Author's Note

.｡｡*ﾟi hope you're staying safe and being kind to yourself! .｡｡*ﾟ

warning: mentions of drug use.

Love youuu 💗

𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 ️

BROOKLYN, 1895

Under the dim lights of the streetlamps, the lanky shadows of four boys trudged up the steps of Brooklyn's St. Vincent Lodging House just as the chimes atop the nearby bell tower of a church rang the hour, half-past eleven o'clock in the evening. Murmuring under their breath and loudly shushing one another, they entered the darkened, enormous room, quietly closing the door behind them. They nearly jumped a foot in the air when they heard a man's voice behind them. "Cutting it a bit close, aren't we boys? That's the third time this week."

All four boys turned shakily toward the voice and found the silhouette of a man sitting by himself behind a large desk, as if he had been waiting for them. The desk was elevated on a platform and lined with a railing gate on both sides, with a now empty cup of tea atop a stack of paperwork. A green lamp was the only light illuminating the first floor of the boarding house, casting a soft glow upon the man's sharp features. The superintendent Dunn wore a composed expression, a contrast to the boys who now appeared nervous and fidgety.

It was clear to all parties involved that the boys had been out later than they should have. All those living in the house knew each door of the place was opened no earlier than six in the morning and closed no later than half-past 10 at night. This rule applied to the staff as much as it did to the boys, which only consisted of Grace, the live-in cook, and Dunn himself. Even the windows leading to the fire escapes were strictly forbidden to be used as points of entry and were for emergency exit use only, discouraging anyone from sneaking in or out at all hours.

Between the hours of half-past 10 and midnight, the doors were locked, and any boy entering had to have a late pass with them, which they were not required to show Dunn so long as they signed the ledger and quietly went upstairs. In the past, other superintendents had been harder about who came in late and checking for passes. But Dunn was a fair-minded man who trusted his boys enough for them to be responsible about coming and going. He was also rather lenient if non-residents or friends of the boys spent time there well into the evening, so long as they were accompanied with a resident who had a late pass.

Dunn, however, drew the line from midnight to six in the morning, and only those who lived at the lodging house were allowed in, and only through the front door at that. This ensured that the boys would have to walk by his desk, give him their passes, and sign the ledger. If a boy didn't have his pass this late into the night, he would not be allowed in. No guests were permitted to come in at this point, unless they were accompanied by a boy with a late pass.

It was all very black-and-white on paper, but Dunn had been the Superintendent long enough to know that such strict regulations stood in contrast to reality. He had let many of broken rules slide in his day, against his own better judgement, and he had yet to turn a homeless boy away for the sake of being a little late.

"How are you boys?" Dunn asked evenly. "You okay? You seem a bit on edge."

Sighs of relief were let out quietly by each boy upon seeing who the speaker was. Their tensed muscles relaxed and their hearts regained steady rhythms. If had been Grace who had caught them, they'd have all received swats to the side of the head with her slipper.

"Ah Christ, Dunn, ya had us going there for a moment," the brown-eyed, seventeen-year-old boy who was Tide McGurk muttered with a nervous laugh. He had obviously been holding his breath.

"We ain't late, are we?" No Name asked with a lazy smile, already knowing the truth.

"'Course we ain't. Still got a sweet half hour 'fore the doors lock for good," Calico Kramer chuckled, shoving the boys aside in good humor, picking up the ink pen that rested on the desk and proceeded to sign his name in the ledger. The book was meant to keep track of the names of the boys staying the night in the house, their birthdays, their occupation, and other such questions. Most importantly, it was a way for Dunn to know if anything had happened to any of his boys if one didn't turn up for long periods of time, which was known to happen. Unfortunately, some were never heard from again.

"Third time ain't no charm, boys," Dunn shook his head. "Once or twice by accident is one thing, but a third time in one week? And you've all been here long enough to know the rules."

The other three boys signed the book, giving Dunn thankful looks. "You ain't gonna snitch on us, right?" No Name asked the man, still a glimmer of worry in his eyes.

"I don't know boys. There's only so many times I can look the other way," Dunn shook his head, taking the book back from them and stowing it away under the desk for the night. "I have half a mind to ask where you've been, since I know you weren't working late."

The boys were quiet, looking at the floor but maintaining their poker faces.

