AN: Well, I'm here again with a new story. This is a historical story taking place during the Great Depression (1933, to be exact). It's pretty heavy on Sharick at the moment, but it definitely will transition into Rickyl in its course. There's a lot about poverty, starvation, and general children's rights abuses that were common to the period, as well as period-appropriate prejudices. Don't read if you are sensitive to any of that. I hope you all enjoy!
He joined the shadows as he stood at the doorway. The candles they relied on for light after the sun went down mostly extinguished—except for in the room just beyond. They flickered eerily, warm orange glow somehow turned cold. The wind howled just beyond the walls, rattled the windows like a prisoner trying to escape. The night was icy up in the hills, the type of chill that froze your bones and stuck till daybreak, and Rick shivered as he pulled his blanket up against his ears like a poor man's cloak.
This is how kings used to have to live, too, his mama'd told him, stroking back his baby curls. Didn't have no electricity. We gonna be just fine, honey. Rick had looked up at her, then, with big eyes, too young to know better, and asked, Kings didn't have food, neither? She'd only shushed him as she pressed the flat of her palm against his stomach, like she could vanquish its ache, stopped talking so he wouldn't hear the lump in her throat. He pretended not to notice his mama cry a lot those nights, even as he heard her tears drip whisper-soft on his sheets.
But he was too old to pretend now, at fourteen; his legs had grown like weeds, stretched out before him till he didn't know what to do with all of it. His mama had ruefully taken out the hem at the bottom of his trousers, laughing with a crease in her brow, you grow much more, y're gonna be walkin' 'round here naked. Now, three years after, draft chilled his bare ankles as he stood there, ears straining to hear the murmurs drifting to him from the room. His fingers were tense and stiff as stone as they curled into the doorframe.
"There's nothing we can do," his father murmured numbly.
His mother sobbed into his father, just one word, over and over—no. His words hit Rick like dirt falling onto a coffin too small, with a finality that remains hours after the funeral, and he jerked back from the doorway like he'd been burned. The wind howling outside seemed to get louder, higher pitched as Rick's feet skidded over the rough-hewn wood. He tumbled to the floor like the floorboards had lurched beneath him, the whistle in his ears while his pounding heart made his whole body shake—
Sunlight shines relentlessly onto the rusted metal floor, harsh in Rick's eyes as he wakes with a start. The boxcar rocks and rolls beneath him, hums like a lullaby, but his heart still manages to pound louder than the train's cacophony filling his ears. His eyes itch and almost ache, and he rubs his knuckles into them with shaking hands; he yearns to close them, but, right now, he can barely breathe.
There's a familiar arm flung carelessly over his waist and a solid chest pressed to Rick's back. A warm puff of breath tickles the nape of Rick's neck, and he shivers a little, pushing back against the warmth to fend off the late autumn air's chill. He tries to fall back asleep to the sensation, but his still-harsh heartbeat and the ghost of his dream flickering on the sidelines is enough to keep him awake. After a minute, he slides out from under the arm as carefully and quietly as he can.
The horizon is a dark, straight line against the lightening sky, with curling tendrils of milky clouds burning up in the rising sun. Rick wraps his arms tight around his legs and rests his chin lightly on his knees, covering the hole in his pants where the skin had already gone numb from the crisp morning. Their one blanket is still wrapped haphazard around a sleeping waist, and Rick lets it be.
He breathes in like he's supposed to, a long draught of the frigid air that freezes his lungs; when it rushes out, he feels like the cold has subdued his heart some. After a few cycles—breathe in, that's it, then out—it's no longer beating as erratically against his ribcage. His hands, slightly less clammy inside his thick, woolen gloves, curl into fists to subdue their trembling, and he turns his attention to the view panning out before him as the boxcar ambles through the countryside. Loose, rolling hills—nothing like the sharp and dark mountains he's left behind, with their severe angles spiking into the sky. As Rick watches, the mist blurring the horizon dissipates; the full extent of his surroundings suddenly reveals itself. Farmhouses in the distance rise ghostly and regal against the horizon, the tips of some of their chimneys just catching the golden light. Rick can see the leaves rustle on the trees that are close enough, painted brilliant gold and yellow and red. A shaky smile spreads over Rick's face as he observes the sun spill fully onto the landscape and bathe everything in a soft, early morning glow.
Completely transfixed, Rick doesn't hear when the boy messily sprawled out beside him wakes, yawning quietly and looking around for the body missing beneath his arm. He rolls onto his knees, the blanket still a skirt about his waist, crawls over to him, puts his arm around Rick's smaller frame, and pulls him back into his side.
"Hey," Shane says softly, smoothing his hand down Rick's spine when he tenses at the unexpected touch. "How long y' been up?"
"Hour or so," Rick replies as he relaxes. He pointedly ignores the worried sound Shane makes in his throat, like he always does.
"Fuck," Shane complains, staring out at the landscape with Rick. "'S too damn early, why didn't ya sleep longer, Ricky?"
Rick glances at Shane's profile. From this angle, in the midst of the dank boxcar, he can't see the way Shane's nose is flattened, crushed as if by someone's fist. He never did get the whole story—just silently moved over in his bed still big enough for two ten-year-olds and pretended not to hear the sobs that shook his mattress.
Rick shrugs noncommittally. "Just had a nightmare, 's all."
He can feel Shane's eyes boring into the side of his head. Then, his arm tightens around Rick in understanding, and Rick drops his head on Shane's shoulder with a shaky exhale.
They stare out at the hills together for a few minutes. The risen sun now bathes the fields in a brilliant light, turning the grass a brilliant, emerald green. It even awes Shane into silence, though he still sniffles through his nose chafed raw from last night's chill. But it's warming up now, the earth absorbing the sunlight slow. They can just begin to feel it in the tips of their fingers, and Shane rubs his hands together and inhales sharp with a sudden epiphany.
"I know what we need," he says as he scoots away from the edge of the train car to fumble with a leather sack resting against the metal wall. He pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth and sticks his hand into the bag, concentration affixed on his features.
Rick shakes his head, smiling, and follows after Shane on his hands and knees. After a few moments' fumbling, Shane produces a brown paper bag stained with grease. More rifling in his bag gleans a medium-sized, unmarked bottle, three-quarters of the way filled with a clear, brown liquid. Rick's eyes widen as they travel from Shane's hand clasped about the neck up to his face, lit up with impish glee.
