#felt like playing with gimp and so threw this together

[ailelie]

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Just Ask

—

     The famous set of misclassified enemies —Izaya and Shizuo— were dubious adolescent lovers.

They were far too honest of what they loathed; reluctant to walk on the same route to class, yet did side by side with compressed tension between them. Never much to share, just hot air and petulant gestures, crossed arms and hands in pockets, and slammed steps across the glossed wood corridors. On their better days they forgot to wear scowls, their best they would smirk in the other's general direction; under the bluest of moons they would feed rumours with soulmate grade closeness, rather, day-after zest, which struck plenty a Raijin student with envy. As it was, they did have some form of intimacy, if only for blink, and perhaps it was more than just a handshake that sealed the rivals in an occasional truce.

However this day was its own special thing in and of itself. Today they walked a single gait; Shizuo in weave of people and avoidance of floor lines, kept away bad luck and a certain burden for his mother's back, all the while a human burden was draped on his.

    “You're heavy.”

    “That's a lie.” Izaya knocked his head against his transporter's.

    “If I weren't me, you'd be heavy,” he corrected with a frown.

    “I'm not heavy, even for fools that aren’t beastly strong.”

    “Hmph."

Shizuo was unsure, he hadn't the comparison to confirm or deny. Still, Izaya was the weight of a feather to him — it was his damn ego that weighed a ton.

    “For instance Shinra can carry me.”

    "What?"

    “Mmhmm, easily proved his husband potential, bridal style and all.”

    “Tch.” His fingers clenched Izaya’s thighs.

    "He did it for someone else’s benefit, Shizu-chan. Take it back down from sixty."

    Intentionally, Shizuo slackened his hold, though Izaya leeched on. “So why don't you call him to take you home?"

    "I can't.”

    “Why the hell not, Izaya?”

    “My hands are too busy making sure I’m not tossed off your back. You see, I can't seem to fully trust my…” he trailed off, struggled to pick a descriptor from a list where each one soured his taste buds just the same as the last.

    “...”

    “Correction: I absolutely can't trust you, my detestable rival."

    “Same, to be honest.”

Izaya snorted.

    “What now?”

    "I believe you, honestly, but you sound so awkward using that phrasing,” he gripped tighter with a loveless hug, prepared to actually be dropped.

    “There's nothin’ wrong with it.”

    “Sure there isn't, I just wouldn't expect you to pick up on cool kid lingo and actually use it.”

    “Whatever.”

    "Sounds like you're bothered, though." Izaya jubilantly kicked his legs out with a pattern of swishes.

    "Whatever means I wasn't."

    "It means you're dismissive and perhaps hiding something."

    "You're annoying."

    "That's a lie."

    "It's really not."

    "Then why are you still carrying me?"

    "What. Ever." Shizuo stressed.

    "Glad you’re dismissive of that, at least. I still need my un-noble steed."

Shizuo grumbled, but kept on target.

    As they proceeded through the halls they remained unaware of the eyes upon them, Shizuo more focused on a continued scissor kick. Izaya appeared tickled by how quick he was swept into a makeshift saddle after his ankle twisted. Shizuo, however, was not so much.

          “How fair is it for a beast to use chairs in close quarters when he already had an unfair advantage?”           “No...I...you set me up to trip you, asshole!”

          "Now, why would I sacrifice my dignity to cause myself pain?"

    Shizuo had unbelievable guilt for his wild punch that staggered his opponent backward, tripped him awkwardly over the seat of an askew chair — his swing and a miss that caused Izaya to grab his ankle and bite back agony, dramatically writhe in spite of himself. It was much to Shizuo’s shock that the pest threw away that pride of his to express pain so openly. Peculiar, out of character, so heavily a cringe to witness that he acted kindly and sympathetic to stop it.

Now, however, he was certain — the flea hardly deserved more than scrutiny over which ankle he easily flexed and which remained limp.

    “Ay princess,” he took a pothole on purpose, “aren’t you gettin’ your injured foot mixed up?”

    Izaya paused. “Oh, right, it was my left wasn't it?" he switched his gimp foot.

    Shizuo forgot to be annoyed and simply sighed, “there you go.” He smirked in vain.     “Yes, yes, very observant of you.”

The sarcastic praise was acknowledged with a hike of Izaya up his back; in return a chin nestled in his hair. Their banter softened from animosity, in fact, their spat dialogue ceased all together and the rare silence turned their afternoon lazy.

    With a step into the open courtyard their hush seemed considerate of the trees that whispered in the Spring and appreciative of the warmth that the sun provided. Surely they only acted a fluke of their normal dynamic because of circumstance, but they eagerly let it happen without considering it an oddity. They let it linger, the effect of their mistake, until their indolent pace halted at the school gates to address uncertainty that’d been on Shizuo's mind since the first-floor stairwell.     “Well?" His toe tapped after a moment of silence.

The path presented options of East or West; would they take one together, or would he force Izaya to fuck off in the opposite direction of himself?

Izaya remained mute. His eyes rested, a whistle played in his head instead of upon his lips, while he feigned slumber.     “Louse...”

    "Hmm~?" He hummed dreamily.

    "Whose place?"

It was the right response, Shizuo gathered, as Izaya turned attentive. He now hovered parallel to Shizuo's viewpoint, palpable satisfaction upon his features and hands pressed into a stationary shoulder massage. With his left foot he pointed down the Eastern path.

    "You’re looking to get your ankle checked?" Shizuo forgot the lie.

    "Hm?” he paused in confusion. “Oh no, I'm pretty sure I can handle wrapping an ankle without that glasses-freak."     “So…" he shuffled Izaya's weight, "we're going to your place."

    "That is the direction to my place, yes."

A solo nod and Shizuo picked his pace back up from where he stopped, deliberated what he was going to say — if he was going to say it.

    "Your sisters gone today then?”

    “Forward, are we?"

    "Just answer the goddamn question."

    "Does it matter if they are? They're not too annoying. Kind of."

    "Ugh, that's not why I care."

    "I know." Izaya chuckled. "Honestly, I just find my bed to be far more comfortable than your old sack.”

    "Haha, you mean you don't want a back injury to match your fake injury?"

    "Are you accusing me of lying just so I could get you to carry me?"

    "Why shouldn't I?"

    “Because I’m not some coward, Shizu-chan. You should know this by now, considering our brawls.”

    “Coulda fooled me.”     “I often do.”

Shizuo shook the pest from his hair.

    Suddenly Izaya’s house seemed too far off and a bit too close; their regular trips never felt so conflicted before, at least not in this regard. It stole their attention to question why it was the case now and what the case even was, instead of paying it to the occasional dip in the pavement and reality outside one’s head. So really they took physical and mental trips while on their after school trip, hilariously stacked like Russian nesting dolls; awkward for onlookers who didn’t know whether to classify it as cute or not.

Izaya broke the silence with a cleared throat in notice of his own doorstep.

    "I was wondering…” He swung into a dexterous dismount before Shizuo could halt. With a ‘hup’ he stuck the landing; a smile formed as he shook blood back into each foot.

    “Would you have carried me if I’d just asked?" he jabbed his nail into Shizuo’s forehead and twisted for good measure.

    Unaffected by the cut, Shizuo leaned into the weaponised nail. "Yeah."

    Izaya gasped theatrically, "you're definitely lying this time, Shizu-chan!"

    "If you think so, ask me tomorrow."

The truth was weighed out with Izaya’s  stare, which only stopped when Shizuo surprisingly gave into the pressure; pulled away and unnecessarily rubbed at his forehead to check for blood. With anticipation, he found his pockets and fussed with lint, too bashful to ask if Izaya wanted to continue on as planned.

Nervous energy was absorbed by Izaya and turned him away to struggle with his locked door with his own jitters in control of his hands. A number of dissatisfied clicks and the right one clunked, he swung the door in haste and moved to the side.

    "Why not now?"

    "Uh…" Shizuo watched as Izaya openly displayed his body.

    "Now, as in, carry me now, Shizu-chan."

    "Oh." He shrugged, "okay."

Neither of them moved.

    "...well?"

    "What? You didn't ask."

    "Seriously…" Izaya took the moment to be unamused.

    “You’re not a coward, so prove it.”

    He looked offended, "fine! Carry me up to my bedroom so we can fuck already."

Shizuo had already prepared to carry Izaya, but he hadn’t expected the proposal to be so crass — brief shock drew upon his face and his stature went rigid. Satisfied with the result, Izaya beckoned him further with a popped chin, which he displayed with far too much cock for Shizuo’s liking. Decidedly, he flung the other teen into a fireman's carry instead of what he knew was wanted.

    "Brute! This isn't how I meant!"

    "Eh, technically you didn’t ask, didn’t specify either."

    "You knew what I meant. Don't let Shinra one up you, carry me bridal style, like a man who is courting his beloved!!"

    "Maybe someday. If it’s accurate." He snorted.

    Izaya kicked Shizuo in gut, especially hard, specifically with his injured foot. "Don't think I would ever ask a imbecile like you something like that."

    "Why would you be the one to ask?"

    "Because you make me ask unnecessary things!"

    "So you’re saying it's a given that one of us eventually will? Ask, I mean."

Izaya was caught off guard; his backside was intentionally used as a weak battering ram against the bedroom door, though it was the question that shook him and not how he was used.

    He huffed. "You're pressing your luck of that ever happening. Which, by the way, was never in your favour."

    "I just want sex. I never said I wanted...that."

    "Good, because it was a one in a million chance. Not 100% impossible, but only because nothing is certain and it’d be a disgrace to act as though we were prophets."

Their hot potato game of mock adult topics escalated into something that disgusted both players with scowls.

    "Whatever, Izaya." Shizuo swung the annoyed teen onto the mess of bed covers.

    "Whatever, Shizu-chan." He flicked his leg up to demand removal of his pants — arms crossed, eyes dead set, his toe mockingly pointed.

Shizuo shrugged like he had no idea what to do with the limb, the same he dodged when Izaya aimed a kick below the belt; retaliated with a lowered gaze to rest on his attacker’s belt with a lackadaisical demand of his own.

Izaya steeled his annoyance—complied, but flubbed each attempt he made to loosen leather from its clasp.

    "You can be fun to tease, flea."

    "Same, to be honest."

    "Ha, you were right. You sound dumb saying it too."

    "It's called a throwback, Shizu-chan, a wittier version of you nearly throwing out my back." He unzipped his fly and simultaneously tugged his pants down, waited for further assistance, slathered on thick his insinuation for Shizuo to cut the crap and join in — damned if he asked.

Still Shizuo denied with a fake yawn and a drawn up hand to shield; summoned tears at the corners of his eyes to accentuate his laissez faire.

Izaya cursed. He hoped hormones would overrule Shizuo before he was forced to strip and maneuver him through the motions like a doll. Why couldn’t they fuck like normal sex driven mammals and get it over with?

    "Thought your bed was too high quality to injure you?"

    "Mattresses have their limits.”

    "Thought you didn't weigh much."

    "Strength knows no bounds!"

    "Hmm..."

    Izaya finally took Shizuo by the shoulders and yanked him down. "What inane idea are you pondering over now, Shizu-chan?"

    "Will strength get you to shut up?"

    "Depends, will you finally join me if I do?”

    “All you have to do is ask me to, pest.”

    "I can’t do that if I can’t talk, dolt. Besides, that ruins the fun, doesn't it?" he nimbly undid buttons below a splayed wide collar. “It’s better that you figure it out for yourself.”

    "You're seriously gonna go the hard route."

Shizuo watched as his shirt tails got tossed aside; as his abdomen was ironed by clammy hands which slid up and around his shoulders to bunch blazer sleeves at his elbows.

    "Isn't this the hard route for you as well? You could speed this up if you didn’t wait for me to ask for something we both want."

Without motion of his own, Shizuo let the other pull him out of his Raijjn blues, one arm and each leg at a time.

    "This is fun, though."

    "I'm glad I can humour you, Shizuo."

    "Me too."

