Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Davey,”

“Ay, Mouth!”

“Shit, is he dead?”

“Nah, no one dies standing up.”

“Dave?”

“How would you know?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

“I thought that was Crutchie?”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, Dave!”

“Davey!”

The boy in question jerked himself out of his daydream, nearly falling over the low fence behind him at the sight of the collection of Newsies very much invading his personal space.

“He lives!” Race crowed, pulling his ever-present cigar from his pocket and tapping Davey’s nose with it, causing him to splutter and cough at the overwhelming scent of tobacco.

“Ah, shoo!” Davey gave the smaller boy a light shove, Racer cackling as he danced out of range. “What are you all doing here? Shouldn’t you be at distribution? You’ll miss the evening edition if you wait much longer-”

“Shouldn’t you?” Blink joined his friend in lounging at the gate of the small school. “We noticed ya missing, both you and li’l Les. Tumbler’s just about worried the buttons off his jacket-”

“That won’t be a problem, we’ve got more Buttons right here’!” Mush cut in, shoving his friend forwards.

“Hey, I make the puns!”

“Not my fault I got the better material, Buttons .”

“Heh, I get it.” Race piped in with a giggle. 

The argument paused, the other boys looking at each other and back to the lean smoker. 

“Get what?” 

Race chucked again. “Material, buttons, there’s something.”

Another look passed between the bickering pair before they finally agreed on something; what to say next.

 “Shut up, Race!” 

The offended took a step back with his hands raised in surrender.

Mush elbowed his debate partner good-naturedly. “I told him first!”

 “No, I did!” Buttons shoved back, and just like that, the squabble resumed.

Blink tipped his cap over his eyes. “Both of you, can it.”

“No!”

The two set about wrestling in the tall grass, the remaining (read: sane) boys content to ignore the altercation...at least until the scrap knocked into their resident gambler, a stray foot punting the cigar into the brush.The blonde stared in disbelief for a moment before stumbling over towards the direction of his prized possession, expressing his feelings in a rather succinct fashion.

“Fuck!”

“Language!” Davey called, mainly out of habit, the other newsies laughing as the other teen shot him a rude gesture. 

“Hey!” Davey yelped, scandal coloring his tone. “Race, this is a children’s school!”

“Then they’s learning new words today!” Race hollered back, barely visible on his hands and knees in the swaying weeds that bordered the yard; grumbling all the while. “...my last one, last fucking cigar, but yous had to start something, didn’t you? I fucking hate- ow!” He popped a finger in his mouth, glaring at the stinging nettle as if it personally offended him before resuming his search.

“Anyway,” Blink sighed, keeping an eye on the chaos should it come too close. “Group a’ us volunteered to come find you, make sure you both didn’t run into no trouble. Even Jack and Kath-” 

“Kath?” Davey asked, confused.

“Course.” Blink replied easily, stepping forward to trip a dazed Mush back onto a badly losing Buttons. “You know she visits ‘least once a week.” He winked, tilting his head in the direction Davey had been previously staring, lost in thought. Sure enough, there they were, conversing on the opposing street corner. Feeling eyes on them, the pair turned, Kath offering a small wave, Blink noticing his friend’s cheeks coloring as he returned the gesture, quickly shifting his gaze to the reporter who...had her head ducked? Was laughing? Blushing?

He blinked (ha) his good eye in surprise, before letting a smile creep onto his face, filing away that information for later.

Davey and Kath, huh? Who knew… He glanced down at his own boyfriend, only to fumble slightly in surprise at the sight of the tan boy pinned under their shared friend, having lost his sizable lead, Mush flashing a sheepish yet genuine smile over Buttons’ shoulder that had Blink struggling to suppress his own blush.

Who knew indeed….

Buttons popped his head above the sparse grass, confidently straddled across Mush’s hips, pinning the larger teen to the ground. 

“We expected to find both of ya dead in an alley.” He said calmly, brushing clods of dirt from his brown streaked shirt, continuing the prior conversation effortlessly.

“Yeah!” Mush coughed, wriggling. “The Delanceys been real antsy lately, said something choice to Jack this morning at distribution. Haven’t seen him mad like that since the strike...”

Davey turned, mouth in a quiet ‘o’.

“What did they-”

“Speaking of distribution,” Racer interrupted, having found the elusive cigar, shrugging a misplaced suspender back on his shoulder. “If we don’t get to distribution soon, we’ll all be missin’ the bell and a half-day’s selling.”

“It should only be another minute or so,” Davey responded, glancing up at the schoolhouse clock. “You can all go on if you want, you don’t have to wait for-”

“Dave?” Race interrupted. “I’m used to you talkin’ smart, so don’t finish that sentence, cause then you’d be as dumb as alla us, yeah?” The taller boy suppressed a smile, turning his eyes back to where Buttons was clambering off of Mush.

“Wait.” Davey blinked. “What just happened?”

The other boys shared a look before Buttons offered an explanation.

“A massacre?”

Dvaey heaved a sigh, swiping off his hat and scrubbing his hand across his face in mock exasperation, if only to hide his escaping smile before tugging his cap back on, extending a hand towards where Mush lay contentedly amongst the scrubby grass, basking like a lizard in the late sun. The downed boy took the proffered appendage gratefully.

“Say, thanks, Dav-.”

“Why are we standing outside a kid’s school?” Race cut in again, ignoring the squawk of protest from his friend. “Ain’t you with them older smart boys now, Dave?”

The tall boy sighed, swiping a hand across his forehead again as sweat threatened to drip into his eyes. “Les got detention.”

 “Shit.” Blink paused in his brushing off the preening Mush, his better half preoccupied with sticking his tongue out at the equally dirty Buttons (who did not have a partner to fawn over him). “How’d he do that?”

“Yeah!”

“What did he do to deserve that?”

“It ain’t fair-”

Race placed the cigar in his inside pocket, protecting it from future sticky fingers, brushing a hand through his errant curls, already wilting in the afternoon heat. “How ‘bout it, Mouth?”

Davey shrugged. “From what I was told, he beat up a classmate who was making fun of him for working.”

The boys erupted into a series of indigent shouts, ranging from:

“That’s my little brother!”

And

“What’s wrong with bein’ a newsie?”

To,

“Hey, tell us the name, Mouth, we just wanna talk!”

And,

“If I hadn’t bet Spot that nickel, I’d a bought that kid a penny candy for soakin’ that rich-”

“We are not condoning this!” Davey announced over the din, only to feel something (Buttons’ cap, as it turned out) thwack into his head.

This was the conversation and consequent situation Jack, Kath, and the detentionaire himself emerged into mere seconds later, Jack gleefully joining in the chaos like the child he was, and Les learning a few colorful new words from their lady companion (muttered under her breath of course), the reporter brining a hand to her mouth and whistling loudly, bringing the bedlam to a halt.

“Boys, really?” Kath leveled them all with a withering gaze. “I’d expect this behavior from Les, or even Jack ,”
“Hey!”

“Yeah, hey!”

“But you, David?” She tilted her head, fluttering her eyelashes lightly, seemingly oblivious to Mush’s elbow digging into Blink’s ribs.. “I don’t suppose you want to explain why you’re all brawling on the street, would you?”

“Les!” Sentence barely completed, Kath took a step back as Davey took notice of the child and darted forward, dropping to his knees for a level playing field and set to examining his brother’s bruised eye with delicate fingers. Satisfied the damage was superficial and the boy had suffered no serious injuries (more of a bruised pride), the worried look solidified into a good impression of Kath’s WIthering Stare™ with such speed it was possible Les had sustained whiplash.

“Leslie Ephram Jacobs, what were you thinking?” The younger’s head dropped, toe scuffing at the dirt as the scolding continued. “I know it’s tough but you can’t just go around beating up everyone who disagrees with you! What if everyone in the world did that?”

(David elected to ignore the “I’d win a lot more arguments,” comment from the peanut gallery)

Les scrunched up his face, cheeks glowing red with annoyance. “They weren’t disagreeing, they was-”

“Were,” Davey corrected absently, his brother letting out a tiny growl,  fists clenched at his sides.

“ Were , making fun-”

Davey pinched the bridge of his nose, silently cursing himself for mirroring his father’s mannerisms. “You can’t beat up people for making fun of you either, you can-”

“They wasn’t making fun of me , they were making fun of you!” Les burst out, stomping his foot for emphasis. Tears streaked down his cheeks, swatching a clean path through the dust of the day. “The teachers don’t help and I tell them to stop but I can’t go an’ just listen to them call you bad names and-” He didn’t get the chance to finish before he was swept up into his brother’s arms, angry tears soaking into the coarse fabric of the uniform jackets the older boys wore. “It ain't right !” He hiccuped lightly, latching on tighter.

“Damn straight that ain’t right.” Jack practically snarled, taking a pace forward to rest a hand on his partner’s shoulder, startling the fraternal pair from their moment of reverie, having forgotten for a moment that there were other people in the world.

“Yeah!” Much chimed in. “You heard what Jack said, that ain’t right!”

The others crowded in agreement, flocking to the younger newsie and offering words of support and violence.

“Just give us the names,” Race said quietly, Davey standing in alarm.

“Whoa now, hold on fellas,”

“Hey, we newsies look out for each other, right boys?” Jack asked, glazing around at the assembled parties, the group (with the exceptions of Davey and Kath, the former managing to somehow not have an aneurism while the latter dropped her face into her hand to hide the giggles) practically bursting at the seams with the burden of injustice. “So I say we-”

“We are not beating up a bunch of ten-year olds!” Davey yelped, Jack nodding.

“He’s right, he’s right.” The rowdiness subsided, a few of the boys looking sufficiently ashamed. Jack clapped hand on Race’s shoulder. “We’ll get the littles to do it.”