"Glommed it from my Pa," Shane says as he uncorks the bottle.
The scent diffuses quickly with the wind whipping around the boxcar, and Rick wrinkles his nose. "I'unno, Shane, maybe we shouldn't," he says, a little fretfully. "We gotta shove off soon. . ."
"C'mon, Ricky," Shane replies, a hint of a whine in his voice. "It'll warm y' up. Stop worryin'."
Rick watches with big, worried eyes as Shane takes a long draught from the bottle, shaking his head a little and screwing up his mouth at the taste. He pushes it into Rick's hand next, and Rick obediently raises it to his lips to take a tiny sip.
The taste burns his mouth the minute it touches his tongue, and Rick splutters and hardly manages to keep his grip on the bottle. His eyes streaming, he gags and wipes off his tongue with the edge of his ragged coat.
"Shit, why would anyone ever drink that?" Rick gasps when he recovers, still smacking his lips. "It's god-awful."
Shane rolls his eyes and takes the bottle from him. "'Cause it gets y' drunk. Christ, Ricky, don'tcha know nothin'? You gotta drink it fast." He takes another quick drink to demonstrate, eyes slightly blurred as he hands the liquor back to Rick.
Rick holds the bottle in both hands for a minute and sloshes the golden-brown liquid against the glass walls of the container, swallowing his still-burning saliva. Finally, he presses the rim to his lips and tips the bottle up quick, pouring a generous amount in his mouth and swallowing it down before he really has the time to taste it. It still burns on the way down, and a trembling hand lifts to wipe his tearing eyes as he coughs. But Shane had been right—there's a warmth forming in his stomach, and a distinct, slight sickness. His head feels fuzzy, and Rick hardly notices when Shane tugs the bottle out of his grip.
"D'ya feel it?" Shane asks eagerly as he indulges in another swig before tucking the bottle, now only a third of the liquid left in it, back into his bag.
Rick sways a little, blinking hard at Shane and hiccupping. "I-I think. Head feels funny."
Shane smiles sweetly at him and pulls him over to him by the arm, Rick following his lead clumsily to sit next to him, head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. The boy chuckles and ruffles Rick's hair fondly, mumbling something about him being a lightweight before he starts rifling through the grease-stained bag still resting near his leg.
"Whassat?" Rick asks, voice muffled against Shane's jacket.
"Should'a given this to you first," Shane says as an answer before pulling out a piece of jerky from the bag, waving it in front of his face. Rick's mouth waters instantly at the sight of food. "When's the las' time you ate?"
Rick wracks his brain, growing more and more confused as time goes on. He can't remember. "Las' time ya snuck some food out f'r me," he decides finally.
Shane makes an agonized little sound, and Rick squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face into Shane's shoulder for a second. "Christ, Rick," his friend whispers. "That was two days ago."
Rick shrugs as he stares dizzily at the jerky in Shane's hand. "Mama didn' have enough food for me'n Jeff. She asked me if I could go a day without. What was I s'posed t' say?"
Before he can say another word, Shane stuffs the jerky in Rick's open mouth. Rick makes a startled little noise that chokes off with a giggle, before he starts chewing hungrily like his life depends on it. He nestles himself more comfortably into Shane's side, munching on the jerky and taking the smaller pieces Shane offers him as he goes.
By the time the jerky just manages to take the edge off his hunger, Shane regretfully tells him they have to save the rest. They end up sprawled on the floor again, watching the sky with their eyes glazed over. He still feels vaguely sick from the alcohol tingling in his stomach, and he supposes they were more affected than he originally thought.
"This was a bad idea," Rick mumbles sleepily, lips close to Shane's cheek. "Feel like I'm gonna fall asleep again."
Shane sighs out long before sticking a hand in his jacket pocket. "You should'a told me you ain't been eatin', Ricky," he reprimands quietly, the mask of annoyance thin over his concern.
A strong curl of nausea twists in Rick's stomach, and his heart starts jack-rabbiting against his ribs again. "Maybe I jus' don't wanna think about it."
Abruptly, he rolls over and away from Shane, curling up and pushing the boy away as he tries to breathe through it. Tears hover lazily at the corner of his vision, and he quickly blinks them away, blames it on the alcohol because that's much easier than acknowledging the tightness tangled in his chest.
Shane reaches for him instinctively, shifting closer and pressing himself warm against Rick's back as he wraps his arms around him and holds him close. "Hey," he says quietly. "Y' know that's not what I meant."
Rick shrugs but allows Shane to hold him together, raising his hand to scrub childishly at his eyes when he thinks Shane isn't looking. They lie there like that for a few minutes before Shane rolls away. He stretches and luxuriously until his joints audibly pop, playfully cuffing Rick in the head with his nearest outstretched arm.
"You're a jerk," Rick comments with a pout, hard-pressed to hide the laugh in his voice.
Over Shane's shoulder, he spots the hazy silhouette of a city, dark forbidding outline juxtaposed against the pale blue sky. A shiver of anticipation—or trepidation, he's not sure which—trails through him. Shane's protests die off as he follows his gaze, and Rick's eyes skirt over to him.
"We gotta go," Shane says slowly, eyes darting between Rick and the horizon blurring past them as he starts shuffling his boots with nervous energy.
Rick nods and swallows. He can still feel the alcohol buzzing in his head, and he rubs at his tired, itching eyes. Shane gazes at him, concerned, for a moment before reaching into his pocket.
"This'll clear up y'r head a bit," Shane explains as he presses a cigar and a silver lighter into Rick's palm.
Rick takes it gratefully and raises it to his lips with a shaking hand. He fumbles with the lighter, the flint grinding ineffectively, until Shane takes it from him with a fond huff and lights the end of the cigar for him. He motions for Rick to inhale, and, after a few more uncertain glances, Rick does. He lasts maybe a half second before he's coughing and the smoke is tumbling from his lips in a rush, only to be whisked away by the billowing wind.
"What—the—hell?" Rick asks between choking splutters, holding his middle. "First that goddamn booze, and then this, are—are you trying t' kill me?"
Shane shakes his head and laughs. "Nah, would never, Ricky. Keep forgettin' y're such a good boy."
