It Just Won't Quit

by misprint

And I never really sleep anymore. Slash.

2. one

One

August 14th, 1898

"An' 'e takes a swing at me, an' I dodges it an' comes right back up an' give 'im double. Pow! Pow! Jus' like that an' 'e's on his back. Now, I know not ta hit a guy when 'e's down, right? So I turns an' start leavin'. But before I knows it, he's up on his feet an' tryin' to better me. So I jus' gives 'im the ol' right hook, see? Pow! An' 'e's down again like a sack a' potatoes." Mush watched his best friend in awe, as he bounced along beside him on the balls of his feet, re-enacting out the mornings events. "'E gets up again, an' tries to land one on me. But I'se too fast for 'im, an' befoah he knows it, pow!" Blink made an extremely violent gesture in mid air. "'E's down on 'is back again, cryin' like a goil. Aw, I wish you coulda been there to seen it, buddy."

"Wow." Mush said, in veneration, eyes trained on his friend. "I t'ought you said 'e was a big guy!"

"He was!" Blink confirmed obstinately, thrusting his chin out. "Musta been 'bout…uh…" He rolled his one visible eye up in thought. "Three hunnerd pounds."

"You was sayin' two hunnerd a minute ago."

"I meant two hunnerd pounds muscle." Blink explained, throwing a few more punches into mid air, with the correct sound effects to go along with his "opponents" reaction. "'E was bigger than Weasel!"

"Ain't no one bigger than Weasel."

"Is so."

"Is not!"

"Well, there is now." Blink amended. "An' I licked 'em!"

"Why was 'e after you in the foist place?" Mush asked in interest.

"Wha?" Blinks eye darkened for a moment. "Oh. That. 'E was a friend a' Abbey's. Musta been tryin' to make 'er feel better by makin' a nice mess a' my face." He immediately resumed fighting his invisible opponent, ducking and dodging imaginary swings.

Mush stared at him. Abbey. Again. He should have suspected. Whenever Blink got in trouble, the source was usually one of his "dames".

"You get hoit?" He asked softly, his eyes lingering on the dark bruise beginning to form on his friends temple.

"What?" Blink hesitated again, and his eye grew even darker. "Well…a li'l." He admitted warily. "Not much though. It'd take a lot more than that bum to hoit me. I got a bruise on my ribs. Bastard kicked me when I was down."

He resumed his fight again, as the two of them strolled along the cobblestone, which was near hot enough to burn the soles off of their feet. Mush paused, and glanced over at his friend again, before asking the question in such a soft voice, it was nearly a whisper.

"Was she woith it?"

Blink paused again in his effortless battle, and squinted slightly. A bead of sweat was trickling down his temple.

"Who?"

"Abbey."

"Oh. Oh yeah. Them British, lemme tell you." He grinned roguishly. Mush gave a weak grin too. "I mean…all dark eyed an' pale an' slender. Y'know? Like butterflies." Mush didn't know. He had no clue. Blink, in his rapid quest for "the perfect girl" kept neglecting to remember the fact that Mush wasn't half as lucky in his own escapades. In fact, he wasn't lucky at all.

Mush Meyers never, once in life, had a girl.

Blink, on the other hand, managed to go through about two a week. It didn't bother Mush that he was manipulating all those girls with his charm and quick tactics, didn't even bother him that he exaggerated all his conquests to make every girl seem like a queen, every night a paradise. What bothered him was the fact that every girl he got his hands on and left the next morning seemed to have an older brother or cousin or friend or fellow who would dearly love to take out his other eye for him. Dearly. And the worse thing about it was Blink never took it seriously.

"Don't matter, anyhow." Blink was saying. "Got me this new one. Name's Adriana. Adriana Fuentes. Puerto Rican. Nice, huh? Huh?" He elbowed his friend a few times in the ribs, and Mush chuckled weakly. Adriana Fuentes. She probably didn't know that only two nights ago, Blink was up in Abbey's tenement, trying to keep the level of noise they were making down to a minimum, so her father wouldn't throw him out…

Mush would always try and bring up this new idea of not taking advantage of every single girl he ran into. Maybe slowing down on women. Maybe…dunno. Trying something else?

What am I doin',? Mush thought unhappily as his friend let out a war cry and dodged a punch. Tryin' to turn 'im onto the fact that I like him like no friend should? What the hell am I doin'?

"Say." Blink finished off his opponent and dropped a sweaty arm around Mush's shoulders. "We still goin' to Sweet Sals?"

Mush smiled, and tried to convince himself the gesture meant nothing more than what it was supposed to. Friendship. And there ain't no way I'm gonna go trynna spoil that. He thought firmly.

"Shooah thing." He shrugged.

But it's shooah nice to dream.

The first of their own they ran into was Racetrack, standing outside the diner, squinting up at the menu, and nervously jangling his coins in his palm. He had long since abandoned his waist coat and had unbuttoned his own blouse, to no avail. Dark, grey sweat stains still made the fabric stick to his skin. The minute he saw them, he let forth a flood of over-amiable compliments, clearly showing he was short of cash.

