Notes: First of all, I'd like to mention that this is a slash story. It was brought to my attention that I somehow forgot to label this as slash in first chapter. I fixed that, but I'd like to apologize to anyone who might have started reading, thinking this was non-slash. So, in summary:
This story is slash. It will deal with the subject of homosexuality.
That said, on to the story! (Oh, yes, and I don't own the characters, which is probably safer for them)
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I think to understand that day, I must take you back a few years before it happened. There were signs, if I had thought to look, and I've had an entire lifetime to contemplate what happened that day, what had caused it. Maybe I've been looking for a way I could have prevented it, changed it, softened the blow. I don't know what I think I could have done; I was only a child then. Maybe I've just been searching for understanding. What I have gained through my searching, is a series of often painful realizations about life. I can only hope I tell this tale in a way that fairly represents what happened.
The beginning of the story, if it can be called a beginning at all, picks up several years prior to the fateful day I have mentioned. Some few of you may know of the newsboy strike of 1899, although its significance has faded in the passing years. The events of it-- a desperate coming together of children to challenge king-makers of men--are largely forgotten beyond those who participated in it, and most of them are gone. It is not the events that matter in any case, but, rather, the people in it and the circumstances under which they met.
I can only speculate about what happened behind the scenes of the events I know. What I can tell you is that it started on a warm summer day, much like the day it fell apart, if I remember correctly. It was a day for beginnings-- more beginnings than I knew. I was near ten and my father was out of work, his arm broken in an accident at the factory. David was barely seventeen, himself, but had quit school to help support the family. That was not an uncommon thing in those days, as strange as it may seem now. Children often worked to support themselves or their families and, in truth, we were lucky to receive the amount of education we did. But to me, even then, it seemed huge. Quit school? It sounded like an adventure. Armed with my wooden sword, I set out with David to conquer the world of selling papes.
The first meeting was hardly auspicious. We had just arrived near the newspaper distribution center for our area, when we ran into a boy who would affect many lives. Or, rather, he ran into us, quite literally. That at least, I remember clearly. The second meeting went little better. I could tell David didn't care much for the self-confident and outspoken newsie, but I developed an instant case of hero-worship for the older boy. How could I not? He was brash and daring, his life free of school and homework and annoying siblings; everything a young boy like I was could hope for. "Cowboy," I called him, and was told he went by Jack Kelly mostly. Later we learned his real name was Francis Sullivan, but whatever his name, it didn't change who he was: A leader, a loner.
My brother's lover.
I can write that now and not be surprised at the words, or dismayed, or saddened, or a myriad of other, more shameful, emotions, all of which I've experienced at some point. It has taken me a lifetime, but I can write that phrase with acceptance and a longing to understand. I only wish it hadn't taken me that long.
I have often tried, over the years, to envision how their relationship progressed. Obviously, since they eventually became lovers, they must have moved beyond any initial dislike they had for each other. They quickly became friends; I wouldn't hesitate to call them best friends. But when did friendship turn into love? I try to fill in the details, imagining my brother a happy relationship. Wishing him that happiness, if only for a few years. Mostly I am left with unanswered questions, and an aching suspicion that any moments of happiness they had together were fiercely fought for and hard won.
Whatever their relationship at that time, Jack and my brother worked well together. Opposites in many ways, they made quite a pair. Jack was a charismatic leader, deserving of the nickname Cowboy, while my brother brought his education and stubborn honesty to the partnership. Together, they led the strike against Pulitzer and Hearst.
I was too young to fully understand what was at stake. To me, the strike was exciting. It was the adventure I had been expecting. I understood poverty, having lived my entire life to that point in the crowded tenements of lower Manhattan, but the concept of being at the mercy of the headlines for livelihood and life was unknown to me. It was enough for me that my hero thought it was important.
And the strike was certainly difficult; Pulitzer and Hearst didn't hesitate to use force against the newsboys. David did his best to shield me from the events, but there were some things he couldn't hide from me. I remember in detail being rushed from the newsie rally by my brother and Jack, as officers of the law attacked boys I had come to look up to. I can feel Sarah's grip on my wrist and David's hand on my back as he pushed us out the exit to safety. I can also remember my anger and fear as the Delancey brothers grabbed my sister, then hurt David when he came to help. I prefer not to think of what could and would have happened if it hadn't been for Jack then.
The emotional trials were even more difficult than the physical. I can't begin to imagine what it was like for those most involved. The newsies were used to fights and hard living and unfair treatment; that they could handle. They looked to each other for help and support, though. When that trust was betrayed, it hit them harder than any fist ever could. I believe that was one of the reasons they hated the scabs so intensely. When they thought Jack had betrayed them, it almost tore them apart.
It almost tore David apart.
I doubt they were lovers yet-- my brother was never one to rush into anything--but there was something between them, even then. It was there in every friendly gesture, every embrace, every shared look. You could see it in how hard he took Jack's desertion; he took it personally. No one, especially not a nine year old boy, saw that for what is was. But, as I said, I've had years to reach an understanding about these things. And sometimes it seems like a miracle that their friendship survived those rocky times.
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misprint-- Thanks! For both the compliments and the constructive criticism. Gotta love it. I mean, some of that randomness was intentional, but not meant to cause actual boredom, lol. So I'll just be looking at that part to see what I can do with it. Thanks again.
Raven's Wing-- Sorry about any mix-ups with the whole slash thing. I'm glad you enjoyed what you read, though, and totally agree with you about their not being enough Les fics.
Skywise-- Thanky, thanky. I look forward to your review, even if it is more feverish ramblings. :) Fever-induced weirdness usually has funny results. Not that I know from experience or anything. *shifty eyes*
Studentnumber24601-- I got your email and hugged it. Well, figuratively. I wasn't expecting any reviews what with the read-only thing, so getting it (and after a crappy night at work, no less) was especially nice. Thanks! And you're right-- seeing the review-alert email is the greatest.
scififreak-- Excellent, I'm glad my story is attention-grabbing. That's what every writer hopes for. And I do try not to have glaring grammatical/spelling errors. That usually ends up being pretty distracting to the reader. :) Being a good speller to begin with also helps, lol. Thanks for the review, hope you enjoyed this chapter as well!