Work Text:
He was eleven when he became a newsie.
He was eleven when he was thrown out of his home.
He was eleven when his father screamed in his face, spittle flying and nose bright red, and his mother and brother stood in the corner, quiet and scared.
He was eleven when he told his parents for the first time that he didn’t feel like a girl.
All of those events took place in the brief span of a week.
At first, his parents ignored it. He told them, and they stared, at him then at each other. Then their eyes shifted, to the ground, to the ceiling, to anywhere but at him. They never looked at him with anything but disgust again.
In his innocent, eleven-year-old naivety, he took this as acceptance, or the closest thing he could get. The next morning he got dressed in his brother’s clothes and a big smile.
That was when his father snapped.
It was hot, heavy, hands, and a red face, and fear, fear, fear, and the red-painted door he had opened every day for the last eleven years slamming in his face for the last time.
Being homeless was cold, he quickly discovered. He was used to the pressure of his brother’s body next to his on the bed, warming him in the winter (and summer, unfortunately).
Now, he had nothing and no one.
By the sixth day, he was barely alive, surviving on snow and others’ meagre trash. He only slept a couple of hours a night. In the morning, he dragged himself upward like so many other dirty orphans and prowled the streets, snatching up a job, any job, please just give me a job Mista’ I promise I’s a good worker.
It was impossible. No one wanted him.
This was day seven. He wouldn’t last much longer.
He had collapsed somewhere near lunchtime, lying in a canvas-clothed heap on the street. People stepped neatly around and even over him, never sparing him more than a glance.
“DIME A PAPE!” A newsie’s voice filtered through the racket of Manhattan. “MURDER HOT OFF THE PRESSES! READ ALL ABOUT IT!”
He just wanted to sleep.
“EXTRA, EXTRA!”
Just let him sleep.
“MURDER OF A FOREIGN POL’TICIAN!”
Sleep.
“EXTRA, EXTRA, EX-” the voice paused, too close for comfort. “Ya okay?”
He didn’t even raise his head.
The voice became more urgent. “I said, ya okay?”
It took all the effort he had in his body for him to even stir a little, but he twitched an arm, lifted his head an inch.
“Ya can’t jus’ lay in tha’ snow all day,” the voice said. “Ya’ll die.”
“Oh, yeah?” he croaked. “Din’t realize.”
This time, the voice had some grim humor in it. “Ya got a hankerin’ for death?”
Finally, he looked up. A curly-haired boy stood above him, smirking, a cap on his head and a bag on his back.
“It ain’t like I’s gotta choice,” he muttered.
“Ya’s always got a choice, kid,” the boy said. He grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. He was a formless weight. If the boy let go of him, he would have dropped again. “C’mon.”
“Where’s we goin’?” he said, but it was too quiet for the boy to hear, let alone respond.
Instead, the boy chattered about pretty much anything and everything else, jaw flapping endlessly and finger tapping equally as unstopping. He spoke around a cigar and a smirk, never slipping for one moment.
The boy dragged him through the streets, up and down and left and right until he didn’t recognize a thing. Then again, that wasn’t hard when his stomach hurt so bad he could barely see.
“I’s Race, by the way,” the boy said, finally stopping in front of a building. There was a sign above the door, but the letters swam before his eyes. “I’s a newsie.”
And with that, Race yanked him inside to a cacophony of noise and chaos.
“Someone get this lil one somethin’ ta eat!” Race shouted, practically in his ear. “‘E’s starvin’!”
A roll was pressed into his hands, water to his lips, and he ate and drank with the fervor of one who hadn’t done so properly for too long.
When he could see and think and breathe again, a dark-haired newsie came up to Race and said, “I ain’t takin’ no more charity cases, Racer.”
“Ya don’ hafta,” Race responded easily. “I’s takin’ this one.”
He fell asleep soon after that, warm for the first time in too long.
When he woke, there was another body in the bed, a head of blond curls and the loud snore identifying him as Race.
This was not his apartment, but this was not the streets, either. He might be safe here.
He bounced on the bed a little, and tentatively huffed a quiet laugh when Race growled and buried his face in the pillow.
“Isnomornin’,” Race moaned, ignoring the smaller boy tapping his shoulder. “Gobatasleep.”
“Don’ wanna,” he said, flinging a smile at Race. “I’s ‘wake now.”
“Well I ain’t,” Race grumbled, but he sat up anyway.
The room was empty, every bunk abandoned except for theirs and one other that housed a newsie coughing or sneezing every few seconds.
“Why’s everyone gone?” he asked.