"Hey! Fellas!" He greeted loudly, letting a hand fly out and thwack Mush on the upper arm enthusiastically. "Mush! How ya doin', big guy? Sold all yer papes? A' course you have, a' course you have. An' Blink!" He draped an arm around the boys shoulders. "Blink, m'boy, how you been? Say." He turned and held Blink at arms length. "Hoid about that fight with that Spanish Thug from Harlem. Hoid 'e was the toughest guy this side a' the city. But you look good!" he babbled, ignoring the darkened bruise on Blinks temple. "Made mince meat outta him, didn'tcha? Cleaned his clock, didn'tcha? Atta boy…" he chuckled and began throwing rapid punches at his friends upper arm. Mush and Blink exchanged a knowing look, then simultaneously walked into the diner, Racetrack darting around them like a lost puppy.

The diner had a few ceiling fans going as they walked in, but not enough to expel the wet, summer heat that settled there like a fog. The tables underneath the fans had been quickly snapped up by those with superior influence, and they sat there now, like monarchs on their shabby, sagging chairs. Blink, always cool, paused just long enough to give them withering looks, and made a beeline for a booth in the corner of the diner. He would sit no where else.

"Man." Racetrack was babbling as they slid onto the shabby cushions, the stale, warm scent of cigarettes embedded in the fabrics. "It's too hot for the dogs today. Heat's got everyone inside. I had a hard time sellin' today. Did you have a hard time sellin' today? I had a hard time sellin' today…"

"T'anks." Blink muttered to a young waitress who handed them their menus, her hair tied back by a stained grey kerchief. He eyed her appraisingly as she turned and scurried away. Racetrack glanced down his menu, and his smile faltered a little.

"Prices 'ave gone up." He said meaningfully, licking his lips. "Shooah have…jeez…yeh…" He glanced up at the two boys, only to find them both staring at him knowingly, and quickly looked back down at his menu. "Yup…look at dis…I mean, how they 'spect a woikin' class kid like meself to pay for grub like this…" Mush and Blink exchanged another look. Blink raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"You want we should buy?" Mush asked gently.

"Wha?" Racetrack said quickly, eyes widening. As if he wasn't thinking of it at all, Mush thought sceptically. "Aw, no. No fellas, a' course not."

"Alright then." Mush said, leaning back and raising his eyebrows. "We won't."

"Aw, please fellas, please." Racetrack quickly changed tactics, leaning forwards, eyes wide and hungry. "I ain't had nuttin' t'eat all day. An' I need most a' the dough I make today for rent…Month overdue. Kloppman won't hear it no more. An' I'm so hungry…"

Blink rolled his one eye upwards. "Can it, Race. I'll pay."

"Aw." Racetrack grinned in relief, his face sagging into its comfortable, normal lines. "Aw…t'ank you Blink. Blink, buddy, you're a real pal. Y'know, I always said…"

"You gennelmen ready to order?" A slight voice cut in. Mush looked up. The same waitress was standing there, large doe eyes flicking from each face.

"Uh, yeh." Blink glanced down at the menu and quickly gave his order. Mush and Race quickly followed suit.

Mush tried not to stare too obviously at the way Blink's eye was roaming over her face and body. She was undeniably pretty, like a lost kitten, or an innocent child. The naïve kind, he decided, as she leaned over and began collecting their menus. But, as always, Mush felt nothing.

"Coming up soon." She gave them a small, reassuring smile, then turned and scurried away. Blink's gaze followed her, and he gave an insolent grin.

"Now she's a looker." He said, mostly to himself. Racetrack nodded.

"I'm with ya there."

"Yeah." Mush said automatically. He had been training himself to act the way Blink did, and stare at girls the way Blink did, and talk about girls the way Blink did…he didn't know if it was doing him any good. He still felt the same. And why would he feel different, after eight years?

Blink rooted around in his pockets, and after a few moments, dumped a handful of change on the table. The silver clinks and chimes made both his friends turn and gape. He settled back with the smug air of self confidence decorating his grin.

"Jimminy!" Racetrack exclaimed, his face full of disbelief. "That's gotta be at least six dollars! Wheah'd you get that?"

"Ah, I jus' appropriates the papes outta the back a' the distribution center." Blink smirked nonchalantly.

"Appropriated?" Mush asked, feeling the word stumble off his tongue. Blink nodded and grinned. "Whazat mean?"

"Ah, jus' means that there weren't no Weasel or Delancey idiots around to see me take a li'l more than I pays for." He said casually, pretending to study his fingernails in a pretentious air.

"Which was nuttin'." Racetrack snorted. Blink laughed too.

"Hey. All the more for me."

Mush felt himself grinning. Blink would find something like this to keep him afloat. It was just the kind of boy he was.

Boy.

Mush felt his eyes flick sideways in his head as he studied his friends handsome profile, outlined by the summer sun that beamed through the dirty glass. Although the eye patch marred his handsome face, his clothes didn't get that much of a wash, and his hair could get as greasy as a bums, he still managed to look fine no matter what he was doing. The edges of his face glowed now, lit by the outside, and whenever he grinned or tossed his hair back, little beams of light danced around him. The eye patch didn't make him look so much as a street kid, but more of a martyr. It gave him something imperfect, to balance the perfection, to balance everything that Mush loved about him. He grinned at something Racetrack was saying, and seemed to give off his own illumination, regardless of the suns light.

Almost like an angel, Mush thought slowly, dumbfounded, as he always was whenever he caught these special moments.

The clink of plates hitting the table brought him back to reality. He blinked, then glanced down, his spirit lifted when he saw the sandwich sitting on the china. He realised, suddenly, how ravenous he was. The heat of the day and the energy involved in selling must have worn him down.

"Like I says…" Blink was saying, leaning forwards slightly, speaking through a muffled mouthful of beans. "This street rat Jimmy or somin'? When they finally finds 'is body, half his face was missin', man. Whoever did it was good. Quick and efficient, y'know?"

