Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Blah blah blah …
Author's Note: Purely fluff. I was in the mood to write a quick, cute something, so here it is. The featured characters are obviously Spot and whoever else you'd like to see with Spot. They are older, maybe their early twenties, and a little more mature than they were during the days of the strike. Also, this story is set in modern times, more or less. I was seeing a shabby New York apartment when I wrote this, but around the eighties or nineties rather than the 1800's or early 1900's. I hope you enjoy it. And please review, lol, that's my favorite part.
I will always remember the smell of coffee in the morning. Sean was always an early riser – said he liked to watch the sunrise. He needed that scene spread before him each morning like a slow and silent gift, meant for his eyes only. He needed that prink and yellow glow to wake up to – that light, cool, morning air filling his lungs with motivation for the day. And he needed that music of the breeze and sea and birds. You see, as much as he'd never admit it to anyone, even myself, Sean had a secret soul that craved romance, loved nature, and needed to be needed. Of course … he didn't have it admit it. I saw it everyday. And he knew, that I knew.
So every morning, I would wake in the dark to the smell of the coffee and the sound of Sean humming to himself as he made me breakfast. Oh! That's another thing he'd never admit to – he's a wonderful cook. But you see, he'd never let me actually see him cook. So long as he did it while I was still in bed or out of the room, somehow his subconscious could rest easy, believing he'd upheld some image of his. I learned early on that while Sean was really nothing like what people thought of him, he would never let go of the "image". And while he knew I knew the real him, neither of us dared say it out loud.
So I would roll out of bed after I was sure he'd gone up to the roof to watch the sunrise – his own mug of aromatic coffee snuggled between his long fingers. And I would follow the scent I knew so well all the way to the kitchen, shivering shirtless and tumbling barefoot, being led only by my nose. And the moment I had reached the doorway, the smells of morning would engulf me: bacon, linoleum, cinnamon, clean air, moisture, citrus, and of course, coffee. Black coffee. That's the funny part of the story. See, Sean had gotten in his head (I dunno how) that I liked my coffee black. And so while my eggs, bacon, and hash browns were all made exactly the way I liked them (down to the tiniest detail), my coffee was always left black, in a great steaming mug. I know that I've left it too long, and if I ever tried to tell him now that that's not how I take my coffee, he'd be upset (he's very sensitive that way). So I can never let him see me add my cream and sugar to my drink, and when we're out together, I'm forced to endure the bitter beverage. But you know what? That's okay, because it makes me happy to make him happy. And if he thinks black coffee makes me happy, and that makes him happy … well, it's a small price to pay.
My favorite, however, is when, just to the left of my plate of eggs and cinnamon toast, and just below (and slightly to the right of) the vase of freshly picked daisies, is a note. And this note would say a variety of different things. Sometimes it would just be a simple "I Love you. Love, Sean." Sometimes he'd be in a more comic mood and this simple message would become "I love you boy toy. Love, your sexy beast." Other times the note would read something like "Last night was great," "I have the best boyfriend in the world," "Good morning love," "You're beautiful when you sleep," and sometimes even "I miss you, come join me." And if this were the note, I would scarf down my breakfast as quick as possible, and climb my way to the roof, taking nothing with me but the chipped old mug containing the black liquid I so detested. But as a reward for my pains, I would always find Sean, sitting cross-legged on the sun soaked roof. His hair bleached by the early morning rays; his eyes both lazy and bright at the same time. Then he'd smile at me the warmest smile. And I'd fumble my way over to him on my knees (Sean's the only one who knows I'm just a little afraid of heights, but hey, if I keep his cooking secret it's only fair that he keep my acrophobia secret).
He'd then put his arm around me, and I'd kiss his cheek. And we'd sit together that way, warm together; watching, feeling another day grace us with its presence. In the orangey-pink glow I saw all the love and life of another day unfolding before me in the misleading form of sleek cotton clouds – so majestic and merciful in their glow. And while my eyes beheld this most wondrous sight, my nose still caught the scent of coffee, and the two became inexplicably linked for me...
I will always remember the way the sunrise lit up my boyfriends eyes; the way my love for him filled my chest, threatening to suffocate me; the way our bodies fit so perfectly together on that old patched roof: our own personal corner of heaven. And I will always, always remember the smell of coffee in the morning, because I know what it means. It means that the sun is rising, Sean is near, and there's life to be had. And remembering that, gives me hope.