"Am not," Rick wheezes as he straightens his spine indignantly. "If this's what that shit's like, I don't want no part of it."
"Y'get used to it." Shane plucks the still-smoking cigar from his fingers and takes a drag. Shane tilts his face up, and perfect little rings of white smoke escape his lips, because Shane's nothing if not a show-off.
"Yeah, well, not me," Rick mutters, and his gaze returns to the outside wh izzing by them. Less quickly, he notes in worry, as the train begins to slow down for its next stop, and Rick nudges Shane. "We gotta go—they gonna whup our asses if they catch us here."
"Right, yeah, okay," Shane says, with a strain of anxiety that had taken Rick over a decade to be able to detect. Shane weren't scared of nothin'—unless you knew how to spot it.
Shane takes another long drag from the cigar before he snubs it out against the metal wall of the boxcar and tucks it back into his pocket to save for later. Time to go.
At the last minute, as they're looking at each other and their legs are bent like coiled springs, Shane reaches out for Rick's hand and clenches it tight in his fist, a reassuring squeeze that mostly fights off the tremor in Rick's knees.
"One," Shane says.
"Two," Rick continues.
"Three," they shout together over the wind, and then they jump.
It's scarier than the time they hopped that fence to get into the park after dark, when their world still shone gold. The train's momentum tosses Rick diagonally to the ground; this time, he can see the bright horizon spinning around them as he falls through empty air. The wind tears their hands apart within a moment, and it's a few terrifying, electrifying seconds before Rick hits the ground with a thud. The impact expels all the air from his lungs like a punch to the gut and leaves him gasping on the ground.
It feels like his chest is still depressed by his fall, and he doesn't manage to successfully inhale air for several seconds. Once he can speak, he rasps out, "Shane?"
There's no response, no laughter as Shane swears at the impact. Rick rolls to his knees with his hands still clasped around his middle. For a split second of heart-stopping panic, he thinks that Shane somehow got stuck in the boxcar, that he was racing off into the distance without him, except Rick felt Shane's hand in his own, holding on for dear life and he had to be close by, he had to be.
Rick straightens up and pulls his hands out of the dewy grass attempting to freeze his fingers solid. He turns his head and spots a dark lump on the ground a few feet away. His heart leaps up into his throat like it wants to jump right out through his mouth, and he crawls toward the prone form of his best friend.
"No," he whispers as his hands find Shane's shoulders. He waits for Shane's eyes to open, for those brown irises twinkling with mirth—for Shane's mouth to spread into his omnipresent grin. But nothing happens. Shane's face remains lax, unmoving.
"Shane!" Rick shouts, trying to shake the life back into his friend by his shoulders.
Tears flood his eyes, stinging and hot all at once. He's too weak to keep it up; his hands go still on Shane, and he bows over him, presses his forehead to Shane's chest, and tries to hide his sobs in the noisy little gasps that escape him. He must've landed wrong, hurt his head or his back or his neck, and now he's gone—
The wind tousles Rick's hair gently, and it feels so much like Shane's fingers, Rick can't help the shuddering sob that leaves his chest as he presses his face deeper into Shane's woolen jacket. But the touch gets firmer, and there's no way he's imagining the dramatic rise and fall of Shane's chest beneath his face. He lifts his head just slightly, but not before Shane's whispering gotcha in his ear.
Rick jerks to kneel upright, tears slipping down his cheeks as he stares in shock at his friend, alive and breathing, with his signature grin plastered on his face. Rick feels his chest start to seize, his lungs and throat all twisted up with relief—and then anger, burning hot from the inside out.
"You son of a bitch," Rick chokes, and then he bursts into tears.
He can feel Shane desperately grasping for the humor that dissipated the moment he started crying. Shane crawls forward quickly and kneels in front of Rick, squeezing his shoulders.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, okay—don't cry, okay, Ricky, I told you nothin' could ever kill me, remember, I told you," Shane soothes as he pulls Rick into his arms.
Rick's hands push out roughly at him before he gives in to his embrace, clinging on and mumbling I hate you I hate you on repeat into his jacket. He buries his face in the coarse wool of Shane's coat and breathes him in, can just feel the warmth of his living skin emanating from beneath. Shane's fingers scurry up his spine and up into his hair. Rick sighs out shaky, and all his anger leaves him with his breath.
"Don't do that again, 'kay?" Rick tries hard not to let his voice shake, but he thinks Shane hears it anyway.
"Yeah, yeah," Shane replies in a strained voice. He pulls back from Rick after a gentle squeeze and rubs his hands over his knees. Then, after a moment, he mumbles, "Sorry, Rick."
Rick looks at him for a moment with the tears just beginning to dry in his eyes, and then he shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face. "'S okay, 's fine," he says and forces a reassuring smile to creep over his face. "Y're just a jerk."
Shane grins the minute he sees Rick's smile. "Yeah, well, tell me somethin' I don't know."
A wet chuckle bubbles up from Rick's chest as he finds his feet beneath him, holding out a hand to help Shane up. "All right, we wasted enough time 'cause of y'r bullshit. Let's get goin'."
Shane twists his face up in mock hurt, but he gets to his feet with Rick's help anyway. He slings his bag over his shoulder, clipping Rick's shoulder with it accidentally-on-purpose.
After a playful shove and some good-natured swearing, they turn around to get their bearings. Sitting beyond the brightly lit fields, about a mile away, is a city. When their eyes fall upon it, the mirth drains from their faces, sucked away by the gloom surrounding the city, as if it escaped the touch of the rising sun. Rick hears Shane swallow as they stare in foreboding. One of Shane's hands seeks out Rick's; his other hand rubs over the back of his head as a low whistle escapes him. Rick is quieter—a thin layer of sweat beneath his clothes, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He shares one fortifying look with Shane before they start trudging forward and defy every instinct that pulses through their veins.
Behind them, storm clouds brew, heavy with rain.
It's been an hour, and still no job offers have appeared on a silver platter. Rick doesn't know why he expected otherwise; nowadays, the cities aren't much different from the boonies. If anything, people are more desperate. The glares they throw at Rick and Shane are cautious, like animals fending off any competition. Rick finds himself staring at the unreachable food hanging behind counters or sitting beneath glass, and he's sure he's the reason they're shooed out of the stores before they can barely say a word.