“Yeah!”

“NO!”

“Boys!”

Silence.

Kath smiled. “Good. Now, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do-”

The clock chimed, reminding the collective of the late hour.

“Shit!” Jack swore.

“Tell us on the way! Or later!” Buttons chimed in, already taking off in the direction of the World.

“Soaking is easier anyway!” Race added, Les agreeing eagerly beside him, even as Davey’s voice washed over them again.

“For the last time, NO!”

—-
The group reached distribution in record time, joining the back of the line to the laughter of the assembled newsies. Jack took the ribbing with his usual easy grace, wrapping a quick arm around his selling partner before meandering towards Crutchie, as usual, Mush and Blink trailing behind him.

“Katherine!” Romeo hollered, turning an excited cartwheel to cut the latter pair off completely, Blink shooting an annoyed glance in his general direction. “What brings you here, m’lad-”

“Don’t even finish, Romeo.” Kath cut him off lazily, taking a glance back towards Davey as the spurned romanticist pouted into Spec’s empty paper bag. “It never works any other day, why would today be any different?” He shrugged, shameless. “And if you must know,” she caught Davey’s eye and blushed, the freckled boy’s eyes widening in some semblance of realization or understanding, his pale cheeks coloring under the brim of his hat. The brassy reporter turned away quickly, tossing copper curls over her shoulder, her conclusion leaving her lungs in a rush.. “I’m here for a meeting.”

Mush was intrigued.

-------

It wasn’t until nearly nightfall that he could act, finally managing to separate Davey from whatever glue cemented him to Jack’s side.

“Say, Dave?”

The tall boy started slightly (he did stare into space an awful lot) before turning, offering a smile (as always).

“Well hi, Mush. This isn’t your usual spot. Changing it up?”

Mush took a quick survey of the area, noting Kath and Jack making a steady advance from the north, flapping a hand dismissively, halting the questioning. “Yeah, yeah. All that.” He leaned a little closer, hoping to catch any clues in the quickly fading light. “Can I ask, Davey. What had your brain when we showed up today, you know, at Les’ school? Even now it seems you’re half in a dream. What, you got your eye on someone?” Davey tried and failed to hide the blush climbing his cheeks, eyes flicking over in an obvious tell towards the approaching teens. Mush’s eyes widened almost comically.

“You don’t mean-”

“Shhhhh!” Davey leapt forward to clap a hand over the chattering boy’s mouth. “Please, just-” He sighed. “You can’t tell anyone, please. We’d both be in so much trouble…” His voice trailed off. Mush felt his heart leap a little.

Damn, Davey had it bad , but he wasn’t wrong, what with Kath’s dad being Pulitzer . 

Mush fought off a shudder before nodding. He could keep this secret. Davey might not have been a Newsie for long, but he more than proved his worth at the strikes, and that meant something.

Davey noticed Mush was now nodding into his hand and yanked it back as though he’d been burned,

“Oh, sorry. But you will? I mean, you won’t-” 

Mush laughed.

“You’s a newsie Davey, and that means you’s family. I can keep a secret for my brother. Especially one like that. ” He spat in his hand and offered it, laughing only a little as Davey shuddered (though much less obviously than he used to) when returning the gesture.

“Thank you, Mush. It really means a lot to us.”

“Hey,” Mush hopped in front of his friend, strolling backwards. “They don’t call me Mush for nothin’!” He wiggled his eyebrows, drawing a laugh from the tall teen as the other pair reached their corner, Jack reaching for his partner before glancing at their company and aborting the movement, leaning on a nearby post instead, pressing a light kiss to Kath’s cheek as they parted. “Hey, you two planning on finishing selling some time before the new century? Cause someone’s got about five minutes of daylight left and about 20 papes to sell, and it ain’t me,” He dropped his head forward to whisper in Davey’s ear before taking off down the way, the tall boy left gaping in his wake.

“What the, hey! Jack!” Davey yelped, already taking off running, joyful in the early evening air. Mush grinned so hard his cheeks hurt, scooping up his remaining papes and racing after the two, relinquishing his hold on his cap to offer Kath a wave as they passed by.

Yes, he could keep this secret.

...but he could tell Blink, right?

-

-

-

As it turned out, he could not tell Blink.

Chapter Text

Nothing like summer in the city-

The newsie currently known as Kid Blink hummed distractedly as he made his way across the bridge, wondering how the weather could still be called “summer” when they were in September for christ’s sake (everyone knows September’s a fall month, Dave, no matter what you wanna say ‘bout stars and the moon and equinations…or whatever that word was). The morning breeze already carried the promise of a chilly autumn to come, nights preparing for an unseasonably early frost. At dawn, Racetrack had set off towards this very bridge, Jack not far behind, the both of them donning patched jackets for the weird-ass weather. Colder than a witch’s tit in the early mornings and late evenings, sweltering in between. The sun would inevitably rise, and by midday everyone and their cousin would be scrambling for any scrap of shade available, sweating through all the layers the day seemed to require, winter wear squirreled away for dusk.

Suck it, Dave. September is fall.

The distracted newsie made a mental note to remember to tell his tall friend when he saw him next – he wasn’t at distribution, and strangely he and Jack weren’t attached at the hip on this particular afternoon, so god knows where Mouth was on a Saturday. Nicky had the most peculiar tale about the freshly-minted newsie and Katherine Pulitzer (despite what everyone knew about Jack-freaking-Kelly and the media mogul’s daughter), but his partner did love to exaggerate…

“Watch it, brat!” 

Lost in his thoughts, the teen had barely realized he no longer had the protection of the sturdy metal railing at his left hip, and had now wandered fully into the bustling streets, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man and a precariously piled cart of produce. The boy startled backwards from the angry adult, instinctively throwing out a hand to prevent impact from some of the weighty vegetables as they plummeted to the ground, only to be shoved backwards, tumbling into the dirt with the greenery, face hot from more than the sun. Regardless, he could still try to gather up some of the misbegotten lumps before they rolled into the carriageway, already moving to stop those closest to him from becoming tomorrow’s headline-

SMACK

“Don’t you dare touch my cabbages, filthy rip!”

Blink yanked his hand back to his chest, the sting of the slap still echoing in the injured flesh, leaving the food where it lay. “I was just-“

“Rat! Thief!” The man stepped forward menacingly, waving his arms and shouting, spittle flying from his seemingly unstoppable mouth, a crowd already gathering to the scene. “Get back where you belong! Go on, scram!” He turned to the stopped pedestrians, already pleading his own version of events. “The cove tried to rob me! Look at him, you can tell he has a criminal mind-!”

Eyes turned to stare, whispers already breaking out. Suddenly self-conscious for the first time in what seemed like forever, Blink did his best to scramble to his feet, searching for an out, carefully keeping his right side turned to the very apparent threat, the man’s screeching already alerting a nearby bull.

“That ain’t true an’ you know it! I ain’t done jack-shit but walk-“

“What seems to be the trouble?”

Fuck. This is not how today was supposed to go- what was wrong with this city?

What do you expect, Spot fucking Conlon lives here…willingly.

The old man was still wailing like a siren, excited in the newfound spotlight. “Officer! Thank goodness! It’s this little b- young man-“

Blink shot the man a look, still cradling his struck appendage to his chest, barely able to contain himself. “You’re a dirty liar-“

“Hush! Ahem, oh yes, he was clearly trying to steal from hard-working people! Why he isn’t in school, or jail, or an institution-“

“I see-“

The uniformed man was already reaching for his pocket when Blink decided he’d had enough.

Of course the damn copper’s taking his side- fuck this whole damn city. If I ain’t goin’ to jail for something I did do, I sure as shit ain’t goin for something I didn’t.

“Va te faire foutre!” With a rude gesture over his shoulder to distract from the strong emotion building in his chest (and the words that wanted to burst out of his mouth), Blink gathered his courage and darted into the gathering swarm, dodging around sellers and stragglers alike, leaving the scene in his dust.

“Don’t go today, Lou, Cowboy’s there today, and you know how he gets. You don’t wanna get in trouble, hey? Besides, Boots has something to tell us…” Blink sighed and shook his head, hoping to rattle imaginary-Mush to another part of his brain (somewhere where he might be less-correct), sticking as close to the towering buildings as he dared, head ducked low and eye straight ahead.

“No, Mushy, I don’t. But I’ll be fine, ya know. Them Brooklyn boys ain’t so tough. Ya don’t gotta worry so much…”

Avoiding people was definitely an out-of-character experience, seeing as almost all of his time on the streets was monopolized by the lucrative promises of being as conspicuous as possible. At least shoving his hands in his pockets meant he could pretend he didn’t feel the tingling in his portmost fingertips where another hand usually rested, his security, his rock in the eddies and swirls of New York, alive as it was with people and sounds and colors…like a particularly striking shade of red-

“Oh, shit!”

Suddenly more desperate to be as unassuming as humanly possible, Blink made (to the casual observer) a very stupid pirouette in order to tuck himself into the shadow of the suddenly scarce street carts, fastidiously ignoring the glares of the women he had nearly toppled over in his haste (they could get fucked). Under this scrutiny, the blonde snatched his hat off and stuffed it into his pocket (much to the stage-whispers of disapproval behind him), walking off in as nonchalant of a manner as he could muster. He managed to make it a whole ten steps before the little voices in his head goaded him into looking back (completely inconspicuously, of course). It was exactly as he’d suspected, the flash of red materializing into a pair of newsies, each seemingly as ready to brawl as they were to sell the bunches of papes tucked under their arms, grumbling to one another menacingly. Why were the newsies here always so damn gru-

“-bad enough that Spot lets one ‘hattan walk all over ‘im, now fuckin’ Cowboy’s here?”