“They’s all sellin’,” Race answered. “I gotta couple days off, ta show yous the ropes.” A big yawn, and- “Lemme tell ya, I am so glad ya’s been asleep for a coupla days. I’s needin’ the rest.”
Choosing to ignore the second but of slightly troubling information, he responded, “What ropes?”
“Ya’s a newsie now, kid.” Race grinned and ruffled his hair. “I’s gotta teach ya.”
Once dressed and fed, they exited through the hall he vaguely remembered from the previous night. There was an old man behind a desk, nearly as dusty as the books he was rifling through, that Race greeted with a cheerful, “G’mornin’, Kloppman!”
“Morning, Racer.” The man looked up and smiled, but feigned shock when he saw the boy Race was dragging by the hand. “Jack finally give you a kid ta teach?”
“More like he didn’ feel like teachin’ him,” Race scoffed.
Turning to the boy, Kloppman explained, “Jack taught Race, Crutchie, Albert, and all of the other great newsies.”
“Oh, so I’s one a’ ya great newsies now, huh?” Race laughed, tugging Romeo out of the door. “I’s gonna tell Crutch and Albert ya said that!”
Kloppman called after them, but he only got out “Don’t you-” before the door slammed shut.
“He loves us,” Race confided, grinning sharply. “He ain’t never gonna say it, though.”
“Why not?” he asked, brow creasing.
“Well, he’s gotta rep-u-tat-ion,” Race responded, drawing out the last word, savoring it like he’d never tasted it before. But with a blink, his expression switched, and so did the topic.
“Ya gotta name, kid?”
He blinked. The name that came to his mind first (that’s not me, that’s not my name), the one his parents gave him (that’s not my name), almost slipped from his tongue (not my name), but he bit it back at the last second.
Race looked at him, at his sad eyes and long hair and the chest he was trying to cover up with crossed arms, and his face sobered. “Your real name.”
An immediate sense of relief- Race didn’t want the one that made him feel all gross inside. But now what was he to say?
“Ain’t got one,” he settled on.
“Don’ worry, we’ll give ya one.” Race’s smile returned, but it didn’t quire reach his eyes. “Jus’ give us a coupla days, and ya’ll be good as gold.”
And with that, they were off again.
Race and he walked (more like jogged, but whatever) a couple blocks, Race’s eyes darting this way and that. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and he yanked Romeo over to a specific newsie.
“Albert!” The two greeted each other with a complex handshake. “I’s needin’ some papes ta’ show the mini ova’ here how it’s done.”
Without hesitation, the red-haired newsie- Albert- grabbed about ten papers from his bag and handed them to Race. “Sure ya’re good enough ta teach a little?”
“Even Kloppman says I is,” Race bragged. “I’s the best newsie ‘round.”
“Then why’s it tha’ Jackie always gets more papes than you?” Albert smirked.
“Aw, shaddup.” Race hit Albert in the face with his hat. “Now bye bye, we’s got some sellin’ ta do.”
“Bye, asshat!” Albert shouted after them, grinning lazily. “Have fun wit’ this bum, new kid!”
“Tha’s Albert,” Race told him as they hurried off in a seemingly random direction. He seemed to know where he was going, though. “We’s picked up at the same time, righ’? So he’s like me brother, even more tha’ Jackie or Crutch-” he cut himself off with a theatrical gasp. “Ya haven’t met Crutchie yet! He’s an angel, kid, ya’ll like him…”
Somehow, Race got from Point A, being Albert, to Point Z, being a rather concerning story involving a donkey and firecrackers, without passing a single letter in order.
“And here we is,” Race said suddenly, cutting off his dramatic rendition of the donkey’s reaction when the firecrackers…well. “Sheepshead. This here’s my turf.”
He looked around. There were people everywhere, shouting and laughing and neighing. The stink of horses and humans filled the chilly air. A dusty racetrack spotted with manure stood to his left, a wall of sweaty bodies to his right.
Race inhaled happily. “Home, sweet home.”
“I dunno if ‘sweet’s quite the righ’ word,” he said, staring around.
“It ain’t pretty, tha’s for sure,” Race acknowledged. “But it’s good sellin’. ‘Specially for a kid like you’s.”
“I ain’t a kid!” he protested.
“Ya’s a kid till I say ya ain’t no more,” Race said sternly. “Now firs’ lesson of bein’ a newsie; we’s in Brooklyn.”
“Duh.” He rolled his eyes.
“Hey.” Race wagged a finger in his face, stern in his hands and lips twitching. “Don’ talk back.”
