LOST Chapter 3: Are you okay, honey?, a newsies fanfic

Author's Note: Well, last chapter got 14 reviews (WOOT!), so here is the next chapter. It's even longer than chapter two; I think that I'm looking at 3,000 words a chapter to be about the average, once I get into the swing of things. I'm still floored at the response to this story and I hope that you guys like the next chapter, too. And the same thing will hold true – if this chapter gets 10 reviews, then I will update again this weekend. Otherwise, I will update it again next Wednesday. I really (x a jillion) appreciate the reviews and, once I'm done being lazy, I will try to reply to any reviews that need replies. As anyone who reads my stories know, I'm really bad at doing that but, if you leave a question, I will definitely get back to you. Well, here's chapter three – enjoy! PS, any Diabo readers – I hope to have the next chapter out today. I've definitely developed severe writer's block on that :P

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is property of their respective owner and will be noted in the disclaimer – Rae Kelly-Conlon is the property of Rae and is used with her permission. The core idea to this story – the adaptation of the Broadway musical, RENT, is © 1996 to Jonathan Larson.

How can you connect in an age where strangers, landlords, lovers, your own blood cells betray?
Because one can never be sure if such a moment could be the last...

October 18, 2006

Are you okay, honey?
I'm afraid so…

There was a slight twinge in David's stomach as he removed the phone from his ear and stared at the receiver. "Hmmm…"

"'Hmmm…' what?" Jack asked, vaguely interested. In truth, he was much more interested than he let on but he was not going to let David know that. God forbid Jack started asking questions; David would keep him up all night talking if he thought he had an audience – definitely not what he wanted to do when he was quite content to wallow in his own misery. He had never liked Christmas, anyway.

David shook his head and set the phone back down on its cradle. "I don't know. I mean, that was Blink but—"

"Blink?" Though it was hard to make out through the darkness of the loft, a genuine grin had come to Jack's face. "He's back in the City? Man, I haven't seen his ugly mug in… how long has he been gone, Dave?"

"Seven months," David answered absently, shaking his head, as he crossed back over to the sofa. Once he had regained his perch for the evening he jerked his thumb back over to the phone. "It was just strange, though. Blink said he was just outside and—"

"I figured that much. You know, the whole throwing your keys out the window kind of gave that away," Jack said, cutting him off. He swiveled in his seat and nodded to the window. "Unless you were offering our keys to the electricity gods to get our lights back on."

"— I tossed him my keys… Jack. Stop interrupting me, alright?"

"Sorry."

He did not sound the least bit sorry but, at least, he did turn back to face David. David sighed and tried to continue in his train of thought. "Anyway… Damn it, Jack. Now I forgot what I was saying."

"Must not have been that important then," Jack said, shrugging.

David opened his mouth to retort that everything he says is important but, before he could get out a word, the phone rang. Again.

Ring. Ring.

David never had been one for aim. Blink could not help but remember how, back in the day, when they were all kids, Jack used to make David the catcher in their quick baseball games. As Jack figured it then, all he had to do was stand there and catch the balls Jack threw at him. Hell, even Sarah had better aim than him; after they finally agreed to let her play ball with them, she became their first baseman.

All this was running through his head as he searched the gravel for David's keys. His toss had missed Blink's waiting palm by about two feet and now it was up to Blink to find them.

With a triumphant grin, he spotted them. Quickly, before David had even returned to his end of the phone line, he scooped them up and straightened.

"Blink? You find the key?"

Even Dave knows he can't throw… Blink lifted his right hand and jingled the keys next to the mouthpiece of the phone.

He could almost here the mild annoyance when David spoke next. "Alright. I'll see you in a few." David always had been too uptight for his own good.

"Sur—" Blink began but was cut off when he felt a tapping on his worn brown coat. It was an old coat, slightly short on his gangly frame, and it smelled of mothballs. He was glad he had not needed to wear it when he was out in California – it made him itch.

He turned his head and looked over his shoulder to see who was tapping his shoulder. The only thing he could see out of his good eye was the glinting knife that was lifted up. The knife was being held by a goon with at least four inches on Blink; he had two lackeys, even taller than the knife-wielder, standing just behind him. Blink gulped. "Wait, Dave. I might be awhile."

One of the men flanking their leader reached forward and took the payphone out of Blink's hand and slammed it down before taking his step back. The shorter man nodded and seemed to rotate the knife slowly. "Give us your cash," he demanded in a low, grave tone.

Blink felt like he was about to piss his pants out of fear. He had lived in New York City almost all of his twenty-three years and never been mugged; he leaves for seven months and, on his first night back, he has some thug waving a knife around. Great.