    "Seriously, where’s this patience coming from?" Izaya pulled a waistband taut, "you're already hard!"

    "Yeah, this is a turn on."

    Izaya let the elastic snap. "I'm appalled."

    "Also turned on."

True enough, he was. The call of attention riled Izaya enough to bespeckle his chest with a blush that traveled from his cheeks. His own knit fabric strained with a solo throb — or two.

    "Yes, and the longer I have to work, the quicker I'll go flaccid. Wouldn't that be a pity."

    "Eh, I could still beat off to you."

Indignant, Izaya decided to sacrifice his own pleasure to extend the tension so far it would bend Shizuo to his mercy. He hooked elastic and wiggled a tight undergarment to free Shizuo's erection. He ran a finger along the underside, base to the tip, directed it to stand pert upon his pointer, used his tongue to take away a taste of pre-cum. As he glossed his lips, he assessed if Shizuo would give, but wound up having to pull away again after a mere shiver was enacted and nothing more from his supposed lover.

    "But why wait to handle it yourself?"

    "'Cause you're not asking."

    “I shouldn’t have to ask these things! It’s sex for fuck’s sake! We aren’t timid boyfriends!”     “Yup.”

    Izaya escalated, “then why, pray tell, are you waiting for my consent when it’s handed to you on a silver platter?”

    “‘Cause you’re hilariously bashful when asking for what you want, instead of being confident like you think you are.”

    "Ohohoho, Shizu-chan," his frustration turned sadistic, "I'll make you eat those words."

—

    It was needlessly arduous — the extended game of chicken that the two hormonal teens played, rather a test of sexual resolve and the extent to which their partner would go to fulfill a not yet developed kink; a deathless battle royale. They held out to the end, no questions asked, only desires begged  — stubbornly masturbated almost exclusively to their own pride.

With huffs and sneers, their wills were exhausted. Despite the tail end of adrenaline, they were peacefully calm, reasonably satisfied with the results, just frustrated with the lengths that it took to get them. Izaya was frustrated with Shizuo, as was he in return, but they didn’t question if they were satisfied with the benefits of being casual fuck enemies. So they rallied their heated retorts past the main event and into the glow of their post-game cleanup, because —of course— that was who they were.

    “Who’s the winner in this scenario?”     “You seriously askin’ that?”     “I don’t needlessly chatter, simpleton.”

    “There doesn’t hafta be a winner.”

Izaya pre-cleaned himself before his shower. He shook off a stringy tail of cum from his hand while he shared his disgust with how it clung; took note of where to concentrate his soapy cleanse, like a film would remain without an extra scrub.

Shizuo watched, though almost buttoned the hole above the proper on his shirt, distracted by the naked view that jumbled his coordination and threatened to turn him on again.

    “Double think that thought — with us, I’m pretty sure there has to be.” He felt self conscious under the study of his skin and grabbed his slacks to hop into.

    “Fine, you won.”

    “Oh? Now you’re admitting defeat so easily.”

    "Look, I'm not gonna feed your ego with compliments for being an avoidant brat, so just take it."

    Light reflected off Izaya’s widened eyes, "well that's the funny thing..." his smile curled.

    Shizuo spoke a ‘here it comes’ in his mind, paired the dramatic pause with his own, "...yeah?" he wrinkled his brow as he was egged him on.     "Tell me what the hell is so funny, Izaya?"

To which his question snapped the trap which the manipulator hoped his prey would fall for.

    "I didn’t expect you to compliment me," he winked, “because I never asked you to. Thank you for the real victory, Shizu-chan.” Izaya sung.

With an air of shook hands for a good duel, Shizuo graced Izaya with smiled touché.

    It was dumb, yet endearing; fitting, but all the same dumb. After all the fuss, their stubbornness began to carry their baggage while they two trudged onward through a messy relationship. To what degree, though, would forever be a battle of who would ask first.

—

AN: This one kinda ran long, but eh. It fulfilled my hankering for a Raijin fic, simultaneously one where Shizuo carries Izaya. Sometimes I hate loving tropes. uwu;

[bexlynne]

Drivin’ Me Crazy Part Two

(A/N): This is the end of this story, but I have some more I’ll probably be posting soon!  Thank you to everyone who’s given me feedback on this story, you’re so sweet and you made my day yesterday. :)  Let me know if you want to be tagged in future stories!

Jack glanced at his watch for the twentieth time. Forty-five minutes. I can get through forty-five minutes. That's just fifteen minutes, three times. I can do this.

"...and an order of mashed potatoes on the side," the customer finished.

Jack snapped back to the present. "Uh, sorry, could ya repeat that?" he said sheepishly.

The man looked annoyed. "Again?"

"Sorry 'bout that," Jack said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'll get it this time, I promise."

Get it togetha', Kelly. Race ain't talkin' ta ya, so what? Quit worryin' about it and do your job.

"What's with you today, Kelly?" Jacobi asked as Jack brought the order back to the kitchen.

Jack kicked at the ground. "Problems with the boys," he admitted.

"Ah." The man nodded in understanding. "Well, try not ta let it affect your work, alright?"

"Yeah, I know," Jack said, scratching the back of his neck absently. "Mr. Jacobi, you'se got kids, right? Can I ask your advice on somethin'?"

"Sure," the man said. "As long as you ask it in the next..." He leaned back from the grill, checking the clock on the wall. "...thirty seconds, before table four's order is ready."

"So yesta'day I took Race's car keys--" Jack was cut off by his phone ringing. He froze when he saw the caller ID. Race. His boys knew better than to call him at work... unless it was an emergency. "Sorry boss, gotta take this," he said, his heart already beating out of his chest. He flipped open his phone. "Race? What's goin' on?"

"Jack?" a small voice said.

"Romeo?" the seventeen-year-old said, slightly confused. "Is everythin' okay? Where's Race?" The younger boy let out sob, and Jack felt his blood run cold. "Rome, what's goin' on?" he said, forcing himself to remain calm. "Are ya okay? Talk ta me, kid."

"Race crashed the car," Romeo choked out. "Jack, I'm scared! Race yelled, he said ta get outta the car quick--"

"Are ya okay?" Jack interrupted, dreading the answer.

"I... I think so," Romeo said hesitantly.

"Where's Race, is he hurt?" Jack asked next, starting to pace back and forth.

"I don't know," Romeo sniffled. "He's helpin' Crutchie."

Crutchie. No, no, no, he's got Crutchie. As soon as I know Race ain't hurt, I'se gonna strangle him. "I'm on my way," he told his brother, trying to sound reassuring. "Where are ya?"

"The roller coaster hills," Romeo answered. "Jack--" The line went dead.

Jack cursed under his breath. "I gotta go," he called to his boss, throwing his apron at a peg on the wall. He didn't wait to see where it landed. "Family emergency!"

Jack drummed his fingers against the steering wheel anxiously, glancing at the time. What's takin' so long? Just my luck I get stuck at the longest red light in 'Hattan... The light turned to green, and he sped off without a second thought. Romeo's panicked voice kept playing over in his head. What would it take ta make that kid scared like that? Did somethin' happen ta Race? No, he said Race was helpin' Crutchie... Wait, what happened ta Crutchie? Romeo said he ain't hurt, he didn't say nothin' 'bout the otha' two. The car crashed, anythin' coulda happened. They could be dead. Please, God, don't let them be dead.

Glancing at the speedometer, Jack pressed harder on the gas. Three minutes. It's been three minutes. So much can happen in three minutes. Images flashed through his head, one after the other. One or more of his brothers hurt, their bodies mangled in some horrible accident. Hospital bills he couldn't pay. The thought of losing one of them... How am I gonna tell the otha's? That one a' their brothers is dead? Jack shook his head, a sharp pain building in his chest as his breathing sped up. He couldn't get enough air. The car swerved dangerously as he choked back a sob, and then logic took over. Pulling over to the side of the road, Jack rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Breathe, Kelly. You got this. Nothin's happened yet. Get outta your head an' quit thinkin' the worst. Your boys need ya, and they'se gonna need ya ta be calm in case one of 'em's hurt. You got this.

Taking a deep breath, he started the car. He pushed it as fast as he dared, knowing at the back of his mind that he had just lectured Race for doing the same thing. Race could be hurt. Race was in an accident, and our last conversation was a fight. It can't end like this. He's gotta be okay, he's just gotta! Crutchie, he's already been through so much. I'se listened ta that kid cry ta me 'cause he can't run an' play with the otha' boys, if somethin' happens ta him on top a' that bad leg I ain't neva' gonna forgive myself. Can't he just have a shot at a normal life? And Romeo... the kid's only twelve! He can't be hurt. There's so much he's still got ahead a' him. Kid ain't even in high school yet! All of 'em, they're just too... too young.

Jack forced himself to use caution as he rounded the next corner. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to go faster, but the last thing he wanted was to wind up in the ditch. Why'd Race hafta go an' choose this road? How am I gonna search 'round every curve for five miles? Hang in there, boys. Please, just hang in there...

Some kind of luck must have been on side, because just around the next bend he saw them. The were huddled together at the edge of the road, the two younger boys crowded in close to Race. None of them looked badly injured. Jack breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his fear start to ebb away. As he unbuckled his seat belt and threw open the door, he made brief eye contact with Race. The younger boy's eyes widened, and he looked away hurriedly. Jack immediately felt a surge of annoyance, but he pushed it back. C'mon, Kelly. Your boys need ya.

He bridged the gap between them in two seconds. As soon as he was in arm's reach of his brothers, Crutchie clung to him, burying his face in Jack's shirt. "Are ya okay?" Jack asked anxiously. His arms went around the gimp boy automatically as he turned toward Romeo. "Romeo, are ya okay?" The little boy nodded shakily. Satisfied with the answer, Jack pried himself out of Crutchie's grip. "Ya okay, Crutch?"

The blonde boy nodded, his face still pale. "I'm fine, Jack," he said.

Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, hugging all three of his brothers tight. For a few moments, all he felt was a deep sense of peace. His brothers were okay. They were safe. But a nagging feeling at the back of his mind reminded him that this wasn't over yet.

"Racetrack, what the hell were you thinkin'?"

Race blanched. "Jack, I--"

Jack shook his head. "What'd I say, Race? I said not ta touch that wheel if I wasn't there!" One thing, Race, I told ya one thing! Why do ya hafta do this every-- single-- time?! "This is the worst thing ya coulda done, Race, and ya went ahead and did it!"

"Jack, I'm sorry!" Race squeaked.

"Sorry don't cut it anymore, Race!" Jack said, his voice shaking with frustration. "Crutchie and Romeo coulda died today! Didja even think of that, or were ya too busy showin' off?" Always. You'se always showin' off, and I'se the one stuck cleanin' up your mess! Ya went too far this time, Race. This time I could've lost you all. Jack took another deep breath, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. He wouldn't cry. Not in front of his boys. Someone had to be strong, someone had to be the leader, and that someone had to be him. That was just the way things were.

"Get in the car," he instructed. "All of ya, get in the car." Crutchie succeeded in prying Romeo off of his older brother, and the two of them headed obediently to Jack's pickup. Race stayed where he was, so Jack walked away, pretending to examine the car as he tried to get a hold of himself. With shaking hands, he slid his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number he knew by heart.

Spot answered on the first ring. "Hey there, Jackie-boy," he said, sounding out of breath. "Ya miss me or somethin'? What's with --hey! Get down! What'd I just tell ya?-- what's with the phone call?"

"Hey, Spot," Jack said, smothering a grin in spite of himself. The Brooklyn lodging house was chaos most of the time, and a phone call with Spot was always entertaining. "I need a favor."

"You'se askin' me for help?" the Brooklyn boy said, amusement evident in his voice. "What's the occasion?" There was a loud crash in the background, but Spot ignored it. "Betta' make it fast, Jackie. I'se got about five minutes 'fore someone breaks a bone or loses an eye."

"Race wrecked his car," Jack said, getting straight to the point. "Could ya tow this mess back ta the lodgin' house?"