“It’s none of ‘is business anyway! What happens in Brooklyn, stays in Brooklyn!”

“I swear, the next one I see that ain’t Brooklyn is gettin’ kicked halfway to Queens!”

Blink swallowed.

Sorry, Mush.

Right. Jack said to keep to Manhattan territory today until he resolved something with Spot- something about the piers? Or the union? He hadn’t been listening, not really. It was Jack’s fault, honesty, lecturing a guy before the sun came up. Blink resisted the urge to roll his eyes more than once. Honestly, if Race could make the walk, surely he’d be fine-

“Hey! Get outta’ the way!”

Blink jumped back on the curb, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with another vendor’s cart, this one hauling papes of all things, complete with an irate newsie perched on the back, hitching a ride just like some kids did in other boroughs-

Focus, Kid. Get a move on.

For sure, Brooklyn was busy this time of day, especially at his intended destination: the races. Adults hustled to and fro, waving hands clenched with tickets fanning screams and smells through the air; sweet hay mingling with the sour smell of too many bodies in one place and the sweat of hard-working horses, all mixed into the heat of the day.

But he wasn’t here for the races (or the actual Race, whom Blink had spotted earlier happily sneaking sugar cubes to a sleek mountain of a thoroughbred, catching the name “Banastar” emblazoned on the gate, the excited gambler regaling the horse with what sounded like recountings of the horse’s own achievements. What a nert.), or even to sell (he’d turned a pretty penny already, what with that scandal of a headline). He was here for-

Blink grinned, snatching his hat and waving wildly until the stable-boy looked his way, the other teen returning the motion with equitable excitement.

“Well, if it ain’t Blind Diamond! Comment vas-tu?” The Midtown native swept the approaching Manhattan into an eager hug, approaching carefully from the right, a few stray pieces of straw drifting from his hair and clothes. “How ya doin’, matey?”

Blink merely grinned, backing up until his full body was in the view of the other boy, touching his hand to his mouth, laying his arm flat before raising it again, this time to form an ‘L’ in the air.

The other boy’s smile widened even more (if that was possible) hands flying together, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“Say, I’m pretty swell too!” He took a brief look around as the noise of the track beside them flared, his alarm settling with the crowd, quickly turning back to his friend. “Now, who taught you to sign? Was it Romeo? I bet it was! You didn’t do this just for me, did you? Is it hard-?” His hands matched his mouth, puffs of dust emphasizing his every word. 

Blink kept right on grinning, sheepishly repeating his earlier gesture.

The other boy paused mid-sentence.

“…is that all you know how to say?”

Blink shook his head before forming a fist and rubbing it in a circular motion over his opposite shoulder before shrugging and bringing his hands together in front of him, raising the top hand as though drawing a thread up to his face.

“Learning, huh?”

Blink nodded.

“Is that all you know how to say?

Blink paused, holding up one finger before carefully finger-spelling:

L-U-C-K-Y

Finishing the move with a point at the other boy, lingering for added effect, and then nodded again, shrugging for good measure.

The redhead stared on for a good half-minute, ‘thoroughly unimpressed’ the only possible description for the very peculiar face the boy was making. Blink’s smile had even begun to slip from his face…that was until the racehand doubled over in laughter.

“Of course you went an’ learned my damn name! You’s a peculiar bastard, you know that?” Lucky followed this up with a series of signs too fast for Blink to follow, cacking merrily all the while, finishing up with a raspberry that had the gray stallion in the stall yonder snorting derisively in response.

“Me? Nah.” Blink laughed back, accepting silently that this was a taste of his own medicine…and while he might have deserved it, he did not like it. That didn’t mean he was going to be any less of a menace though. “Where’d you go an’ learn a word like that? We both know you didn’t hear it from any of the snoozers ‘round here.” His grin brightened. “How’s the whole ‘ear’ thing goin’, anyway?”

“How’s the eye?”

Blink blinked.

“...Touche.”

The boys regarded one another for a moment longer before breaking into giggles that the two of them considered quite unbefitting of their tough exteriors, yet completely powerless to stop it, collapsing forward into each other until they were practically rolling on the floor with the force of their laughter.

They were, in fact, so lost in their own hysterics that they failed to notice another stablehand entering the space, taking one look at the scene, and leaving immediately, Lucky’s current charge still merrily chomping at hay in the background.

Finally coming down from the high of sharing unbridled joy with an old friend, the two separated, Lucky scrambling to his feet and brushing himself down (still somehow missing the straw that littered his hair), extending a hand to help the other teen to his feet. “Say, there’s only one race left with the Big Man’s team, hang around, huh?”

“Sure thing.”

—

Late afternoon saw the boys walking slowly across the bridge, sweating in the intense bands of sun slipping below the horizon, the river below looking very enticing even amongst the buffeting gusts of wind crisp with the scents of autumn.

“Gettin’ mighty cold at night.”

“Surprised you noticed.”

“And what’s that s’pposed t’mean?”

Lucky blinked innocently, fluttering his eyelashes. “Just a reflection on your powers of perception, y’know?”

“Rude!” Blink swatted at his friend, the boy skittering away and returning like a pesky fly, another quip ready on his lips. Blink beat him to it. “You never did get ‘round to tellin’ me where you learned such pretty words-”

“Well, I might’ve, if some imbecile hadn’t interrupted!”

“I was afraid you didn’t hear me!”

“You know I’m only half deaf, right?” Lucky popped in, right hand trailing lightly along the metal.

“And I’m only half blind.” Blink shot back, shoulder checking the taller boy. “‘Powers of perception’, what a load of-”

“Don’t forget half-stupid!” The other boy shot back. 

“Hey! I ain’t the one who mucks with horses after gettin’ trampled by one!”

“Hay is for horses!”

“You would know!”

“Hey!”

“That’s right! Hay!”

“Least I don’t sell papes I can’t read!”

Blink gasped indignantly, hand slapping into the middle of his chest. “I can read, now! See!” His free hand flailed in the air, finally landing on the mobile lunch cart at the end of the bridge. “‘Fresh Churned Buttermilk! Milkshakes!’ I can read!” 

Lucky snickered at his friend’s antics, snorting behind his fingers. “Sure, you can now…but I seem to remember someone hangin’ onto a fella’s every word like it was gospel, headline after headline. Now, what was his name…? Nic-“

“Hey, now!” Silliness gone, Blink stumbled forward to cover his friend’s mouth, Lucky starting in surprise. Sheepish, Blink pulled himself free, uselessly fanning himself in the humid air of early evening as the wind threatened his cap. “Say, uh, we’re careful with the whole ‘name’ thing, yeah? You know how it is.”

Lucky nodded, stone face reflecting the sudden gravitas. “Course I do, Blink. Yeah. More than anyone.”

Blink smiled, strained, lips vanishing in a line. “Yeah, yeah.”

Time froze between them, space filled with silence as thick as honey, neither wanting to make the next move, but each far too stubborn to cut the strings that connected them. Instead, they stared out over the city, unable to proceed, but having come too far to turn back, the sun continuing its march to the horizon.

A gull cried.

People shuffled by, eager to get home in the fading light. In the distance, some shouts could be heard, newsies, perhaps, singing the town to sleep.

“So uh,” Lucky shuffled, leaning back against sun-warmed metal struts, grasping for words to break the tension. “What’s he goin’ by nowadays? Your fella.”

It was Blink’s turn to start, though by words or the frankness with which they were spoken was anybody’s guess.

“…Mush.”

Lucky nodded. “Good name.”

“Yeah.” Blink smiled, tipping his head back to soak up the last rays of the day, smile spreading across his face like melting ice cream. “Yeah, he is.”

“What?”

As though snapping out of a trance, Blink straightened, brushing invisible lint from his sleeves. “And uh,” He cleared his throat, shaking his hair from his eyes. “What about that doll I done seen you with last time we spoke? Or was it a guy-”

“I- uh- er-” Lucky spluttered a bit, tugging at his neckerchief with a finger, the air suddenly a bit hard to come by. “I don’t- I- You were sayin’?”

Blink grinned wickedly, something shining behind his eyes as he prodded his friend further, admiring how the other boy’s face quickly darkened in color to match his hair. “Come on, now. What about the fella ‘fore that? Or was I dreamin’ I saw you with them Midtown boys?”

“Mid- I-”

“Or maybe I’ll ask Race if they’ve seen you anywhere else in Brooklyn. You know how we love to share the news…”

“I- newsies- they- we- I- uh,” Lucky coughed, desperately looking somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t his friend, words flooding back to him at the sight that awaited on the Manhattan side of the bridge, a welcome (and desperate) distraction. “Say, ain’t that one of yours?!”

“Hm?” Ever one to be easily distracted (though nowhere near the level of his fella), Blink allowed his attentions to be turned, unchallenged. “Where?”

“There!” Lucky pointed eagerly towards the pair near the docks. “Ain’t he a newsie?”

“Since when do you know ‘hattan newsies?”

“Oh comoffit, I heard all ‘bout you ‘hattans after that riot you newsboys started-”

“No shit, the whole damn World heard. That was kinda the idea-”

“Shuddup. I was there in the square too, ya know?”

Blink started. “...you were?”

Lucky gazed back, eyes wide and (for once) entirely sincere. “Well sure I was! You think one of my best friends is gonna fight them hoity-toity types while I laze about on my ass? Not a chance Blinky-boy.”

Before they could move, Blink had wrapped up his friend in the briefest of hugs, the moment over before it really began. “...thanks.” Lucky shook his head, hair flopping into his eyes, straw drifting gold into the final light of the day.

“No thanks needed. I’d do it again, too.”

“...me too.”

“Hey!” Lucky elbowed his friend. “Don’t be gettin’ all sappy on me!”

