Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.
Chapter 4: Looking For Something To See
Spot
Last night I fell asleep to the stench of vomit and Racetrack's moans from the bathroom. When I woke up this he was gone. I don't know where he could have gone in the state he was currently but his bed was made and the smell was gone.
I lifted myself up and scurried to the bathroom, rubbing my head and trying to keep from sneezing. I only ever have allergic reactions in the autumn. Maybe it's goldenrod or just the way everything slows down in the fall. It doesn't help that Race's window is still open. That window. The one with the tree outside of it. The one that I stare at, but out of the corner of my eye I'm really watching Racetracks' bed. That tree, the maple, the beautiful, majestic, ancient tree.
I pull Racetrack's shirt off over my head and throw it into the laundry pile that hasn't been disturbed for three weeks. The kitchen table is covered in The Toronto Star, opened to the World section, Racetrack's favourite. Beside it is an antique glass ashtray and subbed out in it is his cigar. The smoke curls up into the air and the smell wafts around the room. I watch a tendril snake its way to the ceiling where it finds its end and slowly diminishes into nothingness. I pick up the cigar and re-stub it out so that the stream of smoke is properly stopped and the room clears of Race's smell. With the absence of the smoke I can faintly sense the vomit again and gag slightly as I pull out a carton of milk and Cheerios.
Someone knocks on the front door and I mumble to grant them entrance. Cherish pushes the door ajar.
"What in heavens name is that smell?" She blanches.
"Race was sick last night," I mutter thickly through a mouthful of milk and cereal.
"Then where is he now?" she gazes at his bed, doesn't see him, and looks back at me.
I sniff loudly, trying to ignore the tingly allergic feeling I'm having, and shrug. "I dun no, he was gone this morning when I woke up."
Cherish sits down across from me and I realize I haven't seen her since I imagined Racetrack telling me he loved me. She's very pale, but not nearly to my extent, and has long light brown hair that she has pulled back into a high-ponytail. The pony-tail must be tight because it's tugging at her temples and making her eyes seem huge and glowing in the sunlight. She drops her beige messenger bag to the floor and slides the bowl away from me.
"Are you OK?" she asks, "You didn't return my call yesterday." She shoves a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.
I nod tiredly and sniff again. "Sorry, I was sick. It must have been a 24 hour thing." See how good I've gotten at lying?
"And why the hell is it so cold in here?" she asks abruptly, pulling her denim jacket tightly around her. I want to tell her that if maybe she'd worn a sweater under her jacket and not just a thin lime green t-shirt she'd be warmer. But I restrain and say, "Race likes to sleep with the window open."
She stalks across the room and pushes the window shut. "I know Racetrack, he won't even notice it's closed."
I like the window open. I like being able to smell the tree outside and the moss and the marigolds. "I like it open too, you know."
"Oh, sorry, it's just freezing! Aren't you cold at all?"
I look down at what I'm wearing—my plaid pyjama bottoms and no t-shirt—and shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. I can't even feel it."
I'm not lying either, I just can't feel anything. It's like it's all bouncing off of me. It's like I'm senseless.
"Just put a shirt on, we're going to be late for class." Cherish pours herself some more cereal and pulls the paper towards her. She folds up the World section and searches until she finds the A&E section.
Racetrack
When I woke up this morning, about six am, I lay still for a few seconds, barely breathing, and stared at Spot across from me. The breeze from outside was pushing the hair from his face. His eyes were shut, so resulting in covering his eyes. It's a good thing they were or I'd probably never be able to get up again, I'd get lost in them.
I poured lemon Mr Clean all around the bathroom and sprayed it with Lysol before reading the morning paper, having a smoke, and leaving. This all took about an hour and Spot still hadn't woken up.
With no classes until ten I walked around the city. You never get bored of a big city like Toronto because it's always different depending on what time of day it is and there are always new things to see. On campus there is a large statue of some guy I don't know standing and staring off into space. I think he's a member of alumni who probably paid to have himself immortalized like that forever. I read the plaque screwed onto the marble base and it says that he has already died. He used to be the headmaster. I guess I was wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things.
