s sweet, how eager he is to get this right, how badly he wants to impress whoever this mystery person is. You can barely bring yourself to be jealous (which isn’t to say that you’re not, but you at least have the decency to feel bad about it).
And then one day, as you’re fussing over a cluster of stubborn chamomile blossoms, Albert bursts into the shop wielding an armful of flowers. It’s a veritable cacophony of colour, reds and purples and yellows all mixing together in a chaotic muddle of petals, leaves and stamens – and as you note the wrinkles on some of the petals, the bits of blight on some of the leaves, you wonder just how many of the flowers did Albert keep?
“Alright.” Albert says gruffly as he shoves the array of flowers onto your counter. He hovers a hand over it for a moment before grabbing one at random.
“Honeysuckle!” He snaps, shoving the yellow-pink blossom into your hand. “Devotion.”
Before you can ask how many he’d like, he hands you a gillyflower.
“And that – that means ya beautiful.” He picks up stem after stem, slotting them into your fingers. “Pink camellia, I – I-I’m longin’ for ya. White lillies, m’love’s pure, bluebells, my love’s constant, and, um-“ He flounders for a moment, staring stubbornly at the wooden countertop before he shoves a red carnation at you.
“My – m’heart aches for ya.”
You stare at the nimbus of flowers in your hands, glancing from it to Albert. He’s redder than his hair, up to his ears and down to his neck, and he looks downright terrified, fidgeting on the spot, his eyes darting between you and the floor.
“I mean…” You say slowly, and he stares at you with wide eyes. “It’s a little chaotic, but… I can make a bouquet? I-I might have to charge you this time around, ‘cause there’s so many, but-“
Albert shoves his heads into his hands and lets out a noise between a groan and a downright scream.
“Alright!” He snaps, planting his hands on the counter. “What flowers ya got that say I love you, ya stupid florist, now please, God, please can you understand what I’m tryna tell ya, ‘cause I can’t keep on bringin’ flowers t’the lodgin’ house wi’ nowhere to put ‘em!”
You freeze, rigid-still. You open your mouth once, twice, and nothing comes out. Your hands tremble against cool stalks and you realize suddenly that Albert’s muddled bouquet is still in your hands.
“One… One moment.” You say quietly with a raised finger, before scurrying to the door. Cradling your bouquet in the crook of your elbow, you use your free hand to close it, then lock, then latch, then flip the sign to ‘closed’. You take a shuddering breath and turn around – Albert’s still watching you. He’s wide eyed, his fists clenched at his sides and his jaw held tight, as if it’d been wired shut – and you almost laugh giddily because all this time, you’d assumed he was posturing, trying to big himself up because he felt uncomfortable being in such a frilly, dainty shop, surrounded by petals and lace, but no. All this time – all this time – he’d been nervous.
You take careful steps toward him, like approaching a stray dog. His spine goes more rigid with each clip of your foot against the hardwood floors, his entire body bickering between ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ and landing on a confused, frightened ‘freeze’ instead. As you reach him, you pluck a single garden daisy from the fragrant shelves and tuck it behind his ear.
“That, um,” you murmur, realizing a touch too late how close you’ve become. “That means-“
“I share your sediment.” Albert breathes, and you duck your head with a small giggle.
“Sentiment,” You correct – his blush goes ever-darker and, out of fear that he may combust if you don’t, you quickly add, “but yes.”
Albert sways forward, almost unthinkingly, like a reed in the wind. He catches himself and clears his throat, but before he can sway away, you duck forward and, gently, featherlight, press your mouth to his. It’s soft and shy, barely lasting a second – more of a petal-brush than anything else – but the noise it pulls out of Albert – something half-blissful, half-wounded – from deep in the hollow of his throat adds more weight to the gesture than you could’ve ever hoped. The tension rushes out of his shoulders in a heavy breath as he all but staggers, slapping his hand against the counter to keep himself upright and pressing a hand to his forehead.
“Hooooly hell,” he says raggedly. “God, I ain’t dreamin’, am I?”
He says it to his hands, staring at them suspiciously like they’re trying to fool him – you slip your own hand into his and squeeze tight.
“Feels real.” You smile gently, a smile that he returns tenfold.
“God,” he says again, and you’re inclined to agree. He leans in hesitantly, looking carefully into your eyes until you nod, and he kisses you – still chaste and sweet, but firmer than the previous. It’s not a questioning touch, it’s something that roots you to the spot, grounds you, whispers yes, this is real.
Albert’s grinning when you separate. He brushes a fingertip over the daisy in his hair and chuffs out a breathy laugh.
“I weren’t kiddin’, y’know,” he mumbles. “Got too damn many o’ these things.”
You roll your eyes.
“You could’ve just not asked for them.”
“Yeah, well, I tried that, and you thought I was askin’ for flowers anyway!” Albert huffs, pouting at the floor. “The fellas ain’t lettin’ me live it down. Keep sayin’ I’m the one meant t’be gettin’ you flowers, not the other way ‘round.”
You giggle, knocking your forehead affectionately against his.
“So that’s true?” You ask coyly, grinning as he blushes again. “Flowers at the lodging house with nowhere to put ‘em?”
Albert tips his head back and groans.
“They’re everywheeeere!” He whines. “Next to my bed, on the fire escape, in the kitchen-!”
You laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Why didn’t you just give them away?”
“Wh- I weren’t gonna do that!” Albert says indignantly, as if you’d suggested selling his firstborn child. He blushes once he realizes his overreaction and looks away, pouting at the wall. “They were gifts.”
You giggle, making him groan towards the ceiling.
“This ain’t fair.” He huffs, slumping forward so that his chin rests upon your shoulder. You’re struck by the image of a tired beagle flopping its head on its owner’s lap, and can’t help but giggle again. “I ain’t usually like this.”
With just a touch of hesitation, you reach your hand upwards to fiddle with his dandelion hair. Albert hums, pleased, nuzzling against your temple.
“Like what, petal?” You say quietly against his ear, and with him resting his cheek against you, you can feel the way his jaw clenches.
“Like – argh, c’mon!” He whines. “Y’can’t just – say stuff like that! God, only you…” He mutters petulantly, wrapping his arms around your waist as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. “Swear, if you were anyone else… Jus’ some stranger on the street, I’d have no problem gettin’ ya t’blush, but noooo!” He tips his head back with an exaggerated eyeroll. “No, you just gotta go fallin’ right into me, lookin’ all cute, talkin’ all pretty, makin’ me forget which way’s up!” He glares at you with no true heat. “Unfair.”
“You’re unfair!” You laugh around your astonishment, raising up a hand in a poor attempt to hide your darkening face. “Catching me like something right out of a novel, being so – so…” You close your eyes with a soft sigh and lean forward, bumping your nose against his and savouring the contact. “Unexpected.”
You feel more than hear Albert’s scoff, a warm puff of air against your lips.
“Like you can talk.” He mutters, shifting just enough to nuzzle against you. “Race’s been makin’ fun a’me for days, tellin’ me to get my shit together, but how’m I meant’a do that-!” You laugh against him, so close, the warmth mingling between your mouths. “When you’re always fuckin’ – flower crowns and dandelions and…”
His hands skim over your waist, his callouses brushing your skin through the fabric, and you can’t help but gasp lightly. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your mouth against his, your cupid’s bow just barely catching on his, and another noise blossoms from his chest, wanton and desperate, as he presses your lips together, as if it’s the only thing he could possibly do. You flutter against him, your hands skimming down his shirt, and he hums softly, the noise running through you until it settles inside your chest. He traces the seam of your lips, slow and soft, savouring the feeling, and gently, as if afraid to spook you, brushes the tip of his tongue against yours. You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t take advantage – he pulls away, just barely, enough for your cupid’s bow to rest on his bottom lip, not quite breaking the kiss, but not quite continuing. Your eyes slip open – just barely – as his do, the two of you looking at each other for reassurance. He chuckles breathily, looking away in a manner you now realize is shy.
“God’s sake, [Y/N],” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, “m’only human.”
Bashfully, all too aware of your inexperience, you nudge forward to meet him again. He hums once more, sweet and low, and presses a rough hand to the back of your head, tilting you just so. Tentatively, as if you’ll fade away if he moves too fast, you feel his tongue brush shyly against yours again. You make a noise you can’t quite describe, something small and soft, clinging to his shoulders while he presses a hand to the small of your back, trading tender, sipping kisses. It’s awkward – a bit foreign, a bit confused – but oh, it’s lovely.
Something sparks as he leans forward enough for you to bend backwards slightly at the waist, supported by his hand – and you can’t help but giggle.
“What?” Albert smiles curiously, the two of you still so close that your nose still bumps against his with every laugh. “Hey! C’mon, what is it? Ya makin’ a fella nervous, here.”
“Sorry,” you smile, and then you realize again, and burst into even more giggles. “It’s just – we did this before.”
Albert blinks at you owlishly.
“I, uh – don’t think we did?” He smiles, brow still furrowed, like you’re a puzzle he’s delighting over solving. “Think I’d remember if we did this-”
“The first time,” you’re wheezing now, because it truly is hilarious, “when we first met, when I fell and you grabbed me, I-“ your giggles trail off as your face begins to warm, “I-I remember thinking…”
You look away nervously, your laughter becoming shy.
“I was thinking it was awfully – awfully similar to, um – to the gentlemen who come into this shop… The way they hold their lovers after they give them their flowers.”
Albert blinks, glancing down at how he’s holding you – one hand behind your head, the other pressing on your spine, the slight bend of your waist – and his face burns red, from his roots to his neck.
“Uh – yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, “suppose it is a li’l… Yeah.” He draws away, making sure you’re upright before quickly stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I-I kinda…”
You smile as he stares stubbornly at the wall, one hand rubbing his neck sheepishly.
“I kinda thought the same thing.” He mumbles. “Not – not when it happened, when it happened I was thinkin’, y’know, wow, this person’s close, a-and beautiful, and – and…” His face looks almost painfully red now, carnation-crimson across the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, um – was on’y when I was havin’ dinner at the lodgin’ house I ach’lly realized that – that it’d – happened.”
You purse your lips into a line, trying to keep your smile from going too wide, and step forward, tapping your shoe against his shin.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, ducking his head. “I, um – I-I was pourin’ the gravy so long I spilled it all over the table. We ran out. Fellas all had to eat their chicken dry. Jack still won’t let me pour my own gravy.”
You laugh again, and so does he, less shy and more… Well, he still seems shy, but less scared, if that counts for anything.
“You, Albert DaSilva,” you grin at him, “are not what I expected you to be.”
He cocks his head.
“Well, now ya got me worried,” he smirks, “what’cha expect me t’be, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes at the pet-name. There’s really no use in him trying to be suave now, not when you knew the truth.
“Big, bad newsie with his sleeves cut off, wandering around in nothing more than a vest and an undershirt?” You ask with an arched brow. “Wearing his hat backwards in spring, like a show-off, snapping at me to watch where I’m going before you go and catch me… And then you go and say I like lambs, like it’s obvious.”