"The car me an' him slaved over?" Spot swore under his breath. "Why can't you do it? You'se gotta truck."

Jack glanced up at his boys. "I need some time," he said. "An' some space."

"Yeah, I get it," Spot said. "I'll be there in half an hour-- kid, whaddaya want? Look, that ain't my problem. Soak 'im and take it back. Maybe more like an hour," he added to Jack.

"Sounds great," Jack said truthfully. Honestly, that was the best news he'd had all day. "I don't know what ta tell ya as far as where we are. It's the freakin' middle a' nowhere--"

"I'll swing by your place," Spot said. "Race can show me where it's at. Try not ta kill the kid, Jackie."

Jack grinned wearily. "I'll try."

"Good," Spot said, apparently satisfied with the weak promise. "Look, I'se gotta go. Tricks is about ta set fire ta somethin', I think it might be one a' his brothers."

"Uh... good luck, I guess?" Jack said. Most conversations with Spot left him confused. As he hung up and started back to his truck, he noticed Race still standing by the roadside. So it's one a' those days, he realized. Any little thing I say, he's gonna do the opposite. Just what I need. "Spot's comin' ta tow the car," he informed his brother curtly. He motioned toward the truck. "Get in. I'se gotta help Crutchie."

He gave Crutchie the boost he needed to hop into the car, storing his metal crutch down by his and Romeo's feet. Checking that the younger two were safe, he slid into the driver's seat and waited for Race. The Italian shuffled his feet, taking his own sweet time getting into the vehicle, and Jack tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in annoyance. 'Kay. Race in his his seat and buckled in, Crutchie's safe, the crutch is taken care of, Romeo's all good. Everyone's good. Everyone's safe. Let's go.

Just as he turned the key in the ignition, a police car whipped around the corner, lights flashing furiously. Please don't stop, please don't stop-- The car parked next to what was left of Race's car and Jack groaned, banging his head against the headrest. Can this get any worse?

"It ain't my fault!" Romeo said suddenly. "Race said ta call for help!"

"I didn't say ta call the bulls!" Race retorted, glaring at the younger boy.

"Ya didn't say anythin'!" Romeo protested, his voice rising in pitch. "Ya just--"

"Quiet!" Jack thundered. "Shut up, all of ya. I'll be right back. None of ya move, ya hear me?"

Race muttered a response, and Romeo folded his arms over his chest, pouting and kicking the back of the seat. He stilled at a glare from Jack and and toyed with the edge of his shirt instead, avoiding eye contact. Jack sighed, readying himself to go talk to the police officers. "Sorry," he mouthed, making eye contact with Crutchie in the rearview mirror. The crippled boy shrugged wordlessly, making Jack feel even worse. Time ta face the music, he thought bitterly, getting out of the car.

That ten-foot walk was the longest Jack had ever faced, he was sure of it. A million thoughts ran through his head on the way. If these bulls know what Race's been doin' he'll go straight ta the Refuge for good. I can't let that happen. I can spin a sob story, lie my way out, take his place, beg if I hafta. I'se just gotta keep these bastards from gettin' their hands on him. The police car was parked on the side of the road, both front windows rolled down. He had never seen the driver before, but he recognized the man in the passenger seat. Officer Bixby had showed up at the front door of the lodging house some half a dozen times, always with at least one of the boys who had been caught doing something they shouldn't. He was a good guy, always making sure he got both sides of the story, stopping to say hello to Kloppman, wishing Jack good luck with the troublemakers. Yeah, but he's still a bull, Jack thought warily. And this is a lot worse than one a' my boys stayin' out too late or skippin' school. I can't expect him ta go easy on us this time. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. I know what I'se gotta do.

"Jack Kelly," Bixby greeted. "Fancy seeing you here."

Jack hitched one shoulder up in a kind of half-shrug. "Hey, Officer Bixby."

The man in the driver's seat raised an eyebrow. "You know this kid, Bixby?"

"Oh, Jack and his brothers are old friends of mine," Bixby said lightly. "How many ya got now, twenty?"

"Sixteen," Jack said, shifting uncomfortably under the other officer's gaze.

Bixby nodded to the wreck in the ditch. "One of them do that?"

"Nah." Jack rubbed the back of his neck, managing a rueful smile. "This one's on me."

The man didn't bother to hide his surprise. "You? I wouldn't know you to be so careless, Jack."

Jack dropped his gaze to his feet, kicking absently at the ground. "I took my eyes off the road for just a second, I swear, ta talk to Romeo in the back. He was kickin' my seat-- y'know how kids are."

"Kids?" the other officer snorted. "You're a kid yourself."

Jack merely shrugged, biting back the retort he wanted to throw at the man. Who's he callin' a kid?

Bixby took off his sunglasses and tossed them on the dashboard, reaching for the door handle. "Let's talk, Jack," he said, coming around the front of the car. Jack felt heat rise up in his face, and he crossed his arms over his torso, intent on studying his shoes. "Why were you driving Race's car?"

"He just got his permit, y'know," Jack said. "We was practicin' on this road for a bit, and when we decided ta head home I switched with him. He ain't that great at parkin' yet, and I didn't want him messin' up our driveway or plowin' through the house or nothin' like that. I had Race chatterin' away on one side a' me, and Romeo kickin' my seat in back, an' I slipped up."

"Uh huh," Bixby said, raising his eyebrows. "And how did your truck get here?"

"That's kinda a long story," Jack said, stalling for time.

The man in the driver's seat snorted, and Bixby shot him a glare. "Shut up, Bolger. Try me," he added to Jack.

"Well, ya see..." Jack said. "I landed Race's car in the ditch, right? Me and Race are helpin' Crutchie out, and I hand Romeo my phone and tell him to call help. I mean for him ta call Kloppman. I had no idea he called the bulls, not 'til you'se showed up. No offense," he added hastily. "We get back ta the lodgin' house, and I get my truck ta come tow Race's car home. The younga' ones were kinda shaken up, wouldn't let go a' me, so I brought 'em with. We'se had just pulled up when you guys joined us."

Bixby turned back to the car. "What do you think?" he asked his partner.

Bolger shook his head. "Kloppman, Crutchie, lodging house..." he said. "I don't know half of what this kid's saying."

Bixby rolled his eyes. "Kloppman is the boys' foster father," he said. "The lodging house is what they call their group home. And most of the boys there have nicknames they go by. But what do you think?"

"I dunno," Bolger said, scratching his chin. "I see the possibility of a ticket here, for reckless driving. And the fact that he's in foster care changes the whole situation. We really should bring Warden Snyder into this, as much as I hate the guy."

Jack felt his heart stop and the blood rush out of his face. C'mon Kelly, ya always knew that was a possibility, he reminded himself. Swallowing hard, he fought to control his expression. From the way Bixby was watching him, he didn't think he was fooling anyone.

Bixby turned his head, purposely directing the attention away from Jack. "Yeah, that guy's a bastard," he said, agreeing with his partner. "That's usually for second-time offenses though, right?"

Bolger shrugged. "For any foster kid who breaks the law, technically."

"That's cruel," Bixby complained. "If an adult got into a wreck like this they wouldn't go to jail. And anything relating to Snyder is a hell of a lot of paperwork."

"True," Bolger said, turning the information over in his head. "How 'bout this? We write the kid a ticket for reckless driving--"

"But then he'll have a record!" Bixby interrupted.

"If he didn't want a record then he shouldn't have done it!" Bolger snapped. "We write him a ticket and have him take a couple traffic courses."

Jack held his breath. He hated this --having them talk about him like he wasn't standing right there-- but he was too relieved with the direction the conversation was going to say anything. 'Sides, ain't this like any otha' day? Grown-ups pretendin' they know ya, standin' around decidin' your future like ya ain't pullin' the same workload as them.

"Alright," Bixby consented. "I'll swing by your place later, Jack, and help you fill out an accident report and sign up for the class. Off the clock, keep your shirt on," he added to his partner.

Bolger grumbled under his breath as he filled out the ticket. "You're too lenient on these kids," he muttered. "One more kid in the Refuge means one less brat in the system making our lives harder."

Jack tensed, and it took all his willpower to keep his mouth shut. "Thank ya, sir," he said, folding the ticket and slipping it in his pocket. He started back to his truck, when Bixby's voice stopped him.

"I trust you, Jack," the man said. "I know something like this won't happen again." He gestured to Jack's truck, and the three restless boys inside. "You're a good brother to these kids. Go on and take them home."

Jack nodded, his gaze flickering up to meet the other man's eyes. "Thank ya," he said again, hunching his shoulders as he walked back to the car. He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as he glanced at the ticket, mentally counting how many extra hours he'd have to work to pay it. And traffic school. How am I supposta find time for that, in between the extra hours I'se gotta work and all the homework I'se gotta catch up on? Maybe I can take it at night... He shook his head, wishing he could shake off the bad feeling as well. Come on, Kelly. It was worth it for Race. He glanced up, frowning when he saw Race lounging in the front seat, his feet propped up on the dashboard and his hat over his eyes. Oh, yeah, he thought bitterly. It was all worth it.

"Get your feet off the dash," he said brusquely, getting in and starting the car. The younger boy stared at him, his big blue eyes unreadable. Jack snatched the cap off his head and tossed it into his lap. "I ain't in the mood for this, Race. Buckle up. We don't want two accidents today." He didn't miss Race's scowl as he did so, but he chose to ignore it. The kid's in enough trouble already. If he wants ta throw a fit, I ain't gonna stop him.

"Jack," Crutchie said hesitantly, glancing back and forth between his brothers.

Jack shook his head, starting on the road towards home. "Like I said Crutchie. I ain't in the mood." Crutchie backed off at that, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. When they got to the lodging house, Jack paused to help Crutchie out of the car. "Can ya take the little guy upstairs?" he asked quietly. Crutchie nodded, shooting a glance toward Race in the front seat. "He'll be okay," Jack said, sensing his younger brother's doubt. He didn't get angry often, and he knew it was putting the gimp boy on edge. "I'se'd neva' hurt one a' you boys, ya know that, right?"

Crutchie grabbed onto Jack's arm, using his older brother to steady him as he positioned his crutch. "I know, Jack," he said. "I trust ya-- with my life and any a' theirs." He nodded to where Romeo was plastered against Race's side, his little arms around his brother's waist in a tight hug. "C'mon, Romeo," he said louder, holding out his hand.

It took some doing --and a little intervention from Jack-- to get the kid upstairs, but finally Jack was alone with his brother. "Jack, I can explain," Race said quickly once they were inside.

"You'd better explain!" Jack snapped. He had been angry before, but the run-in with the cops had sapped the strength out of him and left him touchy and irritable. He was terrified --of losing Race for good, of being taken to the Refuge himself-- and he hated that his boys had seen him like that. A leada' ain't supposta let anyone know he's scared. A leada' ain't supposta be scared! Spot was right, bein' in charge is exhaustin' as hell. "Race, what were ya thinkin'?" he asked, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice. "Why did ya think this was a good idea?"

"I don't know," Race muttered, not making eye contact.

Jack threw his hands up. "Ya don't know. Ya don't know." He fished in his pocket for Race's keys, waving them to make a point. "I'll tell ya what I do know, ya ain't gettin' these back any time soon!"

Race shook his head, still not meting Jack's gaze. "Jack, I..."

"No, Race!" Jack said, stronger than he meant to. "It's my turn ta talk now, and it's your turn to listen." His mind gave him no reprieve, reminding him instead of all the times he'd almost lost Race due to some stupid scheme. A half-baked plan to sneak into a bar or get the girl's attention or get a free lunch. Something that would undoubtedly land Race in the Refuge and lost to Jack forever. That stops now. He may not a' listened ta me before, but God help me he'll listen now. "For once in your life, Race, just listen ta what I hafta say!"

"I listen!" Race protested, and Jack shook his head. Does this kid hear himself?

