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: I'm fierce. Like a lion, or a tiger, or... a jellyfish?
Warning: PG (implied sexuality)
iii.)
his thoughts are all bullets&brilliance
everything about him rapid fire&radiant
ink/coffee stains ruin sheets
(some stains never come out)
broken bindings&dog eared corners
he never check the safety
According to him she doesn't have a name (or at least he's never called her by one). She isn't sure if it is because he doesn't want to know her name or if he thinks he already knows it. Either way it is shockingly impersonal. It's been a week since he brought her to his apartment and she hasn't left since then (total immersion is part of the curriculum). The longer she stays the less she (wants to leave) remembers the time before this place.
Books (ranging from cheap paperback romances to Nietzsche) are stacked, scattered, and strewn about the floor and every flat surface seemingly without care. The Brownings (Robert and Elizabeth were such good lovers) are shoved in with medical journals. History texts are laced with fiction novels (isn't that how it always is?). She does her best to organize them only to have him unintentionally disorganize them later (they always seem to be working against each other). Cigarette burns scar several covers (he swears he's trying to quit) and his notebooks keep his desk (milk crates and a board laid atop them) company.
Boy Vagabond never plugged back in the clock and keeps the curtains drawn (he claims its to keep out the draft but it blocks the light as well). It makes it so they are never sure if it is today or tonight, but there is always time to find each other. He buries himself in his writing while she busied herself trying to keep a house that isn't hers. There are Styrofoam cups with her handwriting on them from the coffee shop she should remember clearly (she spent most of the past two years there) but doesn't littered among pieces of crumpled paper. He calls those discarded mangled pages his dead ideas and regarded them with cool disinterest (too disinterested to even throw them away fully).
The coffee stains on her hands are fading (but the scars from the burns will always remain to remind her of earlier times). His long nimble fingers constantly are splotched and he leaves his mark on her as well (she knows just how long and nimble those fingers are). The light in his eyes tells her of his big, big dreams and promises her a part of them if she'll make room. He's crowding out anything of Then because he wants her to live in Now.
In a rare moment when he surfaces from his world on paper he looks at her with dangerous eyes. She doesn't know what to expect (with him – she never does) but she hopes it ends with a kiss (or maybe an orgasm). Her hands stilled from her sorting of manuals and manuscripts, waiting, but he never lifted a finger (she always waited for him to make the first move). A strange sad smile crept across his crave-able lips (but it was laced with his standard boyish cockiness) and his head tilted to the side to regard her.
"What is your name?" he asked and she told him. "No. That's not right." He replied to her response and then was back to his writing.
She doesn't know what he means (it seems she rarely does) but she is finding that she knows less and less every day she stays with him.
And (for now) she likes it better that way.
A/N: So I am pretty sure no one is reading this, but I like it so I am going to keep posting it. Maybe someone will stumble upon it and like it enough to review.