Albert’s face goes almost comically blank as he remembers.
“God,” he cringes, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Shit, I can’t believe I said that. Only even tried to sell here ‘cause I figured it was a butcher place.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He nods shamefully. “Was hankerin’ for a leg o’ lamb, figured if I played my cards right I might land some mutton. Only stayed ‘cause I thought the sign was cute. Jesus, can’t believe I told’ja that.” He laughs beneath his hand. “I like lambs. God, I’m an idiot.”
You roll your eyes at your most ridiculous boy, and wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close as you nuzzle against his neck.
“My idiot.”
You feel him clench again, as if the words had sent a bolt of lightning through him.
“I – you’re – yeah.” He settles on saying, sounding almost strangled. He holds you, runs his hands down your back, and lets the tension seep out of him. “Yeah…” He chuckles. “Your idiot.”
You both stand there for a moment, enjoying the warmth, swaying slightly as you breathe each other in.
“[Y/N],” you hear him say tentatively, “y’think, maybe – if you want – we could go to Jacobi’s?”
You try to not roll your eyes, because honestly, ‘if you want’, as if you could possibly want anything else. Ridiculous boy. Impossible boy.
“I-I get off work at noon,” Albert rambles, pinching your shirt between his fingers and rolling the fabric, committing every detail of you to memory. “So maybe I can swing by one day when you’re closin’, walk you down… If you want.”
You pull away with an exaggerated gasp and clutch your hand to your chest.
“Why, Albert DaSilva!” You say like a scandalized dame. “Without buying me flowers first?”
He stares at you for a moment as you hold your pose – and then you both laugh, full-bodied and creasing at the sides, and you must look like lunatics, laughing amongst the flowers, with rumpled clothes and messy hair and kiss-sore lips, clinging to each other like you’re about to collapse, but neither of you care. It’s just you two here, unexpectedly, by sheer chance. Chance and newspapers. It’s a ridiculous story, truly, but it’s yours, so who’s to care?
(And if that laughter turns to one, then two, then twenty more kisses – well, who’s to care about that, either?)
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loiteringandlurking · 29 days
Text
Albert lies on Race's bed. It's 8:34am (or so Race's clock tells him), he's groggy, and he can hear Race's microwave and coffee machine.
He blinks a few times. He remembers what had happened last night; he wasn't THAT drunk, and he remembers it was fucking embarrassing. He dreads facing Race as he will inevitably have to.
Race, the cute guy in apartment 309 that now knows it was Albert leaving him meals after he overheard on the phone Race hated cooking, Race who smells faintly of smoke and has a crooked smile, Race who he shared a bed with last night, Race who gave Albert his hoodie. Race who, Albert is certain of it, he is completely and totally crushing on.
He drags one foot to the floor, then another, pushing himself upright. His sweatpants are creased, the neckline of his- Race's- hoodie is askew, his hair is knotted and all over the place; he can tell just by running a hand through it. He follows the noise of the coffee machine to Race's kitchen.
There he is.
God, Albert nearly faints. His hair is adorably tousled, his shirt is loose and hanging barely onto his shoulders, he has his back to Albert, letting him drink in all of his sharp lines, curved musculature- or at least what he can see under the shirt.
Albert clears his throat.
Race turns, brandishing a mug. "Morning! How'd you sleep?"
Albert tears his eyes from Race's figure to look at Race's coffee machine.
"Uh.. alright. I'm a little hungover, though. I might get a glass of water?" He clears his throat again, looking down to his feet. "Sorry about last night."
Race is all smiles and bounces as he fills a glass with water and brings it to Albert, smiling softly and, dare Albert say, sweetly and lovingly, as he hands Albert the water and pats his shoulder.
"That's totally okay, man. I get it, I get you. I'm sorry about how fucked up and awful your emotions must be. But now we get to eat yummy breakfast together!" Race points at the microwave. "The food you made last night! I have no idea what it is, but it looks and smells delicious!!"
"We?"
Race looks away, takes his hand off Albert's shoulder- Albert's shoulder is cold.
"Well.. I mean, unless you don't want to..."
"No! No, I want to." Albert steps closer to Race, putting his own hand on Race's shoulder. "I just.... I was scared you didn't like me."
Race looks shocked.
The coffee machine stops brewing.
"No, Al, I..." Race sighs, looking away. "I don't know. I'm confused."
Albert sags, a little defeated. "That's okay. Take your time figuring it out. I'll be here for you, if you want me to be."
The microwave beeps.
"That would be lovely."
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Text
Stubbornly Sick - Nischa
I KNOW I SAID I WASN’T GONNA DO NISCHA ANYMORE BUT I CANT GET THEM OUT OF MY HEAD SORRY
A oneshot in which Mischa is sick and refuses to admit it. Noel takes matters into his own hands.
Mischa rolled over on his thin-as-paper mattress, feeling his sweat seep into his pillowcase. He groaned, staring at the cement wall beside his lousy excuse for a bed. His whole body felt hot, and not in the way that meant people swoon over you. Beads of sweat rolled down from his hairline, his skin blotchy and red. His stomach growled, but he didn’t even want to get up and eat.
He fished his phone out from the comforter beside him, flipping it over to check the time: 9:30. He’d slept in later than ever, as if his body knew it needed rest. However, it was Sunday, meaning the choir was getting together for their weekly outing. 
Ever since the 6 of them had miraculously survived a roller coaster accident together, Ocean had been taking initiative to get the group together. Some weeks it was shopping and walking around downtown at whatever little shops remained, some weeks it was the mall, but today they’d planned a little hiking expedition. 
Mischa was almost never the biggest fan of these get togethers. First of all, it meant being stuck in the same vicinity as Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg for at least three hours. Secondly, it meant listening to Ocean for at least three hours. And lastly and probably worst, it meant not complaining about the little ginger scumbag for the entire time, or all hell would break loose. 
The real reason Mischa went at all was to spend time with his boyfriend, Noel. The two of them had grown close as they recovered from their accident, and Noel had been there for every step of Mischa’s growing musical career. Most of the time, Noel’s work schedule made it difficult for the boys to spend time together. Taco Bell execs didn’t really take “need time to make out with my boyfriend” as a valid excuse for missing shifts. However, “mandated outdoor socialization” was acceptable, apparently, so choir outings were fair game. 
Mischa ran his hands through his greasy, matted hair, yawning. His eyelids felt like they were made of steel, weighing him down and just wanting to close, keel over, and sleep. Even the way he carried himself, usually with his chest puffed out like a lion on the hunt, was different; slouched over and painful to even move. 
His phone vibrated in the back pocket of his sweatpants, evidence of a text message coming through. 
Noel: babe where r u! u said u would pick me up @ 9:15
He winced. Shit…
Noel set his phone down on his desk, turning back to the mirror to look at his makeup: on point as usual. Slumping back in his chair, he wondered where Mischa was. 
It’s not super unlike him to sleep through his alarm…he can sleep through my snoring after all. Maybe he stayed up late? Which is weird, because usually when he stays up late it’s because he and I are texting or something…Is he ignoring me? Shit, am I gonna have to ask Ocean for a ride? Damn it…
He picked up the phone again and dialed Mischa’s number, and to Noel’s delight and relief, Mischa picked up. 
“Hey babe…You alright?”
Mischa, at that moment, let out just about the loudest cough Noel had ever heard, hacking into the phone. 
“Sorry, I slept through my-” he paused to yawn, “-alarm. I will be there in ten minutes, Poet.” 
Noel’s heart absolutely melted at the sound of his partner’s voice. He sounded hoarse and just all around awful.
“Sweetheart, no offense, but you sound like shit. Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. Just fine, honey. You wait and I’ll- ACHOO”
The sneeze just about made Noel have a heart attack with the sheer volume of it. He wasn’t so sure he loved the idea of Mischa even leaving the house in this condition, but he also knew how much of a stubborn asshole his boyfriend could be. Talking Mischa into staying home was not going to be easy in the slightest.
“Mischa…are you sure it’s the best idea for you to come get me? I can ask Ocean for a ride if you’re sick, you need rest…” Initially, he was going to scold Mischa, but his ‘loving boyfriend’ mode took over in a heartbeat. “I don’t even have to go today! Just get back to bed, drink lots of-”
“No, no.” Mischa waved him off. “I am going to go get dressed, and then I will come get my special boy, okay? I love you, Noel.”
“I love you too, which is why I want you to-”
He hung up. He fucking hung up. 
This was gonna be a long day.
Mischa had taken driver’s education. He knew that driving while sick could lead to accidents, because being sick made you drowsy, right? But Mischa wasn’t sick, he couldn’t be. Mischa didn’t get sick, at least that’s what he’d gaslit himself into believing. He got into the driver’s seat, rearing on the gas and speeding out of the driveway, almost slamming into his foster parents’ mailbox on his way out. 
Noel’s house wasn’t too far away from his, nowhere in Uranium City was very far away from any other place, to be honest. That was just how small towns worked. He turned onto Noel’s street and pulled up in front of the house. He parked, slightly crooked in the driveway, and trudged to the front step. 
“Noel!” He croaked out, his voice cracking. He rang the doorbell. 
The shorter male opened the door and looked Mischa up and down with a satisfied smirk on his face. “As expected, you look like someone pushed you out of a car window and then ran you over with a pickup truck. Bed, now.” 
“What? No! We have the hike-”
“I already texted Ocean and let her know that you’re sick and thus will not be attending. Now please go lay down, you know where my room is.”
“But…that just means I am going to get you sick! “So what? You’re the love of my life, I think I can handle your cooties.”
For once, it was Noel being the stubborn one. It was clear he wasn’t going to hear another word about it. Mischa allowed himself to be escorted (read: dragged by the collar of his shirt) upstairs to Noel’s bedroom. 
“Get your ass under the covers.” Noel demanded playfully. “Mom’s working another late shift, but I don’t have to work again until Monday afternoon. We could spend all day and night right here if it would make you feel better.” 
Mischa yawned and plopped down on Noel’s bed, having made the decision to be cooperative for once. “And do what? Talk about how shitty I feel? Because I feel like…big…bleh.”
“I know you do, darling.” Noel kissed his boyfriend’s forehead, giggling. “If you would lay down like I told you to and rest up, you might feel a little bit less bleh. Have you eaten today?”
“No.” He admitted. “I was not hungry.”
Noel sighed. “I’ll go get you some toast or something. You really gotta start taking care of yourself when you’re sick.”
“I am not sick.” Mischa protested. “Just a little tired.”
“Either way, you need rest.” Noel pressed his boyfriend down, hand splayed out over his chest. “Lay down, Mischa. Spare me my sanity.”
Mischa rolled his eyes. “I do not need to lay down, poet. Sleep is for the weak.”
“No, dumbfuck, sleep is for the idiot boyfriend who won’t admit that he feels like he was hit point blank with a sack of bricks!”