"No, ya don't listen." he corrected. "If you'se'd listened ta me yesta'day we wouldn't be in this mess now!" Why, Race? Why do ya gotta push everythin' I say? I'se tryin' ta help, ya ain't ya figured that out by now? "I'm startin' ta think ya actually like causin' trouble."

"Just stop, Jack!" Race ordered. "Ya ain't my pa. Ya ain't in charge a' me! We ain't even real brothers!" Jack recoiled, fighting hard to make sure Race didn't see how much that hurt. "Ya don't get ta tell me what ta do, an' take my car, an' make me do whateva' ya want!" the Italian went on, growing more and more agitated with every word.

"Racetrack!" Jack said, his voice rising. Not real brotha's. He ain't serious. He can't be. "Who the hell took care a' ya all these years? Who convinced ya ta run away, leave your deadbeat dad behind?" His voice shook with anger and emotion, and he fought to keep it steady. "Who let ya in when you was knockin' on my winda at three in the mornin'? Who is it that does nothin' but protect ya, day an' night, from all the trouble your stupid self gets into--"

Race shoved him hard, startling Jack out of his rant. "I ain't stupid!"

His voice cracked, but Jack ignored it. He grabbed his brother's wrists, fully intending on pinning the kid to the wall until he stopped fighting. They'd done this a thousand times, both familiar enough with each other that no one ever got hurt. So when Race let out a cry of pain and wrenched himself away out of his brother's grasp, stumbling backwards and landing on the floor, Jack knew something was wrong. "Racer?" he asked, his face white and scared.

"I take it back!" Race yelped, sliding backwards out of Jack's reach. He shook his head, tears running down his pale face. "I shouldn't a' said ya ain't my brother! Let me up, I'm sorry!"

"Race, I ain't touchin' ya!" he protested. The boys upstairs have gotta think I'se murderin' him. I'se known Race ta act up ta get outta trouble, but he ain't neva' done this.

"Stop, please!" Race pleaded. "I'll be good, I promise!" His choice of words and wide, frantic eyes struck a chord, an Jack's eyes darkened as the realization hit. How many times had he heard the same thing, years ago through the thin apartment walls?

Stop, please! Daddy, what'd I do? Stop, I'll be good, I promise!

"Racer," Jack begged, hoping the nickname would snap his brother out of it. "What hurts, kid?" He dropped to his knees beside his brother, giving him a quick onceover. He noticed the younger boy's wrist, pressed tight against his heaving chest, and reached for it. "Can I see?" he asked.

Race didn't react, not until Jack's fingers brushed against his arm. "Get offa me!" he yelled, shying away from the touch. "Jack, help!"

Jack pulled away, tears in his eyes. Snap outta it, Race, he begged internally. He had heard those words too many times. Heard them years ago from the tiny kid knocking on his window or sleeping in his bed, and days ago from the room down the hall. Jack, help! Jack, he's comin' ta get me! I don't know what ta do Jack, help me please! "Racer, look up," he pleaded. he gently lifted his baby brother's chin and barely caught a glimpse of his teary blue eyes before the younger boy pulled away.

"Don't touch me!"

Jack's hands flew up in a gesture of peace. "I ain't touchin' ya," he said, trying to make his voice calm. "Look inta my eyes, kid." He stayed where he was, barely breathing, as Race's sobs slowed and the wild look faded from his eyes. "It's okay, kid." he breathed, pulling his brother into a tight hug. "I've gotcha." Race held tight to Jack's shirt, letting the fabric soak up the last of his tears. Jack seized his chance to rub his own eyes, clearing away the tears he hadn't let fall. "C'mon, kid," he said softly, lifting Race up off the floor. He brought his baby brother into the kitchen, setting him down on a chair as he searched for something to use to wrap his wrist.

"This might hurt," he warned, coming back with a first aid kit. Race nodded, biting his lip and saying nothing, as Jack ran his fingers down his forearm, probing for breaks with his steady artist's hands. Jack didn't miss his wince as he grazed over his wrist. "It ain't broken," he noted with relief. A break meant a trip to the hospital, and a hospital meant forms had to be signed, questions would be asked, and he wouldn't have the answers. "Just sprained, I think. I'll wrap it up tight ta be safe."

He stayed quiet as he tied the bandage around the gambler's wrist, allowing him a chance to talk if he wanted it. When the silence stretched from seconds into minutes, he couldn't take it anymore. "Racer, what's really goin' on?"

Race stared at the floor. "I... I don't know," he said. "Ya looked like my pa, Jack. Ya didn't look like you." His pa? I ain't nothin' like his pa... am I? What'd I say, what was it that made him see me like that? Shaking his head, Jack made a vow to find whatever it was and put an end to it fast. "I freaked out, didn't I?" Race muttered, ducking his head.

"Kinda," Jack said absently. His mid was still preoccupied with Race's father. "Racer, I'm so sorry." He held out his arms, half-fearing Race would flinch or pull away again. A surge of relief filled him when the Italian threw his arms around him and held him tight. He pressed a kiss to the top of Race's head, managing a shaky smile. "I love you boys, y'know that, right Race?"

"Yeah, I know," Race said, separating himself just enough to send Jack a grin. "I'se pretty great, ain't I?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," Jack laughed. Thank God, he's back. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and seconds later he heard loud pounding on the front door. Right on cue. "There's Spot," he said, letting go of Race completely.

Race stood up and stretched. "I'll let him in," he said. "L... love ya, Jack," he added shyly. "See ya in 'bout half an hour?"

Jack paused in wiping down the table, a smile spreading across his face. Love ya too, kid. He let out a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave him. "Let Spot drive!" he called after Race. "We'll finish our talk when ya gets home. No yellin', just talkin'."

A beat of silence followed, and then he heard Race yell back. "I can't hear ya, Jack!"

The Manhattan leader shook his head with a grin, sliding his phone out of his pocket.

One new message from: SPOT

SPOT: knocking on ur door in 2 seconds. good job on not killing race. text me wen its safe 2 bring him home.

Rolling his eyes, Jack tapped out a reply.

Cowboy: im not gonna kill my brother

SPOT: good 4 u. ive thought of killing mine a few times

Cowboy: dont text and drive

SPOT: killjoy

Jack stood up and stretched, trying to get rid of some of the tension. It was times like this when he wished he had someone to talk to, to confide in. Yeah right. I'se'd neva' do that ta my boys, an' Kloppman's got better things ta do than listen ta some foster kid complain about his problems. You'se the oldest, and you'se the leada'. There are some things ya just don't get ta do, Kelly. Jack hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it towards him. With a sigh, he settled into it and rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands behind his head and wondering what to do. Well, there is one place ya can go...

"Crutchie?" he called, getting up and taking the stairs two at a time. When he didn't get an immediate answer, he started searching bedrooms. He found the gimp boy on the third try, in the room Albert, Specs, and Elmer shared. Crutchie was sitting on one of the beds with his back against the wall while Albert helped Romeo with homework. All three boys looked up when the door opened.

"Everythin' okay?" Crutchie asked carefully.

"Yeah, everythin's good," Jack said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Crutchie, can ya hold down the fort for a little bit? I'se thinkin' of takin' a walk."

"Sure," Crutchie said, still looking a little worried.

Jack managed a half-grin. "Thanks, Crutch." On his way out the door her ruffled Romeo's hair and flicked Albert's cap off his head. "Love ya, boys."

"Love ya, Jack!" they chorused.

Jack hunched his shoulders as he headed down the stairs and out the door. He paused for a second in the driveway, fingering the keys to his truck in his pocket. The very thought made him feel a little sick. With a shrug, he started off down the road. His mind was distracted, but his feet knew the way. Besides, he was pretty sure that he could find the theatre from anywhere in Manhattan.

His mind kept playing over the moment he got the call, the moment he found out his brothers might be in danger. Scared don't cut it. I was terrified. It felt like I was on my own again, worryin' about some skinny blue-eyed kid who can't get himself outta his own mess. Yeah, that ain't a time I wanna live through again. He couldn't stop himself from remembering, though. Remembering that night years ago, a night that changed his life forever.

The new place was okay. Not good, not bad. Just okay. The couple who had taken him in were new to the foster care system. They were out of their depth. They didn't know how to talk to a kid, let alone raise one, but Jack wasn't about to protest. Not when they had given him a room and a bed. Given time, he could come to like this place. Not that he thought he'd be here long.

There was a boy next door, about his age. The kid was smaller than him, maybe a little younger, with tangled blonde curls and the biggest, bluest eyes Jack had ever seen. He had seen him once or twice, in the hallway or on the way to school. But he heard more than he saw. Through the thin apartment walls, sound carried. Sounds that shouldn't be familiar to a nine year old kid, but they were. Raised voices, breaking glass. A man's rough voice, slurring his words and spewing insults. A smaller voice crying out, the slam of a door, a child's sobs. Jack just clenched his jaw, turning over in bed and using his pillow to block out the sounds.

But one night was different. One night, the man didn't stop. He yelled his words and profanities, he drank his whiskey, but when the kid ran away he followed. Jack could hear them, right on the other side of the wall, like the wall wasn't even there. "You're worthless. Like your mother. Godforsaken woman wasn't good for anythin'. And when she died all she left was you."

The child choked out a sob. "That ain't my fault, Dad!" he yelled back, with shocking bravery in spite of his tears. "None a' this is my fault! Quit blamin' me just 'cause your life sucks!"

Jack winced, silently begging the kid to stop. Sure kid, it feels good ta tell him off. But it ain't worth it, ya know it ain't!

"Don't talk back ta me, boy," the man growled. "Are ya stupid, or what? Ya know what backtalk'll getcha."

Jack clamped his hands over his ears, not wanting to hear the blows fall. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he cautiously let his hands drop. Silence. No man yelling, no sobs. Tap tap tap. Just a quiet tapping at his window.

There were a thousand things he could have done. He could have ignored it, gone back to sleep. That was what his foster parents always did. He could have told himself it was just the wind, or told the kid to go away. But none of those even occurred to him as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, padding quietly over to the window in his pajamas and bare feet.

"Lovely night for a walk, ain't it?" he said, examining the stars. The kid blinked in surprise, balanced precariously on the fire escape. "Kinda chilly, though," Jack continued, rubbing his arms. The blonde-haired boy looked down at himself, as if suddenly realizing he was only wearing a thin T-shirt and sweatpants. "Ya should prob'ly get inside, 'fore ya get pneumonia or somethin'," Jack finished off, holding out his hand to the kid. The new boy took it without a second thought.

That was the first of many nights. They became fast friends after that, Jack and Anthony. Except he never called him that. "I hate that name," the Italian complained. "Me mudda always called me Race. I like that better."

It was refreshing-- finally having a friend who understood. They didn't talk about Race's dad. They didn't talk about Jack's parents. They just had fun. They walked to school together, even though they didn't go to the same one. They did their homework in Jack's room, helping each other out with the hard parts. They ate dinner at Jack's place, ignoring the raised eyebrows and questioning looks the grownups exchanged over their heads. Some nights Race went home, but most of the time he stayed. He always fell asleep first, curled up against Jack's side as the older boy carded his fingers through his unruly curls. Jack liked it when that happened. It meant his friend felt safe. Safe was hard to come by these days.

Safe didn't mean perfect. Jack could hear his foster parents talking late at night behind closed doors. They didn't sign up for this, he knew. They signed up for one child, and they only received money for one child. There were still days when Race showed up with bruises, a black eye he can't explain. He always laughed it off and made excuses, but Jack never believed him. "I walked into a pole" only worked so many times.

But safe couldn't last forever. They were sitting around the table eating dinner when the bomb was dropped. Jack's foster father had been laid off from his job. They would be moving into a smaller apartment within a week. And they wouldn't be taking Jack with them.

Jack's eyes hardened, and he pushed his chair back from the table. His finger curled around Race's wrist, taking him with him as he stormed out of the room. Race sat on the bed, silent and unmoving, as Jack stomped around his room and threw clothes into his backpack. He muttered to himself angrily, and Race respectfully kept his distance, until suddenly Jack sat bolt upright, his eyes sparkling.

