Mad World
Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I only own the story itself, Mr. Cassidy (Kaz), and the bartender. I also don't own the line "started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons"—that's a line from Hamlet. Shakespeare owns it. The title is from the song "Mad World" which inspired this fic. I don't own that song. I don't know who does, though.
A/N: Mostly unbeta'd—I just used spell-check. Sorry about any mistakes. This took me forever to finish, and it ended up really long. But I like it, and I hope you do too. Please review!
June 1913
"SKITTERYSKITTERYSKITTERY."
Skittery cracked an eye open, glaring through it at Snitch. Nobody but Snitch ever called him Skittery anymore... Nobody but Snitch knew he'd ever been Skittery.
"What, Snitch..."
Snitch, full of energy that morning, ran over. "LETTER!"
"God, Snitch, what are you? Twelve?"
"Thirty. Letter for you. SKITTERY. GET UP AND READ THE LETTER."
Skittery groaned and rolled out of his bed. "Give me the damn letter. What's got you so excited about it? We get letters all the time."
Snitch impatiently thrust the letter into Skittery's face, who leaned back a little and grabbed it. "Skittery, read who it's FROM."
Skittery squinted slightly—the scrawling hand on the envelope was hard enough to read without it having been smudged by dirt and droplets of water. "Racetrack Higgins," he read slowly. "It's even addressed to Snitch and Skittery. Why didn't you open it?"
"I wanted you to see it, too. I mean, Race hasn't written to us since we moved to Chicago!" Snitch leapt over and flopped down on the bed beside Skittery. "OPEN IT!"
"Snitch, relax. It's just a letter. Maybe he felt guilty about not contacting us since we left." Skittery didn't quite believe it even as it came out of his mouth, but he didn't say so. Being Snitch's beau could be quite taxing when he acted like this. Skittery opened the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed he shared with Snitch, feeling around until he found the old letter-opener he'd stolen back in his newsie days. Sliding it through the thin paper, he opened the letter. The paper inside was folded tightly into perfect thirds, and the handwriting jostled, as if Racetrack had written it during a bumpy ride. Out loud, Skittery read:
"Dear Snitch and Skittery,
"I hope this letter reaches you two together. I don't know where to find you if you're not still together living in Chicago.
"Spot's dead. I'm not quite sure what happened, but he is, and I want you two to come out for the funeral. It's July 8th—the funeral is, that is—and I want you, along with all the guys from our newsie days, to come up. We're still living in New York. The funeral will be in the backyard of the Brooklyn lodging house."
Skittery looked up, meeting Snitch's eyes. "Wow," he said. "I never thought Spot would be the first to go."
"Maybe he's not," whispered Snitch. He cuddled into Skittery's side. "Maybe we just didn't hear about the others to go."
Skittery was silent for a minute. Maybe Snitch was right. Maybe everybody was dead (except them and Racetrack), but nobody thought to contact the guys from their newsie days about it. They hadn't exactly been great about keeping in touch. Or maybe, he thought, horrified at the idea, they didn't have anybody who cared enough about them to do it. Shaking the thought from his mind, Skittery read on.
"Spot ran it, you know. The lodging house. After we started living together and Mr. G. died, Spot took over. Let me tell you, I can sympathize for Kloppman. It's hell having to get up a bunch of teenage newsboys every morning. Spot ran the place, but somehow I always got stuck doing the dirty work.
"I hope I can see you there. If you got this, please write back telling if you're coming or not.
"Racetrack."
"Get me some paper," Skittery said when he finished reading. I'm going to this. No matter what, I'm going.
When Snitch returned with a sheet of paper and a nub of pencil, Skittery flattened it on the night stand and wrote a quick reply.
Racetrack.
We're very sorry to hear about Spot's death, and we'll definitely be there.
Skittery and Snitch.
----
"SKITTERYSKITTERYSKITTERY."
Skittery groaned. This was the second morning in a row that he'd been awoken in this manner. The first time he'd received a letter from Racetrack Higgins, a boy who had been a newsie with him before he and Snitch moved to Chicago to start new lives. It was beyond comprehension that he could possibly receive two letters from figures of his past in two days, but he couldn't figure out what else would work Snitch up like that. "What?"
"THERE'S A SPIDER IN THE KITCHEN."
"Snitch, I'm not getting up to kill a spider. It's... God, what time is it?"
"FOUR IN THE MORNING. BUT THERE'S A SPIDER, SKITTERY, A SPIDER!"
"Snitch, stop yelling. It's four in the morning. Really. I'm not getting up to go kill a spider. Just get back in bed. It'll be gone in the morning."
"WHAT IF IT COMES INTO THE BED?"
"I'll protect you."
----
Later that morning, Skittery rolled out of bed to discover Snitch perched on a stool in the kitchen, eyeing the floor anxiously as he ate his toast.
Skittery sighed and walked over, wrapping his arms around Snitch from the back and grabbing the half-eating toast. Taking a bite, he said, "Snitch, what if everybody's different?"
Snitch lunged over to grab his toast back, but Skittery held it out of his reach and his stool toppled over. As he landed, spread-eagled, on the floor, Snitch swore. Getting up and dusting himself off, he answered, "It's been thirteen years, Skitts. Of course they're different."
Shaking his head, Skittery finished the toast and walked over to the icebox. He didn't want them to have changed. He was afraid of what he'd discover when they returned to New York. What's wrong with they way we were? Skittery wondered as he poured himself a glass of milk.
"Skittery," Snitch said quietly from where he perched on the stool. "We've changed. You and me. We're a lot different. And I think that's a good thing. We're not really Snitch and Skittery anymore. I mean, to each other we are, but to the world, we're Alex and James. We're not newsboys anymore. I run a pub, and you write for a newspaper. We've changed. We have a little bit of money in our pockets now, and a stable home. Most importantly, we have each other."
