A Disney musical about the newsies strike of 1899 does NOT have the right to slap so hard
A Disney musical about the newsies strike of 1899 does NOT have the right to slap so hard
Kid Blink rewatches old Dance Moms clips on YouTube from 2014
📰 A stimboard of Skittery, who is either a furry or dressed up as a werewolf for @newsiestober2021 - Day 19 : Costume 📰
Jack asks David to homecoming (set in the 1990s)
Jack was leaned up against a tree when David got there, arms crossed, hair mussed by the autumn wind. David approached with a courteous smile.
Jack’s note requesting to meet up was ominously punctuated. Jack never used punctuation - or capitals, or any proper grammar for that matter - unless he was extremely serious about something.
Jack pushed off the tree to meet him halfway, impossibly calm and unreadable in the disarming way that only he could be. “Hey.”
“Hey.” David’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag. “I got your note. I mean, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.” What a stupid thing to say, David chastised, burning with embarrassment.
Everything about this was off. From Jack’s rigid shoulders, to the note rather than Jack just tracking him down after school or something, to the location, tucked away in the little woodsy area behind the old overgrown tennis court, where the creek browned and glided over perfect stones at the edge of the clearing.
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” David managed, biting down hard on his tongue.
Jack shrugged, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Just a question.”
“You could’ve written it down,” said David, only because he was running out of things to say that wouldn’t make himself mad.
Jack started walking away, nodding once towards the bridge over the creek down along the path, dry and covered in browning leaves. David followed, hurrying a little to catch up. It was abominably cold for early fall, his hands were gloved because it put his mothers’ mind at ease to know he wouldn’t lose any fingers when he went out.
“Relax.” Jack clapped him on the shoulder and David stiffened.
Take your own advice, he swiftly bit back, because he could tell that something was bothering Jack just as much as David was bothered by the uncomfortable atmosphere.
The wondering ached in David’s chest. He’d been thinking too much lately. He wanted to know what was going on in Jack’s head, tried to read his face of steel, the smile that played on his lips that never reached his dark and piercing eyes. Jack stared at the bridge ahead of them, bobbing closer with every frigid step. Strolling like it was nothing, like David’s skull wasn’t clamoring with the onset of a headache.
“I know that look.”
David started. “What?”
“Put on your glasses.”
“I don’t need them.” David didn’t know why he said that, because it was a lie, and Jack knew it was a lie, and even worse, David knew Jack knew he knew it was a lie.
Without another word, eyes throbbing and defeated, Jack paused to let David fish around in his bag for his little square glasses that made his eyes look like weathered diamonds.
They continued their walk quietly, the discomfort settling between them like bricks. It was worse that David could see Jack’s face now.
Suddenly Jack’s voice was beside him, so close David could feel his hot breath in the cold breeze. “My question.”
“I don’t know how much you’ll like it.”
All the more dreadful a thought, David believed everything depended on Jack’s reaction rather than his own, sneaking a finger to hook around the strap of his bag once again, holding on like a mast at sea. “Yeah?”
“Fact is, you might even hate me.”
Again and again David stopped himself. He chewed his lower lip. “No.”
“You don’t know yet, huh?”
“I couldn’t hate you,” David explained. They crossed over the bridge, approaching the treeline to the four blocks of houses obscured by the light woods, the orange and black and purple of Halloween decorations already visible between the brush. “I couldn’t.”
Jack reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “You swear?”
“Well.” Jack gave him an indescribable look of hazel and knives. David withered in his boots. “Here it goes.”
“You’re teasing me.” David elbowed him, a lot lighter than Jack would have done if they switched places. “Do you want me to help you hide a body or something?”
“Tease?” Jack huffed. “I’ve never teased you.”
“Whatever. Tell me already. You’re dragging this out.”
“Could be that it’d be a shame for you to go home so soon.”
“It can’t possibly be that bad,” David attempted to rationalize. “Why did you even…”
“Do you have any plans for homecoming?”
David’s breath hitched. His answer came several seconds later, slow and deliberate. “No.”
They walked through a patch of sunlight where the branches above parted. David squinted, catching Jack’s fleeting eyes.
“Neither do I.”
David thought he knew where this was going. He couldn’t be sure, not really, until Jack said it for himself. It would be way too good to be true, too far removed from reality to assume that David was really there walking home with Jack instead of face down in a coma being buried in a ditch somewhere.
It was so cold. David crossed his arms over his stomach and rubbed his hands.
“So neither of us has plans.” Jack said, sounding it out as he went. “If a guy wanted to ask you to homecoming, what would you say?”
