Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Elio and Race's daddy.

"Clearly I remember picking on the boy
He seemed a harmless little fuck
Oh, but we unleashed a lion
He gnashed his teeth and bit the recess lady's breast
How could I forget?
And he hit me with a surprise left
My jaw left hurtin', dropped wide open"

-"Jeremy," Pearl Jam

Waking up in the morning was a painful process for Racetrack. He seemed to drag himself through heavy layers of consciousness, black and blue, and the closer he came to being fully awake the more his head seemed to hurt. By the time he was able to force his eyes open, he felt as though his brain were about to split in two and he groaned slightly and squashed his face into the pillow.

It was Saturday morning. The sun was barely up, the ceiling was bathed in pale gray light, and he was convinced his head was about to explode.

He swore under his breath and closed his eyes, trying to figure out why he was in such excruciating pain. His first thought was his father, but he had been asleep when Race had last seen him and was therefore incapable of beating his son this hard. Besides, last night Race hadn't been home, he had been at the movies, and after—

He opened his eyes and rolled over slightly in bed, and immediately found himself face to face with a pair of the most startlingly gray eyes he had ever seen in his life. He jumped slightly, and the owner of the eyes smirked and said, "Good morning, sunshine."

Racetrack stared at Spot, absolutely astounded and not bothering to hide it. He looked at Spot's half-grin, and the way his hair was starting to grow back a little, and his pale, shirtless perfection, and finally at the way his arm was resting on Racetrack's waist.

And Racetrack erupted.

"WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOIN' HERE?" he demanded, sitting up in bed with a jolt that made his head throb even more painfully. "WHAT THE FUCK— WHERE AM I, AND WHY AM I HERE, AND IS THAT A VELVET REVOLVER POSTER ON YOUR WALL?"

Spot, who was looking rather startled to say the least, said, "Yes," and made to get out of bed. "You like Scott Weiland?"

"I'VE HAD A CRUSH ON HIM SINCE EIGHTH GRADE," Race snapped in an accusatory fashion, as though Spot had no right to share an interest with him. He got out of bed, practically threw Spot's t-shirt at him, and began pacing the room anxiously. Finally, he turned back to the other boy, whose shirt was half on, and demanded, "COULD YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

"Dude, shut up!" Spot said hurriedly, closing the door to his bedroom and praying to God that his parents wouldn't wake up.

"YOU HAVE NO R—"

"SHUT UP, MAN!" Spot strode over to Race, clapped one hand over his mouth, and grabbed his arm with the other one. There were a few minutes of silent struggle, and then Race licked Spot's hand and Spot pulled back with a muffled yell. Race flung him away.

"Oh, that's mature," Spot grumbled, wiping his hand on his pants.

"You," Race pointed an accusatory finger, "are a psychopath, bisexual, exceedingly sketchy, nearly bald rapist!"

"And you are a nineteen year old who just licked my hand!"

They glared at each other, and then Spot sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, Race said furiously, "Okay, could you please—"

"Whisper!" Spot hissed, glancing anxiously at his closed door.

Race rolled his eyes and said in a slightly quieter voice, "Could you please explain to me what the fuck is going on? Why am I here? What was I doing last night? Did you give me a date-rape drug or just alcohol? How did—"

"We got drunk after 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,' you couldn't tell me where you lived, so I brought you here instead of leaving you in the slush outside the cinema," said Spot tiredly. "What would you have preferred I do?"

"BUMLETS AND SWIFTY KNOW WHERE I LIVE," Racetrack exploded, "YOU COULD HAVE ASKED THEM, YOU MORON!"

"THEY WERE TOO BUSY FLIRTING IN THE CINEMA'S PUBLIC BATHROOMS," Spot snapped, and then looked horrified and hastily lowered his voice. "Dude, if my parents wake up I am going to be burned at the stake. Could we please discuss this later?"

Race paused, confused, ignoring Spot's request. "Swifty's straight, though, isn't he?" he said slowly.

Spot shrugged.

"Hard to tell, sometimes," Race murmured, more to himself than to his current roommate. His head throbbed unpleasantly, and he looked at Spot and demanded, "SO YOU SLEPT WITH ME!"

"Literally, yes!" Spot yelped.

"DID YOU RAPE ME?"

"If you would shut the fuck up for a minute, you would notice that you are, in fact, fully clothed," Spot returned acidly, starting to grow irritated. He rubbed his head and groped for his hat. "I didn't rape you, I barely touched you, I was—"

"Barely," Race snapped.

