Disclaimer: I wish I owned Boots and the rest of Newsies, but alas - I do not!
Summary: Boots' life can be pieced together by nothing but a name and a melody.
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: First attempt at Song!Fic. This was kind of sort of semi-inspired by Literature, which is my pride and joy, so go check it out (it's short, don't worry!). It was also written while I was in Peter Pan mode (all my stories lately seem to relate to Peter Pan, don't they?), so that's where the song came from. On another note: isn't Boots adorable!? I just love the kids! Finally, please leave me some pretty reviews. I just love reviews!
Distant Melody
Once upon a time and long ago
I heard someone singing
Soft and low
Boots lies awake in the Lodging House, staring at the bunk bed above him. He traces his fingers along the black burns in the wood, taking note of every hole and indent. He feels his way to a series of indents, each forming into imperfect letters. He attempts to read them, a difficult feat without any light remaining in the room but the small crevices of moonlight coming from the windows. He feels the letters over, multiple times each. It doesn't matter if he can read it or not. He already knows what it says.
Now when day is done
And night is near
I recall this song I used to hear
A small boy, perhaps three or four, unconsciously holds onto his mother, her cradling him tightly in her arms. They sit in the depths of a dark alley, a short brick wall making them invisible to those walking down the sidewalks. The mother caresses his dark face, kissing the sleeping child every time she feels the need to. A father is not there. He does not exist for her any longer. He has gone away, as so many before him, leaving her with nothing but their child. The mother cries. The child whimpers, waking, then wails loudly. The mother hushes him. She hums to him a familiar tune.
My child, my very own,
Don't be afraid, you're not alone
Sleep until the dawn
For all is well
A baby is wrapped tightly in thin blankets, covering all but his face. "His skin is so soft," a man with a rough voice tells the woman holding the infant. All three sit within four walls, covered by a low roof. The newborn stares up at his parents, comfortable in their presence. He does not cry as his eye lids fall, covering his dark eyes almost fully. The man and woman sing in a harmony he has never heard before, each voice complimenting the other perfectly. There is something powerful about the music, yet at the same time calming. The baby's eye lids finally fall completely as he is placed into a cradle. The mother and father finish singing and make their way to their beds, holding each other as they fall asleep.
Long ago this song was sung to me
A nine year old boy reaches the steps of a brick building, and knocks on the door. His dry hands cling to a bottle of polish and a nearly white cloth. His shoes are pristine leather, yet are also wet from the snow. The door opens, revealing a group of boys - newsies - who glare at him. He holds up his instruments, offering to shine each of their shoes if he can stay there for the night, having grown tired and fearful of the cold outside. The boys accept his offer. He begs each night, and they allow him to stay each night, paying his lodgings for shining shoes. When his polish runs out, he joins them during the daytime, selling papers with them, and is able to pay for himself. He becomes a friend to them, an accomplice, even a marketer. Their own Artful Dodger. They give him a bed. One night, when the moon is bright, he uses his empty bottle of polish to scratch a message into the bunk above him: "Stephen Davis Jones."
Now it's just a distant melody
Boots, as he is now called, leads a new boy, perhaps eleven, to the Lodging House. The boy is light skinned, and holds a cigarette in his left hand. He comes to New York searching for a purpose, a way to make money, and perhaps an eventual effect on the world. Boots is intrigued by the boy's dreams, and tells him to follow him, to become a newsie alongside him. The new boy follows, excited. Racetrack opens the door of the House and becomes very silent. The two were once brothers, they find, a fact that is proven by their old addresses. Boots is jealous, wishing for a reuniting of his own, but does not show this. Instead, after all are asleep, he wakes up the new boy. He takes him to his own bed, and tells him to run his fingers over the indents. The boy is confused.
"What does it say?" he asks.
"Stephen Davis Jones," Boots replies, grinning at him through the darkness.
"Is that your name?"
"It's the name of someone I want to meet again someday."
"Who is he?"
Boots does not answer.
Somewhere from the past I used to know
Boots and Snipeshooter stay up late, yet are completely silent. They are seventeen, and have realized that they are far too old to remain in the Lodging House, or even continue being newsies. They look around at the strangers surrounding them. There are nearly two dozen new boys in the Lodging House. The only recognizable ones are called Tumbler and Slider, who have chosen to take their chances and stay for a while longer. Boots and Snipeshooter will leave tomorrow, and look for jobs appropriate to their ages. Snipeshooter has suggested a job at a factory with Racetrack, his brother, who told them that there's always room for another factory worker. They have made it their first priority.
The sun begins to take over the moon slightly. There will only be another hour before the others are awoken by Jordan, Kloppman's successor. They keep their bags nearby, ready to be taken whenever they need be. Snipeshooter stands, willing Boots to follow him. Instead, Boots decides to lie back down in his bed.
"There's no time for a nap," Snipeshooter tells him, kneeling next to him. He is suddenly entranced by Boots' next action. Boots reaches over the edge of his bed, grabbing hold of his bag. He unzips a compartment in it, revealing an empty bottle of shoe polish. He begins to scratch the bed above him, making the words that resided there nearly unintelligible, humming all the time. A few young newsies turn over, their sleep disturbed by the noise, but none complain. They only hear the sounds within their dreams. Finally, Boots rolls off of the bed, placing the bottle back into his bag.
"Why not leave it there?" his friend asks him.
"What's the point?" he replies. Snipeshooter nods, understanding. As they leave, he places a short note onto the front desk, providing an explanation of where they are going. They welcome visitors, but will not come back to visit themselves. They don't want to need to return. Finally, they are gone, and stand outside of another brick building.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Snipeshooter laughs, waiting for his brother to meet them there. Boots smiles, but is silent. They both look up at the smoking building.
"Stephen Davis Jones," Boots whispers. He turns to his friend. "He was my father."
"I know," Snipeshooter replies solemnly, not turning his head from the factory.
Once upon a time
And long ago...