Disclaimer: i dont own newsies and as usual i am in no way creative enough to think of a clever disclaimer so i will leave it at that.
hopefully ozmandius king of kings will agree to write the next ch and the story will live once more but for now i fear to say it is a oneshot.
The mid-day sun cast a shadow over the parched green canopy hanging over the window of the downtown barbershop.
I swiped at the frost beginning to form on the windowpane of the shop and pressed my face against the newly cleared glass.
Man, was it cold out! Although it was only November, Vermont winds crept chilly and cold up and down my spine and I was beginning to regret not buying a new pair of mittens for the upcoming winter. Yet again, I was wearing the fingerless gloves I had purchased 5 years ago and the tips of my fingers were fucking freezing. Not to mention the gloves were 4 sizes to small (thus the fingerless aspect,) but then again all my clothes were either small, hole-y or worn thin anyway. The straight leg jeans I had on had been my brothers and even the Nirvana shirt I had draped over my lean frame had too many moth holes to count. I'm pretty sure the washing machine had taken a bite out of the back as well but hey…at least someone's full.
My finger slowly traced its way over the red block lettering just above my head and I lazily watched as the words 'Humphreys Haircuts' began to expose them selves through the crispy ice. The patch of window I had recently swiped at was beginning to fog up again so I mopped it clear once more with my jacket sleeve.
Squinting through the pane I could faintly see 'Humphrey' staring scornfully at my cloudy outline, a disdainful look in his eyes.
I didn't blame him; Skittery was probably giving him hell. But I wasn't the rebellious type of punk Skittery was often labeled as; I was an intellectual.
Though it was obvious skits and I were acquaintances (in the least) and any thing skits said to the barber or more like called, would be reflected on to my image. I couldn't walk into half the shops in town without someone asking me to kindly leave; 1) because skits was with me most of the time, 2) because Skittery gets irritated really easily and 3) cause we're most likely to be found holding hands. Well, at least that's what usually went down. Though sometimes the folks are too scared to even approach us; afraid they might get cooties. What they don't realize is that gays give off cooties, and skits & me…well we're both bisexual and therefore clean.
Sure enough, through the slowly accumulating frost and sleet, a middle finger popped up sadistically on skits's left hand and yet another dirty look was passed my way.
Hastily, allowing my murdered dyslexic roots to rise from the dead, I began to scribble on the ice-covered window 'tcartta od stisoppo' giving the barber a grim smile that I doubt he could see. 'Opposites do attract.' The man turned back to skits aggressively; oh man, would he be happy when we left.
I backed away from the window and impatiently kicked a ball of snow into the nearly empty street. It was fucking freeeeezing! The last thing I needed was frostbite on my fingers.
Oh man, skits better hurry up or else my guitar will end up collecting dust for a couple of days, I thought gloomily, scrunching up my face against the winds furry.
I sighed interminably, running my half gloved hands through my shoulder length blonde hair.
Sure enough, the bell over the doorway tinkled softly as Skittery stepped out of the warmth of the barber shop and into the unforgiving chill, a 4 inch brown Mohawk sticking out of his pasty white noggin.
"Man that thing I fucking awesome!" I exalted musingly, my gloved hand reaching up to touch the magnificence.
"Hell yeah," skits remarked briskly, looking at his reflection in the Piggly-Wiggly window, "man, was he an ass though. Think this I'll piss off my dad?"
That might as well have been a rhetorical question; yes it would piss off his dad greatly. I gave him an all-knowing smile, still stunned by his complete and total hotness.
"Man, I hope so. Its hardly worth it in weather like this anyhow." He rubbed the sides of his head where the Mohawk did not stand, profusely.
Skittery had a habit of saying 'man' a lot. That also pissed off his dad. I used to think he was only bi to piss off his old man (as with everything else he did), but now I know better. Just cause I'm more flamboyant doesn't mean he doesn't have the same pervy thoughts that I do. I also used to think that skits's ultimate goal in life was to get thrown out of his dad's house and so far this notion hasn't faltered any.
We started walking up Weldon St., hand in hand, his Mohawk dithering a bit in the breeze, my blonde hair tumbling in front of my glasses and obscuring my vision completely.
Man, were we inapt for Vermont. But then again we would inapt everywhere we went.
And besides, fitting in is so over rated.
R/R!