"I'm glad we have each other, and I'm glad we have a place in the world, but what if nobody gets along like we used to? What if our friendship's gone?"
"Don't worry about it. For now, just worry about finding the spider lurking in here and killing it."
Skittery rolled his eyes. "It's Tuesday. I have to go to work. I'll try to find the spider when I get home."
"SKITTERYYYYYYYYYYY! COME ON! I'll be home alone till you get back, cos I don't work today!"
"Then go take a walk or something."
----
"James! Wonderful, wonderful. Glad you could make it."
Skittery fought the impulse to spit on the hand he stuck out to shake with his editor. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Mr. Cassidy. This could be my lucky, front-page day."
Mr. Cassidy was a kind man, usually, and he looked it. He had a plump body that he kept well-groomed, and a face to match, slightly ruddy in complexion, but always smiling. The laugh lines around his eyes were permanent, and made him appear extremely jolly. He replied, "Oh, but that depends on your material, dear boy!"
Removing it from a black folder, Skittery placed his article on the table in front of Mr. Cassidy, taking a seat across from him. "Wonderful as ever," he joked. He was very nervous, for some reason. It seemed as if he just needed to get a front page story before he packed off to New York for Spot's funeral. He needed to be able to say he'd accomplished something since he'd moved to Chicago.
While Mr. Cassidy read, Skittery let his mind wander. It flitted over Snitch, back at their apartment, probably still petrified to step off that stool, and paused on Spot. He remembered Spot the way he'd been a year after the strike—the same as he'd been during the strike, except slightly nicer since he'd begun dating Racetrack.
What seemed like forever later, Mr. Cassidy finished reading Skittery's article and cleared his throat, arranging the papers neatly before him and clasping his hands together over them. Skittery found he could barely stay still in his chair.
"James," began Mr. Cassidy, in what Skittery recognized in his This-is-awful-but-I-can't-say-that, "Tell me more about this story."
What? "Um... it's exactly what it says it is. It's completely self-explanatory, Mr. Cassidy. What do you want me to explain?"
"What is the hook?"
"To the public?" he asked stupidly.
"Yes."
Skittery cleared his throat. The article was about street kids, a subject Skittery was all-too-familiar with. "Poverty," he said, his voice sounding much more sure than he was, "is a very real problem in Chicago."
"But why would those who don't struggle with it care?"
This question tripped Skittery up. He hadn't thought of that. He cared because he'd been a street rat. Actually, he didn't really care—he'd written the article because it was an easy thing to write. "They wouldn't," he answered, remembering his days as a street kid in New York City. "At least, not in New York. I don't know about Chicago."
Mr. Cassidy said, "Well, Chicago is a far more empathetic than New York, I can promise you that, but I'm not sure the rich boys, the ones who BUY the paper, would care about street rats. I can publish it, but I'm not sure it's front-page material."
Skittery swallowed. "Alright, Mr. Cassidy."
"I'll save the front page until tomorrow, boy. If you bring me a front-page-worthy story by noon tomorrow, you'll get your name on the cover of the paper, and I promise you that."
Skittery nodded, thanked him, and excused himself.
----
Outside the building, Skittery checked his pocket watch. It was still only one o'clock. Normally he'd go home and fix up sandwiches to eat with Snitch (assuming Snitch didn't fix them up before he got there), then go off and wander the streets of Chicago, looking for a story. But that day, his mind was too full to go home. He looked around. The streets were full of people, bustling in every direction.
As he watched people racing by, Skittery felt an urge to go out an hawk papes. What's happening to me? he asked himself angrily. I've been rid of those newsie habits for thirteen years! Why today? He remembered having to stop himself from trying to spit-shake with Mr. Cassidy and sighed. Must be hearing from Racetrack, remembering that these people are real.
Annoyed with himself, he began walking in a very familiar direction. It didn't register where he was going, however, until he found himself outside of Snitch's, the grungiest pub in this part of the city. The building looked respectable from outside, but inside it was a veritable shithole. Skittery found himself walking in, wondering idly if anybody made the connection between the name and the man who ran it.
"James, Alex doesn't work today," called the bartender first thing. Skittery couldn't help but smile slightly—he only ever came in here to visit Snitch at work, or to pick him up.
"I know," he said, with the air of a man indulging a friend in a secret, "that's why I came. I'd like a shot of whiskey."
The bartender—Skittery couldn't remember his name—gave him a curious look, but poured him a shot nevertheless, and turned down the money Skittery held out.
"On me," he said, turning back to the expansive collection of liquor behind him.
Skittery drank it quickly, then hightailed it out of there. He hated spending much time in that type of place.
----
Four hours later, when Skittery finally arrived home, he was accosted by Snitch on his way in the door. Skittery accepted a kiss from his beau, then tried to push past, but Snitch was adamant.
"Skittery, guess who I ran into today!"
Skittery sighed. Usually when Snitch asked him this type of question, it was something really stupid that he didn't actually care about. "Uh... the guy from the grocer's who gives you free samples if you smile at him?"
Snitch rolled his eyes. "No, silly! GUESS!"
"The mayor."
"BUMLETS!"
"I'm not—oh," Skittery said as the realization sunk in. "You saw Bumlets. How's he been? Is he going to the funeral? Wait, what's he doing here? I thought he was in California."
"He was," Snitch said, glancing furtively over his shoulder and lowering his voice a little. "The thing is, Skitts, he's running from the law. He escaped prison in California. He's wanted for homicide under the alias Luke Link. But he's going by Dominic now."
Skittery nodded. He wasn't overly surprised, although slightly disappointed in Bumlets. "Is he going to the funeral?"
Snitch looked nervous. "Actually, I invited him to stay here till then and go with us."
"Snitch! He's wanted for murder!"