I venture off campus and into the city, searching for a new statue or something to look at. I see one of an angel reaching upwards, stretching away from the crystal pool of water at her feet. After this I can't find anymore and sit down gloomily at a bus stop. I check my watch and it's only seven thirty.
Chinatown is the most active and colourful district in my opinion. After passing the art gallery you enter into the smells and textures of it. On a corner is a bubble-tea shop, Cherish's favourite, but it is closed and the heavy metal doors are pulled down, modelling their simple black graffiti. If I walk farther I come across the place I eat lunch on most Fridays, with the glazed Bar-B-Qued pigs and ducks hanging in the window. It is empty because it doesn't open for another half-hour. I ignore the temptation to wait and sample the Cantonese rice noodles and freshly made cold tea.
I continue and turn off the road and onto another. There is another shop that specializes in Vietnamese cuisine that I find is open, though next to empty. Above my head a miniature train set circles on its track, an interesting show for a few minutes.
The food comes quickly, as it always does at places like this, and I eat until I can't anymore, which isn't very much. I don't have much of an appetite. Especially after what happened last night.
When I finish the streets have filled with people rushing to their office jobs around the city. I stroll down the streets until I find myself in Kensington Marketplace, which is behind Chinatown. Inside a deep costume store I find Mush.
"Morning," I say, sitting on the stool across from the desk.
He sighs heavily and looks up at me. "Morning Anthony. What's new?"
"Couldn't sleep," I'm not lying either. I couldn't sleep. I was too busy thinking about Spot and getting sick over him.
Around me are thick purple, red, and blue dresses that seem circa 1910 Cabaret. This shop, like all others in Kensington, is full of stuff like this. You can find anything and everything here. The variety is endless, costumes, candy, flowers, herbal remedies, even chunky jewellery, it's all found here. Mush sighs again and stares out the door.
"What's wrong?" I ask. I've known Mush since the beginning of the semester when I came here to buy some clothes. I didn't know it was a full-out costume shop. I have never bought anything from here but I don't think he minds. Mush just likes the company.
He shakes his head and frowns absently. In the back room someone drops something. "Fuck this damn box! Mush, I don't know why the hell we even have this. We don't need the god damn things, that's for sure." His brother, Itey, surfaces holding a large cardboard box of stark white notebooks.
Mush blinks at him and takes the box, staggering slightly under the weight. "I don't know why we have it, it must be dad's."
Mush and Itey's father is English, from a small town outside of Manchester, and their mother is from Italy, near Piazza. Mush looks more like his father whereas Itey, the younger, is a classic Italian.
"Hey Race, what's up?" Itey spots me and grins. Mush disappears into the back.
"What's wrong with Mush?" I ask.
"Mush is just being Mush. He's being moody. He likes the attention." Itey shrugs and shakes his head.
"Oh, I get it." Why would Mush need attention? He demands it wherever he went. In the eyes of a woman, any woman, Mush is gorgeous. People can't help but like him. This is the same, but different, from how I see Spot. I am in love and in lust with Spot, whereas the world is in love with Mush. Strangely, I don't think Itey ever noticed this. He and Mush get along fine as brothers, never really getting on each other's nerves too much that the public eye observes. I think Itey just ignores his brother's good fortune in the looks department and relies on his family and good luck to get by.
I don't have any good fortune or luck. If I did I wouldn't be getting sick over love or lying to Spot because he thinks what I tell him is to far- fetched that it must be a lie. Mush and Itey don't know how lucky they are.
((I'm working on the next chapter and I can tell you now that it will be my favourite! But, first, you have to R&R this chapter. Especially the 'review' part of it all! Thanks!))
Shoutouts:
Erin Go Bragh- you're a little...schizo there. Can't make up your mind? Too bad! This is my story anyways! But I like that you enjoyed it.
Padsfootismyhero- happy you liked it, despite the mild longing-slash-ness.
Coin- who DOESN'T love Spot and Race?
Rinity-matrix-13- heh heh heh, update fast you say? GUILTY! Thanks for the review!
