Once, he had loved to paint.
It was freeing, a fleetingly wonderful sensation. He escaped through the bright colors and soft pictures, his arm extended with a paint brush that made him feel more wizard than boy. Even at eleven he was brilliant with mixing his paints into marvelous colors and textures - his pictures were no more childish than Plato's writings. Each year as he aged his paintings became more and more mature, the colors and images so developed that some began to compare him to famous artists like Degas.
That life was now so foreign to the one he lived now that sometimes he almost forgot he had once been a resident of the huge manors that the other newsies only talked about in hushed voices. The perfectly manicured lawns and lavish amounts of money spent on the outer appearances of those houses were no longer familiar, though once he had strolled through one of those immaculate gardens each day.
Born to a magnificently rich family, Lewis Hallington was expected to make something of himself. Though he would inherit an insanely large amount of money upon the death of his parents, he was always pressured into doing well at his private school, so that he could continue the family business and uphold the banner of Hallington honor.
Lewis found release through his paintings. At a young age he discovered his love of art. At first it started with rough pencil sketches that he soon brought to life with vivid colors and striking symbolisms that often he was the only one able to fully comprehend. Instead of being repressed, he was encouraged by his teachers to continue painting, discovering other mediums aside from paint and graphite.
Perhaps encouraged is too light of a word. Lewis was pressed into continuing with his art - pushed to the brink of frustrated exhaustion. His parents were making a fantastical profit with his art, and the school's popularity increased tenfold as parents enrolled their children, hoping that their unskilled youngsters might absorb some of Lewis's talent by osmosis. Soon Lewis found his creativity being drained into oblivion. His paintings were always beautiful, but he found them lacking as time dragged on. He hated what the pressure turned his art into, now hated the bright colors and meaningless shapes. He felt blinded.
His parents and teachers did not understand that his art was not something that could be forced. He felt like a bird trapped inside of a tight cage that grew smaller the more he struggled. He began picking petty arguments with his friends, isolating himself. He loathed his paints, his charcoals, but mostly his mind, as it made his fingers yearn to splash new colors upon his empty canvases.
It was not hard to leave his boarding school. He wanted to bring his paints, hoping that he could find inspiration elsewhere, but decided that he could not bear that constant reminder of the creativity that had been broken from him. He no longer looked himself - there were deep circles of weariness around his eyes, and his hair was dull, his skin pale. He had lost weight and felt more fragile than ever before.
He did not mind leaving his parents. Their relationship was always impersonal at best. His friends too were those that he had already frightened away, and he did not miss them. No, he simply longed for his paintbrush as he scaled the ironed entrance that made the school feel so like a prison. He wished he could have at least one of his old paintings, but they had been given away or sold and were all displayed at unknown, empty houses.
He had taken off his uniform and dressed in his plainest leisure clothes, not wanting to attract attention. With a heart too full for him to understand he bolted as soon as he set foot on the cobblestones of the street, five dollars heavy in his pockets.
A snide drawl caught his attention as he slowed down. "Lookit the fancy rich kid, all dressed up an' runnin' away from somethin'. What is it, Richie? Too much food at those houses o' yours, or was it that you were foolin' 'round wit' the maids an' your parents found out?"
Lewis turned slowly to meet the speaker. The boy was short and skinny, with a sharply Italian face and poorly tailored clothing. A cigar jutted out from the Italian's chapped lips, and one of his eyes was puffy, as though he had recently been in a fight. Lewis stared openly, mentally comparing his own accent to the heavy New York one his ears were being assaulted with.
"Better keep runnin', kid. Your parents'll 'ave the bulls on ya soon 'nough," The kid snorted. It was very early in the morning, so the sky was still gray and clouds hung low across the horizon. Lewis was distressed to find that the cut of his plainest clothes made him look a king beside this boy.