"However," Dunn said, crossing his arms and looking each boy in the eyes. "That would mean I would have to report whatever it is to Mr. McLain." He paused and noted the expressions of disbelief and betrayal the boys wore at the mention of the uppity agent from the Children's Aid Society who dropped by every once and a while for an inspection. "And I could get in trouble for letting it slide three times in a row already. So, I'll keep mum just this last time. After this, I'll have to suggest that Mr. McLain set curfew three hours earlier. Let's try to clean it up, eh?"

"Yes, sir," the boys mumbled in unison.

Dunn looked directly at Calico this time, whom he knew was the gambler of the group. The sixteen-year-old smirked and then gave the man a look of sincerity.

The boys were supposed to have passes with them for coming in so late. A fine was usually issued, but Dunn was forgiving. Maybe a little too forgiving for the boys' own good.

"Don't be asking me for any dinner now," Dunn continued. "Should've thought of that earlier."

The boys wordlessly began for the stairs to the bunk room, thanking Dunn for his leniency as they passed him on their way up. Dunn watched them go, shaking his head, knowing if it wasn't for him, the Children's Aid Society would've had them kicked out long before.

Spot Conlon crouched on the stairs, watching the exchange between the older boys and Dunn. He wondered where they'd disappeared to for the past two nights, as well as this night, but he didn't want to seem like a snoop. Only little snotty-nosed younger boys were snoops, and Spot was twelve years old, hardly a child in his own mind. He was often left out from doing the things the older boys did. It made him feel like he was a baby, which frustrated him to no end.

"Hey fellas, looks like one got lost on the way to bed," Tide teased, sending a playful jab to Spot's shoulder when they caught him on the stairs. "Bunks is that-a-way, kid," he said, pointing up the stairs.

No Name and Calico laughed along with him, each giving their own respective ruffle to the younger kid's hair as they trudged by him. Spot gave them a weak smile in return. As much as he resented the fact that they excluded him, he looked up to them and wanted so desperately to measure up. Spot felt he had to prove to them that he was old enough, tough enough. He hardly cried in his sleep anymore like those younger boys did when they got nightmares. He got into his fair share of fights defending Brooklyn's turf against the occasional trespasser. And he certainly was no stranger to vices, as he'd gotten into the older boys' whiskey and cigars plenty of times.

And yet, Spot was still lumped into the same category as the other younger kids. Right along with eight-year-old Wings who still wet the bed on occasion, and seven-year-old Tricks who called out for his mother in his sleep. It wasn't fair. Spot was not a baby, and he hated being treated like one.

Most of the babying came from the fourth boy who followed the other three up the stairs. He was tall and ducked down to join Spot on the steps, sitting beside him for a moment and slinging his arm around the boy's neck. His shaggy blonde hair fell into his eyes as he pretended to strangle the younger kid, inciting unamused grumbling.

Grim Krause loosened his grip around Spot and chuckled. "Ya didn't have to wait up for me, kid. I ain't going no where's."

Spot watched as Dunn turned out the green lamp on the front desk. He leaned on the railing, looking up at the two. "Do I have to go up there and tuck you both in for the love of God? Come on, let's go, get a move on!"

"Alright, keep your shirt on old man, we're going," Grim smirked, pulling the younger boy behind him. He slung his arm around Spot again in the washroom where the other three boys were cleaning up for bed.

As Spot leaned into the older boy, he wrinkled his nose at the strong, bitter scent that seemed to be radiating from his shirt and arms. It was unlike anything Spot had ever known, and the scent gave him a headache. "What is that?" He asked, sniffing the air.

Grim began to shed his daytime clothes, leaving him in his dingy undergarments, which the boy slept in. "What's what?"

"That smell," Spot continued, still repulsed by the heavy aroma. "Like vinegar."

The odd snicker that came from the other three boys made him curious as to what was so funny, and he looked up at the Brooklyn leader expectantly.

"Nothing," Grim murmured, suddenly realizing what Spot was talking about. He ran some water from the sink and splashed it over his face and bare upper body, skipping out on a bath and opting for a quick clean.

"Come on, Grim. Tell the kid," Tide smirked, his eyes a bit hazy as he came out of one of the stalls.

No Name wiped his own dampened face with a rather dirty towel and then tossed it to Grim to use. Spot kept waiting for Grim to let him in on whatever it was, but the older boy stayed quiet.