Chapter 4: Looking For Something To See
Spot
Last night I fell asleep to the stench of vomit and Racetrack's moans from the bathroom. When I woke up this he was gone. I don't know where he could have gone in the state he was currently but his bed was made and the smell was gone.
I lifted myself up and scurried to the bathroom, rubbing my head and trying to keep from sneezing. I only ever have allergic reactions in the autumn. Maybe it's goldenrod or just the way everything slows down in the fall. It doesn't help that Race's window is still open. That window. The one with the tree outside of it. The one that I stare at, but out of the corner of my eye I'm really watching Racetracks' bed. That tree, the maple, the beautiful, majestic, ancient tree.
I pull Racetrack's shirt off over my head and throw it into the laundry pile that hasn't been disturbed for three weeks. The kitchen table is covered in The Toronto Star, opened to the World section, Racetrack's favourite. Beside it is an antique glass ashtray and subbed out in it is his cigar. The smoke curls up into the air and the smell wafts around the room. I watch a tendril snake its way to the ceiling where it finds its end and slowly diminishes into nothingness. I pick up the cigar and re-stub it out so that the stream of smoke is properly stopped and the room clears of Race's smell. With the absence of the smoke I can faintly sense the vomit again and gag slightly as I pull out a carton of milk and Cheerios.
Someone knocks on the front door and I mumble to grant them entrance. Cherish pushes the door ajar.
"What in heavens name is that smell?" She blanches.
"Race was sick last night," I mutter thickly through a mouthful of milk and cereal.
"Then where is he now?" she gazes at his bed, doesn't see him, and looks back at me.
I sniff loudly, trying to ignore the tingly allergic feeling I'm having, and shrug. "I dun no, he was gone this morning when I woke up."
Cherish sits down across from me and I realize I haven't seen her since I imagined Racetrack telling me he loved me. She's very pale, but not nearly to my extent, and has long light brown hair that she has pulled back into a high-ponytail. The pony-tail must be tight because it's tugging at her temples and making her eyes seem huge and glowing in the sunlight. She drops her beige messenger bag to the floor and slides the bowl away from me.
"Are you OK?" she asks, "You didn't return my call yesterday." She shoves a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth.
I nod tiredly and sniff again. "Sorry, I was sick. It must have been a 24 hour thing." See how good I've gotten at lying?
"And why the hell is it so cold in here?" she asks abruptly, pulling her denim jacket tightly around her. I want to tell her that if maybe she'd worn a sweater under her jacket and not just a thin lime green t-shirt she'd be warmer. But I restrain and say, "Race likes to sleep with the window open."
She stalks across the room and pushes the window shut. "I know Racetrack, he won't even notice it's closed."
I like the window open. I like being able to smell the tree outside and the moss and the marigolds. "I like it open too, you know."
"Oh, sorry, it's just freezing! Aren't you cold at all?"
I look down at what I'm wearing—my plaid pyjama bottoms and no t-shirt—and shrug nonchalantly. "Not really. I can't even feel it."
I'm not lying either, I just can't feel anything. It's like it's all bouncing off of me. It's like I'm senseless.
"Just put a shirt on, we're going to be late for class." Cherish pours herself some more cereal and pulls the paper towards her. She folds up the World section and searches until she finds the A&E section.
Racetrack
When I woke up this morning, about six am, I lay still for a few seconds, barely breathing, and stared at Spot across from me. The breeze from outside was pushing the hair from his face. His eyes were shut, so resulting in covering his eyes. It's a good thing they were or I'd probably never be able to get up again, I'd get lost in them.
I poured lemon Mr Clean all around the bathroom and sprayed it with Lysol before reading the morning paper, having a smoke, and leaving. This all took about an hour and Spot still hadn't woken up.
With no classes until ten I walked around the city. You never get bored of a big city like Toronto because it's always different depending on what time of day it is and there are always new things to see. On campus there is a large statue of some guy I don't know standing and staring off into space. I think he's a member of alumni who probably paid to have himself immortalized like that forever. I read the plaque screwed onto the marble base and it says that he has already died. He used to be the headmaster. I guess I was wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things.