"Well? Go on, they'll find ya soon if ya keep stoppin' t' chat," The Italian rolled his eyes, fingering a thick wad of newspapers. "Wait! On second thought, why don't ya buy one of my papes 'fore you go, look 'ere, there's a real interestin' story on page nine...bloated corpse found dead...'ey! Where're ya goin', ya still haven't bought a pape!"
Lewis was walking away, his eyes intent on a poorly painted sign that declared one of the nearby battered shops a clothing store. He left the Italian boy behind, surprised to find that the shop was open so early. The clerk, who had been asleep, jumped up as the opened door caused a bell to ring so loudly that Lewis cringed.
"Excuse me, madam," Lewis began humbly, "but I was invited to a costume party scheduled for today, and I completely forgot about it. Would you happen to have any masks that I could wear, or any costumes?"
The woman was obviously not used to being addressed so sincerely. His manners and polite tone of voice made her blink and unconsciously dip into a curtsey. "Why, yes, sir! In fact, I 'ave...let me think...oh, yes!" She bustled into the back of the store, purposefully digging through racks and racks of clothing before coming out with what was a sorry excuse for a pirate costume. She held it out to him hopefully. "Will this do, sir?"
Lewis tried not to cringe. "May I try it on?" He asked.
"Oh, yes! 'Ere you are, there's a door at the back o' the store...a changing room, jus' there...you see?" She beamed, her round face contorted with the intensity of her smile.
"Thank you, madam," Lewis said graciously, and took the clothing. With dignity he walked to the back of the store and slipped inside of the changing room. He muscled off his overshirt in the tiny, closet-like room, and pulled on the beige 'pirate' shirt. It buttoned up and had huge puffy sleeves that he carefully rolled up to his elbows. The pants to the costume were much like his own, except the quality was extremely poor. He pulled those on gratefully. There was a belt with a sword that he did not touch, but the eye patch caused him to pause. He considered it momentarily, and decided to try it on. It tied in the back and looked much like a regular eyepatch. However, it looked odd with his slicked back hair, so he shook out his blonde, straight hair. It fell greasily on his face because of the amount of pomade that had been used to keep it back, but wearing it down made the patch look more convincing. He kept his shoes on, picking up his old clothing and the unused hat and sword before returning to the woman.
The woman laughed and clapped her hands together in delight as she saw him. "Oh, sir, that looks wonderful! You look jus' like a pirate!"
Lewis smiled thinly and handed the unused costume parts. "Do you have a bag I could put my other clothing in? I think I'll just wear the costume to the party."
The woman nodded and searched behind the counter for a flimsy cloth bag. She handed it to him, still chuckling. "That'll be thirty cents, sir."
Lewis paused and handed her a dollar. "Thank you again, madam," He said humbly, and swept her a fine bow. He exited the shop without looking back, not wanting to see her startled face. She called after him, shouting that he had not waited for change, but he bolted as soon as he left the shop, the bag clenched in one hand.
Finally he slowed, turning around another street corner. He kept his gaze on the ground, trying to grow used to seeing with only one eye. It was odd - always having a brown object hovering near his nose was an annoyingly new sensation.
"Buy a pape, mistah?" A newsie assailed him, though the request was half-hearted. As Lewis passed the newsie laughed. "Ya look jus' like a pirate!"
Lewis halted and glared at the newsie. "I lost my eye at the docks," He said softly, trying out the lie. It worked well - all traces of a smile vanished from the newsie's face.
"Aw, gee...I'm sorry," The newsie apologized miserably, looking ashamed. He had reddish-brown hair and a swollen nose. His brown eyes were sincere. "Where're ya headed? Not still workin' at the docks, are ya?"
"Naw," Lewis tried out a light accent, "doan' know what I'll be doin' now. Factory, maybe." It wasn't hard to sound desolate - he was already beginning to regret the fact that he had run away. What did the future hold now? Instead of being promising, the future was simply bleak. He could work at a factory and sweat over a machine, or perhaps really get a job at the docks. But what did he know of work? True, he could do mathematics and write essays, but he knew nothing of work in this side of New York.
