Author's Note: Here's chapter number thirteen. Just like I said in Diabo, (and, I'll tell ya – I definitely did not think I would hit that many chapters for either of these two stories, so Woot!), it's the lucky chapter. In the case of AVT, this is more like a catch-up chapter. I find it a bit hard to keep all these dates straight – and I'm the one who is writing this! So, I tried to show where some of the months went. Considering this story is aiming to meet up with the dates in Cuts like a Knife, I'm following a strict timeline. Hope you guys are following this alright :)

And, I wanted to add that I finally began to post the re-write of Cuts Like a Knife; it is based on much of this story and, while still having the same plot, I find it to be an easier read. It is called Obsession: Cuts like a Knife in case you would like to read it. Points to those who can pick out the AVT references in it.

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical Newsies, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers.

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.17.06

They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all.

---

PART XIII

May turned to June almost as quickly as June turned to July. Just as winter was harsh and cruel, summer, with its heat and humidity, started before any of the boys knew it. To Rip, especially, it seemed that spring was there for a mere week before the snow melted and the sun began to shine.

When he looked back on those few months, he remembered nothing more than sweating and struggling to breathe. But that could also be because, starting with March, he began to relive the events from the previous year. He was not capable of living with the memories yet.

In March, it marked the one year anniversary of Maria's death. The exact date fell just about two weeks after Spindle's disappearance. Still reeling from the discovery that the red-headed prostitute was not who he thought she was, Rip spent the year anniversary holed up in his bunk, hidden from view by a flimsy sheet. When Mack asked him what was wrong, he blamed influenza. He remained inside the Harlem House, depressed and alone just shy of a week. He used up most of his savings, paying for his lodging fare without selling a single newspaper.

During that spell, he wanted nothing more than to head back over to Little Italy and visit his sister's grave. This time, however, when he had the urge to leave Harlem, Spindle was not there to keep him occupied until his fancy faded. The only thing that kept him from leaving the House was an innate fear that he might meet up with one of his family members. How would he explain his disappearance of almost nine months? What would he do if they did not even notice him? He could not go. So he remained in his bunk.

April was a better month than March by not by much. Most of the month went by as a blur for the boy; many of the other newsies that lived in the Harlem House – including Mack, who had not yet forgiven him for sleeping with Spindle against his wishes – were purposely ignoring him. He emerged from his week of depression (the severe case of 'the flu' that he just could not shake) with a work ethic to be rivaled. It was in April of 1894 that he replenished the savings he squandered in March.

It was also in April that Aisling returned to work and Mack (through his poison plant relief) forgave Rip.

Then May came rolling in. The first part of the month was reminiscent of Rip's first few months in Harlem; only Mack would talk to him. And that was just the way he liked it. Friends and companions were a luxury he could not afford. A boy who sold on his own made more profits than a pair; he did not have to split his takings with anyone.

May was also the month when Spindle made her reappearance. He never told Mack – or any of the others, for that matter – that she was back in town; he was, to be honest, a bit nervous that one of Cecilia Rayner's girls – or even Mack, himself – would want to get revenge for Aisling's attack. He also hoped that she left as quickly as she showed up.

As much as he wanted Spindle to just leave him be, her reentry in his life caused him nothing but confusion. It was at that point that he started to compare Spindle with his late little sister – and he made the profound decision that what he wanted, more than anything, was this: a virgin's touch.

He spent the next three days in bed. He told Mack that his influenza returned. Mack believed him and let him be.

--

It was hard to sell newspapers in Harlem during the summer, as Rip found out. Considering he arrived last year in August, he missed the summer weather of 1893. Or, as Mack jokingly said, 'he didn't miss much.'

Rip spent the most part of those summer months selling his newspapers and getting haircuts; most of the money he made actually went straight to the barber. He never missed his mother and her insistence that he get his hair trimmed monthly more.

Memories of his mother, and worries about whether or not her health had returned to normal in the year he had been away from her, caused him another two days in his bunk.

That would be the last time he spent any time, depressed, in his bunk. In truth, it was the last time he would be depressed in the Harlem House at all.

On that third day, at the end of July, Rip woke up much earlier than the rest of the other boys. It was still dark out and, at first, he was not sure what had caused him to wake up so early. He closed his eyes and, rolling onto his side so that he was facing the door and not Trace's snoring face, he tried to fall back asleep. He could not.

That's when he tried to turn his thoughts back to his mother. Carolina Divenize had been on his mind constantly, ever since the barber asked him how he could have afforded his haircuts; it seemed that he was always visiting the elderly man's shop.

However, this time, he felt nothing. He was confused; he had not felt so emotionless since the day that Daisy was murdered. Why, now, was he so empty?

He tried to think of his father, then his three brothers. Again, he felt nothing. Sometime, overnight, he had lost his emotions again. He was not surprised, just worried. Why? How? What now?

Rip was not sure if he should be happy or fearful. On the one hand, if he was no longer burdened by depressed thoughts that kept him hidden under a sheet, he would feel like more of a man. On the other hand, though, it was such a state that – after his emotions were bottled for so long – when his anger finally was released, he was not in control. Daisy's death was unfortunate proof of that.