Blink elbowed back, sniffing hard. “I wasn’t!”

“You sure was! You’s gettin’ so sappy, you ain’t even looked yonder yet!” Lucky gesticulated broadly towards the awaiting city. “After all the pictures, an’ the papes an’ the strike business? I’d recognize that face anywhere: new boy, hey? Jackie’s boy…or so Spot says.”

“Since when did your lot hang about with Spot Conlon?”

“Ask Race.”

Blink stared, bemused. Lucky thunked his forehead into his palm. 

“Nevermind. Is that Cowboy’s Mouth, or ain’t it?”

Giving into temptation, Blink allowed his sights to be directed through the dawning streetlamps, and sure enough, there, plain as day, was one David Jacobs, pulling a jacket from his bag, surely to protect himself from the chill of the water and the ever-approaching night.

“Well, shit.” Blink scratched at his head, dislodging his hat, barely managing to snatch onto his prized possession before the wind claimed it and the river kept it, jamming the patched accessory more securely over his hair. “Yeah, that’s Mouth. Come on, Luck-” he grabbed blindly for his friend’s hand, dragging the other boy at a speed towards the shore. “I been meaning to talk to him-”

“Uh, Blink?”

“Uh, what?”

“...who’s the broad?”

And sure enough, one David Jacobs had indeed pulled a jacket from his bag…and was now wrapping it around the shoulders of one Katherine Pulitzer.

Blink froze, Lucky crashing headlong into the marble teen. 

“Oh, fuck me.”

Mush was right.

Chapter Text

“Here early today, ay, Boots?”

The small boy nodded, slumping into his seat. 

Sympathetic to the heat of the day even with the slow-moving air of the restaurant, the old man smiled, a soft spot hidden somewhere in his chest (hidden deep behind the unfounded fears of teenage robbery and shenanigans) panging for the exhausted newsie, alone at his table…for now.

“The regular, then?” M. Tibby almost flinched at the boom of his own voice, the volume combined with the bright space almost overwhelming to him, let alone the near heat-exhausted kids he saw nearly every day ‘round 11:30. 

Boots blinked slowly in response, as though fighting sleep. “Yessir.”

“Good boy.” The man patted the child, nearly knocking the boy into the table with the force of his goodwill. “Turkey on rye, coming right up for my favorite customer-“ He paused, less than a stride away from the table. “And uh, the water’s on the house, hm?”

The man bustled off, the boy in the booth watching him leave, realizing too late he’d kept his hat on during the whole interaction, the sweat-soaked fabric warm to the touch from the heat of the sun and his own head. Internally cursing for his rudeness (external cursing would have only made things worse), Boots shifted carefully upright, tugging off the accoutrement with a shake of his head to give his brain a kick, resting his hat in his lap and his chin on his elbows as he watched the patrons of the day come and go.

The day was what some would call “unseasonably warm”, but was what the newsies of Manhattan tended to refer to as: “Crutchie was right and we should grovel at his clear omnipotence” (or so the crutch-wielding teen kept insisting. However, he also kept insisting that there was a rainstorm of epic proportions on the horizon, and let’s be real, how much predicting can a bum leg possibly do?).

No matter the term, the outcome was the same. The sun came out, and the city leapt to life. By the grace of whatever god was willing to peer down on New York, some well-meaning, church-going ladies had happily bought the lot of Boots’ papes for the morning to fashion themselves fans for service, and later seats in central park, leaving the morning ripe for a young newsie’s taking (if ripe for the taking meant hiding from the sun and enjoying the manufactured breeze among the crowds of the after-church luncheon).

‘It might’ve been lonely’, Boots supposed, taking a sip of blessedly cool water, ‘but it’s sure nice to escape those loonies for a tick’.

For sure, those 'loonies' were his friends, his family; but every so often, it felt like there was no air left between the insanity of the other boys and the craze of the city. Caught in a constant ricochet with no breaks was like being looped on the Switchback at Coney: nauseating, and enough to drive a boy mad. For his own sanity, he needed these times to take a step back, a moment to breathe sequestered away from the hustle and bustle of it all.

For some, it might’ve been lonely, but Boots was more than content to just…be.

Especially now.

Boots fought the urge to roll his eyes at the thought, highly aware of how very peculiar this would look for a boy sitting alone.

For almost a week Blink had been talking the ear off anyone who’d listen (apart from those involved) about what he’d witnessed in Brooklyn (ignoring Race’s sassed chastisements and Mush’s belated fears) between the Walking Mouth and Katherine Pulitzer. The news had spread like wildfire, the newsies taken to whispering amongst themselves with thoughts and theories as to the real story (while somehow managing to keep said whispers away from their fearless leader. Cowboy had enough on his plate without talk of his partner stealing his girl).

Some of the more reasonable newsies fanned away the rumors like pesky flies, dismissing Blink’s theatrics as nothing more than his usual dramatic embellishments to quite mundane occurrences (everyone still remembered the maple syrup incident, Blink). Others fell to the opposite extreme: clearly there was some grand conspiracy wherein Davey was using his superior intellect to court Katherine under Jack’s nose, the two bonding over their high(er) beginnings. This somehow translated to the pair working together as spies for Brooklyn, hellbent on destroying the Manhattan newsies once and for all and bringing about the eventual downfall of the state of New York. And of course aliens were involved (Smalls had really gone all out with this one, and it seemed they weren’t kidding either, which was somehow even more concerning than the conspiracy itself). From one extreme to the other, this was the continuum upon which the newsies’ rumor mill churned, the working boys finding themselves somewhere along the line from mundane to insane.

As for Boots? He fancied himself a thinking-man’s newsie, thank you very much, and as such would not be taken by such rabid flights of fancy as were conjured in his friends’ minds. He was very content to sit here with his head empty of vicious rumors and paltry gossip, his pockets full of pennies, and his belly full of lunch. Content to rest far away from hearsay arguments poorly concealed behind cupped hands, from shifty eyes and speculation, content to exist in the real world of the small restaurant. Content to sit, and relax, and…

And…

And…

And ohhhhh sonofafucking bitch that was the Walking Mouth and Katherine Pulitzer in the corner booth, wasn’t it?

Boots sat up a little straighter, careful not to garner any unwanted attention, craning his neck for a clearer picture. It couldn’t be. No. He was seein' things again, his brain cooked in the fall sun. It wasn't-

It was.

It fucking was.

Without a shadow of a doubt, that was The Walking Mouth and Katherine Pulitzer, in a corner booth, alone.

That was Mouth and Katherine, in a corner booth, alone, sharing what looked like a drink and some conversation.

That was Dave and Katherine, in a in a corner booth, alone, sharing a drink and some conversation, with motherfucking FLOWERS.

Boots let his head slip from his arms, the impact reflected in his half-drunk waterglass trembling on the table, his groan lost among the chatter of other patrons.

He owed Racetrack two whole bits now.

Chapter Text

‘If this is what heaven’s like,’ Spot ruminated, staring at the scene before him. ‘I reckon dyin’ wouldn’t be half-bad.’

The scene in question was one Racetrack Higgins, sprawled lazily across the hay, sunlight turning blonde curls to gold, tousled strands of gilded silk with bits of straw tucked here and there. Pale skin scattered with freckles cushioned by the dried grass, blanketed by shadow and somehow highlighted all the same, hard muscle and soft curves as flawless as any carved marble brought to life, evident in every graceful motion, his back aching alluringly as he lounged like a cat in the sunbeams, motes of dust blazing around him. His face and body were the very picture of contentment, stretching languidly among the rivers of amber, limbs loose and pliant though the silage didn’t dare dip under his weight, cushioning the other boy as though meant to show him off, pillowing instead of languishing, a soft quirk gracing rose lips (mildly swollen from their prior activities, and for once sans the cigar), blue eyes striking yet warmed by a smile meant only for one person.

An angel of the afternoon to be sure.

The angel blinked, sitting up abruptly, cheeks pinking as he realized his solo audience. Stands of hay drifted off to land elsewhere, his entire being now backlit from the window on the far side of the barn, a vision glowing softly in the afternoon light.

“What?”

Spot shook his head, smiling to himself as the other teen stretched again, seemingly gaining his bearings from his new, upright position. The Brooklyn leader closed his eyes and reclined, tossing his arms behind his head for good measure to simply take in the relaxing mood, listening to the sounds of his partner moving about the dried fronds, the shuffles of the horses below, the distant cheers of the track, feeling the late warmth of the season soak into his bones, inhaling the scent of an impending storm on the autumn breeze, drifting in from the far window.

“Where the fuck did I-?”

Spot opened one eye lazily before turning his full attention from the ambient setting to one boy in particular, the grin pulling at his lips sneaking across his face at the sight of the Manhattan second, now partially clothed, pants low on his hips, rifling through the hay in the loft the pair had claimed as theirs, strands of straw still caught in those wild curls as he tossed through the messy feed impatiently, letting out a small sound in triumph as he unearthed his shirt, quickly shaking off the clinging grass, sending the particles into a golden hurricane that surrounded him like a halo backed by post-midday sun.

Disregarding his own personal dust-storm, Racetrack let out a hum of satisfaction, rifling through his pockets for the one constant in his life, a somewhat battered cigar soon rolling between his fingers as he set his shirt to the side, back to searching the disarrayed feed on all-fours once more, bare feet shuffling behind him.

He was a disaster.

He was beautiful.

Unable to keep his interest to himself, Spot propped himself up for a better view, unabashedly smiling as the boy before him paused, once more growing wise to the eyes that rested on him, turning and catching sight of his amused observer, cheeks pinking in a way that couldn’t be blamed on the sun, the blonde grinning and settling back on his knees, a jokingly exasperated laugh huffing out as he did so.

“What?”