Spot hesitated, going slightly red. He didn't know what to say. He stared at Race for a moment, wordless.

In the ended he decided on honesty. "All right, so I couldn't entirely resist taking advantage of your lack of... hostility," he said, and he tried to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. "Anyway, I was just trying to get you somewhere safe 'cause you..."

But he stopped, because Race was suddenly looking shocked and almost hurt. It was as though a switch had been flipped, a wall that ordinarily screened his face from revealing emotions had been removed and he was injured and vulnerable. "I can't believe you would do this to me," he said in a surprisingly soft voice, sounding betrayed.

Spot blinked. "Do what to you?" he asked, confused.

But the wall was back up, the anger had returned, the old Race was back. "Everything!" he snapped, starting to pace again. "The movie, the car, you know you really had me fooled, Conlon. You really got me there, I was almost convinced that there was a chance, maybe you were different, maybe you were an okay guy, I was almost starting to, I don't know, like you."

Spot opened his mouth to speak, but Race cut him off. "And it was fun last night, it really was, and if you'd left it like that I never would have guessed or fucking cared..." He paused for breath, running both hands through his hair. "But this, Conlon, this is too much."

"What is?" Spot managed to get in, bewildered.

"I can't fucking believe—" Racetrack seemed at a loss for words, and he stared at Spot. "Physical abuse I can deal with, I get enough of that in my life. But— pretending to—" He choked slightly and spat out, "Pretending to be bisexual so you could fuck with my mind, screwing the faggot for laughs—"

"What the FUCK, Race, that's not—"

Race looked for a moment as though he were about to punch Spot. "Go tell your friends about how clever you are," he said blandly. "I can't— I— Jesus Christ, Conlon, let me out of your fucking house."

He pushed the door open and made his way angrily down the hall and the stairs, and Spot followed desperately behind, trying to explain himself without injuring his pride too much. Ultimately, it was the accusation of, "Why the fuck are you so paranoid!" that caused Race to turn around in the middle of Spot's kitchen. Mrs. Conlon looked up from her coffee and smiled warmly. Gabriel had a new friend!

"You want to know why I'm so paranoid?" Race demanded softly. "Has it ever occurred to you that what we social failures receive from the upper-class might have more than just short-term effects on our psychologies? I have been— mocked and tortured ever since I stopped growing, ever since I came out, ever since I started school, and now you, Mr. Prom King himself, show up and expect me to believe that you're not only bisexual but fucking attracted to me!" He ran a hand through his hair, breathing heavily, looking like he was fighting to cover his emotions again. "Conlon, I can't do this anymore," he said in a voice that Spot had never heard him use before. "You've fucked me up. Every day you guys push me farther— what do you want from us? Do you want us to change and conform and melt back into the middle class? Because we've tried that, all of us, and you continue to single us out, you won't let us be normal but you despise our distinctiveness."

Spot stared, astounded.

"We're just scapegoats for you fuck-ups," said Race, his voice breaking, "we're constant victims. It's hard enough dealing with the public humiliation, but when you worm into— into something as deep as— I don't know, emotions? Taking advantage of the fact that I was—" He stopped abruptly. "That's just sick. You are sick."

You are sick.

"Race..." Spot moaned, unable to think of anything else to say.

Racetrack looked at him with disgust and then turned, crossed the kitchen ("Good morning, Mrs. Conlon"), and left the house, closing the door neatly behind him.

There was a long, long pause.

Then Mrs. Conlon turned to her son, shock written all over her face. "Would you like some breakfast, sweetums?" she asked shakily.

Spot looked at her. "Ah... No thanks, Mom. I think I'm gonna go back to bed."

-

Racetrack moved down the sidewalk, hardly feeling as though he were using his legs at all. He seemed to simply melt, having a small breakdown now that he was out of Spot's sight. He felt as though his insides were collapsing.

He had seen a remarkable amount of abuse throughout his life, both from home and from school, but none of it had managed to hit him as hard as this had. Sure, they'd called him a faggot and accused him of sleeping with his fellow outcasts, but they had never truly taken advantage of his sexuality like this, they had never hit him emotionally like this...

He stopped at the intersection and looked blankly to see which direction he would have to turn, thoroughly miserable. He had actually almost been learning to enjoy that Spot Conlon's company, he had actually almost been falling for him—

"Fuck this," he said.

He started walking again, but he had never consciously considered his mild attraction to Spot and it wasn't a good feeling to consider it now. He felt so betrayed, taken advantage of— what had he ever done to deserve this?

