lover, literary critic, frenetic artist. i have a passion for 19th-century nyc.
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ai-less whumptober; day thirteen
@ailesswhumptober 13 — using themself as bait, defiance, “Take me instead.” ↳ the refuge, 1896 word count; 1.3k
cw; mentions of death, panic attacks, dissociation
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Oscar only finds out it's his birthday when Snyder tells him.
He's brought into Snyder's office by a guard with a hand tight on his bicep, and he's expecting any of the usual reasons. Most likely that he's in trouble for some reason or another, almost equally likely that Snyder's just a lonely bastard who wanted someone to smoke with and talk to again.
But instead, Snyder smiles. Tight and utterly false.
"Happy birthday, Oscar."
Oh.
Oscar doesn't know what day it is, and had only half-guessed at it being October. But apparently he'd been right.
Not that him knowing what day it is would've helped him much. He doesn't know what day his birthday is. And Snyder must know that, or see it in his face, because he says.
"October 28th. A mere three days before All Hallow's Eve. How fitting for your birth."
Perhaps that should be another sign for Oscar. The fact that Snyder just told him, rather than keeping another gleeful secret, yet another thing he knows that Oscar doesn't. But there must be another secret somewhere, because Snyder is just looking at him then, expectant.
Oscar doesn't know what's being expected. He takes a guess.
"Uh. Thank you, Sir."
Swing and a miss. Snyder looks irritated, as if Oscar is the one fucking with him. He turns his attention to his desk and flips through some papers, not even bothering to look at Oscar when he speaks next.
"Well, your uncle will be here to pick you up soon."
And Oscar's world grinds suddenly to a halt.
For a moment, he's sure he'd imagined the words, or utterly misinterpreted them somehow. Maybe Snyder is just fucking with him still, a part of whatever weird joke this is. Snyder's always had a backwards, sick sense of humour — a consistent reminder he's hardly older than Oscar, when it comes down to it.
Well, less older now.
"Uh," Oscar sort of croaks. "What?"
Snyder glances up from his papers. "Are you stupid?" he asks calmly.
Oscar swallows. Hesitates.
"Your uncle," Snyder repeats. "He'll be here to retrieve you. I would recommend getting yourself organised."
"My—uncle."
"Yes, your uncle. Do you know what an uncle is, Oscar?"
"I—Weasel? Wiesel? My—my da's brother?"
"Correct."
"Why. Why—"
"It's your eighteen birthday, Oscar."
Oh. Oh.
"In fact, he first contacted me weeks ago concerning your release, but I informed him he would incur a fee for your release at that point in time. Bail, to be curt."
Oscar's head is swimming.
"But. But I'm eighteen now," he says, hardly above a whisper.
"Eighteen indeed. Your sentence is over."
Oscar feels. Dazed. Feels like the world has been pulled out from under him and he's floating, falling, spinning. He has to fight down some insane urge to start laughing, almost the same feeling as when Ma died. A tangled mixture of terror and relief and utter overwhelm.
But just as quickly as it had all started, it grinds to a halt.
"What," he says, breathless, "What about Mo?"
And suddenly all of his worst fears are lighting up like a fire when Snyder doesn't respond.
"What about Mo?" he repeats, more urgently this time.
"Your brother isn't even sixteen yet," Snyder answers calmly, gaze on his papers again. "He has a while to go."
"No," Oscar says. His stomach is on the floor, cold terror washing over him even as his gut burns. "No, no, no—"
"Go and gather your things. Eight o' clock, Mr. Wiesel said. He'll be here any minute."
"No! No, no, I don't wanna go, I wanna stay. I want—You can't make me leave Mo—"
Oscar has to be dragged out of Snyder's office. By the same guard who'd dragged him in, hold considerably more brutal now as Oscar kicks and fights and pleads. He can't stomach it. He doesn't want to go, he can't go — but as much as Snyder won't let anyone go if he can help it, he won't let anyone stay once he's no longer being paid to keep them. Oscar is worthless to him now. And won't be kept.
He feels the attention of the bunk room shift to him as he's tossed in, lands on the floor in a brutal skid that has his arm and hip grazed to shit by the filthy floors. He's still shouting.
"Os," Morris says immediately, running to him. Taking his hand. "Os, what happened?"
Oscar's eyes are burning. His chest is tight, lungs won't expand. He can't bring himself to look at his brother, but a larger part of him desperately wants to look at him, to stare at him, to commit every inch of his face to memory lest it be forgotten in two years.
Two years.
Oscar chokes a sob.
He knows everyone is staring. He knows he's much too old to cry. He's eighteen. He's eighteen now.