That's what he tells Shane, anyway, when the boy gets uncharacteristically quiet and shrinks away from their condemning stares, which strangely seem to focus more directly on him.
Rick turns up his collar to the wind with a shiver. It seems to blow so much harsher when it weaves between buildings than through trees, and the next store he and Shane enter is more about seeking refuge than finding work. He notices a friendlier look from the storeowner, a tall, lean woman in her thirties, as they try to discreetly shake the chill out of their bones. Shane immediately goes to stand in the corner like he'd started doing after the second or third hostile clerk.
"'Scuse me, ma'am," Rick addresses the lady behind the counter as Shane sticks his fingertips underneath his arms with a low cuss. "We was wonderin' if you were needin' any work done around y'r store."
The woman appraises him with eyes almost as blue as his own before running her hand through hair redder than his mama's. He swallows past the pang in his heart as he keeps up the smile he plastered on his face—all dimples and good intentions, Shane'd say—and watches her expression soften. Even when she looks at Shane.
"No, honey, I'm sorry, but we don't. We sure do need it, but we can't afford it," she replies gently, and Rick tries hard not to let his face fall too much.
He doesn't seem to succeed, because she adds after a second of torn hesitation: "I know the factories are always lookin' for new workers. There's a meat-packin' plant just over yonder." Her eyes leave Rick to rest somewhere behind him, narrowing into a reprimand. "It'd be perfect f'r you."
The emphasis makes Shane jump away from the wall and straighten his back. Rick would swear he saw paint chips from the doorframe beneath his nails before he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yes, ma'am," Shane mumbles under her scolding gaze. "What about Ricky? Any place for him?"
There's an even longer pause as she looks back to Rick, her eyes going gentle again. "There's another factory, good ole textile mill, 'bout a block or two from here. 'S been standin' over four decades now, and they're always lookin' for someone new." The creases that just begin to hint at her age deepen. When she notices Rick staring intently at her, his brows furrowed, she smooths her expression over into a smile in an instant. "Y'could probably find work there, honey."
Shane pipes up, "If they's always lookin' for someone new, couldn't we both work there?"
Rick glances toward Shane, and then both boys look up at her hopefully. She shakes her head, though, and their faces fall as she begins wiping her wooden counter down till it shines. "If y'both go there, they gonna feel like 's too much heat, y'follow?" She turns to Shane. "Maybe y'could come 'n try in a couple weeks. I'll write down some directions to both places for y'all, how's that sound?"
Shane shoots a furtive, worried expression over at him, and Rick feels a blush creeping up to tinge his cheeks. "Thanks, ma'am, thank you," he says when she hands him the slip of paper, genuine gratitude swelling up from deep in his chest. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a nickel to give to her, face earnest.
"Honey," she says, taken aback. "Come on, now, y'don't owe me anything."
When Rick keeps the money out in front of him, unwavering, she sighs and takes the coin. Before Rick can turn to leave with a grin, she pulls down a loaf of bread from the top shelf and presses it into his arms. "For the nickel," she says gently. Her smile is sad. "Take care, y'hear?"
Rick's eyes drift down to the papered loaf crinkling in his hold before he can help himself, returning to her face with disbelief. "Thanks, ma'am," he breathes, arms wrapped around the bread like it's a teddy bear. "Thanks."
She smiles weakly before Rick scampers back to Shane. He holds out the bread for his companion to tuck in his bag, and back they go into the windy street.
Even with the harsh weather as their foe, Rick has a spring in his step as they continue down the road, the worn heels of his boots clacking jovially against the pavement. After a few minutes, Shane shoots an irritated glance his way and lightly elbows him.
"The fuck you so happy about?" he grumbles as he readjusts the bag on his shoulder.
"She gave us bread," Rick says, not even attempting to tamper down on his grin.
Shane sighs, but Rick sees a hint of a smile turn up his lips before he rubs his hand over his mouth. "Ricky, you could make the sun seem downright gloomy, y'know that?"
Rick only grins.
The city sprawls out before them in shades of grey as their feet stumble over cracks in the road no one has the money to fix. If the bricks of the buildings surrounding them were once red, the hue had long since faded. Clouds sluggishly spread across the sky from the west, and mothers pulling their children along look up at them in concern, their faces daubed with makeup, as if the thick paint hid their destitution. The bounce in Rick's gait flattens out as he catches some of the young, sunken eyes roaming their surroundings in supplication, the smile slipping off his face to match their somber, thin faces. Shane looks over at him gently when Rick's stride slows down, and Rick feels the press of a palm against his own briefly before it slips away.
Eventually, Rick reaches into his worn trouser pocket, fingers tangling in the seams' loose threads, and pulls out a pocket watch, its long chain trailing out after it. Its polished silver surface jarringly juxtaposes the dirty hand holding it, like a diamond ring on a beggar. Rick handles the watch with care as he flips it open to read the time, the crystal intact and shining in the grey light from above. Quarter to eleven.
"We should split up," Rick says to Shane, whose exasperation transforms into badly-hidden anxiety.
"Come again?" Shane asks as he once-again adjusts the bag on his shoulder. His face is anxious, his eyes flitting around the gloom of the city nervously as Rick gingerly puts his watch away. The only time either of them had been in a city half this big was with their parents, and the only thing worth worrying about back then was if your hand was still holding your mama's.
"We should split up," Rick repeats, slow and mocking, and he earns himself a swat for his trouble. "It's gonna be lunch hour soon; at this rate, we ain't gonna get to both places."
"So?"
"I dunno 'bout you, but I'd rather us both havin' work by the end of today. My daddy always said bosses like it when y're there early, not at the end of the day when they's all worn out. Seems to me we won't be gettin' any work after that."
Shane exhales hard and runs a hand over his thick, curling brown hair. "Okay," he finally sighs out in surrender, but the expression in his brown eyes screams the exact opposite. "Maybe that makes sense."
Rick smiles tentatively and nods, reaches out for Shane's bag. "I'll be fine. Just gimme some of that bread to munch on, 'kay? Worst thing that could happen is me passin' out from goin' too long without eating."
