#I had a less angsty answer for this only to realize I misread the question . (walks into the sea)

[dadatello]

Do Minitello and Leo know about Raph and Mikey then?

"We know the basics. It's rough on him, so we try not to bother him too much about it."

[violetwolfraven]

eek also this is a lot but ikeshot for 7, 14, 26, 33, 39 or 43?

Angst in general.

Nightmares.

You have a scar and I asked about it and it’s really angsty.

I thought I lost you and you need to be more careful you dumbass.

and

You fought me (verbally or physically) and I am s h o o k.

*cracks knuckes* aight then.

I haven’t written ikeshot yet! This’ll be my first time figuring out how I wanna portray their dynamic, so we’ll see how it goes.

I’m gonna do all of them except 33 cause that one doesn’t really work with the idea I have but I can combine all the others.

...

This wasn’t the first time Ike had stayed the night in Brooklyn, but it was the first he’d been woken up by a jolt.

It had taken him months to get this far, the point where he was sharing a bed with a Brooklyn boy, where he was pretty sure he was in love with said Brooklyn boy, where he was even welcome in Brooklyn after dark.

It had been a long and confusing road, starting a couple weeks after they won the strike.

See, Mike did this thing with his lover where they were super paranoid about getting caught. And yeah, that was good for safety, when courting a boy could get you killed or arrested, but Mike and Jojo took it to a whole new level, almost never even sitting on the same side of a room while outside the Lodging House.

And as much as Ike liked that his brother was keeping safe, this was also really fucking annoying, because it meant he had to deal with the pining.

So, he’d asked to tag along to Sheepshead with Race for a day, figuring a day of alone time with his boy might tone down Mike’s annoyingness a little. And Race occasionally took a partner to Brooklyn with him, anyway. He hadn’t done it in a while, but nothing bad had happened before.

And besides, since the strike, inter-borough relations had been better than ever out of a proud kind of solidarity. No big deal, right?

Wrong. They’d split up for maximum efficiency, and barely an hour later Ike was getting dragged away from the entrance to the races he was staking out and into an alley across the street, by which time he was getting thrown against a wall before he even got a look at who was dragging him.

Then he’d looked up, already raising his fists, and seen probably the tallest boy in New York.

Ike had remembered seeing him at the rally, this kid about his age who usually stuck pretty close to Spot Conlon, and he’d made the mistake of lowering his guard.

“Hey! I remember you! You’s Brooklyn’s second, right? What was your name again? Uh... Heat?”

This kid smirked, “Hotshot.”

Then he’d punched Ike in the face.

It was hard enough that Ike was knocked to the ground, but he was on his feet again in an instant, raising his fists again.

“I’m Ike,” he panted, “And I’m here—“

He’d been cut off by having to dodge another punch, trying to throw one of his own, but only getting kneed in the stomach after Hotshot blocked it.

Still, he’d raised his fists again, coughing as he tried to ignore the urge to curl in on himself.

“Don’t know when to give up, do ya?”

Ike smiled, still gasping for breath, “Nope! Don’t mean we have to fight, though.”

Hotshot just punched him again, “You’re on the wrong side of the bridge, Manhattan boy.”

“And that’s grounds enough to soak someone?”

“Hey!”

At that point, Hotshot froze, turning to see Race running into the alley.

“He’s with me, Hotshot! Jeez!”

“Well, he didn’t say—“

“Ya didn’t give me a chance to,” Ike interrupted.

Race had helped Ike up, glaring at the Brooklyn boy despite how Hotshot was much taller and stronger.

“I ain’t gonna tell on you, but kid, you need to learn to think before ya start swingin’. If Spot asks about me, I’m sellin’ with Albert today.”

Race had helped Ike get home, then actually gone to sell with Albert, but on the way back, he’d answered Ike’s questions, about how someone that young and hotheaded could help lead the biggest borough in New York.

“Hotshot’s young, you’re right. He’s your age, actually—14. And yeah, he’s defensive. But I’s known him a while, and there’s more to him than that. The short version is that he’s either a good friend or a bad enemy. Once ya got his loyalty, ya got it forever. That’s why he’s Brooklyn’s second. He’s one of the few Spot actually trusts.”

With that description combined with the way Ike had honestly never met anyone who punched that hard, he was just a little intrigued. Maybe it wasn’t smart, but he’d went back to Brooklyn a week later, not selling this time, but just looking for that one Brooklyn boy.

He’d found him, selling at Coney. And Brooklyn boys usually didn’t sell with partners, so Ike hadn’t had trouble sneaking up on him.

“Hey.”

That was the only warning he gave before putting a hand on Hotshot’s shoulder to spin him around and punch him in the face.

Hotshot had wheeled back, raising his own fist.