"Aw, come on. He's Bumlets, he wouldn't murder us!"
Skittery took a deep breath, and said, "Okay... um... can you get back to him on it? At least let me think about it?"
"Um... he's... actually, he's kind of sitting in our kitchen."
"Oh, well as long as he's just kind of sitting in our kitchen," Skittery said, slightly annoyed.
"Listen, Skittery, don't get mad..."
Skittery breathed deeply, thinking. Then he got an idea. "You say he's running from the law?"
"Yes..."
"And, strictly speaking, he's running loose in Chicago, right?"
"Your story didn't get the front page, did it?"
"No. So technically there's a convicted murderer running loose in Chicago?"
"Technically. But Skittery, please don't run away with it! Please—at least talk to Bumlets about it first."
The article was practically writing itself in his head, but Skittery nodded. "I'll talk to him," he promised. Giving Snitch a quick kiss on the forehead, he walked into the house.
----
In the kitchen, Bumlets was sitting in a chair, chewing a piece of buttered toast and looking around the house.
"Bumlets," Skittery said by way of greeting when he walked in.
Bumlets started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons and nearly dropped his toast. Then he got up and walked over to hug Skittery. "Skittery! I haven't seen you in... God, thirteen years!"
"Yeah," Skittery agreed, extracting himself from the hug. "Listen, Bumlets, I hear you're running from the law as Luke Link."
"Yeah," Bumlets said, sticking his hands in his pocket after dropping the remainder of his toast on the table (which Skittery noticed spread a spattering of crumbs around the bread). "Please don't kick me out based on that. It was self defense. I mean, I can explain..."
"No, Bumlets, it's fine. But I wanted to ask you a favor."
"Go on."
"Well, you know I'm a reporter, right?" Without waiting for Bumlets' answer, Skittery continued, "And I'd really, really like to get a front-page deal before I have to go to New York for the funeral."
Bumlets nodded.
"It's like... I want to have something to be proud of, you know?"
Bumlets nodded again.
"Okay, well, having a murderer running around the streets of Chicago's a pretty big deal."
"You want to write your story about me."
Skittery shrugged uncomfortably. "If it's okay with you."
Frowning, Bumlets considered it. "I guess it's the least I can do to repay you for taking me in for a little while. But make sure you don't put in the possibility of Luke Link being someone else, and no pictures."
The two smiled at each other, both reminded of Jack.
"No pictures and no aliases," Skittery agreed.
----
That night over dinner, Skittery got the details of the crime from Bumlets. It turned out that he really had committed the murder completely in self defense. There had been a drunk man chasing him, trying to kill him, and he'd simply wrestled the knife away from him and stuck it through him when the man tackled him.
Really, the story wasn't that fascinating. Bumlets wouldn't be committing any other crimes. The only reason he'd escaped the jail was because he'd gotten the letter about Spot's death and wanted to go to the funeral (he'd gotten it a few days earlier than they had, despite his being farther away).
Nevertheless, Skittery wrote up the article, feeling faintly sick when he added flourishes and art to the facts. When the article was done, Luke Link was a highly-dangerous murderer, believed to enjoy preying upon young women (Bumlets had added that—he seemed to be having fun with the article) and carry several guns on his person. Skittery gave a mostly-accurate description of him, leaving out the fact that he'd bleached his hair to a pale brown, and it was no longer the natural black, along with a few other vital facts.
----
The following day, at exactly 11:58, Skittery knocked firmly on Mr. Cassidy's thick door. When the door was opened, he walked in, carrying the story prominently in front of him. He grinned at Mr. Cassidy.
"James! You made it!" The man held out his beefy hands hungrily for the black folder, which Skittery deposited proudly into them.
This time as Mr. Cassidy read, his eyes widened. Skittery had no problem keeping still, waiting patiently. He was sure this was his break.
Mr. Cassidy finished the story far faster than any other Skittery had ever written (although it was certainly no shorter), and set the sheets carefully in front of him and clasped his hands over them. He took a few minutes to collect his thoughts and plan his words before he began speaking. "James." (Skittery noted Mr. Cassidy was using a tone of voice he didn't recognize.) "I am surprised."
"Good surprised or bad surprised?"
"Wonderful surprised."
Skittery allowed himself to smile. "Yes, I'm glad you are. But what about the story?"
Mr. Cassidy beamed. "I'm quite afraid that I'll need your last name now, James."
"But... James is how I'm known..."
A sudden shadow passed over Mr. Cassidy's face. "Tell me, James, why can't you tell me your last name? I made quite an exception hiring you without knowing it."
"I..." Skittery frowned. He'd never quite been sure why he refused to give out his last name. "Well, I used to be a newsie in New York City," he said. "And I guess I just wanted a new start after that. Nobody called me James, but people still used my last name sometimes."
Mr. Cassidy raised his eyebrows. "I used to be a newsie in New York as well," he informed a surprised Skittery. "I was the leader in the Bronx. They called me Kaz. What'd they call you?"
"Skittery. I was from Manhattan."
"James... Skittery... Would you like me to continue calling you James? You can call me Kaz if you like, I don't mind. But which name do you prefer?"
"James," Skittery answered. Skittery was reserved for those who had known him in his newsie days, especially Snitch.
"James, this is your breakthrough. Front page story! I look forward to next week's!"
"Actually, Kaz, about that. I can't be here next week."
"Why ever not, boy?"
"Um... You knew Spot Conlon, I assume?"
"That young boy? I stopped being a newsie in about 1890, and he was just starting off then. I met him once. Bad attitude, but a great leader."
"Yeah. Me and some friends knew him pretty well. We got to be friends with him. Um, and his boyfriend." (Skittery ignored the scandalized look on Mr. Cassidy's face.) "Anyway, he died and his funeral is next week."