“You talk back,” he whined. “To Kloppman.”
Race sputtered for a second. “Tha’ doesn’ count.”
“Why?”
“It just doesn’t, okay?” Race rolled his eyes. He seemed very self-important for someone who had apparently never been in charge before. The boy fought off a smile. “Back ta’ wha’ we were just talkin’ about, we’s in Brooklyn.” Race reached out a hand to cover his mouth before he could say duh again. He licked Race’s hand. Race didn’t move. “Anyway. Brooklyn’s Spot Conlon’s turf.”
Race paused for a reaction. He didn’t give one.
“Do ya know who tha’ is?”
“Nope!” He climbed cheerfully onto a flagpole.
“Get down-” Race huffed. “Jesus, how did Jackie put up with me?” He tugged him down from the flagpole and continued his lecture. “Spot Conlon is tha’ most dangerous newsie ever.”
“Okay,” he said, and pointed at something small and green. “Wha’s that?”
“A caterpillar, and stop interrupting me. Firs’ lesson. Spot Conlon. Terrifying. Scary. Don’ trespass. Not on Queens neither, or Woodside, or…ya gets the ideas.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed distractedly.
Race said something else in a smug tone about Brooklyn and Spot Conlon, but there was a very interestingly dressed gentleman walking by and he just had to figure out-
“Ya’s gotta pay attention,” Race huffed. “Sellin’ now. So. Lotsa folks do diff’rent things- Albert almost neva’ sells all ‘a his papes, he jus’ steals from everyone he sells to.
“Now, if ya don’ already know how ta’ pickpocket, I ain’t teachin’ ya. Jack’d have my head. Do ya?” He was tempted to nod, but he really didn’t, and if he did nod, Race probably wouldn’t teach him anything else, so he shook his head.
“A’ight. So Jackie goes wit’ the lyin’ strat’gy- he jus’ makes up whateva’ headlines he wants. We’s all usin’ tha’ one from time ta time, but tha’s his main gig.”
“I’s good at lyin’!” He said hopefully.
“Tha’ one works pretty well, so…” Race shrugged.
“I wan’ that one!”
“Hol’ up! We’s still gotta coupla others!” Race laughed. “Okay, so S- uh, someone I knows, he uses intim’dation, but I don’ think tha’s gonna work for ya-”
“I’s intim’datin’!” He puffed up his chest and frowned. “I’s super intim’datin’!”
“No, ya ain’t.” Race scrubbed his hair. “Nice try.”
He pouted, but didn’t argue. He was just a little too scrawny, maybe.
“A’ight, so next there’s the’ good ol’ fake sad. There’s a lotta different var’ations. Crutch plays up his limp an’ Elmer fakes one sometimes. Ya’s young ‘nough that ya can play the sad sick orphan or whateva’- always works. Ya can get really good tips tha’ way. Ya can be sick, starvin’, dyin’, crippled, I dunno, there’s tons a’ options.”
He was quiet. That sounded good. It pushed a little too close to home, though- it would be too easy to play the sad starving orphan when he was a sad starving orphan.
Seeing the look on his face, Race hurried to continue. “Then there’s my fav’rite. The Charm.
“Ya jus’ gotta flirt with everyone. At ya age, ladies’ll think it’s cute and guys’ll be like ‘oh, he’s too young ta’ tell a difference ‘tween guys an’ gals.’ If ya wanna cont’ue it when ya’s older, ya gotta make it more subtle, cause the girls get freaked out cause there’s so many guys who’re jus’ asses an’ the guys stop thinkin’ it’s funny and star’ beatin’ up on ya cause they think ya’s a queer.”
He flinched.
Queerqueerqueerqueerqueer ya’s a queer get the fuck outta my house
Race’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I’s really sorry- I didn’ mean ta’-”
“I’s a’ight,” he interrupted. Move on move on move on stop talking stop “Don’ worry ‘bout it.”
“A’ight,” Race said slowly, and to his relief, changed the subject. “Anyway, the charmin’.” His eyes shifted to something over his shoulder, and a slow grin spread across his face. “I’ll show you’s.” Race grabbed a pape, and he turned to watch as Race strode up to a buff guy in a red shirt.
“Hey there.” Race smirked. “Whatcha doin’ ‘round here?”
“I’s-” the guy started, but Race cut him off.
“Ya’s got quite the face. I’s cap’vated.”
“It’s captivated, ya idiot-”
“Ya wanna go out an’ get somethin’ ta eat? I’s a proper gentleman, I’ll walk ya home an’-”
“Racer, what are ya doin’?” The guy shoved Race away.