Mischa pondered Noel’s innate ability to know exactly how he felt, because the sack of bricks thing was fairly accurate. He felt like he was going to topple over onto the floor, but would his cocky ass admit that? When pigs fly.
“Sleep is for the weak.” He repeated instead, sitting back up. If he was going to get in bed he was not going to lay down and he was also going to make it everyone’s problem. 
“Whatever you say, dickwad,” Noel sighed. He was ever so creative with the pet names. “Sit still and don’t, I don’t know, set the house on fire. What do you want to eat?”
“I told you I am not hun—” he started, but he knew there was no winning this argument. “I guess…toast?”
Noel went downstairs and fished a loaf of bread and the toaster out, tossed a slice in, and promised himself he would not scream when the toast popped up. 
He broke the promise.
Anyway, he took out the golden brown bread and slathered it in butter, taking it back upstairs to Mischa. 
In the time it took Noel to make a piece of toast, Mischa had flopped over and fallen asleep. Noel made a soft tsk tsk sound, setting the plate of toast on the nightstand. He gently climbed into the bed, pulling the covers over both Mischa and himself. Rolling onto his side, he came face to face with a peacefully dozing Mischa and a pool of drool already staining the pillow (not that Noel really minded). He brushed Mischa’s chestnut curls out of his eyes, giggling softly.
“Yeah, rest easy, tough guy.” He whispered. “My fucking idiot.” He snuck a quick kiss onto Mischa’s forehead. “I love you.
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miryum · 11 months
Text
You know I love you (Spot Conlon x Reader)
This has been sitting in my drafts forever
Warnings: Not proof-read, a sentence about a fist-fight, bruising
Remy tugged on your skirt. “Hey- Hey Y/n?” His voice was quiet and nervous.
“Yeah, bud?” Something was off in the usually lively and energetic boy. You scooped him up, bringing him to eye level. 
Remy looked down, avoiding your gaze. “Could I please have one of your apples?” 
“Of course,” you walked over to the small kitchen in the Brooklyn boarding house and picked an apple off of the counter. “Why? Did you spend all your money on toys again?” 
“Um, no.” Remy said, “I lost it.”
“You lost your money?” You frowned. Every newsboy bag had a special pouch for coins, its sole purpose being not to lose the pennies and nickels. “Where’s your bag?”
“I lost that too,” Remy mumbled.
With those words, you immediately knew that he was lying. The first thing a newsboy learns is to not lose his bag. It holds his papers and earned money- the most important things in a newsboy's life. What didn’t help your suspicion was that every younger boy was paired with an older, tougher, more experienced one. You made sure of that early on, pestering Spot until he relented (to be truthful, Spot had caved easily). Someone should’ve been watching Remy. 
“Who was with you?” You asked him. “Was it Patches?” Remy nodded and you gave a nod back. “Okay, you stay here and eat your apple. I gotta go talk to Patches really quickly.”
“Okay!” Remy looked happier now that he was out of your scrutiny and concern.
You scanned the room, seeing Patches stretched out on a couch, listening to Cal read a book. You weaved through the boys, hopping over legs and stepping over arms. You loved your newsie family and you would do anything for them. The scene of everyone relaxing after a long day warmed your heart. You knew that these boys would do anything for you and each other. 
You sat down on Patches’s legs, making him groan and kick your side. “I come in peace,” you said. 
“Fine,” he rolled his eyes. “What’s up?”
“You sold with Remy today, right?” He nodded in confirmation. You continued, “did you see him lose his bag?”
“He lost his bag?” Patches sat up, now invested in the conversation. “He told me that he gave it to Crackers for safekeeping.”
“Crackers was selling on Clermont Street,” you said slowly. “Weren’t you guys selling by Hicks and Clark?” 
Patches nodded, watching the concern on your face grow. “When did he tell you this?” You felt like you were interrogating the poor boy, but at the same time, you needed to know what happened. 
“I know Remy had his bag at four thirty. I remember him coming up to me and telling me about a guy who paid him double. I didn’t see him again until five.” 
“I’m going to try and get him to tell me the truth,” you stated. “Thanks Patches.” 
“Anytime.” 
You went back to the kitchen, finding Remy sitting on the counter, eating the apple to the core. But, before you could make it to the small child, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. Knowing there was only one boy who would dare do that, you relaxed into your boyfriend. 
“Hey, Spotty,” you said quietly. 
“Hey, doll,” Spot replied softly. “How was your day?”
“You were with me for most of it,” you pointed out, referencing how Spot only let you sell with him.
“Yeah, but I got pulled away at the end.” Indeed, Fisher had needed Spot’s help with something before the selling day had ended, leaving you alone to pawn off the last few of your papers.
“It was alright,” you turned in his arms, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “But I’m a bit worried for Remy.”
“Why? What happened?” Spot’s brows furrowed, getting that telltale expression that meant he was stepping back into his King of Brooklyn role.
“That’s the thing; I don’t know.” You explained, “Remy said he lost his selling bag, but Patches said Remy told him he gave it to Crackers for safekeeping. But I know Remy. The kid would never lose or give away his bag. You know how protective he is over it.”
“Cause he carries his teddy bear in it.” Spot nodded, ending your thoughts.
“Exactly.”
“So what do you think happened?” Spot asked you.
You sighed and began speaking, “a little while ago, Lemon came to me saying how a group of older thugs had stolen her bag. I had her sell with Slugger for a bit, and the problem went away. Do you think that the same thugs could’ve stolen Remy’s bag?”
Spot hummed, “you’ve certainly got a memory about you, doll. It’s definitely not a bad idea. I’ll go talk to Lemon and Slugger about it and you talk to Remy?” 
“Deal,” you agreed.
“Pleasure doing business with you, doll.” Spot smirked and pressed a kiss to your lips before sauntering off to find Lemon and Slugger.
You chuckled before turning back to Remy and handing the kid another apple. “You’re hungry,” you commented.
“Yeah…” Remy looked shyly away.
“It’s okay,” you reassured. “We all pitch in to buy this food.” After a moment, you quietly said, “I know you didn’t lose your bag, Remy. What really happened?”
Remy didn’t meet your eye, giving a small shrug.
“Was it some boys?” You asked, “did they steal it from you? Like they did Lemon?”
Remy chewed on his lip, turning the apple over in his small hands. “Yeah,” he finally admitted. “They cornered me and called me small and weak.” His fingers clenched into fists. “Then they stole my bag. It’s happened four times.”
“Four times?” You knelt down so you could meet his eye. “Remy, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because they said I couldn’t fight my own fight. I’d be proving them right if I told you,” Remy mumbled. 
You sighed, feeling terrible and squeezed the boy into a tight hug. “Remy,” You whispered. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything. Especially if people are bullying you.”
“But what if they come back?” Remy wondered, “What if they do this again?” He lifted his shirt slightly to show you a large, ugly bruise. Immediately, a rage boiled in your chest and your jaw clenched. “They did that?” You growled.
Remy nodded slowly, frightened by your change in demeanour.
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down in front of the scared child. “It’s gonna be okay,” you told him. “We’re gonna get your money back from those boys and make them pay.” 
“Really? But how?”
You smiled stiffly, trying to disguise your hatred for the punks by a thinly veiled grin. “Don’t worry about that,” you said. “All you have to do is keep on selling.”
Remy’s head bobbed up and down happily. “Thank you so much, Y/n!” He hugged you tightly and you reciprocated the action. He then pulled away, his problem suddenly fixed and out of mind as only a six- year old could. 
Heart still burning with hatred for the thugs that messed with Remy, you knew it was now time to call upon the people who would stand by you no matter what- your newsies.
**
Remy cried out in his squeaky voice, “Read all about the car crash that killed dozens! Police are convinced it was murder!”
“Hello, squirt,” a deep voice laughed from behind Remy. “Sell any papers today?”
Remy gulped loudly and slowly turned around, gripping his bag tighter. “Wha-what do you guys want?”
“I think you know what we want,” the lead man growled, stepping up along with his group of ten or fifteen boys. 
“I-I’m not giving you my money!” Remy stomped his foot. 
“Oh really?” The leader laughed loudly. “What are you gonna do? Fight us?” The rest of the boys chuckled along with their leader.
“Well, no,” Remy admitted. “But this time, I have friends.” You stepped out from around a corner. 
The goons glanced around at one another before bursting out in short, loud, ugly guffaws. “I’m sorry?” The leader snickered out, “A girl is gonna beat us up?”
“I’m going to ignore your misogynistic comment, even though you probably don’t know what that word means, and even though I could kick your ass, just to scare you into never coming near Remy again, I brought my boyfriend. You may know him as the King of Brooklyn?” 
Spot, along with his cavalry of newsies appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Spot snaked an arm around your waist and pulled you close. “Where you messin’ with my doll?” He asked, knowing whichever way they answered, he was gonna soak either way.
“You looking for a fight?” The leader bit back. 
Spot shrugged, smirking. “Maybe. But I’ll let you off if you don’t come near my newsies again.”
One of the cronies grabbed the leader and whispered something harsh to him. The leader scoffed, but said, “Fine. We won’t bother your pathetic newsies again.” 
“And my girl?” Spot’s thumb drew circles on your waist.
“Never said anything about her,” the leader smiled tauntingly. 
You glanced at Spot to see the muscles in his jaw tighten. “Don’t,” you whisper to him. 
“Doll,” Spot drawled, swinging a look down at you, grinning brilliantly. “I have to.” And with that, Spot stepped forward and punched the leader across the jaw. The newsies cheered and rushed forward, intent on standing up for one of their own. The bullies quickly ran away after a few hits. You took Spot’s hand in yours and thumbed the split knuckles. Before you could chide him however, Spot simply said, “You know I love you.”
“Yeah,” you smiled and kissed his cheek. “I do.”
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kellyscowboy · 9 months
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꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ OUTLAWS OF SANTA FE
ᯇ summary ! ✦ “You know what they say about cowboys who brag too loud about their women.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. Jack gave a mock laugh. “Anyone in town would tell you I’m not queer. ‘Specially the ladies who pass through. Who do you think you are, anyway?” As the boy pushed his hat out of his face, he made direct eye-contact with the outlaw. "I think I'm the fella that can send the ‘famous’ Jack Kelly home crying to his mama." Jack was silent, stunned. His finger was still pressed into the man’s chest, but it had begun to shake. "What now, Cowboy? I'd tell you to take me down like you promised," Deadwood gave a slight shove to Jack’s shoulder, yet he found himself almost toppling over. "But you're too corned to even stand straight." aka the wild westsies au i've had in my drafts forever ᯇ tag list ! ✦ @bound-for-santa-fe ,, @fandomtrashcollector (taglist form is in my pinned post!!) ᯇ warnings ! ✦ cussing, alcohol consumption, violence, use of guns ᯇ vienna's thoughts ! ✦ here are the meanings of the wild west slang words in here:) paintin' his nose - to get drunk corned - drunk fogy - a stupid fellow dynamite - whiskey ANYWAY, i've had this in my drafts for forever and i just wanted to finally finish is so sorry that the ending is really rushed el oh el. also i recommend listening to Billy the Kid by Tex Ritter before reading!! as always, reblogs & comments are always appreciated <333 ALSO READ IT ON AO3 THE PLAYLIST 2883 WORDS © 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲
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WANTED Jack ‘Cowboy’ Kelly $1,000.000 REWARD Wanted for robbery, murder, and disruption of the public. Does not attack without motive. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
WANTED The Delancey Brothers $500.000 REWARD Oscar and Morris Delancey are wanted for robbery and attempted murder. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE Deadwood David $5,000.000 REWARD Wanted for robbery and murder, on a large scale. Does not attack without motive. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
A proud cowboy listened to the chatter of customers outside of Spots Shootin' Saddle Saloon. A cocky smirk played at his lips as he pushed through swinging doors. He heard gasps and the sound of multiple pistols being dragged from his holster. Then, the saloon went silent—save for the high-pitched squeak of wet glass being towel dried.