"Os," Morris repeats, real gentle. "Hey. Hey, it's okay."
"Get your shit," the guard at the door barks.
Morris looks up at him, and without his eyes on Oscar, Oscar finally dares to look at him. Sees the earnest confusion in his little brother's face, the crease in his brow, not understanding what's going on. Even when he does turn to Oscar then, that familiar dependency on his older brother for explanations. Oscar doesn't know how to explain this.
He chokes out another empty, breathless sound.
"Os, you ain't breathin'," Mo tells him quietly. "You gotta breathe. C'mon. Breathe—breathe."
"You don't get your shit, you're leavin' without it," the guard spits, and Morris. Pauses.
"Leavin'," he echoes. "Who's leavin'?"
Oscar wants to die. His stomach is rolling, throat so tight he can't breathe at all anymore. He squeezes Morris' hand so desperately he can feel every bone and tendon, will surely leave bruises behind — but then there's a distant shout and then the guard is moving, coming for him again. Heaves him up with that familiar grasp on his upper arms.
"We ain't got time for this," the guard grits out. "Got your new boss waitin' for you."
"No," Morris protests immediately, rising up to his feet as if to chase his brother as he's dragged away. He doesn't even know what's happening, and it makes Oscar feel sicker to know that it's Morris' instinct to protect him regardless. "No. No! Os ain't do nothin', let him go. Let him go!"
But if Oscar's protests had been utterly ignored, it goes without saying that Morris' will be too. He doesn't cut much of an imposing figure, even as he rises on bare tiptoes in a desperate bid to seem bigger. He trails the guard to the door, shouting all the while, and when the guard only keeps going, Morris starts to hit him. Insubordination that would usually always earn attention, earn the ire being turned to him.
But this time, it doesn't work.
"No!" Morris screams. "No, this ain't fair, where are you sendin' him? He ain't done nothin'! Take me instead! Take me!"
Oscar doesn't see the hit. He just hears the deafening crack and then the familiar thud of his little brother's body hitting the ground. Hears his screaming go quiet as the door is slammed and locked behind them. And Oscar is just forced to keep walking, coughing and retching, down the hall and the stairs to the entrance hall where his uncle is waiting for him.
He's largely unrecognisable. A bigger man than Oscar remembers. Better dressed. He's got a cigar in his mouth and a rough look on his face, one that almost twists to pity when he sees Oscar.
"Lord above," Wiesel mutters. "What they been doin' to you?"
Oscar doesn't speak. Can't. Feels utterly numb, the voices and sensations all washing over him as Snyder speaks to his uncle. Papers are signed. And then he's being exchanged, the hands of the guard swapping for the bigger, careless hands of his father's younger brother, taking that same grip of his upper arm to lead him once again.
"Right. C'mon."
Oscar doesn't have a choice. He never has.
He goes.
giggling
what happened to the fender of your car? people are talking about it even over here in california. of course, i've heard rumors, but you know how news travels, and from across the country, i couldn't be sure of its credibility.
anyway, i wanted to hear it from you. it's nothing so horrific as the rumors say, correct?
correct?
POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922
Dear Old Sport,
Oh, California! My favorite sliver of the middle west. You know, I’m from San Francisco. Purportedly.
That being said, my car is just fine. Fender and all. I hit something on the road but—well, as I said, it’s fixed now. Everything is back to spick and span. And you can tell anyone who asks. Show them this letter, if you have to, as it bears the authentic signature:
Sincerely and emphatically,
Jay Gatsby
Day 13 of @ailesswhumptober
Whumpee using themself as bait/defiance - "take me instead."
cw. child abuse
the night the boys were taken to the refuge
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the middle of the night, or close to. Dark outside. The blanket didn't do much to keep Oscar warm but the two fingers of whiskey he'd drank earlier were humming through his veins still, so he wasn't as cold as he could've been. But it could be better.
He glanced over to Morris on the other side of the room, all curled up, knees pulled up to his chest and curly hair that Oscar would have to cut soon splayed out across his pillow, his face tucked into the gap between it and the mattress. He looked like the kid when he was sleeping like this, the nine year old he was, even with the hollow cheeks.
Oscar sat up slowly, careful to not let the bed creak under him. If he woke mo up he wouldn't go back to sleep for hours and Oscar knew he would've been the one talking him down, keeping him quiet so da didn't hear. He wouldn’t mind usually, but he’d already sacrificed the heavy quilt ma had knitted years back, quietly draping it over Mo's sleeping body and gently ruffling his hair; he didn't want to sacrifice a nights sleep aswell, not that that seemed to be going well so far.
