Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything Oscar's ever done has been for Morris. Right from the very beginning, right from his first hazy memory of being lifted up in his daddy's arms and introduced, Da's voice barely a whisper, to the tiny baby on his mammy's trembling chest.

"Why's he look lik'at?" Oscar had asked, hand reaching out for the baby. Morris had looked like a little dead thing. Nothing like the squalling, bright-red creature Oscar'd met when the farmer's wife down the road had had her baby, nor like the bright-eyed calves and lambs and foals that got born every spring. Morris was quiet and pale, barely moving. He looked more like the pinkish little baby bird Oscar had once found beneath a tree out on the farm, naked and breathless. Dying — both that baby bird and Morris, though Oscar hadn't known in either moment.

"He's sick," Da had said, and that seemed right. The baby looked sick. And so did Oscar's mam, really, but he hadn't much cared about her in that moment. He'd just been staring at the baby. His baby, his wee baby brother. He'd been told countless times leading up to this that he was going to have to look after the baby when it came, that he was going to be a big brother and that was a very important job, but all of a sudden it was as if all of those words had bloomed around him. Like something had clicked into place, a certainty put into the universe.

"So you're gonna have to look after him, yeah?" Da had murmured, pulling Oscar close in his arms, and once again Oscar had nodded, but for the first time really meant the words that followed.

"I will."

Oscar's looked after him ever since. Through Da quite quickly losing interest in the baby — his first legitimate son — as it became quickly apparent that Morris wouldn't soon recover from the sickness of his birth. Morris stayed frail, and he cried often (colic, Ma called it, he was colicky) and was nothing like the strong son Da had wanted, but Oscar looked after him all the more for it. He stayed up with Ma and the baby and rocked him when Ma's arms got tired, and he stayed awake even when Ma fell asleep. He woke his parents when Morris stopped breathing or started twitching in his cradle, and when nobody came he tried to fix it by himself — and, somehow, always managed, rubbing Morris' birdcage chest until he gasped a little breath or holding him tight for the length of a seizure so he couldn't hurt himself.

He cradled Morris through the brutal winters when the insides of the windows would freeze and Oscar could see his breath in their bedroom, and he lay with him through the awful dry summers when Morris' chest would rattle and he'd wheeze with each shallow breath. Oscar fed him when their parents forgot, and played with him, and helped teach him to walk and talk and laugh as Morris grew, like Da was sure he was never going to. Not that Da helped, soon taking to hitting Morris as soon as he realised the kid could take it, then beating him like he beat Oscar and their Ma, and suddenly it was Oscar's job too to tend to his baby brother's bruises and scars and broken bones. To soothe him as he wailed.

And then to cover his eyes the night Morris had found their Ma's body.

So Oscar thinks it's pretty damn logical, the responsibility he feels for his baby brother. The responsibility he has always felt — an oath sworn before Morris was even born, then an oath kept through every horror they've faced together. Da's brutality and neglect, Ma's insanity and death, then the abandonment. The Refuge. Snyder. Oscar's looked after Morris through all of it, made every decision to protect him, done everything to protect him.

In the Refuge, when Snyder had looked at Oscar over his desk with glowing eyes and promised him payment for favours — beating an unruly boy bloody, informing Snyder of plans of escape, stealing back contraband — Oscar had agreed without much hesitation. The food and clothes and blankets were a good price, and all of it went to Morris, alongside an invaluable education in how to protect himself, in how to move up in the world even if it cost others being crushed underfoot.

When Oscar had turned eighteen, their uncle had come to the Refuge doors and all but offered to buy him, and once again Oscar had agreed. The price was good again — a job, a home, a worthy cost for some dirty work, and once again it was all for Morris. A decision made so they wouldn't be on the streets once they aged out, so that Oscar's wee brother could be safe.

It had, like everything else, seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Seemed like the only thing to do at the time. Oscar has only ever wanted Morris to be safe, to be under a roof with food in his belly whatever the damn cost may be.

But now, twenty years old and once again patching up his wee brother's brutal wounds — from their uncle's hands and strangers' and Morris' own — Oscar can't help but think maybe he's made a few wrong choices along the line.

Chapter Text

Morris despises it when David looks at him like that. That awful, cautious look, like Morris is half a stray animal and David's assessing if he's likely to get bitten.

