Work Text:
If there was one good thing about being small, it was that no one assumed he was in a gang. Unless they knew him, Rembrandt was just another scrawny art student on his way home to a dumpy Coney Island apartment. Unfortunately, he'd been caught by people who did know him. He was, thankfully, without his colors, and it never looked good for a gang to beat up too hard on civilians. Especially when they look as young as he does. He'd been left with what was probably a cracked rib, a busted lip, and a whole lot of bruises. Rembrandt just pushed himself to his feet and made his way back to the hangout. He doesn't trust the others not to fuck with his art, but he also doesn't really feel like being alone in his apartment. He'll risk a little mockery for being in the safety of their base.
Rembrandt's thankful everyone's too absorbed in their own business to notice him. He sets his bag and the now-broken canvas against the wall before going to the bathroom. He'll try to fix the painting later. For now, he's going to clean himself up. He shuts the door, looking at himself in the dirty mirror. He remembers one time Fox had told him he could make a living as an artist. His teacher had just said the same thing. Rembrandt shakes his head as he gets out the bandages and ointment. No way is he leaving. The Warriors are his family, and besides, what chance does he really have? He's good, sure, but not good enough to get famous. He was no real artist, just a scrawny kid from New York with nothing really going for him. Except the Warriors.
He's lost in his thoughts, bandaging up his ribs when the door clicks open. Fox is standing there, frowning like he smelled something rotten. Rembrandt just ignores him, finishing up the bandages and pinning them in place.
"You need to piss or something? I'll clear out in a minute." Rembrandt glances over his shoulder at Fox before putting the ointment away.
"No, it's not that. I saw your art."
"You did? I just finished that piece. It's okay." Rembrandt shuts the medicine cabinet, turning to face his friend.
"Rem, it's not just okay. It's fucking good, you could go someplace with that sorta talent. Someplace real."
"This place isn't real?" Rembrandt frowns.
"Not if you want a good life." Fox shakes his head, looking around at the dingy little bathroom. "Not if you don't want to die in a gutter somewhere, or get locked up for the rest of your life."
"Fox..."
"You could get out of here, Rembrandt. I mean, shit, you could probably get that in a museum or something. Y'know? You could get paid. You wouldn't have to mug anybody for pocket change anymore."
"Fox." Rembrandt's voice is stern, and Fox meets his eyes again. "I'm not going anywhere. Even if my art is that good, I'm staying."
"Why? Why not make a better life for yourself?"
"Because you guys are my family. My real family, the kind you don't just leave because things are rough."
"You mean you've never thought about having nice things? A real home? A steady job, no worrying about getting knifed in an alley?" Fox looks incredulous, and Rembrandt smiles.
"Of course I have. That doesn't mean I'm gonna abandon the Warriors."
"You got something screwy up there, Rembrandt." Fox points to his head. "Real talent and you don't even want to use it."
Rembrandt laughs, wincing a little when his ribs move too much, coughing. Fox gives him a worried look, touching Rembrandt's arm. He pulls his hand back once the artist straightens back up, starting to smile again.
"Man, I'm using my talent. Maybe my art's not in a museum, but who cares? You think some fancy museum would let us in? No way. This way everyone can see my work."
"You're one strange dude, Rem." Fox laughs, shaking his head. Rembrandt grins, walking out to the main room with Fox.
"Until they'll let me put a whole wall in a museum, my art's staying where it is, and that's fine with me."