He'd expected more extreme forms of torture when he'd come out about his homosexuality a few years ago, but this was insane... This wasn't right, it didn't make sense that these people were absolutely dedicated to making his life as miserable as possible. There was a fine line between bullying and sadism, and they seemed to be flirting with it. He couldn't imagine taking pleasure from doing this to someone; he was a human being, despite their insistence otherwise. He couldn't imagine what he could have possibly done wrong.

"Oh, right," he murmured as he turned onto his street, "this isn't about me, is it?"

And clearly, it wasn't. He wasn't abused because he was gay, or because he was just over five feet tall, or because he listened to Pink Floyd and The Shins; he was abused because Oscar, Morris, Jack, and Spot were all just as bad as he was. They made him look like shit in order to remain in a position of power, in order to hide their own fucked up problems. This wasn't about his idiosyncrasies, it was about their idiosyncrasies, their issues. He was a randomly chosen victim.

He had reached his house. With a sigh he pulled the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock, and opened the door. He hated this place more than anywhere else in the world.

"Well. Welcome home," said Elio coolly, looking up from the book he was reading.

"Thanks," said Race acidly, and he closed the door behind him and looked around. "Where's Dad?"

Elio jerked his chin in the general direction of the kitchen. "Man, are you in deep shit."

"Shut up, shithead."

His brother shrugged noncommittally, his black eyes gleaming as they returned to his book. Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt. Always the intellectual, Race thought grimly. But I read that book the summer of freshman year.

From the kitchen came the harshly shouted demand of whether Anthony had returned home yet, and Racetrack answered hollowly, dreading what was going to come but not wanting his brother to see. Elio began to smirk slightly without lifting his eyes from his novel.

Mr. Higgins entered the living room and both his sons looked up at him with contempt. He was a substantial, dark-haired man with a Race's smooth, dark Italian complexion, and he would have been incredibly handsome but his face was currently spotted with rough stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. He glared at Racetrack, and Racetrack glared right back, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.

Mr. Higgins towered over his son. "Where the fuck have you been?" he asked softly, his voice delicate like the calm before the storm.

"Spot Conlon's house," Race answered truthfully.

Elio scoffed. "Who the hell is that? A new boyfr—"

"Elio Provenzo Higgins, you stay the fuck out of this," Mr. Higgins snapped, his voice thundering. Elio rolled his eyes, put down his book, and stalked out of the room. His father turned back to Racetrack. "Anthony, you fucking stayed out all night with your faggot friends. What ever gave you the idea that you had the right to do something like that without asking permission first? Fucking moron, if your mother were still alive—"

"Yeah, yeah," said Race in frustration, trying to get this over with. "I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't think!" Mr. Higgins snapped. The two stared at each other for a moment, and then he narrowed his eyes and said, "So. Spot Conlon, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So tell me, Anthony," he sneered, "what exactly intrigued you to go fucking a different boy, for a change? Will I get to meet this one?"

Race closed his eyes, trying to stay in control. "Dad..."

"Oh, no, don't tell me," Mr. Higgins interrupted scornfully, holding up a hand. "Pretty boy, green eyes, right?"

"Gray," Race murmured.

Mr. Higgins sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Waste of a son..." he muttered tiredly. "Worse than your brother— unbelievable. I can't believe a boy of mine ended up sucking cocks."

The words stung, and Race was astounded at how placidly his father was able to say them. They sounded almost rehearsed, and they were, really, because they had been said so many times. He didn't answer, thinking about Spot's eyes, and Mr. Higgins continued, "I don't think I even want to know what you were doing last night, you fag. Just—"

"We went to see 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,'" Race snapped. He couldn't see what his father was getting at; it sounded as though he were just putting his son down for the pure joy of it, and every word hurt. "And then we got drunk, and Spot and I slept together."

Mr. Higgins stared at him. "You actually slept with him?" he demanded, and Race could hear the tension rising in his voice. He hadn't expected that. Race pretended to be a badass, but he was a virgin and a relatively good kid; he had never slept with a boy before. He enjoyed the fear in his father's face.