A guy. Jack’s wording was specific. David was burning, and freezing, the sliver of his socks exposed beneath the cuffs of his jeans was turning to ice.
There was an easy answer perched on the tip of his tongue. It would be pathetic to blurt it immediately. David considered it, tugged on the collar of his coat to straighten it, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
He cleared his throat. “Okay.”
Jack absorbed that. “Do you wanna go to homecoming with me?”
u read one.. ONE newsies fanfic as a JOKE because it seemed like a FUNNY IDEA because ur tech crew for the musical @ ur school and the songs are good.. AND HERE I AM ACTUALLY ENJOYING MYSELF????? WTF?? anyway my friend’s Jack in the musical for the school play be proud of her wooo
Evil Jack be like “besides, I have enemies here”
First - Previous - Read on AO3!
I’m so sorry cowpokes I had a concussion and was trying to do midterms + theatre while having no memory retention, so life was a struggle for a while. anyways not terribly happy with this chapter (or its length) but it gets there! might edit it later :)
cw: food, eating disorders, arguing :(
Crutchie wasn’t quite sure how Specs had managed to drag Jack away from his side, but he was immensely grateful. Not only had it gotten Jack back out selling, but after nothing happened while he was gone, Jack was a little less suffocating. Despite pushing himself too far and panicking that first day, Jack let him go back out the next day, and the next and the next and the next. Crutchie was seeing all of his regulars again (including Mr. Myers, who had given him a sticky bun for free the first day he’d seen him), and though selling far fewer papes than he was accustomed to, he was still bringing in a fair amount of money. His very first day back, he’d made off nine papers the same he would’ve made off thirty or forty on any other day. When he’d woken up that afternoon, he’d shaken off the nightmares almost immediately once he noticed the heavy weight of coins in his pocket, and even became excited after counting them.
By now, he was back to business as usual. Almost. The others still wouldn’t let him go near Wiesel's place, and he wasn’t allowed to work alone--usually he sold with Romeo, like he had Before, but there was always one of the oldest boys down the street to keep an eye on him. It was annoying, but ever since he’d freaked out that first day, Crutchie let it happen.
He’d had other bad moments since then, moments where he lost track of where he was, moments where instead of his brothers’ faces jeering guards surrounded him, moments where he woke up alone and became instantly convinced that he was in that dreadful closet still, hallucinating the room around him. It was exhausting, and not helped by the amount of food he was eating.
It was more food than before, though (if only slightly), something Crutchie had counted as a win. Stupid Albert with his know-it-all eyes had brought it up last week, talking about how some of the younger boys had been finding food in their bunks, how Race had seen a couple of pieces of fruit in various stages of decay right outside the window. Crutchie had turned red and adamantly denied any knowledge of the sort, but Albert had said, staring him down: "Well, if ya happen ta find out who ain't eating proper, you can always tell 'em that they cans talk ta me--'specially if a certain union leader is gettin' on their nerves." Crutchie had actually been a little bit touched (and a lot annoyed--he could handle himself), but he didn't get any time to maybe come to appreciate Albert seeing as he seemed to have told Katherine. She threatened to take him off duty (could she do that?) If he didn't start gaining some weight. Stupid Albert.
Albert wasn’t the only one who noticed too much. Crutchie wasn’t an idiot, he could see the way they all kept tabs on him. The way Smalls trailed him to his selling spot, the way Romeo watched him nervously when he thought he wouldn’t notice, the way Tommy Boy scoped out the streets before letting him and Jack out every morning. He knew they were only concerned. Smalls just wanted to make sure that Romeo would have help if Crutchie collapsed, Romeo was just being wary of flashbacks, Tommy was just keeping an eye out for the Delanceys. It was annoying, though--not enough for Crutchie to get justifiably mad about it, but enough to make him want to distance himself from them. They were smothering him.
Crutchie tried to force things to go back to normal. He moved back into his own bunk, cracked a few jokes here and there, surreptitiously avoided mirrors, paid his own rent. He was certain he was acting as close to normal as possible, excepting not making the trip to Wiesel’s every morning (Specs and Mush always brought his, Jack’s, and Tommy’s papes to them). But it seemed that nobody around him was willing to forget everything that happened.
He mentioned it to Jack once, in passing, while watching him shave, and Jack had frowned heavily. “Yeah, I get that. Usually avoided everyone when it was me, but it always took a few weeks afore folks stopped treatin’ me like somethin’ that might fall apart at any second o’ the day.”