The look in Shane's eyes almost makes Rick take everything back, promise to stay with him—but he knows it's the right call. Still, his friend's desperate face as he breaks off a piece of the loaf for him was nearly enough to compel him to forsake their whole reason for coming here in the first place.
Rick's startled by the gentlest press of lips to his forehead when he's tucking the bread into his pocket, but he quickly eases into it, his eyes fluttering shut. Shane pulls back and puts his hand on Rick's shoulder, close to his neck, and squeezes gently, his gaze trained on him intensely.
"Be safe," Shane says, ducking his head down to look into Rick's eyes better.
"I will, Shane," Rick says and leans forward for a quick embrace. Shane wraps his arms around him immediately in one of his bear-hugs, lifting Rick's feet clear off the ground, and only experience tells him his ribs didn't crack. "I promise. You, too, okay?"
Shane scoffs and ruffles Rick's hair as he pulls back from the hug, fingers lingering. "When am I ever safe?" he asks roguishly, but his fingers twist into a knot in front of him like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
Rick laughs and begins to wave goodbye. He's turning on his heel to leave when a sudden thought hits him. Rifling through his pocket, he pulls out the little slip of paper the woman in the store had given them and carefully rips it in half. Rick holds out the piece with the instructions to the meat-packing plant to Shane, who takes it with a smile.
"Y're definitely the brains here, Ricky," Shane says fondly as he looks down at the small sliver of paper.
"Aw, hush up," Rick dismisses. "You's plenty smart, too."
"Eh, it's okay. You c'n be smarter, 's long as I'm cuter."
Rick knows him well enough to realize that he's trying to put off the separation for as long as possible. He decides to indulge him a little anyway. "In y'r dreams."
But Rick's lying, as far as he's concerned. Shane's definitely the better-looking one between them. He's got that dark, mysterious look like Charles Farrell or something. Shane managed to kiss a girl when he was only ten behind the schoolhouse; poor thing walked around in a daze for the rest of the day, giggling whenever Shane looked her way. That was girls' favorite thing to do when they saw Shane—giggle. They smiled sweetly at Rick, asked for help with arithmetic and grammar, but the blushes and twittering? Those were for Shane—even if the teachers got all mad, for some reason.
Shane's looking at Rick with those dark eyes the girls love so much, and then he grins, concedes, "I guess y're pretty cute, too, Rick."
"What'cha mean by 'I guess'?" Rick replies indignantly, but Shane just ruffles his hair, slips his fingers down to curl around the nape of his neck.
Rick leans into his touch a little before he says, "We gonna keep arguing about who's better-lookin', or are we gonna get those damn jobs?"
They finally manage to depart this time, Shane's excuses to stay together running thin. Rick leaves him adjusting his cap, pulling it down low like he's trying to hide his dark, dark eyes.
The city looks the same no matter where you go, is all Rick can think as the bland buildings and half-ruined roads sprawl out before him. The trek to the sweatshop is a little longer than Rick expected; he ain't a city boy, and a couple blocks is a lot bigger it sounds.
People's faces don't change either, all turned down like they have invisible weights attached to the corners of their mouths. Rick's too familiar with the expressions; his father's and mother's were the same, his teachers—even his own in the mirror as his stomach shrunk and his cheeks turned concave. He'd hoped maybe the grey wouldn't be as dark here, like it is back home, but he'd been dead wrong.
It's worse.
The hue clings black like tar to skirts and the bottoms of trailing, patched trousers; it sticks to children's hands as they help their mothers break apart old fences for firewood, the splinters from the old, deteriorating wood getting stuck in their tiny hands. Some of them couldn't be older than six, and, for the second time, Rick has to swallow an ache in his heart before their cries manage to consume him.
Within fifteen minutes of walking, he trains himself to keep his eyes firmly fixed ahead.
"Oy! You! Get back here!"
A bellow breaking through the empty noise of the city streets has Rick spinning on his heel. A man bumps into him, unprepared for his sudden halt, and Rick barely manages to catch himself before he goes falling on his hands and knees to the dirty road. Watch it, the man mutters, but Rick hardly hears it, too busy looking for the source of the shout. It's no easy feat; no one else is reacting, inured to it, he supposes—but then he sees it.
A portly man is yelling in a stream of curses, a small boy no older than ten hanging by his arm from his fist. He shakes the child roughly, screaming at him, and Rick rushes forward by instinct as adrenaline rushes in his ears. He's close enough now to see the boy's terrified face—the slanted eyes, nearly-olive-toned skin, black hair like oil messy about his forehead. Rick's never seen someone who looked like him before, but he's scared for him—and, Christ, there's another little boy watching it all unfold, remarkable, pretty green eyes huge and trembling with suppressed tears.
"You give me that goddamned money if you know what's good for you, ya goddamn chink," the man hollers as he gives the black-haired boy another violent shake. His tattered grey cap falls to the ground, blending in like another stroke on the canvas.
"I don't do it, I don't," the child cries out. His voice lilts up, foreign to Rick's ears. It takes him a few seconds to understand what he's saying, and then another few to get what he actually means.
The man seems to have the same issue as Rick, and frustration takes over as he jerks the boy roughly again, finally succeeding in making him cry. The childish sobbing seems to trigger something, because his companion is suddenly rushing at the man. He pulls on the arm holding his friend, yelling, "Hey! Hey! You let him go! We didn't take y'r money, let him go!"
Only one look acknowledges the other boy's revolt before the man is lashing out with a heavy fist and striking him across the jaw. The strange-looking boy still held in his crushing grip comes alive, screaming what sounds like gibberish to Rick's ears, and Rick's distracted by him for a moment before he returns his gaze to the struck boy, and he takes a step back in surprise. Shoulder-length brown hair tumbles out onto the pavement, the cap that concealed it joining the other boy's on the pavement. It's not a boy at all—it's a damn girl.
Rick only has to take one look on the blooming bruise on her face before he's stepping into the scene (he's done this once before—flailing limbs and a too-deep pond, a small voice screaming Ricky, Ricky, before he dove in). The man's too focused on scaring the boy he's holding to see that he actually struck a little girl, and the boy is crying in that gibberish again as tears stream down his face.
"Sir, sir—excuse me for a moment, sir!" Rick calls, almost in a panic. The child's reaction is scaring him, the urge to protect swooping low and hot in his belly. "Please, sir, just wait a moment, please."