Mr. Cassidy refolded his hands. "Well, boy, you can go, but I'm not paying you for the week."
Skittery nodded, thanked him, and, once again, excused himself.
----
That night, Skittery arrived home to discover Snitch and Bumlets sitting in the bedroom with packed bags around their feet.
"What the heck?" Skittery said as he walked in.
Snitch looked sheepishly up at him. "Well, I think we ought to, you know... leave."
"Snitch, it's not even July 1st yet." Skittery shot a look at Bumlets, who shrugged. The look on Bumlets's face said clearly, there's no arguing with this one when he's determined. Skittery nodded in agreement to Bumlets's unspoken sentiment.
"I don't wanna be late or nothin', you know?"
"Your New York accent is coming back, Snitchers."
"I know, and I spit-shook wit' the grocer."
Skittery laughed. "I nearly spit-shook with Mr. Cassidy yesterday. Oh, did I tell you? He used to be the leader in the Bronx. Said they called him Kaz."
Bumlets spoke up. "Oh, I remember Kaz! I knew him back in about 1890. Right when he was leaving for... Come to think of it, he did come to Chicago. Anyway, I met him right 'fore that."
"Yeah, said he left then."
"So he's yoah boss, Skittery?" asked Snitch, coming over and latching onto Skittery's arm possessively.
"Yep. So what's with all these bags? It doesn't take 10 days to drive to New York City from here."
"I don't wanna be late!" Snitch insisted.
"Snitchers! We'll be, like, seven days early!" Skittery walked over to the bags and unzipped on of them. "Besides, I don't think we need this much stuff."
"Well, a third of it's mine," Bumlets piped up. "I mean, I brought all my shit with me when I left California." Then he surveyed the bags that were apparently his. "It wasn't that much, though. I mean, I'd just been in jail. I guess I accumulated some stuff on the way here. It's a long way, hitching rides and walking in between," he said.
"I guess so," Skittery said absently, sifting through the contents of a bag full of his clothes. Snitch was at his side, giving the reasons for bringing certain items that Skittery was sure they wouldn't be needing.
"See dis," Snitch said, pulling a pair of baby blue long underwear that Skittery had been given by Jack when he'd come out—Jack had never tired of teasing him and Snitch for being gay, even though half the guys from the Lodging House had ended up that way. Jack had been in the minority as a straight boy—from the bag and waving it in front of Skittery's eyes. "Dis ya need in case it gets cold an' Jack's 'round. I'd be insulted if I was him an' it got cold an' ya didn't wear da long underwear I stole for you."
"Snitch, honey, they don't fit anymore. And there's a big hole in the crotch. Besides, I bet Jack doesn't even remember giving these to me!" Sometimes Skittery thought Snitch's mind was that of a woman. He seemed to remember and think of things Skittery had never heard of a member of the male gender remembering or thinking of.
"Ya gotta bring 'em!" Snitch said, forcefully smashing them back into the bag. "Because, well—ya gotta!"
The two paused to smile at each other, this time reminded of David.
"Say," Bumlets called from his bags a few feet away, "Whatever happened to David?"
Snitch and Skittery glanced at each other, unsure.
"Um, I think he we to a college in Colorado or someplace?" Skittery said, pulling a pink undershirt from the bag that he hadn't fit into since his newsie days. Ever since he began eating properly, he hadn't been thin enough to wear most of his old clothes, although he was by no means out of shape. "Snitch, I can't wear this, why should I bring it?"
"Because it'll bring back good memories ta have it in New York," Snitch said, pulling the shirt from Skittery's hands.
"My memories of being a newsboy are a dime a day and a couple of black eyes," Skittery said bitterly, pulling the shirt back and quoting Jack. "Apart from the friends I made, they're nothing to write home about."
Snitch leaned over, kissing Skittery on the lips. "But da sex wit' me was," he whispered into Skittery's mouth as he pulled the shirt back.
Laughing, Skittery replied, "If I'd had a home to write to, and if they'd accept my being attracted to men." He grabbed at the shirt again. This time it emitted a loud tearing sound. Both boys (and Bumlets) stopped what they were doing and stared at it. The sleeve Skittery had grabbed had ripped clean off.
After a pause, Bumlets joked, "Guess that solves the problem."
"No," Snitch corrected, reaching over and pulling a needle and dark blue thread out of nowhere, "That just means I gotta sew it up."
Bumlets shook his head at Skittery. "You got yourself a man of many talents there," he said.
"A lady, more like," Skittery teased, leaning over to kiss his beau affectionately on the cheek.
Bumlets shook his head, smiling and going back to reorganizing the things in his bags. Pulling out a filmy stocking, he adopted a scandalized and shocked look. "Where the hell did this come from? Sure as hell ain't mine!"
Skittery laughed. "Guess the travel from California to here wasn't too boring, huh, Bumlets?"
Bumlets threw the socking at Skittery, but missed.
"Done!" Snitch announced, displaying the shirt. The arm was back on, although the sewing was slightly lopsided and stood out like a sore thumb. He pushed it back into Skittery's bag, shooting him a glare that said, I dare you to try to take this out again.
Skittery let it be, moving on to the next item, which was a skirt Snitch liked him to wear before sex sometimes. "Snitch! I'm not bringing this!"
Snitch sized the item up. It was short—very short. Scandalous, actually. (Skittery didn't want to know where Snitch had gotten a hold of it.) It was black, ruffly satin with a slit up one side, despite the shortness. "Well..."
"No, Snitchers. I'm not bringing it. Final word."
With an expression of pure regret, Snitch watched silently as Skittery tossed the offending item across the room.
"What the fuck was that?" asked Bumlets, folding a red shirt into his bag.
"A skirt," Skittery said stiffly.
"I can see that," Bumlets said, looking amused. "Does Snitch have a fetish?"