"Why don't ya come with me?" he said, dumping his school books on the floor to make room. "You an' me, the families we was born into ain't much. But we can be our own family. We could be brothers!" Race hesitated, but Jack plowed on, excited by his own idea. "Ya can't come official-like, 'cause then there'd be paperwork an' we'se'd end up halfway across New Yawk from each otha'. But if you run away and happen ta end up at the same place I do..."

"No one could stop us!" Race finished eagerly, a spark of hope catching in his chest. "Jack, let's do it!"

The older boy grinned, throwing an arm around Race's shoulders. "You an' me, kid," he said. "Things are lookin' up."

Things were looking up, for a while. But junior high was hard. There were more classes, more homework, and less time with Race. Honestly, that was the hardest part. For three years now, Jack and Race had shared everything. The same room, the same clothes, the same school. But Jack was twelve now, and in seventh grade. He got out half an hour after Race did, which meant he walked home alone, to where Race and their foster father were waiting.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He was Jack's foster father. Race was still a ghost in the system. Anytime Jack was moved, he mysteriously disappeared, too. The Italian kid was street-smart. Given a few days, they'd find each other again.

Things were okay here. The two of them lived with a man, a man who didn't nitpick them for the things they did and didn't care that Race was an extra mouth to feed. Jack was too stressed out by his new school schedule to notice anything bad. In fact, if he didn't know his brother as well as he did, there was a chance he might have missed everything, even the signs that were practically screaming in his face.

Like the way Race buttoned his coat up to his chin and tugged his sleeves down to meet his wrists, carefully avoiding Jack's gaze. He stared at his shoes when their foster father talked, wrapping his arms around his body and examining the toes of Jack's hand-me-down sneakers that were a size too big. He was usually asleep already when Jack finally turned off the light and got into bed himself, so he never had a chance to ask him about it.

One day after dinner, Jack and Race were washing dishes. That was something their foster father insisted on. "I put food on the table and a roof over your heads," he said. "The least you two can do is help out now and then." Jack tried his best to make a game out of it, trying to coax a smile from his little brother. Race had been so withdrawn lately, the sparkle gone from his blue eyes and dark circles below.

Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he needed more sleep. Maybe that was why he didn't notice the plate Jack handed him to put away, watching as it fell through his fingers in slow motion, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor. The color rushed out of the Italian boy's face, leaving him pale and shaky as he backed against the wall. Jack frowned, trying to place where he'd seen that face before.

Their foster father stood up, his features distorted in anger, and Jack remembered. On the fire escape, outside his window. He'd seen that same terrified face then, begging for someone to notice him and help. "It- it's just a plate," he said, putting himself between his brother and the angry man before them. "Ain't a big deal. I'll... I'll find a way ta pay for it, I promise." He swallowed hard, feeling Race trembling behind him.

The man still scowled, but he just kicked at the shards on the floor. "Clean this mess up," he said gruffly. "And don't let it happen again."

The two boys worked in silence after that, Jack sweeping up the glass shards while Race finished the dishes in record time. As soon as they were done, Jack grabbed Race's wrist and dragged him into their room. "Show me," he ordered.

Race flopped down on the bed, snugging his arms around himself. "I... I don't know what you'se talkin' about."

"Race, don't lie ta me," Jack warned. "I know he's been hittin' ya. Show me."

Race's chin nearly touched his chest. Finally, he stood up and hiked his shirt over his head. Dark, hand-shaped bruises marked his arms, and a few purple marks stood out on his chest and back. "There, ya happy?" he asked bitterly.

Jack's eyes were fixed on his brother's skin. Gently, he laid his hand on a handprint a good three inches bigger than his, a lump forming in his throat. "Racer, why didn't ya tell me?"

Race averted his eyes, his own hand on top of Jack's on his upper arm. "Betta' me than you," he said in a low voice. "I can handle it, I'se had worse. Nothin' ya coulda done," he added, quieter.

"Just 'cause you'se had worse don't mean it's okay!" Jack burst out. "You'se ten years old, Race! This shouldn't be normal, I won't let it be normal. 'Cause there's still one thing I can do." Race glanced up as Jack withdrew his hand, crossing over to the closet and yanking clothes off of hangers. He dumped his backpack out on the floor, his stack of clothes beside it. "Put your shirt back on," he instructed. "And get your stuff togetha'. We'se leavin', tonight."

"Jack, we can't do that," Race protested, pulling his hoodie back over his head with a slight shiver. Sure this place was bad. But he'd had worse. He could take it, why didn't Jack get that? "We got nothin', no food, no money, not a nickel to our names."

"Yeah." Jack paused in his packing to sit back on his heels, staring intently at his brother. "But he hurt ya, Race. I ain't lettin' no one hurt my baby brother, not again." Race flushed, staring down at his feet as he scuffed his toe against the carpet. "Hey, is that a smile?" Jack asked with a grin.

Race smothered it immediately. "No."

Jack's grin widened. "I think it was," he said, bounding across the room.

"Jack-" Race broke off abruptly as Jack tickled his sides, falling back on the bed to shield himself from the attack. "Jack, stop!" he yelped, laughing too hard to get the words out. "Jack, you win! I smiled! J- Jack!"

"Hey!" a voice yelled from the living room, making both boys sit up. "Quiet down in there."

Race's smile faded as he pushed himself up off the bed and started to gather his things. "Hey," Jack said, earning the blonde-haired boy's attention. "We got this. 'Sides, we don't need nothin'. We'se got each otha'."

Race actually did smile at that, allowing his brother to pull him into a hug and ruffle his curls, feeling a quick kiss pressed to his temple. "Yeah," he said. "We'se got each otha'."

They had each other, yes. But Race's first year of junior high was also Jack's first year of high school, and then they were apart again. And adjusting to high school was hard enough without all the trouble Race called. Jack had put his own cell number down as Race's emergency contact-- Race still wasn't registered in the foster care system, and the last thing Jack wanted was for some nosy teacher to find out and call child services. It seemed like it was every day he got a call saying Race had gotten detention, or cheated on a test, or started a fight with some kids twice his size.

He wasn't any better at home, either. He snapped at Jack and their foster parents, and the smallest thing set him off. This family was nice. They treated both boys well, they accepted Race's presence from the start. They even took both boys back-to-school shopping, providing them with more clothes than they'd ever owned at one time in their lives. They didn't deserve to be shouted at by a moody twelve-year-old, or to have doors slammed in their faces when they tried to talk to him.

Jack assured them he'd take care of it. "I'll talk to him. He'll listen ta me, I know he will." Weak promises, he knew. Race would stay quiet and sullen for a few days after Jack had scolded him, but it never lasted long. "Race, you'se gotta stop this!" Jack pleaded with his brother. "Whateva's buggin' ya, kid, you'se gotta tell me! I can't help me if ya won't talk ta me, Racer!"

"I'm fine, Jack!" Race would insist. "Ya wouldn't get it, anyways!"

Jack was on edge at every moment. These people were nice, sure, but even nice people had their limits. He just knew that one day at breakfast they'd break the bad news, saying they couldn't take care of the boys anymore. They wouldn't give the real reason- no, of course not. They'd make something up.

"It just costs too much. You know how prices are rising these days."

"We just don't have the room. This house really is too small for four people."

"We're pregnant. We'll have kids of our own now, we don't need to pretend anymore."

Jack could only hope that was what would happen. Being sent away was far better than the alternative. Every time Race mouthed off, or brought home another detention slip that had to be signed, Jack was afraid it would happen. One day their foster father would snap, and he'd beat Race up good for all the trouble he'd caused.

The teachers had already labeled Race a delinquent. The kid seemed to be doing everything he could to get out of going to school. He faked sick, claiming that the thought of going made him nauseous. He seemed to close himself off once he walked through the doors, sitting by himself and barely saying a word to anyone. More than once at night, Jack glanced over at his brother's sleeping form and saw tear stains on his cheeks.

As the year went on, the teachers began to worry. Race rarely turned in his homework --even though Jack made sure he did it-- and hadn't passed a test all year. His label changed from "delinquent" to "troubled child." They asked if everything was okay at home, and they wanted to schedule a meeting with his parents, but Jack knew he couldn't let that happen. As soon as it got out that Race was not only a delinquent, but a foster kid? He'd be off to the Refuge before Jack could do anything to stop it. At the Refuge they'd check for a record, and he wouldn't have one. So on top of having to endure the horrors there, Race would either be returned to his father or placed in another foster home by the state-- one far away from Jack. At all costs, Jack couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let his brother go to that place.

But some things even Jack couldn't control. The day Race started the fire was the day it all went to hell. He was hanging out behind the gym, messing around with a box of cigars. He knew Jack wouldn't be happy if he found out-- he had gotten detention twice already for smoking on school grounds, the threat of suspension hanging over his head, and Jack had properly threatened him on what would happen if he was caught with a cigar again. So when Race heard someone coming, he hastily dropped the cigar on the ground, stamping at it a few times before ducking inside through a back door.

Fifteen minutes later the fire alarm went off. The dry grass behind the gym was up in flames, but luckily the fire department got there before it could spread to the building. The school let the kids go early- most of them were hysterical, anyways. As soon as Jack heard the news, as soon as he got the text from the school saying that all the kids were safe, he knew Race had to be involved somehow. He left early that day, skipping his last few classes, and managed to get the truth out of his brother.

There were so many things he could have done. He was happy here. These people were good people, and this seemed like the perfect place to age out of the system. Only four more years until he was eighteen-- why shouldn't he spend them here? In a place where he had food and clothes and a bed, caring foster parents who didn't nag or yell or hit, and a school that he could go to for all four years of high school. But as he looked at his brother, the messy-haired, blue-eyed kid standing in front of him and crying out of shame and fear, the truth hit him. Race was miserable here. All the stress of the lives they led --changing schools every year or two, the pressure of starting junior high, the loneliness of not having any friends, having to rely on a boy only two years his elder to keep him safe from everything the world had in store-- had finally caught up to him. He was upset, he was suffering from anxiety, he was confused and he was scared. And Jack knew what he had to do.

He stole answers to the final from a teacher's desk. He got himself expelled, labeled a troublemaker. And before he knew it, he and Race were off to a group home- the Manhattan Home for Troubled Youths, nicknamed the lodging house by the boys who lived there. It was embarrassing. It was new and it was scary. But Race thrived there, surrounded by kids his own age who loved his jokes and his stories and all his quirks. So Jack pasted on a smile and easily slipped into his role of big brother to all. He got a job, he helped old Mr. Kloppman pay the bills, he ignored the mistrustful looks he got when people found out he lived in a group home. First and foremost, he was a big brother. And he'd take any challenge that came with the job, no matter how big. He helped the younger boys tie their shoes, he gave Crutchie piggyback rides down the stairs, he lied through his teeth to the bulls to keep them out of trouble. As long as his brothers were happy, he would be, too. He'd find a way.

By the time Jack made it to the theatre, tears were running down his face-= tears he didn't bother to wipe away. His boys weren't around. He was under no obligation to be Jack Kelly, fearless leader. Medda was one of the few people he knew who didn't look to him for guidance-- it was often the other way around. Her theatre also doubled as an artist's studio, a place to talk, a hidden getaway... whatever he needed, this building was it. No matter how often he moved around, the theatre had always been home.

Jack slipped in through the back entrance. The building was empty, as he knew it would be. He knew the show and rehearsal schedules by heart, there was only one person who would be around this time of day. He heard singing from somewhere in the theatre and he suppressed a smile. Medda was singing to herself again. She always claimed that it helped her think. "Miss Medda?" he called, his voice wavering slightly.

The singing broke off abruptly, and Medda Larkin appeared in the doorway. "Jack Kelly, man of mystery!" she cried out, just like she always did. Her smile faded into a look of concern when she saw his face. "What's wrong, honey?" she asked.

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but his mind filled with images of Race --his baby brother, knocking at his window and hiding bruises and begging him with those big blue eyes to get him out of trouble just one more time-- and he just shook his head, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall.