“Nothin’, Spot shook his head, still smiling, still laid on his side, head propped in one hand, back nearly touching the wall and feet barely grazing the railing, sending bits of hay drifting to the barn floor below, the horses residing in the building already settled in their stalls for the evening, sounds of the ongoing races echoing in the distance. “Nothin’…” He repeated, smiling in return, content to bask in the afterglow for a few moments more. He tipped his head a bit more, hat lost somewhere in the mess. “-can’t a guy admire his fella?”

“Stop!” Race threw a handful of straw at the other boy, ducking away with an embarrassed giggle, hands clasping over his face. “The sappy shit you think of when we’re alone, none a’ the guys would believe it I swear,”

Spot shrugged, turning and stretching, arms and legs sweeping along the wooden slats beneath the hay, staring briefly up at the birds that twittered in the rafters. “Well, good thing they don’t gotta’ believe it.” He let his muscles release, dropping his head to the side, resuming his fond gazing at the other teen, still perched on his knees. “Just you.”

“Incorrigible.” Race sighed, shaking his head, running a hand through his already disheveled mop of hair, stray pieces of gold finally departing to join their brethren. “That’s what you are, y’know?” He shook his head again, dislodging more hidden strands, before crawling his way over to the other teen, swinging a leg over to settle himself across Spot’s hipbones, very much enjoying the blush that darkened across the tanned face. Grinning wickedly, he leaned forwards, watching the dark brown eyes as the boy on the floor went nearly cross-eyed trying to follow the slender finger that reached forward to tap his nose- “Fuckin’ incorrigible.” Race tapped again, finally giving into temptation and planting his hands flat on the floor on either side of the Brooklyn newsie’s head, his whole-body tipping to follow.

Long used to his fella’s antics, Spot brought up his own hands to support his foolish boy, calloused palms nearly spanning the other’s waist, gently lowering until their lips finally met again, an encore of the previous thirty minutes.

It was (in Spot’s opinion) all too short a time before Race was vertical once more, the shorter of the pair unable to resist chasing the other upwards, another few sparing kisses stolen before they were sat, face-to-face, Spot solidly on the floor with his legs straight out in front of him, happy to support Race, still with his knees on either side of Spot’s thighs, ankles tucked gracefully beneath him, just as happy to lounge in the other’s embrace, his own arms draped artfully across broad shoulders.

“Hiya, Racer.”

“Hiya, Spot.”

The moment held, a shining thread among a million others, borne on the heat of an autumn afternoon, a time for lovers and dreamers, a connection so fragile yet stronger than the steel that spanned the Brooklyn Bridge, something so new and tenuous as secure as any lock.

Race let himself ponder this, hand sliding gently over toned muscle to play lightly with the key that hung at Spot’s neck, a mystery all its own.

“Say,” Spot voiced quietly, a shade louder than the whickers below. “Where’d you go an’ learn a word like that?”

“Would you believe me if I said the papes?”

“No.”

Race outright laughed, shaking his head. “No foolin’ you, Spotty.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Y’know, Dave really knows his shit. You should come sit in on one of his lessons with the littles-“

“That’s it. You ruined it.”

“What?!” Race squawked, nearly shrieking with laughter as Spot shoved him over into the hay, the blonde retaliating with a shove of his own, the pair quickly devolving into a wrestling match with plenty of flying (grassy) projectiles. It seemed like the Brooklyn boy had the upper hand, lording his more overt muscles over his partner’s wiry frame, that was until-

“Incoming!”

Spot barely had time to look up, still scrambling to his feet, when his shirt smacked into his face, sending him to an undignified heap on his bottom, Race doubled over and laughing a short distance away. The brunette shook his head, straightening his undershirt before attempting to thread his head and arms through the loose linen in his hands, motioning to the other boy with a rude hand gesture that just sent Race into another fit of hysterics. “Yeah, yeah.” Spot wedged the tip of his toes under a stray sock, kicking it in his partner’s general direction. “Shut yer mouth an’ get dressed before you go spookin’ the horses-“

Race gasped, a hand over his chest. “Why, Sean Conlon, I would never!”

“You did it two days ago-“

“Lies and deceit.”

“If you say so.”

“Slander!”

“Mmhm. You keep believin’ that.”

“Libel!”

“Who’s writin’ shit down?”

“…shut up.”

Laughter not quite spent, the boys set to putting themselves to rights (of course with the obligatory quips and barbs), fishing about in the mess they’d made for their garments, pape bags (long emptied) heaped next to their boots by the top of ladder.

Spot was just clipping his second suspender into place when he heard an uncharacteristic (and very colorful) series of words slip from Race’s mouth, the tone alone enough to pull Spot’s focus from his current task. “Racer-?”

“Oh, fuck off, wontcha?”

Spot blinked, mildly taken aback, retaliation held on the tip of his tongue as he took in the scene. Smart as Spot was, he quickly assessed what the other boy was up to, and chose a calm exhale over incendiary remark, shaking his head while his heart panged with emotions that he couldn’t quite name.

Race himself froze, looking up guiltily from the mess of fabric in his hands, hastily crossing his arms over his chest, face darkening with shame. “I-“

Spot shook his head. “Hey, s’nothin’,”

“It is, though-“

“Race,” The blonde shut his mouth, cigar tucked away in his back pocket. “It’s fine. Honest.”

“…M’sorry, Spotty.” Despite their various stages of clothed and unclothed throughout the afternoon, Race kept his arms tight to his ribs, suddenly feeling more exposed than he’d ever been. Spot, ever the gentleman (not that any of the other boys would believe it) kept brown eyes locked on blue, gaze never straying, words never judging, just, there.

“Do you want help?” Spot tipped his head, indicating the tangled mess in Race’s hands, the Manhattan newsie nodding gratefully, passing the wadded strands over without another word, hand retracting to hug himself again, concealing himself from the world as he turned his back to the other boy, head still ducked, as though if he made himself small enough, he could disappear. The drop to his knees was soundless, the boundless confidence synonymous with Racetrack Higgins stolen away by things neither of them could control.

Despite his own feelings (fuck, it wasn’t fair) Spot didn’t acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation, choosing to hum a song he and Race had heard the last time they’d snuck onto the catwalk at Medda’s, his soft baritone echoing warmly against worn wood. All the while, his hands kept busy; straightening the cotton cloth and rolling it neatly before passing the end to the other boy who positioned it soundlessly under one arm, making sure the end lay flush with his chest. “There’s good?” A nod. “Right. Arms up-“

And Race, hesitated. The pause was nearly negligible, a fraction of a second’s delay, but it was more than long enough for the pulse of pain that beat itself against Spot’s ribs, as though one of the Woodside boys had snuck in a lucky shot. The Brooklyn newsie took a breath and kept humming, using the peasant tune to pretend he hadn’t noticed Race’s stutter in lifting his arms, the movement almost reluctant, deceptively slender wrists finally rising to cross firmly over blue eyes tightly shut, letting himself go.

Spot did his best to work quickly and efficiently, gentle as a spider’s silk, spinning and weaving, practiced hands - soft despite their reputation - soundlessly ghosting over the best-kept secret this side of the Atlantic, voice still droning a quiet tune into the sleepy air. 

Contrary to his calm front, he couldn’t stop his mind from racing, highly cognizant of the fragility of the moment, the weight of the privilege he held, the warmth of the trust they shared- Spot shook his head, careful not to jostle his most precious of tasks, willing his heart to steady and his hands to still, steadfastly ignoring burning beneath his skin companioned by the constant ache of knowing that no matter how many times they shared this song and dance, how many careful wrappings and unwrappings and rewrappings passed through his hands, it never got any easier for his fella (and Race was his fella, and anyone who said differently could get fucked. Well, get a good soakin’, and then get fucked.).

“Almost finished. Not too tight, yeah?”

Race grit his teeth hard enough to feel it in his ears. “Just, just fuckin’ tie it.”

Spot nodded, knotting the fabric expertly, sealing it with a small pat over his friend’s ribs, allowing his hand to linger for a moment, thumb stroking lightly as though soothing a wound.

Race let out a shuddering exhale, muscles finally releasing with a few rolls of his shoulders, the teen shifting this way and that to test the movement of the constructed undergarment, sighing in relief at the lack of any uncomfortable pinching or chafing. “Thanks, Sean. Hate this shit. S’always feels better when you’re the one t’do it.”

Spot Conlon, as the King of Brooklyn, was not what any same person would call “soft”. Spot Conlon was brick walls and rough edges, insults and fistfights, sharp movement and cunning mind, intimidation and control. But here, in the bubble they’d created away from the world, away from the posturing and expectation, Spot’s voice was soft, hands soft, eyes soft, these things reserved only for- “Tony, tesoro.” A breeze swept in from beyond their walls, soothing frayed nerves and ruffled feathers. “All you gotta do is ask.”

Race let out a surprised squeak as the other boy grabbed his wrist in one (gentle) calloused hand, tugging the lanky teen around to face him. Spot dropped delicately to his knees in the hay to press a quick kiss to chapped lips, chasing away a thousand insecurities and indignities that always seemed to linger just beneath the wrappings of a makeshift binder.

“Anythin’ for my fella.”

Race smiled, a blush dusting his cheeks. “M’so damn lucky to have ya, Spotty. You know that?”

Spot chuckled, retrieving the other boy’s vest from where it had been tossed earlier, worrying a thumb over a loose button while Race slipped into his under and overshirt, already standing taller.

“Here,”

Race caught the pale fabric without looking, his eyes wandering over the shared space. “Uh, say, Spot, you ain't seen my boot, have ya-?”

