Disclaimer: I own no part of Newsies.

A/N: Kid Blink's point of view; no slash, rated for language and some disturbing scenes.

Special A/N: Happy birthday, B!


Nobody joined our club. We sometimes offered and people sometimes asked, but nobody was ever allowed in. Our club was our thing, our one thing, and it wasn't meant for anybody else.

Tony Higgins and I used to have this thing. We had this club, just between the two of us. We had passwords and top-secret meetings in my dead grandfather's bedroom. I loved the room because it reminded me of my grandfather who had died of a heart attack when I was eight years old: rumpled sheets and slight aroma of cigar smoke and starch. Tony loved the room because of all of my grandfather's treasures still tucked away in his drawers. We both used to love to dig through Granddad's old things, fingering his pens and the buttons on his coats; tasting his left-behind cigars and experimenting with his matchbook.

The thing we loved the best, though, was my grandfather's pocket watch. He'd owned this beautiful old pocket watch: burnished gold with a crisp white face and a braided chain, and left it to me right before he died. He'd said, "Louis, I want you to have this and always remember me, okay? And be proud of yourself. A boy with a pocket watch is a boy with pride." Tony and I used to take turns slipping it through the button holes in our vests and tucking the watch safely inside our pockets, listening for the sharp, measured tick. I always felt so grown-up; the way I imagined my grandfather felt whenever he plucked it from his own pocket. But for Tony, I think it made him feel like one of those wealthy gentlemen with enough rich family history to have an heirloom. For me, the watch meant maturity. For Tony, the watch meant power.

There was a time when I was thirteen and Tony was fifteen, when we sat in my grandfather's room one evening after supper. I was perched uncomfortably on the foot of my grandfather's bed, working to maintain my grasp on a wriggling bundle in my hands. Tony was lounging in the chair at my grandfather's desk, his fingers folded in a thoughtful steeple. In the middle of the room stood a small, eerily-skinny boy with bones poking his pale skin at frightening angles. The boy couldn't have been older than ten, and had a scraggly pile of blond hair and a scrunched face that reminded me powerfully of a rat. Rat Boy, I decided to call him. He stood trembling before Tony; making me think of a sinner standing at Judgment.

"Now," Tony announced, tapping the end of my grandfather's pen against the desk like a gavel and causing Rat Boy to jump, "this meeting of the Tony-Louis Manhattan Project will now come to order. Vice president Ballatt," he addressed me, "what are the notes of the last meeting?" He spoke officially, as if he were calling the senate to order.

"Um," I squeezed the bundle, wincing as a sharp claw tore at my knuckle, "You said that-"

Tony cleared his throat, "For clarity, by 'you', you are referring to me, President Higgins, is that correct?"

"Yeah," I groaned, embarrassed by Rat Boy's giggling, "President Higgins made note that we had a new member interested in joining the club."

"By club," Tony interrupted again, a condescending smile stretching his olive-toned face, "You mean the Tony-Louis Manhattan Project, correct?"

"Yeah," I repeated, irritated at Rat Boy's smirk.

"Now," Tony turned his attention to the boy standing in the middle of the room, "you came to me last week expressing an interest in joining this club. Is that correct?"

"Yes," the boy managed.

Tony pushed his tongue into his cheek, scrutinizing the trembling boy, "Yeah, I think we'll let ya join."

Rat Boy's face broke into a grin as he trembled harder.

"But," Tony continued, "we're gonna have to give ya a series of tests." He studied the boy closer and said carefully, "How brave are you?"

"Um," Rat Boy bit his lip, "pretty brave."

"Only pretty, huh? Listen kid, our club is really something special. You can't just tell us that you're brave; we gotta see it. That's fair, right? So we got this test you gotta pass. You pass the test, you're in the club, no questions asked. Deal?"

The small boy nodded vigorously.

"Good. All right, here's how it's gonna work," Tony drew a paring knife from his pocket, and I instantly recognized the dull blade and worn handle as my mother's knife. "You're gonna use this," he held the knife up and turned it, letting the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling glint off of the blade, "with something Louis has got over there. Louis, show the boy what you got."