Glaring, Skittery answered, "Shut up, Mr. "Oh, look, I have a stocking in my bag and I quote don't know where it came from." At least I'm not in denial about my sexuality."
"I'm not," replied Bumlets, his tone not varying in the slightest, keeping it's carefree air. "Why on earth would I be in denial about being straight?"
Snitch crawled over and pulled Skittery onto his back. "Don't fight. We should leave."
"Snitchers, let's go through the bags of things logically. Our car can't fit all this and us three. Come on." Skittery pulled the nearest bag into his lap and unzipped the top. The first item out was a pair of scuffed, brown work boots. "Now, what on earth do you need these for?"
"So I don't get my shiny black shoes dirty."
Skittery sighed and dropped them onto the floor an arm's length away. "That's the maybe pile." Without waiting for Snitch to protest, he pulled out a gray newsies cap. "Do you need this? Will you really wear it?"
"Yes!"
And so it went for the next four hours, Skittery trying to eliminate their luggage, Snitch adamantly refusing, and Bumlets watching in amusement. Finally, the three plopped into bed, exhausted. The bags on the floor were still just as full as they'd been before. Only about one or two things had successfully been removed. Skittery thought resignedly, Snitch always wins in the end, as he fell asleep.
----
The next morning, Skittery awoke for a third time to, "SKITTERYSKITTERYSKITTERY."
Rolling over and pulling the thin feather pillow over his ears, Skittery groaned, "What now, Snitch?"
"WE GOTTA LEAVE."
"Snitch! I'm too tired to drive!"
"BUMLETS KNOWS HOW TO DRIVE."
"No, Snitchers, honey. You don't understand. We're not leaving today."
"SKITTERYYYY," Snitch whined.
"No."
"Cockface," Snitch muttered as he climbed out of the bed and walked away.
"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?"
"Nothing," Snitch called over his shoulder from the kitchen doorway.
"A COCKFACE," Bumlets yelled. Skittery couldn't tell where in the apartment he was, but there was no doubt that Bumlets had amazing hearing.
Skittery leapt out of bed and ran into the kitchen, tackling his beau onto the floor.
"Pleasedon'thurtme," gasped Snitch as he hit the floor beneath Skittery.
In answer, Skittery pressed his mouth hard to Snitch's. Time slowed, as it did whenever they kissed, and his breathing quickened. His hands seemed to work of their own free will as they snaked up beneath Snitch's loose pajama shirt. He felt a bulge grow in his pants as he slid his tongue into Snitch's compliant mouth.
"Skittery! Snitch! Get a room," Bumlets said, pushing Skittery off of Snitch with his foot. He was smirking down at the flushed, quick-breathing pair and munching on a piece of toast with marmalade.
"Shut up, cockface," snapped Skittery, getting off the floor. He reached out to help Snitch up, who grabbed his hand and pulled hard. Before he knew what was happening, Skittery was back on the floor on top of Snitch. This time Snitch initiated the kiss, and it was his hands that took the liberty of exploring the other's body.
Bumlets just shook his head and went about pouring himself a glass of milk, but when Skittery's pants somehow found their way off and onto the floor, he made an odd choking sound and hurried out of the room.
----
Later, Snitch grabbed up the bags from the foot of the bed the three had shared the previous night and went over to the door. He was so insistent that they had to leave that Skittery, rolling his eyes, agreed to.
"But we've got to stop for nights and go to cheap hotels," he said firmly.
Bumlets raised an eyebrow. "As opposed to expensive ones?"
"Yes," Skittery answered.
"You two can afford that?"
"Sort of," Skittery said, shrugging.
The three piled into Skittery's car. Bumlets took the wheel, despite Skittery's insistence that it was his car and he should drive the whole way (although Bumlets did agree that they'd switch every couple of hours), and Snitch cuddled into Skittery in the back.
The drive was a long one, with frequent stops to buy food or drink, or to go to the bathroom. Snitch was a fussy rider. Skittery had forgotten how slow Snitch made rides go.
Seven hours later, they pulled into the parking lot of a shabby-looking inn. Skittery pulled a half-asleep Snitch out of the car as Bumlets locked it. The three walked groggily into the lobby.
It was a fairly nice joint inside. The wallpaper looked brand new, and the carpet was thick and lush. The man standing behind the tall, mahogany desk looked thoroughly bored and was sketching his surroundings onto the back of what appeared to be a reservation memo.
"Excuse me, sir," Snitch said, walking up to the man. Skittery felt himself wanting to grab Snitch and kiss him just to show the man at the desk that Snitch was taken.
"Got a reservation?" the man asked. He had dark circles under his deep-set brown eyes. His face was shockingly handsome, though, and his body was fit, Skittery could see.
"No, sir. But wese wonderin' if we could have a room anyhow." Snitch was flirting, Skittery could swear, and it made him jealous as hell.
"How many?"
What Snitch said next made Skittery's heart soar, and the man behind the desk's face fall. "Well, there's me an' my boyfriend, here, and den dere's Bumlets. I'se pretty shore dat's t'ree."
"There's a room up on the third floor you can have," the man said, his voice colder. "Room 317's free." He tossed Snitch the key and went back to his sketch.
"Fanks," Snitch said. The three walked away, up two flights of stairs.
Once they reached the third floor, Skittery found Room 317 almost immediately. After turning the key in the door, Skittery pushed it open and ushered Bumlets and Snitch inside.
The room was rather small, with two twin-sized beds, a wardrobe, and a small table. There was also a tiny, adjoining bathroom off to one side. The comforters on the beds were a disgusting maroon and tan print, and the furniture was made of mahogany, but all rather beat up.
Bumlets dropped his bags on the bed farthest from the door and settled down on it. "Damn good accommodations, compared to jail," he said as he pulled his shoes off.