Spot shook his head, striding through the loose piles of hay that surrounded them to join the other boy, now staring distractedly out the far window, shoes forgotten, socks buried in the grassy litter. A bell tolled in the distance, the Brooklyn boy fumbling for his pocket watch, checking the timepiece against the rolling sky, clouds drifting in on the wind, harbingers of early evening. “Shit, sun’s settin’ fast.”

“It’s only just five-“

“Yeah, an' we both got places to be, an' none a' them's is here.” Spot checked through his pockets for his belongings, a sigh of relief escaping him when he found his possessions as he’d left them.

“Is leavin’ me really as simple as that?”

The shorter started, a chill rising from his gut turning to reassurances in his mouth, whirling to face- a cheekily grinning Race. Spot snorted, shaking his head and reaching out a hand to gently cup a freckled face, his fella leaning into the touch with a nudge not dissimilar to an affectionate cat. “Never.”

They stayed, drawing out the moment as long as they dared, Race turning to press a kiss to the palm cradling him like a prized possession, yet capable of breaking any bone set against it, the violence lurking under the surface (but not for Race, no, not ever) of calloused fingertips sending a shudder down the skinny teen’s spine.

“Spotty,”

“Mmm?”

“You think any of them other boys is- is like us?”

Spot startled again, choking on his own saliva for a moment, hands withdrawing and body doubling, Race’s hands floating over in silent regret. Spot waved away the concern, tears hovering in his eyes, face red as he gulped in oxygen. “If the boys like us? Never thought you was one to worry ‘bout reputation-”

Race’s mouth fell open, hands gesticulating frantically. “You- I can’t- the motherfuckin’ King of Brooklyn, about to lecture me on reputation? Talk ‘bout the pot and kettle-!“

“-you got to know you’s the most popular newsie from the Bronx to fuckin’ Queens, hell, you gotta be the most well-liked newsie in New York, not sure why you’s sweatin’ ‘bout it-“

“You can’t honestly, wait, wait-“ Race rolled his eyes, head dropping back to stare up at the rafters, a few pigeons ruffling above their heads. “I’m not askin’ if they like us, I mean if they, if they’s like not like, if, shit.” Race ran a hand through his hair, hands itching for his hat or cigar, hands exploring the space around him instead, fidgeting with his hair, his shirt, pockets, hair again, geez, why’d Spot have to look at him like that? “If they’s like- if they’s queer, queer you jackass!”

“Oh.” Spot shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets, the return of trademark stoicism and cynicism seeming to settle his companion. “Dunno. What’s got you thinkin’ ‘bout that?”

Race shrugged back. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Fuck you-“

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“-and the horse you rode in on.”

“I’m not the one walkin’ his sorry ass to Sheepshead every day-“

“…touché.”

Spot wrinkled his nose. “French? Where’d you-“ He caught the other boy’s eye, rolling his eyes as they both answered.

“Dave.”

Spot dusted himself off, shaking loose a horse’s snack worth of hay. “Speakin’ of, not sure about any of my boys, but you Manhattans seem to be a mixed bunch.”

“And what’s that s’pposed to mean?”

Spot smirked, looking the other boy up and down. “Come on,” A quirked eyebrow. “You know.”

Race inhaled sharply, ready to argue, lungs full-

The eyebrow arched higher.

Race deflated. “…Yeah.”

Spot grinned fully, a sight reserved for Brooklyn littles and Race himself, striding forward to tuck his fella under his arm (as best as he could, anyway), the pair staring out at the blushing sky, gray clouds hovering in the distance. “What about Crutchie?”

Race hummed. “He’s a maybe, but he’s never been much for steppin’ out. Mush and Kid Blink? Oh. They’s queer as they come.”

“Not very secretive.”

“Nah.”

Spot flipped through his mental notes on the Manhattan newsies. “…Albert?”

Race snorted. “Not sure. He hates everyone.”

“Romeo?”

“He likes everyone.”

“Jackie boy.”

The two shared a look, unable to hold their poker faces for longer than a moment before bursting into laughter, Race almost losing his balance and Spot his breath.

“Jack-“ Race’s laugh was like pealing bells. “Jack’s been chasin’ every skirt he seen since we was kids-“

Spot nodded, swiping at his face with a sleeve. “Sure, he’s been the same long as I known ‘im.”

“If Jack’s nothin’ else-“

“He ain’t-“

“Spot.”

Spot raised his hands, palms out, still smirking.

Race swatted playfully at the other boy. “As I was sayin’, if Jack’s nothin’ else, he’s at least predictable.”

“Mhm. Cowboys, skirts, Santa Fe.”

Race swatted him again. "Well, why'd you ask then?”

“Just wanted to see what you’d say.”

“Spot!”

Spot reached up to pluck a stray piece of straw from the Manhattan’s head, Race returning the favor even as Spot ducked away from the piano-player’s hands to search for his hat in the quagmire that was the hayloft. “If not Cowboy, what ‘bout ‘is Mouth? You and him seem to be awful friendly,”

“Don’t be an ass,” Race lowered his eyes to do up the buttons on his vest, tongue poking lightly from between his lips in concentration. “Mouth don’t seem much interested in anyone. But ‘tween you an’ me, I’m thinkin’ he might be queer.”

Spot snorted again, sending pieces of hay fluttering around him like gnats at the riverside. “Sure, an’ I bet you so much as mention bein’ queer to Mouth an’ he faints.”

Race stopped, buttons half done (and one-off), the teen swearing and undoing his hard work. “Now that ain’t fair,”

“Sure, it is!” Spot tipped his head, sat back on his haunches for a moment, eyes captured by the view in front of him once more even as they bickered. “Good little schoolboy like Mouth? No way he’s queer.”

“Then why did you ask-“ Race didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one, still talking. “I mean, Boots has been spoutin’ off some rumor ‘bout Mouth an’ Kath,” He scrunched his face a bit. “Which- gross. And the guys have been talkin’ some insane shit for weeks now,” He tugged down his vest, now correctly fastened. “I think they’re all full a’ shit. Dave’s queer.”

“He hates spit, you think he’s gonna wanna suck a-“

“Whoa!” Current task completed, Race stumbled his way across the wreckage of the bales to clap a hand over Spot’s mouth only to immediately retract his peaceable assault, resisting the urge to reflexively slap the other boy (if it was anyone else…) when the Brooklyn newsie licked his hand in revenge (he hoped Spot got hay in his mouth for that one, would serve him right, tonguin’ a guy’s hand like that). He settled for wiping his hand on his pants and returning that shit-eating grin with one of his own. “You remember he fought a bull with ‘is bare hands, right?”

Spot fixed him with a look, tilting his head. “…that don’t mean he’s queer, Racer,”

“Wanna put some dough on it?”

“Fine.”

“Two bits?”

“You’re on.”

They spat and shook, the friendly wager interrupted by a church-bell ringing out across the city, both boys automatically scrambling for their respective timepieces, swearing, and staring at the other with eyes somewhere between longing and sorrow. Spot reached out a hand for the other boy to take, offering a gentle squeeze.

Race sighed, tracing bruised knuckles with a hand similarly marked. “I wish we had more time-“

“Hey,” Spot stood a bit taller, making sure their eyes met. “We’re lucky we got this time, huh?”

“Luck?” Race laughed, pushing the other hard enough to jostle, but not dislodge, reluctant to break the contact, even now, heedful of the time ticking by. “Luck has-“

The pair jerked apart at the sound of voices from outside, dropping to the floor, Race lowering his voice to a furious whisper. “Luck ain't got nothin’ to do with it!”

Spot mirrored his energy, pitch and volume dropped. “We sold all our papes, ain’t that lucky?” The boys held their positions, frozen, until the noise from outside faded, releasing a tandem breath in relief. The shorter boy shot upright, holding out a hand to help his fella to his feet. “Shit, we gotta go-“

Race was not done. “Givin’ your papes to one of your boys an’ tellin’ 'em to sell ‘em ain’t luck.”

Spot merely raised an eyebrow in clear amusement, busy as he was collecting their remaining belongings.

“Oh, you-“ Race dropped to a knee with a shake of his head and a mumbled word that was definitely an Italian insult, fussing with the laces of his left shoe, the right still conspicuously absent. “Sides, how do you know he’s good for it?”

The other newsie glanced over his shoulder, still with that damned eyebrow and that damned smile, like he knew a secret he’d never share, the bastard. “Barrel owes me, he’s good for it. An’ at such an opportune time, seems like-“

“Half the damn city owes you somethin’,” Race hopped to his feet, stealth forgotten, an accusing finger leveled at his partner. “You say that’s luck and I’m hoppin’ the next train to Santa Fe with Jack, I swear to god-“

Spot tripped his way over with barely contained laughter, both their bags held loosely in his hands. “And what ‘bout that Tom Sayer-lookin’ kid bein’ out? The horses done for the day? Givin’ us the barn-“

“Stable-“

“Whatever, to ourselves with fresh hay in the loft… Seems like it might be-“

Race frowned. “Don’t you say it.”

Spot smiled.

Race sighed, snatching his bag from the other teen mock-moodily. “Alright lucky-boy, help me find my- Spot!”

Race had barely begun to turn when the other boy bodily tackled him into the loft, one hand curling protectively around the back of the blonde’s head to prevent untoward head-trauma while the other clamped over his mouth, muffling any sounds he might have made.

Face to face, Spot quite literally laid-out on top of the other boy, he removed his hand, already preparing to apologize, when Racetrack blinked away his confusion with a smile.

“Not that I mind, but isn’t this kinda thing my schtick- mmph!

The hand was back, Race fully preparing to curse out the other teen when panicked brown eyes met shocked blue, the tongue-lashing turned smothered question dead on arrival with a silent shake of Spot’s head.

Shit. Sean was serious. This was serious.

Race wriggled a bit, tailbone pressed uncomfortably into the wooden supports.