The bartender didn't even spare him a glance. "Well, well. If it ain’t the famous Jack Kelly."
“I could say the same to you, Spot. Lookit you, got yer own saloon and everything.”
One of the saloon boys perked up. "Jack!” The boy gave a half-hearted excuse to the men he was serving, he made up for his departure with a wink. He eagerly made his way behind the bar and began fixing the ex-cowboy a drink. "What brings you into town?"
Jack gratefully took the drink with a tip of his hat. “You’re a good man, Race.” He downed the drink before addressing the question before him. "Can't a lonely cowboy just visit his old friends?"
"Why, sure he could!” Racetrack grinned, already refilling his glass.
“That is, if that's what he was really doing." Spot added quickly. “Besides, can’t really be calling yourself a cowboy anymore. Not when a wanted poster names you an outlaw.”
“I can call myself whatever I please.” The cowboy realized it was a fight not worth fighting. He waved him off and dragged the newly poured whiskey closer. "Howd’ya know it was me?”
Spot laughed. "What, when you walked in? Yer the only fella I know who quiets my saloon like that.”
Racetrack leaned forward against the counter; his arm wrapped lovingly around Spot’s waist. He rested his head in his own hand, his elbow digging into marble, and gave Jack a pointed look. "Not anymore. Say, Jack; you heard of that David feller, yet? He paid us a visit couple’a days ago. Shoot, we didn’t hear much noise in here ‘till the next day!”
Jack's fingers squeezed his glass, before they relaxed and stretched. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Fill 'er up again, would'ya?"
Spot took the glass and kept his gaze on the outlaw whilst he poured the whiskey. He placed it in front of the boy with a thump, then glared at him through narrowed eyes. "What are you really here for, cowboy?"
"Just paintin’ my nose, Spot." Jack pushed away from the bar, drink in hand. He sat down with a boy who was lazily pulling at the strings of his guitar. “Tell me a story, Al."
The boy responded with a toothy grin, then tipped his hat up and out of his eyes. He slowly looked up and made eye contact with the outlaw. “Long time no see, Jackie." He plucked at his guitar more rhythmically than before. "What'cha wanna hear?"
"Why don’t you tell that one about ole Billy the Kid?”
"Only because you're an old friend." Albert chuckled. He took a deep breath before he put on his story-telling voice. His demeanor demanded the attention of those around him, and he always got it when he was performing. "Some folks do a lot of good in the world, that encourages us to do good. A few people start off on the wrong foot - their black deeds serve as a warning post to us. The song I'm gonna to sing for you now, fellers, is about a boy who sorta wandered off the straight and narrow trail, took up a crooked course. As usual with all outlaws, he paid with his life. His name,” a pause, “was Billy the Kid."
His singing was mesmerizing, just like his stories, and everyone in the saloon slowly began to sing along. Some of them absentmindedly hummed along as they gambled, and others gave the man their full attention. They swayed merrily back and forth with each other, their glasses raised to the gods as they hooted and hollered.
"I'll sing you a true song of Billy the Kid. I'll sing of the desperate deeds that he did. Out in New Mexico, long time ago, When a man's only chance was his own forty-four."
While everyone sang along, a boy slipped in through the doors, entirely unnoticed. He whispered to Spot and kept his head hung low. Had he made any noise, it had been covered up by obnoxious singing. The boy pushed a couple of coins across the counter before he slumped farther into his hat.
"When Billy the Kid was a very young lad, In old Silver City, he went to the bad. Way out in the West with a gun in his hand- At the age of twelve years, he killed his first man."
Racetrack wanted to tell Jack about the man at the bar, but Spot had instructed him to keep quiet. He had been told to loosen the outlaw up, and he did just that. Race kept a close eye on Jack’s drink and made sure he never reached the bottom of his glass.
"Fair Mexican maidens play guitars and sing A song about Billy, their boy bandit king. How ere his young man-hood had reached it's sad end, Had a notch on his pistol for twenty-one men."
To say the drinks had loosened him up would be an understatement. Jack pranced around the table­—dragging Racetrack along with him—with his glass raised. The whiskey sloshed over the side and splashed his boots. He jumped atop the tables and managed to gain the attention of all the customers. It wasn’t long before everyone was shouting and throwing their drinks into the air.
"Twas on the same night, when poor Billy died, He said to his friends, 'I'm not satisfied, Twenty-one men I have put bullets through. Sheriff Pat Garrett must make twenty-two."
Jack tried to sing along, but his mouth had other plans. He rambled to Albert, who just smiled as he sang, about his recent affairs. “I could take down the sheriff!” He bragged. “No! I could take down big ol’ Deadwood David… with my eyes closed!” Al shook his head and his eyes flitted quickly to the man at the bar.
"Now this is how Billy the Kid met his fate. The bright moon was shining, the hour was late. Shot down by Pat Garrett, who once was his friend. The young outlaw's life had now come to its end."
“Don’t make promises ya can’t keep, Kelly.” Spot warned with a sigh. Racetrack cocked an eyebrow from his place next to Jack. He raised the pitcher in question, and moved away from the table when Spot shook his head. The cowboy waved off Spot’s warning as the bartender whispered lowly to his customer.
"There's many a man with a face fine and fair, Who starts out in life with a chance to be square. But just like poor Billy, he wanders astray And loses his life in the very same way."
Everyone cheered in unison for the song; although, some might’ve been cheering for their gambling wins. Albert smiled and tipped his hat before he went back to strumming mindlessly at his guitar. A small grin made its way onto his face as Jack drunkenly droned on.
"D’ya hear Spot? Talkin’ bout promises I can't keep!" He scoffed; a drunk burp made its way up his throat. "I mean- Listen, I've got way more kills under my belt than Billy the Kid had got." Jack took a sip of his glass. Race had been filling it with coffee, but he was much too drunk to notice. “He would’ve never died if he was as experienced as me. Besides, this Deadwood guy’s a total poser. I betcha I could take him on with my-” He looked confused for a second. “With my- my eyes closed!”  
“So you’ve said.” Albert shook his head and chuckled. "Anyhow… the song ain’t a challenge, Cowboy. It's a warning. Don’t mess with something that ain’t botherin’ you.”
"You’re starting to sound like my Papaw, Al.” Jack bumped Albert’s shoulder with his cup. “He don’t look good on you. Oh! You know who looked good on me, though? Them gals over in Tombstone.”
"Yeah?"
"Yeah!" He slurred. "I mean, practically a different girl each night. Gorgeous women too. Unlike any lady out in these parts."
An obnoxious scoff came from the boy at the bar. He circled his finger around the rim of his glass as he spoke, his head still down. “I sure ain’t heard any Tombstone ladies bragging on about pirooting with a Jack Kelly.”
All conversation ceased at the boy’s words. The notes on Albert’s guitar suddenly became more dramatic, and Jack would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so offended. Spot let out an exasperated sigh, but the rest of the customers were visibly tense. Every man had a hand on his gun, waiting for a showdown.
Jack turned and stared the boy down. "Maybe you ain't talked to the right ladies.”
"Maybe you just ain’t worth bragging about.” The boy took a sip of his drink. Racetrack let out a short giggle, then nervously ducked under the counter to make a drink that nobody had asked for. “Or, maybe, you ain’t really been with as many ladies as you claim.”
Disgruntled, Jack got up and made his way to the bar. The boy laughed as the outlaw tripped a little over his own feet. Jack grabbed the man by a shoulder and forced him to spin in his chair. He shoved a mean finger into the man’s chest. The man at the bar snickered, his face still covered by his hat.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?”
“You know what they say about cowboys who brag too loud about their women.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose.
Jack gave a mock laugh. “Anyone in town would tell you I’m not queer. ‘Specially the ladies who pass through. Who do you think you are, anyway?”
As the boy pushed his hat out of his face, he made direct eye-contact with the outlaw. "I think I'm the fella that can send the ‘famous’ Jack Kelly home crying to his mama." Jack was silent, stunned. His finger was still pressed into the man’s chest, but it had begun to shake. "What now, Cowboy? I'd tell you to take me down like you promised," Deadwood gave a slight shove to Jack’s shoulder, yet he found himself almost toppling over. "But you're too corned to even stand straight."
Spot cleared his throat. “I won’t have you dunderheads havin’ a showdown in my saloon. Be respectable, boys.”
“There wasn’t gonna be no showdown, anyhow. This feller’s too drunk to do anything. He couldn’t shoot at me even if he had his pistol to my head.” Deadwood flicked a coin to Spot. “Thanks for the dynamite, Spot.” And with that, he proudly walked out of the saloon.
Jack watched the man leave and stood tall with fake pride. After the man was gone, he made a drunken attempt to sit down but instead accepted his place on the floor. Racetrack sighed and raised the outlaw by his armpits before sitting him on a barstool. Spot scoffed as he handed the outlaw a glass of water. “I told you not to make promises you can’t keep, you stubborn ole fogy.”
"I'm fixin' to keep that promise. But right now,” He started to gag, “I think I'm gonna be sick."
“Steady, Izar.” Jack mumbled. “Ain’t too far from here.” His horse neighed, almost as if she was responding to him. She even sighed as he stumbled into her. Jack could almost hear her complain about his recklessness. “I ain’t that drunk, Izar. Honest.”
He led her into the stable behind the Conlon home. “Spot was kind ‘nough to give us a nice little place to stay in for the night.” Jack looked around the stable and flinched at the smell of manure. “Well, he offered to let me stay in the house. But ya know I can’t leave you, mama.”
“Second I heard about you, Jack Kelly, I knew you were insane.” A voice muttered from the corner. “But I never would’a figured you was the type of insane to talk to yourself.”
Jack groaned. “Fuckin’ Spot. He knew you’d be here. Ain’t that right, Deadwood?”
“Yup.”