Crutchie hoped Jack realized the irony of what he’d said.
In all honesty, Crutchie often spent evenings laying in bed, staring at Romeo’s bunk above his, wondering why on earth he was so upset over this. The boys were just concerned--he knew he would be the same way, if he was in their place. They just wanted to help him.
Crutchie was pretty much healed now, though--his arm was still too uncomfortable to move, and his leg had been worse than normal since the strike, but all his bruises were gone or almost gone. Some cuts had closed up, others scarring over (as far as he could tell, alone in the washroom when he dared to pull up Jack’s spare shirt that had been lent to him, the marks on his back weren’t going to fade any time soon, nor the nasty-looking one on his chest). So there was no real reason to be so protective, Crutchie thought, carefully pushing away how he had become too weak to stand yesterday while returning to the lodging house, forcing Albert to drop his bag to catch him. He was fine.
Was he fine, though? He wanted to be. He wanted everything to go back to normal, back to playful teasing and cheerful days. Back to actually feeling good, and not sick in the head all the time. He wanted to move on, live the way he used to, but nobody else seemed to want to help. For the first time in a long time, Crutchie was letting himself get angry.
He’d always suppressed anger, except for in times of need, like unavoidable fights or strikes. These days, though, he felt it rise at the slightest provocation. From Jack watching him so intently that he woke up to him staring, to a different newsie every day offering to buy him food.
Somehow, everything the other newsies were doing just happened to rub him the wrong way. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the abrupt claps on his back that immediately pulled back when he cowered, the doubtful looks Specs gave him when he asked for forty papes. Maybe it was some combination of such and similar factors. Crutchie had been biting his tongue to keep himself from lashing out for the past two weeks, and he was losing more and more of his composure with every worried glance and careful step-around and unasked-for question.
So when Jack cornered him to talk after a long day at work, Crutchie flew off the handle.
In Jack’s defense, he was also tired. He’d spent nights up, staying inside despite the heat of the summer, just laying on his side with his eyes on Crutchie’s bunk. Jack could always tell when he had a nightmare--his body would draw into itself, his bunk would begin to tremble as he shook. At those times, Jack would sneak over there and gently run a hand through his hair (the only touch that would calm him rather than aggravate) until he woke with a gasp and a choked-off noise. With Jack kneeling beside the bed, shushing him and carding his fingers through his hair, Crutchie was usually able to fall asleep soon after waking. Then Jack would return to his own bed and once again lay there, watching for the signs of another nightmare, until his eyelids became too heavy and sleep overtook him. Sure, it wasn't the healthiest way to do it, but Jack was pretty used to it. Crutchie was by no means the first newsie to have trouble sleeping. The system had always worked perfectly with no more bad effects than Jack's exhaustion.
Except it didn't work perfectly here. Because every morning after, Crutchie would sit up and glare at Jack with such vitriol that Jack almost stumbled. He wouldn't talk to him while getting ready, would barely say more than a muttered "thanks" when Jack brought him a bite to eat around midday. He wouldn't even say good night.
When Jack mentioned it to Davey, the other boy chewed on his lip before suggesting, cautiously, that maybe he should try leaving Crutchie alone for a little while. Jack had scoffed at him and moved along. He forgot sometimes that Davey was new here. Jack knew Crutchie, better than anyone else. He'd practically raised the kid at times, had been his closest friend at others. He didn't need help to take care of his own brother.
After spending days trying to figure out why Crutchie was so hostile to him and finding no answers, Jack finally let himself think about the worst case scenario: one of the boys had told Crutchie about how Jack betrayed the union and everything they stood for, and almost ran away without telling anyone. There was no other reason for Crutchie to be angry, to never smile at him, to even ignore him completely. With each hour that passed after Jack came to this conclusion, the shame built and festered in his stomach, rising to his chest.
He knew he had to try to explain himself. Sit Crutchie down and talk him through what happened--though he had no excuses. He’d scabbed, through and through. He could only apologize and hope for forgiveness.
It had been a long day today, too hot to really be more than averagely productive, and now most of the boys were looking for somewhere to catch a bite of supper or were meeting up for some games. Crutchie, however, was in the washroom. These days, he always washed up in the evening when nobody else was around, something Jack assumed had to do with the scars on his body he’d let no one but Katherine see (and her unwillingly). It also gave him a convenient excuse to skip dinner, Jack realized as he let himself into the lodging house. That was worrisome. Crutchie hadn’t had the same appetite since before the strike, but that was expected of kids from the Refuge. Still, if Crutchie was trying to hide it that was bad, especially since he understood the danger of it. Jack--or someone, since Crutchie hated him--would have to help him through it, whether he liked it or not.