"How the hell did Dunn not say anything to us?" No Name punched Grim in the arm and then roughly grabbed Grim's shirt off the floor and inhaled. "The kid's right. Jesus, it's like ammonia."

Grim smacked him with the towel, shoving the other boy away. "It's probably on you, too."

"How is Natalie going to explain what she was doing out so late to the sweet Sisters of Perpetual Mercy?" Tide teased, receiving a half-amused, half-annoyed look from Grim. "Your girlfriend's about to make those nuns' mercy a bit less perpetual."

"From your mouth…" Grim mumbled the shortened verse with a playful smirk.

Spot, who wasn't as innocent as Grim thought he was, was able to piece together enough to figure it out. His eyes narrowed. "You were with whores?" He asked, the word rolling so uncomfortably naturally off the young boy's tongue.

Grim gave the boy an astonished look that included a raised eyebrow and a half-smirk in disbelief. "Did you just say whores?" He sounded surprised, and then a bit worried that the kid might be hearing too much from them.

"Yeah," Spot crossed his arms, glaring up at the older boy who seemed twice his height. The other three boys were looking, too.

Tide leaned against the sink next to Grim, an easy smile on his face. "Better not let Dunn hear ya say that, kid. He'll kvetch about that to no end." Then, as an afterthought, he nudged Grim. "Hey, did I use that word right?"

Grim rolled his eyes. "Sort of."

"You didn't answer me," Spot pressed impatiently, upset no one was telling him the truth again.

Grim frowned, smacking the boy lightly upside the head. "No, Spot. We weren't with…prostitutes," he said, trying to use a better word to no avail. Anything other than what Spot had said. Grim was determined to fix the kid's vocabulary. Unfortunately, Tide, No Name, and Calico didn't seem to care too much about what the younger boys heard them say.

"Then why won't you tell me—" Spot was cut off as No Name appeared beside him, shushing the kid, reminding him to keep his voice down.

"Promise you ain't gonna tell on us?" Grim asked, looking down at the boy. "We might get in a lot of trouble for that. You have to be really grown-up about this."

Spot frowned. "I promise."

"Really, Krause?" Calico looked over at him. "Giving in just like that? No wonder you're in and out of the Refuge so much. You don't know how to keep your damn mouth shut…"

Grim ignored him and bent down to be at the kid's height. "Okay, a friend of ours in Manhattan…he has opium, and we like to smoke it every once and while," Sighing, he added, "It's a kind of drug. Relaxes you. Makes you feel good and see funny things sometimes."

Spot still looked confused. "Where do you smoke it?"

"Just forget it, Spot," Grim said.

"How does your friend get it?"

"I didn't ask."

The younger boy shrugged. "Can I try it?"

Grim gave him a stern look. "Fuck no," he said, nudging him in the direction toward the bunk beds where most boys had fallen asleep. "Bed. Now."

A few were still awake, whispering quietly to one another, trying not to be obvious in their listening to the washroom conversation. Spot slumped down onto his bunk, pouting, and giving Grim angry glares which went ignored.

A boy around Spot's age turned over in the bunk next to him, his dark hair flopping over his face. Spot had known him for a while now. Anthony Higgins, known better as Racetrack, leaned over so he could speak more quietly to Spot. "Ya found out where they've been going?"

Spot shook his head, still glaring at the four bigger boys in the washroom, keeping their secret.

Racetrack shrugged. "Hey, guess what?" He whispered, a sleepy grin on his face.

"What is it, Race?" Spot asked while he stared off.

"I was just thinking, maybe we should do something tomorrow for Grim's birthday. He's turning seventeen?" Racetrack continued lazily. "How much money you got?"

Spot looked at him. "Same as I had yesterday. Why?"

"Well, what if we both pitched in a little to buy him something?" Racetrack whispered. "A deck of cards? New cigars? Pay for his lunch?"

Spot nodded absently.

Racetrack had showed up at the lodging house one night two years ago, said he was running from his place in Midtown where he lived with his father and grandmother. He claimed he needed a place to stay. His father had gotten into trouble with some bookie whom he owed money to, having been dragged out of their apartment by two men. Fearing they'd come after him, too, Racetrack fled.

"I heard Grim say he ain't staying here tomorrow," Spot murmured, still sitting up and watching as the older boy flicked shaving cream at Calico's face, who retaliated by throwing the entire bottle of shaving cream back at him.