Though, admittedly, Morris hasn't quite decided if he's going to bite him yet. Metaphorically, that is — Morris doesn't bite unless truly cornered, held down and injured with no other avenue, and as cornered as he feels right now, he has plenty other options for violence. A real easy hit to the face, for one. David's got a real punchable face, and Morris knows he can throw a punch that'll soon get a guy off him. But David's also so pathetic that Morris could just shove him and be done with it, David would flop to the floor like a toppled broom, and Morris could sprint home before the other boy even clocked what direction he'd gone in.

Part of Morris recognises that these aren't exactly normal things to be thinking about on a date. Not that this is a date, not really — Morris Delancey doesn't get invited on dates — but it's late and they're alone, sat side-by-side on a wall near the park, and they've got a couple bottles of cola between them (Morris had stolen them, cola because David doesn't drink, the pansy) and David had brought a wee paper bag of candy. Morris can't imagine David had stolen that. He must've bought them, open and honest, the same way he'd seemed when he'd caught Morris after work — made sure nobody else was around first, a furtive glance — and jerked his head mutely towards the park where they're now sitting.

Morris tells himself he'd only followed because David looked like he was going to throw up, pale and tense and real sweaty around his brow, but if he's honest, maybe it's because they've done this a few times now. Though they've never really asked each other. Morris just loiters — beats going home — and David seems to gravitate towards wherever he's loitering, ever since that time a couple weeks ago now that David'd found him bleeding bad and been stupid enough to help him.

It's all stupid. The candies in the bag are all Morris' favourites. He's cold. He wonders if Oscar's noticed he's gone yet. Wonders what lie David's told his family for why he's out so late, because they must've noticed, and they must care too. Morris doesn't really know why David's out here either.

He wordlessly takes another candy from the bag and crunches it between his teeth. It's hard and raspberry-flavoured, and he realises again that David is watching him.

"What?" Morris snaps shamelessly through his mouthful. David lets out an anxious breath of a laugh.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "It's just, I—" He trails off uselessly. Morris rolls his eyes, and is about to go back to ignoring him when finally David decides to finish a sentence for once. "…You said you liked the raspberry. The hard—the boiled ones. Did I get the right ones?"

Morris picks up his bottle of cola and takes a swig just for something to do. For another moment of avoidance from that awful searching gaze, from saying that, yeah, David got the right ones. David paid attention when Morris confessed his favourite sweets and then bought them, brought them for him.

"They're grand," he says roughly. He puts the bottle back down on the ground with a clink. David breathes another laugh, softer this time. Less nervous.

"You say that a lot," he says.

"What?"

"Grand. The sweets are grand, the park's grand, you're grand." It sounds strange against his New York tongue. Morris prickles like it's mockery.

"'S'how I talk."

"I know. It's—it's interesting, how…your language is, how you speak." David fidgets. "You're from Ireland, aren't you?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing, I just—"

They've talked about it before. Morris had spoken about it then, about Ireland, about the barest glimpse of his mother, and there's nothing different about now, but. But.

But it's late and David is sat close, so close Morris can almost feel their shoulders brush, swears he can feel the warmth of David's skin through their jackets. His skin is crawling. Just as David had looked like he was afraid of being bitten, Morris feels terrified all at once of being made to bite. Of being cornered and talked down and then provoked. He thinks of the dogs on the farm growing up, their bared snapping teeth and pinned-back ears. He thinks of Da.

All at once, he's stood up, and he wants to shove his hands in his pockets to hide how they're shaking but he can't seem to find his pockets, pawing uselessly at his hips instead until he gives up and digs his nails into his palms as hard as he can.

"What—is something wrong—?" David asks, dark brows furrowed, looking all concerned and uncertain and. Guilty. "Did I say something—? We don't have to talk about—"

Morris turns on the worn-out heels of his workboots and goes. Shoulders hunched, head down, moving as fast as he dares to without risking catching the attention of a bull loitering somewhere. His breath feels tight. His skin is crawling. Some deep, pathetic part of him wants to turn back and go back, sit back down next to David and let himself be a different version of himself and talk. Maybe be half a person that deserves David looking at him like that, listening to him.

But he isn't. So he goes, and leaves David sat alone in the park.

Chapter Text

3 — "of course it's you"

Oscar's breath is coming out hard and fast and shallow. The world feels like it's closing in around him. His face is burning. His hands are cold. And he knows, he just needs to calm the fuck down, just needs to breathe for a second, but he can't. He can't. Air won't go into his lungs — it's like all the air all around him has turned into syrup, thick and sticky and getting stuck in a great lump in his throat, won't go down nor come back up, and he can't breathe. He thinks he might die. And, God, what a stupid way to die, choking and wheezing by the gate of the distribution yard all because his uncle had been showing someone around.

