Chapter Text
SUMMER 1898
Gavroche was rudely awoken from his streetside slumber by a sharp poke in the ribs. He rolled over to glare at the two boys grinning down at him, one of them holding the offending wooden stick.
"Hey, Urchin!" Pie Eater gleefully leaned against the rough brick wall. "Ya missed breakfast again today!"
Gavroche sighed and with the aid of Bumlets's stick, hauled himself up to his feet. "Can't youse guys tell me when they get 'ere?"
Bumlets handed him a scrap of bread. "But we never know where you are! Another reason why you should stay with us in the lodging house, y'know."
The three newsboys began trotting off down the street. Gavroche swallowed the small morsel and defiantly shook his shaggy hair out of his eyes.
"Nah, I'm perfectly fine on me own, thank you very much…anyway, I gots my own family, don't I?"
"Like you actually live wiv 'em!" Pie Eater hooted. Gavroche eyed him irritably while Bumlets, being his usual cheerful and energetic self, skipped ahead of them, trailing his stick along the cast-iron fences. All three ignored the scathing looks other pedestrians, well-groomed gentlemen and ladies alike, shot them as they strolled down the dusty streets of New York City.
Soon enough, they found themselves in line with all the other newsboys, waiting to buy their newspapers. Gavroche leaned over the wooden platform precariously, sticking his head into the tight circle of boys below.
"Oi, Skitts!" He called out to the frowning youth across from him. "How much are ya thinkin' of losin' today, huh?"
"Go soak yer head," retorted Skittery. Racetrack, who was situated directly below Gavroche, took a long drag on his cigar before selecting another card to toss on the small pile.
"Oooh, nice straight you got there, Race."
The short Italian scowled and immediately slapped Gavroche's cheek with the back of his hand. "Shaddup, will ya! I'm tryin' to play a game here!"
"And it's your turn. Stop screwing about," complained a newsboy standing behind him. Gavroche stomped up to the counter, drawing himself up to his full height. It wasn't much, but it was all he could afford to be proud of.
"Hiya, Mr. Wease. Fifty papes." He slammed a coin down with an air of dignified finality. The heavyset man snorted with derision, but handed him the pile. Gavroche hefted them onto his shoulder and turned to leave – colliding with another person in the process.
"Ho! Watch where you're goin', ya big…" Gavroche struggled with the newspapers before glancing up. "Oh hey, Cowboy!"
"How ya doin', Urchin?" Jack's strong accent twisted the word into 'oi-chin.' Gavroche beamed. He loved talking to their fearless and charismatic leader. Jacky-boy never had any extra papers lying around at the end of the day. He was a salesman through and through, and was man enough to even bother learning the names of all the Manhattan newsies.
"Not bad at all! Thinkin' about going down to that drinkin' spot down in da Village with all them university students. Heard they like readin' the news nowadays."
"Aw, yeah? Well, tell 'em Jack Kelly said hello." Jack readjusted the hat that provided his nickname-sake. "How's your sisters doin' too?"
"Ehh, nuttin' new, I guess. 'Zelma's now a working girl, sewing aprons or somethin' like that. 'Ponine, she's been the same, though," Gavroche replied. A touch of solemnity came into his voice. "I gotta find her today. She's been running around without telling anyone anything that's going on, an' so me ma's getting even more crabby and not like me dad's gonna do anything about it…"
Jack nodded and clapped the younger lad on the shoulder heartily. "Atta boy, Urch. Good to know that we got guys like youse who's gonna take care of the ladies." With that, he lifted up his own stack of newspapers and wandered off to begin another day of work.
Gavroche watched him stride away in deep admiration. Other newsboys, all shouting, jeering, and laughing carelessly, jostled past him to further infect the streets of Manhattan. One blond with a patch over his eye sang loudly, an arm slung over his curly-haired friend's shoulders.
Ain't it a fine life,
Carryin' the banner through it all?
A mighty fine life,
Carryin' the banner tough an' tall!
Every mornin',
We go where we wishes,
We's as free as fishes,
Sure beats washing dishes -
What a fine life!
Carryin' the banner, home free all!
Gavroche crept away from the hyper crowd, opting to scurry down side alleys. Dodging streetcars and carriages, he finally emerged into a less congested but equally lively street. Men leaned against fire escape railings, smoking cigarettes as vendors hawked their wares loudly, attracting mothers with small children still clutching their skirts. Students with books in front of them and ambition in their eyes lounged in the front patios of bistros, beckoning to the squat, immaculately combed waiters who hurried forward with more cognac. It was directly in the doorway of one of these where Gavroche planted himself.
"Extry, extry!" he cried shrilly. "American soldiers win great battle at San Juan! Teddy Roosevelt leads troops to victory!"
A few people looked up with vague interest, and one man tossed him a penny in exchange for a paper. But the biggest thing that happened was one of the waiters huffing towards him with an angry scowl.
"Young devil!" he exclaimed. "Out! Don't you come in here and dirty my floors. I just swept them this morning."
Gavroche imitated the same facial expression, standing his ground. "Ya got a complaint ta make, mister?"
"I'm complaining about you!"
"Sorry, no mo' complaints today. The office is closed."
But the waiter had managed to shoo the unkempt boy back into the boiling heat. Most other New Yorkers hurried past, eager to get away from the sun and the dust of the streets. Gavroche took a moment to rest. He plopped down onto the curb, fanning himself with his cap.
"Awful day for sellin', I knows it."
His eyes flitted over to the stack of black and white papers next to him. His chest filled with regret. Perhaps he should only have taken twenty instead. Nobody cared for the news in this weather. Ruefully, Gavroche sighed and rested his chin in one ink-stained hand, not noticing someone approaching him from behind.
"Excuse me."
Gavroche turned to see a tall young man staring down at him. Obviously a student, he was perhaps in his early twenties. Several young ladies walking past turned their chins and giggled under their parasols, but to no avail – those pale blue eyes burned with an intensity for something far more noble than silly romances. Gavroche stared openly at the stern face framed by blond locks that burned gold in the sunlight.
"Buy one of me papes, sir?" Gavroche held up a copy, slapping on his most winning smile. This, at least on the exterior, did nothing to stir the man's heart. He simply stood back, critically observing the newsboy up and down. For a few seconds, neither said a word.
Gavroche frowned. What an odd person. "Welp, mister, if yer not interested in the news, I best be on me way…"
He yelped indignantly when the young man took him firmly by the shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. Then gaped in amazement as the man scooped up his stack of newspapers.
"Please spare us a moment of your time. It would greatly help our cause if you could speak with us for a moment. Come this way." Without waiting for a reply - none of these were phrased as questions, anyway - the young man headed towards a different restaurant, this time the smaller and less ornate café on the corner. Upon reaching the door, he turned around and waited expectantly.
Gavroche blinked with disbelief. He had no idea what on earth was going on, but this fop had his only source of income. His newspapers. After a few seconds of hesitation, he warily followed him into the dim restaurant.