"Oh, Jack," Medda said, pulling him into a hug.

"I don't know what ta do, Medda!" he said in frustration, holding onto her as tight as he dared.. "I'se tryin'... I'se tryin' ta keep my boys togetha', unda' one roof, and Race seems so set on gettin' takin' away! I can't keep doin' this, Medda! I can't lose 'im!"

"I know, honey," the vaudeville singer said, gently extracting herself from Jack's hug. "Follow me, hon. And get ready to tell me all about it." Her pink skirt trailed behind her as she swept into the main room of the theatre, pausing in front of the stage and glancing back at Jack. "Don't just stand there," she said. "This dress is long and I ain't as young as I used to be. Gimme a hand!"

Jack hopped up onto the stage, holding out his hand with a trace of a smile. "You know where the paintbrushes are," Medda said, smoothing out her skirt and finding a seat. "You can paint while you talk, and I'll just listen."

So Jack poured out the whole story, the words spilling out of him as his brush moved with a mind of its own, painting what it always did-- a place with clay buildings as rusty red as Albert's hair, blue skies that matched Race's eyes, and wheaten fields like Crutchie's messy blonde hair. Santa Fe. For a place that was supposed to be his escape, an awful lot of it reminded him of his brothers.

And Medda sat through it all, watching him work and listening intently. She was a good at that-- letting him talk like he was a person with a problem, not some kid who didn't know what he was doing. She let him pour out all his doubts and worries and fears, everything from losing Race to struggling trust him to wondering how he'd pay for the ticket and still stay in school. He finally stepped back, his chest heaving and the story finished, Santa Fe stretched out before him. It almost looked like he could step right through... like he could pass through the canvas and wake up in his dream world.

"First things first," Medda spoke up, breaking the trance. Jack flinched, looking up from his painting and whirling around to face her. "You don't need to worry about that ticket, honey," the vaudeville singer told him. "You did a brave thing, taking the fall for your brother, and in a way I think you did right. But he needs to learn from his own actions. A few chores will settle him down a little, and there's no shortage of jobs around this place. He can work for me and pay off that ticket. And as for traffic school, you just painted me a beautiful backdrop to use in my next show. And I believe that all artists should be paid for their work." She said the words firmly, her dark eyes sparking with excitement.

"I ain't gonna take your money," Jack protested, but Medda held up a hand.

"Now hold up a minute," she said. "I ain't done talkin'. Don't you worry none 'bout Race's little episode today, okay hon? Raised voices remind him of his daddy just like cheap perfume reminds you of your mamma. Your boys mean the world to you and you'd never hurt them intentionally. And at the end of the day, Race knows that. He knows that better than anyone." She rummaged through her purse for a minute or two, coming up with a wad of dollar bills that she held out to Jack expectantly.

As soon as he gave in, Jack felt a weight slip off his shoulders. "You're a saint, Miss Medda," he said, slipping the cash into his pocket. "I don't know what I'd do without ya."

Medda touched Jack's cheek, wiping away the last of his tears with her thumb. "Sweetie, you'd do just fine," she said with a smile. "Now, you'd better get on back to the lodging house. Don't want your boys to worry."

"Yes, ma'am," Jack said, grinning slightly. He turned to go, and was halfway out the door when he heard Medda calling after him.

"Have Race come by on Saturday," she said. "I'll have a few odd jobs ready for him by then."

"Will do, Miss Medda!" Jack called back, starting his long walk home.

When he got back, he had a text waiting from Spot.

SPOT: ready or not, here we come. i need 2 get back 2 brooklyn, hot shot says the boys locked riddle in the attic.

Jack stared at his phone for a few seconds, wondering how anybody who went through Brooklyn ever made it out alive.

Cowboy: good luck with that. and go ahead and bring him back, everythings good here.

SPOT: just a warning, hes in a weird mood.

Jack didn't have long to wonder what that meant. He barely had time to check on the boys upstairs and get started on his homework before he heard the front door bang open.

"Jack?" Race yelled. Then, barely a second later, "Jack!"

Jack pushed up from the table, crossing into the living room to see what was wrong. "Geez, Racer, I'm here," he said. "What's all the yellin' about?" Race didn't answer with words. He threw himself at his brother, tackling him in a hug as his arms tightened around him in for dear life. Jack wrapped his arms around the younger boy automatically, his concern growing into a panic. "Hey, it's okay!" He squeezed his brother tighter, reassuringly, but Race didn't loosen his grip. "It's okay," Jack said again, softer. "Race, what's wrong?" Talk ta me, buddy. You'se gotta talk ta me.

"I don't wanna go ta the Refuge, Jack!" Race cried, his voice muffled by Jack's shirt.

The Refuge? No. He ain't supposta worry 'bout that, that's my job. "Kid, who told ya that?" he demanded, trying to get a good look at Race's face. His brother didn't budge, and in that he found his answer. "Conlon," he muttered. 'Weird mood,' he says. With the threat a' that place hangin' ova' his head, 'course he's in a weird mood. "I swear, if he's still here..." he threatened, glancing to the door, but Race shook his head. Jack sighed. "Racer..." he said, managing to pry himself loose. "Look at me, kid." Race barely glanced up, and Jack lifted his chin so he could look him in the eye. "I ain't lettin' ya go ta that place, kid," he said firmly. "Ya don't gotta worry 'bout that."

Race jerked backwards out of Jack's reach. "I'm such an idiot, Jack!" he said, tears running freely down his face. "This whole time I thought ya were just bein' a jerk, but ya was tryin' ta keep me outta the Refuge!" He shook his head, wrapping his arms around his torso and falling back another step.

He looked so small and lost, and Jack felt his heart twinge. "Kid," he said firmly. Race didn't look up, until Jack caught him by the shoulders and gave him a light shake. "Look at me, Race," he pleaded, gaining his brother's attention. He waited a second, making sure the Italian's eyes were fixed on him before continuing. "If bein' a jerk is what it takes ta keep one a' my boys from bein' dragged off ta that livin' hell..."

No way in hell am I gonna let any a' my brotha's go through that nightmare. They don't deserve that, no matter what stupid stunts they pull.

Jack cursed under his breath. Race's face right now was the exact reason he hadn't wanted him to know the risks. "I'm gonna kill Spot," he muttered, letting go of his brother and pacing back and forth. "The whole point was that ya weren't supposta find out. If he don't have the brains in his head ta figure that out..."

"No," Race said, surprising him. "I'se glad he told me." The gambler gave a watery smile, the kind he gave when he knew he was in trouble. "Now I can apologize for bein' stupid all week. I drove because ya told me I couldn't, Jack."

"I know," Jack said mildly, suppressing a grin as he moved into the kitchen. Am I supposta be surprised...? C'mon Race, ya know I'se smarter than that. "You'se an idiot sometimes, Race."

"And I took Crutchie with me so ya wouldn't get mad," Race continued, following him as he searched through drawers. "I thought that if I got caught I could say I was just givin' him a ride."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Ya really thought Crutchie bein' there'd help your case," he stated, finally finding a clean washcloth. He shook his head, running it under cold water. "What goes on in that head a' yours, kid?"

Silence. "I don't know," Race said in a small voice. "Ya still mad?"

Jack beckoned his brother over to him. "Nah, not mad," he said truthfully. His talk with Medda and his little trip down memory lane had cleared his mind of anger, but that didn't change the facts. Race stole the keys, disobeyed him, and betrayed his trust, not to mention he put Crutchie and Romeo in danger. He could still feel the cold fear in his bones, and he had to grip the edge of the counter to steady himself. "Still disappointed, though."

Race's gaze flickered downward with a soft "oh," but Jack didn't take it back.

"Close your eyes," he said instead. Race's blue eyes snapped closed, and Jack gently scrubbed away any trace of tears from his little brother's face, pausing to place a kiss on his forehead.

Race pulled backwards again, pain etched across his face. "Jack, stop!" he begged. "I hate it when you'se mad at me, but this is worse. You'se all... disappointed at me... and you'se still helpin' me and stoppin' 'em from takin' me ta that place!"

"Racer!" Jack said, hoping the familiar nickname would make his brother understand. "Ya lied ta me, broke my trust, and put our brothers in danger. Ya screwed up, kid." The blonde-haired Italian flushed red and looked away, but Jack brought him back to reality. "Race, do ya really think anythin' ya do is gonna make a difference ta me? We'se brothers. Brothers look out for each other, no matter what."

The boy's blue eyes widened, and Jack leaned back against the counter. He gets it. He unda'stands. "I'm tired, Race," admitted. "Ya think I don't want ya ta be able ta drive? It would be so much easier if ya could. If it wasn't just me drivin' the boys around? But doin' stupid stuff is just gonna make it longa' 'fore ya can get your license. I know that when we'se was younga' we'se'd fight all the time, an' we really didn't mean it, but I just can't do it anymore. I'se got school, and work, and twenty-somethin' boys ta look out for, and half a dozen classes I'se afraid of failin'." He sighed wearily, feeling another headache coming on. "I thought it'd be quicker ta skip the whole fight and just take the keys right from the start."

"But it wasn't," Race said quietly, realizing. "Jack, I'm sorry I started a big thing. I just..." He hesitated, and Jack looked up. "I wanna be like you, an' drive the boys cool places, an' have Romeo tell me how great of a big brother I am," Race admitted earnestly. "Stuff that you gets ta do every day!"

"Racer, you'se their big brother, too!" Jack said incredulously. "What's more, you'se the fun one. I'se gotta make all the rules, be on ev'ryone's case all the time. You just get ta be... Race. And they love ya for it."

Race merely shrugged, not meeting Jack's gaze. "Hey," Jack said firmly, tipping Race's chin up with one finger. He knew that look. He wasn't about to let Race convince himself he wasn't wanted, wasn't needed.

"Get outta your head, Race, and stay with me," he instructed. Then he gave a lopsided grin. "Let's just stick with you bein' you an' me bein' me. 'Cause kid, it's you who Romeo looks up to. That kid looks at you like ya hung the moon, Racer. Ya should be proud a' that."

Race grinned slightly at the mention of Romeo. "Yeah," he said modestly. "Kid sees somethin' in me, who knows what. Speakin' a' Romeo... I should prob'ly go check on him," he added sheepishly. "I, uh, kinda scared him earlier."

"Yeah, prob'ly a good idea," Jack agreed, pulling the gambler into a headlock and ruffling his hair playfully. "He was upstairs with the boys last I saw 'im."

Race laughed, pushing against Jack's chest to free himself. He was halfway to the stairs when he hesitated, his back to Jack. Whirling around, he crossed the room at a run and threw his arms around the older boy, catching him by surprise. "Love ya, Jack," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

A smile burst across Jack's face as he wrapped his arms around his brother. "Love ya too, kid," he said, dropping a kiss to the Italian's messy blonde curls. The familiar sharp scent of tobacco smoke hit him and he frowned, grabbing a fistful of Race's shirt and bringing it to his nose. Dang it, Race. "Have ya been smokin'?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Gotta go, Jack!" Race yelled, breaking away and dashing up the stairs. "I'll check in on Crutchie too, while I'm up here!" he called down.

"Hold it!" Jack ordered. "Back it up an' bring it here, Racetrack." He folded his arms over his chest, waiting for Race to obey. "Gimme the cigars," he said sternly once the younger boy stood in front of him.

"It ain't fair, Jack," Race protested as he fished the box of Coronas out of his pocket.

"It is too fair," Jack said, taking them off his hands. Can't leave this kid alone for a minute... "You'se comin' with me ta the diner tomorra afta' school, too."

"Noooo!" Race complained, stretching the word out comically. "Just tomorra, right?" he added hopefully.

Let's see how tomorra goes, first. "We'll see," Jack promised. Race let out an over-exaggerated sigh, and the leader couldn't help but grin. "Love ya, kid!" he reminded him.