The man drops the boy as he sighs at his incoherent hysteria and whirls to face Rick, his face red and veins popping. "What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"Sir, I'm sorry—this is my li'l sister and her friend, sir—I wanted to see what happened, sir, that's all." Rick's talking fast, the lies spinning themselves out of nowhere.
"Sister—?"
The agitated man turns to look for the child he sent sprawling to the ground, only to find her reaching desperately for her hat. She's too slow to tuck all of her hair away and mysteriously become a boy again, keeps touching the darkening mark on her face with eyes threatening to overflow, and a guilty look flashes over the man's face. But then it's angry again, the light blue eyes burning into Rick.
"Her'n that li'l chink stole my money!" he roars. "'S that what y'r family teaches y'all t'do? Huh?"
Rick feels himself flinching away on instinct, but he makes his blue eyes go apologetic. "What? You did what?" He shoots the admonishment at the girl, hoping to God she'd just go with it. Thankfully, she looks appropriately abashed, her face all red and refusing to meet her watery green eyes with Rick's. "Sir, I am so sorry." And, like he just thought of it, he continues: "Our brother is sick, 'n our parents can't afford the medicine. She must'a thought we could if she took y'r money. All we want is t'help our baby brother. She don't know any better, sir."
The man's contemptuous expression begins to falter. Rick's too used to pity to fail noticing it rising in the man's eyes, picking apart the fabric of his anger thread by thread. Children are people's weaknesses, he's found, when they're weak and sick and looking up all pitiful. When they first moved to the new house, his mama'd put her makeup like a bruise on Rick's cheek and sent him on his way beggin'.
Maybe something about that black-haired boy makes it so that rule doesn't apply; maybe the man doesn't like people who look different. In the periphery of his vision, Rick spots the girl, her hair still sticking out randomly under her cap, crawling over to her sobbing friend, pulling him into her arms. They cling on to each other, and Rick has to force down the lump in his throat as the man addresses him.
"I'm awful sorry t'hear that, son," the man says soberly. He's not bad-lookin', now that the red's faded from his face. He's pale and somber instead, blue eyes warm instead of cold like stone. "I had no idea."
Rick's getting visibly choked up, he can feel it behind his eyes and in his throat. "'S okay, sir, my sister shouldn'a done it. She knows better."
He takes a small step toward the children just managing to get to their feet, a reprimand plastered on his face. They balk accordingly, the strange-looking boy and Rick has to give them points for their acting—he barely is, after all. "Which one of you has this poor man's money?" he asks sternly.
The pair stands there, staring at him beseechingly, before the girl reaches into her jacket and pulls out two dollar bills, crumpled by her hasty pocketing. Rick holds his hand out, and she takes a stubborn moment to give the money, a sort of showdown taking place between their eyes as they stare at each other. Finally, he wins, and he curls his fist around the crinkling paper once she hands it over, holding it back out to the butcher.
The man takes the money more hesitantly as he ducks down a little to look into Rick's eyes. With a deep sigh, he separates a dollar and gives it back to Rick, ignoring his insistences.
"I hope your brother makes it," he says quietly, almost awkwardly—how do you talk to a boy about his dying brother?
Rick feels his eyes well up, and he tries to force the wet back before the man notices. After an awkward, heavy pat on the shoulder, the man lumbers back into his shop, a bell tinkling as the door swings open, and then shut.
Before he turns back to the children standing tensely behind him, Rick allows himself an instant, his eyes squeezed shut and grief rending his heart. He forces his hands, curled into fists, to go lax, winces as his nails unsheathe themselves from the skin of his palms, and fixes a stern stare on the two.
"You two are lucky I came along when I did," Rick says. His voice is flat, falls down to them heavy. "You's little kids. A man like that could really mess you up, 'n no one'd do anything about it."
The girl is glaring angrily to the side, her hair a disheveled mess beneath the nondescript cap. The little boy beside her is trying to fix it gently, tucking the stray strands back into it, and she swats at his hand irritably.
"That don't happen often," she grumbles, and her green eyes finally flit up to peer at Rick.
"But it did," Rick presses. His voice is gentle, no anger. He just doesn't want to see kids hurt—especially kids like these, skinny beneath their thick clothes, patched and ragtag, their cheeks sallow and grimy. After a breath, he holds out the dollar to the little girl, only watching as she snatches it from his fingers before it can be taken away again. "You gotta be more careful."
Rick looks at the boy, who starts giggling when his friend finally begins to laugh in frustration at his attempts to fix her hair. She looks around warily and takes the cap off, skillfully swirling her hair into a bun and tucking it back into her hat.
"You could just cut it," Rick suggests idly when she finishes, even though he's rather impressed with the result. With her hair covered, her eyes are really the only thing that could possibly give her away.
She looks offended. "My hair?" she asks stiffly, like Rick had insulted her.
Rick holds his hands up in immediate surrender, and the little boy continues to giggle. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Rick's waist, peering up at him with his chin resting on the older boy's chest.
"T'ank you," he says through that funny lilt on his voice, but it sounds no less sincere.
Startled by the sudden embrace, he puts one hand on the boy's head, fingers sinking into the ink black tresses. "You're welcome," Rick replies, smiling down at him a little. "You promise me you's gonna be more careful?"
The boy takes a second, his eyes uncomprehending. His companion steps forward after a moment and whispers something in his ear, his face turning to her and an expression of concentration torqueing up his features. Understanding comes over his face after a second, and he looks back to Rick, nodding vigorously.
"Promise," he says happily as he steps back from Rick. "Promise."
Rick's a little confused, watching the way the girl links her fingers with her friend's protectively, but he smiles warm, nods.
"What're y'r names? What was you stealin' the money for?"
The girl looks at Rick, and her eyes narrow momentarily into green slits. "Food," she says after a pregnant pause. "Maybe a new blanket. 'S gettin' cold, 'n Glenn still ain't used to it."
Glenn seems to get the gist of the conversation and imitates a shiver, rubbing his hands over his arms. Rick grins at him, and the boy giggles.
"Glenn?" Rick asks. He'd been expecting a more exotic name to match the child's appearance and accent, like Pierre back in grammar school. Pierre was from France, everyone said, but the way his voice had been funny just wasn't the same as Glenn's.