Walking quietly across the creaking, wooden floor of the farm house had been a skill Oscar perfected. He was practiced and silent and it brought a sense of comfort as he felt his way down the dark hall, fingers on one hand running over the bottom of crosses and the torn edges of ma’s sketches of the Virgin Mary pinned to the walls. When he reached the end of the hall he started down the stairs. It was careful; he knew what side of what step made what noise, and how to avoid it, avoid alerting da to the fact he was still up.
He just wanted another finger or two of whiskey, something to help him sleep.
If he'd paused before pushing the door to the kitchen open he would've noticed the dim, yellow glow around the door frame, the low flickering orange and yellow of lit candles.
Da was sitting at the kitchen table, bottle of whiskey next him, crucifix pinned to the wall behind him just above his head.
Oscar froze in the doorway.
"S' late, Os." His voice was like gravel, like the words were pulled up out of him and spoken from the back of his throat. There was a warmth to it, sometimes, by nature of his accent, by nature of being their da.
He stayed in the doorway, kept his distance and tried to keep his voice even. "Couldn't sleep."
Da took a slow sip of his drink, one poured into a glass not just straight from the bottle, and some the tension drained from Oscar's shoulders.
"S' the babby asleep?"
"Yeah. Yeah mo's sleeping."
Oscar had spent a couple hours lying shoulder to shoulder with Morris, chatting quietly about everything and nothing until he had eventually drifted off. Oscar didn't believe in God or anything like that, or maybe he did and it was just god who didn't give a shit about him, but he couldn't help the habit of swiping a cross on Morris's head with his thumb and a murmur of god bless, the same way he'd watched his ma do hundreds of times over before she passed.
Da nodded, his figure still mostly shadow in the low light, but broad, familiar. “Good kid. You wanna drink?”
Oscar was hesitant, glanced up at the crucifix and then back at da again, his eyes were dark with the way the candles were haphazardly spread about the table, his blue eyes, Oscar's own, flickering into view every view seconds.
He stepped further into the room, let the floor creak under him this time.
"Yeah. Thanks, da."
Da didn't respond, wordlessly pushed his half full glass toward Oscar and instead took the bottle by the neck.
"Once you finish that, want you to go wake up your brother, tell him to pack."
The whiskey hit the back of Oscar's throat and burned. He sputtered and da huffed a laugh. He knew da was jeering the fact he apparently couldn’t hold his drink but Oscar didn’t care-
"What? Pack?”
"We're goin' into town."
"But it's-" da was unpredictable, but usually in a way Oscar was used to. So unpredictable that there was almost a pattern to it. But it had been different since ma died. He had been different, withdrawn and angrier and kinder in equal measures. Uncertainty seized at Oscar's chest. "It's the middle of the night, da."
"Didn't ask you to ask questions. Drink that n' then get him up."
A pit in his stomach opened up.
Da was going to kill Morris. That had to be it.
It was a thought that had lingered in the back of Oscar’s skull since the baby had been born.
He couldn't finish the rest of his whiskey.
"What- where you goin' in town."
"Don't start at me Os."
"Mo ain't- he ain't done nothin'. He's been good-"
"Oscar-"
"Least take me instead, c'mon da, you don't even like me-"
The back hand was sharp. A crack that sent Oscar sideways and the glass of whiskey crashing to the floor in needle shards and a pool of splintered amber all before he noticed da had even shoved out his seat, his free hand still around the neck of the bottle.
Oscar's cheek throbbed and his eyes burned and the candles flicked.
Da's head was blocking the cross.
Oscar hoped the noise hadn't woken Mo up.
"I ever say you ain't comin' too, boy?"
Da's eyes were dark with the way he leant over the table, shrouding out the light.
The smell of whiskey stung Oscar's nose.
"Said go get your brother. Or I can go get him an' leave you here."
Oscar tried to swallow through the stinging of his cheek, ignore it and the pressure he could feel behind his eyes. The familiar anger crawling up his throat. Da always hit hard, especially when he'd been drinking. but apparently the silence of Oscar’s lack of response was answer enough.
"M' loading' up the cart," Da continued, and he took a heavy swig of the bottle, then held it out to Oscar; he hesitantly stepped forward, just enough that he could reach. The neck was still warm from da's large hand. "Half an' hour Os. And then we're headin'."
Oscar nodded, didn't ask where they were going, knew he wouldn't get an answer. Knew da could hit harder than that.
"Atta boy."
Da slapped his shoulder, too hard, and shoved past him, out to the outhouse, Oscar could only assume. Out to where the old cart was kept during winter.
