Disclaimer: I own even less than I owned last chapter. Boo.
Note: I keep revisiting this scene despite the fact that it breaks my heart every time I watch it. I think it's because the acting is so good. I can only hope I do them the smallest bit of justice.
PSA: If you should feel inclined to leave feedback, I will send virtual hugs and cupcakes and many, many thanks. :)
For: Russ Tamblyn and George Chakiris. And as always, Tucker Smith.
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
twelve : to your last dying day
.
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.
—William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
.
Sunset over Manhattan, and Ice is ready to go.
The girls are gone now, and Riff is quiet as he runs through battle tactics with his lieutenant, over and over again. His body is still, but his eyes keep darting to the door. Ice is pretty sure he knows who his captain is waiting for. Who even Ice is waiting for, with that kind of reluctant hope he thought he'd lost a long time ago. They shouldn't need Tony, not with the eleven of them and even odds for the rumble that isn't supposed to happen—but it sure would be good to have him.
Every time Doc swings by to straighten a chair or sweep the floor, the old man glances over. It's obvious what's on his mind, but Ice ignores him. If he had a nickel for every worry Doc had about the Jets, he'd be a Rockefeller and out of this sorry neighborhood. For all Doc's warnings, nothing has happened to them yet. In all probability, nothing will tonight, either. They're just kids—what could possibly go wrong? It's strange, thinks Ice, that for all his talk about how young they are, the old man doesn't see that.
As the evening wears on, the Jets filter in, nerves stretched taut to the breaking point. Action shows up first, spitting and cracking and aching to sink his teeth into someone, anyone, but especially a Shark.
"Where the hell is everyone?" he growls, smacking his fist into his hand. "This ain't play-time for the kiddies, Riff!"
The Jet captain eyes him. "Cool it," he cautions, an edge to his voice. "It ain't even quarter-past eight yet."
Action scowls, but crashes into a chair. "They'd better be here, is all I'm gonna say."
"Yeah," Riff says shortly. "Or I'll deal with 'em; dig?"
Ice glances at Action. Riff is clearly in no mood to deal with the shorter Jet's mouth today, and he hopes Action will figure that out. He's of better use to them keeping his mouth shut and toeing the line and saving it until he has a better target tonight.
He's in luck. "Dig," the dark-haired boy mutters, and contents himself with cracking his knuckles with slow, painful intensity. The sound works its way into Ice's brain, ticks the minutes and seconds until it is time. Just an hour. An hour to go, he thinks, until it's over.
.
The twins are next.
"We ready to kick them Sharks home to Puerto Rico?" asks Snowboy, voice a little too loud, as the door to Doc's bangs open to reveal the Boyers. "'Cause I know I am, buddy-boys!" Joyboy says nothing, just flashes a grin and stalks into the store.
Riff lets out a short bark of laughter. "Attaboy, Jets! That's the talk I like to hear."
Ice glances over at them. He can see the faint sheen of sweat on Snowboy's grimy face and the too-bright gleam to Joyboy's blue eyes, and the way both of them can't stand still, even for a minute. Cocky, yes, but not as confident as they seem.
"'Bout time you two showed," says Action sourly. "Thought I was gonna be an old man in my grave 'fore anything happened." He glances at Riff, then, whose face has returned to its hard sternness, and settles back into an uneasy silence, broken only by that slow crack of his hands.
"Nah," says Snowboy, prancing over, "we gotta date with somethin' real special tonight—world domination, takin' over the town, all that jazz—an' we wouldn't miss it for nothin'. Would we, Bobby?"
"Nope," Joyboy says, dropping into a chair. His voice is low, tight, almost an animal growl. "Not even for nothin'."
.
"We was havin' dinner at Tiger's," Mouthpiece informs Riff cheerily as they thump into Doc's. "We had asparrygoggles. An' broccaroni an' cheese."
"Yeah, yeah," Riff waves him off, not even twitching at Mouthpiece's mangled vegetables. "Siddown an' think about how you're gonna take a Shark or three down, will ya?"
"Sure," agrees Tiger, towing Mouthpiece over to the counter, where they perch on stools and dig through the nearest box of sweets. Mouthpiece picks blue and Tiger picks orange and both of them blissfully pop the candy in their mouths. Neither of them, Ice notices, seems too concerned about the rumble.