Jack knocked a rhythm on the washroom door. “Crutchie, you in here?” he called softly.
“Uh, uh, one minute!” Crutchie’s voice came from inside. Jack stepped back, waiting patiently. His heart was pounding; he wanted nothing more than to forget about it and leave right now. But he owed Crutchie an explanation. He owed Crutchie everything.
A few long moments passed before Crutchie pulled the door open, hopping back with it. His hair was sticking up wildly, his face wet. The old shirt of Jack’s he’d been wearing was thrown haphazardly across one of the sinks, leaving Crutchie in his long-sleeved undershirt and pants. His boots lay by the one window, one turned on its side, socks curled up beside them.
Crutchie watched Jack apprehensively, which was better than anger, Jack figured. At least this wouldn’t become another shouted argument.
“Heya, Jack,” Crutchie said, biting his lip. Jack tried to greet him, but choked on the words. He was going to tell him everything, then leave immediately. That’s all he had to do.
“I need ta--”
“I’s sorry for--”
They both paused. Crutchie looked away, adjusting his crutch under his arm with a grimace. Jack adjusted his hat, then his vest, then unbuttoned and buttoned his shirt. He had to say this. Maybe he should let Crutchie apologize for whatever he was sorry for? Then he could get right into it. No, he wasn’t stalling.
Jack nodded, waved a hand in his direction. “Go ahead,” he managed. “Don’t wanna make you feel unheard or whatever.”
Crutchie blinked slowly, and Jack knew he’d said something wrong. He’d just sort of been talking, his mouth running away from him! What had he said? How had he screwed this up in five seconds?
“Thanks, Jack,” Crutchie said acerbically. “Forgot that I need permission for things now. My bad.”
“Crutch, no, I--”
“No, really, on account of you bein’ so kind an’ all, you can say what ya need.”
This was exactly what Jack had been trying to avoid, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t want another fight. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he could catch a nap after this. “Look,” Jack started. “I dunno who--”
“No, Jack, I’m real sick o’ this,” Crutchie interrupted. “You’s always botherin’ me about things, like my eatin’--” “I weren’t even gonna bring that up!” Jack interjected, almost offended. The fact that Crutchie had mentioned it, though . . . were his suspicions correct? Was he not eating normally? “Speakin’ of it, though--”
“Cryin’ out loud, Jack, I don’ wanna hear it! Whatever you’s gotta say--”
“Look, I jus’ wanted to apologize--”
“And that too!” Crutchie fumed. “Every day, ‘pologizing for somethin’ new, like I ain’t known that you--”
“You already know what I’s tryin’ ta say, I know, but you gotta hear it from me--”
“Seems like it’s always you I’s hearin’ from, all the time, watchin’ me in my sleep for fu--”
“I’s sorry, okay!” Jack yelled over him. Crutchie limped away to the sink, his face red. Jack took a deep breath. He couldn’t push him away even more. “I’s sorry,” he repeated, quieter. “I wanted ta tell you myself, but never seemed right, ya know?”
Crutchie snorted, splashing some water on his face. “Makes total sense, o’ course,” he muttered. Jack gritted his teeth. Why did he have to make this so difficult?
“So I wish you hadn’t heard it from anyone else, but I left it too late. And that’s my fault, I shouldn’ta put you through that--”
“Oh, if we’s talkin’ about things you shouldn’ta put me through, I’s got a list--”
“No, no, go right ahead--”
“Look, I know scabbin’ was wrong--”
“An’ if you change your mind--”
“An’ whatever they’s told ya is probably the truth, because yes, I did run off--”
“An’ yeah, I did take that money from Pulitzer, but I promise the a’ternative was so much worse and Katherine knows, you can ask her--”
“But what they’s don’ know is that I did it for you, I thought you weren’t gonna make it, I thought--”
“--an’ I betrayed everyone, I know, an’ that’s inexcusable, but I needed ta tell you myself--”
“--that I’s sorry,” Jack finished, letting out a huge breath. “An’-an’ I can go. If you wants that. I can go right now, leave you alone.”
Crutchie had stepped away from the sink, his face dripping with water. He stared at Jack, mouth gaping. Jack shifted from foot to foot, worrying his hat between his hands. Crutchie took a step forward, and Jack turned away slightly, as if shielding himself from Crutchie’s disappointment.