“You got ‘bout four hits on me for no reason—I thinks I deserve one free shot!”

Slowly, Hotshot had lowered his hand, still glaring at him, but not as much.

“Fair is fair. Now go back to Manhattan.”

Ike was going to, honestly, but then figured, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ and didn’t.

“So, how often do ya beat up kids from other boroughs without askin’ for their story?”

“Are you completely fearless, or just stupid?”

“Both, probably. Ya gonna answer the question, or punch my daylights out?”

“I ain’t decided yet.”

“Well, while you’re decidin’, I heard you’re close with Spot Conlon. What’s he really like? Is he always that scary, or is it just an act?”

For the next several weeks, it was like that. It was Ike coming over, finding Hotshot wherever he was, and annoying the hell out of him.

And Hotshot always said he was going to punch him, but he never did. Slowly, he started actually answering Ike’s questions, at least a few of them, and asking a few in return. Ike wouldn’t necessarily call them friends, but they definitely knew each other better, now.

“One of these days, I’m actually gonna punch ya,” Hotshot grumbled once, when Ike asked a question a little too personal.

“Every time ya say that, I believe you less,” Ike said cheerfully, “Anyway, I’s heard Brooklyn’s got great sunrises. Is that true?”

Hotshot actually smiled a little, “I dunno if it’s any better than Manhattan, but yeah, we’s gotten some pretty nice ones over here.”

It took a couple months, but Ike started figuring out that by even talking to him, Hotshot was letting down his guard, little by little. He let it down a bit more as he started letting Ike touch him, allowing a handshake when they met up, or a punch in the shoulder in a friendly way.

Once he realized how much Hotshot was trusting him by doing those little things, Ike realized that against his better judgement, he trusted him, too. He liked spending time with Hotshot, probably too much.

Definitely too much, with how he was stupid enough to walk through a November rainstorm months after they met just to see him.

By the time he got to Brooklyn, he was freezing, wet, and disoriented enough that he’d ended up passing out in front of a random store, just so the awning would keep the rain off.

He’d woken up in the Brooklyn Lodging House in the middle of the night, with Hotshot holding him in a bed.

Actually, he’d kind of jolted awake, and apparently woken up Hotshot with him as the Brooklyn boy whispered an explanation to him.

“Hildy found ya damn near frozen. By the time she got ya back here, you were almost dead and needed body heat bad.”

“Oh,” Ike whispered back, almost too terrified to move or even speak.

“That’s all ya got to say, you idiot?” Hotshot hissed, clearly angry as his arm around Ike’s waist tightened, “What were you thinkin’, walkin’ here in a storm?”

Ike was still pretty confused, and for once, he couldn’t even think of something to say.

Then Hotshot sighed, “I thought you were gonna die.”

Oh. So that was what this was about. He wasn’t angry—not at Ike, really, at least.

Ike had finally let himself relax against the taller boy’s chest, enjoying how warm Hotshot actually was.

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Hotshot had exhaled kind of sharply, and Ike was praying to a god he didn’t believe in that he wasn’t misreading things, but he’d rolled over so he was facing Brooklyn’s second, their faces barely inches apart, though it was so dark that Ike couldn’t really see him.

Beyond that, he hadn’t wanted to make the first move, mostly out of fear. In Manhattan, it was pretty common knowledge that many of them liked the same sex, but Brooklyn was different. It was less of a family and more of almost a gang. Ike wasn’t sure how Hotshot would react if he did anything.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to do anything, because yes, Ike liked boys, and he’d made peace with that, but being with one made it dangerous. Mike wasn’t the only was who was terrified of getting caught, for good reason.

Then Hotshot’s hand had come up to touch a scar on the side of Ike’s face. One he guessed he’d probably never noticed before because their faces had never been this close.

It had been from a pretty bad wound, but was so faded that it looked minor now, because he’d gotten it so long ago.

“I didn’t give you this, did I?”

Ike shook his head, “No. I’ve had that scar since I was 8.”

“How’d ya get a scar so bad it still shows now when you were 8?”

Ike had taken a deep breath, forced down panic over events he’d rather forget, and decided to tell him the truth.

“My brother and me,” he whispered, “Our parents died when we were really young. So’s we got brought up by our mom’s sister and her lover... her lover who was... also a woman.”

Ike paused there, waiting for Hotshot’s reaction.

There really wasn’t one, and he’d felt a bit of relief at that.

“They was good at bein’ subtle,” Ike continued, “So nobody suspected anythin’ for a long while. But then when me and Mike were 8... some bad people figured it out and... and those men came in the night and set the house on fire. I guess we’s lucky to have made it out at all—our aunts weren’t that lucky—but...”