A tense silence fell over them, but Jack was far too tired (and drunk) to start a fight. He began to take off Izar’s saddle. “I wasn’t talkin’ to myself. I was talking to Izar.” He explained and gestured to his horse. Though, as Deadwood laughed, he realized that wasn’t a much better excuse. “Listen, I don’t feel the need to explain myself to you.”
“Yet here you are. Doing it.” Deadwood snorted as he pulled his hat further over his face. The hay he was laying in enveloped him as he snuggled deeper into it. “Now, I promise not to kill ya if ya promise to shut up.”
Jack grunted in agreement. His intuition screamed at him not to let his guard down, but Izar had already nestled herself into the hay. At that moment, he figured his awful gut feeling was just the whiskey from earlier. Besides, Izar had a good judge of character, most of the time. She curled around Jack as he rested against her, and the two slowly drifted off to sleep, just inches away from one of the deadliest men in the country.
Yelling voices and the sound of cracked wood startled Jack awake. Once he came to his senses, he realized that Izar was no longer behind him. Panic filled his chest and he scrambled to his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to barely make out what was happening in the shadows.
Deadwood had a lanky boy pinned beneath him, his pistol to the person’s head. Another boy laid up against the wall of the barn; he was surrounded by splinters and his own blood. His head lolled against his shoulder, the blood from his nose pooled on his leather vest. The boy had a gun in his hand, the safety off and his hand on the trigger.
David lifted the boy underneath him by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the wall. “I knew you were pathetic, Morris. But going so low as to kill a man in his sleep? We may be outlaws, but we have some sense of morality.” His hand in the Delancey brothers’ shirt tightened as he pushed the boy farther into the wall; Jack could hear the wood cracking beneath him. “And you don’t kill a man’s horse. Not unless you’re too much of a pussy to kill the owner.” Then, he dropped the man to the floor and spit at him.
Morris used a dramatic hand to wipe off his face before he scrambled to his feet. His hands shook as he moved to grab his pistol. “You place a single finger on that gun, and I will break every single one of your fingers-” Deadwood growled and grabbed the boy’s wrist. “One. By. One.”
After he let go of Morris’ wrist, the boy tripped over himself as he picked up his brother. Oscar barely seemed alive; his only sign of life had been the elongated groan he let out as Morris lifted him. David stopped the two before they could hurry out the door. “You two better never point a pistol at my Cowboy or his horse ever again. Next time, you don’t get a warning. I’ll line you two up and watch the bullets go straight through both of you.”
The two hesitantly nodded (Oscar moved his head down, and that was enough for David). Morris dragged his brother out the door, and it wasn’t long before the sound of galloping hoofs grew quieter and quieter.
“What the hell was that about?” Jack demanded. Deadwood rolled his eyes and led Izar out from behind his own horse.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Cowboy. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re losin’ it if you think I’m gonna let this shit go,” Jack argued as he moved to pet Izar’s neck. “They got you riled up enough to call me your cowboy.” He scoffed. “And you called me queer.”
David cocked his pistol in retaliation. “I defended you while you’s was asleep, but I’m not against shooting a man who’s awake.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, Deadwood. I won’t tell no-one ‘bout this. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation, anyhow. Cowboy don’t need no-one to save him.” He closed his eyes, an amused grin on his lips, and went back to resting against Izar.
The infamous outlaw stared at him, before he broke into laughter. “Spot was right. You are a stubborn ole fogy.”
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frogmanfae · 8 months
Text
Race: you like Davey
Jack: yeah of course he's a great guy
Race: no
Race: you LIKE Davey
Race: like you're full on in love with the guy
Jack: what? No! I was in love with Katherine like a year ago
Race: so?
Jack: SO I can't like dudes, I like girls
Race: you're obviously bisexual
Jack: what?
Race: bisexual. You like both?
Jack: holy shit I can do that?? Thats an option???
Race: duh? You didn't know that was possible??
Jack: no????
Race: where the hell have you been your whole life??
Jack: uh, the closet apparently.
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heliads · 10 months
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:D yay!!! I love your Newsies stuff sm (and yes you absolutely should rewatch its amazing). If you have time could you maybe write a Race x fem!reader where she's like Spot's second command and kinda like the "mum" of the Brooklyn kids - they go to her for like comfort and when they have injuries or have problems etc. And she's kinda reserved and such but became friends with Race from when he'd spend time in Brooklyn, and after the strike (during like KONY I guess) he goes to find her to ask for her help like getting everyone fixed up and the like, and at some point from there onwards it's like FEELINGS yknow? No worries if not! Only if you're inspired and have time and such :) I love your writing - you're so v talented xx
grateful for your support in my rewatching newsies agenda. anything for you anon xoxo
masterlist
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There’s a newsie from Manhattan wandering your streets again. He’s not supposed to be crossing over into Brooklyn like this, none of them are, but for some reason that hasn’t stopped Race Higgins from showing up time and time again. 
It’s not like this should really matter. Shouldn’t, anyway. Brooklyn is messy and getting messier. One particularly plucky Manhattan boy shouldn’t have an impact on what you’re doing on a day to day basis. Spot’ll do some nonsense involving a good threat or two to scare the guy off. This sort of thing happens once a month, but Brooklyn always ends up on top. Always.
That hasn’t seemed to sway Race, though. Last time he tried this, one of the other Brooklyn generals was in a fighting mood and nearly left the blond with a black eye had you not stepped in and put a stop to the scuffle before it started. No one needed any more trouble when you’ve already got so much as is, or so you claimed.
Truth be told, you’re not really sure why you helped Race out. It’s not like you’ve got any particular fondness for the guy, he keeps bothering you whenever he sneaks over the turf boundaries. It’s like he has a sixth sense for figuring out where you are whenever you’re selling papes. Even when you tell him to bug off and leave you alone, he’ll just start selling half a block down from you, or right across the street. Just close enough that you can see the trademark grin on his face when you roll your eyes and do your best to ignore him.
At the end of the day, it’s not something that should be the pull of too much of your attention. It’s Race, for goodness’ sake, not a rogue Delancey brother or someone who could actually cause you grief. Race just wants to make you laugh, which is weird of him to do but not actually dangerous.
Dangerous is the rest of Brooklyn. Dangerous is what waits for Race when he’s not halfway in your shadow. Dangerous is what made you Spot Conlon’s second in command when there were so many other newsies vying for the title. You know dangerous, and you know how to handle it, how to keep your boys safe. That’s what you should be focusing on the most, not errant Manhattan newsboys who keep getting alarmingly close to making you crack a smile.
But. Well. It is easier to think of boys than trouble. Boys try to make you laugh, for the most part. They don’t come back under the cover of the dead of night, bloody and trembling, talking to you about cops and thugs busting up strikes, about workers from the Refuge who want to brazenly take kids off the street just so they can keep up their numbers. They didn’t always.
Then they did, and suddenly you weren’t quite so easy with your temper and gait anymore. Race was usually quick to a smile, a laugh, a joke. He’d offer you a cigar free of charge, then swear like a sailor at any other boy who tried to even look at his prized possession. You were different, he didn’t want to trouble you. 
So he said. Didn’t stop him from hanging outside your window until you climbed onto your fire escape just to get him to stop throwing pebbles at the dusty glass. You might have spent more than an hour outside that night, and the next one, and the next, but it was only so he’d let the others rest. You falling asleep on his shoulder at least once, then waking to find his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, was pure coincidence.
Race was always carefree. It was his job, you think, his role to play amongst the Manhattan newsies, just as yours was to keep track of your Brooklyn kids. Race used to tease you relentlessly about how the Brooklyn newspaper distribution system would completely grind to a standstill if you so much as got a cold.
It wasn’t entirely a joke, it was true. Race knew it. The two of you could hardly talk for longer than ten minutes before a boy or twelve would come up to you, asking for help on something else. He saw how long you faked your smiles just for the happy expression to start fading into an exhausted sigh whenever no one was around but him. You liked your position in the newsie ranks, truly you did, but it drained everything from you.
Sometimes it felt like it was just you and Spot fighting a losing war trying to keep all of your boys out of trouble. You teach them to be tough and loud and unapproachable, but it will never be enough? How could it be, in this city? Race tells his jokes and you laugh and you try not to pretend that everything is falling to ribbons. At least then you could marvel at the colors.
Still. Race stayed. Longer than you expected, in all honesty. You kept waiting for him to have his fun and leave you to your city that never sleeps, but he came around and it felt more natural by the day. Instead of being surprised that he showed up, you started feeling confused if a week went by without you seeing him.
And, when two newsies come to Brooklyn from Manhattan talking about a strike, and neither one of them is Race but both of them need your help anyway, you listen. More than Spot, at least. Spot gets wind of trouble and he shuts down their plea in an instant. Despite the fact that you think this is the best chance any of you will have to change something around here, Spot can’t risk his guys.
You never know when someone will back out without telling you, he tells you later, and then all of you would be stuck out there on the front lines without backup. The ace without the sleeve up which to hide. Brooklyn kids are tough, and they wouldn’t run, but who knows a damn thing about anyone else?
It made you want to scream and cry and run out there anyway, just to prove a point. You heard how the strike went later, how no one showed up except the Manhattan boys because no other borough would come without Brooklyn’s express approval. You catch whispers and threads of the story, but you don’t learn the whole thing until Race shows up.
He’s alone this time, beaten and bruised. You flinch when you see him, even though he’s not swinging. The look in his eyes, though– that’s enough to leave you bloody.
Race puts a hand on your shoulder. The knuckles are bruised, and you try not to notice the spatterings of skin already turning a mottled purple and green. “It’s not your fault. Jackie boy told me you tried to convince Spot to join us.”
You frown, look away. “You got hurt and we could have done something. That sounds an awful lot like I failed.”
Race shakes his head, puts a hand on your cheek so you have to look at him again. “I’m not here for that. This isn’t your fault, it’s his. Pulitzer’s. Him and those damn thugs. Not you.”
You nod slowly. It’ll take some time before you’re able to absolve yourself of the guilt, but you can try. “Let me get my first aid kit, I’ll come back with you, try to patch some of the kids up. Can I assume that a lot of them are worse than you?”
Race’s expression drops. “Yeah. The thugs came hitting pretty hard.”
“Well,” you say in an attempt to cheer him up, “I’d wager it’s because they knew your lot were the toughest around.”
Race cracks a smile, even though you’re sure it must be painful. “Oh, absolutely. I’d topple a building with a single punch.”
You can’t help but cast another worried look towards his hands. Damaged, bruised, and they had tipped his cap towards you just a morning or two ago. Race always liked to playact a gentleman when you were around. As if any of you have money or morals to spare. The only mansion you’ve got is the wide sky above you, the expensive habits of running too fast on green grass. Your gold is a rusty coin or two, your finery hand-me-down clothes. Your mockery of manners is the closest you’ll get to that sort of lifestyle, but it was always fun to fake it, anyway.
“No more punches,” you tell him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Race retorts, “we’ve got to be out there again tomorrow for the strike. We’se not giving up so easily.”