"Y'think it's that gang that's sprung up in Williamsburg?" Mush asked, rewarded with an appraising glance from his friend.

"That's wheah my money is." He replied, shovelling another forkful of beans into his mouth. "Devlin. That's their name, ain't it?"

"Devlin?" Racetrack asked, his eyes screwing up into tight squints. He chewed thoughtfully on his frankfurter.

"Yeah? Familiar wid the name?" Blink asked, swallowing.

"Shooah as hell I am." He replied casually. "I owe 'em ten bucks."

Mush nearly spewed his water out over the table, and had to ferociously fight down laughter. Blink was staring at him in astonishment.

"Ten bucks? Race! How the hell didja…"

"Poker." Racetrack replied simply. His face darkened for a moment. "'E cheated. Somehow. I know 'e did. Soon as I find out how…" Mush and Blink didn't even chance a glance at each other. They knew they'd never be able to hold back their laughter.

"Well, I suggest you pays 'im back pronto an' get it over with." Blink advised. "Don't want nuttin' to do with these fellows."

"Yeah, yeah." Racetrack waved it off like it was nothing. Blink and Mush exchanged another look, Mush still fighting back smiles.

The two of them quickly went back to their lunch.

Mush glanced over at Blink's hand, which was resting casually on the table top. Wouldn't it be nice if they were holding hands under the table? Like they had seen those couples do, down Pearl Avenue. Bound in so many ways. He studied the stocky shape of his friends fingers. He could see the tendons, stretching from the fingernails down to the arm…could see the bruises from all the fights and beatings he gave…could see where the skin wrinkled and folded around the knuckles whenever he moved…

"Mush? Hey. You still there, buddy?" Racetrack asked, raising an eyebrow, frankfurter half way to his mouth. Embarrassed to be caught, Mush straightened hastily.

"Jus' thinking." He replied quickly. Racetrack nodded, and turned back to Blink.

"An' this dame…" he continued with gusto, as though he had never interrupted himself. "Pfft. Forget yer Spanish Rose up in Harlem. This one…aw man."

"That good?" Blink asked, eyebrows raising.

"That good. An' a lot better if y'ask me. She's got these pretty eyes, an' this long dark hair, an'…"

Mush stopped listening.

It seemed as though the city truly came alive when the first dark strands of evening began reaching over the squat factories of Manhattan. The city seemed to cool, almost, the hot cobblestone moderating underfoot, and the sweat soaked faces of the labourers smiling slightly as they cleaned up after their jobs. The energy-sucking heat disappeared, leaving in its wake, a frenzy of rowdy, middle class workers that were ready to do in with their jobs for the day, and go drink off the blues that they so easily obtained. Consequentially, the older newsies, almost as a rule, rarely frequented the lodging house during the evenings. Who wanted to hang around and abide to Kloppman's capricious rules, when there were drinks to be consumed, shows to be seen, and women to be had? Only the younger newsies who still had their baby fat and couldn't get into bars and Vaudeville shows stayed back at the house, playing cards up in the bunkrooms, or stealing a smoke or two on the fire escape.

Blink could easily remember the first week of evenings he had spent out on the town, and he told Mush about them countless times, his conquests growing more and more portentous each retelling. Mush listened with awed interest, only growing inward and short when Blink began describing the women he had seen.

"God, it was like heaven…but on earth…" He would say incoherently, moving his hands in vague, flowing circles as though that would prove some kind of point. Mush was just happy to watch his hands, and imagine them against his face and chest, tracing those nebulous, liquid circles into his skin, etching them into his flesh…he always shook those thoughts off fairly quickly. It would never do for Blink to find out that Mush thought about him that way.

Racetrack, having nowhere to go but back to the home, decided to trail after the two boys, hands in his pockets, making jovial, biting remarks that made them both laugh and strike at him in turn. Mush was glad, however. Having Racetrack along distracted him from focusing his attention entirely on Blink…something he had been doing too much, as of late. However, the three boys were at a loss for something to do. Racetrack was quite keen on going down to Irving Hall to see Medda in her new show, but Blink repudiated this by saying that he had already seen it, and it "wasn't worth dirt." He ended it, quite characteristically, by saying that the girls didn't show enough skin to keep him interested for too long. Mush pretended to laugh.

Blink, all of a sudden, got a spark in his one visible eye, and he cocked his head in the direction of Delancey Street. Mush knew that gleam. It only appeared in his friends gaze when he was feeling rebellious.

"Got an idea." He said. Racetrack, in the act of digging an old, chewed on cigar out of his pocket, paused in mid action, his hand halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows raised an inquisitive manner. "I hears that Knipes on Delancey is importing some mighty fine whisky in from Scotland on…" he made a mock gesture of flipping pages, as though he was checking some sort of invisible calendar. "August 18th. You gennelmen interested in appropriating a few bottles from his stock?"

Mush shrugged. The night was young, and there was really nothing else to do. Racetrack was looking fairly eager, as he put the cigar back in his pocket.

"Sounds like an admirable venture." He said, faking a high class British accent. "And Knipes…there's a damn good liquor shop if I ever saw one."

"Yeah," Blink sniggered, shoving his hands in his pockets as the three of them turned and made for Delancey street, which was lit up nicely in the impending darkness. "And that's alls you've ever done, buddy. Seen one. Maybe you ain't old enough to be drinking this stuff yet."

