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: So here we go onward to extrapolate upon the ideas!
Warning: PG (slight sexual innuendo)
i.)
his eyes are all java&jazz
something's always brewing&unresolved
leather/westward bound
he has such big dreams
they're spilling over into hers
tonight she doesn't mind so much
-------------------->> >> > (she doesn't dream)
Boy Vagabond was never good at keeping a low profile. Even tucked into a dark corner like his memories or sitting alone like his dreams he had a manner which drew attention. Everyone noticed when he was there (like they would notice any proper tragedy) but only she noticed when he was gone. While he wasn't a regular to the coffee shop (she would know – she works too much) she could tell you what he would order (a cup of that day's special herbal tea) and she could tell you where he'd sit (the overstuffed chair in the middle of the room). She watched him map out his intentions in a leather bound journal from her place behind the counter (she always was unintentionally distant) and she always wondered where he was going and from where he was coming. The counter behind which she hid was hardly enough of a barricade to keep him from storming her citadel (it wasn't that she'd try to stop him anyway).
Ink stained fingers brush matching coffee stains in a common exchange (warm skin replaced by cold cash). She notices the darkness in his eyes (a black wink tucked into the corner of those ideal tainted orbs). It is a flickering shadow beneath lighter pretences (there are so many plans in those eyes) and a constant reminder of when he isn't there. They never say a word past business. It isn't that they are shy it is just that it was never the right time or place. Still he always tells her secrets and makes her promises without words (or introductions). She is building castles of clouds with airy turrets like children build sandcastles by the shore (neither have a proper foundation but are so fun while they last).
She is self conscious (conscious of her self or his self?) in a uniform as ill fitting as they are but she still wants to tie him up in her apron strings. The world never considered her something dainty or gentile no matter how hard she tried to hide the burns from spilling boiling drinks on her hands and arms. Working girls somehow lacked the ability to transform to higher graces despite the Cinderella fallacy (but she swore he looked at her like she was Aphrodite).
He is an artist even if he'd never call himself such (he finds the term cliché) with long fingers tapered to elegance and a long tongue trained to lust. His sensuality is unintentional but that doesn't mean his is unaware of the way women look at him with desire twitching on the corner of their mouths. Inexperienced wouldn't be the right word to describe him (he has felt the way a woman feels from the inside) but there is a naïveté of ideals which burns previous escapades from his mind (he was always rather forgetful).
Tonight she's closing shop (she's already closed herself to the public) even though she's opening the next morning. She knows she works too much but she doesn't have anyone waiting for her when she gets home except a goldfish who turned belly up two days before this one. She swears she is going to bury him as soon as she buys a plant for a plot of dirt (her dirty city apartment doesn't offer any green space and she's too sentimental to flush him away like a pipe dream). Five minutes past the hour and she's mopping the floor clean of sticky spills and the filth of humanity (people might as well just piss on the floor). With a tune she doesn't know hummed under her breath (and her thoughts loud as the subway through her head) she barely hears the chime above the door when he comes in.
"We're closed." She mumbles before she has a chance to look up and see him standing there.
It's raining outside and the first thing she notices is the grimy silt and water his feet tracked onto her freshly mopped floor (she hates his boyish messes). That dark thought was quickly replaced by the recognition of ink stained hands and sharp cheekbones (she swore that if she touched them they would cut her callused fingertips). As would become their habit – he came to (in?) her before she could come to (with?) him (leaving dirty footprints on the floor and her heart all along his way). An artistic hand held out a scrap of paper to her (his boyish shyness showing in the awkward gesture).
Come away with me.
Was all it read in a strangely elegant scrawl (it would be so familiar to her so soon). The petition is met with a questioning look and a hesitant breath but it is clear he isn't going to extrapolate or ask again. It doesn't give a when, where, how, or why – but the who and what are enough for her tonight (and she didn't ever want to come back). Without a thought of responsibility or reason she silently grabbed her coat and her keys (why in the hell hadn't she grabbed her umbrella that morning?) and together they left his muddy footprints and her mop as proof that they had been there (it would be a trademark).
She locked the door behind them even though she knew she had no intention of returning there tomorrow to unlock it for the morning patrons (and he had every intention of making sure that she stayed that way).
A/N: … and so it begins. As you can tell it has a similar feel to the style I used in Boy Anachronism but it will be different. Maybe it will even have a happy ending? Hey. Don't judge. Stranger things have happened.