The Poet is A Madman

“What are you writing, Ceec? We did all of our homework and there’s no way on Earth that you would even think about doing it before we both had a date?” Pigeon asked, throwing a sock at her in the process.

“I’ve been trying to make a spell that can pick out cute outfits for me. It’s not exactly working out as planned,” Cecil sighed, turning to Pigeon.

“We could always just like… call up Katherine–”

“Absolutely not! That’s the last thing I want to do right now, Pigeon. Let me call up my other crush and ask her advice on what I should wear on my date!”

Pigeon rolled his eyes. “Listen, I never said I was smart. If you’re that worried about it, I can do a reading for you and we can keep a few of our smaller crystals with us. But we’re gonna be fine either way. You know that Jackie’s an amazing guy and wouldn’t dare insult you and I know that Fey is extremely way out of my league but I’m going for it anyway!”

Cecil shook her head and got up, picking a shirt from the pile he had accumulated. “Wear this one, she loves this one.”

“How do you know that?” Pigeon asked, taking the shirt from her.

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you wear it. It’s like she’s looking at a god. And you, my dearest little brother, are so far from a god that you know she’s fallen hard for you.” She smiled, ruffling his hair.

He scoffed and playfully pushed her. “I am a gift from Apollo himself, how dare you! But Fey… Fey’s like Aphrodite crafted her personally and sent her down to bless us all…” Pigeon ran a hand through his hair as he looked at his feet, a blush on his cheeks.

Pigeon was sitting on the edge, leaning against the railing and looking down while Santa Fey had taken to watching stars slowly pop up in the sky. The heat of the air had left Pigeon with no other option than the roll up the sleeves of his shirt as much as he could and unbuttoning it.

Okay, so maybe Santa Fey wasn’t just watching the stars. Maybe she was taking the occasional glance at her best friend and feeling her cheeks heat up whenever she remembered that he was practically shirtless.

And maybe when Fey wasn’t looking, Pigeon would look her over and just take in how pretty she was in the last remaining rays of sunlight. How her green eyes shone and how badly he just wanted to move that one piece of hair that had been in her face since she got to Manhattan and how badly he just wanted to kiss—

No, no, no. That was never going to happen. They just friends. That was all. It would never be nothing more. Pigeon wouldn’t risk his whole friendship with Fey over some dumb crush… but maybe a conversation about dumb crushes wouldn’t hurt?

He sighed, looking up at the sky. “Hey Fey?” After he spoke, he turned to her.

Fey looked back at him. “What’s up, Pigeon?”

“You eva’ get these like… feelin’s? They ain’t bad but they also ain’t good? Like— they kinda sorta make you feel guilty for havin’ ‘em?”

Fey blinked at him. “What, like a crush?”

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno. When I had a crush on Race, it wasn’t the same as this…” Pigeon sighed.

Fey felt her heart break. Pigeon had a crush on someone else. She knew that he would never feel the same way. He was too good for her anyways.

“I guess my crush on Racer wasn’t really anythin’ though. I was just a dumb kid.” He went quiet for a beat and looked up. “I just wanna fall in love.”

“You could fall in love with me,” she signed while he wasn’t looking.

Pigeon looked back to her. “You sign somethin’?”

Fey shook her head, eyes falling to the streets below.

Pigeon studied her expression, eyebrows slowly knitting together. “Fey, what’s wrong?” She shook her head again, but he put a hand on her arm to stop her. “No, there’s somethin’ wrong. You’se upset. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Pidge. Don’t worry about it.”

“You know that ain’t gonna work with me, Fey. We’se been friends for too long for me to know that it ain’t nothin’.”

She sighed. “I just thought you would have told me if you had a crush. You know, since we’re best friends and all.”

Pidge started to bite as his lip. “I… I wanted ta’ tell you’se eventually… ”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He went completely quiet, looking over the rail down to the street. His heart was racing in his chest, his thoughts wild with everything that could go wrong right now. She put a hand on shoulder, drawing his attention to her.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you cuz it is you, Fey. An’ I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship by tellin’ you cuz you’se the only best friend I ever had an’ I really don’t wanna lose you over somethin’ stupid like this,” Pigeon said, not looking at her as he spoke.