"Glenn's from Korea," the girl explains, and Rick's never heard the word before. She seems to realize from his expression, because she huffs and explains, "Sorta like China or Japan. Anyway, I couldn't pronounce his name, but I thought I heard a 'G' in there, so I started callin' him Glenn. He's with me, he's gotta sound Irish."
A little crooked grin tugs up the corner of Rick's lips. "So y'r Irish? You got an Irish name, too?"
She glares at him with her stunning, fern green eyes before replying, "I sure do. It's Garrett."
Rick's eyebrows raise, and she bristles, takes a little step forward.
"Maggie!" Glenn pipes up with a little crooked grin. Maggie turns to glare him with a mixture of shock and anger, swatting out her hand at the younger boy. "She's Maggie."
"What's y'r problem, Glenn?" Maggie asks, gearing herself up while her companion continues to laugh.
Rick's lips are twitching as he resists joining Glenn, knowing the little spitfire wouldn't much appreciate it. "All right, all right, Garrett. Got it. But y'know, honey, girls're gonna get a lot more than boys when you's beggin'."
"We ain't beggin'," Maggie says with a little sigh. "That don't get you nowhere. Glenn's a mighty fine pickpocket." She looks at the boy beside her and links her fingers with his, eyes warm. "'S my fault we got caught today. First time it's happened, and it's been months."
Glenn is smiling, realizing that he's being complimented. He understands enough of what Maggie's saying to shake his head and say, "Me, me." Rick smiles at him when he figures out that it means my fault.
"It ain't safe," he tells them, the mirth slipping off his face. "And it ain't ever right to steal. Y'could be takin' money someone's usin' to feed their kids."
Glenn seems to get the gist of what Rick's saying, and he pouts, looks away guilty. Rick says sharply hey, summoning the dark eyes back to him. "I helped y'all out this time, and I was happy to. But I better not catch ya stealin' again, a'right?"
Maggie's scuffed boots fidget on the dirty road, and she nods at him without looking up. "Thanks f'r the help," she mutters.
Rick's gearing up to reply when his eyes travel up toward the sky, and his stomach bottoms out a little. The sun's very nearly right over their heads—he pulls out his watch to check, and he's right; it's almost noon.
Rick shoves the pocket watch back into his pocket and looks back to the pair of kids standing in front of him, notices how they seem to draw back from the clear anxiety in his posture. "Listen, I gotta git, so take care of y'rselves." He's getting ready to rush off when he casts another glance at Glenn and Maggie. Even the thick clothes they've got don't hide how goddamn skinny they are. Their hands are supposed to still have some chubbiness from childhood, but they're just pencil-thin, knuckles bulging out like knots in a tree. The grime on their cheeks and the shadows under their eyes just make their faces look gaunter, like the living dead, and, suddenly, Rick is reaching into his pocket and taking out the bread Shane had given him. He rips it into two pieces, one much larger than the other, and holds out the bigger end to Glenn and Maggie as he tucks the rest back into his jacket.
The uncertainty in the pair of eyes staring up at him breaks Rick's heart. How much had happened to these kids to make them hesitate to take food right in front of their faces? Distrust kindness? He swallows down the grief for the death of their innocence and presses the bread toward Maggie more adamantly. Slowly, she takes it from him, gratitude and confusion in equal measure filling up her vibrant eyes.
"Thank you," she whispers, like his benevolence stripped away her bravado. "Thank you."
"Take care of y'rselves," Rick repeats simply, references the instructions written on his piece of paper, and hurries off toward the mill without glancing back.
Behind him, Glenn waits till Rick rounds the corner before scampering after him, dragging a confused Maggie by the hand.
Where Rick had grown up, most of the jobs had been in teaching or store-owning. Some men were handymen; Rick's dad was the town's small-time sheriff. The children didn't work other than completing odd jobs for their parents' friends for a coin; they were in school.
He realizes quickly that's not the way things are in the city.
When Rick walks into the main room of the textile mill, he freezes not a foot from the entryway. He stares at the long rows of machines stretching from the front of the room to the back wall; the noise of the machinery assaults his ears and warrants a dozen tiny flinches at the metallic clangs—like his mama hitting a pan outside the front to call him and Shane in for supper, but a thousand times louder, a thousand times scarier.
At least thirty seconds have to have passed before Rick adjusts enough to take in the rest of the space. It's dirty and hot and humid, uncomfortable against Rick's chilled skin—like someone breathing down your neck, but all over his body. The smell of the place is rank, suffocating, and it takes a moment just to draw in a breath. He focuses on the workers scurrying around the mill and sitting at the chairs lined up in front of the machines and realizes with a jolt that they're children.
Not children like him, either, nearly brushing adulthood. Shane's shoulders started broadening when he was thirteen; Rick began showing signs of his daddy's strong jaw just this year. But these shoulders are narrow, small and slight as the wings of a fledgling; their faces are round with baby fat, lips plump in that childish pout. Some of the kids are older, Glenn and Maggie's age, his and Shane's age, and some are almost grown up—but it's the little ones Rick can't take his eyes off of, the little ones he sees in masses.
Some of them have their fingers darting into the threads strung to the machines, avoiding the working parts with learned nimbleness. It nearly stops Rick's heart, already leaping irregularly in his chest, the image of the merciless machines crushing their small bodies flooding his mind before he firmly sends it away.
Other kids pull bobbins full of thread from the machines with blinding quickness while others replace them with empty spools. Even from this distance, Rick can see the way their skin is worked raw, bruised, even bleeding, in some cases—and he can see why. There have to be over one hundred on each machine, and Rick feels stupid for ever thinking his mama had a lot for her little sewing machine.
Even as the children complete their tasks like it's nothing, the motions practiced, Rick can see the exhaustion glazing over their eyes, the occasional falter in their step. He's too familiar with that, too familiar with the intuition of knowing when to put a kid to bed when both his parents were working late. At this age—what, six, seven, eight?—they're likely to drop off at any given moment, and, for these kids, that'd mean right into the working parts of those machines.
