DISCLAIMER: Uhm, Spot Conlon doesn't belong to me obviously. Runner Conlon does, though, and the same applies to Morning Dew. The lyrics belong to the geniuses known as Relient K.

A.N: Yuuup, so my boyfriend and I broke up today. I saw it coming, but it still hurt when we decided to end the relationship. I was sobbing before; I suppose I feel better at the moment. My dad was the first person I talked to about it, lol, as unusual as that is. But anyway, reflections of life always make for some of the best stories, so I now present to you…

Shards of Heart

I was sinking, lower sinking, cause I lost the things I held onto. They let me think a thought; a thought that I would know was not Of seeing my dream come true. I was thinking, over thinking, About how far I had let this go. One more guy/girl cliché. I know you're just in the way Of me and my dream come true.

Spot Conlon stood proudly against pier 27 of the Brooklyn docks, gazing out at the kingdom he had made his own nearly four years ago. The setting sun added one final picturesque accent to the already brilliantly colored sky, so that the realm of New York was like God's canvas painting, a beloved masterpiece perfectly showcasing the beauty of nature. Winter was approaching; one could tell by the smell of the sea and the chilly winds that swept across the naked streets of the city. The newsboys dressed especially warm these days, at least as warm as a street rat could become. Most of the rags they donned were prizes from having pilfered through the castaway rubbish of the aristocracy.

Spot nodded as one of his newsboys passed him by, the runt headed for the lodging house in hopes of getting home before all bunks were taken for the night. When alas he was alone, the Brooklyn leader let out a miserable sigh and leaned the frame of his body onto the pier, as if the wooden structure alone could stabilize him. His eyes, usually a most remarkable shade of sapphire, had evolved into a mourning grey…like lifeless granite searching for its purpose in life. His face was taut, for he was battling with emotions he refused to outwardly show no matter how painful the burden, and his silky locks of sandy-blonde blew into his face as if trying to aid the young man in masking his feelings.

Confound it all to hell, he thought bitterly. He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration and groaned. Had he done something wrong? Had he not been affectionate enough? Had she found someone else? The inquiries raced through his mind at their own will, dizzying him until he yelled at them to terminate being. Jesus, Conlon, he said to himself. Ya got half da female population a' New Yawk after youse and ya act so damn insecure alls da time…

That was it, he decided. Insecurity was his problem. He undoubtedly liked the girl; oh yes, very much so. Not in his typical 'one-night stand' manner or flirtatious ways, but with a special thought that made him want to get to know her better, that made him want to have a relationship with her steadily founded on a lasting friendship. He wanted to sit with her late at night on the docks and gaze at the star-dotted heavens; he wanted to take her to a fancy restaurant and grace its dance floor with their romantic steps; he wanted to simply hold her hand and steal kisses from her when no one was watching.

Then what was the problem? From the back pocket of his corduroy pants, he took out a marble and gazed at its form as if it held the answers to the universe's most secretive truths. Its glassy form felt weightless in his hands compared to the loads currently tugging on his conscious and he despised how he could see right through the object due to its transparent qualities. In detest, he flung the marble out to sea and watched it soar into the air like a freed animal until the fetters of the ocean attracted it with its enigmatic deceit and consumed the thing with a greedy 'plop'.

Better to be misunderstood than tah wear ya heart out on ya sleeve. That was Spot Conlon's philosophy. He was a master at putting up a facade; rarely did anyone know what he was feeling or thinking, for he was the type of person who would rather not show it. Whose business was it when he felt like ripping his life to shreds? Whose business was it when the world and its damned system had wronged him? Most importantly, whose business was it when he felt utterly heartbroken, to the point in which he was like a child wandering through some vast forest, with no hope of ever finding an escape or the kindly individual who would rescue them along the way.

Insecurity. That was his problem. Too fearful to be who he really was for fear that he would only be ridiculed; too horrified of getting hurt in the long run. And so what other options were there other than locking his emotions in a box where no one could ever get a hold of them. What was he to do? Act in the manner of the naïve jester who never seemed to avoid becoming love's marionette? For Spot Conlon had once been such a person. Spot Conlon had once put so much faith in love that it only ended up obliterating his very being to shards of heart that would never again know the passion and fervency of a soul under adoration's spell.  He had trusted life, only to be betrayed; he had befriended the blindness of love; only to imprisoned and tortured to anguish. And oh, the pains of that torture…

Hot tears formed in his eyes and he closed them in efforts to seize his control back. Damnit, Conlon. Get a hold of yaself. She aint like that. Ya can't let past relationships get in da way. That's what he had been reduced to. His pain born from the past was still so great that he was terrified of letting another enter his life. He passed his days wary of others and downright suspicious, for he had come to believe that everyone he met would one day let him down in some grand way. Actions had become callous; words were no more than shallow entities. Indifference bathed him with its poisonous elixir, and such disparaging attributes were what made up the 'god' others believed him to be. Spot Conlon, Fearless Leader of the Brooklyn Newsies, King of New York, His High and Mighty. How he would renounce all those titles in an instant if it meant he could once again feel the caress and sting of love.

Now having resulted to pacing, he walked from one pier and back to the original, his hands clasped behind his back and his mind trying ever so hard to decipher his present dilemma. Dewey was upset with him, that much was obvious. She had barely spoken a word to him this morning at the Distribution Center, and later on as they were walking about the borough, he had tried to take her hand in his own but she had pulled away. This was indeed baffling, for just yesterday she had appeared to be so happy and content! His mind started racing. Was there another? Had she found what she was looking for elsewhere? There was talk amongst the newsboys about several Manhattan warehouse workers with their eyes on the girl. She had a charismatic personality no one could deny and a sweetness that could brighten the most morose of days; so it wasn't too surprising others would want her. Or had she somehow been offended by something Spot had done the day prior? Yesterday afternoon they had been getting affectionate at lunch, but Spot had become apathetic before things became serious and had refused the kiss Dewey wanted to indulge him with.