Fey’s eyes widened, just staring at him. She fought to come up with the right thing to say, blinking at him. “Pidge.” The sound of her raspy voice made Pidge look at her, surprised. She took a shaky breath, like she was going to say something, but instead just pulled him into a hug. He hugged her back, arms tight around her. They pulled apart after a moment and Pigeon realized Fey was shaking. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know, I know… Listen, I get if you-”

“I feel the same way. If you had just told me sooner, we could have avoided this. I thought you didn’t feel the same and I was too afraid to tell you,” she signed, a smile on her face.

“You remind me of a shark, amore.” Pidge smiled, looking at Sharps as they stood in front of the great whites.

“Why’s that?” Sharps asked, putting an arm around Pidge.

“Cuz you look really big and scary but you’re really not!”

Sharps laughed and kissed the top of his head. “You can’t ruin my facade. People can’t know that I’m not.”

Pidge rolled his eyes and paused, turning. He then took Sharps’ hand and led him to a different tank. He led him to the jellyfish, watching them with wonder. “I wanna pet the jellyfish. Can I?” He asked Sharps.

“No, you can’t pet the jellyfish, Pidge.” Sharps sighed, looking into the tank, then to Pidge.

“That sounds like a dare. I’m gonna pet the jellyfish.” Pidge smirked, looking back.

“It’s not a dare. You are not petting the jellyfish. If you try, we’re leaving.”

Pidge pouted. “You’re no fun…”

“No, I’m just keeping you safe and preventing you from getting banned.” Sharps wrapped him in a hug, quickly making the pout fade.

Santa Fe turned to him and shrugged. “I caught word that Pigeon is sick. I’m here to peer pressure him into taking care of himself because I know he’ll listen to me,” she signed.

“Finch already tried. So did me an’ Racer. He still went out sellin’ today. I dunno if he’s-”

She cut him off with a smirk. “He’s laying in bed right now. I looked for him when I got to Manhattan. Finch is selling the rest of his papers for him.”

“How do you got betta’ control over my boys than I do?” Jack looked at her with disbelief.

She shrugged and picked up the brown bag from the table. “They like me better?”

He rolled his eyes and put his bag down. “Just go take care a’ the kid so he can be back on ‘is feet.”

Fe gave Jack a bright smile and climbed the stairs to Pidge’s bunk.

Pidge was laying there, pale and half asleep. He really did look terrible. His usual bright eyes were now dull, cheeks flushed pink, hair a mess.

Fe sat on the edge of his bunk, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead then down to his cheek. She set the bag down carefully and signed, “You’re burning up.”

“Yeah, s’cuz ‘m so damn hot.” Pigeon smiled and laughed, which turned into a cough that made him sit up. He laid back down with a groan, putting his arm over his eyes.

Fe moved his arm and kissed his forehead, waiting until Pigeon opened his eyes before signing again. “Not so much of a wise guy now. I got you some soup, sit up.” Pidge whined, earning a glare from Fe. Reluctantly, he sat up and crossed his arms. “Thank you.”

She opened the bag and took out a cup of soup and a spoon. She took the lid off the soup and handed it and the spoon to Pidge. “Eat. I’ll get you anything else if you need it.”

“Fe, you really don’t gotta do this… I don’t want you’se gettin’ sick an’ unable ta’ sell.” Pigeon stirred the soup around and took a bite.

“I want to, Pigeon. You are my boyfriend after all. I know you won’t take care of yourself or let anyone else try to.” Fe moved so that she was sitting next to him and put her head on his shoulder.

Pigeon smiled and kissed her forehead. “I hate how right you’se are.”

“Shut up and eat. You’re taking a nap when you’re done.”

“But I’se ain’t tired!” Pigeon argued.

“Not even if I’m here to nap with you?”

Pigeon was quiet after that, eating the soup. Fe smiled, satisfied.

He was relieved to see Pigeon as he entered the lodge. “Pigeon, I need your help. Now.”

“Racetrack, where’s there a Brooklyn kid in our lodging house. Oh my God, you’se didn’ beat ‘im up, right?! I swear to god if Spot Conlon comes here, I’se throwin’ you to ‘im.” Pigeon rushed over to him.

“No, I gots the kid under control. I need you ta’ go finish sellin’ for me. You can take 70, I’ll take the rest.”