"Oh yeah?" Racetrack argued, socking one of Blink's arms a little harder than usual. "I can hold my alcohol along with the best of 'um. It's you that interests me. Whaddaya reckon, Mush? How many swigs before he loses it? Three? Four?"

"Twenny billion." Blink said snottily over his shoulder. Racetrack chuckled to himself.

"I'll take you up on that. Five bucks to the winner?"

"Race, you don't have five bucks." Mush reminded him. "And you owe the Devlin gang ten."

"Aw, you don't know nuttin'." Racetrack replied automatically, rolling his eyes. It was his standard reply to anyone that tried to stop him from having what he called "a good time." Mush exchanged a look with Blink, and then shrugged.

The walk down Delancey street wasn't short, but it was nevertheless interesting. It was as though the cool night breathed life into the buildings that lined the avenue, making their lights switch on as yellow eyes in the darkness of the night, making people spill from their front steps into the streets, and in turn, into the pubs. There was always a hint of thick ragtime music in the air, as every other block had a pub or two situated in between the tenements, almost invisible to the eye until the evening rolled around. There was always a congregation of men at the door with their mugs, chatting in what was generally a sober manner, but would soon be drunken and incoherent in less than a few hours. The three boys occasionally would stop and duck in the door, to see if the bartender would be up to serving those obviously under age, but for every effort, they always got a stern shake of the head, and a thumb jerked rudely in the direction of the streets. Back where you came from, boys.

Mush enjoyed the ragtime music and the hubbub of the bars, but not as much as he did the excitement of the streets. There were always people. Young couples out on dates with their hands clasped between them, men on their way to the pubs in thick, rowdy clumps, girls out to snag boys, boys out to snag girls, and always the lone woman or two, with their high-cut skirts and low-cut necklines, staring at the men from underneath their death blue eyelids. These were the women who were always out every night, regardless of whether it was Summer or Winter. They were the woman that everybody took advantage of, but no one would throw a penny at in the streets. These were the women who were spat on by the good-natured mothers and sisters of the city, only to return to their homes, which were hardly homes at all. Rundown houses, with girls spilling out from everywhere, every doorway, ever nook and cranny. Girls sitting in windows, facing outwards, skinny, made-up legs dangling down over the sill. Girls congregated in clumps on the balconies, cat calling and exchanging insults with the heavy thugs that occasionally wandered down to that part of town for when they were feeling lonely.

Mush always thought that was kind of sad. Blink loved it.

Knipes was farther on down Delancey street, fixed almost on the docks of Manhattan that dove off into the dirty waters of the East River. Supposedly "higher class", there were no echoes of ragtime or gaudy women sauntering past it's doors, only a few well-to-do looking middle class workers, who were searching for the cheapest wine they could find for weddings or birthdays. It was always a wonder how a place like that could stay in business on Delancey Street. But the boys didn't mind. Knipes was eighty three, and nearly both deaf and blind. Too easy to sneak goods from.

The boys quieted as they saw the outlines of the Williamsburg Bridge appear in the darkness. They were getting close. Racetrack had, after a few moments of savouring and picking at his cigar, shoved it between his lips and lit it, looking like the most satisfied man in the world as he inhaled with relish, even though his shoes were broken open at the toes and there were sweat stains up and down his blouse. Mush and Blink settled for inhaling the rank smoke that drifted from the end.

"You think we'll get caught?" Mush asked, feeling the familiar flutterings of anxiety and excitement in the pit of his stomach, as though something was struggling to free itself. Blink narrowed his one eye as he studied the blurry shape of the store in the distance.

"Not if we're careful enough." he replied easily. "Can't afford to be clumsy in situations like this." He glanced over at Racetrack. "That means you stays behind, Race." He added with a smirk. Racetrack hit him in the arm, with a hard thump that sounded like it would bruise.

"Pansy." He replied, his voice thick from behind the cigar wedged between his lips. Mush laughed, watching Blink's smirk widen. Of all the boys that Racetrack knew, Blink was the least likely to be a pansy, considering the thirst for women that wouldn't abate, no matter how many he had. And that was what was bothering Mush.

Blink let out a long whoosh of air as he saw the dark shadows of crates piled up in the alleyway. "There we are." He said in satisfaction, his voice cloaked in a whisper. The three of them instinctively softened their footsteps, and Racetrack put out his cigar against the side of a building, the glow would give them away.

"If he sees us, act natural." Mush warned the two of them. Racetrack rolled his eyes.

"Get a load a' this guy. If he sees us. That Knipes is as blind as he is deaf."

"Will you shut yer hole?" Blink snapped, sending a scowl over to his companion, who rolled his eyes and, making sure the cigar had cooled considerably, slid it back into his pocket almost noiselessly. The three of them continued the walk in silence, the only communication between them being quick, stolen glances, and curt nods. Mush felt the feeling in his stomach grow wilder. He had never been as savage as the other boys when it came to breaking the law, and every time he and Blink went on one of their escapades, he found himself grinning like a fool, and barely being able to hold in waves of giggles from behind his lips.

They drew closer and closer to the store, until at last, only the bare expanse of cobblestone alleyway separated them from the mountains of crates. When they angled their heads right, they could capture the glint of the dim light on the dark glass that glittered between the rotten boards.

"Jeeminy." Racetrack said under his breath. "That there is a lotta alcohol."