Snitch replied, "Damn bad as fah as hotels go, though," as he pulled Skittery down onto the other bed with him. "Skittery, yoah sleepin' wit' me."
"Of course," Skittery said, kissing Snitch quickly on the mouth and dropping his own bags. He lay back, allowing his head to flop back on the pillow next to Snitch's. "Do they got room service here?"
Bumlets reached over to the small table located between the beds, apparently meant to function as a makeshift night stand, and grabbed a pamphlet off of it. "Read for yourself, bum," he said, handing it to Snitch, who passed it to Skittery.
After a few minutes of skimming the booklet, Skittery announced, "They do, but we missed dinner."
"Then let's get sleep now, and breakfast tomorrow," Bumlets suggested.
Skittery turned off the lights.
----
The next morning, Bumlets was the first to wake up. He checked his watch and, seeing that it read 7:58, walked over to the bed Snitch and Skittery were sharing. He woke Snitch first—he was easier to wake than Skittery, by far. Skittery had never had trouble getting up back at the lodging house in New York, but for some reason, he simply could not "rise and shine" like he had once been able to.
Snitch didn't say a word when Bumlets shook him awake, simply rolled out of bed and put on the clothes he had layed out the night before. He quickly brushed his teeth and, considering himself ready for another full day in the car, expressed the need to leave.
"Snitch... wake Skittery up, please," Bumlets said from behind the newspaper he was reading.
"What da hell, Bumlets, where'd you get da pape?"
"It was slid in our door."
Snitch walked back to his bed and hit Skittery upside the head. "GET UP, SKITTERY, WE'S LEAVING."
Skittery shoved his head under his pillow and said, "Nughhhhhhhnnnnn."
This time, Snitch crawled into the bed and pushed on Skittery, trying to roll him off the mattress onto the floor. It failed, though, because Skittery was far heavier than Snitch could move. "Skitteryyyyyyyyy, come on!"
Skittery groaned and curled into the fetal position, pulling the blanket over his head.
Snitch paused, deciding how to proceed, then leaned over to Skittery's ear and stuck his tongue in.
"GWYAHH!" Skittery rocketed out of bed, his hand clutching his ear, and glared murderously at his beau, who sat smiling innocently on the bed.
"Get up now," Snitch said pleasantly.
Skittery glared.
----
And so their travel went, until finally they pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Snitch shook Skittery awake (Skittery had been sleeping on his lap) and screamed, "SKITTERYSKITTERYSKITTERY! WE'S IN BROOKLYN!"
Skittery reached up and covered Snitch's mouth with a firm hand. "Shu'p," he groaned into his boyfriend's stomach.
A few minutes later, they parked their car in an empty space along the road with the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House on it—there were several other cars along the way, along with a few horses and buggies. Snitch mused, "I ain't never seen nothin' parked out heah."
Skittery stumbled out of the car and led the way into the lobby of the lodging house. Racetrack was sitting behind the counter, reading a novel, with his feet up on the ledger. He looked up when the door opened, and then put his book down and vaulted himself over the counter. (Skittery was surprised at how limber he still was.)
"Heya, boys!" Race greeted them jovially. Then his face fell, and once again, he seemed the sad, small man who had just lost his beau.
Snitch walked over, dropping his bags at Skittery's feet, and enveloped Racetrack in a huge hug. With a frown, Skittery noted the acid jealousy welling up in his heart. The monster was appeased, though, when Snitch let go of Racetrack (who was failing in a valiant effort to keep up an "I'm fine" front) and hung protectively on Skittery's arm.
Racetrack, realizing he was about to cry, said in a choked voice, "Go on up. Everybody's up there. You three are the last to get here."
Bumlets practically ran up the stairs, followed by Snitch and Skittery at a more slow pace. Skittery felt butterflies in his stomach, scared to death to see how the newsies had matured, and he clutched Snitch's hand.
"Are you still afraid?" Snitch asked.
Skittery nodded slightly.
"Here, come on, I can fix it," was the reply. Skittery raised his eyebrows at the obvious innuendo. Snitch took Skittery in his arms and kissed him lightly on the lips. "Come on, babe, let's go somewhere more..." he let his lips connect with Skittery's once more, "...Secluded."
The two walked up an extra flight of stairs, past the floor where everybody was, and found themselves in the bedroom Racetrack and Spot had once shared. Snitch shut the door behind them with his foot and pushed Skittery up against the far wall, kissing him fiercely.
Skittery had his misgivings at first, but as Snitch's kiss became deeper and more passionate, he completely forgot about them and melted into his boyfriend's arms.
As they kissed, they dissolved into a single being. A pulsating, throbbing, extremely sexually charged being. Snitch slid his tongue into Skittery's mouth, and soon the two were finding themselves sighing and moaning into each others' mouths as they groped each other's smooth bodies.
Skittery was the first to give in to his desires—he pulled Snitch's hands down to his crotch, where they found the large bulge and immediately went to work getting rid of Skittery's pants, at which point his mouth went to work relieving it.
Not long later, Skittery's mind was fogged by the euphoric wave brought on by his climax. His moaning increased in sound to the point where Snitch was sure, in the back of his mind, that everybody in the lodging house—even Racetrack on the bottom floor—knew exactly what was going on in the uppermost room of the building. He didn't mind, though—they had done far worse things in the room itself before, such as having sex on Skittery's bed. In fact, the exhibitionist in him was rather turned on by it.
When the feeling passed, Skittery's face assumed a slightly dazed and happy look, while Snitch allowed himself an uncharacteristic smirk and a highly satisfied air. To Snitch's surprise, however, Skittery made no move whatsoever to put his pants back on, simply pulled his beau tight to his body and began kissing his neck.