What came from Crutchie, however, was not scorn, nor anger, nor anything that Jack had predicted. Instead, Jack heard a shrill, incredulous laugh. He forced his eyes up to see Crutchie running a hand through his own hair, the laugh more ominous without a smile (because he hadn’t smiled, not once since he’d been back). The laugh died shortly, leaving them staring at each other again.
“Right,” Crutchie said eventually, straightening his long-sleeved undershirt. “I didn’t know any o’ that.”
“Wh-what?” Jack stammered, uncomprehending. Of course he knew about it, everyone did.
“Yeah, no,” said Crutchie. “Never heard a word. Don’t know if you’s noticed, but the fellas ain’t really been talkin’ ta me. Not about anythin’ but me, at least.” He took another step toward Jack. “Wanna explain ya’self?”
“Is you gonna let me?” Jack found himself shooting back, then regretted it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean--”
A short bark of laughter cut him off. “No, you did mean it.” Crutchie sat gingerly on a stool, laying his crutch on the floor beside him. “I isn’t gonna interrupt, happy? Jus’-jus’ talk. And don’t apologize.”
So Jack did. He told him everything, starting at freezing when Snyder beat Crutchie, breaking down when he spoke of Pulitzer’s threats, ending at coming home to find Crutchie nearly dead. True to his word, Crutchie listened quietly, excepting little scoffs and groans throughout the tale. When Jack was finished, still standing awkwardly by the door, Crutchie heaved a great sigh and stood, staring Jack down.
“Glad you told me,” said Crutchie, and Jack cringed, because there was barely-restrained anger in those four words. He didn’t feel like the strong, bold, Jack Kelly union leader of seventeen. He felt like he had when he first ended up here, scared, skinny, ten years old and alone. “Now I can know that while I was dyin’--literally dyin’--in the Refuge, an’ happy ta do it, you was out here runnin’ from your job and breakin’ promises left an’ right.”
Jack didn’t have a response for that. It was everything he’d been saying to himself for weeks. The pain of it had dulled the more he thought it, but Crutchie saying it out loud made it fresh again. Good. He deserved it. “I know. I--I’s sorry. An’ that doesn’t make it right, but--”
“No, it doesn’t,” Crutchie interrupted sharply. “You know why I was happy ta die?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Because I knew you was out here, fighting. Fighting for me. An’ I was okay with bein’ gone, s’long as I could live on in the strike. I knew you was never gonna betray me, Jack. I knew it so certain that even when S-Snyder showed me the paper you signed, even when he was beating--beating me and screamin’ at me that you--that you’d given up, even when he locked me in a closet for days with no food or water or anythin’ that kept me from goin’ completely insane as I ‘lucinated, I knew you was still out here fighting. I knew it. And . . . you wasn’t.”
Jack’s heart shattered as Crutchie rubbed a hand across his face, wiping away a tear. The words had cut right through Jack’s soul, and he floundered to breathe as he registered everything Crutchie had said. Snyder had done what?
Something hit Jack in the face, and he jumped back as it fell to the floor. The shirt he’d lent Crutchie.
“Bought my own this mornin’,” Crutchie said, voice cold and muffled. “Stay away from me, please.”
Crutchie elbowed past him, not even looking at him, and was gone. Jack couldn’t even turn to watch him go, just stood frozen, listening to the uneven steps as he got further away. His first instinct was to go after him, apologize, say anything to make Crutchie smile again. But Crutchie didn’t want to be near him. He could respect that. He had to.
Jack collapsed onto the stool that Crutchie had just vacated, ducking his head into his arms as a sob tore from his throat. He knew that was going to happen. He knew it was--so why was he so broken from it? He wanted to reach inside himself and pull, rip out the guilt and anguish and any other sort of feeling except anger, and use that anger to make Snyder regret everything he had ever done in his entire life. The things Crutchie had said. . . .
A door slammed from below, and if Jack listened closely, he could hear a couple of voices. Folks were starting to get home, line up to pay Kloppman their rent, dive into bed after a long day at work. Jack needed to be there to make sure that everything went the way it was supposed to without any fights breaking out, yet still he sat. He could take a moment longer, a moment to mourn.
It was always him and Crutchie, brothers against the world. That’s what they’d always promised each other. Now, because Jack messed up big time, he was alone. Crutchie was alone. And they couldn’t reach for each other, the way they always had. Jack wanted so so badly to lean on him, and give him his own shoulder in exchange, but he couldn’t do that to Crutchie. He couldn’t hurt him any more than he already had.