The thought makes your stomach twist. Race, back out there, ready to get dealt another blow. Maybe this time he won’t be able to pick himself up so easily. Maybe this time he won’t be able to pick himself up at all.
No. You won’t let it happen. This is still your city, damn it, and you have not spent all these years sweating out your sunrises and sunsets to keep it informed just for the last bits of your control to be ripped out from between your desperate fingers.
“You won’t be alone tomorrow,” you decide, “I’ll get Spot to join you.”
Race frowns. “Jack and Davey tried that already, I thought. He said no. Isn’t Spot a dead end at this point? Unless there’s something else you know to change his mind.”
You sigh. “You’re not wrong. I talked to him, though, after your boys left yesterday. I tried. As much as anyone can try to talk to Spot, y’know. I’ll try again, though. The choice he made was–” There are a lot of words you could attribute to Spot’s decision to stay out of the strike. Stupid. Pointless. Backstabbing. You end up saying something a little more polite. “Not what I agreed with, to say the least.”
Race’s lips quirk up in a half smile. “Glad to hear it. I always liked it best when you were on our side.”
You snort. “I’se a Brooklyn newsie, remember? I don’t think we was ever on the same side.”
Race shrugs. “Maybe not in a turf war, but other times we got along just fine.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Race grins, leans a little closer to you. It feels like your whole world is tunneling– you can look at his eyes or his lips, but not both, and it’s enough to make you dizzy. “The last month or two, I swear you almost liked me. Sure, you’re a tough girl if anyone asks, but I know what I know.”
“And what do you know?” You ask carefully. It takes every fiber of focus in your being to keep breathing, chasing every word he says like a high price headline.
Race tilts his head to the side, considering this. Considering you. “I know that you’ve been hanging around me more and more. I know that you aren’t trying to run anymore. I know that no Brooklyn newsie sticks their neck out for someone from ‘Hattan unless they’ve got a pretty good reason. Most importantly, I know that I want to kiss you, but only if you want that too. Do you?”
He’s so close to you now, practically a breath away. Just enough room for you to run if you wanted to, but also for you to do something else, something you’ve been thinking about even when you swore you wouldn’t.
“I do,” you breathe, and that’s all Race needs to lean forward and kiss you at last. He tastes like blood and foolish hope and promises you know he’ll always keep. It’s a damn good mix, enough to make you kiss him again when he starts to break away.
This is how you keep him safe, then. You love him too much and you convince Spot to lend Brooklyn’s support by hook or by crook. You defend the strike and you defend your boy. There are a hundred reasons this could all go wrong, but thousands, thousands more, that all shout for you to keep going. 
Well, you’ve always liked a little bit of danger. Race is good trouble, and you are well inclined to keep him.
newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @mayfieldss, @amortensie
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ethereal-bumble-bee · 4 months
Note
Hello!!!! Love your work :)
If you're still looking for prompts, may I suggest a neurodivergent Davey Jacobs just having a hard day (Maybe overstimulation of something of the like?) and his friends helping him out?
Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful day and know that you are very much appreciated!!! (Also don't forget to drink some water/eat/take care of yourself <3 <3 <3)
You Okay?- David Jacobs
(Note: thank you so much to whoever asked me to write this! I really love writing things that people request, so if you’d like to see me write something, just ask! Also, a quick note- I have never been diagnosed with autism, but I do experience issues with sensory things such as light, touch, and sound. Please let me know if I miswrote anything- I’d be happy to fix any inaccuracies or problems! Enjoy!)
Jack’s eyes searched the crowd, scanning each little group of people for a single face. Everyone was laughing and joking, simply basking in each other’s company- but there was one thing missing.
“Heya, Jack,” Race piped up from behind him, slipping an arm around his and taking the unlit cigar out of his mouth. “Where’s Dave?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out,” Jack replied, squinting and trying to catch a glimpse of Davey’s familiar form. No luck. “Has anyone seen ‘im?”
“Albert said he left to go somewhere a few minutes ago.” Race unhooked his arm from Jack’s elbow and shrugged. “I just thought he was goin’ to catch some fresh air or something, but he hasn’t come back.”
“Hm.” Jack wiped some sweat from his brow- the July air was sure getting to him. “Which direction did ‘e head off to?”
Race pointed to his left, where a small alcove led to the fire escape. Thanking his friend and setting off to find Davey, Jack felt a small tinge of worry worm its way into his mind. What’s keeping him so long?
As he peeked around the corner, Jack’s eyes landed on some kid huddled near the wall, staring into empty space. The boy’s vest was undone and laying next to him, and his eyes were rimmed with red.
“Dave?” Jack asked timidly, taking a step towards him. “You okay?”
Davey looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of his friend. “Oh, yeah, I… crap, sorry,” he stuttered out, grabbing the article of clothing next to him and ignoring Jack’s awkward smile as he sat down. “What do you need?”
“Just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” Jack tilted his head, and Davey glanced away, refusing to meet his eyes. “Are you?”
“Yeah, yeah. It was just…” Davey paused. “I needed some fresh air.”
“That’s what Racer figured was goin’ on.” Awkward silence filled the air for a short while, and then Jack coughed to clear his throat. “I know you get a bit, I dunno, overwhelmed sometimes- was that what happened?”
Davey took a breath, still not looking Jack in the eye. “Yeah.” He smiled sadly, his fingernail scratching at the dirt beneath them. “It’s always been like this, I guess. It all gets too much- like my brain can’t take anything more or it’ll explode.” He chuckled, but the sound of it wasn’t humorous. “Isn’t that a funny thought?”
“Mhm, sure.” Jack went to tousle Davey’s hair, and then paused. “Is it okay if I touch you?”
Davey’s eyes spelled hesitation, and he chewed on his lip. Jack took this as a no, and he settled for merely smiling at his friend. “Don’t worry about it, Dave,” he smiled. “Just tell me when you need a break, m’kay? I’ll make sure the guys don’t bother you.”
There was a moment’s silence before Davey’s mouth turned up in a small smile, and he nodded. “Thanks, Jackie,” he muttered back, turning to face the wall again. Jack waited half a beat before standing up again, giving a small wave before going back to join the others.
Davey watched him go, and he almost wanted to cry- he’d never expected anyone, especially not a group as rambunctious and loud as the newsies, to understand what he went through. He couldn’t help but smile as he leaned against the wall, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his arm, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth of the summer evening.
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jekyelle · 1 year
Text
This World Won't Ever Forget Us
Javid Bonnie & Clyde Au? tumblr made me do it. woo!
Based on the fic "Bite The Bullet" by and Orphan Account and a post made by @/spacestamps!
--------------------
For Jack Kelly, it simply started as a way out.
He didn’t mean for anything more significant; he figured all he had to do was get a job or two done and hightail it way out west; away from ugly old Oklahoma to somewhere, oh good god, somewhere better than here.
He had his eyes set on a little place called Santa Fe. Seemed endearing, and god knows New Mexico was far enough away from here.
Jack Kelly wasn’t a wise man - hell, he was a little orphaned 21-year-old with no money, barely a plan, the clothes on his back, and a hijacked car.
Ah, speaking of that hijacked car, the sirens behind him got more worrying as they got louder.
Revving slightly and pushing the pedal almost as far as he could go, breaking several traffic laws without even trying he blasted off down the dusty old roads, tattered shirt rippling in the pushing force of wind trying to slow him down. He saw a parting in the roads and smiled traffic coming up, and the good thing about the car manufacturers out here today was almost all these damn cars looked about the same.
He turned into the trafficked area and did his best to blend as he weaved through the exits and cut off a few now very angry civilians. He found a tail in a near-identical car that suddenly left him and the police were none the wiser as they sped off when he slowed;
Time to figure out where the fuck he was.
Jack cruised a bit, the adrenaline not gone but not as rampant as before. He passed apartments, bars, dusty old hair salons, and-
A quaint-looking diner called ‘The World’, with a bright peeling paint emphasizing the dreadful rundown look of the place.
Perfect.
He pulled in with a casual tumble, grabbing his ragged worn-out trench coat from behind him, and a simple little newsboy cap he found pawned from manhattan. Something about history or whatever, he turned out pretty quickly when he heard the cheap ass price.
Strolling in, the first thing that caught his eye- or, well, his ear first, then his eye- was the berating of some poor waitstaff.
“David! Getcha’ sorry ass over here!” sneered some sorry ugly-faced man in an even uglier bowler hat and- No, jack was sure he wasn’t seeing doubles- the wonder twins of ugly old' lane were harassing’ some unfortunate soul named ‘David’
Speak of the devil, some poor guy about his age skimped out with a poor look on his face, about the likes of a kicked kitten trudged his way out, a similar looking cap and a neat little blue shirt and vest combo- he wasn’t poor, by the looks of it, and held a clean air to him.
Jack found himself a seat, trying to law low of course in case Lucy Law strolled their way in after snuffing the dead end, but keeping a keen eye upon the waitstaff, who looked about in for a hard time with the look the disgustin’ doubles were sharin between themselves.
“Hey David, didn't we tell ya to keep these counters clean?” the one on the left scowled
“Yes, Morris.”
“And,” butted in the other one with a snarl, “What do we have here?”
Morris and wonder twin two pointed to a small splotch of a coffee stain, which looked pretty fresh. David sighed, grabbing a rag nearby and starting to soak it before-
“Hey! We’s ain't finished, kid.” Butted in Morris again. Smiling a sinister smile, he nabbed the rag from David’s grasp as the other twin corned him from the back.
David, God bless his soul, looked like he was trying to decide whether to soak the two in and out, or take a nap on the floor for a good century. His remarkably blue eyes looked dampened, and his hands were fidgeting and fleeting with emotions trying to grasp for control in the shit of a situation he was in.
Jack decided to choose a new spot at the bar, taking a seat two empty from a properly dazed lookin old fellow who was drooling into his eggs and potatoes.
“Excuse me, fellas-” he cut in as the twins were about to go on a spiel. The two looked at him with disgust while David looked with the relief of a man who just found a spring in the desert.
That paused him, letting out a fumbled smile before continuing
“I, ahem, just would like a coffee please.” nothing he intended on paying, mind you. He needed his money to go elsewhere, then a flirtin’ with the poor, pretty boy also stuck planted into Oklahoma to get away dime free wouldn't hurt nothing.
The other twin - Oscar, he gathered from the peachy little pin fallin' off his apron - sneered again, looking sad he didn't get to berate his poor employee anymore
‘Yeah, whateva. David! Get on it, and I better see that man served, this counter cleaned and this floor spotless when I get back or Snyder’s gonna be getting a really bad report.” he called behind him and trailed off after his brother.
Sighing once more, David looked up and met Jack’s eyes. he gave a pitiful smile to jack. 
“Thank you, sir. Now what would you like?” he said formally, that twinge of tired defiance laced his voice as it turned into an artificial customer-service mode. 