“Whmphm tdng-?”

Spot shook his head again, the most strangled “Shhh!” Race had ever heard escaping the Brooklyn boy as the somewhat squished teen became privy to what Spot had noticed moments earlier-

Voices.

Loud ones.

RIGHT OUTSIDE the stable.

Oh fu-

The door slammed open, the sounds of excited chatter echoing up from below.

Scratch that, RIGHT INSIDE THE STABLE.

Ohhhhhh Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Race nodded as cautiously as he dared, careful not to disturb the hay beneath them. Spot returned the gesture shakily, removing his hand to touch a finger for his lips, the need for utmost silence already understood. Race was about to roll his eyes in the universal sign for ‘No shit’,  when a familiar sound caught his ear,

“Katherine, stop! Do you want to get caught? Because that’s how you get caught-“

“Do you worry about everything-“

“Yes!”

Spot’s eyebrows shot up so far and so fast they were nearly lost in his hair, the recognizance slamming into both boys like a freight train. The pair moved as one, scrambling as quickly and stealthily as they dared to the top of the ladder, peering over the body of the building below to see-

David Jacobs.

And Katherine Pulitzer.

Their words, no longer being shouted, were lost to the space, but their tones were clear, joy and urgency written in their movement, Katherine practically dragging Davey by the hand, the latter turning to hastily shut the door, even as their conversation continued.

So, Katherine and David, and they didn’t want to be disturbed- Race shared a glance with his partner, Spot’s confusion and panic mirrored on his own face, he was sure of it. Double fuck. No way they could escape in any ensuing confusion. Speaking of confusion, what in the everloving fuck were two Manhattans doing in Brooklyn anyway? Spot was gonna soak the shit out of Jack for not keeping a tighter leash on his kids-

That thought was cast aside as Davey grabbed the reporter by the waist, lifting her and spinning her around in a rare display of strength.

Race found himself caught between the two sides of himself, one wanting to scream, because WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK(?!?!?) while the other resisted the urge to groan loudly, already mentally tallying his lost bets among the Manhattan boys. His ruminations were interrupted by Spot slapping hastily at his shoulder, the other’s usual composure out the window (minus his furrowed brow) as he gestured emphatically, yet minimalistically, at the floor far below, indicating something ahead of the intruding pair (were, were they dancing? What. The. Actual. Fuck)-

Race’s heart sank into his stomach as he saw what the other boy had already seen-

His boot. His missing right boot, plain as day, in the middle of the floor, clearly out of place in the well-kept stable, horses and gear stowed neatly away and floor recently swept, hay that could only have come from the loft above still present, clinging to all sides of the footwear yet doing nothing to disguise it for what it was.

The pair shared a look, reversing as far back from the edge as they dared, praying they couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be seen, backs pressing painfully into the unyielding walls of the sheepshead stables, hands unconsciously reaching for one another, clasping tightly, desperate for anything to hold onto as their rapidly decaying universe tilted dangerously.

Jesus, they were so fucked.

Race saw Spot’s eyes dart towards the far window, and almost chuckled at the realization that the other boy was sincerely debating jumping out that very window. He almost chucked, at least, he would have, had he not been contemplating the exact same thing.

The steps grew louder, closer, still lilting around one another, closer, closer…any moment now and they’d spot it, and it didn’t take two brains like David Fucking Jacobs or Katherine Motherfuckin’ Pulitzer to know exactly where the boot came from, exactly whose it was, any moment now…

Any.

Moment.

The boys tensed, eyes closed tightly, prepared for the storm that was sure to come, as sure as the gathering clouds outside, the setting sun, as sure as-

As-

As-

As-?

Race peeked open an eye, still waiting for the other shoe to drop (metaphorically, of course), Spot doing the same, the sounds from below having ceased. The Manhattan tilted his head, Brooklyn shrugging, their hands separating to carry them silently across the expanse of the hayloft, peering to the floor below.

The boot remained, horses shifting softly in their stalls. A bell clanged in the distance, muffled cheers accompanying what must have been the start to another race. The pigeons shuffled in the beams overhead, a few stray feathers drifting to the floor below. A mouse scampered along the wall, gray barncat hot on its heels. The door creaked softly in the breeze, not quite fixed on its latch in the haste of the couple below. The couple (Race resisted a small gag, Jesus, Jack was gonna be wrecked, they were supposed to be his friends) had ceased their more overt merriment in favor of relocating to the far corner where the schoolboy, Davey Jacobs, had intrepid reporter Katherine Pulitzer pushed against the wall, her giggles loud enough to be heard up in the rafters, her red curls standing out brightly against his gray uniform jacket, their heads so close it didn’t take two newsies to figure out what they were, ahem, ‘discussing’.

Race took one more glance at his partner, taking in his taught posture, fist curled at his side, jaw clenched, looking for all the world like he might jump the railing and fight David Jacobs then and there. As much as Race longed to do the same, he knew, they both knew their anger would have to wait. Until then…

Race leaned close, sure his whisper wouldn’t carry, and if it did, the pair below was certainly far too distracted to notice. His lips nearly brushing the shell of the other boy’s ear, Race grinned tightly, bitterly, knowing Spot couldn’t see his face, but would hear the smile in his voice all the same.

“Guess he ain’t queer.”

Chapter Text

They had only just resigned themselves to a long wait in the loft (hoping and praying that Kath and Mouth wouldn’t decide to take things further by doing, well, exactly what Spot and Race had been doing not an hour before).

Fortunately, neither option came to fruition as a well-timed breeze slammed the barn door wide open, the crash shocking the blushing pair apart, boy and girl hurrying out of the stable in a hurry, this time closing the door properly on their way out.

The boys in the loft waited until nothing could be heard, ears straining for any sounds of the cavorting duo amongst the cooing of the birds, the whickers of the steeds, and the clamor of the races. When it was certain the coast was clear, they scrambled down the ladder, retrieved Race’s boot, and (with only the briefest of stops for Race to slip his favorite horse a sugar cube) beat a hasty retreat out the opposing door. Then it was a dead sprint (cautiously) down the emptying streets of the city, Spot taking the lead down various alleys and backroads to avoid being seen by any familiar faces, until Manhattan was in sight, lights beginning to glow dully across the river.

The shock and disbelief hadn’t quite worn off by the time they reached the bridge, nearly abandoned at this time of night, something akin to righteous fury boiling just under the surface.

Race shook his head, his body collapsing over the railing, hat dangerously close to falling in the water below. “I can’t believe they-“

“I swear to fuckin’ God, Racer-“

“I mean, it’s Dave. He an’ Jack have been together since- well,”

“I am gonna kill Jacobs-“ Spot made to light a cigarette, cursing when the wind blew out his match.

“And after everything Jack did for ‘im? For their whole family? This is the thanks he gets? Cheated on by his girlfriend with ‘is best friend? It makes me sick- here, fuck.” Race stuffed his cap in his bag for safekeeping, holding out a hand to shield his friend from the wind while Spot lit the tightly rolled paper, taking a deep drag.

“The older one, not the little one.” Spot passed the smoke over, Race taking a hit of his own and returning it, a little distracted voice in the back of his mind longing for a cigar even as Race fingered the one he had left distractedly, mouth still keeping up a steady stream of consciousness.

“And, and Katherine, after everythin’ Jack did to get her away from her pops? The strike coverage, hell, did you see the two of them then, cosyin’ up to one another like it was goin’ out of style? I thought- I mean, obviously it weren’t gonna last, but I didn’t think it’d end like this-“

Spot joined his fella at the railing, staring into nothing. “I mean Mouth, obviously. I ain’t messin’ with his sister. Did you see what she did to the Delanceys?”

“I just- wait what?” Race stood up sharply, staring at Spot, completely nonplussed. “What did you just say?

Spot blinked back. “Hm? Well, shit I ain’t goin’ against Sarah Jacobs, and any guy who values his manhood shouldn’t neither.”

“I-“ Race winced, dwelling on that thought for a little too long, letting himself relax again. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“You don’t. Agreed?” Spot gave a short nod. “I think Mouth is in Manhattan tomorrow-“

Race nodded reflexively. “He’s in Manhattan every day, he waits for Jack after he’s done whoa, wait wait wait!” He pushed himself up once more, cursing a blue streak as an unlucky gust of wind caused him to stumble, letting go of his cigar, staring forlornly as the item dropped between the slats of the bridge. “Fuck. Goddamn it, Spot! I mean, shit!” he shook his head, trying to get his thoughts back on track. “What’s agreed?”

Spot fixed Race with a look, handing over the cigarette as a placeholder. “We march into that city a’ yours and tell Kelly exactly what’s goin’ on, preferably with those two rats in attendance.”

“What?” Race’s face paled, the blonde boy choking on the smoke in his lungs, clenching the railing for support. “Spot, we can’t.”

“Well, sure we can, I got no plans for tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Spot took back his smoke, passing over the remainder of his box of matches to occupy his fella’s hands. “Then what did you mean?”

“I,” Race fumbled with the box. “I just, come on, Spot. You-“ He gestured between the two of them, Spot staring blankly. “I, you, I- fuck, Spot!” he let out a frustrated groan deep in his throat, head tipped back to the sky, a few pedestrian stragglers giving the pair a wide berth.

Spot tipped his head, something that might have been concern flickering in his eyes. But Spot Conlon was not easily deterred. “So, I’m findin’ Mouth then?”

Race jerked his head up again. “Jesus fucking Christ, Spot, NO.”

Spot turned to face him, movements tight. “And why not? Kelly’s bein’ screwed over by those two traitors - shut up - bein’ played like a damn fool, and you’re tellin’ me we ain’t gonna do shit about it?” He made a wide gesture, palms up to the sky. “I thought you and Kelly were close,”

“We are.”

