Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and I own Snitch's mom and the Kurt Cobain poster.
"But we only stay in orbit for a moment of time
And then you're everybody's satellite
I wish that you were mine"
-"Recovering the Satellites," Counting Crows
Snitch's mom was tall and brunette like her son, but nobody ever remarked on any similarities between the two of them. It had taken Skittery a long time to realize that the reason they did not appear to resemble each other was that Mrs. Lawrence had straight, relatively normal teeth, whereas her son sported what could be a pair of the largest front teeth the world would ever see. Apparently it made all the difference.
Skittery thought about this fondly as he entered the Lawrence household, still holding Racetrack tight against his chest. Perhaps he was only thinking about Snitch's teeth to keep himself from worrying about Racetrack— if he was, however, it wasn't working.
It took a lot more than teeth to keep Skittery from freaking out.
"Dear God, Graham, what happened to Anthony?" Mrs. Lawrence was demanding of her son, bustling anxiously around the kitchen and moving things around for no apparent reason. "How long as he been like this? Did you two—"
"Mom, we did not do this to Race," Snitch sighed. "We found him with Kelly and the Delanceys, it looked like they beat the shit out of him." He led Skittery to the couch and tossed the excess pillows onto the floor, musing, "It's weird, though. He's always been able to defend himself."
Skittery didn't say anything and propped Racetrack up awkwardly onto the couch. His handsome, bruised face fell against a pillow, his features blank, and he looked distinctly dead with the blood smearing his cheek and his lips slightly parted. Snitch and Skittery looked at each other, and then Skittery dropped to his knees and checked for Race's pulse on his wrist.
Mrs. Lawrence reentered the room with a washcloth and nudged Skittery out of the way, beginning to dab at Racetrack's face.
"Mo-om, there's no point cleaning him up if we're not sure he'll make it!" Snitch snapped. "Shouldn't we call 9-1-1 or—"
"He's breathing, Graham, and I believe your friend just checked his pulse?" Mrs. Lawrence shot her son a look and then resumed cleaning the caked blood off Racetrack's face. She took a folded blanket from the armchair by the window, unfolded it carefully, and tucked it around his body. "Does his mother know that he's here?"
"His mother's dead," said Snitch.
Mrs. Lawrence looked up, startled. "I had no idea! Oh my goodness, this is awful... His father must be worried sick about him. Graham, do you mind calling Mr. Higgins—"
"I don't think we should call Mr. Higgins," said Skittery quietly.
Both Snitch and his mother looked at him. "Why—" Snitch started.
"I just... don't think it's such a good idea. He's..." Skittery looked helplessly around the room. "I think we should wait until we get Race back to consciousness before we do anything concerning his family."
Mrs. Lawrence looked slightly panicked. "If you're sure... I'm trusting you, Mark."
Skittery nodded, running a hand through his rather eccentric dark hair. He liked Snitch's mom; she always seemed to flustered, and yet so sure of herself. He hadn't know these two qualities could coexist peacefully.
Snitch was also looking flustered. He squirmed, shifted his weight, glanced at Skittery, peered over his mother's shoulder, asked repeatedly if Race was going to be all right. Skittery watched him with interest, and Snitch continued on in this manner until his mother turned around, drew herself to her full height (which was quite considerable), and snapped, "FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, GRAHAM! IF YOU AREN'T GOING TO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL, GO INTO YOUR ROOM WITH MARK AND CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU TWO MADE LAST NIGHT!"
Both boys jumped and obeyed quickly, dashing out of the room without so much as a backwards glance at their unconscious friend on the couch. They hurried into Snitch's room and closed the door, and Skittery couldn't stop himself from sliding the lock into place for good measure.
He stared at Snitch and said, "Your mom is fucking scary, man."
Snitch laughed, displaying his adorable teeth, and for a minute they laughed and forgot Racetrack was lying on the couch, unconscious. And then they remembered and their grins faded.
Skittery coughed. "We should... clean up," he said in a lame attempt to keep himself from panicking, gesturing helplessly at Snitch's room. He was nervous, having a quiet mental breakdown which he knew Snitch could probably see in his dark eyes. There was a certain amount of accuracy in the name Skittery, as much as he tried to deny it.
"Yeah, we should," said Snitch after a minute.
They looked around the room— at the unmade bed and rumpled sleeping bag on the floor, at the empty bag of M&M's, at the TV with the DVD cases stacked high on top, at the CD's and the occasional vinyl record scattering the floor, at Skittery's froggy boxers falling out of his bag. Snitch blinked and said slowly, "Wait. If your underpants are there, then what are you wearing?"