There was only one problem, though: Blink did not have any money on him at all. Would these men believe him? Probably not.

Before the shorter man could do anything, Blink picked his suitcase up off of the sidewalk and swung as hard as he could. His swing hit the leader square in his chest, forcing him to drop his knife out of surprise. Blink let go of the suitcase handle and began to run.

Unfortunately for Blink, the mugging attempt seemed to rattle his brain. Instead of running toward the building for help, or even into a cross street, he found himself heading straight into a blocked alleyway. It was no surprise when he heard the telltale sound of his muggers' footsteps right behind him – or when one of the bigger brutes came up behind him and knocked him to the ground with one sound punch to the back of the head.

Much of what happened next was a blur. There was a flurry of punches and kicks and intense pain. Blink tried as hard as he could to fight back but that only enticed the men to hit him harder. The only good thing about the attack – if you can believe that there is anything good at all about such a fight – was that the leader of the other two either did not have time to pick up his knife or did not feel the need to use it. He may have gotten the crap kicked out of him but at least he did not get stabbed.

Once they finally beat him into submission and Blink was lying sprawled out on the cold concrete of the ground, breathing heavily in an attempt to deny the pain, the men each spit on him. But, of course, not before they raided his pockets and, upon finding nothing but an empty wallet and a subway token, stole his coat from his battered torso.

It was cold out, Connor Meyers knew, but it was still Christmas Eve. So, rather than head back home to his one room apartment, he pulled his wool hat down over his tight dark brown curls and tightened his coat around him. He continued to walk, carrying his empty plastic paint tub as he went. It was not really the money he was after that night but the feeling that he was spreading the holiday cheer. In his opinion, there was no better place to spread cheer than in the East Village of New York City.

He had been walking around the Village, pausing every few blocks or so, banging out a song on the bottom side of his tub. It may not be as classy as a real drum but, with the use of his wooden drumsticks, it sounded nice. And, besides, it was quite difficult to go door to door, singing Christmas Carols, in Alphabet City. He would do his share by drumming out tunes on the street corners. And if someone happened to donate some money… well, that was just a plus.

He decided, just as he hit Avenue B, that it was time to warm his hands up again with some more drumming. He removed the sticks from the waist band of his blue jeans before placing the tub on the ground, mouth down. "Here we are," he said to himself, noting the smoke that came out when he breathed out. It really was cold.

He had only gotten through one round of 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'Deck the Halls' – and made three quarters, two dimes and a couple of Canadian pennies – and was deciding on what to drum out next when he heard a noise. It was quite unlike the sound of the cars that kept passing by or of someone out for a brisk walk. To Connor, it sounded as if someone was breathing heavily and moaning every few seconds. He paused and listened harder.

"Fuck."

There was someone behind him, breathing heavily, moaning and cursing loudly.

Connor drew himself up from his knees, made sure that he had not missed any of the change passerbyers threw at him, and grabbed around the middle of his tub. He spun and looked into the side street that was behind him. If he squinted, he could make out someone walking from the ends of the alleyway. The person was doubled over, walking slowly. "Shit," the boy at the end said and Connor began to rush forward. No doubt about it, this person was the one he had heard – and he needed help.

The injured boy did not seem to notice him as he approached. Connor placed his bucket down a few steps away before tentatively walking over to him; the blonde boy was resting against a brick building's side wall. "Hey there…"

Blink flinched before lifting his head. For a brief moment, he had thought that his attackers had come back to finish off the job. But, as he made eye contact with the person before him, the only thought he had was: He's an angel. I've died and gone to Heaven.

His angel was an olive-skinned young man, around his age, maybe a year younger or so. He was wearing a white coat with a matching woolen hat that helped to make him appear all the more angelic. His hair was dark, almost as dark as his eyes, and he was extending a hand forward to him. There was a look of concern on his beautiful face. "Are you okay, honey?" His voice was as sweet as his face.

The pain came rushing back as he tried to take a step forward to his angel. The aching sensation was enough to remind him that he had not died – which mean that the boy before him was real. He let out an exhale. "I'm afraid so."

The angel shook his head. "I don't think so. Look at you." He had seen how hard it was for him to move so he moved closer instead. He gestured to Blink's split lip, where a faint trickle of blood was still making its way down his chin. "You're bleeding," he said, reaching forward to wipe away at the blood.

Despite the pain, Blink moved away from the angel's hand. He could not risk the angel being sullied by his dirty blood. "No, really. I'll be fine."

There was a brief moment when his angel appeared to be slightly offended at his movement before a look of realization crossed his face. "My name is Connor but you can call me Mush," he said, offering his nickname as a gesture of friendship.

