What if Jack, during the strike, had been impaled or soaked to the point that there was internal bleeding or had a brain bleed because one of the Delancey’s and didn’t make it?

Race would be taking over as the Manhattan News Boy’s leader because Davey wasn’t going to be there very long and because he just couldn’t inspire or lead like a leader should. Race would have had to step up and… grow up. Would he go directly on crisis mode and just panic and not know what to do? Would he live with it and become their new leader like that? Would he pretend to keep it together for the other news boys? Or would he have given up?

alright so this ones a little rough be careful kids _________

ship: ralberttt genre: angsty sad bois warnings: DO NOT IGNORE THESE very descriptive description of the physical experience of a depressive episode, no thoughts, but still Bad editing: heck nah fam words: 6 something I think ??

_________

Race pulled his blanket around him tighter, burying his face in the soft fuzzy fabric as he whimpered quietly to himself, not wanting the rest of the world to hear him. Vaguely he was aware of his laptop playing some episode of buzzfeed unsolved somewhere in the deafening silence that surrounded him, but he had stopped paying attention long ago; Shane and Ryan’s voices now blended together, creating the tense background music for the nightmare unfolding in his mind.

It wasn't a new phenomenon, but instead one that he experienced far too often. The feeling of himself detaching from his body, growing numb, and floating just out of reach of safety. There was nothing worse than that feeling, nothing worse than feeling like he was drowning inside his head.

Then suddenly he was drowning. There was water flowing over his lips and into his eyes. He gasped through it, realizing only a moment too late that it was just his own tears restricting him. He couldn't even be bothered to wipe them away as he felt them begin to dampen his hair. Instead, he rolled over, consequently smothering his face into the bed and further twisting the blanket around himself.

After the first initial tears came the tightness, just like clockwork. It began in his stomach, cramping and twisting it until he felt like he would surely explode if he didn't throw up right then and there. But he couldn't, he never had been able to. So he sat there, silently, taking the pain.

Somewhere under the blanket his hand found his the bare skin of his stomach and began to rub it subconsciously in hopes of easing the pain. Not that he could feel it anyway. He couldn't feel anything. He was too numb. Too far gone.

It could have been minutes or hours but slowly and surely the tightness from his stomach spread into his chest, constructing his every breath painfully until he was hardly breathing at all. He tried and tried to force more air in but less and less came out each time. He was forced to hold his breath for several seconds in fear that if he didn’t stop moving his chest might crack in half, spilling his insides all over the bed in a sad heap.

The tears came again, blessing his numb skin with the vague feeling of warmth. It was the only thing he could feel, the only thing he was really certain of: the fact that he was crying.

He didn’t even know why he was sad. It had just hit him out of nowhere: no telltale signs, no triggers, no nothing. Suddenly he was just laying on his bed, unable to move or do much of anything. It could have been 6 days for all he knew, his sense of time had escaped him.

Suddenly though there was a pair of strong arms wrapping delicately around his middle. Race tried to muster the energy to move away, but he was powerless against even this gentle hold. In vain, he began to panic more.

“Shhh, cupcake, hey hey, it’s me, it’s Albert. I’m not gonna hurt ya I promise. All I need ya to do is listen to my voice and breathe with me. Alright? You’re safe, I promise. I love you Antonio, I love you so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Race collapsed against Alberts chest in relief, yet more tears falling from his closed eyes as he let the familiar presence of his boyfriend wash over him. Albert might not be able to make the pain go away, but he could make it at least bearable.

_________

Albert calling Race cupcake is now officially canon on this blog and you can Fite Me

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the taglist

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after I said "I hate this place" [they won't let us say damn lol] I swallowed cause my throat was dry and it sounded like I was crying

long story short I made Race cry.

here’s some of our disaster boyfriends spot and race who are bad at feelings and relationships tbh but they’re trying.  sorry if its kinda shit.  it takes place in the binge baking universe kinda...like medda has cancer in this too

warnings: fighting

ship: sprace

editing: no

Race couldn’t even remember why they were fighting at this point.  Some trivial thing no doubt, that escalated into a screaming match.  Typical.  If they went to a psychologist, or talked to Albert, who was a psychology major, they would probably come up with some fancy explanation as to why they always fought like this.  Probably something about repressed childhood anger and bad coping skills and all that Freudian bullshit.

The reasoning didn’t matter as Spot shouted at him, spit flying from his mouth as he gestured wildly and without purpose.  Anger thrummed loudly through every vein in Race’s body and his ears were ringing as he let Spot’s words bleed back into his consciousness.

