Synopsis: There's a death in the Lodging House. Jack and Race try to deal with it the best they can.

Hey guys! This is... different for me. I wanted to try writing in a new style and I think it worked but am still not completely sure...

It's kind of a story wrapped up in a character study. Like I said, it'd different for me as I typically lean towards dialogue when writing. 

Please let me know what you think! This took me way longer to write than usual. 

Thanks to Assassin-In-A-Hoodie for all her help! 

Word count: 1,623

WARNING: Offscreen death of a minor, talk of death, aftermath of death, sadness

~TH~

Death. It hung like a cloud. A thick, dark cloud. It made it hard to see clearly. The frigid January air matched the insides of each boy in the large bunkroom.

"Where's Jack?" A broken voice asked. Crutchie, the youngest of the older boys, sat quietly, tears streaming down his face. His arms were wrapped around his knees, the lame leg slightly in front of the other.

Racetrack Higgins, only a year older than the crippled boy, shrugged. "On the roof, I think." He was one of the few boys with no tear stains. Some would argue that he didn't feel, but those closest to him knew it was not a lack of feeling, but the overwhelming weight of them, that kept them from displaying.

"You gotta go get 'im. He shouldn't be alone." The younger of the two leaned his head on his knees. "Please?"

Racetrack, or Race to his friends, sighed. "I don't know, Crutch. I think he wants to be left alone."

"Ain't good for him. He's takin' it hard." Crutchie knew Jack better than any other boy in the Lodging House, possibly in all of the state of New York.

The older boy pressed a hand to his temple, hoping the pressure would relieve at least some of the tension. He gave a quick glance around the room, noting the unusual silence. It was true that the boys often had a lively, rambunctious energy. Now, the only sound that could be heard were muffled sobs and soft whispers.

The room felt somehow emptier to the boys huddled together, however there were only two notable absences. The first, the aforementioned Jack, but the second was the cause of the tears, a boy known only as Pickit. The emptiness most felt on the outside, was very similar to the feeling Racetrack was experiencing on the inside.

"Please Race?" The crippled boy begged, redrawing the attention of his slightly older friend.

The boy in question let out a sigh. "Okay, jus', don' worry 'bout it too much. He'll be fine."

Racetrack pushed open the window, letting in a cold gust of air that sent shivers down the backs' of many boys. The roof, or Penthouse as some mockingly referred to it, was only reachable by scaling the fire escape. The temperature was nearly painful after only a few moments of exposure to the underdressed boy.

A loud, heartbroken, scream echoed throughout the darkened city streets. It was accompanied by the sound of flesh hitting brick. Racetrack flinched at the noise before he heaved himself up the final rungs of the ladder.

Jack Kelly was there, back turned to the intruder, palms pressed firmly on the risen ledge in front of him, his body shaking as choking breaths escaped him. He was the oldest of the boys at seventeen. He had inherited the role of leader at an undeniably young age, yet many agreed he was the best to ever rule Manhattan. He was a kind leader, taking the welfare of the boys as his own personal responsibility. He was cocky and arrogant and yet somehow so humble in the things that were truly important. Jack Kelly was an enigma few understand, but everyone who called him friend knew that he was highly, and sometimes overly, emotional.

Racetrack stopped, mindlessly picking at the cigar that hung from his mouth. His relationship with the Manhattan leader was complicated. They were friends, some might even argue best friends, but they fought often enough for it to be a well-known occurrence.

"You should come downstairs." The voice was quiet, unusual for the often loud-mouth gambler.

Jack Kelly sighed, "No. I-I can't." The was a beat of silence. "How's Crutchie?"

"He's okay. He asked me to come get you." Though the young boy in question was quite upset, the speaker knew that he was far better off than the Newsies leader who had just turned around to face him.

"I can't. I couldn't, I couldn't help him!" While emotional, Jack rarely cried in front of his boys. He was more prone to stoicism or anger when pressed for emotion. That fact that he now had tears in his eyes unnerved the other boy. "I should have been able to do something! Get a doctor, get better medicine. There had to be something! I shouldn't have let him-"

"It's not your fault Jack. There's nothing you could have done. He's always been sick. An' he was real bad off this time. Maybe it's better that-"

"Don't. Don't finish that sentence. He was eleven years old, Race! Eleven! He shouldn't have had to worry about things like that! He should have had all the food he needed and warm clothes in the winter. He should be goin' to school and playin' with his friends instead of hawking papes in weather no one should be out in!" The tears that had once trickled, now poured unbidden from the older boy's eyes. His voice had become more broken with every word.