Riff sighs. "Assumin' he can think. Jesus, if that kid didn't have a punch as hard as his skull—"
Ice shrugs. "But he does."
Riff sighs again. "Small favors, I guess."
.
A few minutes later, Big Deal strolls in, and Ice, doing a double take, waves him over. "Uh, buddy?" he says, clearing his throat, "I don't think the Sharks're gonna be too scared-a ya if they see what color lipstick you're wearin'."
Big Deal blinks before his hands fly to his lips and he grins sheepishly. "I took Clarice out for dinner at my brother-in-law's burger place," he explains, rubbing his pink mouth on his sleeve. "We got, er—distracted—on the way back."
Ice raises an eyebrow and gestures at Gee-Tar, who has just entered the store. "Hope he wasn't tailin' ya."
Big Deal turns and directs a vehement scowl at the other Jet. "Better not've been. Clarice kisses up to him way more'n she oughta, an' I'm sick-a his ugly mug."
Ice shrugs, wondering if Gee-Tar had done as instructed last night and left Clarice alone. "Don't she know ya don't like it?"
Big Deal rolls his eyes. "She oughta by now, but you got a chick; how much does she listen to you? Anyway, I guess it don't matter. I'm the one who's seein' her tonight. I can't wait," he adds with a jaunty grin. "Bernice ain't outta the room all that much, y'know? But she ain't gonna have any trouble findin' a date. Not tonight."
"No," Ice says, glancing at the tense, wound-up Jets around him, caught up in petty tiffs and minor explosions. They are each passing the interval between light and darkness in their own ways, but it all adds up to the same thing: the drive, the push 'til dusk. Time marching on. "I guess not."
.
They are waiting on the rank-and-file when Ice hears Snowboy still talking big about the rumble.
"I'm gonna carve them Sharks up good with just my left pinky," he says, propping his feet on a table and grandstanding for a rapt audience of Tiger, Mouthpiece, and Joyboy. Snowboy tips back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. "An' I'm gonna tie an anchor to the pieces an' throw 'em in the river, so no one ain't ever gonna find 'em. That'll show 'em. An' then—"
"We'll tear up the town," cuts in Joyboy, his feral grin splitting his face. "Fuck, I can't wait."
"That bein' the operative word," Snowboy finishes with a smirk.
Big Deal, swiveling around, raises an eyebrow. "Carole gonna let ya tear up the town, buddy-boy?"
Joyboy scowls. "She'd better. I ain't puttin' up with her marriage bullshit tonight."
Action's fist meets his palm with a loud thud. "Well, I know one Jet who'll be rockin' it tonight. All night."
"Who ya got waitin' on ya?" asks an eager Mouthpiece.
Action gives the tall Jet a hard grin. "Pauline. Who else?"
"Gee, I don't know," Mouthpiece shrugs affably. "There's Susan an' them other girls."
Action snorts. "What, ya think one-a them wannabes could keep up with me after a rumble? Pauline's gonna get all she can handle tonight, buddy-boy."
"I'll bet," mutters Big Deal to Ice, before Gee-Tar clears his throat.
"You goin' over to Clarice's later?" he asks, fidgeting.
Big Deal glares at him. "Yeah. What's it to you?"
"Nothin', just thought I'd ask," Gee-Tar shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "I can ask, can't I?"
Big Deal scowls. "No."
Riff, finally seeming to snap out of the intense concentration he's been sunk in for the last hour, turns to his lieutenant. "I'm plannin' on havin' a ball tonight myself," he mutters with a rakish grin. "You?"
Ice nods, mind only half-present. His fingertips are tracing light, swift circles on the wood of the table, over the fine ridges worn down by age. "Vee's waitin' up for me."
Riff claps his lieutenant on the shoulder. "Yeah, well," he says, "you enjoy yourself too, huh? You're gonna deserve it."
"Yeah," says Ice. He inhales, takes deep, even breaths, and thinks of everything and nothing except tonight. "Okay. I will."
.
"At a movie," a breathless Baby John explains as he and A-Rab finally tumble into the store.
"Yeah, we had a little problem with the popcorn machine, six bottles-a Coke, an' Officer G," says A-Rab, rolling his eyes.
