Okay, here's some Specs and Dutchy love for everyone. And, uh, a bit of
Spot and Race, simply because I can't help myself, damn it.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, of course! This is also an alternate universe with stereotypes of lot's of people.
Disclaimer: I most certainly do not own Newsies. I just like to...play with them.
*************************** The Perks of Transferring Schools ***************************
Everything seemed perfect for a moment; birds were chirping, the world was completely silent, nothing bad had happened thus far, and the lockers weren't jammed for once. Yes, everything seemed perfect. Until thunder boomed causing the only person in the desolate hall to drop an armful of books, which created more noise, and a pair of glasses plummeted to the floor.
Dutchy hated moving to a new school. He especially hated moving to a new school in New York. Florida had suited him just fine; but then, so had California, Illinois, and Georgia. Sure, he was used to big cities, but at least he could understand what people were saying in those cities.
Much to his annoyance, Dutchy's father was an "important businessman." Truth be told, Dutchy didn't mind the money their family got, he just wished he could see his father more. Sure, they saw each other at the dinner parties they held, but it was ridiculous; his father would ask him how everything was at school, and really mean it. They didn't have time for idle conversation, and it pissed Dutchy off.
Oh, if only his father could see Dutchy now. He had overslept that morning, unaware that school in New York started an hour earlier than those in Florida, and had to grab whatever clothing was available from the unpacked boxes that littered his room. They'd had a whole weekend to unpack, but Dutchy was just lazy. Ever the bad packer, he had put his old clothing in with his new, resulting in his overly large pants that drooped down over his Rudolph boxers. So now, he looked like a wannabe gangster, which was so not what he was going for. His shirt was worse, though, much worse. New clothing involved the too big pants he would have to wait a year to wear again; old clothing involved things from ninth grade. Ninth grade had been spent in California, where he was in with the Goth crowd, with tight black shirts that flashed witty and depressing slogans.
He was a skinny lad, and in his junior year of high school. He had grown a few inches though, so the once down-to-the-thigh shirt now ended at his boxers. The saddest thing was that the shirt said, "I'm so happy I could shoot myself" in large, old English letters. Dutchy was in actual physical pain when he thought about it—he looked like a gay depressed wannabe gangster with glasses (that unintentionally gave him an intellectual look). This was not a good first day.
So now he was on his knees, cursing in an empty hallway as he picked up his dropped books. It was really upsetting because none of them were the assigned books. He hadn't even been to his classes yet! It wasn't like he could go to school without his sketchbook, daytime planner (in case he made a bunch of new friends who liked to make plans), and a large book on Art. He had only meant to transfer them from his book bag to his locker, leaving a big box of colored pencils in the bag to give it some weight. Damn thunder, he thought, always messing things up.
A few cigarettes had tumbled from the inside pocket of his day planner, his sketchbook had landed at an odd angle, and his giant Art book had flipped open to a page on the artist David Hockney, which featured one of his paintings titled "Two men in shower." And then came the squeaking of old shoes on the linoleum floor of the hallway.
Dutchy wished he could find his glasses. Without them, everything was a big blur, which really sucked when what appeared to be a young man stooped down in front of him. Two blurry hands moved to grab the cigarettes, and he wondered briefly if he should tell the blur to back off. After all, this was New York. Dutchy had heard things about New York.
The rumors were proved wrong when a pair of glasses—his glasses, he was pleased to notice—were placed gently on his face. Once his eyes focused, he could see his mess properly, and could see the boy that was helping to clean it. Dutchy had never been so glad to have glasses before. The guy was hot, with his curly brown hair, and soft brown eyes framed by glasses (Dutchy was a fool for a man in glasses), not to mention the little smirk playing on his lips. A few freckles that dotted his nose accented his pale skin. He was...Cute and hot at the same time! It was amazing.
"Here. You must be new. And Irish. Damn, but you are a pale one." The hotness faded a little as a purely northern accent escaped the boy's mouth.
"Dutch." Dutchy corrected automatically, used to the mix up. Sure, he was a pale fellow, regardless of the sunny cities his father always received jobs in. It was kind of embarrassing actually. He never tanned, simply blistered as his skin turned a horrible shade of red.
The boy replied, his accent mangling the words. Dutchy couldn't help but say, "Excuse me?" The boy laughed, and his hotness returned full force. Dutchy was ashamed to admit that his sense of hotness varied with different things the male species could do. A hot voice, and bad body could automatically turn Dutchy off. He was working on it, though!