“Yeah, lemme just glaze over the fact that you’se got a corpse in your arms and finish sellin’ for ya’. No problem.” Pigeon took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “No, I ain’t gonna do that! You can’t just be bringin’ Brooklyn kids here like there ain’t no consequences! You see a Brooklyn kid, you leave them where they are and try ta’ get them to wake up there!”

The boy in Race’s arms started to come to, looking around and putting a hand to his head. “The hell am I? An’ why’re you holdin’ me?” He spoke with a heavy Irish accent that carried annoyance. “Well, you just gonna stare at me or put me down, lad?”

Race put him down, mumbling, “sorry,” as he did. Now as he stood, Pigeon could really assess the boy. He short and young, couldn’t be any older than 13. Freckles covered his pale face and thick curly hair was tucker under his hat like a flame was bursting out of his head. His eyes were a striking blue and he looked beyond upset.

“Where the hell am I? This ain’t Brooklyn.” He crossed his arms, looking at the two taller figures.

“Manhattan. I found you knocked out. Musta’ got into a pretty tough fight. You got a name?” Race glanced to Pigeon, who put his hands up in defense and shook his head.

“Spitfire. An’ you better show me how ta’ get back ta’ Brooklyn or else I’ll… I’ll…” Spitfire stood straighter, like he was trying to intimidate Race.

“You ain’t gonna do nothin’. That’s how turf wars start. And ain’t no way in hell am I gonna let a kid start that.” Pigeon looked down at him with a disapproving glare. To Race’s surprise, Spitfire seemed to falter at that. “I’ll show you the way back, Spitfire. So someone can go back ta’ sellin’.” He turned the same glare to Race, who looked away sheepishly.

“Please, Pidgey? Just a coupla’ cents an’ I promise I’ll pay ya’ back.” Race gave the smaller boy the saddest face he could manage.

Pigeon ignored the blush on his cheeks from the nickname. “Puppy dog faces ain’t gonna work on me, Higgins. Go ask Albert.”

Race huffed. “I already did, he said no.”

“Well what makes you think I’se gonna say otherwise?” Pigeon pocketed his money and looked to Race.

“Cuz you like me more than Al does?” Race gave Pigeon a cheesy smile.

“I can’t help ya’ here, Race. I’se broke. Everythin’ I earned today has gotta go ta’ either food or papes. Your charm ain’t gonna work,” Pigeon said.

Race’s cheesy smile turned into a smirk. “You’se think I’m charmin’?”

“I- uh- I didn’ say that…” Pigeon’s cheeks darkened and he looked away. “Go away, Racer.”

Race gently lifted Pigeon’s chin so they were eye to eye, centimeters away from each other. Race’s bright blue eyes twinkled with mischief, looking directly into Pigeon’s. “You’se sure ‘bout that, Pidgey? Cuz it sure sounded like you called me charmin’.”

“I-I uhm…” Pigeon struggled with his words. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, shoving them at Race. “Here. If I don’t get it back, you’se dead.”

Mid winter was hell for any kid living on the streets. Harsh wind cut through thin clothes like a newly sharpened knife.

It was even worse if you were running as fast as you could, slipping on ice as you tried to find an alleyway to tuck into. This was currently the case for Oliver. He had only been in New York for a few days after he ran away from home, but had already found himself in trouble. The other street kids in Brooklyn didn’t take too kind to him and now, in Manhattan, he had gotten tangled up with the Delancey brothers. They had asked him questions he was unable to answer, as he could barely speak English. When he gave a muttered reply in Italian, they battered on the insults. Oliver ran away, but the brothers refused to let him get away.

Luckily he was smaller and faster than both of them, making for an easy escape even as they chased him. By the time he had found a place to duck away he was out of breath and exhausted. He could hear their yells in the distance, but instead of continuing to run, he sat on the ground with his knees to his chest and slowly slipped to sleep.

Oliver didn’t know how long he was asleep for, but it couldn’t have been long if the dusting of snow on his shoulders gave anything away. He slowly lifted his head from where it was tucked into his arms to inspect what had awoken him.

A boy was kneeling in front of him, worry etched on his face. There was a slingshot tucked into his waistband and he was removing the light jacket that he wore. “You’se awake, thank God. I thought you had frozen ta’ death.”

Oliver furrowed his brow and leaned away from him. Who was this boy? Oliver had never seen him or met him, so why was he being so nice?