Skittery tuned bright red and proceeded to put on some music.
And so, with Alice In Chains and leftover M&M's, they proceeded to clean up the room. Or attempt to, anyway. Their previous sleepover (or "manly get-together," as Snitch liked to call it) had left the room looking as though it had been hit by a tornado, and as neither of them were particularly organized people to begin with, pulling everything back together proved to be more difficult than it had initially appeared.
"Man, did I even cause half of this damage?" Skittery demanded, trying to put back up an enormous poster of Kurt Cobain. "I don't remember disturbing anything on the walls during our mad sex last night."
"Mark, honey, you wonder why people call us gay. And yes, you did knock down the poster when you threw the clicker at my head halfway through 'Return of the Jedi,' remember?"
Skittery chose to ignore this reminder. "We are so gay, Snitch."
"Oh my God, we're fucking FLAMING," his friend agreed.
"We're like Keanu and River in 'My Own Private Idaho.'"
"See? There you go again with the obscure references to little known artsy films and whatnot!" Snitch accused as he gathered up the DVD's and put them back into their cases. "I've told you a million times, it's antisocial because nobody knows what the fuck you're talking about!"
Skittery tugged hopelessly at the sheets of Snitch's bed, wishing it would miraculously make itself. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, I'm trying! Look, it's a 1991 film starring Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix— I assumed you would know about it."
"River who?" Snitch asked distractedly.
"My God, Snitch," and Skittery flung himself despairingly onto his friend's still unmade bed. "The world has become a tragic, tragic place when a child of the 80's has never heard of River Phoenix. Ever seen 'Stand By Me'?"
Snitch carefully stacked his CD's onto a shelf, clearly only half-listening to Skittery's words. "Yeah?" he said.
"Chris Chambers?"
"That was him? Jesus Christ, how old is this kid!"
"He died in '93 of a drug overdose, he was in his early twenties," said Skittery tiredly, retying his shoelace. "We watched him today in 'Last Crusade,' he's young Indy at the beginning! Man, I can't believe you didn't know who he was."
"Sorry, man! I'm into music, not pretty boy addicts," said Snitch with a smirk.
"He was not!" Skittery gasped, looking genuinely hurt.
"Was so."
"He was an incredible actor!"
"And you're a shameless fairy."
Snitch grinned at Skittery, who pouted and examined Kurt Cobain's hair with apparent interest. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Skittery ran a hand through his hair and said in an oddly hollow voice, "Do you think we're being apathetic?"
"How so?" Snitch asked.
"I'd almost forgotten Race's on the couch in there, like, dead, and all we're doing is talking about our gayness," Skittery shrugged, trying to calm himself down. "It just... I dunno, it doesn't seem right."
"Aw Skitts..." Snitch sat down cross-legged on the bed next to his friend. "Look, man, I don't think there's that much we can do for Race right now, y'know? Granted, he looks like he fell off the roof or something, but my mom's good with this kinda thing. She helped Miles when he smashed fist through a window... I think Race'll be okay."
Skittery didn't say anything, and he resumed his detailed examination of Kurt Cobain's hair. He didn't look reassured.
Snitch watched him for a moment, the way his wild eyes darted across the poster, and then he lunged forward, tackling him back against the pillow. "I DIDN'T DO IT!" Skittery yelled, and then Snitch was on top of him, pinning him down against the bed.
"You so want me," Skittery said, narrowing his eyes.
"I so do," Snitch laughed. He looked at his friend, and then he said, "Why do you say that?"
"Why do I say what?"
"'I didn't do it.' You always yell that when you're surprised."
Skittery seemed to think this over for a moment, and then he pushed Snitch off him and sat up, leaning back on his elbows. "I guess I do say that a lot, don't I? I guess I'm kinda paranoid... I guess my nickname's right, they labeled me right, didn't they?"
Snitch looked at him. "Do you want me to stop calling you that?"
"No! No, it's fine— it's true, isn't it? It's my name, it's me. I'm totally skittery, man." He shrugged, poking absently at Snitch's pillow. "I don't really remember when I started trying to shield myself from blame... but eventually it sorta just became a habit."
Snitch nodded, thinking that it was the only thing to do.
Skittery was still looking at the poster on Snitch's wall, but he seemed to be looking past it somehow, lost in thought. "No, that's a lie," he said suddenly, bringing his eyes to meet Snitch's. "I know when it began. Man, I haven't thought about this in so many— You remember when I moved here in, like, eighth grade?"
"Yeah?"