Oscar's cheek stung. He glared at the lone crucifix nailed to the wall. The bony figure of Jesus limp and splayed out across it, a speck of red on his ribs where he’d bled. his eyes on Oscar.
Oscar turned away. brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips and let it burn on the way down.
ai-less whumptober; day twelve
@ailesswhumptober 12 — isolation, sensory deprivation, “Can you feel me? I’m right here.” ↳ the farm, circa 1889 word count; 1.4k
cw; abuse, claustrophobia, mentions of death
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It's cold. So damn cold. Hellishly, endlessly cold.
Oscar is numb. It's dark all around him, pitch blackness, and the cold has sank into his bones to weigh him down like water, stiffened his joints like death does to the animals. He'd long ago lost track of what time it is, and through the stone walls around him has no idea if the sun is still up. If anyone might still be awake.
If anyone still remembers him out here at all.
He'd been asking for it, really. He'd known it was coming. There was nothing else to expect. But Da had started on Mo for something stupid, and Oscar can never stop himself from getting involved when it's his wee brother on the wrong end of Da's anger. Mo's only tiny, and Da is so huge, so cruel.
So Oscar had thrown himself in between them and shouted and protested — and after Da had belted him bloody for his troubles, he'd dragged him out the back door with a big calloused hand around his arm. Kicking and screaming and pleading. Over the hill and to the old shed by the fields; a stout, damp stone structure with no windows and a solid wooden door that bolts on the outside, so small inside that Oscar can just about sit but can't lay down, surrounded on every side with old tools and machinery. Rusted monuments of his father.
And though Oscar had known, had expected, exactly where he'd end up — where he always ends up — he'd still started screaming louder.
"Please!" Oscar had wailed, digging his bare heels desperately into the damp dirt to try and slow the walk. It hadn't worked. His father is a big man. Strong. A farmer. "Please, please, Da, I'll—I swear to God I'll be good, I'll be quiet, you can lock me up inside 'til—'til you need me, I'll clean, I'll look after the babby—"
He knows it's no use to beg Da, not when the man's made his mind up — not ever. But it's an instinct to fight. Perhaps Oscar's only instinct.
All the fight's left him now.
For hours he had screamed, even after the bolt was slid into place with the sickeningly familiar sound of grating metal. He had begged and hammered his fists on the door until his knuckles split, the blood the only warmth available to him, but it's long cooled and gone thick and tacky since. He'd wailed for his father, and then wailed for Ma. Wailed for his grandfather despite every knowledge that he's dead. Pleaded for anyone to come and let him out, come save him, come protect him from the stone walls that seem to be closing in on him from every side despite the fact he can't see them. Can't even feel them with touch, for when he reaches out or moves too far, the metal edges of tools find him first. Too blunt and rusted to be much more than a warning, but what a warning they are.
At least they keep him conscious. Prevent him from tilting too far from either side, even in moments his consciousness tries to leave him, worn thin from exhaustion. Hunger.
On the one hand, it feels as if it would be a blessing to fall asleep, pass the time he's imprisoned here to suffer his penance, but Oscar is all too aware of the risks of not waking up. Perhaps being asleep when Da is finally close enough again for Oscar to make a noise and remind him he's here, and miss his chance entirely. He doesn't want to die in here.
Alone and forgotten. As fitting as it seems for him.
Perhaps half of it is fear for his own mortality, but the rest —
Who would look after Mo?
Da and Ma are both shit at it, probably haven't even fed the kid tonight. Had they put him to bed? Mo ain't good at sleeping on his own, he won't stay in their bedroom unless Oscar is there to keep him there, and then he'll wander off God knows where. He's gone missing countless times before, been found wandering the field or hiding somewhere in the farmhouse or curled up with the animals in one of the barns. Oscar can only wonder where he is now.
He supposes he has the answer to his question when he hears quiet footsteps approaching.
They aren't the heavy stomps of Da's boots, nor the delicate steps of Ma's bare feet. They're bare, but they're clumsy. Young.
"Os?" Morris says.
Oscar swallows hard to stifle a sob.
He'd thought his tears had all dried up with how he'd wailed, but suddenly they've found him again, and they've wound themselves tight around his throat, tighter than even the cold had bound him. He's struck with the desire to hold his little brother, clutch him tight to his chest. For his own comfort or Morris.
"Mo," he chokes out. "You ain't s'pose to be out here."
He wonders what Morris is wearing. Pictures him in his threadbare undershirt and drawers he wears to bed, pictures him freezing in the cold late fall air. Pictures his tiny clumsy feet against the cold, wet dirt.