Slowly, and almost warily, he thought of his sister. But, as he thought of her fair, porcelain skin, her long dark curls and wide blue eyes, there was a reaction – just not the one he expected. Rather than feel remorse and pain at the memory of his dead sister, he felt only lust. The more his thoughts remained on her – for, now, he could not even think of anything else – the more emotions (all of them perverse) that stirred within him.

That's when he realized that it was not only his emotions that had stirred. He had effectively, by dwelling on Maria's outer beauty, given himself an erection. But he would not allow his hands to touch it. As punishment for his incestuous behavior, he rolled over and put pressure on his front; he did not even flinch at the pain. He kept his hands flat on his back and refused to move them. And that's how he spent the rest of the night.

He found he could no longer sleep that night. He was afraid of what might happen if he did.

--

August brought a far different Rip than the one who arrived the year before. It had been one whole year since Daisy's accidental death; though he never mentioned it, ever, he referred to her murder as an accidental death. As the months rolled by, he thought of himself less and less as a murderer. He was afraid that if he fixated on his one moment of weakness, especially now that his emotional state was similar to the one of last August, that he would repeat his action. His hands were already too bloodstained. He could not allow himself to snap again.

As the summer season waned and the heat finally relented, Rip was being very careful with his actions. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. He knew, as it was, that he was acting apart from the other boys. While they were concerned with keeping fed and finding girls, Rip was almost a robotic newspaper seller. He awoke early, bought his newspapers and remained outside, selling, until the sun set for the evening. The only thing that was the same was his nightly prayers.

But, now, he was praying for himself as much as for the others.

August, he found, was not only his anniversary for his arrival at the Harlem House. The first week of the month brought something else: Mack's nineteenth birthday. Rip had left his home in Little Italy and made it to Harlem just after Mack's eighteenth year celebration. He never really thought about the ages of the other boys before; when he found out that Mack would be nineteen, he vowed to go out and act like one of the other boys.

Mack was, by far, the oldest boy still living in the Harlem House. He had been one of the first boys to find lodging there when the Children's Aid Society opened the House; while the other boys grew up, moved on and moved out, Mack Turner always remained. He had it too good there, he said. Why would he leave?

Maybe it was because he was perceived as the leader of the boys in the House, or maybe – despite his perverted personality – he was an alright guy, but Mack was also the most well-liked (and respected, too) of them all. When the other boys found out that his birthday was August 1st, they all began to pull their money together. Even Rip donated a portion of his earnings – and it was he who gave the most: eighty-three cents.

The party was to be held in the Harlem House after Mister Dodges had left for the night. Nickels and Bean were charged with keeping Mack occupied until then. That was not that difficult – they told him that Cecilia was waiting for him. Trace had already tipped Cecilia off that it was Mack's birthday; she was all too happy to lay with him until night fell, curfew passed and Mister Dodges returned home.

As soon as the supervisor made sure that all the boys were in bed, he nodded and left the bunkroom. They all waited, eagerly, for the sound of a closing door, followed by a lock. As soon as they knew that he was gone, they sent Runner out to get Mack.

Near three-quarters of an hour later, Runner returned with Mack. Surprisingly, they were alone; none of Cecilia's whores had accompanied the boys back. Just as well, Rip thought. And then, once they all yelled 'Surprise' – along with a variety of lewd comments, having to do with Mack's disheveled state and rather wide rin – he focused solely on having a good time. Just like he had promised to himself, Rip tried to act like the others and enjoy himself.

It's not so easy to have fun. That is why, when the liquor bottles emerged, he was eager to take a sip. He was willing to sacrifice anything, including his sobriety, in order to enjoy himself. He owed it to himself.

It was during the celebration that Rip discovered he had a taste for a cheap yet potent drink, a spirit known as Old Tom Gin. The drink itself was bitter – far worse to the senses than the wine or sarsaparilla ever was – but the effect it had on him was great. He found himself, the night following Mack's birthday celebration, topless, his union suit peeled down to his waist, sleeping on the steps that separated the lobby and the bunkroom. Luckily it was Mack who found him; the older boy, laughing as he did so, was able to get Rip up into his bunk before Mister Dodges arrived at the House.

That day he remained in his bunk. It was not depression that kept him grounded – it was veisalgia. The only thing worse than the headache he had was his desire to drink. The dryness in his mouth was so bad that he kept crawling to the water pump and sticking his face in the spray in order to quench his thirst.

The after effects, however, were not so bad that they kept him from consuming the drink when he could. It was well known that alcohol was not allowed in any of the Children's Aid Society's Homes; it was as equally known that most of the old boys did it – they just knew how to hide it. Rip kept his bottle tucked in the underside of his bunk, resting on the wooden frame.

Much of the rest of August of 1894 passed by Rip Divenize as quickly as the other summer months, and it was seen, almost entirely, through a drunken fog. He quickly learned his limits; he knew how much Gin he could ingest in order to evade the undesirable aftereffects. He was a good drunk. He did not slur like his father did, nor did he grow lour or violent. In fact, it was almost a game of the other boys to tell when Rip had had a drink. It was almost impossible to tell.

If there was one thing that could be said about him, it was that one did not know anything about Rip unless he wanted you to know.