A few of the workers nearest to the entrance are glancing up at him. Their eyes are uncertain and confused, clearly unused to a change in their routine. One boy cuts his hand in his distraction, yelping out at the pain. He sticks his dirty skin into his mouth to lap up the blood, eyes welling up with tears before he turns them back to his work and tries to resume it one-handed. Swallowing thickly, Rick rips his eyes away from the injured boy and takes his first step into the sweatshop and begins walking down an aisle framed by the whirring machines.
He's hard-pressed to look past the empty, shadowed eyes that rise to stare at him on his way—doesn't quite manage it when he meets a gaze over a bin of freshly spun cloth, suddenly arrested by piercing blue. Rick's breath sticks in his chest, flowing out only when he breaks eye contact and hurries on past in search of a manager, leaves the countless haunted gazes far behind him.
An hour after Rick first entered the mill, he finds the street corner he and Shane arranged to meet at, picking at crumbs of the bread in his pocket. But now, it's been ten minutes since the agreed time,and there's still no sign of Shane.
He's checked the names of the streets about three times, pacing about and heart rate ratcheting up with every minute that passes. He begins pulling out his pocket watch before he even manages to put it away from the last check and settles instead to watch it tick with the seconds Shane's late by.
By the fifteenth minute, he's about to start his search, use what he can remember of the instructions written by the woman back in the store to find the meat-packing plant.
Just as he decides the direction to head in, arms snake around him and pull him against a broad chest. With a little squeak, Rick starts wriggling in Shane's hold to turn and face him, already clinging his arms around the other boy. Shane grins and uses his greater height to pick Rick up and swing him around a little, all while Rick puts his arms around his neck and buries his face in Shane's chest.
"Why do you keep scarin' me, Shane?" Rick asks weakly when Shane puts him down and he pulls back from the embrace. "Just f'r kicks?"
"That's right." Shane grins and ruffles Rick's hair, taking his hand to begin leading him down the street before too many people could begin to stare.
"Got hired at the cotton place. I start trainin' tomorrow," Rick tells him reluctantly after walking in silence, and his voice is carefully monotone, dull.
Shane looks at him, brow furrowed, and says, "Yeah. Got work at the meat-packin' plant, too. Kinda rough 'n gross," he admits, and then lowers his voice. "Wish I knew how to make booze like my old man."
Rick looks at him and cracks a smile, raises a hand to cuff Shane gently. "Damn, me, too, what you been doin' f'r fourteen years?"
Shane makes a face and lets go of Rick's hand to shove him lightly. Rick's feet lose pace and stumble away from Shane for a few steps before they're once again joined at the hip. As they walk, Rick's head fills with thoughts of tomorrow. He and Shane would be apart for hours, every day. His stomach twists up in knots, and he keeps stealing glances at his best friend's profile, the laughter at his jokes and comments getting progressively quieter until he's outright silent, reaching out to grasp Shane's hand.
Shane looks down at their hands, surprised, and then up at Rick. His voice gets softer, gentler, and he mumbles, "Hey, what's wrong?"
Rick can only shrug, his hold on Shane's hand turning outright clingy. He's staring straight ahead, like he had back in the mill, scared the tears he feels burning in his eyes will overflow if he looks at Shane. Within the next few minutes, Shane tries to start conversation twice before realizing Rick just isn't gonna answer.
"C'mon, baby." Shane's breath stirs the hair curling near his ear, warm and close. "Let's go find somewhere to sit down, a'right?
Rick totters along after him as Shane leads him by the hand into an alleyway. His legs give way the minute he feels a wall to collapse against, and Shane makes a little noise and lunges out to catch him, soften his fall.
"Christ, Ricky," Shane mumbles as he leans in close, fingers curled around both of Rick's forearms. "Did ya even eat somethin'?"
He's already patting Rick's jacket pockets when Rick weakly shakes his head, looking for the bread he'd given him earlier. He finds it and takes it out, his brows furrowed as he tries to make sense of the small amount remaining.
"Gave some to a couple'a kids," Rick rasps out, and Shane lifts his eyes to glare at him. Rick flinches back, and Shane twists to sit beside Rick heavily, his back thumping against the brick wall behind them.
"Jesus Christ, Rick, how the hell are we gonna survive if you give away our goddamn food?" Shane asks, his voice angry. Rick feels his eyes threatening to tear up, and he looks away.
"They was hungry," Rick almost pleads. "I'm sorry, Shane. They was kids. Li'l kids."
He peeks at Shane from under his lashes and sees that his face has already softened, his arm creeping up to wrap around Rick's shoulders and pull him into his side. Rick curls willingly into him and slings an arm around Shane's waist as he presses his face into the warmth of Shane's chest. Within a few moments, Shane's gingerly turning Rick's face and raising soft, fresh bread to his lips, and Rick meekly opens his mouth. His mouth's already watering, and he doesn't think anything's ever tasted better to him, save the jerky from that morning.
"Good thing I didn't give you all our food, right," Shane murmurs into his hair as he continues to feed the bread to Rick, slow, so it won't overwhelm Rick's stomach. "'S okay, Ricky, you's good."
They eat quietly for another few minutes until Shane finally packs the bread back into his bag. They share some more of their remaining liquor and let the numbness kick in, top it all off with a few more puffs on Shane's cigar. The conflicting highs buzz in Rick's head as he begins to doze against Shane's chest.
Shane nestles more comfortably against the wall, the two boys resting on each other, the knit blanket Shane packed for them strewn over their laps.
"We doin' the right thing?" Rick wonders aloud, nuzzling into Shane's jacket. The pain from the hunger still resonates in him, the ghost of an ache he's getting more and more used to—more and more afraid of. The stares of the children in the cotton mill, a hundred hopeless, empty eyes haunt him every time he closes his eyes. He hides his face in Shane with a breathy little whimper as he tries to stifle his thoughts.
"It's the only thing we could do," Shane says, his voice so sure, it threatens to send all Rick's worries away entirely. Shane presses a kiss into Rick's hair, right near the shell of his ear. "It's the only thing we could do."
Rick nuzzles into him, adjusts his position till he's nearly in Shane's lap. Shane just takes it in stride, has his arms wrapped around Rick and his ear resting against the top of his head. They're all twisted together, keeping warm even with the cold brick at their backs—or maybe too buzzed to feel it.
"Home, sweet home," Rick slurs sleepily and finally gives into sleep with Shane's soft chuckle in his ears.