Snitch had always loved having his neck kissed, and as Skittery's lips and tongue fulfilled the longing for it, Snitch found himself caving into Skittery's body. The two were still in the same position against the wall, but somehow Skittery had become the dominating one, despite being positioned as the obvious uke.
A few moments later, the previous action commenced, but this time with Snitch being... serviced, and Skittery doing the servicing.
Now, Skittery was a moaner, but Snitch? Snitch was a screamer. Not long after Skittery began giving Snitch a blowjob, screams rent the air. They weren't bloody murder screams, though—they were quite obviously screams of passion. Skittery was fairly sure that the others in the lodging house had been forced to learn the difference over the many years of Skittery and Snitch living there and having sex.
Finally, the two finished up and, their breathing still ragged, both looking fairly dazed, their lips swollen and red, their hair mussed, and their clothing messed up, walked down the single flight of stairs. Hand in hand, Snitch and Skittery let themselves into the lodging house's bedroom.
Everybody had taken the beds they had laid claim to in the Manhattan house in their newsie days, and everybody seemed to notice the pair's subtle entrance. Snitch registered, although his mind was still slightly foggy with the satisfied, tired feeling that generally followed an orgasm, that it was probably because they had heard the screaming end and were expecting the pair.
Nobody spoke at first, but then Jack leapt of his top bunk and ran over to the pair. He wrapped one arm around each of them in some sort of attempted group hug, then stood back and awkwardly stuck his hands in the back pockets of his gray pants.
Skittery gave Jack a quick once-over and discovered, faintly surprised, that he hadn't changed much. His hair had been cut shorter, and he had grown a beard, but otherwise, he looked almost exactly the same. Jack cleared his throat, then walked back over to the bed and took something from someone Skittery couldn't see, and walked back, followed by Sarah, whom Skittery gathered was the person he'd taken it from.
"Oh my God!" It was Snitch speaking, and he ran over to Jack and took the child from his arms. "What's your name?" he asked it.
It was a little girl, with hair the color and texture of Sarah's, but Jack's nose and lips. Skittery couldn't see her eyes well enough to tell the color, but the girl looked far more like Jack than her mother. (Skittery secretly thought that was a good thing.)
"Eliza," she piped up. She grinned and held up three small fingers. "I's this old!"
Skittery tuned out to Snitch and Eliza's conversation and looked around the rest of the room. Kid Blink and Mush were kissing against one of the beds, so he couldn't really see if they'd changed at all. Dutchy's eyes were slightly dilated and he was holding a handkerchief to his nose. Specs was talking in a low voice to him, something about cocaine. Specs looked basically the same as always. Really, everybody looked fairly similar to how they'd looked when they'd been newsies together, although their state of dress was very different, for most of them.
Suddenly, Crutchy came out from behind one of the beds. He used a cane now, not a crutch, but hobbled just as badly for it. The gimp spied Skittery standing awkwardly by the door and limped over to give him a tight, one-armed hug. "Skittery!" he cried jubilantly.
Skittery stood back to take in the view. Crutchy looked more pathetic than he ever had—he was very thin. Probably no thinner than he had been as a newsie, but now his clothing had the loose, oversized look of someone who had lost a great deal of weight in a short amount of time, and had no time or money to buy new clothing. His face was slightly sunken, and his eyes looked haunted. Also, his facial hair was unkempt. Skittery said quietly, "Crutchy, are you okay?"
"I'm great," he replied. Then he paused and glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the room was otherwise occupied, so he added, "Well, as fine as someone who can't get a job can be."
"Why can't you get a job?"
"Who wants to hire a crip? I've been... living on the street, mostly. I had a girlfriend for a while, but she dumped me, and since then..." he shrugged. "I'm fine, though."
Skittery furrowed his brow, worried. "Are you sure?"
"Skittery, I made it as a newsie for twelve years, and before that, life wasn't exactly a piece of cake for me. I can make it this way, too." Crutchy's face held an extremely determined air, so Skittery let it drop.
"Say," Skittery said, looking around the room once more, "Why aren't there any Brooklyn ex-newsies?"
Crutchy shrugged. "I don't know."
Their conversation died then, which made Skittery sad. The old Skittery and Crutchy would have tons to say to each other.
A few minutes later, Snitch came back, leading Mush by the hand, who was leading Blink by the hand, and hooked himself onto Skittery's arm. He looked at Crutchy, then at Skittery, and said, "Are you okay, Crutchy?"
"I'm fine," Crutchy snapped.
Looking affronted, Snitch turned to Skittery and said, "Mush and Blink are here!"
Skittery looked at the two men. Blink looked fantastic—his body had filled out with rippling, well-formed muscles, and he was dressed in a rather strange outfit, which Skittery dismissed. Blink's face had also filled out, becoming both more angular and more smooth. He also no longer wore his eye patch, just letting the scarred-shut eye hang out in the open. Mush, who had wrapped an arm around Blink's waist, also looked pretty good. He had paled quite a bit, and had the shadow of a beard on his face. His clothes were a clean, well-tailored suit, and his shoes were polished so they shone. His hair was cut the exact same way, and his face looked slightly sad, but it lit right up when he looked at Blink.
"Heya, Skittery," beamed Blink. "How's you been? Snitch here tells us you write for a paper and you just got a front-page story!"
"Yeah," Skittery said. "I wrote about Bumlets. Did he tell you? He's running from the law as Luke Link."
Blink looked shocked.
"Anyway, what are you two doing these days?" Skittery continued.
Now Blink's expression shifted to half embarrassment, half pride. "Uh, I'm a... dancer... at a... place..."
Mush said, "He means he sings and dances provocative dances to gay men. On stage. For money."
Skittery's eyebrows shot right up. "My God!" Then, recovering, he added, "That must be why your speaking voice is so much more... smooth and rich."