I swallowed hard as I unwrapped the small, gray rat from the dishtowel. I held it up by it tail, watching it wriggle and its eyes dilate with even more fear and irritation. I gently stroked its dirt-matted head. The rat turned and viciously sank its yellow teeth into my finger, causing me to jerk away. I reached down and whacked the rat's head against the wooden floor, and then lifted it by its tail again. It was thrashing even harder now.

"Now," a smile played at the corners of Tony's mouth, "I'm gonna give you the knife and Louis is gonna give you the rat. When I tell you to, I want you to hold the rat down with your left hand, and cut its tail off with your right."

"Is that all?" Rat Boy asked, feigning confidence.

"I said, no questions asked," Tony replied tightly, handing the boy the knife blade-first. "Now, go ask Louis for the rat."

As I nursed my bleeding finger with my mouth, Rat Boy turned to me and held out his hand.

"Dammit, boy, are you deaf?" Tony shook his head and groaned, "I said ask Louis for the rat, not demand it like you're the goddamn president or something."

I could see the boy flinch at Tony's stern voice. "Can I please have the rat?" he squeaked, refusing to meet my eyes.

I willingly handed the rat over and wrapped my finger in my shirt tail, praying to God that the rat wasn't infected.

Rat Boy set the protesting rat down on the desk, visibly shaking. He held the rat in the middle of its back with his left hand and raised the paring knife high with his right. He turned and looked expectantly at Tony.

Tony paused a moment, taking in the scene of the knife and the squirming rat. Finally, he uttered a calm, "Now."

The boy brought the dull blade down as hard as he could at the base of the rat's tail, and it let out the most horrendous, ear-splitting scream I'd ever heard. Its mouth opened wide, revealing its yellowed, broken teeth and its eyes rolled wildly in its head. It screeched and clawed at the wooden desk, its tail half-off and blood beginning to drip from the open wound. Rat Boy wedged his tongue between his lips and brought the knife down again, sawing at the delicate pink skin of the animal's tail.

The gray rat shrieked louder as the dull blade cut through the rest of its tail. I watched as its body shook with fear and pain, feeling disgusted and helpless. Finally, the boy threw the knife down on the desk and released the squealing rat, and I watched it scamper off of the desk and land on the wooden floor with a thump. It was still for a moment, dazed, until it gathered its small feet under it and darted under the bed.

Tony reached out and plucked the limp, pink tail with two finger tips. Whereas my face was a portrait of horror and nausea, his was completely blank. He said evenly, "Good job," before holding the tail out to the boy. "Here, take it. It's yours now."

The boy continued trembling, this time almost intoxicated with self-achievement. "Does this mean I'm in the club?" he asked with excitement.

"Not quite," Tony shook his head, slightly amused. "I want you to do one more thing."

"Anything," the boy breathed enthusiastically.

"I want you to eat that rat's tail."

I felt my insides drop with Rat Boy's excitement. He stuttered, "W-what?"

"Eat it," Tony shrugged, gently twisting in the chair, "put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow. Ain't hard."

The boy held the rat's tail up to his face, examining the delicate pink flesh and brushing of gray hair. Finally, he shook his head, "I don't think I can."

"Listen," Tony was suddenly on his feet, staring levelly at the boy, "You want to be a pansy son of a bitch, go ahead and get out of here. You want in the club, you'll listen to me."

Rat Boy swallowed hard, and I sat back in shock. "Tony," I protested, feeling something hot beginning to crawl up my throat, "don't do that."

"Shut-up, Louis," he snapped, his eyes trained on Rat Boy, "if he wants it bad enough, he'll do it."

"Eating a rat was never part of the offer," I stated, watching the blood drain from Rat Boy's face.

"If he didn't want the offer, he shouldn't have asked," Tony shrugged. His eyes bore onto the boy, "Do it. Now."

The boy frantically shoved the rat's tail into his mouth, his eyes stuck on Tony's face. His teeth gummed at the flesh and bone and I could see his body jerking and tears gathering in his dull eyes. Finally, he cut through his disgust and swallowed the tail, and I flinched myself as I imagined the hot, thick tail slithering down his throat.

A dark look of satisfaction swept across Tony's face as Rat Boy's face grew impossibly pale. His face contorted and he doubled over, coughing and choking.