"You doan' wanna work there, kid! Factories're death sentences," The newsie protested, his face screwed up as he thought over Lewis's options.
"I know, but I need money," Lewis frowned. He could give himself up to the police, but then he would simply be returned to school. His options were horrible; to go to school and slave over a canvas, or go to a factory and slave over a whirring metal machine.
"I'm Mush," The newsie held out a browned hand.
"Louie," Lewis replied, taking the hand in a formal gesture. He corrected it after a beat, and tried to cover it up by drawling with all his heart. "Mush, eh? That yer real name?"
"'course not!" Mush scoffed. "It's my nickname, cheese-'ead."
"Oh." Lewis fell silent again.
"Y'know, you could come wit' me for the evenin' edition of the papes! We could sell together...I could show ya how it's done. O' course you'se need enough money to buy the papes...d'you 'ave enough?" Mush asked hopefully.
"Actually, yeah, I do," Lewis replied, a bit confused.
"An' then you can stay in the House tonight wit' us! Oh, this'll be great, Louie!" Mush grinned, delighted with the solution he had come up with. Lewis allowed him a small smile.
"Thanks, Mush," Lewis said quietly.
Mush blushed.
--
Lewis sold his newspapers clumsily, trying to copy the smooth expertise that Mush possessed. Several buyers, however, found Lewis's grin and heartfelt request endearing, and so bought from him. He managed to sell all of his newspapers, and returned triumphantly to Mush's side.
Mush had finished selling more than thirty minutes before, and was lounging on the stairs in front of a building. He grinned as Lewis walked over. "Yer doin' great, Louie! Did ya make enough to stay at the House tonight?"
"I did," Lewis smiled, not mentioning the extra money he had in his bag.
"Great!" Mush replied exuberantly, standing. "Let's go, then! I can't wait fer the boys t' meet ya, you'll fit right in. We gotta get you a nickname, though - no offense, Louie."
"None taken," Lewis snorted. He had smudged ink on his hands and swept at his greasy hair, leaving an ink stain on his cheek. They walked along a poorly lit street - it was very late by now. A building with a door swung wide open was visible, and that was the one they entered.
"Heya, Mr. Kloppman!" Mush greeted the elderly man behind the cluttered counter with a huge grin. "This 'ere's Louie, he's gonna stay tonight. No, doan' gimme that look, he's payin' an' all for 'imself! Honestly, Mr. Kloppman, I thought ya trusted me!"
Mr. Kloppman snorted and surveyed both through his thick glasses. "I only trust you as far as I can throw you, Nick." His voice was ironically amused - Lewis thought it appeared as though their conversations usually followed a similar format. "Louie, eh?" He wrote something down in the thick book before him, and turned it so the two could sign it. Mush managed a wobbly 'X' while Lewis wrote his shortened name in small, precise letters. They handed over the money, and Mr. Kloppman gave Lewis a calculating glance.
"You have very nice handwriting, Louie," The elderly man smiled, raising an eyebrow. Lewis reddened slightly and glanced away.
"Thank you, sir."
Mush grew bored with their small talk and threw an arm over Lewis's shoulders. "C'mon, Louie, let's go an' introduce ya to everyone!" They climbed the stairs, Lewis finding that his new pants were chafing his inner thighs. He would be glad to lie down.
No such luck. When the two entered, the room was full of energetic boys trying to work off steam so that they could catch a few hours worth of sleep. In one set of bunks there was a loud card game going on, the players dangling various limbs off of the sides of beds and flashes of red as the backs of cards were tantalizingly waved in each other's faces. A group of three boys spoke earnestly near the windows, all tall and well-built. Some of the younger kids were playing marbles, and one was asleep, though how he could possibly drift off in such a loud room Lewis would never know. Another boy was hanging out of a window, shouting at the passerby below as his friends tried to tug him back in. A group of four were leering at a sheet of paper clutched in their hands, saying things like "So that's what those look like!" There were others, countless others, some saving time from their early morning routines by shaving with useless razors at night while others were bathing off the day's grime.