"I said you made a hell of a mess. You must not be from around here. People always say us New Yorkers talk too fast. Well, mainly it's Manhattan, cause my friend Spot is from Brooklyn, and he don't even talk fast as us." The boy took a deep breath before sticking out his hand, which Dutchy accepted. "I'm Specs. You know, 'cause of the glasses. You have glasses too, though. It would suck if your nickname was Specs too."
It seemed like an invitation to introduce himself, which Dutchy did with a laugh. "Nah, I'm Dutchy. My fourth grade teacher couldn't remember my name, so Dutchy just kind of stuck."
Specs nodded, his eyes fixed on the art book. Dutchy had never been so appalled that he had highlighted stuff in his large art book. "Uh, I want to major in art in college. It's not just a David Hockney thing...I've never made such a bad first impression." Specs laughed, waving a hand in dismissal. "No, I like ya, and I don't like many people, so you're doing just fine."
"Oh, well I sure am relieved." They picked up Dutchy's things together, in partial silence, discussing only classes and schedules. To Dutchy's delight, he and the ever-attractive bespectacled boy had two out of four classes together.
They set off down the hall together, Specs giving Dutchy a much-needed tour, merely chatting about their lives. "Yeah, my dad gets business transfers a lot, but he swore this would be the last one."
Specs whistled. "You guys must be loaded, with your dad working in all the big cities." His accent was kind of nice, Dutchy decided, the way he said 'woiking' instead of working. It was definitely cute. He wondered if the kid was single. "Don't think me a man-slut or anything, but is there anyone worth dating around here?" he asked casually.
"Just me, and it's your lucky day, cause I'm single" Specs said with a wink. Well, Dutchy thought, that was good enough for him. Very, very lucky. He was about to respond, but no words would come after walking upon a very...unusual scene.
There was a blond boy sitting on a water fountain, his mouth attached to another boy, one with much darker hair. The dark haired boy trailed his mouth down blondie's neck, leaving said blond to pant and moan as he pleased. His legs were wrapped around the waist of his standing companion, his arms wrapped around his neck. The boy standing looked like he could be a freshman, he was so short, and the boy sitting on the water fountain—Dutchy hoped it was dry—could have been any height. He was extremely pretty, though.
His hair fell across his forehead, and his dazzling blue eyes were half- lidded in pleasure. His lips were full, and pulled up at the edges as he muttered something that made the other boy laugh.
"Yo, Spot, Race...you are aware that is a public fountain, correct?" The boys jumped apart, much to Dutchy's dismay. Spot...Specs had said Spot. Dutchy guessed the dark haired boy to be Spot...he was small enough to earn the nickname.
"Christ man, clear your throat or something next time. My hand was going for his pants next, damn it!" The blond yelled. He kissed could-be-Spot on the lips before jumped down and walking up to Dutchy.
"What are you, some kind of gay Goth wannabe punk? Oh, and I'm Sean Conlon, by the way, people call me Spot."
Dutchy smiled. "I'm Dutchy. I'm a horrible packer and decided to put my middle school clothes in with my college clothes. I literally got dressed in the dark." Spot laughed, as did the boy Dutchy identified as Race.
They had their introductions, and Spot and Race, two potential friends in Dutchy's eyes, left to return to class. Dutchy made sure to tell them before they left he really enjoyed the show. He liked to think he made their lives that much better by paying them a compliment.
"How do you know those two?" Dutchy asked as Specs showed him the sixth bathroom on one floor or the three-story school. They weren't all that nice to look at, especially because of the full-length mirrors each one had. They only served to remind Dutchy how incredibly dumb he looked.
"Race is my ex-boyfriend. Once we broke up, I introduced him to Spot, and they hit it off. They make a good couple, don't they?" Specs was smiling, but his voice sounded sad.
"Well, if it helps any, people tell me I'm good at healing broken hearts."
"Looks to me like you could cure impotence."
Dutchy could feel his face flush. He loved compliments. "I've heard that a few times too. So...what if I told you I just met you, but I want to date you."
Specs stopped and looked over with a smile. "I'd say...welcome to New York, and I'm free this Friday at seven."
Dutchy scrambled for his day-planner, a huge grin on his face.
*The End*
Okay, I know it's really short, and only had action between Race and Spot, but I needed it there. I'm writing a sequel about their first date, though.