Ice frowns, puzzled, but Riff, cigarette in hand, doesn't even pause. "Okay, everyone here now?"
Ice counts. Eleven. "Yep."
Riff glances around. "Right. Listen up, Jets."
Chairs scrape across the floor as the gang moves in close, avid eyes watching their leader. Ice, who has been through more than a few rumbles with the Jets, recognizes Riff's tone. Here is the part where the captain revs his troops up—as if they needed it—and tells them to give the other gang hell. It's an old hat for a smooth-talker like Riff. But this is the first time he has ever had to do it as leader, and Ice wonders what he will say.
"I an' alla youse know them Puerto Ricans've been dancin' into our territory an' showin' around like it's theirs," Riff says, giving each and every one of them a hard look. "An' I don't know about you, but this is our turf, an' I ain't about to sit back an' let some jumped-up Spics take over the place like it's goddamn San Juan."
There is a chorus of muttered support, punctuated by the crack of a knuckle and the slap of a fist into a palm. The already-high tension in the air is rising, propelled by Riff's low, intense voice.
"So this is it. Tonight, buddy-boys," says Riff, dark gaze still flickering from Jet to Jet, "we're gonna stop them PRs once and for all. They started it—an' we're gonna finish it. Our way."
Once again, the Jets sound their agreement, louder this time, and Ice breathes in and out. It's been awhile since their last rumble—months—and all of them are amped up, ready to go and finally end this thing with the Sharks. Fighting is what the Jets do best, and he has no doubt as to who will be coming out on top tonight. Whether or not it turns into an all-out rumble. And then—
Ice shakes his head and narrows his eyes. He has to concentrate and not let himself get distracted by later, he reminds himself, or later will be a lot longer in coming than he'd like.
Riff grins, and adopts a lighter tone. "Now, on paper it's a fair fight between the Spic an' our buddy-boy, here," he says, clapping a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder. "An' I ain't worried one little bit. We all know the Puerto Rican punk'll go down in about three seconds."
"Gee, really?" asks Mouthpiece, jaw dropping. "That quick?"
Riff grins. "One—two—three," he says, snapping his fingers on the last word. "Just like that. Ice is gonna flatten him good. Right, buddy-boy?"
Ice inhales all the way down to the bottom of his lungs and nods—once, twice, each time hard and fast. One, two, three. Just like that. "Right."
"An' if he tries to put one over on ya," says Riff, "you know we got your back, buddy-boy."
Ice half-smiles then. Do they ever. "Right," he repeats. His vision is so clear right now, as it always is before a rumble. He can see the dust floating through the air, the grain of the wooden beam by the pinball machine. Every color is sharp and bright. Tonight, he thinks, Bernardo is going down. The streets will be theirs, uncontested, and everyone will know who the real gang is in the Upper West Side. And if the PRs don't like it? Tough.
Baby John's high voice pierces his thoughts. "But what if the Sharks start a rumble?"
Riff grins, long and slow. "Oh, if they do—an' they will—we'll rumble 'em right. Count on it, kid."
Baby John gives a shaky smile. Ice eyes him and wonders if the kid will prove himself better than he did in the last rumble, with the Emeralds. Tony had to save his neck then, and he is not around to do it now. And if things get bad…
He'll be all right, Ice reassures himself. Baby John has gotten into so many scrapes and lived to tell the tale that by now Ice is beginning to feel that no matter what, he's always going to get out of them. Somehow. He'll be all right.
"Now," says Riff, glancing around, "we're gonna go load up. An' we're gonna go to the rumble, an' one way or another, the Jets are gonna pummel them Sharks into the ground til they holler uncle. An' then we're gonna go have some fun with the chicks. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Everyone dig?"
Every Jet nods. Their faces are hard, dark, hungry for battle, limbs tense and ready to spring. And in the years to come, Ice will remember this moment as the last before everything came crashing down.
Riff takes one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. "Then let's move out, Jets."
.
They make their way out of the candy store and sneak around to the back, where the Jets scale the fence and cross the trash-littered alley behind Doc's to his cellar, their longtime armory. They've kept their weapons there from the very beginning, and even if Tony really has gone the straight and narrow, they know he still figures what Doc doesn't know is under the loose floorboards won't hurt him. Anyway, it's the Jets' stuff, and if Tony really isn't a Jet anymore, then he has no say in it.