"Shh!" Blink suddenly snapped, slapping a hand over Racetrack's mouth. They heard why in a second. A shuffling drawl of footsteps were sounding from inside the store, and all of a sudden, the side door opened, and the bent old figure of Horatio Knipes came hobbling out, the straggly, greasy hair on his forehead barely visible in the moonlight. The three boys knew that face well. It had been the one that yelled at them and threatened them with arrest and torture whenever they had tried to steal any of his stock.

The three of them immediately turned their backs, and began a pointless conversation in low, unintelligible murmurs, as though they were just three street urchins passing the time between them. Racetrack even fumbled out his pocket watch and began clicking the cover open and closed, as though he had nothing better to do. They could feel the very air shimmer with anxiety when they heard the ancient creak of his bones as he raised his head to get a good look at them. But Racetrack had been correct, the dim light and the silhouettes showed him nothing.

"Who's there?" He rasped, in a voice that sounded as though it hadn't been used for a few hundred years or so. Blink and Racetrack shared anxious looks, and before they replied, Mush turned around. His face was less familiar than the two troublemakers beside them.

"Who wants to know?" He replied in a low voice, trying to sound as casual and as tough as Blink did whenever he was dealing with Knipes. His eyes having adjusted to the darkness in the alley, he could now make out the sagging curves of the old mans face, and the glimmer of the old, wet eyes. He watched as the thin lips contorted into a trembling frown.

"You run along, now." He wheezed, lifting one of the crates up in his old frail arms. The sound of a thousand bones cracking rang out across the alley, making Mush ball his hands into tight fists in his pockets. "Don't be 'causin' no trouble, hear? I'll call the p'lice on ya."

Mush snorted, and turned back to face the other way. There was a slight pause that made the boy's stomachs twist as he stared at them, as though trying to discern any sort of familiar shape. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly groaned and grunted his way to the door, and pushed it open with his back, before sliding back into the dusty, greasy back hallway of his store.

"Aaand…" Blink whispered, as they heard the door swing shut. "Go."

The three boys snapped around and jogged over the crates as lightly as they could, trying to make as little noise as possible. As much as they made fun of Knipes for his dulled senses, none of them wanted to run the risk of being caught. The old man had, if nothing else, a death grip, as though his old bones would lock into place and hold you there until hell froze over.

Racetrack lifted one of the crates with a wheezy "oof" and cradled it against his stomach, while Mush and Blink grabbed two others. Then, slowly, the three of them began hobbling away, their escape made a little less smooth by the fact that they were all laden with heavy burdens that sloshed and shifted and couldn't be dropped.

"In here." Blink grunted, motioning to the next alleyway with his head. "We ain't goin' nowhere with these, at least not fast-like. Let's get outta sight."

If Knipes came out and noticed that three of his crates were missing, and that the three boys on the corner had mysteriously disappeared, they didn't hear anything about it. Or, at least, he didn't make so much of a racket that they could hear it on the next block. After a few moments of sitting, listening, and realizing that they weren't hearing the tell-tale rapid klip klop of the police wagons, that he had figured the lost alochol was as good as gone.

"Either that, or he can't count worth dirt." Racetrack ammended, fixing his hands around the crate again. "Let's get this back to the lodging house. If we can't sneak it past Kloppman, at least we'll be close to home when we finish it all."

"Yeah, as if he'd let us in when we're drop dead drunk." Mush retorted, lifting his burden with a groan. Blink said nothing, but looked proud as he hoisted his own crate up and onto his shoulder, as though it was a stack of papers. Yet, underneath the casualness of his gesture, he stumbled sideways slightly as they began the long walk back to the lodging house.

Maybe it was just the fact that they were dragging around three heavy crates, but Delancey street didn't seem quite so appealing to Mush on the way back as it was on the way there. Especially it's size. The end of the street was thrown off far into the distance, a never ending stretch of pubs and tenements and people, that all gave them knowing, suspicious looks.

"Maybe we should ask one a' them to help." Racetrack wheezed, trying to switch the crate around to get a better handle on it. "Y'know…pay some punk kid a nickel to carry these…"

"Just pray that no one calls the cops on us." Blink said darkly, his voice sounding a little breathless underneath it's cynicism. "Maybe we should cut through a few back alleys."

"And prolong this torture? I don't think so." Racetrack replied. Blink rolled his eyes.

"Tired already? It's only been three blocks."

"Only, he says." Racetrack muttered to no one in particular. Mush was trying not to listen, all too amused by the banter going on between his friends, knowing that if he started laughing, he'd drop the crate, curl over it, and wouldn't be able to pick it up again. Fortunately, Blink wasn't in the mood to continue to make derisive comments, and Racetrack probably wouldn't have put up with them anyways. Somehow, despite the few cuts through back alleys and the one incident where Racetrack gave them faulty directions, they managed to haul the crates to about a block away from the lodging house, where they dumped them down on a fairly deserted corner, and flopped into different seating positions, Mush with his back up against the boxes, Blink on top of one of them, and Racetrack flat out on his back on the cobblestone.

"It's all those cigars you smoke." Blink finally said, once he had indiscreetly caught his breath, staring down at the huffing and puffing Racetrack on the ground.

"Say what you want. If you could afford 'um, you'd be smokin' 'um too." He replied. Mush chuckled breathlessly.

"Afford them? Race, you steal them."

"Damn straight, I do." He retorted. "And damn well, might I add. Swiped this off a' that right hand man I was telling you about." He dug the half smoked half chewn cigar out of one of his endless pockets, and held it up in the moonlight, examining it. "Didn't notice a thing. Almost thought he was numb not to feel it."