Some tall, broad man with dark, curly hair that Oscar had thought, for one terrifying moment out of the corner of his eye, was his father.

God, he's going to throw up.

His knees are trembling, won't seem to hold him up, so he lets them buckle into the dirt and he kneels there, shaking all over, trying to ground himself in the sharp raw pain now radiating from where he's undoubtedly bleeding. There's a warmth to it. Something almost pleasant, something different to the freezing stiffness in his hands and feet, to the burning flames consuming his head like he's been shoved by his hair into the fireplace — Da had threatened to do that a few times, fingers fisted in Oscar's curls — and suddenly he's listing and just as suddenly there's hands on him, big warm hands on his biceps holding him upright from faceplanting the dirt.

Oscar thinks he might be shouting, or maybe he's sobbing — Jesus Christ he hopes he's not sobbing — and then he's not aware of anthing. And then, what feels to be instantaneously but must really be much longer considering how utterly destroyed his throat feels, it's like he's coming up for air. Like swimming for the surface in the big lake on the farm, the light getting brighter as he goes, and then his head's out of the water and he can breathe again, taking big gulps of it like he's starved for it. He feels it.

He's on the ground. The knees of his trousers are tacky, the blood's cold, and he's breathing hard. Someone's talking him through it, voice real low, oddly familiar but it's not Morris, and—

Oscar jerks away.

"Fuck," he croaks, and it's almost a bitter laugh. "Christ. Course it's you."

Jack sits back on his knees, letting his hands fall from Oscar's arms.

"You alright?" he asks, just as lowly. There's something gentle in his voice, and Oscar hates it, hates those dark eyes looking at him like that. "Found you like this. An' I…I know—"

Oscar forces himself to his feet and grabs the fence beside him when he staggers. His legs are dead. His knees hurt. His head is pounding.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "You got your laughs. You gonna fuck off now? Or I gotta make you?"

Jack stands slowly, hands raised in mock defense, still looking at Oscar like he's checking him over. "I ain't laugh," he says quietly, earnestly. "You need any help gettin' back to Mo?"

"Don't fuckin' call him that," Oscar spits, venemous. Means it.

Jack exhales. Nods, eventually. "Alright. Alright, yeah. Later, Oscar."

He slings his pape bag back over his shoulder and brushes the dust off his trousers, and goes. Heads around and through the distribution gate without looking back, and Oscar watches him the whole way.

Waits until he's out of sight, and then all but collapses against the fence.

God, he wants his brother.

Chapter Text

It's utterly silent in their cold little attic bedroom, and Oscar hates it. The silence makes his skin crawl, the sound of his own breathing seeming to echo in his ears, every slight rustle of his own movement against his threadbare sheets only serving to raise his hackles more. And if it were any other type of day, perhaps he'd be starting a fight just to fill it — needling at Morris across the room until he finally snaps and they're shouting at each other, because that's at least infinitely better than silence.

But he knows what sort of day it is. So instead, his voice is soft as he once again tries, a desperate bid breathed into the air between them.

"Mo," he says.

He isn't expecting a response anymore. Not when Morris is like this, but the silence is turning his stomach and he has to try.

But Morris hasn't spoken all day. Hasn't breathed so much as a sound since he woke up — since last night, really — though he'd at least been half present in the morning. Alert enough to react when Oscar spoke to him, and enough that distribution hadn't started off too bad, though Uncle Wiesel had whacked him more than once for being "ignorant" when Morris had failed to respond to orders. Morris still hadn't responded then, even when Wiesel had finally exploded and hit him hard enough to throw him to the floor — and only then had it set in for Oscar what sort of day it was going to be. He'd done his best to defend his brother, get the attention off of him and bear the brunt of it all himself, but it's hard to do between Wiesel barking orders at them both, the other workers being assholes, every damn newsie in the line trying to get a word in and get a rise out of them as they drawl through buying their papes.

They had, of course, immediately noticed Morris' silence, like sharks smelling blood in the water. Kelly had crowed to the group about Morris being too stupid to remember where he'd put his tongue, Skittery had mockingly tilted his head and asked where Morris' thanks was, Racetrack had leaned across the desk to get in Morris' face and ask him lowly if he'd spent too much time on his knees last night — and Oscar had dove over there and smashed his face in for his troubles, poured blood over the stacks of papes between them for his own.