Ice watches as Tiger jumps down into the stairwell and begins handing the goods out. Every gang worth its salt has a stockpile of weaponry it keeps for times like this, and the Jets, over the years, have built up one of the best. They've got it all: beat-up hammers, wrenches, belts, chains, ice picks, and last of all, their prize—big, serrated knives nabbed off a couple of jumped-up wannabes way back when Tony was leader and they never lacked for action. Each Jet has his preferred weapon, an old friend that knows the touch of his hand and has seen rumbles before, and when he takes it, he is ready for anything.
Ice, though, hangs back. He has his own blade that he keeps safe in his back pocket, and since he's going to start out fighting barehanded and the Spic is lighter than him anyway, he doesn't want to be weighed down with anything heavier than that. With any luck, he's not going to use it, but by now, Ice has learned, it's better to be safe than sorry with a someone else's knife in your back.
Instead he edges near Riff. "Tony comin'?" he asks in a low voice as they near the highway. He hasn't seen Tony since that morning, and if anyone knows, it's Riff.
Riff nods, once, twice. "Yeah. Yeah," he repeats, louder the second time. "He'll be there." But his voice is even less sure than it was the day before, and Ice realizes that Riff really doesn't know. Which means Tony is so far gone that even the person who knows him best has no clue what he's doing. It's an unsettling thought.
Still, Ice knows that Riff is counting on his best buddy showing, just like at the dance last night. So he nods. "It's Tony," he says, remembering the good old days. "He'll be there."
Riff just inclines his head, but by now Ice knows him well enough to understand the slight gesture and thumps his fist into his palm, mostly to cover his slight embarrassment. Ice would do a lot for Riff. This tacit support, this shared memory of Riff's best friend—this is nothing.
Riff glances around, and his rounded face takes on that hard intensity again. "Everybody ready?" Receiving confirmation in the steady gazes of his gang members, he nods. "Let's go."
.
As the blood-red sky turns to deep violet to the dark color of New York City night, they move, crossing the concrete streets to their destination under the highway. The Jets are focused, intense, a single unit traveling through the night in silence only broken by the occasional clank of a chain or thud of a fist against palm. They keep to the back alleys and the shadows, mindful of Schrank's threats. They have come too far to be stopped by an outsider now.
A series of chain-link fences and a couple of 'No Trespassing' signs later, they are staring up at the concrete wall that divides them from their designated battleground.
"Weapons," Riff says, and in the silence that follows every Jet pockets his personal insurance. If and when the fair fight escalates into a rumble, it won't be the Jets who begin it.
They scale the wall one after another, Riff first. Ice follows him, and as they spread out along the narrow ledge he glances down. All eleven of the Sharks are already there, lined up grim-faced in the concrete pit under the highway, waiting for them. Even numbers, unless a certain someone else comes along. Not that it's supposed to matter.
Bernardo gives them an unimpressed stare, and Riff takes the ten-foot drop with ease. The Jets follow his lead, and Ice, sizing the situation up, inhales, slow and deep. It isn't as if he and Bernardo have never matched fists before, but tonight—with control of the streets and their lives on the line, both gangs looking on, emotions riding high—there can be no losing. Ice isn't stupid; he knows the Shark is lighter and probably quicker on his feet than him, but he knows his own advantages, too: a couple knockout punches, and the fight is his. He and Riff have gone over this backwards, forwards, sideways, every which way from Sunday, and it all comes down to the same thing: if Ice can get to Bernardo in the first few moments and level him, there isn't much the PR will be able to do after. And at this point, Ice is done talking about how to beat him; all he wants now is to actually do it, win this one for the Jets and head back to Velma's as fast as his feet will take him, and—
He shakes his head. That is exactly what he can't do: let his mind wander, no matter how tempting the distraction is, because the other thing Riff hammered into his head is that if Ice doesn't concentrate on Bernardo's quick, darting movements, it will be over, then, too. But not in the way he wants.
The Puerto Rican removes his jacket, dark eyes never leaving them. "Ready." His voice is a low, smooth growl.
His friend, the boy who takes his jacket—Ice only has a vague idea who he is but it's easy to see he's not a factor at all—sounds almost nervous. "Ready."