"You swiped that cigar off a member of the Devlin gang?" Blink said incredulously. Racetrack pushed himself up into a sitting position as he crammed the cigar into his waistcoat pocket.

"Had to get 'um back for cheating." He replied. Blink and Mush exchanged another look, sending a thrill through Mush's worn out body. Blink grinned, then looked down at Racetrack.

"Hate to throw a wrench in yer logic, Race, but you can't cheat a cheater."

"Oh yeah?" Racetrack swivelled around, looking fairly ridiculous with his back covered in grime and his cap knocked back on his head, exposing the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "And just what are you insinating?"

"Insinuating, Race?" Mush supplied.

"You don't know nuffin'."

"I'll tell you what I knows." Blink cut in, moving into a squatting position beside one of the crates, and studying the top with his one, shining eye. "I knows that we carried this all the way down Delancey street, and not just so we could sit around and talk about 'um."

"An' that's all you knows." Racetrack retorted, but he too had scrambled to his knees and was beginning to examine the top of the crate with interest. Mush followed suit, realizing that he was quite thirsty after the commute.

Blink began, by trying to pry the boards loose with his fingers, shoving them in between the gaps and trying to get a good grasp on the planks. But it soon became obvious that his approach wasn't working when Racetrack got his finger stuck and howled for a good straight five minutes before they were able to pry him loose. He spent the next couple of minutes watching them work at the tops, with the excuse that he needed a moments recovery for his poor, swollen finger. Finally, Mush hit upon the solution of scouring the gutters and alleyways for something, and managed to produce a long, thin piece of scrap metal that Blink used to slowly, but surely, pry the boards apart with.

Eventually, they were left with three boxes that had twisted nails and splintered planks of wood surrounding the openings. But, nevertheless, shining from underneath the wreckage were rows upon rows of whisky bottles.

"A job well done, my boys." Racetrack said in a strained voice, as he reached in and pulled out the first bottle by the neck. "A job well done indeed."

"All thanks to you, Race." Mush rolled his eyes as he followed suit. After a quick, rather inaccurate count by blink, they guessed that there were about twenty to thirty bottles in each crate.

"This'll last us all through winter!" Racetrack crowed, as he dug out his pocket knife and shoved it into the cork. Mush grinned as he watched him struggle to pull it out. In the summer heat, winter seemed a million years away. He imagined the look on Kloppman's face if he knew that they were planning to sneak in enough alcohol to drunken the rowdiest sailor. He'd probably threaten to throw them out on their ears.

Racetrack succeeded in pulling out his own cork, and then passed the knife to Blink who, in turn, passed it to Mush. The three of them sagged back against the crates, each smiling their own secret smiles. Then, with a "cheers" from Blink, they raised their drinks, tilted their heads back, and pressed the cool lips of the bottles up against their mouths.

"Beats?"

The dark, curly haired boy jolted from his dream, eyes snapping open, the frosty, night air sucked into his lungs so fast, the icy temperature burned as it whistled into his throat. He blinked groggily, and saw a dark figure advancing towards him, the shoulders hunched and the thin arms strong and muscular…

Beats moaned, feeling his muscles seize in terror, as he pushed himself backwards, stumbling, his limbs tangling, cold cobblestone biting against the skin. The figure advanced on him, almost threateningly, like a dark ghost, something heavy and long in it's hand…It opened it's mouth and let out a word;

"Beats," it said, in a choked voice. "Calm down. S'just me."

"Johnny?" Beats squinted slightly, then let out a breath of relief. "Christ! Don't scare me like that."

"Sorry." Johnny replied in his scratchy, gravel voice as he lowered himself into a sitting position on the cobblestone. Beats paused, shivering, as the cold night air fought through his sleepy warmth he had built up while dreaming. He began to feel the wintry touch of the New York City air on his skin.

The corner of Grand and Bowery had become his home. Him and Johnny. They didn't need much just to stay together and keep each other warm. And protect each other.

Protection was always an issue for Beats.

Johnny pulled something from behind his back, shaking the curls from his eyes. It was a dark green bottle, barely discernible in the dark, dimly lit night, but there all the same. Beats felt his interest spark, and shifted forwards.

"Say. Whazat?"

"Whisky." Johnny replied. "Knipes was having his imported today. Figured one bottle didn' t matter all that much to 'im." He said the words not with disgust or sarcasm, but in a raspy monotone. The way he said everything. He raised the bottle to his mouth and bit down on the cork, trying to yank it out. The boys were only thirteen, but no one cared enough to stop them.

They were just street rats.

"Lemme have some." Beats urged, pushing himself forwards into a squatting position. The close proximity between the both of them already made the cold a little less unbearable. Johnny squeezed his eyes shut as he yanked at the bottle, and finally was able to pry the cork out, spilling a dark, brown liquid all over his already tawny hands and wrists. He cursed under his breath, and quickly lapped away the spill. Before Beats could take the bottle away, he raised it to his lips, and tentatively took a sip or two. After a moment, he pulled it away and let out a worn breath.

"Careful." He hissed, his voice a little more scuffed than usual. "It boins goin' down."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh." Johnny wiped his lips with the back of his hand and settled back onto his rear, folding his legs tight up against his body. The rags weren't enough to protect him from the wintry cold.