"What're ya doin' back so late, Mush?" A tall brown-haired tall boy demanded as he walked over to them. He was one of the three boys who had been standing near the windows, and had a red handkerchief knotted loosely around his tanned neck. As soon as he spied Lewis his eyebrows shot up. "An' who's this?"
"This is Louie. He took a while sellin' all 'is papes," Mush explained with a snort. "Louie, this 'ere's Cowboy."
"Jack Kelly," The tall boy said formally.
"Louie...Ballat," Lewis lied, the false last name rising to his tongue almost of its own accord. He smiled sardonically - it was the last name of his gardener.
"Where're you from, Louie?" Jack demanded, his gaze lingering on the eyepatch that Lewis wore. Lewis raised his chin to meet the taller boy's gaze, a hesitant smile on his face.
"Jus' came here from the docks." He replied, trying to use a light accent and sound convincing at the same time. Jack narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if this was an acceptable answer. Mush shifted nervously and left to join the card game. The eyes of the two newsies who had come to stand behind Jack made the hairs on the back of Lewis' neck rise.
"Welcome to Manhattan, kid," Jack finally smiled, spitting in his hand and holding it out. Lewis tried not to look at the glistening spit and copied the action, hiding his grimace as best he could. "Find a bed."
"Thanks," Lewis smiled back, looking around for an empty bunk. Mush had thrown his things onto a bed, so he chose the set directly in front. The bottom bunk was full but the top was still free. He threw his bag on top of the sheets and jumped back down, landing unsteadily.
"Lemme introduce you!" Mush bounded over, helping Lewis up. Lewis was soon swept away in a whir of names that he would forget by morning, but faces that he would grow used to seeing each day. When Kloppman roared up the stairs that it was past curfew and that he'd cane them if they weren't in bed in five minutes, there was a loud rush for the beds. Boys laughed as they vaulted over each other - a few chose to rinse their mouths out with rusty water, but when Lewis asked, none of them had ever even heard of a toothbrush.
He walked to his bunk, wondering if a half-blind boy would sleep with his patch on. Lewis decided to do so just in case, so no one realized that his eye wasn't bad. He half-climbed, half-vaulted his way to the top and stripped off his pants and shirt, hanging them over his head board. Left in his underclothes, he squirmed beneath the sheets.
"Hey, it's the new kid! I'm Snipeshooter," A red-haired boy with an overly round face grinned, waving a cigar in Lewis' direction. The boy whose bunk was beneath Lewis' glanced up, and stood so that he could introduce himself.
"I'm Racetrack," The boy drawled, his dark brown eyes resting on the patch wearing boy's face. Racetrack blinked, his hard Italian features condensing for a moment.
"I'm Louie," Lewis tried to look nonchalant.
"Richie," Racetrack muttered beneath his breath.
Lewis swallowed.
"What'd ya say, Race?" Snipeshooter demanded annoyingly, grinning as though some fabulous joke had been told and he was pretending to understand it.
"Nothin', Snipe. Go t' bed," Racetrack snorted, not returning to his bunk. Under his breath, he added, "...if ya make the bulls come 'ere, Richie..."
"I won't," Lewis replied softly, his face earnest.
Racetrack smirked, and slipped back into his bed, throwing the sheets up over him. When the lights were out and the room was quieting, Lewis could hear the Italian boy rolling over in bed. "You should've bought a pape from me, ya bastard!" Racetrack grumbled quietly.
Lewis fell asleep laughing.
--
Author's Note: This started out as a one-shot and ended up way too long. So now it's a chapter fic! I rather like the way it's going, and actually have the plot somewhat figured out. Please review and tell me what you think! ^_^