Ice takes this as his cue to strip his jacket off, too, and hand it to Riff, his second. Too many layers equals excess bulk equals distraction. "Ready."
Riff passes the jacket behind him. "Ready." There is the briefest pause, and then he moves forward into the center of the pavement. "Now," he directs, "move in an' shake hands."
Ice does what his captain says, strides forward and extends his palm, but Bernardo takes one deliberate step back.
"For what?"
And Ice stops, eyeing the Puerto Rican with contempt. His hand isn't good enough to shake?
"Huh," says Riff with an incredulous snort, "well, that's the way it's done, buddy-boy."
"Ah. More gracious living," mocks Bernardo, his dark features twisted up in a sneer. "Look, every one of you hates every one of us, and we hate you right back. Let's get at it."
Riff raises a derisive hand. "Sure," he agrees. It's obvious what he's thinking, and Ice agrees: what the hell kind of gang members are the Sharks, anyway, if they don't even play by the rules? It just, thinks Ice, narrowing his eyes as Riff pulls him back for a last minute huddle with the Jets, makes him that much more determined to show the PRs who's boss.
The Jets are buzzing encouragement; their energy is sparking, crackling, bursting into his skin. Ice can feel their need to go, to pound the Sharks into the ground, and as the chosen representative for that will, he is determined not to let them down.
"You know what to do, buddy-boy," says Riff, clapping a heavy hand on his side as the Jet press in close all around them.
Ice nods, gearing himself up for that moment when everything becomes clear and moves so slowly that he knows exactly what to do because this is what he does. This is what he's here for. This is it. This is for the Jets.
Riff nods back, eyes alight. "Go."
And Ice turns back to the center of the space underneath the highway and waits, tense and half-crouched in a defensive stance as the Jets quiet and Bernardo crosses himself. Say your prayers, Shark, he thinks, readying himself for the fight that is about to begin. You'll need them.
At last Bernardo is up and moving, darting in front of him, movements quick and sure. His defenses are up, but so are Ice's, and with the Jets shouting their support at his back their lieutenant is invincible tonight. He narrows his eyes, waiting, watching for an opening. Finally Bernardo lunges, feints, backs up almost into the crowd of Jets. Ice hurls a punch at him and now they are really getting started and hell, this is what he lives for, the thrill of the fight and the blood racing through his veins and the adrenaline, oh, God, the adrenaline rush is like almost nothing he's ever felt before. Come on, you Spic, he thinks savagely, come and get it.
And he does. Bernardo's fist comes rushing in again and again, but Ice blocks him every time. This is easy, this is his, this is what he was born for—
He almost thinks he hears something. The patter of footsteps, maybe, but it isn't until a voice comes ringing through the concrete space that Ice recognizes it as the one he's been waiting for.
"Hold it!"
Tony is halfway over the chain-link fence when Ice, Bernardo, and every other gang member there pauses. Ice feels a hand on his back; it's Riff, dashing forward.
"Tony!" he greets, excitement barely contained. "Get with the gang! It's all okay," he reassures Ice as he rejoins the Jets.
And Ice, impatient, brings up his fists again to challenge Bernardo. No one's even landed anything, but as Bernardo crouches Ice is confident the fight will be his. One punch. That is all he—
"No!"
Out of nowhere, Tony comes barreling over and pushes him back. Ice glances at his former leader, confused. He isn't the only one.
"Tony, what're ya doin'?" asks Riff, and with that, Ice takes another step back. If even Riff doesn't know…what is Tony doing?
"Maybe he has found the guts to fight his own battles," suggests Bernardo, the hateful scowl back on his face. Tony turns, and Ice waits for him to slug the Spic just like old times, because maybe for once the Shark is right: Tony should be the one to take him down. It's his girl, his fight, and even though Ice is aching to wipe the sneer off Bernardo's ugly mug, Tony's got the right to do it first.
But Tony, panting and breathing hard, just takes a few steps forward, closer to the line of Shark. "It don't take guts," he says, "if ya got a battle. We ain't got one. Not none-a us! Okay, 'Nardo?"
"Tony!" bursts Riff to Ice's right, voice unguarded and shocked. And cool, calm, unruffled Ice is feeling almost panicked at this point, because Tony, good old, loyal, reliable Tony, is actually putting his hand forward like he expects the PR to shake it; oh, God, Ice of all people knows that dames make you do funny things, but Tony can't really have turned that dumb, right?