Review if you want it. Hell, Review if you don't. Please review, so my life is worth living.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, of course! This is also an alternate universe with stereotypes of lot's of people.
Disclaimer: I most certainly do not own Newsies. I just like to...play with them.
*************************** The Perks of Transferring Schools ***************************
Everything seemed perfect for a moment; birds were chirping, the world was completely silent, nothing bad had happened thus far, and the lockers weren't jammed for once. Yes, everything seemed perfect. Until thunder boomed causing the only person in the desolate hall to drop an armful of books, which created more noise, and a pair of glasses plummeted to the floor.
Dutchy hated moving to a new school. He especially hated moving to a new school in New York. Florida had suited him just fine; but then, so had California, Illinois, and Georgia. Sure, he was used to big cities, but at least he could understand what people were saying in those cities.
Much to his annoyance, Dutchy's father was an "important businessman." Truth be told, Dutchy didn't mind the money their family got, he just wished he could see his father more. Sure, they saw each other at the dinner parties they held, but it was ridiculous; his father would ask him how everything was at school, and really mean it. They didn't have time for idle conversation, and it pissed Dutchy off.
Oh, if only his father could see Dutchy now. He had overslept that morning, unaware that school in New York started an hour earlier than those in Florida, and had to grab whatever clothing was available from the unpacked boxes that littered his room. They'd had a whole weekend to unpack, but Dutchy was just lazy. Ever the bad packer, he had put his old clothing in with his new, resulting in his overly large pants that drooped down over his Rudolph boxers. So now, he looked like a wannabe gangster, which was so not what he was going for. His shirt was worse, though, much worse. New clothing involved the too big pants he would have to wait a year to wear again; old clothing involved things from ninth grade. Ninth grade had been spent in California, where he was in with the Goth crowd, with tight black shirts that flashed witty and depressing slogans.
He was a skinny lad, and in his junior year of high school. He had grown a few inches though, so the once down-to-the-thigh shirt now ended at his boxers. The saddest thing was that the shirt said, "I'm so happy I could shoot myself" in large, old English letters. Dutchy was in actual physical pain when he thought about it—he looked like a gay depressed wannabe gangster with glasses (that unintentionally gave him an intellectual look). This was not a good first day.
So now he was on his knees, cursing in an empty hallway as he picked up his dropped books. It was really upsetting because none of them were the assigned books. He hadn't even been to his classes yet! It wasn't like he could go to school without his sketchbook, daytime planner (in case he made a bunch of new friends who liked to make plans), and a large book on Art. He had only meant to transfer them from his book bag to his locker, leaving a big box of colored pencils in the bag to give it some weight. Damn thunder, he thought, always messing things up.
A few cigarettes had tumbled from the inside pocket of his day planner, his sketchbook had landed at an odd angle, and his giant Art book had flipped open to a page on the artist David Hockney, which featured one of his paintings titled "Two men in shower." And then came the squeaking of old shoes on the linoleum floor of the hallway.
Dutchy wished he could find his glasses. Without them, everything was a big blur, which really sucked when what appeared to be a young man stooped down in front of him. Two blurry hands moved to grab the cigarettes, and he wondered briefly if he should tell the blur to back off. After all, this was New York. Dutchy had heard things about New York.
The rumors were proved wrong when a pair of glasses—his glasses, he was pleased to notice—were placed gently on his face. Once his eyes focused, he could see his mess properly, and could see the boy that was helping to clean it. Dutchy had never been so glad to have glasses before. The guy was hot, with his curly brown hair, and soft brown eyes framed by glasses (Dutchy was a fool for a man in glasses), not to mention the little smirk playing on his lips. A few freckles that dotted his nose accented his pale skin. He was...Cute and hot at the same time! It was amazing.
"Here. You must be new. And Irish. Damn, but you are a pale one." The hotness faded a little as a purely northern accent escaped the boy's mouth.
"Dutch." Dutchy corrected automatically, used to the mix up. Sure, he was a pale fellow, regardless of the sunny cities his father always received jobs in. It was kind of embarrassing actually. He never tanned, simply blistered as his skin turned a horrible shade of red.
The boy replied, his accent mangling the words. Dutchy couldn't help but say, "Excuse me?" The boy laughed, and his hotness returned full force. Dutchy was ashamed to admit that his sense of hotness varied with different things the male species could do. A hot voice, and bad body could automatically turn Dutchy off. He was working on it, though!