Spot spread his arms wider. “And, you’re just gonna watch this destroy him? Watch those two make ‘im the laughingstock of the city? How long are you gonna let them-“

“Well, fuck, it ain’t like I want to!” Race burst out, slamming the matches to the ground. He started for a moment, almost surprised at his own vehemence when his words echoed back at him, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Fuck, I wanna tell him so bad-“

Spot wasn’t budging, stubborn as a brick wall, bending silently to retrieve his possession.

“So, you’re gonna tell him?”

The blonde was silent now, taking a deep inhale from the remains of the cigarette, defiantly looking over the river below; Spot staring on in disbelief.

“Shit, ain’t you s’pposed to be ‘is brother, Racer?”

Race jumped as though he’d been electrocuted, snapping his head to stare at the other boy, mouth hanging open in indignation. “Of course I am!”

“Well, you sure as shit ain’t actin’ like it!” Spot thumped a fist into his open palm, the sound echoing along the metal structure that supported them. “What good is brawlin’ when you ain’t there for ‘im when it counts?!”

“Don’t you say that Sean.”

Race’s voice was tight. Angry. Stone cold. He didn’t even react as Spot lunged to retrieve the smoke, the quick movement barely preventing the other boy from burning himself on the glowing tip. “You have No. Fuckin’. Clue. what we been through. What we did to keep each other.” His hand rubbed reflexively over his arm, knees locking, haunting memories stamped into flesh. “You’re messin’ with things that ain’t meant to be messed with. So…so, just stop. Before you say somethin’ you’ll regret.”

The vitriol in his voice was enough to knock Spot back a pace, taking in the other boy, bathed in the red of the rapidly disappearing sun, body locked with barely constrained rage, fist clenched at his side, face scarily calm.

And here, mid-argument, at possibly the worst time conceivable for such a thought, Spot was jarringly reminded of why he loved Racetrack Higgins.

Race was a lot of things, funny, wickedly clever, a quick runner and a fast talker, a comforting voice and fierce protector. But Race was the Manhattan second for a reason. He was a steady person to have at your side, unpredictable in a fight, scrappy and strong, and smart as a whip to boot. He could take a soakin’ without a word and then turn around and deliver one of his own without so much as blinking an eye. Race didn’t often start fights, but you could bet every last dime you had that he would finish them. Race was violent and scary as much as he was sensitive and sweet, the duality of man perfectly balanced in this skinny blonde newsie, who was apparently two seconds from snapping and kicking Spot’s ass.

But one doesn’t become King of Brooklyn by playing it safe.

“Then why won’t you tell him-“

“Because I’m protecting you, ya fuckin’ idiot!” Race dropped his fists, hands coming up to run through his hair instead, stalking agitatedly back and forth like a pissed-off cat, metaphorical tail lashing, footsteps clanking sharply on chilled metal as he approached Spot, a finger jabbing into a sturdy chest. “Spot, we tell them what we know, what we saw, people are gonna question why we were there, how we know what we know.” A step closer, finger pressing in harder. “You know why we can’t risk that.” Another step. More pressure. “We out them, and they out us.” They were face to face now, close enough for Spot to make out the angry tears Race refused to let fall. “What do you think would happen to you, huh? To your city, if it got ‘round the King of Brooklyn was a queer?” He staggered back, broadly gesturing to himself. “Me? I get ten times those rumors every week, but you?” He shook his head. “I ain’t gotta tell you what’d happen.” He laughed, something bitter and sour, nothing like the unrestrained giggles from earlier. “’Sides, when do you care ‘bout Jack Kelly?”

“I don’t.” Race snorted in disbelief, crossing his arms tightly. Spot sucked in a breath, continuing as though there’d never been an interruption. “But what’s happenin’ here? It ain’t right.”

Race laughed again. “So, Pulitzer strippin’ our rights away ain’t enough to get you to move, but stealin’ a girl is where you draw the line. That’s what mobilizes the great ‘Spot Conlon’,”

“This’s different, and you know it.”

“Uh huh.”

Spot rolled his eyes. “We might not go back as far as you n’Jack, but Cowboy’s a newsie through’n’through. An’ much as I hate to admit it, after that business with the strike, I owe him somethin’,” he ignored Race’s visible and audible incredulity with increasing difficulty. “‘Sides, I don’t need to risk my boys for this one, hell they ain’t even gotta know. It ain’t a fuckin’ giant like Pulitzer or any of them other hoity toity types, it’s just Mouth.”

Race sighed, heavy. “You can’t go beat up on Dave, Spot.”

Spot was not easily swayed, ticking off points on his fingers with the stub of the cigarette. “And why not? The way I see it, I take a trip to Manhattan, you’n’I confront the bastard, give ‘im a ‘little talk’, and we’re on our way.” He grinned, teeth glinting in the low light. “Bonus if Plumber is with ‘im.”

“I ain’t soakin’ Katherine, or Dave, and neither are you-“ Race shook his head, exasperated. “Have you been listenin’ to anything I’m sayin’?!”

Spot leaned back against the railing, forearms braced, head dropping back. “So, if we can’t soak Mouth or Plumber, and we can’t tell Cowboy, what are we gonna do?”

Race took a breath, wracking his brain for something, anything.

“For now, we do nothing.”

Spot frowned, fingers nearly crushing the remains of the cigarette. Acting quickly, Race rescued their sanity from the vicelike grip and took a hit himself, letting the smoke wash over his frayed nerves. “Now, I ain’t sayin’ we do nothin’ forever, Dave and Kath are gonna get what’s comin’ to them. But we find another way.”

“Hm.” Spot let his eyes follow his fella as the other boy began to pace, mind clearly working frenetically.

“We wait, and we watch. You still got those little birdies a’ yours, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Spot felt the beginnings of a smile fit on his face. This was also why he loved Racetrack Higgins. “Where you goin’ with this?”

Race stopped, clapping his hands together. “We get them keepin’ an eye out too.”

“But won’t that cause the same problem we’re trying to avoid?”

“Not if we don’t tell them why they’re lookin’.” Race gesticulated intensely, hands making concise circles in the air. “Tell them someone’s makin’ a play for the union by targeting Dave or somethin’-“

 “And if they just so happen to catch the both of them-“

Race nodded vigorously, hair still shaking loose bots of straw.

For a long moment, Spot was quiet, letting out a steady stream of smoke into the evening air, gray wisps borne away on the growing wind. “You better be sure about this, Higgins.”

Race exhaled sharply, setting his shoulders and straightening his spine. “It’s the best we can do.”

Spot shook his head. Of course he had to go fallin’ for the smartest (and most bull-headed) newsie in New York. But Spot Conlon was enough of a man to admit when he was bested. He spat in his hand and offered it to the other boy, Race blinking briefly in surprise before shaking his head with the ghost of a smile, returning the gesture. He started slightly when Spot didn’t let go, blue eyes wandering from their still clasped hands to those brown eyes he loved so much.

Spot squeezed a moment more, his voice soft, the words meant just for them. “I’m with ya, Tony.”

He let go, still looking the other in the eye. “They ain’t getting’ away with this, even if I gotta tail ‘em myself,” he paused, considering something. “And then we’ll soak ‘em, eh?” He gave his fella a gentle shove. “Whaddaya say? Carryin’ the Banner?”

Race smiled, a real one this time, if a little strained (understandable, given the circumstances). “Carryin’ the Banner.”

The sunset dimmed, wind whisking around the par as clouds coated the horizon, the sky glowing pink over the lovers for the briefest of moments before the gray of the impending weather took over.

“RACETRACK HIGGINS! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

Race jumped, twisting behind himself almost unnaturally as an achingly familiar voice echoed from the Manhattan side. “I- shit. We gotta go, Spotty.”

He made to leave, freezing when Spot grabbed his hand one more time, curling their fingers together, something inside the taller boy warming at the way their palms always seemed to fit, the touch gone far too soon. Unable to part, sweet sorrow though it may be, the boys chanced one last glance before Spot casually took off for his side of the river, form vanishing quickly into the dusk.

Race looked down at where their hands had been joined moments earlier, the handshake a piss-poor parody of all the touches they’d shared in private, this facsimile of toleration unable to hold a candle to what both already knew, but could never say, not here, not now, maybe not ever.

And yet-

Race stared, almost unbelievingly, at the item left behind.

A new cigar.

That bastard.

“RACE, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOUR ASS ISN’T TO LODGING IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES, ALBERT GETS YOUR BUNK!”

Race rolled his eyes, slinging his pape bag over his shoulder and stuffing his hands (and his new cigar) deep into his pockets, only to frown and shake some stowaway hay onto the ground, quickly scraping some dirt over it with the tip of his shoe as the end of the bridge came into view.

The end of the bridge where Jack Kelly stood, fiddling with his bandana.

At the sight of his long-time friend, his brother, Race stuttered briefly, almost tripping over his own feet, guilt flooding his lungs. God, he could tell him right now- before mentally shaking himself and casually loping to join the other teen, Jack throwing his arms up in exasperation at the casual approach.

“Evening, Cowboy,” Race tipped his cap, glancing around the dimly lit streets. “Come here often?”

“Why you-!” Jack made a lunge for the other boy, Race dancing out of reach with a cackle, Jack swatting him playfully with his own hat, snatched from its perch on blonde curls. “The hell you been doin’ all day? Crutch has been pitchin’ a fit ‘bout that rain and- shit!”

Sure enough, the first drops had begun to fall, splatting wetly on dirt, pavement, metal, and teenaged newsies alike, the pair squawking their displeasure and setting off at a run, Jack still chastising. “You and I are going to have a long talk about proper communication-!”

Race swallowed hard.

In the distance, thunder boomed.

The storm was coming.