“And I’m so sick of always being the bad guy!  Of always taking the blame!” He seethed, eyes glinting furiously.

“I do not put all the fucking blame on you!” Race shouted back, adrenaline driving his voice to a higher octave.

“Bullshit,” Spot spat, “You always play the fucking victim, Antonio.”

Race froze, livid and horrified.  They crossed all kinds of lines while fighting, but his name was an entirely new boundary.  Spot knew his association with that god forbidden title his father had given him.  He knew how much it fucked him up to hear it- especially in an angry atmosphere much like the one they were creating now.

He clenched his fists at his sides, driving his fingernails into his palms, “Don’t you dare fucking call me that!  You know how much I-”

“Oh!” Spot exclaimed, a manic laugh intermixing with his wavering tone of anger, “There he goes again!  Playing victim!  Feeling all bad for himself!”

Race huffed out a disbelieving laugh, stunned that Spot was taking it this far, “Well, you ain’t a saint either, Sean!  You’re so fucking bent on playing tough guy all the time!  You drag down everyone around you, you realize that, right?  You and your toxic masculinity.  Afraid to be seen holding your fucking boyfriend’s hand in public!” his voice was bordering shrill by the time he was finished with his rant.

Spot set his jaw, his voice dangerously low as he answered, “You know why I don’t like to hold hands when we’re out.  You fucking forced it out of me during one of your hissy fits, do you remember, Tonio?”

Race flinched and Spot scoffed.  Race did remember.  It was after their group had gone bowling and Race had tried to intertwine their fingers between games.  Spot had pulled back abruptly, busying himself with his soda.  Race had finally snapped that night, furious that his then boyfriend of nearly six months still had refused to display the fact that they were dating.  He had accused him of being ashamed and yelled at him for nearly an hour about how little he was putting into the relationship.  It was then that Spot had broken down, finally admitting to having a homophobic father, that had instilled an ever-present fear of being outed into him after so many years of mental and physical torment, before finally being put in foster care.  Race had apologized, but neither of them had completely come back from that incident.  It probably wasn’t healthy.  This probably wasn’t healthy.  No, this definitely wasn’t healthy.

He loved Spot more than anything.  He wanted to protect him, to show him that.  But both men had so much trouble communicating their issues with both themselves and one another that by the time it had all piled up, it was too late and they were taking out their anger on one another.  It was a habit that needed to be broken.  

“You can’t even do me the courtesy of answering?” Spot sneered.

Race flicked his eyes back to Spot’s, growing angry once more, “Shut up, Conlon.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up!” Spot punctuated his statement by hitting his thigh with his fist.  Race could tell he wanted to punch something else, the wall probably, but he had learned a while back that that was not going to fly with their rental bills, “You should at least-”

He was cut off abruptly by Race surging forward and connecting their lips, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling back.

They stared, breathless at one another.  Spot’s eyes were swimming with leftover anger, confusion, and pain, and Race softened.

“We need to stop this,” Race said, a note of finality in his voice, “We can’t keep doing this.  We’re going to crash.”

Spot averted his eyes to somewhere just to the left of Race’s shoulder, “I know,” he murmured.

“We always do this.  We let things bottle up until we’re testy and annoyed at everything and then the littlest thing sets us off and we blow up.  It’s bad for us and it’s bad for the relationship.  Do you even remember what we were mad about?”

Spot hesitated, “Uh, I got mad because you didn’t get the mail.”

Race ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, “Case and point.  It was a tiny fucking thing and yet we spiraled until we were throwing toxic waste at each other.  Boyfriends don’t do that.”

“No, they don’t,” Spot said, then whipped his head up, a new fear in his eyes, “You don’t wanna break up, do you?”

Race shook his head, “No, I don’t.  But I do think we need to seriously reevaluate how we handle things.”

Spot nodded, pacing over to the couch and sitting down.  Race followed, sitting next to him and resting his forearms on his knees.

“How do we do that?” Spot asked, voice tired.

“We needa start talking to each other,” Race said, “Were you really mad at me for not getting the mail, or was something else bothering you?”

Spot paused for a moment, eyes hard and focused on the rug underneath his feet, “I dunno, I think I’ve just been stressed about everything that’s happening with Medda and her cancer and Jack kinda got mad at me on Saturday because I forgot to pick up Smalls from her kindergarten and yeah, I don’t know, like you said.  It kinda piled up.”