“An’ that, kid, is an example of wha’ not to do!” Race announced cheerfully. He tugged the guy over to him. He was starting to think that anyone who knew Race got used to being yanked around pretty quickly.
“Meet Spot Conlon,” Race said, smiling dopily.
He gasped. “Ya said Spot Conlon was dang’rous!”
“He is,” Race said.
“I am,” Conlon said at the same time.
“Ya said he’s scary!”
“Tha’...was a lie,” Race admitted as Spot said again, “I am.”
“No ya ain’t,” Race said, turning to Spot. “Ya’s soft. Like some kinda bunny rabbit or some shit.”
“No I ain’t.”
“Yeah ya is.”
“No I ain’t.”
“Yeah-”
“Wha’s goin’ on here?” he demanded, looking delightedly back and forth. “Is ya two…”
Spot groaned and put his head down. “Who’s you?” he asked through his fingers.
He puffed up his chest. “I’s workin’ wit’ Racer while we waits for me to get my stuff togetha’.”
“Is tha’ so,” Spot deadpanned.
“It sure is, Spotty,” Race agreed, and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Now, we’s tryna match ‘im up wit’ a sellin’ strategy. I’s already figured he’s too fuckin’ small-”
“Don’ swear ‘round the kids,” Spot chided.
“Like ya’s one ta’ talk,” Race scoffed. “Anyway, he’s too fuckin’ small for your intimid’atin’ or whateva’, but he said he ain’t too bad at lyin’, ‘nd we’s abou’ to try charmin’ ‘em.”
Spot leaned down seriously to his level and stared him in the eyes.
It was extremely uncomfortable.
This boy was short but extremely muscled, and he could most likely snap him in half with a mere breath.
The stare stretched on and on and on and on and-
Finally, Spot leaned away. “He lookin’ like a younger you.”
“What, ya scared or somethin’?” Race teased, laughing. “I think he’s got poten’il.”
“Potential.”
“Whateva’.” Race batted away Spot’s correction with a dismissive flip of fingers. “There. Go try tha’ one!”
Surprised by the sudden change in subject, he barely managed to grab a pape and hurry toward a white-haired lady, standing dignified by the racetrack.
He hurried toward her, pasting on his best grin and doing his best to quirk an eyebrow like Race had done with Spot.
“Hey, miss,” he said, trying to emulate a weird mix of the men he had seen on movie posters and Race, which really wasn’t going well, he was probably overthinking this but- “Have ya heard the latest news?”
The lady laughed and placed a wizened hand on her sternum. “I’m actually married, but thank you.”
He affected surprise. “Really? For some reason I didn’ realize, but I s’pose it makes sense tha’ such a charmin’ young lady would be off the market.”
The lady laughed again, this time handing him a nickel. He traded her the pape and rushed back to Race and Spot.
Race clapped him on the back. “Ya’s a natural! Look at this kid! Spotty! He’s even better than me!”
“Not like tha’s hard.” Spot rolled his eyes.
Race just smiled. “It worked on you’s, didn’ it?”
Spot grunted.
“Anyway, ya did so good, kid! You’s…you’s…” Race struggled for words, smiling too big, cigar dancing between fingers.
“A regular Romeo,” Spot supplied.
“Yes! That!” Race was practically dancing now. “Tha’s a great name, Romeo, it’s, it’s… Poe, righ’?”
Spot rolled his eyes again, and he thought about what his mother used to say: If you keep rolling your eyes, they’ll get stuck like that. Here, he had no one to tell him he couldn’t make whatever expressions he wanted.
“Shakespeare, idiot,” Spot said, but smiled.
Race, in a flurry of limbs and chaos, was soon back at his side. “Romeo. Yeah. Perfect name. I’ll tell all the guys.”
“Wha’ was ya’s name ‘fore you became a newsie?” he inquired.
Race froze for a moment, utterly stark. His movement hadn’t ceased since he had arrived.
“I had one like yours,” he finally said, flipping the cigar again. “It ain’t mine, though. So’s I switched it.”
One like yours.
It was good to know there were others like him.
It was good to know that Race was like him.
And, he quickly discovered, so were many of the others at the lodging house. Apparently, they made a habit of revealing things (secrets, his mind supplied, not to be shared just in case) to make others welcome.
It made him welcome.
When he fell asleep that night, warmth in his toes and Race’s foot in his nose, the name Romeo was running through his head.
Yeah, that fit pretty well.