"Well two years before that, my younger brother Frankie was found dead in my backyard."
Snitch stared at his friend, absolutely stunned. He couldn't think of anything to say, but he had the feeling that even if he did give words of comfort, Skittery wouldn't hear them.
"He was such a cute kid, too, cuter than I ever was. I was a scrawny, dark-haired guy, but Frankie was blue-eyed and smiling and he used to do this dance—" Skittery swallowed with difficulty, but he was smiling. "He used to do this dance. Dad would put on that Louis Prima song, y'know, 'In the meantime let me tell you that I love you: buona sera, senorita, kiss me good night' and Frankie would do the most adorable dance..."
Skittery shook his head experimentally, not meeting Snitch's eyes. "They said it was no one's fault when he died. He was just a little guy and he was allergic to bees and he just..." He gestured weakly. "We were playin' baseball, just the two of us, 'cause he told me he wanted to be cool like— like me, and so I was teachin' him how to pitch, and then I went inside to take a piss and told him to practice, and when I came back out he had hit the nest of bees with the ball and they were flyin' all around him, and I tried to save him but it was too late— it'd happened just a minute earlier, if I hadn't washed my hands for so long— I'd deliberately taken a while so he'd have more time to practice, but then I came back and— and—"
Skittery gulped and continued hastily, "And he looked at me and he was cryin', and I tried to block the bees from gettin' him but they stung me and they stung him and that was it, he was dead, gone— and— and they never loved me as much as they loved him, I knew that, he was the cute one, little Frankie with his blue eyes and his Louis Prima dance—"
Skittery shuddered slightly and Snitch looked on, horrified, frozen, appalled that he had never known, never cared to ask. "Skitts—" he began, not knowing what he was going to say.
"No," said Skittery. He pressed the back of his hand against his cheek. "It was fucked up. For days— months afterwards I'd have this dream, and Frankie's there and the bees are coming for him and he's yelling, 'Save me, Markie, save me!' but I can't, or I won't, I don't even know, but it's all my fault. I started thinking my parents hated me for it, that they knew it was my fault, and I started yelling, 'I didn't do it!' every time they came near me 'cause I thought they would kill me, I knew they hated me for it..."
"God, Skitts, they don't hate you," said Snitch numbly, because Skittery looked as though he were about to cry and Snitch had never seen his friend, his stoic, clever, inventive friend cry and he didn't want to see that, ever. "God, man, I didn't— I had no idea, I didn't mean to bring it up, I didn't realize— Fuck it, don't cry or anything, man, I love you."
Skittery looked at him. "You are so gay," he said.
"I don't care if I'm being more flaming than Bumlets when he wears his sweatpants with Popular across the butt in glittery pink writing," said Snitch. "Half my friends are fags, anyway, it's bound to rub off on me. Anyway it doesn't matter— man, I'm sorry."
"It's fine."
"Your brother's death wasn't your fault."
Skittery looked back up at Kurt Cobain, and Snitch watched him, wondering why the hell shit like this happens to good people. He suddenly realized why Skittery was so concerned about Race, despite the overwhelming likelihood that the tough little Italian jackass would pull through— Race had collapsed just as they had arrived. What would have happened if they had come just ten minutes earlier? Five?
It suddenly seemed all the more urgent that Racetrack return to consciousness now, that he make it and that everything turn out all right, because Snitch knew that another failed rescue on Skittery's behalf might just finish him off.
As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a soft knock at his door. He and Skittery looked at each other. "Graham?" said Mrs. Lawrence, her voice muffled by the door. "Anthony's begun to murmur swears an something that sounds like Italian under his breath. Is that a good sign or a bad one?"
Snitch glanced at Skittery, who was beginning to smile.
"That, Mom," he said, "is a very, very good sign."
-
Racetrack was being awkward, Snitch thought. It made sense: he had always been a very independent type of guy, and he was clearly a little embarrassed by his collapse. He was thankful for their timely rescue, of course, but at the same time he was looking sullen, wasn't talking much.
Skittery, too, was being awkward, but for a much more logical reason, mused Snitch. He clearly had never told anyone about the recurring nightmare about his brother, and though Snitch was flattered that he had been the chosen confidante, he still rather regretted bringing the painful memories up at such an inopportune moment. Skittery was looking almost relieved, but he was also looking more tense, wasn't talking much.
And Snitch sat between the two boys on the couch, the most awkward one of all because he knew that it had been he who had caused both of his friends to feel so miserable.