"I said you made a hell of a mess. You must not be from around here. People always say us New Yorkers talk too fast. Well, mainly it's Manhattan, cause my friend Spot is from Brooklyn, and he don't even talk fast as us." The boy took a deep breath before sticking out his hand, which Dutchy accepted. "I'm Specs. You know, 'cause of the glasses. You have glasses too, though. It would suck if your nickname was Specs too."
It seemed like an invitation to introduce himself, which Dutchy did with a laugh. "Nah, I'm Dutchy. My fourth grade teacher couldn't remember my name, so Dutchy just kind of stuck."
Specs nodded, his eyes fixed on the art book. Dutchy had never been so appalled that he had highlighted stuff in his large art book. "Uh, I want to major in art in college. It's not just a David Hockney thing...I've never made such a bad first impression." Specs laughed, waving a hand in dismissal. "No, I like ya, and I don't like many people, so you're doing just fine."
"Oh, well I sure am relieved." They picked up Dutchy's things together, in partial silence, discussing only classes and schedules. To Dutchy's delight, he and the ever-attractive bespectacled boy had two out of four classes together.
They set off down the hall together, Specs giving Dutchy a much-needed tour, merely chatting about their lives. "Yeah, my dad gets business transfers a lot, but he swore this would be the last one."
Specs whistled. "You guys must be loaded, with your dad working in all the big cities." His accent was kind of nice, Dutchy decided, the way he said 'woiking' instead of working. It was definitely cute. He wondered if the kid was single. "Don't think me a man-slut or anything, but is there anyone worth dating around here?" he asked casually.
"Just me, and it's your lucky day, cause I'm single" Specs said with a wink. Well, Dutchy thought, that was good enough for him. Very, very lucky. He was about to respond, but no words would come after walking upon a very...unusual scene.
There was a blond boy sitting on a water fountain, his mouth attached to another boy, one with much darker hair. The dark haired boy trailed his mouth down blondie's neck, leaving said blond to pant and moan as he pleased. His legs were wrapped around the waist of his standing companion, his arms wrapped around his neck. The boy standing looked like he could be a freshman, he was so short, and the boy sitting on the water fountain—Dutchy hoped it was dry—could have been any height. He was extremely pretty, though.
His hair fell across his forehead, and his dazzling blue eyes were half- lidded in pleasure. His lips were full, and pulled up at the edges as he muttered something that made the other boy laugh.
"Yo, Spot, Race...you are aware that is a public fountain, correct?" The boys jumped apart, much to Dutchy's dismay. Spot...Specs had said Spot. Dutchy guessed the dark haired boy to be Spot...he was small enough to earn the nickname.
"Christ man, clear your throat or something next time. My hand was going for his pants next, damn it!" The blond yelled. He kissed could-be-Spot on the lips before jumped down and walking up to Dutchy.
"What are you, some kind of gay Goth wannabe punk? Oh, and I'm Sean Conlon, by the way, people call me Spot."
Dutchy smiled. "I'm Dutchy. I'm a horrible packer and decided to put my middle school clothes in with my college clothes. I literally got dressed in the dark." Spot laughed, as did the boy Dutchy identified as Race.
They had their introductions, and Spot and Race, two potential friends in Dutchy's eyes, left to return to class. Dutchy made sure to tell them before they left he really enjoyed the show. He liked to think he made their lives that much better by paying them a compliment.
"How do you know those two?" Dutchy asked as Specs showed him the sixth bathroom on one floor or the three-story school. They weren't all that nice to look at, especially because of the full-length mirrors each one had. They only served to remind Dutchy how incredibly dumb he looked.
"Race is my ex-boyfriend. Once we broke up, I introduced him to Spot, and they hit it off. They make a good couple, don't they?" Specs was smiling, but his voice sounded sad.
"Well, if it helps any, people tell me I'm good at healing broken hearts."
"Looks to me like you could cure impotence."
Dutchy could feel his face flush. He loved compliments. "I've heard that a few times too. So...what if I told you I just met you, but I want to date you."
Specs stopped and looked over with a smile. "I'd say...welcome to New York, and I'm free this Friday at seven."
Dutchy scrambled for his day-planner, a huge grin on his face.
*The End*
Okay, I know it's really short, and only had action between Race and Spot, but I needed it there. I'm writing a sequel about their first date, though.
Review if you want it. Hell, Review if you don't. Please review, so my life is worth living.