I venture off campus and into the city, searching for a new statue or something to look at. I see one of an angel reaching upwards, stretching away from the crystal pool of water at her feet. After this I can't find anymore and sit down gloomily at a bus stop. I check my watch and it's only seven thirty.
Chinatown is the most active and colourful district in my opinion. After passing the art gallery you enter into the smells and textures of it. On a corner is a bubble-tea shop, Cherish's favourite, but it is closed and the heavy metal doors are pulled down, modelling their simple black graffiti. If I walk farther I come across the place I eat lunch on most Fridays, with the glazed Bar-B-Qued pigs and ducks hanging in the window. It is empty because it doesn't open for another half-hour. I ignore the temptation to wait and sample the Cantonese rice noodles and freshly made cold tea.
I continue and turn off the road and onto another. There is another shop that specializes in Vietnamese cuisine that I find is open, though next to empty. Above my head a miniature train set circles on its track, an interesting show for a few minutes.
The food comes quickly, as it always does at places like this, and I eat until I can't anymore, which isn't very much. I don't have much of an appetite. Especially after what happened last night.
When I finish the streets have filled with people rushing to their office jobs around the city. I stroll down the streets until I find myself in Kensington Marketplace, which is behind Chinatown. Inside a deep costume store I find Mush.
"Morning," I say, sitting on the stool across from the desk.
He sighs heavily and looks up at me. "Morning Anthony. What's new?"
"Couldn't sleep," I'm not lying either. I couldn't sleep. I was too busy thinking about Spot and getting sick over him.
Around me are thick purple, red, and blue dresses that seem circa 1910 Cabaret. This shop, like all others in Kensington, is full of stuff like this. You can find anything and everything here. The variety is endless, costumes, candy, flowers, herbal remedies, even chunky jewellery, it's all found here. Mush sighs again and stares out the door.
"What's wrong?" I ask. I've known Mush since the beginning of the semester when I came here to buy some clothes. I didn't know it was a full-out costume shop. I have never bought anything from here but I don't think he minds. Mush just likes the company.
He shakes his head and frowns absently. In the back room someone drops something. "Fuck this damn box! Mush, I don't know why the hell we even have this. We don't need the god damn things, that's for sure." His brother, Itey, surfaces holding a large cardboard box of stark white notebooks.
Mush blinks at him and takes the box, staggering slightly under the weight. "I don't know why we have it, it must be dad's."
Mush and Itey's father is English, from a small town outside of Manchester, and their mother is from Italy, near Piazza. Mush looks more like his father whereas Itey, the younger, is a classic Italian.
"Hey Race, what's up?" Itey spots me and grins. Mush disappears into the back.
"What's wrong with Mush?" I ask.
"Mush is just being Mush. He's being moody. He likes the attention." Itey shrugs and shakes his head.
"Oh, I get it." Why would Mush need attention? He demands it wherever he went. In the eyes of a woman, any woman, Mush is gorgeous. People can't help but like him. This is the same, but different, from how I see Spot. I am in love and in lust with Spot, whereas the world is in love with Mush. Strangely, I don't think Itey ever noticed this. He and Mush get along fine as brothers, never really getting on each other's nerves too much that the public eye observes. I think Itey just ignores his brother's good fortune in the looks department and relies on his family and good luck to get by.
I don't have any good fortune or luck. If I did I wouldn't be getting sick over love or lying to Spot because he thinks what I tell him is to far- fetched that it must be a lie. Mush and Itey don't know how lucky they are.
((I'm working on the next chapter and I can tell you now that it will be my favourite! But, first, you have to R&R this chapter. Especially the 'review' part of it all! Thanks!))
Shoutouts:
Erin Go Bragh- you're a little...schizo there. Can't make up your mind? Too bad! This is my story anyways! But I like that you enjoyed it.
Padsfootismyhero- happy you liked it, despite the mild longing-slash-ness.
Coin- who DOESN'T love Spot and Race?
Rinity-matrix-13- heh heh heh, update fast you say? GUILTY! Thanks for the review!