Blink, most unlike himself, met Mush's friendly gaze shyly. "Blink," he replied, lifting his shivering hand (it was cold, damn it, and those fuckers stole my coat!) to his eye patch in explanation of his own nickname.

"You're freezing," Connor – Mush noticed before shrugging off his coat and offering it to Blink.

Blink did not take the coat. Instead, he glanced down at his bare arms. "Fucking muggers stole my damn coat."

"Then take mine, Blink," Mush said, still holding out the coat. He took another step closer to Blink. "Come, let me take you home and clean you up," he added. Blink flinched again and drew away but, at Mush's next words, he stopped and let his newfound angel wipe at his chin. "Maybe, after that, you can come with me to one of my support meetings. It's for people with AIDS. Like me."

Mush thought he might be giving too much away with his words but he seemed to get the impression from Blink that he might be suffering the same fate; at the very least, he knew Blink was attracted to him. Even though it was dark and he was obviously hurt, he had seen Blink looking him over appreciatively. Which was a good thing – he thought that the blone boy was quite good-looking in his own right, even if his face was covered in blood. "I won't take 'no' for an answer," he added, quirking his lips into a grin.

Blink smiled back, the effect being that he looked all the worse. But Mush became even more smitten. "I'd love to," Blink added. "Go with you to your meeting, that is. I could use some support with my AIDS, too."

"Great," Mush replied. "I mean, not great that you have AIDS but great that you'll come." He was rambling and he knew it but Blink did not seem to mind; at any rate, he looked happier than he had when Mush found him.

"Here," Mush said, offering Blink his coat again. This time, Blink took it and put it on. The coat, still warm from the heat of Mush's body, seemed to make most of the pain go away.

Or maybe that was just because it belonged to his angel.

"Hi. You've reached the residence of David Jacobs and Jack Kelly. We're not her—"

As soon as the phone began to ring David crossed the apartment – again – and reached for the phone, cutting off the beginning of the message. Assuming it was Blink calling back, he picked it up without even screening it first. He probably should not have done that. "Blink?"

"Mouth. How are ya?"

Inwardly, David groaned. There were only two people that he knew with the penchant for giving everyone they came across nicknames – Jack Kelly and Liam 'Spot' Conlon. Calling David 'Mouth', as in the 'Walking Mouth' because he never shut up, was one of Spot's. Everyone else knew that David hated the name – only Spot continued to call him that. "Spot. Hi."

"Spot's on the phone. Great," Jack called from the other side of the room. He had abandoned all pretenses of not listening to who was calling them. "Tell that asshat to turn the power back on."

David hushed him before turning his attention back to the phone. He just hoped Spot could not hear him. Somehow, he doubted that Spot would turn the power back on if he heard Jack calling him an 'asshat'. "I'm sorry, Spot. I didn't catch that. Jack was talking."

"Ah, Cowboy," Spot said, using Jack's nickname – another of Spot's. Jack, when they were younger, was always dreaming of taking off with Sarah to the city of Santa Fe, in New Mexico. Said he couldn't stand New York anymore and wanted to go somewhere where the sun was bigger. As a joke, Spot had started to call him 'Cowboy'; he thought the entire West Coast was made up of jeans-wearing, horse-riding, yippee-calling yahoos. He even bought Jack a cowboy hat the year he started dating Rae Kelly (of the Upper East Side Kelly's – definitely no relation to Jack). "How is our resident hermit?"

It was one thing for David to call attention to Jack's self-imposed exile from the real world – he lived with Jack and had to deal with him on a daily basis. Spot had no right. But, of course, David did not tell him that. Ex-friend and roommate or not, he was still the landlord. "He's fine, Spot."

"Good. Well, I guess I'll see for myself in a few. I'm on my way over now."

David was so taken aback by Spot's statement that he repeated it. "You're on your way over? Now?"

"What? Fuck!" Jack struggled to get to his feet – he was almost swallowed up by the stuffing of the old sofa – before hurrying over to the phone. "Spot's coming here? What the hell for?"

This time, Spot heard him. He laughed, using that condescending, I'm-better-than-you-nah-nah laugh he had. "Tell Jacky-boy that I love him, too. And, yes, I'm coming. Now. I need to collect the rent."

"Rent? What rent?" Jack asked, speaking around David and into the phone.

"Last year's rent. You know, the money that normal people have to pay in order to live inside a building in the City. You owe me."

"Fuck that," Jack shot back, angrily. He was glad to finally have someone to take his bad mood out on. "You told us that, when your daddy-in-law bought this dump, we didn't have to pay you shit."

Spot laughed again. "I'll be there in a few, boys."

For the second time that night, the phone went dead. And David promised himself that, next time, he would let the machine get it – even if it was his mother calling back.