The boy noticed this and softened. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, kid. You’se okay. Here.” He held out his jacket for Oliver, who just eyed it cautiously. “You’se gonna become a kid-sicle if you don’t take it.”

Oliver reached out with a shaking hand and took it, then wrapped it around himself. It didn’t provide much warmth, but it was better than nothing.

“Can you walk? You ain’t hurt or nothin’, right?” Finch stood, offering his hand to the small boy.

Pidge took his hand and slowly brought himself to his feet, though his legs were like jelly and the soles of his feet ached. He braced himself against the wall, eyes shut as he fought through the pain.

“You really ain’t lookin’ too good… Here, get on my back. I ain’t gonna drop you or nothin’, just bring you somewhere safe. You can trust me, kid.” Finch knelt down again so Oliver could get on his back. After a minute, Oliver gave in.

Finch lifted him easily, arms looped securely under Oliver’s legs while Oliver wrapped his arms around Finch’s shoulders.

“So you got a name, kid?” Finch asked. He felt Oliver shake his head and nodded. “That’s okay, we’se gonna find you one then. There’s gonna be a lotta other guys at the lodge, just a warnin’. I know a few new kids ain’t too fond of a lotta people around. I’ll make sure they give you some space.” Finch continued to ramble, not even noticing Oliver had fallen asleep.

The noise in the lodge is what woke him again. Yelling and laughter caused him to hide his face in Finch’s shoulder, his grip on his shirt tightening.

Finch tried his best to look at Oliver and adjusted him slightly. “You’se okay, don’t worry. They ain’t gonna hurt you,” he whispered.

“Who’s ya’ new friend, Finch?” Elmer called over. The attention of the room shifted and suddenly grew quiet.

“Found ‘im nearly frozen to death afta’ I finished sellin’.” Finch looked back at Oliver before looking back to the group. “He’s kinda skittish an’ don’t talk. Ain’t got a name, either.” The group nodded, a few eyes lingering on Oliver. “I figure he’ll take my bed an’ I can teach ‘im the ropes a’ sellin’.”

Slowly the group went back to their activities, though they were much quieter now. Finch carried Oliver upstairs and to his bunk. There, he carefully set the smaller boy down. “They ain’t too bad, huh? You’ll get used to them pretty quick.”

Oliver nodded and took off Finch’s coat, handing it back to him. He was still shivering, but not as much as before.

“How ‘bout you keep this on ‘til we find you some new clothes. Can’t have you freezin’ out on me yet.” Finch smiled and wrapped the jacket around him again. “I’se gonna be right back. I think Romeo might have somethin’ ‘round your size. Stay here.” He gently patted Oliver’s hair before starting out of the room.

Oliver pulled his knees to his chest and looked around the empty room, a pang of anxiety sending chills down his spine. He knew Finch said he would back, but what if he didn’t? What if he was trapped somewhere he’d never been with a bunch of boys he’s never met that were all so loud and rowdy? He stood and headed to the window, looking out to the street below and picking at a string on the jacket.

A single pigeon flew up to the windowsill and sat next to him, it’s head tilting. Oliver smiled at the small bird. “Ciao, amico. Come va?”

“So you do speak, just not English,” said a voice from the doorway. Oliver jumped and turned, causing the bird to fly away. His face was flush with embarrassment and eyes were wide with fear. Anyone else that had heard him talk wasn’t too happy with it… He looked over the figure, his mind racing.

It was a tall boy with a mess of curly blond hair, his hat securely pulled over it. A cigar was trapped between his pointer and middle finger, tapping against his palm. Next to him was Finch with clothes draped over his arm.

“Don’t look so scared, kid. Race ain’t gonna hurt you. In fact, he’s the guy you’re gonna wanna talk to if you speak Italian.” Finch smiled and set the clothes on the bed.

Oliver looked to the boy— Race— with the same wide eyes, but the fear was gone and replaced with hope. Race smiled at him. “Ti piacciono gli uccelli?”

“S-sì. I piccioni sono i miei preferiti,” Oliver replied, now moving to fidget with the button on his shirt.

“How ‘bout the name Pigeon, then? Seems pretty fittin’.” Race leaned back against the door frame.

He nodded with a grin. Finch laughed softly. “Finch and Pigeon. How perfect.”