Race nodded delicately. "It was fucking amazing," he said, and he didn't know what he was saying anymore, he felt as though he were defending himself and his sexuality and he was torturing his father, "We stayed up practically all night and you should have seen his body, it was so incredibly pale and smooth and—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, ANTHONY, I DON'T—"

"He was fantastic," said Racetrack hotly. "I think you should get to meet him, maybe you'll understand why I—"

"ANTHONY HIGGINS, SHUT THE FUCK UP OR YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET—"

Racetrack stopped talking for a moment, and he and his father looked at each other in fury. Finally, Race said, "I was great, too. I'm the best piece of ass you're ever going to—"

And then he felt his father's fist smash into the side of his face, and he staggered backwards against the door, the doorknob hitting him hard in the lower back. He cringed with pain, and his father raised his fist again and he lifted his hand in defense. "I never want to hear about your faggot tendencies again, y'hear?" Mr. Higgins snapped, and he swung his fist low and caught his son in the stomach.

Race choked and bent double.

"Y'HEAR?" Mr. Higgins yelled, swinging again.

"I—" Race gasped, unable to get the words out. There seemed to be some sort of blockage in his throat. Mr. Higgins lifted his fist again. "Yeah, I hear you!" Race yelled.

His father stopped, breathing heavily, his dark handsome face contorted in fury. "Get the hell out," he said softly, grabbing his son by the front of his shirt.

Race glared, this was too much, he couldn't handle any more, he felt the anger building up in his chest and he pulled back and punched his father as hard as he could across the face. "The alcohol," he said, breathing heavily, "has fucked up your brain worse than you'll ever understand."

"IF I HADN'T PROMISED YOUR MOTHER I WOULD PROTECT YOU, ANTHONY, YOU'D BE OUT OF THIS HOUSE—"

"Dad, I want to be out of this house," said Race, and he wrapped his arms around his own aching chest and staggered out of the house into the cold February mist.

If he had been anything other than a Higgins he would have been concerned about what he had just gone through, but for almost as long as Racetrack could remember this had been his life. He knew he would come back that night and his father would be drunk stupid, too drunk to remember that he had kicked his son out earlier that same day.

"I just can't stand Elio's smirk," Race murmured, head throbbing from the combination of his hangover and his father's fist. He kicked some slush on the driveway. "Fucker..."

He crumpled to his knees on the sidewalk and pressed his forehead against the cold concrete, shivering, the world spinning. He could honestly say that he had never felt worse in his entire life, and right now all he wanted to do was melt away, evaporate, disappear for a while and let his troubles fade in the same fashion. "I want to die I want to die I want to die," he murmured, and he almost did die, for a moment.

And then he heard it.

He pretended not to notice, but then he heard it again, louder, and he couldn't bear to raise his face because that would make it true, without doubt, and this was the last thing he needed right now.

"Oh God, no," he groaned, and he honestly thought that he was going to die this time, except his problems wouldn't fade, they would intensify.

He heard it again, absolutely undeniable: Jack Kelly's high-pitched chuckle.

He sat back on his heels and looked up the sidewalk, and Jack Kelly and the Delancey brothers looked back at him in surprise, their smiles fading immediately. It was suddenly brought to his attention how incredibly stupid he must look, sitting on the sidewalk in the same wrinkled Led Zeppelin t-shirt he had been wearing yesterday, his hair windswept and a deep purple bruise blossoming magnificently across his cheekbone.

A little blood dribbled down onto the concrete before him, and he touched his face, feeling the warm, sticky substance on his upper lip. His nose was bleeding profusely.

Holy shit, he realized. I'm not going to be able to defend myself. I'm about to die.

he realized.

"Well, waddaya know, Kelly?" said Oscar, a smirk sliding immediately across his face and replacing the previous expression of mild surprise. "Looks like our faggot friend's been tailin' us. Maybe he's lookin' for a kiss...?"

"Aw shut up, Oscar," said Jack, sounding annoyed, and he was looking at Racetrack with slight confusion.

Race understood. They never bumped into each other this often— he rarely saw them out of school, and yet within the last twenty-four hours he had already endured three visits from the trio. Finding Racetrack kneeling on the cold, wet sidewalk on an obscure street by the center of town had surprised Jack; he had never been the type to enjoy having something sprung on him like this, and he was clearly rather at a loss as to what aspect of Race's fucked up personality he would mock this time.

Racetrack didn't wait for the attack. "Morning, gentlemen," he said smoothly, standing up with difficulty and brushing off his blue jeans. "I'm sorry I can't hang around to chat, but I happen to be— to be busy at the moment."

His brain didn't seem to be functioning properly. He tried to pretend his head wasn't swimming, his face wasn't throbbing, but he was losing coherency and Jack seemed to be seeing something in his dark eyes that was giving his weakness away. Jack had always been smarter than the Delanceys.