Damn, thought Snitch dimly, I really need to work on my social skills.
thought Snitch dimly,Mrs. Lawrence was scurrying around the house making everyone hot chocolate, even though all three had politely refused her offer. It could not have been more painfully obvious that she was trying as hard as she could to fill the silence, make the situation more comfortable, be a good hostess; it had gotten to the point that she was singing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" as she bustled about the kitchen. Snitch squirmed.
Race was looking awful. His bruise had deepened to a dark purple in the center, fading out to maroon, red, and his skin was tinged yellow at the edges. He was looking rumpled and his blue jeans were filthy, and every once in a while he would sniff quietly, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
He still hadn't explained what had happened to him.
"Here you are, boys," said Mrs. Lawrence warmly, handing them each a mug of hot chocolate and forcing them to accept a chocolate-chip cookie each. "Eat— you look dead on your feet, all three of you. Anthony, would you like to borrow one of Graham's sweatshirts? Are you cold?"
Ordinarily Race would have said, "No, baby, I'm sizzlin' hot" or made a crack about the likelihood of his fitting into something of Snitch's, but he simply said, "I'm fine, thanks, Mrs. Lawrence" and stared into his mug of hot chocolate.
Snitch stared into his mug as well. I hate hot chocolate.
He glanced at Skittery, who looked back with a weak, forced smile. He looked over at Race, who was still looking fixatedly at his hot chocolate. "So, Race, ah... How's your head?" Snitch asked in a falsely cheerful voice.
Race looked at him witheringly. "Wonderful."
Right. Not the smartest thing in the world to say. Snitch pursed his lips and tapped his foot and looked at Skittery again, and Skittery pretended not to notice. Mrs. Lawrence hurried past them, searching for her scarf, pulling a glove on, saying she would be back in ten minutes, she needed to pick Miles up from his guitar lesson... They nodded and Skittery said, "Thanks, Mrs. Lawrence" and she was gone.
A dull silence settled over the house, broken only by the muffled sound of the car starting in the garage. All three of them sat there unmoving on the couch, until they heard her pull out of the driveway and drive away, showtunes blasting from her speakers. And then she was gone.
Snitch tapped his foot again and waited for someone to speak but no one did, so he looked at Skittery again. Skittery looked back this time, eyebrows raised in frustration as if to say, What!
Snitch couldn't contain himself any longer.
"Jesus Christ, Race!" he ejaculated. "Are you not gonna give us any explanation whatsoever!"
Racetrack looked up from his hot chocolate and eyed Snitch calmly. "Probably not," he said, shrugging. "I wasn't planning on it, anyway. I figured that situation was pretty self-explanatory."
"You weren't planning on— self-explanatory—" Snitch gesticulated wildly, too worked up to find the words to express himself. "We saved your ass!" he finally exploded. "We saved your ass and nobody ever has to save your ass, but we did it and I think we deserve at least some sort of clarification here! Dude, the Delanceys and Kelly never beat you up this bad, they only do shit like this to— to Bumlets, or someone who's too sweet and graceful to defend himself the way you can, there's gotta be something goin' on that I'm just not seeing here, man."
"Well if there is, it's none of your business," Racetrack snapped.
Snitch stared at him. "None of our business? Does the fact that we cared enough about you to drag you out of there mean nothing to you?" He stood up and began pacing the room, pulling agitatedly at his t-shirt. "We're your friends, man, what's your business becomes our business because we gave a shit about what happens to you, okay?"
"You tryin' to tell me that you don't keep anything to yourself?" Race demanded. "Just because your friends care about you doesn't mean they need to know every little detail—"
"But this isn't a little fucking detail, the physical abuse you're getting from the dicks at school happens to be sort of a big deal," Snitch cried, throwing his hands into the air.
"I'm alive now, ain't I?"
"Well yeah, but next time you might not be, and we want to— to be able to be there to protect you," said Snitch, his voice breaking, and suddenly he wished for a moment that he could make it clear to Race how much this meant to him, and especially to Skittery. He forced himself not to look at his friend and instead continued emphatically, "I don't care how much of a blow this is to your pride, Race, but I have to know. I don't mean to mother you—"
Race broke in, standing up angrily, "Well then shut the fuck up mothering me! I don't need a fucking mother! I haven't had a mother since I was six years old, and I certainly don't need a new one from you!"
"Race," said Skittery quietly, "did your father do this to you?"
Racetrack stopped, staring at Skittery, and Snitch stared at him too and knew, suddenly, that he was right. And in the silence that succeeded Skittery's rather rhetorical question came a sound from outside the house, a sound that caused them all to move to the window to look.