Blink nodded. "This is one of my costumes," he said, gesturing at his outfit. Skittery finally took a moment to take it in—tight white pants, and a tight white tailcoat.
Mush took over. "And I run the place he works at."
----
The next day, around noon, the ex-newsies all dressed in simple, black clothing and gathered around the place where Spot was to be buried.
Due to the financial situation of Racetrack and Spot, Spot was simply curled up inside a sheet and placed in a hole in the ground. Racetrack had put him there before the others woke up that morning, and now he folded back the cloth from Spot's face.
There was a noticeable shift in the group as they all leaned forward slightly to get a good last look at Spot's face. Skittery was surprised—his face was much more gaunt than it had been thirteen years ago. He looked fairly grown-up. What made Skittery shiver, though, was not how much Spot had changed, but rather the fact that Racetrack hadn't shut Spot's eyes. The young man's blue eyes held all the intensity and coldness that they had in their life, despite the glass of death casing them.
Skittery felt Snitch's hands snake around his left arm as he shuddered and forced his eyes away from the blind gaze of Spot's. He took an involuntary step back, and noticed that Race was kneeling at the foot of the grave with a small bag in his hands. It seemed that in that instant, every ex-newsie noticed the small Irish-Italian on his knees, clutching the sack like it held Spot himself, not just whatever it did.
Then, with shaking hands, Racetrack untied the drawstring top of the bag and pulled it open. The silence surrounding the grave was laden with unexpressed emotion as everybody held in the tears that had gathered behind their eyes. Skittery squeezed Snitch's hand, watching Racetrack's hand disappear into the navy blue bag through bleary eyes.
When Race's hand retracted from the bag, there was once again a tangible, if small, surge forward. Newsies tried to mask the curiosity causing their eyes to drink in the sight like a deprived alcoholic. The first object Race withdrew was a small box, which Racetrack placed in a small hollow in the grave near Spot's head. His hand darted away beneath the folds of dark blue cloth again, and this time he brought out a thin, gold ring. The group surrounding the scene recognized it immediately as the ring Racetrack had given Spot at their "wedding" thirteen years earlier. This, however, Racetrack did not place in the grave. He pulled from beneath his shirt a thin, gold chain, and removed his ring from his finger. Placing the rings side by side, Race strung the chain through the centers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he fastened the chain once again around his neck. This time he did not tuck it away under his shirt.
Race removed a few more items from the bag, although Skittery could not tell what they were or why they were important. When Racetrack finished placing items in the dirt hollow next to Spot's head, he stood up and withdrew to the circle, between Jack and Snipeshooter, who both put an arm around him.
There was a moment of silence before Jack cleared his throat and stepped forward. He said, his voice much more firm than Skittery had expected by the look in his eyes, "Racetrack asked me to start this part... so I'll tell you all a story about what a great man Spot was." Jack walked right up to the grave and knelt at the edge, placing his hands on either side as he leaned forward slightly to look at the corpse. Then, he stood, and continued, "This may sound impersonal, but I don't mean it that way. Spot was an amazing leader. He was short—" Jack glanced over his shoulder at Racetrack, grinned a little, and added, "No offense to short people—and a little bit scrawny, but he had an amazing power to him..."
Skittery let himself tune out the meaning of the words, and just hear them, feel the rhythm of them wash over him. When it was his turn to tell a story about Spot, he stepped forward self-consciously. "Spot Conlon told me about his past once, when he was drunk off his ass. I don't think he told most of you—except probably Racetrack and Jack. Am I right?"
There was a murmur of yeses, and Skittery continued. "What I'm sure will surprise you all is that Spot wasn't always a street kid." Without waiting for the muffled noises of—as he had expected—surprise, Skittery went on. "He was born to a wealthy family in Brooklyn. His mother and father were influential people in society's uppermost class. Spot's real name is Gabriel Conlon. Up until he was eight years old, Spot lived with his mother, father, and two younger brothers. When he was eight, he ran away, for God only knows what reason. He came and lived on the streets for five years, starting out his career as a newsboy. Sometime during this time, he was named Spot. And we all know the reason, although we don't think we do. He was telling the truth when he told us he earned his name by leaving love bites. He was already the Brooklyn leader of the time's apprentice, of sorts, and was obviously going to be the one to rise to power when that boy—his name was Spider—died, or left, or whatever happened.
"Then something very unexpected happened—his mother found him. I don't know exactly how, but when he was thirteen years old, about to turn fourteen, he was dragged back to their upper-class home, only to be disowned six months later when he told his parents he was attracted to men.
"During this time, Spot had kept in contact with Spider, but a few weeks before he was disowned, Spider had stopped writing, and stopped finding him places for quick conversations. Spot was suspicious, so immediately after leaving his home for the final time, he went searching for Spider.
"It took almost two weeks, during which Spot blew almost all of the money he had managed to steal on his way out of his home, and made none to replace it. But when Spot finally found Spider, he discovered him in an alley, obviously dying."
Skittery paused and glanced down into Spot's grave, hoping Spot's spirit didn't mind him telling everybody the truth. But he felt that it was important for people to know more about Spot. Quietly, Skittery continued, "Spider gave Spot the power. He was appointed the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, and he took his position very seriously. He ran as fast as he could back to the Brooklyn lodging house to find some of the older, and more trustworthy, newsies, whom he took back to the alley so he could have someone verify his claim to the position of leader.
"And you can figure what happened after that," Skittery finished. Then, with one final glance at Spot's corpse, Skittery stepped back to allow Snitch to tell his story.
----
That night, after Spot's body was lying peacefully beneath several feet of dirt, and a large stone lay above him, Skittery lay down in bed to sleep, curled around Snitch's body. He shut his eyes and tried to fall asleep, but all he saw was a pair of glassy, frozen blue eyes staring back at him.