Race reached out a hand, allowing Spot to take it in his own time, “Thank you for telling me.  I’m sorry you’ve been stressed and I’m here for you.”

Spot started to run his thumb over Race’s knuckles subconsciously, “I’m sorry I called you by your, uh, yeah.  And I’m sorry for everything else I said.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Race said, sincerely, “I shouldn’t have brought up the PDA thing when I know why you react the way you do.  And I shouldn’t have thrown any of the other shit I said at you, either.”

Spot shifted, looking at Race for the first time, “I, uh, are we good?”

Race nodded, “I think we are if you do?”

“I think so, too.”

“Okay, I’m glad,” Race said, “But, next time, we need to talk to each other.  I need to do better about it, too, not just you.  So if one of us is starting to feel stressed, or something’s bothering us about the other person, we need to bring it up, okay?”

Spot squeezed his hand, a ghost of a smile on his face, “Okay.”

Race smiled, “I love you, Spot.”

“I love you too, Race, really,” Spot brought Race’s hand up to his face and kissed his knuckles.  Race pulled him in and hugged him in return.

“Look at us,” Race praised, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “Being mature and talking about our feelings.”

Spot snorted, “Don’t push it, Higgins.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, asshole.”

“Numbnuts.”

“Asswipe.”

“Cornfucker.”

“Oo, that’s a new one.”

“I know.  I was proud of it.”

Both boys laughed, the tightness that previously plagued both their chests loosening.  They were going to be okay.

-

thanks for reading, chiefs

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Genre: Angst

Warnings: Blood, death

Editing: Not really

This is the first of a series that I'm starting to plan out and write.

----------------

"Leave then!" Race and Albert were in one of their huge arguments. Though they didn't argue often, when they did, they became furious.

Albert stared at Race, shocked. "Fine." He turned and stormed out of the lodging house, leaving the main room filled with tension as Race glared at the door. "What are you looking at?" Race snapped at Mush and Blink who had been watching him apprehensively. They both looked taken aback, but he turned and went upstairs, leaving the room silent.

Albert walked almost five blocks before he realized that he didn't know where he was going. He sat on the curb and put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Their argument had started from pent up anger at the hard selling conditions of the week. It had been a lousy headline for a while, and the week had been cold and rainy. Hardly any of the newsies had managed to sell enough to even pay for the meals of that day.

That simple frustration had blown up with an argument about the best way to sell their papes, and had led to Race telling Albert that if he wouldn't agree with him then he may as well quit being his selling partner, and even a newsie in general because he was pathetic.

Albert knew it was just said in anger and that Race didn't mean it, but it hurt. He and Race had once promised that they would have each others backs.

I'll always be there for you. I promise.

He was cold and lonely and missed Race, but kept telling himself, no, Race doesn't care about me. Why would he anyway? Maybe I am pathetic.

His thoughts were swirling so much that he didn't notice the approach of the deLancey brothers.

When he saw them, he straightened up quickly, preparing for the fight that he knew lay ahead.

He was expecting the punches, but didn't see the knife coming until it was too late.

It was only a few minutes later, after Race had had time to calm down that he started realising what he had said to his friend. He knew of Albert's issues with self-esteem and that their relationship could only be fixed if he apologized. So slowly, he traipsed down the stairs to the main room, expecting Albert to have come back.

He wasn't there. "Where's Al?"

Romeo glanced up. "He hasn't returned."

Fear filled Race for a moment before he discarded it. What could've happened to his friend? No, he thought. It's more likely that he's sulking outside.

"Can someone come with me?" Race asked. "I want to find him."

There was a moment where no one moved, but in the end, Romeo, Elmer and Jack decided to go with Race to find Albert.

They searched for over an hour before they found him. Race was jogging along one of the smaller streets several blocks away from the house when he heard his name being faintly called. It was Albert.

"Race? Race. Please, I'm sorry..."

Race sprinted down the alley and saw Albert lying in a crumpled heap, sprawled against several old boxes.

"Oh god."

Race rolled him over, his heart beating frantically. Albert was still mumbling his name, but it was getting fainter. In the distance, he could hear Romeo, Elmer and Jack coming.

"You'll be okay, Al. Come on."

Then he saw the wound. It didn't look deep, but there was a lot of blood. Far too much. "Race."

Race didn't remember Jack pulling him away. All he remembered was his name being the last word on his best friend's lips. Seeing the light fade from his eyes, and his hand fall to the ground. Seeing his body go limp.