A Rightful coward, he said to himself. But what was the hurry? He didn't want to kiss her in front of all his comrades, as he had done so many times before with other girls. He didn't want it to be rushed, and he certainly didn't want such a meaningful embrace to lose its significance merely because he was too impatient to wait. He most definitely had his reasons, but he was afraid she was misinterpreting his constant proclivity to distance himself from people. Unfortunately, he was quite sure she had been led to believe that he didn't care enough for her as she did him. Perhaps she had even been led to believe that he was searching for someone of a different quality.

Suddenly, the light thud of boots sounding across the wooden flooring of the docks caught his hearing and after tuning around, he froze in place at the sight before him. It was Dewey. Her chocolate curls of hair fell limply to her shoulders as she hugged herself with her arms, attempting to stay warm in the cold of the night. Her lips pale and her face void of any color, the most obvious sign of pain on her face was in her eyes. A warm golden-brown they usually were, but tonight they were saddened by the drudgeries of life. She was obviously confused, miserable, and sympathetic all in one. "Spot…" she said softly, her voice just louder than the wind. "We need to talk."

He wordlessly agreed with a nod and resumed his stance against the pier. "Are ya…mad?"

She sighed and closed the distance between them in a few strides. "No, I'm not mad at you. I'm no mad at all." For a moment, her attention seemed to be entranced by the body of water just out of reach, its spell-binding mystery fogging her mind with painful truths. "It's just…ah, it's been a crazy week…" Silence engulfed them. Spot, not yet bold enough to speak up, deemed the silence to be the end of the conversation. They would say no more, he figured, for there was nothing left to be said. She was only having a bad day, and she'd give him the opportunity to cheer her up. How foolish was he to think the matter graver than that.

"Things have been moving so fast…" she said then, more to herself then to him. Spot glanced up at her, but her eyes were still locked on that ocean, as if afraid to look anywhere else. He panicked. What did she mean by that? Did she want to slow down? Did she want to end the relationship altogether? He felt as if he was losing her, only the scent of her essence remained in his hands and even that began to gradually slip away.

"Dewey, listen," he said, turning her around to face him. "I'm da type of person who's extremely insecure…" His eyes widened at the confession. Never in his life had he admitted that to anyone. Never had he poured out the inner-workings of his mind to someone like this. He paused, unwilling to go on. What was he doing? No one was ever meant to figure out the complexities that were Spot Conlon; no one was ever supposed to understand why he did certain things, and why he didn't do others. Something kept pulling him forward. "I'se constantly have tah be assured of things. I mean, even if ya did make it obvious that youse wanted tah be with me, I'd still worry me head off. That's just how I am. And when I found out about da factory woikers that like ya…"

She shook her head. "Spot, it doesn't even have anything to do with that."

"Then tell me what's da mattah!"

Her gaze shifted from the sea to the obsidian sheet of the skies as she prayed for an absolution that would never come. She didn't want it to be like this. Spot had to be inside the lodging house within minutes or else he would be locked out for the night, and even though she knew he couldn't care less about whether he'd have to sleep in an alley corner or not after this, she still hadn't wanted it all to be rushed. Time. She had wanted time to talk about it with him thoroughly, to answer his questions and together reach an agreement. But not like this; never. "We're two different people…I don't even know you that well, Spot. We have different aims and goals and…it's just that…"

Two different people! And what was wrong with that? Wasn't that what relationships were all about? Two different people coming together because they liked each other's personalities enough to look past those divisions? He didn't understand; there was something missing. There was something she was holding back.

"And then, it's not just what's going on between us, but what's going on between the Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies as well. I know that your boys are like family to you; well the same thing applies to me and the kids from Manhattan. And they're just adding weight to the problem. It's almost as if they're in constant conflict."

"Dewey, I respect your family and you respect mine, but the relationship is between me and you. No one else."

She let out another sigh and turned to face him. By now, her eyes were reddening from their despair. She hadn't wanted to do this. But it would be worse to say the same things when they had already delved so deeply into the relationship; it would undoubtedly be more painful. "I just think you'd be happier with someone else…"

He was shattered. It was amazing how treacherous the spoken word could be. Had there not been a pier behind him for support, he knew he would've collapsed from anguish. His head was spinning in frantic revolutions and his body felt as if any minute it would give way. This was too much, this was…wrong! It wasn't supposed to happen this way. No, they were supposed to have worked it out. They were supposed to have reached some common ground. Had they been going too fast? But he had willingly slowed things down as to prevent a feeling of discomfort! And yesterday…just yesterday she had been so happy! Had it all been a game? Had it all been a front? What had gone wrong? What possibly could have gone wrong?

Presently staring at the ground, his vision was made blurry by the tears in his eyes. He looked up and realized that Dewey had started back on her way to Manhattan. No! He couldn't let her get away. He had to know what had happened! He had to know what had murdered her gladness and had replaced it with such sorrow. But what could he possibly say? She would never tell him. She would never reveal to him the real reason. Perhaps he could get his cousin, Runner, to ask for him. Perhaps he could infiltrate his spies to dig up the buried secrets. But no, that would defeat the whole purpose of having an open relationship. With a cry, he slumped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Had he tried everything? Was there something more he could do? Damnit, but she was so happy yesterday. What happened…?

But before midnight, he had already decided that he didn't know, and never would.

~*~*~*~*~

Throw me a bone; it's been a rough day.