He'd had to pay for the ruined stock that Racetrack didn't have enough to cover, straight out of his meagre wages, and, truly, on any other day it would've just given him more fodder for him to go at Morris with now, in the silence of their bedroom. It would be one of their real blow-up fights, the sort that has Oscar bashing Morris' face in too, but as Oscar had glanced back at him then — muttering his assent to their uncle that he'd pay — he'd seen his wee brother's gaze utterly empty, bowed down to the floor. Realised with a drop of his stomach that he must've heard Racer's comment.

He's been wondering since if that was the beginning of all of this too. If, last night, when Morris had first locked up and gone silent on their walk home from work, there had been something then too — some misplaced touch or poisoned word, some tiny trigger that had once again broken Morris that Oscar had missed. Some of them are so goddamn tiny, don't make sense to anybody but Morris, and on the occasions Oscar does notice them he's left to wonder still — what the context might've been in which they were sharpened to the daggers they are to Morris now. If it was Da or Snyder or somebody else, who said that or touched him like that or…smelled like that, looked like that in the right sort of light.

So much of it doesn't make sense to Oscar. As much as he knows Morris, knows his baby brother better than anything — better than Morris knows himself, better than Oscar knows himself — there's so many parts of his mind he isn't privy to. Most of all whatever part of it he goes to when he's like this.

They'd walked home in silence, Morris moving slow and automatic through the dark streets and Oscar keeping a close eye on him and the people around them and any possible danger that could rear its head when Morris needs protecting, and they'd gotten home and gotten up all the narrow, rickety stairs to their bedroom. Morris hadn't so much as glanced at the kitchen on their way, and on days like this Oscar can't bring himself to force him — Morris has been forced more than enough — and now they're here and Morris is still silent and empty-eyed and sat stiffly on the edge of his bed. He hasn't moved, hasn't even taken his coat or boots off, and part of Oscar wants to keep leaving him. Knows Morris will crawl into bed eventually, always long after Oscar has fallen asleep and Morris' brain has decided he's safe without another soul conscious, but, God.

Maybe it's selfish of Oscar to feel as sick as he does, but he does. His ears feel like they're ringing, his skin restless and writhing, his head full of static, an unidentifiable wrongness consuming him, and if Morris is going to sit empty-eyed on the edge of his bed like he did in their bedroom back home, at their bunk in the Refuge — tense and terrified like he's still there — then Oscar can pretend they're still there too.

"Mo," he says again. He really isn't expecting a response this time, doesn't even want one. It's half to fill the silence, and half a warning as he rises from his bed and approaches his wee brother. "Hey. C'mon. 'S'late."

Oscar crouches, and unties Morris' laces. Pulls each boot from his feet in turn and sets them beside his own at the foot of his bed, then rises to take Morris' jacket by the lapels and push it from his shoulders. He's careful, his own shoulders tense, mindful of the vaguest negative reaction — he's been punched in the face for it before, made Mo start screaming — but none comes. Morris is docile. It's like how he was when he was tiny, when Oscar first started to have to look after him.

"Good," he murmurs, quiet. "Good lad."

He pulls Morris' suspenders from his shoulders and tugs them loose of their buttons, tosses them atop their shared dresser, and Morris does the rest out of muscle memory. Needs some help with his shirt buttons, but pulls it over his head and steps out of his trousers, and for a moment he keeps going. A similar muscle memory, Oscar supposes. Morris goes for the hem of his undershirt, but Oscar gently stops his hands.

"'S'okay," he says, all but whispers, and Morris…nods, vaguely, eyes still staring at nothing. Oscar wants to squeeze him. Wants to hold him in his arms until they both stop breathing. Instead, he steps away, opens his mouth to speak — say he's going to bed, say Morris should too — but Morris follows him. A desperate little step forward like he doesn't want Oscar to leave him, and, okay, yeah. Oscar still feels sick, but it's a different kind of sick now, the same sort of sick that used to turn his stomach when Morris was tiny, or when he'd sit on the edge of their Refuge bunk, or when he'd bury himself against Oscar's chest, sometimes sobbing and sometimes utterly, chillingly silent.

He's silent as he crawls into Oscar's bed tonight. It's much too narrow for the both of them — too narrow really for even Oscar alone — but it's easy to curl around each other. Familiar, for all the too-narrow beds they've shared through the years together. Oscar wraps an arm around Morris' middle and hooks his chin atop his brother's curls, and focuses in the silence not on his own breathing but Morris'. Soft and steady and there, something to fill the maddening silence, something real and there. Identifiable.

Oscar doesn't sleep, not really, but Morris does, lax against Oscar's chest.

And when dawn begins to crest, casts sunlight through their tiny window, Morris shifts and murmurs, "Os."