“No problem, at all. Were the wonder twins givin ya problems?” he leaned over the counter slightly. Hints of genuine concern laced Jack’s voice, which not only surprised David but himself as well. He was a romantic, yeah, but he never thought he was This bad.
The waiter paused, a bit taken aback before sighing yet again- he was on a roll now, - and letting down his coffee pitcher slightly. Grabbing a cup and pouring out the coffee he continued,
“Yeah, it’s my first day on the job here. And Oscar and Morris are…very strict. I’m already miserable but, money’s money, at least I get to see more than two places in this dead state. It’s up to three now.” he joked dryly, meeting Jack’s eyes as he placed the coffee down in his hands. 
He grabbed a towel, turning but keeping a side towards jack as he started to clean. Jack took a slow draw of a slip. Wow, what a guy. Surprisingly similar too. He placed the cup down, giving a chuckle and flashing his winning smile out to him. 
“Yeah, well, I feel ya. I’m gettin’ outta this hellhole though, mark my words.” 
David smiled back shyly, turning more. “Oh, I will. Say, I’ve never seen you round here much. New in town?” 
Jack chuckled again, “no, oh do I wish. But I got a car and a plan, how hard can it be?” 
David’s head slowly turned up, like gears were calculating in his head. His mouth set to open like he was about to say something before- 
“Dave! What did I say bout’ these counters!” Morris snarled out, stomping over to the two. He gave jack a downright nasty look before David grumbled and suddenly cut through the noise of the twins speaking over eachother 
“I’m taking a smoke break. When I get back in I’ll do it.” David said with a surprising edge of sass in his voice, despite how ready he seemed to pass out. 
He tossed the towel over his shoulder and grabbed a small pack of cigars from his pocket, leaving through the front of the diner, and back out toward the opposite parking lot. 
Jack fumbled, seeing Morris steam in his spot until he shot a look at his brother. Oscar nodded and followed him out. 
That can’t be good. 
Jack waited for a moment, hearing the yelling rise. Yeah, definetly can't be good-
He shot from his seat toward the exit as the old man beside him seemed to wake up a bit, (the bastard was even eyeing his coffee up)
he sharply turned the corner and what jack Jack found was a bloody-nosed David with a look in his eyes that could have knocked Jack out.
It was so cooly fierce, determined but not in a stupid way. This kid may not have the brawns but, those eyes were dangerous, and Jack loved it. 
But when David spotted Jack, he looks fleeted away for one of relief, followed by fear as he ducked away from another fly-by of Oscar’s fist. 
Jack ran up and clocked the guy behind the neck, gettin' him real good before flying in front of Dave and landing a kick in Oscar’s left thigh again. 
He reeled back and swing wildly, catching Jack’s cheekbone and giving it a bruiser. Jack cried out a yell and turned to see Dave on the other side that Oscar wasn’t looking from and got him in his bottom back, completely knocking the wind out of the guy from his side, probably achin his ribs for good measure too.
Oscar doubled over in a wheeze and Jack took this as an opportunity to grab Dave’s hand and bolt away. 
They got a good way to Jack’s car before he paused and said 
“Wait, wait- where are we going?!” he blurted, looking David in his furiously blue eyes. 
“Don’t know, don’t care, get me out of here. Far out of here. I don't care, you have your car and your plan- well I want in on that too. Please.” he grabbed and pulled forward both of Jack’s hands, eyes pleading yet forceful. 
“Wh-woah there, hold on- I can't just let ya- do you- how- don’t you have a home? A family?” he blurted again, quickly as he heard more yells from inside the diner, likely the boys of satan troubling up again. 
“I…they won’t care, it’ll be easier on them with one less person to care for. They don’t need my money if they don’t need to spend it on me.” he reasoned. his conflict was evident yet his drive to get the hell out of dodge was clearly winning out. 
Jack paused again- he felt for him, he really did, and good god did he want to run away with this boy. But, he had to be reasonable. he wasn’t exactly just planning on taking a drive mind you.
Dave must've seen this look before cautiously saying “if it makes you feel better, ill leave some money and a note saying Im safe’n all.”
Jack nodded before slowly starting “I don’t exactly have a very safe plan, though-“
Hearing a door open and a subsequent yell, Jack was cut off and panicked. David took this to jump in the car and shove jack in beside him. he got the memo pretty quick and backed out if there like a madman on wheels.
Hightaling it once more, this time he just happened to have a cute boy in his car. 
that had no idea he was a criminal.
Shit. 
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thekadster · 2 years
Text
manhattan (a newsies songfic)
Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types)
Word Count: 3,017
Trigger Warnings: None!
Author’s Notes: Inspired by Manhattan - Sara Bareilles. Also, my longest work yet! Wowee, does it feel good to be posting fanfiction again.
❝ It's been two weeks after the Newsies Strike of 1899 was settled.
After a long day of work, Jack Kelly invites Race to dinner at Jacobi's. Jack seems a bit on-edge before he finally breaks the news to his friend.
"I wantcha to have Manhattan."  ❞
also read it on ao3!
Racetrack knew that something was off.
You wouldn’t notice it at first; it was business as usual at Jacobi’s. The air was filled with the chatter and laughter of customers, as well as the uplifting smell of freshly-cooked food. It was a regular crowd at this time of day. The street lamps were just starting to come to life as strangers passed under a painted sky.
Race leaned back in his seat. He had finished his meal several minutes ago; a half-empty glass of water sat next to his plate. His mind wandered as he took in his surroundings, but the person in front of him was the most interesting.
“Jack.”
The boy snapped out of his trance. His gaze turned from the window to Race. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” asked Race. “Ain’t you gonna eat?”
Jack shrugged. “I ain’t hungry.”
“Sure you ain’t.” The other boy tilted his head. “You been workin’ all day and you ain’t even gonna have dinner?”
“I don’t feel like eating,” replied Jack. “Honest.”
Race raised an eyebrow; that feeling in the pit of his stomach only grew. This was one of the rare times he’d seen Jack lose his appetite. When you’ve grown up a newsboy, you’re usually starving by the end of the day.
He tried not to think about it, but some other things came into place - Jack’s silence, the subtle shadow of gloom on his face.
“And there it is again,” said Race.
He looked up. “What?”
“The thing with your fingers!” he replied. “You’s actin’ all weird and fidgety today, Jack. If somethin’s wrong, just say somethin’.”
Jack shook his head. “Nothin’s wrong, I’m just twiddlin’ my thumbs.”
“Even Albert said you didn’t wanna talk to anyone today,” Race sighed. “I get wantin’ to be alone every now and then, but this ain’t like you.”
The boy didn’t respond, trying to fight the urge to fidget with his fingers again. His eyes drifted back to the window, the world outside a painting of dark blues and oranges. He could get lost in the warm glow of the city lights, somewhere away from this conversation. Maybe he could forget what he was talking about.
Racetrack crossed his arms and frowned. “You don’t have to tell me if you really don’t wanna, but I at least wanna know why you invited me out to dinner if you weren’t even gonna eat.”
Silence stretched between them for a while. Race’s mind was building with questions and Jack’s was trying to put together the right words in his head.
“Alright,” he sighed. Jack swallowed a lump in his throat. “I wanted to tell you that me an’ Crutchie, we’re leavin’ Manhattan.”
Race’s eyes widened as he leaned forward. “You’re leavin’? Like, leavin’ leavin’?”
The brunette gave a small awkward smile and shrugged.
“Oh…” Race blinked. “Oh! Well, that’s great!”
He felt a smile creep onto his face, but inside, he wasn’t sure how to feel. He always knew that this day would come, ever since Jack fell in love with Santa Fe. The dream of moving there practically became a part of him, and he’d even promised to bring his best friend Crutchie.
He talked about it like it was some far-off paradise, and Race started to believe that it was. It was nothing like the gritty, grimy streets of New York City, with its fast-paced living and streets that would swallow you whole. It was clean and green and pretty, with a great big sky and folks that would smile and welcome you, no matter where you came from.
But with him finally having his dream in the palm of his hands, that meant he’d have to leave behind his life here. That included Race, and all the other members of their patchwork family.
Jack laughed. “Yeah, yeah, it is.”
“Looks like you finally lived up to your name, eh, Cowboy?”
He gently punched Race in the arm. “Suppose so.”
The blonde chuckled as he leaned back into his seat. “So, when are ya goin’?”
Jack’s smile faltered ever-so-slightly. “That’s, uh, that’s the thing,” he replied. “We’re leavin’ tomorrow.”
Race’s mouth gaped. “Oh.”
“Yeah…” The other boy internally cringed. “I- I know it’s sudden, but it’s better than not tellin’ you nothin’.”
“I get that,” he answered. “Just- I’m happy for you an’ all but damn, I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah…yeah, I know.”
They were quiet for a moment, the world around them continuing with its noise. Jack awkwardly and absentmindedly played with his fingers. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Race really was as happy as he looked.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Race interrupted him. “I’m guessin’ you haven’t told the fellas yet?”
“No, just you an’ Davey so far.”
Race nodded. “He’s gonna be runnin’ the union? Don’t he got school?”
“Yeah, but he’s figurin’ something out. He’s gonna be your new president.”
“And you ain’t takin’ the job Pulitzer gave ya,” he added.
“Nope, can’t be drawin’ for a pape in New York while I’m in a whole ‘nother state.”
Race heard him muster up a chuckle - short-lived attempt to lighten the mood. As Jack’s smile faded away, the two could only sit in silence. The facts were present in front of them - undeniable, unwavering, and unforgiving. And yet, they could bring no words to their minds, nor to their mouths.
“Well, guess that’s that,” Race said, breaking the pause. He still didn’t look satisfied with the news. He didn’t even dare ask if Katherine was coming with, fearing it might make things worse.
Truth be told, Jack wasn’t satisfied either. “That’s not all.”
The other boy looked at him as he raised his glass to his lips. Jack took a breath and leaned forward on his elbows.
“I wantcha to have Manhattan.”
Race spit out his water.
Jack flinched and shrank into his seat as the other boy dried the table with tissues. Race cursed and apologized before drying his mouth.
He looked at his friend with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You what?!”
“If I’m goin’, I need someone to replace me!” responded Jack. “Youse my right hand man, Racer.”
“I know that, but I ain’t ready! You could’ve at least told me sooner!”
“I hear you, okay? I’m sorry.” Jack felt his chest sting a little. “I just- I didn’t know how I’d break it to ya.”
Well, you could’ve done it better than this, Race thought.
Race’s brow furrowed and he looked towards the window. He understood the want to leave this city; he would’ve found a way to up and go if he knew where to. But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed. After they won the strike, after he got with Katherine, after he seemed so happy, he thought that Jack would stay for good, or at least for a little while longer.
Many people would kill to be in Jack’s shoes. After growing up hard, he finally had a chance to stay and climb the social ladder. In fact, he had more than enough reasons to: his family, Katherine, the Newsboys Union, a chance at a stable job.