Beats contemplated the bottle in his hands for a moment, before pressing it to his lips and throwing his head back. He felt the liquid drain into his throat, and almost immediately, send flames of heat shooting downwards into his stomach. Gasping and spluttering, he pulled the bottle away and nearly dropped it, feeling the pain shoot through his veins and inflame his muscles. Dimly, he could hear Johnny intone; "Whoa. Take it easy."

"Yeah." He replied, his voice almost as raspy as his friends. Carefully, he set the bottle down on the pavement and fell into a sitting position, trying to keep his head on his shoulders. His body felt sick, not warm. The bottle on the pavement was more than half full, but he had suddenly lost his zest for it.

Johnny, however, reached forwards and took another sip. His brown eyes grew soft, almost as though the alcohol was a lullaby. Beats looked up at him and, even through his nausea, felt a soft smile tug at his lips. Those brown eyes were intoxicating. Like liqueur. Johnny met his stare, and the two of them calmly revelled in each others gaze, happy for a moment. They had the night. They had whisky. They had each other.

What more could one ask for?

Johnny's eyes broke from his own and dwelled purposefully on the new bruise that rested above his friends eyebrow bone, and a scab that covered a section of his cheekbone. Beats grinned, almost apologetically, and, on impulse, reached for the whisky bottle.

"They don't call you "beats" for nuttin'." Johnny muttered angrily under his breath, as he handed it over.

"Nope." Beats agreed, not happily, but not sadly either. Stiffening his resolve, he took another swig of the alcohol, and was surprised to find it wasn't half bad the second time around.

"What was it this time?"

"William." Beats replied, handing the bottle back. Johnny nodded, and took another swig.

"Still stuck on him?"

Beats sighed and studied his fingers. There were times when it seemed he just couldn't stand to meet Johnny's soft, doe gaze. This was one of them. Guilt inflamed in his stomach, like the whisky. He felt slightly dizzy, but tried to remain upright.

"I guess…y'don't…well…y'know?" He asked, pleadingly. He could see Johnny nodding. And he knew it was alright.

They passed the bottle back and forth until it was all gone. Beats tossed back his head and held the neck of the bottle above his mouth, draining the very last drops into his throat. He laughed softly as he placed it roughly back on the cobblestone, the world spinning a little faster. He could tell Johnny was out of it too, the way his head lolled slightly on his neck, the way his curls hung in front of his face, the way his lips were half open.

Johnny pushed himself forwards onto his haunches, and reached out, slowly extending a finger. He pressed it gently against the bruise on his friends forehead. Beat's closed his eyes automatically, and let his friend trace a path, around the bruise, along the edges of his eyebrows, spiralling down over his skin, and reaching the scab on his cheekbone. Johnny barely hesitated as he drew his finger upwards and began drawing spirals over Beat's eyelids, off the side of his face, into his mass of jungle like curls, his fingers getting caught in tangles, and entwining the locks of dark chestnut in their grip. Another hand reached out, pressed two fingers against the bottom of Beat's chin, forcing his face upwards. Beats opened his eyes to see Johnny's face hovering a few inches from his own, eyes dreamy, grinning in a silly, un-Johnny like way.

"Say." Beats heard himself say. His face felt numb. He wasn't even sure if his lips were moving or not. "When else does Knipes get 'is…'is whisky impirtad…impert…imported?"

Johnny's face morphed into Williams, the dark curls straightening and turning blonde, the two dark eyes lightening and turning a intoxicating blue. And he was kissing him. But the kisses weren't kisses, they were bruises. And kicks. And punches. All aimed at his heart.

Beats lay on the ground, pain throbbing through every sensor in his body, explosion after explosion of hurt echoing throughout his muscles and bones. Every cell of him screamed for it to stop.

"Fucking pansy." William was yelling. "Don't ever talk to me again. Don't even look at me. You do, and I swear, I'll kill you." The words echoed harshly in his head, bouncing off each other, only hurting more every time he heard them.

"Stop…"

"Boy kisser!"

"Please…"

"Faggot!"

"Don't…"

"Hey."

"Get offa me!"

"Hey, calm down, a'right?"

"Lemme alone! I swear, I'll never…"

"Shh…Don't worry. Jeez, it's jus' me. S'me, Blink."

"Blink?"

Beats opened his eyes to see the familiar face hovering above him. He felt his tightened feature relax slightly, even though his head was pounding like a drum, and his skin felt as though it was stretched too tightly over his weary bones. Blink grinned, the same grin that made him feel safe and at home. When Blink was around, he was always safe.

"I t'ought you was…I t'ought…"

"Shh…" Blink pressed a finger to his half open lips, his grin widening, the friendly crinkles around his one visible eye deepening. Beats nodded and closed his own eyes, feeling a strange, dizzy exhaustion take over his body.

Man, he thought, as Blink slowly stroked his cheek, his usually rough fingers loving and tender. What was in that stuff Johnny swiped?

"Get up." Blink was saying, his voice almost sounding as scratchy as Johnny's. "Comon, get up."

"No…" Mush mumbled in his sleep. "Don't wanna…"

"Comon, you lazy bum, up you get!"

"Mmmph."

"Mush!"

Before he even had time to register, a sharp pain exploded at the back of his head, and he yelped, scrambling up into a sitting position, sleepy eyes blinking in the hot morning light. Kloppman's face hovered beside him, wrinkled and glazed in sweat.

"Comon, boy! Get up! Lazy, lazy, lazy." He intoned, rhythmically tapping Mush on the head with the end of his cane for every insult. Mush groaned sleepily, and let his limbs flail out, trying to stop the blows. Kloppman had developed his own, unique method of torture especially for him, and Mush was sick of the thick bruises that gathered on his scalp, underneath the curls.