The Shark sends him crashing to the concrete with a snarl. "Bernardo!"
"Hold it!" Riff shouts, dashing between Jets and Sharks, trying to regain control of the situation. Ice watches, still stunned, as Riff talks fast and low, holding up his hands as if to physically hold his best friend and his rival apart. "Now let's just cool it—the deal is a fair fight between you and Ice. Come on," he says, backing up and grabbing Tony's arm, "get with the gang."
But Bernardo, it seems, is still itching for a shot at Tony. "Mother hen protecting the little one?" he jeers, mocking eyes fixed on Riff and Tony. "I'll give you a battle, gallito!"
Ice doesn't know what the hell that means but if Riff says it's his fight, he's damn well going to win it. His fists are rising again as he moves toward Bernardo. "You've got one!"
But Tony is there, again, racing up to hold him back even as the Shark grins. "I'll take pretty boy on as a warm-up—"
Shoved back with the Jets, Ice can only stare as Tony stands still and Bernardo runs his mouth.
"Afraid, pretty boy?" the Shark taunts, white teeth flashing in the gloom. "Afraid, gutless? Afraid, chicken?" And he reaches forward and pushes Tony's shoulder.
Riff whips forward. "Cut it—"
But Tony thrusts him away. "No!"
Riff pauses, moves back. And Tony opens his mouth again. "I don't wanna, Bernardo," he says, and Ice, hearing his shaking, uncertain voice, can't believe it is really Tony up there, moving forward like he's their friend, like he's one of them—
"Oh, I'm sure!" Bernardo laughs, lunging forward with his fist again and again as Tony dodges. And if Ice is hearing him right, Tony is trying to stop the fight even as Bernardo takes every opportunity to jab at him—
"Now listen to me—"
"Are you chicken?"
"—there's nothin' to fight about—"
"The hell there ain't!" Riff barks. Bernardo slices forward, but still Tony persists—
"You got it wrong—"
What the hell is going on? Ice wonders blankly as he watches, shaking his head as things move faster and faster because he can't believe what his eyes are telling him. Almost without knowing it, he reaches out, seizes his friend's shoulder, just as all the other Jets surge forward, yelling encouragement. His mind is tumbling with thoughts that all mean the same thing: Tony, what the hell are you doing, come on, fight like a man, not like you ain't got the guts, show the damn Spic how to rumble—
And Tony turns to him and the Jets and his face is desperate, pleading—
"—why can't you understand—"
And Bernardo rears up and kicks Tony in the back, sends him stumbling forward. "Understand, chicken!"
And now Tony is back up on his feet, fists up and eyes hard and now, now Tony is back with them, thinks Ice in relief, in love or not, now he'll crush Bernardo just like he crushed every other gang that came their way back in the old days. The Jets are shouting out their support, all of them eager to see Tony finally tear into the guy, and even the Sharks are urging him on, hungry for blood—
But Tony's blue eyes flicker, and Ice's mouth drops open as Tony's fists uncurl and he gazes at his hands—Tony is practically trembling and Ice doesn't understand this at all. What the fuck is going on?
At this, the Shark leader spreads his hands in disbelief. "Hey!" he snorts derisively, darting past and kicking Tony again. "He is chicken!"
Tony turns around, faces the Sharks who are chiming in with their scorn. "Hey, pretty boy!" calls one, and Ice grits his teeth as he sees another perched on the back of Bernardo's second, clucking and flapping his arms. He doesn't need to guess what the implication is. And Bernardo is actually slapping Tony's face and yet he is still trying to talk to them—
"—you yellow-bellied chicken—!"
No, no, no, why is Tony just standing there and taking this—what the hell? Ice grabs Tony's shoulders to shake some sense into him but Tony just whips around, his eyes overbright and blazing desperately and God, he's never looked at Ice that way, he's never looked at any of the Jets that way—
"—don't push me—!"
"—come on, you yellow-bellied Polack—"
—Riff rears back—bursts—slams his fist into Bernardo—
—and suddenly, everything has changed.
Bernardo lands flat on his back on the pavement, and for a moment, no one can move as he springs up, brings his hand to his face, and turns back to Riff. All the laughter is gone from his eyes. He is deadly serious now.