But Jack Kelly wasn’t like most people. He was a dreamer; his head was always up in some distant cloud, no matter the weather. He’d probably already traveled the world in his own head. Race should have guessed that the busy old streets of New York couldn't box him in for too long.
Jack couldn’t bring himself to meet his brother’s disappointed eyes. He cursed himself for never really being good with words. He nervously looked around, hoping that no newsies overheard their exchange.
“Look,” he softly began. “I know this is a lot. Bein’ the leader of a buncha kids ain’t easy, and I should’ve letcha know sooner so you’d have more time. That’s on me. But there’s a reason youse my right hand, Race.”
Race still didn’t look at him.
“I wanted to talk to you personally ‘cause I knew you’d be the right guy for the job. You’re gonna be the guy that kids look up to, and a lot of ‘em already do.”
Race sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just thinkin’ bout how I’m gonna live up to all a’ this,” he mumbled. “How I’m gonna live up to you. Youse leavin’ some big shoes to fill, Kelly.”
“That’s what I’m sayin!” answered Jack. “You think I’d talk to just about anyone for this? I’m handin’ over Manhattan to you ‘cause I know you can do it. The newsies trust you as much as they trust me. You help a lotta people get through their day, includin’ me. You do more than you know, Racer.”
Race was silent, taking in Jack’s words that echoed in his head. He doubted his claims at first, but knew that they weren’t lies. Helping other people was the least he could do when you’re someone like them. When you’re breaking your back for just enough to eat, when you’re pushing through the scorching sun and the biting cold. It’s what you have to do to survive, and no one can go through life alone forever. It’s the way things are, no matter who you are. “I’m just doin’ what I gotta.”
“And you’re doin’ it good,” added Jack.
Race finally met his eyes. “But what if I don’t know what to do? What if I let everyone down?”
“Then you’ll have the fellas to help ya.” The boy smiled as he glanced at the other newsies - his siblings - minding their own business in the restaurant. “You ain’t gonna have all the answers as a leader. All you gotta do is have the brains to listen to the right ones.
“No one ever goes at it alone, not even me. And we all let everyone down sometimes. Look at the Strike; there were plenty of times I messed up, even if I wanted to do the right thing.”
Race slowly nodded.
Jack allowed his jaw to relax as he shifted in his seat. “What I’m tryin’ to say is that I know you’ll be alright here. It ain’t gonna be easy, but with everyone havin’ your back, things are gonna be fine.”
The blonde raised an eyebrow. “You mean it?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, I do. Take it from someone who’s been carryin’ you guys around for years. It’s time I retire.”
“You’re makin’ it sound like we’s a buncha babies,” Race joked.
“You might as well be,” mumbled Jack.
“Hey-!”
Race softly hit the other boy in the shoulder and the two of them laughed. The air between them better fitted in with the world around them. The tension seemed to have lifted, but Jack noticed that his brother still looked a bit discontent.
He tilted his head. “There anythin’ else you wanna ask me?”
Race was quiet for a moment. “Not really, just-” He shook his head and shrugged- “I’m… I’m gonna miss you. ‘M not used to you not bein’ around.”
Jack softly smiled to himself and felt his heart melt. “Aw, Racer…”
“I know it’s probably weird, but-”
“No, no, it’s not.” He waved his hand. “Honestly, I’m gonna miss youse, too. I grew up here my whole life and now that I’m leavin’... I don’t really know what to say. I’m sure Crutchie feels the same.”
Race nodded. “Yeah…” he murmured. “Man, Crutch as well. Gonna miss him, too; kid’s a ray of sunshine.”
Jack chuckled fondly. “Yeah, yeah he is.”
The other boy blinked. “Oh, by the way, you want me to tell the fellas to meetcha at the station tomorrow?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary; you got work in the mornin’, we’ll be goin’ by then.”
“It ain’t gonna be for long, ‘s just so we can say goodbye.”
Jack’s gaze grew distant for a moment. He wasn’t so sure if he could take seeing the faces of his family as the train would pull further and further away. Hell, he might even cry regardless if they do or don’t.
But in the end, there’s no one he’d rather have send him and Crutchie off than the kids who’ve had their backs for all this time.
He warmly smiled at his brother. “Sure thing.”
-
Not long after, they stepped out of Jacobi’s and into the evening city. As they started on their way back home, New York still buzzed with life. Many strangers were on their way home from work, others heading to dinners or parties. Some were on foot, others on carriages. They passed stores with fancy clothes and toys, and restaurants still full with customers and tasty-smelling  food. They even heard a jazz band playing a cheerful tune further down the block.
Jack slowed down and looked up at one of the buildings on their route: Medda Larkin’s Theater. The doors were closed, but he could tell there was a show going on inside.
His heart couldn’t help but sink a little. He had just said goodbye to Miss Medda that afternoon. She was the mother he never had. Whenever he needed it, her arms and the theater doors were always open to him. She gave him the opportunity to better practice his art, providing a sanctuary, an escape from the noisy world. She paid him fairly for it, too.
Race looked over and noticed him silently staring. “Youse gonna miss her, too, huh?”
Jack softly hummed in agreement. “She’s a gem,” he mumbled, finding his voice.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Race chuckled. “The last paintin’ you did for her’s still there?”
He nodded. “Yeah, probably bein’ used in the show right now.”
The blonde patted his back. “Well, at least she got somethin’ to remember you by. Ain’t nobody as good as you.”
Jack smiled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t really say that.”
“Really? ‘Cause Medda really seemed to like your stuff; I know the newsies do, too.”
“She’ll find someone else after me, it ain’t hard to do.”
“But she ain’t gonna find you,” remarked Race. “She’ll miss your pictures, but she’s also gonna miss you, Jack. That’s also part of it.”
His eyes lingered at the doors for a bit longer, trying to peer past the glass and into the inside. Sure, he was just there earlier that day, but he wished he could talk to Miss Medda one last time. But he knows she’s probably busy.
“Guess you’re right,” mumbled Jack before they continued their walk.
Ever since the day began, Jack Kelly looked at New York City with new eyes. Life was different when you knew that a certain chapter of it was going to end. During this time, even the most mundane of things seemed nostalgic and important, and he drank in every second. It was his last day selling papers with his friends, his last day at the Lodging House, his last day at Medda’s Theater. He was wide awake with the realization that this was going to be the last time in a long time - maybe even forever - that he was going to see the streets like this. The last time he was gonna walk home with Race after dinner at Jacobi’s. And eventually, his last night at the fire escape.
There was no doubt that he was excited for the future, but he couldn’t help but already miss the life he and Crutchie were going to leave behind. The fact that he would no longer be a newsie felt foreign on his tongue. Even if it was a reality that they all had to face someday, it was still strange and a bit mind-boggling. Like a fancy suit that didn’t quite fight right.
The time had come when they’d made it to the Lodge just a few minutes later. The two boys stood at the steps, taking in the cool evening breeze.
“So,” began Race. “‘S this goodbye?”
Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “Tomorrow.”
“Part of me still can’t believe youse really goin’,” he replied.
Jack sighed. “I… I know. Me neither.”
“This mean you ain’t gonna be a newsie anymore?”
There was a beat of silence between them. “Well, yeah,” Jack responded. “But I’m always gonna be one of youse. We’s a family; ain’t nothin’ gettin’ in the way of that.”
Race smiled. “Glad that hasn’t changed.”
Jack put a hand on his shoulder and smiled back. “Never will.”
He pulled him in for a hug, and for a while, the two stood there in each other’s embrace. The future was wide open for the both of them, each of their lives going in their own separate ways. Jack’s and Crutchie’s were headed west, while Race’s was staying put to be the new leader of the newsies of Manhattan. Like things have always been, it was going to be undeniably challenging. But through all the highs and lows, they knew they were going to make it. Somehow, someway, they always do.
They pulled away, Jack ruffling Race’s hair. The brothers parted ways at the door; Race headed inside the Lodging House while Jack climbed up the fire escape. They agreed that Race would let the others know about Jack leaving before the lights went out for the night. In the morning, the rest of them would head out to the train station to see their two friends out.
When Jack got to his “penthouse”, Crutchie was already there. Their belongings were already packed in bags that sat in one corner, while the other boy gazed into the distance.
Jack joined him, and his eyes sparkled. The city skyline was a sea full of stars, enough to rival the one above them. He’d practically memorized this view - it was one he saw everyday - but this time, it felt different. Like he was seeing it for the very first time.
“How’d it go?” asked Crutchie, looking over at him.
“Went fine,” answered Jack, leaning forward on the rails. “Race is gonna be okay. Manhattan’s in good hands.”
The boy smiled. “That’s good.”
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Text
Buttons was 16 years old. He'd been a Newsie for ten of those years, therefore being around to see some of the younger kids grow with him.
When he saw Elmer, he still saw the three year old Spot brought to visit Manhattan four years ago.
When he saw Splasher, he saw the five year old he and Tommy Boy found sat alone on a bench outside the church three years ago.
When he saw Mike and Ike, he saw the babies left in a basket outside the Lodge House five years ago.
So, seeing each of them beaten up and bloody hurt all the more.
The Lodge was absolute chaos after the fight. Not the usual Lodge chaos, however, it was a scary and fearful chaos. The one that made your heart pound and brain blurry.
Kids were wailing and crying, teenagers were yelling and shouting. There wasn't a quiet place in the house.
Everybody realised quite quickly that nobody had walked out without a few battle scars to show afterwards, and the little kids were no exception.
Elmer had a shard of glass thrown at his forehead, and it was bleeding badly. Despite the bandages now wrapped around the injury, the injury had bled through, creating crimson dots splattered around it.
Splasher had broken his ankle after being shoved to the ground by one of the bulls. Buttons had a pole tied to his leg to keep it as straight as possible and had it elevated on the other bed. He was still weeping silently with the pain shooting up his leg every few minutes.
Mike and Ike were sat on his lap and were crying harder than any of the Newsies had ever seen, despite knowing them their whole lives.
Mike had been struck in the back with a baton multiple times, his back now scattered with bruises and blood. He didn't understand what was happening or why he was in so much pain, he just wanted it to stop.
Ike was hit in the face with one of the Delancey's brass knuckles, leaving him with a black eye and scarred nose. He was practically inconsolable, not allowing anybody to touch him for a very long time after the fight, only relaxing enough for Button's to check him out when Mike was brought in with Albert and Finch.
Buttons, with no help from the others got to work helping the kids in any way he could. The kids needed a shoulder to cry on and a helping hand to wrap up their injuries while some of the older newsies tried to sort out where Jack was and if they could try to save Crutchie.
They didn't understand what any of this meant. They just wanted somebody to hold them and tell them they were okay. Someone to sing one of Meddas songs while they wrapped up their scars and cuts.
Buttons was okay. He was fine and could help with the little ones with their injuries. Yeah, sure, he was struggling to breathe properly, and his knees were throbbing with pain, but the little kids needed help more than he did. He could handle it.
Buttons was 16, but sometimes he wishes he was still 6, when there was always an older kid around to help him out.
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