I jumped off the bed and patted the boy on the back, "You okay? Come on, just swallow again. You're all right," I crooned to him, watching him gag and claw at his throat. Rat Boy looked at me and then fell to his knees, vomiting the rat's tail and a hot, brown liquid onto my late grandfather's wooden floor.

I gaped helplessly at Tony as Rat Boy continued to retch. I could see the rat's tail lying in the puddle of vomit, crumpled. Tony shook his head in disgust, "Pathetic."

"Let me go get you some rags," I stood up, gently patting the boy on the back. I almost felt nauseated myself as I listened to Rat Boy dry-heave. I felt horrible for him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Tony was right: the boy did look pathetic.

Tony reached out and grabbed my arm, "Nah, don't worry about it. He can clean it up. He's got a shirt. He can use that." He nodded to Rat Boy, "Clean it up. These are some nice floors."

I watched in horror as the boy did as he was told, wiping drool and vomit from his lips as he pulled his thin shirt over his head and laid it on the puddle, mopping it up.

"You're insane," I accused Tony in a low tone. My legs felt weak as I pushed my sweaty fingers through my hair, watching Rat Boy clean up his mess. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" He looked hurt, "I ain't got one. You want a pansy in your club, that's fine. If he's gonna go and throw up, then he can clean it."

"The club is just for fun," I said sharply, speaking over the crumpled form of Rat Boy, "it's not supposed to hurt anyone."

"Nobody's hurt," Tony said indifferently, "he'll be stronger because of it." He shot a fake smile down at Rat Boy.

I threw myself onto my grandfather's old bed, trying not to look at the other two boys. I wanted to throw up myself. I had always been attracted to Tony's charisma and strong will, but now I had never been more repulsed. Usually, it was me who made the big shows out of any situation, and Tony was the one who sat back and observed. Out of the two of us, I'm easily the most dramatic. I'm the one who overreacts, and Tony's the one who keeps it together. This time, though, the extremity of the situation and our roles unnerved me.

A few minutes later, Rat Boy stood up with his arms full of his vomit-soaked shirt. He smiled weakly at Tony, "I'm done."

"Good," Tony smiled back, "you still got the rat tail?"

"Yep," he whispered, picking it out of the shirt and holding it, "am I in now?"

"Swallow it again and you'll be president."

Part of me wanted Rat Boy to throw his vomit-sodden shirt in Tony's face, and part of me wanted him to shove the goddamn rat's tail down Tony's throat. What he did, though, made me wonder if he had thrown up his brains. He hesitated for a moment, and stuck the tail in his mouth again, swallowing it. Finally, he choked out, "So I'm in, right?"

Tony let out a cynical, bark-like laugh, "Boy, you're just as good at swallowing rat tails as you are at swallowing bullshit. Sorry kid, you just ain't what we're looking for. Now get the hell out."

Maybe it was the tone of Tony's voice, or the dangerous fire in his eyes. The boy allowed himself to be pushed by Tony out the door, tears leaking down his pale face. Tony shoved him across the threshold and slammed the door, forever denying Rat Boy entry into the Tony-Louis Manhattan Project.

"What an asshole," Tony muttered.

Through the door and down the hall, I could once again hear retching.

I shut my eyes tightly and tried not to listen. Tony made a disgusted noise in his throat and sat down in chair again, tapping the desk with his fingernails. "Now, Vice President Ballatt, what's next on the agenda?"

I buried my face in my hands as I heard Rat Boy sobbing outside the door, undoubtedly wiping more spit and vomit from his mouth. I couldn't answer Tony.

"What's wrong with you, kid?" Tony asked me. He was always calling me "kid", and it gave me a cold kind of cold amusement. I was taller than he was, and probably a lot stronger, too. But, as he never failed to remind me, he was older than I was, and "a hell of a lot smarter", so I let him call me whatever he wanted. He was my only friend.

"Nothing," I mumbled, "I'm okay."

"Then quit acting like a goddamn pansy, okay? You're starting to remind me of my sister."

I looked up, "You have a sister?"

"Nah," he shook his head with a smile, "but if I did, you'd be acting like her."