Riff tears off his jacket, flings it at Joyboy, reaches for his back pocket as Bernardo goes for his. And in another moment, what little light there is from the yellow streetlamps glints off the blades of two knives.
The two gangs back up against the walls, giving their leaders space enough to run, duck, dodge, do anything they need to win. All except Tony, who races forward. "Riff, what're ya doin'—"
The Jet captain flings him off and whips back to face Bernardo's blade again. "Get outta here, Tony!"
"Riff, don't!" shouts Tony, flailing for his friend again, and Ice sprints forward because Riff is in the fight now and if Tony's not careful, he's going to mess it up—
"Hold him!" Riff roars, and Ice and Tiger drag the struggling Tony as far as they can get him to make damn sure he can't interfere.
Tony, bucking and jerking to get free, won't give up. "Ice—lemme go!"
No way, thinks Ice grimly, hanging on to his friend's arm. I don't know what's wrong with you right now, but you're staying the hell out of this.
The two leaders are crouched and circling each other, mouths open and eyes wide and alert. Riff feints; Bernardo calls his bluff. They go back and forth, darting their knives at each other until Bernardo pushes Riff back toward the wall. But Riff is an old hand at this—he kicks toward the Shark's knife hand and drives him back, regaining his ground before their fight resumes. Things are moving quickly now, and Ice struggles to hold Tony back as Riff overreaches and sends his knife flying in a long gleaming arc toward the fence. Riff doesn't lose his cool; he reaches back and connects his foot with Bernardo's back and topples him to the concrete. But Bernardo, jumping up again, still has his knife—
Riff knows it just as well as they do, and when the Shark captain rushes at him, he drops to the pavement and sends Bernardo flying back to the fence, too. And he's done it, thinks Ice, straining to see, the Shark has lost his knife—
But as Riff dashes forward, Bernardo manages to yank the blade back out of the way before the Jet can get to it. He's still down and now he's taking a page from Riff's book and hooking his leg around Riff's to trip him. Riff stumbles, falls, is up again in an instant, his back crashing against the chain-link fence as Bernardo approaches, but Riff doesn't have a knife—
Every Jet besides Ice and Tiger moves forward, aching, bursting to even the odds and the Sharks are right there with them—
"Keep outta this!"
Riff's shouted command is more deadly serious than any of the Jets have ever heard him, and as they freeze, so do the Sharks. And without any warning at all, Tony begins struggling to get free again, his voice ringing out in the utter silence.
"Somebody stop him!" he cries, trying to shake Ice and Tiger loose. Ice holds on tenaciously; there is no way in hell this is stopping now. "Ice—Tiger—!"
No one is listening to him. It's the sound of cars echoing down through the maze underneath the highway that seems to shake the gang members awake. Both Jets and Sharks move cautiously back along the walls, faces guarded and suspicious, to watch as Bernardo, breathing hard, flips his knife in the air, a taunting challenge. A beat. And then the Shark tosses it from his right hand to his left, holds it high in the air. Look at this, he seems to be saying, raising the knife in his right hand again. Who's got the power now?
Ice watches as Riff wipes his palms on his pants and readies himself for Bernardo's approach. He doesn't have long to wait before the Puerto Rican lunges, driving forward with his blade to stab at Riff's stomach. The Jet leader, though, is waiting and uses Bernardo's arm to propel him forward instead. He dives to the concrete and rolls away; Bernardo follows and Riff reverses course.
And Action, at the ready, dashes forward, holding out his knife. "Riff—Riff!"
Riff spins—takes the knife—whirls back around with a triumphant growl, and Bernardo stops his headlong rush as he sees that his opponent is armed again. He aims, thrusts, looking for an opening, but the Jet captain is too quick and too confident; Riff dodges—slices—and the next time Ice gets a good look he sees that Riff has slashed the back of Bernardo's shirt.
"Stop him!" cries Tony, but no one is listening—
The Shark is off-balance now, arms flailing as he staggers—stumbles—rights himself—but it's too late, Riff is there to send him back down again and now both of them are on the concrete and Riff is raising his knife—
Ice doesn't know how it happens, but just as he's craning his neck to see his captain end it, he feels Tony rip loose.
"Riff, don't!"