"Yeah, yeah, whateva'!" Race waved him off. He quickened his steps, calling for Romeo as he took the stairs two at a time, but not quite quick enough to hide his smile from Jack.

Jack laughed a little, dropping the Coronas into his pocket. His fingers brushed against a piece of paper, and he sobered quickly as he brought out the ticket. He set it on the table next to him as he settled into his chair, staring blankly at his history textbook. He glanced back at the stairs, catching bits and pieces of Race's conversation with Romeo, and he made up his mind. Oh, yeah. It was all worth it.

Jack's head snapped up, catching himself just before he nodded off. C'mon, Kelly, focus! he scolded himself. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes. He'd been staring at the page so long, the words and numbers had turned themselves into a jumbled, blurry mess. I can do this. Thirty-two problems left. I can do thirty-two problems. That's just... eight problems, four times. He sighed, taking another sip of his long-cold coffee. Screw this. I'se failin' anyways.

Today had been long. And to top it all off, his little meeting with Officer Bixby had taken forever-- which was why he was up doing chemistry homework at ten past midnight.

He was just about to turn out the light and call it quits when a small voice made him freeze. "Jack?"

The leader whirled around to find Romeo in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and one of Race's T-shirts. The shirt hung on his thin frame and made him look so small. Paired with his pale face and wide, dark eyes, Jack didn't stand a chance. "Hey, buddy," he said, holding out his arms. Romeo ran into them, throwing himself at his brother and burying his face in the crook of his neck, his unruly dark hair tickling Jack's chin. "Bad dream, kid?" Jack asked softly. He felt Romeo nod against him, and he hugged little boy tighter.

"Why didn't ya go ta Race?" he asked. He knew that Romeo woke Race up most nights. Nearly every morning when Jack went in to get them up for school, Romeo was snuggled up against his big brother's side. Race had yet to complain, so Jack figured he had it handled. "What's up, kid?" he asked.

Romeo just shook his head, tightening his grip. "Race was in this one," he mumbled, his voice muffled by Jack's shirt.

Jack felt a pang through his heart, at a loss for what to do. Don't tell Race. Whateva' ya do, just don't. "Tell ya what, kid," he said, prying Romeo off of him. "How's about ya sleep in here tonight? I'se..." He glanced at is desk. "I'se still got some homework ta do. I'll stay up and keep ya company." He tossed back the blanket and lifted Romeo up onto the bed before taking a seat at his desk.

Romeo hopped right back up and climbed on Jack's lap, leaning back against him with a sigh. Jack glanced down at him with a grin. "And just whaddaya think you'se doin'?" he asked, ruffling Romeo's hair.

The kid shrugged, making himself comfortable. "Just sittin'."

"Just sittin', huh?" Jack said, tossing his pencil onto the desk. "What's up, kid?"

Romeo messed with the hem of his shirt, humming quietly to himself. Jack wrapped his big hands around Romeo's, making the kid look up. "I don't know, Jack," he admitted. "I feel like... like my tummy hurts. But it ain't like when Race spins me around. It's like... I feel like I'se forgot ta do somethin', and like evr'rythin' ain't okay, but I don't know why! And I don't wanna eat and I don't wanna sleep. Can ya fix it, Jack?"

Jack sighed. "That's called anxiety, buddy," he said. "It ain't fun, is it?" Romeo shook his head silently. "Okay, kid," Jack decided. He scooped his baby brother up and carried him over to the bed, pulling the blanket up around him. "I was feelin' some anxiety today, and ya know what helped?"

"What?" Romeo asked, snuggling under the blanket. His wide dark eyes were fixed on Jack, waiting for his answer.

"I went down ta the theatre and talked with Medda," Jack said. "So how's about ya talk ta me?"

Romeo nodded. "I can do that," he said. Jack dragged his chair over to the bed, rested his elbows on his knees, and listened. He listened while Romeo told him everything from hating pre-algebra to feeling left out to being the youngest to being scared of driving with Race again.

Jack was quiet for several moments after Romeo had finished. "Today scared ya, huh?" he said.

"Yeah," Romeo whispered, picking at a thread in the blanket.

"It scared Race, too," Jack told him.

Romeo's head shot up. "Race don't get scared," he said.

"'Course he gets scared," Jack said. "Just like I get scared. We was both scared today. And I think Race might be scared that you'se mad at 'im."

"I ain't mad," Romeo said, his eyes wide.

"Didja tell Race that?" Jack questioned.

Romeo shook his head. "I told him I don't want his help," he said quietly, averting his gaze from Jack's.

"Hey, it's okay!" Jack said. "Tomorra, how 'bout ya tell him ya do want his help? I bet he'd like that."

Romeo smiled. "I can do that," he said. "Can I come ta the diner with you and Race?"

Jack grinned. "I bet he'd like that, too," he said. He glanced at his bedside clock, and his eyes widened. 12:57. "Time for you ta get ta bed," he said. "And time for me ta finish up this mess." He downed what was left of his coffee in one gulp, dropping into his chair to labor over chemistry equations.

"Love ya, Jack," Romeo said sleepily.

Jack smiled slightly. "Love ya too, Romeo."

Jack sighed wearily, dumping a load of dishes into the sink and glancing at the time. Just an hour left 'til my shift ends. That's just fifteen minutes, four times... aw, forget it. Afternoon shifts always seemed to drag on forever, and having Race there complaining about homework wasn't helping at all. Neither of them wanted to be there. All Jack wanted to do was go home and sleep, but he knew he couldn't. He had his boys to take care of, that online traffic course to work on, and of course, more homework. It neva' ends...

The bell over the door jingled, and Jack could hear a familiar voice yelling even from back in the kitchen. "Race!"

Romeo. Jack smiled, hearing his brothers excitedly chattering away. Last night's episode had had him a little worried, but it looked like everything was going to be okay.

"Hey, Mr. Jacobi?" he called to his boss. "Can I bring my brothers a couple sodas?"

The older man looked up, taking in the scene of the two boys working at the counter. His mustache twitched, concealing one of his rare smiles. "Go ahead," he said. "On me, just this once."

Jack's grin widened. "Thanks, Mr. Jacobi," he said sincerely, heading back out to the dining room.

"A-tro-cious," Race was saying, sounding the word out. "Jack's cooking is atrocious."

"You two," Jack told them, setting two sodas on the counter. "You'se gonna be the death a' me."

Race laughed it off. "Thanks, Jack," he said.

"Thank you!" Romeo echoed.

"Suspicious," Race said, reading from the list again. "Jack bein' this nice ta us is suspicious."

Jack shook his head, heading back to the kitchen with a smile. These kids, he thought fondly. They're drivin' me crazy.

Tag list: @newsieswearingheelies , @smart-alecc , @purplelittlepup , @killmebroadway

[anondt-blog]

Obsessed 1/?

A/N: Hi guys! Here’s that series we previously mentioned. No better day to publish than a Tuesday, am I right? I have no idea how long this will be, or if it will even be seen... lol. But, if it is, I hope ya’ll like it! I would appreciate any feedback. As of right now, there is no summary, because even I don’t know what’s going to happen! So please, bare with me. And read it. Also, V opposed to the main character (Alexia) having a name versus y/n. I hope you enjoy our first ever series, I would love to write more for you. - A. Warnings: Cursing. Word count: 2k.

The bitter washed back taste of clear liquid hit my tastebuds in my already shaky hands. It was 6:03 am. I say shaky because you know how you first wake up and the blood flow still needs to rush to your hands? Yeah, that. I also say washed back because this water had been sitting on my night stand for a couple nights now. Agh, anyways… 6:03 am. First day of senior year and back to school. I know people are always whining and complaining but I didn’t mind school, ever, actually. The mornings, the essays, the readings, none of it was a big deal. 
I smiled to myself in my hazily lit room with the sun trying to pour through my gray curtains. My window was opened a crack from my sister, Veronica and I, sneaking out to hike to a water fall the night before. Yeah, just the two of us, being absolutely dangerous and reckless when we had to be back early the next morning. 
I gave the wall next to me three knocks. Waiting… waiting… 
 *three half assed knocks*. 
 I threw myself out of my bed and sprang for my sisters room right next door. 
“Open those green eyes, my little marshmallow, it’s go time little shit!”
I was jumping up and down on Veronica’s bed, trying my best to not completely lose my balance and step on her. 
 “I actually hate how much of a morning person you are…” her morning voice crept through. 
she groaned rubbing her eyes, grabbing her glasses. 
 I pounced myself from her bed back to the ground, flashing a wide smile at her before running down stairs and making us both some tea. 
It was a ritual for us. Planning our day or just catching up over some of my chai, and her berries and cherries. 
“How’s your knee doing?” Startling me, nearly making me spill hot water all over myself. 
I looked down at the raw skin still building, touching it to see if its fully scabbed. 
“Eh, not fully there, should scab soon though…”
After a couple moments of silence Veronica dared to ask… 
“Have you talked to… him?” 
The tea in my mouth almost became bitter as the name ran through my head. 
I rolled my eyes and threw the rest of my tea in the sink. 
 “Now… in what fucked up universe would that happen again?” 
Veronica looked around and gave me a shrug. I ran my fingers through my hair then held my face at the memory. 
“It’s 6:30, we’ve gotta get up and going for the seniors big day, no?”
 “As well as the juniors first day back…”
 We both smiled and raced each other upstairs. 
I pinned some strands of my hair back, letting some fall to frame my face. I threw on some black jeans that probably needed a wash, then a fitted burgundy henley and grabbing some black heeled boots on my way back down because we had to leave within the next couple of minutes. 
“You look nice, showing some cleavage but not too much, bringing all the boys to the yard…” 
She said swishing all her hair in one swift movement to one side, letting her chocolate locks flow. 
 “You don’t look too bad yourself… Is that my shirt?” 
 “And thats all the time we’ve got for today folks! Can’t be late for the first day back…” 
I rolled my eyes and let it slide. Grabbing our book bags and my sister already deciding what we’d be listening to for the car ride. 
 Long Valley High School wasn’t as bad as some made it seem. Jersey was beautiful, and so were the schools. Big libraries and nicely funded class rooms, we couldn’t complain. 
In the midst of my admiration or just the white noise in my mind, I was disrupted when Veronica slapped my shoulder. 
“Ow! What the-…” 
 “Ummm… don’t look right away but ex bestie and you know who strolling by in 3…2…1…” 
I pretended to get my stuff together as they walked by my car, then looked when I counted to five in my head. 
Somehow I was able to catch a whiff of him. Memories began to replay in my head and then an all to familiar scent disrupted them. My ex best friend, Giselle Walsh. Her favorite Victoria Secret perfume robbing the trail of something I once considered home. I looked up to catch her flicking her long, silky, black hair off of her shoulders. She stopped only a couple yards from my car, just to make sure I was watching… 
Giselle threw herself around him, leaving small kisses on his neck, and before I could watch the morning make out, Tommy decided to jump on the hood of my car, scaring the shit out of me, and blocking my view. 
 “HEY! Ready to beat the piss out of this year then skin it alive?!” 
I looked down at my hands that were fidgeting with my keys, and laid my head back on the head rest. 
“God, I missed your fucked up sense of humor, hug me.” 
Tommy pulled me out of my drivers seat for a nice warm embrace against his cold jean jacket. 
 Tommy. A family friend since the 3rd grade. We actually used to hate each other until we got paired up for a scene in a play and forgot our lines together. Scarred us so good we had to share the embarrassment, it’s also a fantastic story we tell every holiday season. Inseparable since. 
“You smell like… perfume I got you last Christmas?” 
I nodded with devious smirk. Giving Tommy my hands to make them warm again. After all, it was mid September in Jersey, weather was getting pretty nippy. 
My smirk dropped when I felt eyes on me, 
“He’s looking isn’t he?”
 Tommy smiled their way and delivered a wave, 
 “Yup, wanna make out so he really has something to look at?”
 “That wouldn’t work, everyone knows you’re gay.” 
Tommy gasped and said with a wink,
 “Straight for you any day.” 
“I’m keeping count of how many times she’s rolled her eyes this morning and we are close to double digits and it’s only 8 in the morning.” Veronica added while getting out of the car.
 Tommy gave out both his arms, in an escort manner. 
“Well, are my lovely females ready to be escorted by the schools best defender?”
 Veronica and I smirked at each other and took Tommy’s arms. And together we walked my sister to her first class, chemistry. 
 “Curb stomp the shit out of those elements, V.” 
 “You are more violent than normal this morning, what was in your coffee?” 
“Pre-workout… or was it adderall? Can’t remember…”
 In actual deep thought, Tommy trailed off and began to rub his chin.  
With widened eyes now Veronica shook her head and replied, 
“Oh my god, well… Lunch? Tables? Find me?”
 Tommy and I looked at each other and gave a nod, arms still locked. 
We gave Veronica a wave and headed to the other side of the building. Mine and Tommy’s schedules were almost always identical. Except he had weights last period, and I got to take his smelly ass home while he tried to shove his armpit in my face almost the whole drive. 
 Hearing the late bell, Tommy and I continued to stroll down the halls without a care in the world, laughing about my slight gimp because of the scab on my knee. 
Five minutes or so had passed when we made it to room 126, English. Tommy grabbed the door for me and bowed, I curtsied in reply. On our way in, Tommy decided to comment on Miss. Collins ensemble of the day. 
“Miss. Collins, looking classy as ever.” 
“Thomas Reeds, you and Miss. Fahl are late and it’s only the first day back, we don’t need that scholarship to throw itself away, now do we?”
 I tried to hide my laugh while Tommy’s expression had dead panned. 
 “I’m sorry Miss. Collins, won’t happen again…” I said while dragging Tommy to our seats. 
“Mhm, heard that before… Alright, class…” Miss. Collins voice began to fade in and out of my ears while she was going over the syllabus and the readings we would be doing for this semester. 
I began to zone out on a smudge left on the white board before Tommy pulled my hair to get my attention… 
 “So? Anything?” 
 “You and my sister are both on a ringer about that this morning. I don’t know what you guys expect… it was just once.” 
“I almost can’t even look at him and we have weights together. Don’t be surprised if I swing or-” 
“Tommy, I love you with every vessel my heart has to offer but can you just please be cool? I would like to forget about it…”
. Tommy sighed then placed his pouted face into his fist on the desk. He batted his eyelashes at me, and I took in his big, brown, doe eyes. 
 “Don’t give me doe eyes, don’t do that.” 
 “Whatever you want princess, but just say the word and I’ll-”
 I interrupted him mid sentence,
 “Yes, I know, give him an ultimate wedgie…” 
“You already know!” 
He placed his hand in front of my face, asking for a high five with a dorky smile. 
“Your sister was right, you’re eye rolling more than usual…” 


