A/N: I honestly love Luca so much. I'm not patting myself on the back, or gloating, I'm just saying that he is one of the few characters I've created myself that I really like. Sorry!

Disclaimer: Newsies is not mine, but Luca Higgins is.

Mr. Kloppman came out of the kitchen as Race and Luca headed for the door, wiping his hands on a dingy grey apron.

"You're not stayin' for supper?" he asked.

"Nah," Race paused in the doorway, sniffing the air and smirking with wicked amusement. "Smells like the de usual, anyway."

"Ah, get outta here," Kloppman scolded. He flicked Race's hat and hobbled up the up the steps to retrieve his boys.

Father and son retreated to the outdoors, walking along the sidewalk and chatting noisily about their jobs, the newsies strike, and stupid things that didn't really matter. It just felt good to talk.

However, Race knew that they were both stalling; that eventually, the spotlight would fall on him and the doors would be shut, and he would be forced to sing. There was no way around it. He almost wished they would just get it over with, so his stomach could stop churning.

Finally, their useless chatter subsided, and a tense silence fell between them. Luca sat down on a bench as they passed by it, forcing Race to stop. The newsboy felt his skin go clammy as he fiddled his cigar nervously. He wanted desperately to light it and take a puff, but he knew his father would probably stare him down with one of his "looks".

Luca folded his hands together.

"So," he began quietly, but with an earnest that told the younger that the question would not be avoided again. "Why did you leave?"

Race sighed and rubbed his face, wishing for all the world that he could disappear. Today had been a rather trying day. He didn't want bring up past problems to add to his current ones, but he knew his father deserved an explanation. And an apology.

"I couldn't stand dat place," he said, leaning against a nearby lamppost, stuffing one hand in his pocket.

Luca seemed confused. "What do you mean?"

"I jus' couldn't live in dat house no more."

Luca wrung his hands in distress. "I'm sorry-"

"No, Papa," Race cut in tersely. "It wasn't you. I know you probably thought it was 'cause of you, but it weren't. Nothin' I did was eva your fault."

Luca fell silent. Race twiddled his cigar.

"Afta Nicky died, it wasn't de same. Every time you was off at work, I was home alone, or at school alone. I'd always had him with me before. But when he died…" He trailed off. "I jus' couldn't stay d'ere. I kept expectin' him to pop out a cupboard and everythin' would be de way it was. I knew he wouldn't, but… I dunno."

He paused and dug at the old wooden floor with the toe of his boot. Then he added softly: "I still blame meself for him."

Luca stood rather suddenly. "It wasn't your fault, Pier. Don't you dare-"

"I know damn well it wasn't my fault!" Race snapped. "I didn't give him de bug; I ain't no docta, and I know we couldn't afford one. I did everyt'ing I could to keep him up. I know dat."

"Then stop-"

"I can't not blame me," Race interrupted again. "I had to blame somebody. And 'sides, I was de one watchin' him every day! I woke up witchu in de mornin', and I fed dat kid afta you left for work. I took him to school, I bathed him, I held him. I was his big brotha! I couldn't just lose him like dat and not feel responsible."

"Imagine how I felt," Luca countered. "Imagine bein' a father and a husband, who's already lost his wife, and then lost his youngest son. I already felt horrible for leavin' my ten year old boy with the the task of a grown man, and then I had to live with the death of my youngest on my hands. 'Cause I didn't make enough money to get him a doctor. 'Cause I couldn't stay home and take care of him. If anyone was responsible for Nick's death, Pier, it was me. Me and only me."

Race stared at him, his bright eyes now dull.

"Now imagine that man, that father," Luca went on. "Now imagine his only remainin' child disappearin'." His voiced cracked.

Race could no longer meet his gaze. He wanted to do something with his hands, but he felt as though moving would be a crime. He swallowed hard.

"I searched day and night for you, for weeks. I ended up getting fired 'cause I took so many days off. I probably walked around the world a hundred times lookin' for you. I built you a casket in case I found out the worst had happened. A year passed and I couldn't find you. I almost gave up. I almost quit."

With a sickened start, Race realized that when his father said he almost quit, he didn't mean looking. He'd meant living.

Luca fell quiet, except for the sound of his shaky breathing. Race swallowed again, slowly brought his eyes up from the floor, and looked at him.

Luca was visibly trembling. His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white. He looked pale and gaunt, as if all six years of worry were showing themselves at once. Race felt a lump rise in his throat, and his stomach felt cold.

"The only thing that kept me from givin' up was that I never had to put a body in the casket." Luca softened. "As long as it was empty, I told myself. There was chance you could be alive."

Race could hear his heart pulsing in his head. His ears burned. Guilt piled up on him like bags of sand. How could he have done this to his father? How could have left him to rot with this baggage? How could have been so thoughtless; selfish; blind? How?

"There was a chance." Luca smiled, and it seemed like ten years of aching burden had been lifted from him. "And now here you are."

Race opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Did it matter? Nothing he could say would be able to fix this. Nothing could justify him.

"Papa."

Luca stared at him, and Race saw he was not angry. Just broken. Very, very broken.

"Papa, I'm sorry." He strained to keep his voice from breaking. "I neva meant…"

"I know."

Race struggled to clear his blurry vision. He had lived the past six years of his life on the streets of slums, through icy winter and sweltering summer, through beatings and victories, and he had only cried twice.

But as he finally hugged his father and felt a comforting hand gently cradling the back of his head, he knew he was forgiven, and he wept. He was stiff, and he held his breath to try and hide the shaking of his shoulders, but he wept.

Luca did not. He had shed more than a lifetime's worth of tears over his boys. Far more than enough. Now he could love. Now he could laugh. Now he could live, and live knowing it was for a reason, and not for some wistful hope that would never be fulfilled.

"I love you, Papa," Race whispered quietly.

Luca shut his eyes and smiled warmly, gently rubbing his son's head like he used to do so long ago.

"I love you, too, Pier."

The End.

A/N: This may be the last installment of this story, so don't get your hopes up for any more chapters. I actually had several ideas for further parts of this storyline, but it just seems like the ending of this chapter is the end end. It felt very final to me. I don't know about the rest of you.

I hope you liked this story!