"Quit it!" He said, his voice raspy and dead after a long night of tossing and turning and in a stupor, when he wasn't getting lost in disturbing dreams. "I'm up! I'm up!"

"Up, are ya?" Kloppman repeated. "We'll see how long that lasts. Up!" With the last order, he gave Mush an especially vicious tap on the head, making the boy howl indignantly, before moving on to Snipe Shooters bunk, already sheathing his cane and getting ready to pull at the boys curls until he rolled out of bed.

Mush waited indignantly for the pain at the back of his skull to fade, as he watched the bunkroom come into life around him. As soon as the bruises stopped throbbing, he moved to swing himself down from his bunk, but all of a sudden, a more aggravating pain exploded at the front of his head, making him groan and flop down on the covers again. He raised his fingers and trailed them over his forehead, checking for lumps and scars, but all that he could feel was hot, sweaty skin. The room was like an oven, the heat making his head pound and sweat break out on his chest and under his arms.

"Gawd above…" He murmured, borrowing one of Racetrack's trademark curses. The pain erupted again, making him feel as though he was slowly spinning on a downwards spiral, headfirst, dizzy and disoriented…The new agony began pulsing, in a sick, dulled throb, like a heartbeat. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face into his pillow, feeling as though his limbs had turned to water. There were only a few times that he felt this way, and it was after a night of heavy drinking. How much had he drunk? He scrunched up his eyebrows as a particularily hot burst of pain prickled along his neck. He couldn't even remember. Things started to get hazy around the second bottle.

"Mush, you up?" A croaky voice interrupted his garbled stream of thoughts. He pushed his head sideways and saw Blink's sparkling sea coloured eyes staring dully at him over the mattress. He hadn't put on his eye patch yet, and the full force of his intent gaze, even when he was hung over, was enough to knock the wind out of Mush.

"Yeah." He rasped back. "Unfortunately."

"Get up." Blink informed him, eyes slowly flicking over to Kloppman, and back to Mush. "Kloppman's gettin' ready to do a second round."

Groaning, Mush pushed himself up, the mattress sagging underneath him. Already, the hot sun was streaming through the glass and warming the grime and dust that surrounded the window, heating the floorboards and making the air sizzle. "This one's a scorcher!" Specs was saying cheerfully from the bed underneath Mush. He held back the urge to hit the bespectacled boy over the head, and slowly clambered down to the bottom bunk and trudged towards the direction of the washroom.

Racetrack was already up and trying to mould his image back into that of impeccable, as he wet his straggle-toothed comb and ran it through his thick curls. There were dark circles under his eyes and a steady dullness in them, and the buttons of his waistcoat weren't done up properly. Mush shoved one of the younger kids aside from the sink closest to him, and ignored his victims howls of protest as he leaned over.

"What happened last night?" He asked, watching Racetrack try and work out a particularily vicious knot.

"Beats me." He mumbled, his tongue sounding almost too thick for his mouth. "I remember seein' Blink pass out, and you trynna drag him half a block to the lodgin' house. I think I passed out laughin'."

"Real funny." Mush scowled, as he placed his hand on the cold water tap. This certain one you had to bang back and forth a couple of times before you could get it to work, and it was more than likely that you'd get water that was more brown than clear. He glanced over and wished that he had decided to usurp the other sink, but it was being manned by Dutchy, who could get a little vicious when you got too close to him. "Seriously, though." He said, lowering his voice slightly as Kloppman stuck his wizened face into the washroom. "What happened?"

"Like I said. Beats me." Racetrack snapped, his temper a little on edge on account of the pain flickering in his eyes. "What, you didn't hear me the first time? You deaf or sommin'?"

"Don't bite my head off, I was just asking." Mush retorted, his eyebrows crumpling. He finally managed to get the water gushing out of the tap, but had to grab the sides of the sink to stop from toppling forwards, as a particularily violent flash of pain hit him hard. It didn't help that Crutchy had hobbled by behind him and had nearly knocked his feet out from under him with his crutch.

"Sorry Mush!" He called back over the rabble, as he was swept away by a crowd of younger boys making beelines for the washroom stalls.

"So whaddaya reckon?" Blink asked, suddenly appearing beside the both of them, and grabbing the shaving cream and brush from the sill. The brush was crusty with abuse, and the shaving cream bottle was nearly empty, but he managed to get a decent amount on his hands.

"What do I reckon what?" Mush replied. Blink began rubbing the shaving cream all over his face, and not being too co-ordinated, almost got a mouthful of it.

"What do I reckon what?" Blink repeated, rolling his eyes. "What do you reckon happened last night, genius? I don't remember how we gots back into the house."

"I think I dragged you a block." Mush said, his eyes clouding over as he tried to remember the exact details of the night. Blink furrowed his brows and tried his best to have a conversation while running a rusty razor blade over his face at the same time.

"I remember waking up and being face down on the cobblestones with someone dragging me by the hands." He said sullenly. "And I remember trying to climb a fire escape…You think we got in by the fire escape?"

"I think we're a couple of lucky dogs." Racetrack replied firmly, shoving his hat over his head and staggering slightly as he pushed himself away from the sink. He groaned, and pressed a hand to his temple, clearly showing that he was in as much pain as they were. "I also think," he continued. "That I'm only gonna go wid twelve papes today. No matter how good the headlines is."