Tony drags Riff back, but Riff isn't about to let his best friend stop him from finishing this fight, and as soon as he gets free, he runs back to Bernardo, who's up and waiting for him, and—
Riff stops. Ice, furrowing his brow, frowns. Riff's back is to him, and he can't see why neither him nor Bernardo is moving an inch.
And then Riff staggers, just a little bit, and Ice starts to grasp that something is horribly, terribly wrong. Riff turns back to Tony, holding his knife out, and for the first time Ice can see that Bernardo's blade is stained red.
And—oh God, there's—Riff's—
There's not a lot of blood, but Ice knows what it means, anyway.
And then Riff collapses to the ground, and the monumental awfulness of the horrible thing that has just happened hits Ice like a blow to the head. Riff—a Jet from those first heady days when they were just picking up members for their ragtag little gang, swearing one day they were going to make something of themselves, one of the best friends he's ever had, the closest thing to a brother in his life, Riff—
Tony—poor, stupid Tony—takes his best friend's dying gift, leaps forward, and slams it into Bernardo—
And everything goes to hell.
Ice doesn't know which Shark it is he pulls over to the fence and he definitely doesn't care; all he knows is that some kid in a red jacket and a leather wristband is going to pay for the fact that Ice couldn't get the job done, that he couldn't put Bernardo away before Bernardo put Riff away. No. No. No, he thinks—though it's less thinking than it is feeling, because thinking about Riff falling lifeless to the pavement is impossible—with every punch into the Shark, God, no. Not Riff.
Ice loses himself in mechanically pounding the Shark into a pulp, the way he always has when faced with something that cannot, will not be understood. This is how he cherry-picks every punch for maximum impact. This is how he tries to make the Shark hurt like he hurts, even though there is no way there can be any comparison. The most this kid is going to lose tonight is a few weeks in a hospital, he thinks grimly. That's nothing—less than nothing—compared to a best—
In the fog of his mind, a siren registers.
He's not the only one who's noticed. Action, on the other side of the concrete space, gives his Shark one last blow, and bolts. Others follow, and Ice, having no desire to spend the night in the slammer, shoves his Shark to the ground and scrambles up the nearest ladder and into the night. He doesn't think—can't think—about who, and what, he is leaving behind. Oh, God, Ice thinks, his heartbeat an irregular pounding staccato as he concentrates on just putting one foot in front of the other and getting the hell out of there, oh, God.
.
All he knows is that he has to find her.
Ice runs up over the rooftops, down the fire escapes, through the alleys, racing time and death to get to the one place that holds any sanity at all, because if he doesn't, he knows he will fall, just like Riff did. And he can't. For himself, for her, and for the Jets, Ice has to keep it—and therefore all of them—together. It's his job. And once he sees all the Jets again, he will do it. He will find a way out of this mess. He will lead. Because if he doesn't—they are done for.
But just for this moment, he's not frozen cold Ice, leader by default of the gang that has just proved its willingness in all-too-real blood to die in defense of these streets. He's just John Kelly, running desperate and terrified through the city to find the one thing that can save him right now.
It doesn't take him long before he reaches Velma's apartment and climbs as silently as he can up the steps of the fire escape and in through her open window. The last thing he needs right now is for her parents to wake up, he thinks in the quiet, detached part of his brain, although how such a thing can still matter is harder to understand for the other, younger part of him that is just scared out of his mind.
He drops into her cool dim room, and it's like he's entered another world where death and murder don't exist and can't touch him here. (Except, he wonders vaguely, he might be bringing it in now, and if so, what does that mean for her, for him, for them?) Velma's fallen asleep; probably while getting ready, he figures, because she's not quite dressed. He hopes her dreams are sweet as he moves to sit on the bed, because that's about all that's sweet about the world these days. And he hates to wake her up into this horrible, awful nightmare, but he has to.
"Vee," he whispers urgently. "Vee, wake up."
Her eyes flicker open; she's murmuring his name and asking about the fight, but all he can think is oh, God, oh, God, Riff, and he can't answer, can't do anything but reach for her and lose himself in the only thing in his world that hasn't been shattered into pieces tonight. He needs to forget, he needs release, he needs—
"Vee," he breathes so quietly he hopes she won't hear him. In this silent darkness his life has been reduced to that one single word. "Oh, God. Vee."