Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

A/N: extrapolation on the theme of the first poem. This is very different than everything else I've posted for Newsies fan fiction. Which newsie it is will become clearer as time goes on. This will be moving to M in future chapters I think. FYI.

Warning: PG-13 (angsty themes, adult situations)

Chapter One

i.)
Boy Anachronism's number breeds on bathroom walls
(i guess you could say he's left his mark)
bright colors & darker stares
she says: "I've never hated caring about someone so much"
"you'll hate more than that if you stay"
"that'd better be a promise"

The bathroom walls and stalls were testament to conquests and requests. Girls left the seven numbers like an advertisement with a few words if they wanted. If you kept tabs you'd see that his numbers appeared the most but never with any commentary. You could say he'd left them speechless but that wouldn't be true. If he'd left them speechless – how would she have heard of him?

Hushed voices spoke of twisted black glitter smiles and pearly white lashes (he liked to do it backwards). Everything about him reflected in his frighteningly reverse appearance. He wore his smiles loose like his morals and his pants tight to his skin like his emotions. You always knew exactly who he was when you saw him – even if you'd never seen him before.

Across a crowded room she catches sight of him: Boy Anachronism(out of time, out of place, out of luck). His clothes fit his body like an ardent lover. Ultra low rise denim clings to cat-like hips barely stopping before the cleft of his butt cheeks. A black shirt, as shredded and ripped as his memories, flirts with indecency. Jet black hair, spiked like his drink, has streaks of magenta and blue hanging into his salt corroded Atlantic eyes. He hides the ragged coral red shores with thick kohl lines. It make sense that his appearance is just as jumbled as he in inside and it doesn't take her long to track him down because of it.

Sitting next to him at the bar she appreciates how he ignores her. The scars on his arms and the white blonde streaks in his hair glow bright in the black lights. A string of dental floss holding a key around his neck glows just as brightly and she wonders if that could be the key to his heart.

"I think I love you." She writes in black ink on a paper napkin (the thumping bass in the club is too loud for them to talk) and gives it to him.

In return he gives her a smirk and the finger.

Even though she could just take his number from one of the hundred postings across the town bar bathrooms – that just wouldn't be good enough. She knew he was used to that. She craves the chase as much as she craves him. So she sets off to find every etching of his phone's address – one stall doors and by stained mirrors – and with her black pen she scribes her message every time she finds him.

"I think I love you."

It isn't long before Boy Anachronism hears of her editorializing of his boldface testaments of promiscuity and obscurity. It doesn't take him long to catch her in the act (he's always had a seventh sense about these kinds of things(sexuality was his sixth)). He doesn't pay attention to the gendered signs. His modesty was lost too long ago to have something so small faze him (he finds non-co-ed bathrooms antiquated anyway). When she looks up at sees him leaning against the doorjamb he looks like he has always been there.

With as a gaze as dark and purposeful as the eyeliner around those tidal wave eyes he takes in her juvenile proclamation. He smiles his loose smile which cracks a smirk that starts at the tip of his toes and shoots up to the stars (he'd always been larger than life).

"You shouldn't." he warns.

"I do."

There aren't any more words (communication would always be an issue) and he waits for her as she comes towards him. On ballerina tip toes she marks six numbers on the skin of his neck with her same black pen. In place of the 0ero she presses a red ring from her sparkling lips to the skin just above his collar. The other perfume and lip stains on the rim of his shirt doesn't go unnoticed by her and she uses it as a reminder that he leaves a piece of himself wherever he goes and has no room for jealousy.

"I've never hated caring about someone so much."

"You'll hate more than that if you stay."

"That'd better be a promise."

Dark words gave way to darker looks and she didn't have time to edit any more bathroom walls. It was his turn to leave his mark on the girl on the cold tile floor.

A/N: Review? Please? Love it? Hate it?