"Busy?" he repeated skeptically. "What were you doin' lyin' on the sidewalk, Higgins? Jackin' off or somethin'?"

"Heh, Jack-in' off..." Morris chuckled, and Oscar smacked him.

Race wiped blood off his face with the back of his hand, opened his mouth, waited for the witty response to come out, but nothing happened. His breathing was growing ragged and he hurt all over, and his jeans were wet at the knees and they were cold. He was freezing, shivering, Jack looked at him in surprise, confused, waiting.

"Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Oscar said finally.

Morris looked slightly alarmed. "He's totally fucked up."

Race's knees gave out and Jack caught him reflexively, and then looked shocked and dropped him onto the cold pavement in disgust. Race felt an explosion of pain where his already bruised face hit the concrete, and he tried to lift himself but someone kicked him. "What the hell, you high on coke or somethin'?" Jack demanded. "Little fuck-up..."

"Do you think we should get help, man?" Racetrack heard Oscar say softly, as if from a great distance.

"Why the hell would we get help? It's his own fault that he..."

And then it all started to fade out, and Racetrack realized dimly that they were going to leave him there, they were going to dump him and God knows how long he would be there... He wondered vaguely at how much they really must hate him to do this to him.

And then he heard a familiar voice yelling angrily, and he felt another pair of arms wrap around him, not particularly strong arms but protective arms, lifting him up. He thought of Spot for a moment, but then he remembered that Spot wouldn't protect him, Spot was...

But he couldn't remember what Spot was, and after a moment it all faded to black.

"Snitch!" Skittery yelled in alarm, raising Racetrack into his arms. "Snitch, he's out cold!"

Snitch looked back at them, biting his lip. He turned back to Jack, Oscar, and Morris, who were looking stunned, and he swore at them and yelled for them to fuck off, which they did as quickly as they could. "God, Skittery, what do we do?" he asked, anxious, turning back to his friend.

"No idea," said Skittery. His wiry glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose.

They both looked down at their unconscious friend, and Snitch had to look away, nauseated with his concern for his friend. Skittery continued to stare and held him closer to his chest. "We should take him back to my place," Snitch said finally. They looked at each other, both wondering what the hell had happened to Racetrack.

Skittery glanced at his watch. "Man, not even ten o'clock yet," he said. "Quite a day, eh?"

Snitch managed a weak smile.

Shoutouts:

Erin Go Bragh: Hell yeah, go Beatles! They so kick ass. We should have a party; have you seen any of their movies besides "Yellow Submarine"? "Help!" is, like, the funniest movie I have ever seen in my life. You would be really into it. Anyway, thanks for reviewing!

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Hey, thanks so much for the review! Much love!Dakki: I still can't get over that you love Johnny Depp's teeth as much as I do. And how fantastic your reviews are. And how much I love you. I can't even form a coherent shoutout, I love you so much. You really must write to me about our Kowboi Klub masterpiece, because I am going into withdrawal from your E-mails and your brilliant writing! (Even though I read your McKinley House fic last night. Hahaha, Dave eating babies…)

Queen of Doom: Why, thank you!

'Ru: You are talking to an enormous Princess Bride fan here. Can't you just picture Racetrack as Fezzik? Haha, thanks for reviewing!

Unknown-Dreams: Darling, there is absolutely no need to hint at the adorableness of Bumlets and Swifty as a couple. Lucky for you, I realized what a cute couple they were long ago. (Hint hint, potential future swumlets...) Thanks so much for reviewing!

antiIRONY: Ha, one of the first people intrigued rather than disturbed by the idea of Spot with no hair. Thanks so much for reviewing!

Liams Kitten: Darling, if you ever stop writing long reviews I will cry myself dry. Hooray, I love you! We shall have a wedding and rejoice with Cherry Garcia ice cream and snogging newsies. Thanks so much for reviewing!

alliemon: Hahaha, that was beautiful... Thanks so much for reviewing!

Chiquita Corpse: My dear, who doesn't love angst? This is one of my angstiest fics ever, so I'm glad you're liking it, and I'm glad you're intrigued by Spot's lack of hair, heh... Thanks so much for reviewing!

-

Author's Note: Okay, I confess. Dakki inspired me. She hadn't E-mailed me in about three days, and I was in such beautiful-ficcage-withdrawal that I had to make my own rather pathetic attempt at beautiful ficcage. Of course, this ended up rather violent and depressing...

Anyway, I'll have you all know that this fic is going to have an incredibly happy ending. I love you all; please review, my pretties!

-Saturday