 School became a blur and before we knew it, it was lunch. Tommy carried my books while I scanned the lunchroom, looking for my sister at our usual spot. I found her bustling with something in her book bag, her glasses almost glistening in the lunch room with it’s humungous floor to ceiling windows. 
I nudged Tommy to follow me and we sat down in unison. 
 “How were the first 5 classes?” 
“Easy peezy lemon squeeze year for me it seems… You guys?” 
“Agreed. Looking like an easy-…”. 
My face began to feel hot when we made eye contact. I began to play with my hair, trying to look busy but ended up staring down at my boots to distract myself and get the red tint off before he approached the table to say what’s up to Tommy like I knew he would. 
That same familiar sent approached before my beet red face could dismiss itself… 
“Hey Tommy, weights?” 
 “You know it, I’ll see you later Dolan.”  
I let out a huff of air when I knew he was gone. 
 “I thought you were becoming a damn fish with how long you held your breath.”  
I mimicked Tommy with a funny face while I fanned myself from the sudden rush of heat. 
 “You know, eventually, you guys are going to have to talk…” Veronica stated, biting into her apple with a loud crunch.
 “Honestly, you guys probably have a class together…” Tommy chimed in. 
I threw my hands up in defense, 
“You would jinx me like that?!” 
“Well! I can’t see until next period when I get in the office for my TA period…”. 
I threw my face in both of my hands, guessing he was probably right. 
The rest of lunch was Tommy, Veronica, and I, going over our syllabus’, forging our parents signatures and gossiping here and there. The bell rang and the lunch room became louder with sounds of zippers closing and table wheels rolling in response to the sudden movement. 
Tommy offered to walk me but the office was in the front of the school at building one while mine was on the second floor in the back of building two. 
He handed me my books and casted a “farewell” sign my way. Since Tommy’s next period was office TA, he would be able to see if I had any classes with him. But, for now, the coast was clear. 
 The hallways became emptier and emptier with everyone entering their classes, all I could hear was the sound of my boots clicking against the tiled floor. Meeting the door to my next class which was an anatomy lab, I looked down while I was entering the room to check a text that Tommy had sent. 
“Toms: 
Ummm… you’re not going to believe this…” 
And before I could finish reading the rest of the message, I looked up to meet a set of hazel eyes and warm, tussled brown hair, and the only empty seat in class next to… 
 Grayson. Bailey. Dolan. 



[jake-runs-alot-blog]

Pike’s Peak Marathon

O beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed his grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!

Katharine Lee Bates, author of America the Beautiful, wrote these words after sitting atop a large piece of rock 14,115 in the air. In my 7 years of running I’ve experienced all sorts of tough and unique courses. But nothing compared to the journey of trying to reach the top of Pike’s Peak, and then coming back down all in one sitting!

Training for this race was almost impossible. The first was the altitude. Oklahoma City sits at around 1200 feet. Manitou Springs, where the start is, is at around 6,300 feet. And then we’re running up another 8,000 feet. Big difference there. After researching some tips, the best I was able to do was train in hot/humid temperatures, easy to do here, and try using an elevation mask. The next problem was steepness for the incline. The average degree of incline for the race is around 11 degrees, maxing out at around 13.4 degrees. Oklahoma, being quite the “hilly” place that it is, made that hard to train for too. Spent some time at Mount Scott but I knew nothing would compare. So, going into this race the plan was simple, finish.

We arrived in Colorado Springs a few days early to try to get acclimated to the elevation as much as possible. The night before I put together my camel pack with a mixture of Tailwind and Nuun, loaded up extra warm clothes because of the unsureness of the weather towards the top, and headed to bed.

The morning was beautiful. Low 60s, slight breeze, and few clouds in the sky. I was in the first wave of runners to be sent off at 7:00. After Bates’ America the Beautiful was played over the sound system, they fired the gun and we were off. The first 1.6 miles was ran through town and even asphalt, but still at a descent incline. The plan was to go easy, not wear out too quick trying to get to the trail quickly. I could already feel the steepness in the first mile clocking in around 9:30 pace. But felt good.

Hoping onto the off-road trail we had already gained 600 feet of elevation. The paced slowed as the trail steepness increased. The course was most dirt and gravel with random rocks and boulders popping out of the ground here and there. Running on the Spur Trail, we eventually merged onto Barr Trail, the main trail that leads all the way to the top. We continued our climb passing the famous “Incline” reaching the No Name Creek checkpoint in just over an hour. 4.3 miles in we were up to 8,800 feet.

From there the course somewhat evened out. There were even a few brief moments of downhill running. But even then, we were still gain altitude. I hit the next check point at Barr Camp, 10,200 feet, at mile 7.6 in a little under 2 hours. Here was the staging point had Pike’s Peak’s official search and rescue team, which was serving as the medical team for this race. They even had their official search and rescue helicopter there ready to go. Don’t see that like ever!

Leaving the camp, I was averaging about a 15 minute per mile pace. Doing some quick math in my head I figured I would make it to the summit in about 3.5 hours if everything kept rolling as it had been. I had my phone on me so I would update Rachel, who was waiting for me at the summit, every now and then where I was at.  But the mountain had only been teasing us so far. Quickly after leaving Barr Camp the steepness got so extreme and the course so rocky, I was unable to run or jog again for the next 6 miles until the top. The paced slowed and the legs started to get very heavy. I could slowly start seeing the tree line so I told myself just to get there and reevaluate from there. It took me another hour to go the 2.6 miles to reach the A-Frame checkpoint at tree line (11,950 feet). Before I even reached it the first-place runner passed us heading back down the mountain. He was moving like a gazelle floating down the trail hoping over rocks with ease. He would go onto to win the race missing breaking the course record by only ten minutes,

The lungs and legs were burning but kept power walking along. A few times I just had to sit down and catch the breath, but the view kept getting better and better. Above tree line I would look up and see all the switchbacks and all the people zig zagging back and forth slowly reaching the top. It seemed like it was never ending. I hit the last checkpoint at Cirque at mile 11.9 reaching 13,300 feet. The last mile I started to worry about my legs as they were starting to get very unstable. Each step felt like running a mile. As other runners were coming down, we had to step aside to give them the right away. That become even more difficult when we hit the 16 Golden Stairs, 32 switchbacks with some steps being 15 inches tall. We would have to be extra care with runners coming down because some of the drop offs were about 20-30 feet. A little uneasy but just added to the experience.

4:33:53, I reached the summit. Short on breath and rubber legs, I met up with Rachel. She helped me refill my camel pack, got me some nutrition and kept encouraging me that the hard part was over. What a trooper! So, I started to head back down.

I couple of miles down I started to get some momentum. The race started to feel more like a trail run. Above me I could hear the rescue helicopter flying overhead. I later learned that a runner was having a medical issue and had to be air lifted to safety.

I made it passed the A-Frame checkpoint again then it went downhill from there. I just passed mile 17 going through a very rocky section and while jumping over one of the rocks I clipped a rock with my foot, stumbling to the ground. Instant throbbing pain shot up me from my big toe all throughout my foot. Out of frustrating a threw my sunglasses to ground breaking off one of the lenses into the forest. Now I have tripped and stumbled while trail running before, but the pain this time was unbearable. I sat down for probably a good ten or fifteen minutes hoping the pain will subside. All the while other runners were passing me asking if I was okay knowing there wasn’t anything they could do. After awhile I tried to start moving again. Still very painful but I was able to at least keep moving slowly.

A mile later the pain was still terrible. I couldn’t tell if it was broken or just stubbed really bad. At first I was just walking with a bad limp. But I just wanted to get off this mountain as quick as possible. So, I managed to pretty much relearn how to run while trying to keep my weight off my left foot. Not easy at all. I kept texting Rachel updating here on everything. I felt so bad that I was taking so much longer than expected and that she was just waiting at the finish line for me. But she kept encouraging me reassuring me that it would be worth it.

I just kept moving. Made it passed Barr Camp, saw the helicopter had returned from its trip from earlier. I refilled the camel pack again knowing the temperature was rising, getting up to 96 degrees in Manitou. I was passing mile after mile, getting lower and lower in elevation just trying to block the pain as much as possible. Around mile 22 another runner noticed my unique running gate and asked if I was okay. After telling him the story he said he was quite impressed that I was not only running this race, but doing it on an injured foot. He gave me some of his aspirin and we ended up staying together the rest of the way as he was having knee problems himself. A mile later we picked up another runner who was having problems and then a fourth runner. We called ourselves the gimp train as we all helped each other down the mountain.

We passed my 25 and we finally got off the trail and onto even concrete roads. Was never so happy to see that. I just wanted this to be over so I finally “ran” as fast as I could. Running through the city there was still great support encouraging us. 8:33.23 later, I finally finished that race. The hardest most frustrating race ever.

I met up with Rachel afterwards and took off my shoe and sock to find my left big toe black and blue, in way worse condition that I thought it would be. But it was done. Got my medal and pizza and called it a day.

An Xray the next day would show it not broken thankfully, but I actually chipped off a piece of bone in my toe. I was planning to take some time off after this race but not like this in a walking boot!

Overall, I feel very frustrated but also super accomplished I finish this race. We started with around 800 runners, and only 640 finished. Just a true testament with how hard this race is! Now time to heal up and get ready for the next one!