Tony was always saying strange things like that, making up comparisons and other wild tales. I sighed and asked him, "Tony, why'd you do that? Why'd you have to go and do that?"

He just shrugged, "It was funny."

"I didn't see anything funny about it." I was starting to feel that nauseated feeling slosh in the pit of my stomach.

"That's because you're a pansy," Tony said defensively. "You've always been like that, Louis. When I met you, you were pretty quiet. Now, you just gotta go and make a big fucking deal out of everything. So some stupid kid ate a rat's tail, so what? You gonna go and make a big deal out of that?"

"You can't just go and do that to people," I said indignantly, trying to keep my face from flushing, "it's not fair."

"They're the ones wanting to join the club in the first place," Tony defended hotly, "if he didn't want to swallow it, then he could've left any time. And you," he says pointedly, "just sat there and let him swallow it. You could've stopped him, too."

That's not fair, I wanted to say, but instead pursed my lips.

"And now you ain't even gonna say anything. That's like you too, Louis," Tony said smugly, "you're all ready to fight, and then when someone starts challenging you, you back down."

"That's not true," I retorted.

"It is true. Prove to me you ain't a pansy."

For a moment, I was hesitant about what to say. I was thirteen and still frightened of him. Tony was fifteen and arrogant. He sat back in his chair, satisfied. I watched him and felt my temper flare again, and this time I refused to look at Tony. Instead, I looked just over his head and remembered his forced smile when he commanded Rat Boy to clean his own vomit. Heat rose to my face and I could feel my courage gaining as I looked back down and studied Tony. For four years, he had been my best friend. He was the logic where I was the emotion; he was the final say where I was just the heated discussion. I idolized him and hated him at the same time. I sighed, my anger tumbling in my stomach, "Now my house is going to smell like throw-up."

"Well, yeah," he shrugged.

"And there's a rat in it!"

"Stop your whining," Tony snapped. "Least you have a house."

I wiped my anger-heated face with my hands and looked pointedly at Tony, "You didn't have to go and make him do that, especially since you knew that he wasn't gonna be able to join, anyway."

"He could have left whenever he felt like it."

"You can leave whenever you feel like it," I pointed out bitterly.

"What, kid?"

I instantly regretted my words, "Nothing, Tony. Sorry."

"You want me to leave?"

"No," I said quickly.

"Because I can if you want me to. I mean, if you've got another friend you want to spend time with, that's okay, too."

"No, I don't," and that was God's honest truth.

"Then how about some respect, huh?"

"Sorry," I repeated in a quieter tone.

"You're so soft. Next you're gonna be petting kitties and picking flowers I'll bet," Tony snorted. "When are you ever gonna toughen up?"

"I'm tough," I said, even though I knew that I actually did like cats and flowers.

Tony snorted as he fingered the paring knife Rat Boy had left on the desk. He held it close to his face, inspecting the drying blood on the dull blade. He tossed it to me, "Show me you're tough," he challenged.

I flinched as the knife landed in my lap, "How?"

"I don't know," he sighed irritably, "cut something. Find that rat and cut something else off of it."

I nervously pocketed the knife, making a mental note to return it to my mother's kitchen drawers, "I don't feel like it."

"Bullshit, then. You're about as tough as I am rich," he snatched my grandfather's pocket watch off of the desk and examining it, "tell me why you got this again."

"My grandfather wanted me to have it," I said, thrown off by the sudden change of subject.

"He said that he wanted you to be proud. You really proud of yourself, with all the pitying and scene-making you do?"

"Yes?" I said uncertainly.

"Okay, then," Tony shrugged, sounding as uncertain as I had. "But maybe pride ain't the healthiest thing."

I thought it was ironic that he was telling me about pride, but I didn't interrupt him.

"'Specially for someone like you. You're cut out to be humble, kid. Pansies and girls are cut out to be humble. Really, I don't know if your grandfather would be all that proud of you. Maybe 'ashamed' would be a better word."

"Maybe it's time for you to go," I said hotly, swallowing hard to push my emotions back down.

"Yeah, okay. Think about what I said, all right?"

"Get the hell out of here," I said quietly, his words stinging.

Tony coolly walked towards the bedroom door and said, "Fine. See ya around, kid."