Jack took in a shuddering breath, then forced himself to stand. He had to do his job. If he ever wanted Crutchie to even consider caring about him again, he needed to prove that he could do his job. He splashed his face off with a bit of water from the sink--in the dust coating his face after a day of work, the tear tracks had to be stark.
Jack pulled a painful grin onto his face (in the past, in moments like these, he would wonder how Crutchie was always able to smile. Not that it was applicable now), then straightened his cap. He could do this.
He exited the washroom, leaving his old shirt on the floor where it had fallen.
I made something
*in class yesterday*
Oceanography professor: When I was working on Long Island Sound-
Me, thinking: don’t sing it, don’t sing it, don’t sing it-
oh here’s the edit i was talking about a couple days ago btw. i posted it on tiktok and instagram and totally forgot tumblr but here u go :)
song: repeat until death – novo amor
i cut my own scenes but i have a jack kelly scenepack on my youtube for any of you editors out there, or anyone who wants it. you don’t have to give credit if you use it but if you want to you can.
//Javid & Ralbert//
Rating: Teen and Up.
Trigger Warnings: (none that I'm aware of as of chapter 1)
Duane School For Boys has a wave of new students, all itching to break the mold and make something of themselves. Whether it be doctors or lawyers. Always something respectable and well-paying.
Davey wants to be anything but a doctor. He wants to get away from everything. From New York. Jack is a wannabe artist with a dream of running away out west to become a cowboy. Neither planned to get so caught up in each other.
Race is hopelessly in love with his best friend, something he doesn't even acknowledge despite his obvious feelings. Albert's in love too but he does acknowledge it, and the more it goes on, the more it kills him.
None of them can take it much longer.
word count: 446
The bell rang and Albert’s bones felt cemented to his mattress. He didn’t want to be here anymore. But he had seen the fear on Racetrack’s face last night and he knew he couldn’t be anywhere else.
He went through the motions, able to do everything he needed to without really thinking about it. He’d done this everyday for many years he could even reply to conversations without paying attention because they were always the same.
“Hey!” Someone smacked him on the back of his head with a cap.
“Hi Jacky,” Albert turned with a slow grin.
“Where’ve you been??!!,” Jack exclaimed, “we was worried!”
“Yeah yeah I’m sorry ‘bout that.”
Jack just shook his head and moved on.
Albert splashed water on his face then grabbed the towel out of Mush’s hands who responded promptly by shoving him.
Albert had to admit, he had missed the banter, the compassion that (mostly) everyone felt for each other.
Race walked into the bathroom too see Albert laughing and felt some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. Albert would stay. He’d told him so. And there was no other place for him to be anyways. Race’s demeanour visibly brightened and he went through the day lost in a happy cloud of happy thoughts.
Weeks went by, Race was finally no longer worried about Albert leaving. At all. Him, and all the rest of the boys had settled back into routine. (Having Albert come back had thrown everything slightly off for a few days just out of excitement and the calming of nerves.)
But one night Albert wasn’t in his bunk at the end of the day. Of course, Race immediately thought of the worst things, terrible scenes being conjured up in his mind. Though one look outside told him that his friend was right there. Race slipped out of the window as well.
“I want to get out of here.” Was Albert’s greeting.
“What,” Race squeaked out, his voice hardly there from the surprise and defeat he’d suddenly felt.
“There’s more than living day to day. I want to actually make money Racer, an’ not worry if spending the night here means I can’t eat tomorrow. There’s other things I could be doing.” Albert sounded frustrated, and he was, rightfully so. But Race felt as if it was directed at him.
“But this is our life now,” the blond whispered.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Albert countered, then shook his head, “I’m sorry Racetrack, I know you’se don’t like this kind’a talk.”
It terrified Race. So he just sat there silently. Waiting for some sort of cue that everything was ok. Said cue would never come.
Spot: *about Race* He’s so cute, I wanna throw a brick at him.
Here’s the ao3 link :)
Jack: hey what’s that one ride with the animals?
Jack: the one that spins?
Jack: the horse tornado?
David: a carousel??
Jack: yeah that one
I forgot onesies was a word and not a term adopted lovingly by the Newsies fandom
I don’t know if anyone is still on newsies tumblr, but I would like to say that I saw Ben Fankhauser in a show yesterday and afterwards during a q+a, got him to write “seize the day” in his handwriting so I can get it tattooed. My entire existence is now fulfilled.
Davey: Race why are you late?
Race: sorry I had some car trouble
Davey: you don’t drive
Race: I know, the trouble was that one hit me
Davey: I’m sorry what?