His voice trailed off. Ike didn’t like admitting that he wasn’t this happy-go-lucky kid all the time. He hadn’t told anyone about this, ever. Mike had told Jack, years ago, to explain why they had bad days sometimes, but Ike had never been able to talk about it.

He’d felt Hotshot take a deep breath, and then the other boy had pulled him closer, right against his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination when, later, once Ike was halfway into a dream, he thought he might have felt a kiss being pressed to his hair.

Ike had known right there that something had changed between them, and though Mike gave him hell for staying out all night the next morning, he couldn’t say it wasn’t worth it.

He didn’t know if they were... what, did you call it courting? He didn’t know if what they were doing had a label or if spending a significant amount of their free time together qualified as being together.

But, after that first night, Ike did spend the night in Brooklyn a few more times, sharing a bed with Hotshot under the excuse that he’d lost track of time the Brooklyn Lodging House didn’t have one to spare. In reality, he stayed over because sharing a bed, sharing warmth with Brooklyn’s second... it was nice. It was somehow different from crawling in with Mike if nightmares got bad or huddling on the fire escape with Crutchie and Jack if he didn’t make enough to pay for his bed one night.

Sharing a bed with Hotshot was comforting even when nothing was actually wrong. It was safe and warm and it made Ike feel all fuzzy inside and...

Not that he knew how to say it, not that he could say it, but Ike was pretty sure this was what falling in love felt like.

It was scary, but he didn’t want to stop falling.

Of course, he wasn’t planning on telling Hotshot how he felt. Not unless the other boy made the first move. Or unless they decided to get drunk for some reason. Or if it happened to come up in conversation.

Okay... maybe Ike really wanted to tell him, but he just didn’t know how to go about it.

Well, he’d been sitting on this for a long while already, so Ike still really didn’t know when he was going to tell him, but he still felt the need to follow when he felt Hotshot jolt awake, just before rolling out of bed and leaving the room.

“Hotshot?”

Ike followed him out onto the fire escape, finding the taller boy staring down over the edge, a death grip on the railing.

“Hotshot, are you okay?”

Ike moved to stand next to him, making sure it was clear and visible what he was doing as he put a hand over Hotshot’s on the railing.

For a few seconds, he didn’t react. He didn’t even give a sign that he’d heard or even felt Ike touching him.

Then, slowly, he let go of the railing, flipping his hand over so he could intertwine their fingers.

Hotshot exhaled shakily, most of the tension leaving his frame. Ike took that as a sign that it was okay to lean his head against his shoulder.

“Ya gonna tell me what this is about?”

For a minute, he thought he wasn’t going to.

Then Hotshot took a wavering breath and spoke, still staring over the edge of the fire escape.

“Ya once asked how many kids I’s beat up for no reason,” he said quietly, “I don’t know. I get in fights a lot. I get angry and... and usually, Spot tells me where to aim it, but it ain’t always enough. I always have more and if I don’t put it somewhere, it’ll just build till I... till I explode.”

Ike nodded. He understood. He already knew this about Hotshot. He’d figured out that anger was his drive a long time ago.

“I... I learned that from my folks.”

Ike froze. In all their conversations over the last few months, Hotshot had never shared any personal information beyond the fact that he saw Spot as an older brother.

“They’d get angry,” Hotshot said shakily, “And when they’d explode, they’d...”

His voice faltered, and Ike touched his arm with his free hand, trying to ground him. He could read between the lines and though it made him angry and sad as hell, he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

“I... I got myself out when I was 12,” he mumbled, “Finally just couldn’t take it anymore and ran like hell—ended up here. And I know it’s been a couple years, now, but... but I still go back there some nights, when I’m sleepin’.”

His voice was shaking a little, by the end of that, and Ike tugged on his arm gently so he could turn Hotshot to face him.

He wasn’t sure he was going to allow it, but to his relief, Hotshot hugged him back, leaning down to bury his face in Ike’s shoulder.

“You’re here,” Ike whispered, “They can’t hurt ya here, Hotshot. You’re safe.”

Hotshot wasn’t crying, but he was shaking a little in the cold. It was winter, for crying out loud. Winter at night. And though the Brooklyn kids did wear sleeves like reasonable people in winter, most of them didn’t sleep in their shirts.

“Can we take this inside?” Ike asked, knowing that he was cold, even being a little more dressed for the weather than Hotshot was.

The taller boy nodded shakily and they went inside, curling up together in that bunk, the closeness for comfort as much as warmth.

Feeling brave for a minute, Ike leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on the Hotshot’s forehead.

Hotshot went rigid, but the expression on his face was pure surprise, not any kind of disgust, and he didn’t pull away.

Ike offered him a small smile before rolling over, so as not to push things.

He definitely wasn’t complaining when Hotshot pulled him against his chest to sleep for the rest of the night.