"What? Why not?" Racetrack asked.

Spot turned to him and shrugged. "Something about his girlfriend. He wants to spend time with her. I don't get it. All they do is sleep. And kiss a lot, I think."

"Gross," Racetrack mumbled. He was thoughtful for a moment, and then he leaned back on his bed, his hands folded across his chest. "We'll just have to plan something later, then."

"Night, shepsele," Grim appeared by Spot's bed, giving him a playful punch before climbing up the ladder to the bunk above. "Go to bed, boys," he said to the two younger kids. "I ain't dragging your asses out of bed tomorrow morning, too."

Lights out at the St. Vincent Lodging House meant something different each night. The large dormitory was dark, and the noises of carriages and police whistles from outside were a muted lullaby. It was always late into the night when restlessness began.

The occasional movement or groan came from a bed, brought on by a nightmare. An hour later, Spot cracked one eye open, awakened by a soft wail. Seven-year-old Tricks was crying again for his mother, sniffling and whimpering, soaking his pillow with tears.

A squeak in the mattress above him as weight shifted, then a thud as someone hopped down. Spot squinted into the darkness, seeing Grim walk over and bend down by the little boy's bed. He began whispering, rubbing the kid's back, gently waking him.

When Tricks began crying again, Grim hurriedly scooped him up and took him into the washroom for water, saying he didn't have a mama either but he'd bet that both their mothers were watching over them at that very moment.

As Spot stared at the dark ceiling, he recalled a time, not long after arriving at the lodging house a year ago, when he slept in Grim's bunk almost every night for two months, crying himself to sleep and clinging to Grim's tear-stained shirt in the darkness, scared that his uncle would find him again.

Every kid in the lodging house had experienced loneliness or abandonment at one point or another, usually the younger ones when they first came to stay there. Grim had been there when Spot arrived with nothing and no one. He'd had been the one to pay for Spot's rent for the first week the kid was there.

It was a duty that came with being leader to look after the other boys, which wasn't always an easy task by no means. When the previous leader left to get another job, the boys were lucky to have a good replacement in Grim who, despite how intimidating, was there for his boys when they needed him.

Spot heard Tricks' sobs subside finally, and he closed his eyes to feign sleep as Grim tucked the kid in and walked back to his bunk along the creaking floorboards. It made Spot think about what would happen after Grim left. After all, he was about to be seventeen. Typically, the older boys stayed until about that age, sometimes eighteen, and then they left. Who would replace him? Spot hoped whoever it was could live up to those standards.

A leader who looked out for boys. One knew how to keep everyone in check, was an example for the younger kids and respected by older boys. One who could delegate but fight when needed. Someone who would be willing to go to jail for his boys.

This thought made Spot think of the House of Refuge, which was a miserable jail out on Randall's Island for juveniles of the city and was where Grim had sporadic stays. It was almost like a second home for him.

Seven months ago, Grim had been caught stealing food for Spot, and he was additionally charged with loitering past curfew — that's what the cop said anyway as he whisked them off the street and into the precinct. And because Spot was with him when he did it, the cop took the younger boy in as well.

Spot remembered Grim bargaining with the officer to let Spot go, rather than the alternative which would've seen both boys in the Refuge. Grim had been there several times before, and he knew it was no place for eleven-year-old Spot.

In the courtroom, the look of absolute urgency and desperation on Grim's face as he pleaded with Warden Snyder to arrest him and let Spot go was still ingrained in the younger boy's memory. And in the end, by some miracle, Snyder didn't advocate for Spot's arrest, and the judge released him. A bang of the gavel, and Grim was on his way to the Refuge once again – this time for only two months.

And now he laid there in the darkness, thinking of the stories Grim had told them about the Refuge—the incessant sounds of crying at night, the rat-infested dormitories, the bite of Snyder's cane. When Grim got out, he was different. Not anything drastic, but noticeably different. It was unlike the other times he'd gone in. He was more reckless, somehow. More impulsive.

Going out at all hours. Consistently coming back to the lodging house past curfew. Disappearing for a few days. Smoking opium, apparently. It was like Muggs Tracey before he got kicked out of the lodging house, though to a lesser degree. Spot didn't want to see Grim get kicked out, too. Truth be told, he felt partially responsible for the change. If only Grim hadn't stolen food for him, he wouldn't have been sent up the river again.

Spot never forgave himself for that.