Spot Conlon was sitting on the Lawrence's doorstep, one knee bent and the other resting on the step below, and he was playing a mournful and yet oddly familiar tune on a harmonica which he held loosely in both hands. He didn't seem to notice the three boys who were staring at him, openmouthed and stunned, through the window, although none nearly as stunned as Racetrack, who looked as though he had just swallowed a gecko.
As they watched, Spot took the harmonica away from his mouth and began to sing. He had a regular voice; there was nothing spectacular about it, and yet the words were so heartfelt that they couldn't help but gape at him.
Well I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand
It didn't make it any easier to just leave me where I stand
I guess there might not be too many who will stand beside you now
Where'd you come from? Where am I goin'?
Why'd you leave me till I'm only good for waitin' for you?
All my sins, I said that I would pay for them if I could
Come back to you
All my innocence is just wasted on the dead and dreamin'
Snitch turned to Skittery, whose glasses were sliding down the bridge of his nose. "It's— it's Counting Crows," he stuttered, and Skittery raised his dark eyes to him, but this time they were smiling.
And the two boys turned in unison to stare at their friend Racetrack Higgins.
Race stiffened when he felt their eyes upon him, and he glared at them as if daring them to speak. "Who's the crazy bloke with the harmonica?" he snapped, and with that he stormed off in the direction of the downstairs bathroom.
Snitch glanced at Skittery. "True love?" he said.
"Oh yeah, baby."
Shoutouts:
ForgetRegret: Haha, gotta love exclamation points... Hey, just out of curiosity, is your name in any way connected to RENT? Because I will love you even more if you're a RENThead. That would be beautiful. Thanks so much for reviewing!
andthenyouwokeup: Yeah, this could be one of the angstiest fics I've ever written, I'm so glad you like it! HA! I have to read that fic, what's it called? I'm such a Princess Bride fan... Thanks so much for reviewing!
Erin Go Bragh: Quite possibly the shortest review I have ever received from you. Homework! You can't have homework in the middle of August! Man, I'm starting on the thirty-first and I thought I had it bad... Ah well, much love to you, you kick ass beyond belief. Thanks for reviewing!
Dreamless Mermaid: Yeah, it took me a really long time to get used to the idea of slash, it just seemed so weird... I definitely prefer fluff to the heavy stuff too, but I'll read both. Newsies slash can be so cute, lol. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!
Dakki: AHH I LOVE YOUR REVIEWS! And you reminded me that it's my fault that Knox and Dalton got together, and that just made my day 'cause it reminded me of that adorable fic I read about them... Idiosyncrasies, that's what it was called! SO CUTE! And yes, Race has so become Bender and I didn't even notice and I just think that's so cute. I love Bender. And you. So much. (PS. Happy birthday Peter Weir! I'm so in love with him. He did The Mosquito Coast, Witness, and The Trouman Show, too! HOW COOL IS HE!)
Liams Kitten: DON'T DIVORCE ME BEFORE OUR WEDDING, DAHLING! This update is for you, because you give beautiful reviews-- like, beyond belief. I so love you.cbs3: Aww, I am so touched! Man, the minor characters from Newsies are the best ones! Bumlets, Swifty, Snitch, Skittery, Specs, Dutchy... How have you been living without them! Well anyway, thanks a million for the reviews!
singin'-newsies-goil: HURRAH FOR LORD OF THE RINGS! Oh now I'm thinking about Aragon... He was really hot. And those movies are beautiful, wow, I really need to watch them again. Thanks so much for the reviews, I love you beyond COMPREHENSION!
Kid Blink's Dreamer: Thanks so much, I love you!
alliemon: Ohh it cut off your review? That explains a lot! Haha, well I appreciated it anyway, it was pretty funny. And yeah I agree, domestic violence pisses me off so much... especially because my family is so not-violent and nice to me, I can't imagine living like that. So fucked up. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!
Queen of Doom: Ha, don't worry, Race shall be back on his feet and psycho-Italian-jackass very soon! Thanks for the review!
-
Author's Note: Just to clarify— Spot and Race didnothave sex, the touching and shit they were referring to was just when Spot had his arm around Race. Yeah, I have yet to write a slashy sex scene, believe it or not. I think I'm gonna wait on that, 'cause I'm only fourteen and I highly doubt I'd be able to write it accurately.
My monthly bleeding, peach pie and vanilla ice cream, and "Friend of the Devil" and the acoustic version of "Mr. Jones" playing on repeat gave birth to this chapter. Oh, that and my adoration for Liams Kittens. Please leave a review!
-Saturday