Racetrack was never one for comfort. He preferred to remain the comic relief of the group, but there was no one else to help in this situation. "Jack, Pickit, he, he's been sick from the beginning. We all knew it would happen sooner or later."

"But it didn't have to! We got Crutchie through! Everyone always said that he wouldn't make it, but he did!" The voice could barely be called angry. It sounded as though a strong wall had grown a large fracture, causing any strength it may have once had to become irrelevant.

"Pickit's not Crutchie. It happened, Jack. There was nothing you could have done."

A slight breeze amplified the cold, sending a shiver down the younger boy's back. "Jack, you can't keep blamin' yurself. He was sick. No matter how much you wanted to make 'im better, you couldn've."

"But, I-I coul've done something." It was said on a breath, any signs of anger snatched away by a deep, heartbreaking, sadness. A deep weight had settled in his very soul, causing all other emotions to drain away.

Racetrack rocked on the balls of his feet, hoping to bring at least a minuscule amount of warmth with the movement. "It don't work that way. You know it don't. There was nothing you could've done. Come inside. It's gettin' colder and I forgot my coat." There was compassion in boys heart. He cared for his leader, his friend. He wanted to help, but comfort was something he had never been able to properly give.

"You go on, I'll be down later." It was not hard to conceive that he was lying. It was something that came all too easy for the Manhattan leader. Lying was how he made his living, however, he always felt a pang of guilt when lying to those closest to him.

"No you won't. If you don't come down with me now, you'll be here all night. I ain't stupid Jack. If you won't go inside then I won't neither." He crossed his arms, whether it was to reenforce his statement or ward off the cold was unsure. Racetrack Higgins was known for his stubbornness. He truly had no intentions of leaving his friend alone, much to Jack's annoyance

The older Newsie sighed, closing his eyes as he ran his fingers through his hair. "He was only eleven."

"I know."

"You sure Crutchie's okay?" The fifteen-year-old crippled boy had been the one to find Pickit on the streets, dying on the streets. It had been rough in the beginning, but once the seven-year-old had regained his strength they had been nearly inseparable.

Racetrack shrugged a single shoulder. "I guess. Still think yous should go talk to him. He needs you right now."

There was an extended period of silence before Jack sighed. "I just.... can't."

"You gotta Jack. The boys, Crutchie, they need you."

"You don't understand-"

"No, you don't understand!" The younger boy began to pace the small rooftop. "I know it ain't fair, I know you should get a chance to grieve and be sad jus' like everyone else, but you can't. You can't because all them boys downstairs is waitin' on you. They's waitin' for you to come down and make everything better! Becuase yous there leader, Jack. You cain't stay up here and cry no matter how much you want to because you got people countin' on you! The boys need you! I need you!" He stopped, shaking his head. He realized too late that he had spoken from his heart, something he never intended to do.

Jack stood, momentarily stunned before wrapping his arms around his young friend. "I'm sorry Racer. I'm so sorry."

Racetrack didn't even notice that he had tears in his eyes. The boy stood unmoving in the cold, allowing the Manhattan reader to hold him closely.

A little bit of warmth broke through the bitter cold as the two boys clung to each other . After an extended moment, the older boy pulled away. Clearing his voice, he said, "Come on, we got a Lodging House to run. He offered a light punch to his friend's arm before a boy with the troubles that someone twice his age would barely be able to manage began his descent into the all too empty bunkroom. Racetrack brushed the tears from his eyes before following.

Death. It clung to the air in and around the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, amplifying the cold of the season. There was no denying its presence, but it was not alone in its appearance.

A small amount of warmth entered with the love and care of their leader Jack Kelly. It gave them hope that everything would be okay. Someday, everything would be okay.

~TH~

So that's that! 

Like I said, I tried a new voice, any thoughts? 

I don't necessarily think that I'm going to change my writing style, but it was fun to try something new!

I now have an entire backstory for PIckit and am sad. I didn't even mean to. I just came up with the name and suddenly knew his entire life story! Do you guys want to hear more about him, or should I just leave it because... I mean we start with his death... 

Please let me know what you think! 

I really appreciate any votes/comments/likes/comments/favourites/COMMENTS/reblogs you guys are willing to give!

God bless,
Jamie