"Wan'ed you," Morris mumbles. "Can't sleep. M'back hurts, Os."
Oscar's hurts too.
"He hit you?" he asks quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"Fuck. 'm'sorry, Mo."
He hears movement as Morris shuffles closer and must sink down, and the door rattles slightly in its frame.
"Can you feel me?" Morris asks, with all the innocence of a little kid. "'m'right here. Got my—my hand on the door. So 's'almos' like bein' together."
Oscar has to swallow again. Shuffles closer and presses his own palm to the door, where he guesses Morris' might be.
"I can feel you, Mo."
He can't. All he can feel is the door between them and the walls all around him, but it's nice to pretend. For a moment, it almost makes it easier to breathe. But then he thinks a little more, about the fact that Morris is here, and his chest gets tight again. The walls squeeze in.
"Mo," he says, edged with urgency, "You gotta get back inside."
Morris whines. "I don' wanna."
"I know, I know you don't, but you gotta. 'f'Da catches you out here—"
"I don' wanna go inside, Daidí was bein' scary—"
"I know. I know, Mo. But he'll be scarier if he finds you, yeah?"
It's as if he can hear Morris swallow in the beat of silence that follows.
"Yeah," he whispers. "He'll be. Be real mad."
"Yeah. Good. Good kid. So you jus' gotta. Head back inside an' head to bed, alright. Wrap yourself up. 's'cold, ain't it?"
"Are you cold?" Morris asks suddenly, rather than answer.
Oscar can't feel his hands at all anymore. Can't feel his feet, the sensation crawling up his legs like he's sinking into something. His knees are aching like they've been turned to stone, and he feels as if maybe he'll never be able to move them again.
"'m'fine," he lies, and Morris believes him, because what else can the kid do?
"Okay," he says quietly. And then pats his palm in a soft rhythm against the door, a clumsy little game to amuse himself, until Oscar starts patting back. The two of them continue, locked in an out-of-sync sort of rattling of sound, until finally Oscar catches on to Morris' rhythm, and Morris bursts out giggling quietly as they're suddenly tapping in perfect sync to his own made-up music.
Oscar, despite everything, can't help but feel himself smile too.
"Get inside," he tells Morris gently. "Curl up on my side of the bed, 'f you gotta. Okay? Try get some sleep."
"I will," Mo says. Like the good kid he is. "I will. Love you, Os."
God. Oscar swallows hard.
"Love you too, Mo."
Morris' footsteps race away, and the silence that follows is deafening. So all-consuming that Oscar takes to tapping again, just to prove to himself that all sound hasn't emptied from the world, hasn't left him behind like everybody else.
It's cold. It's so fucking cold. And, without Morris, the fear begins to drown him again, but he meets it with a new determination — to stay awake, to survive. Because his baby brother needs him.
And Oscar's not a kid anymore.
I have lots of thoughts about Oscar and claustrophobia so here is a second interpretation of todays whumptober prompt
cw suicidal ideation
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oscar would bet money that solitary got smaller every time he was sent down there. Logically he knew it didn't, brick and stone didn't just move, but it was hard to be logical when it was like this, when it was dark outside and the only light was coming through the barred window in the high corner of the room and his ribs hurt from tensing with how cold it was.
Sometimes he thought he'd die down here. The weather or the fact that sometimes, most of the the time, he couldn't breathe quite right, could feel his heart in his chest and pinpricks under his skin, so aware of every sensation and the lack of space. He got restless when it was quiet. He got restless and paranoid and considered smashing his head against the wall to just end it and let Snyder find his body-
"Delancey."
Oscar spun at the voice through the door, it was embarrassing how quickly he darted to it.
"Mr Snyder. Fuck. M' I done-“
"I can hear you from my office you know, it's the floor above."
It was one of those moments again, where his heart was beating out of his rib cage, up his throat, and his hands were shaking where they were pressed up against the thick wooden door. he was begging for splinters. Something to make the floating feeling stop, something that made him think about anything other than being at home and in his room for days on end and calling for ma and da and hearing nothing from no one and being so sure he was going to die-
"breathe, Oscar."
"Fuck you," He spat. He didn't mean to, no one spoke to Snyder like that, you weren't meant to speak to Snyder like that, but he couldn't think straight down here, losing his goddamn mind with every minute that ticked past, like he was turning into his fuckin' ma-
"Oscar." It was sharp.
"Let me out. Fuckin'. Please Snyder, christ. I can't breathe down here."
He could barely see either, feel his hands, the numb tingling that had spread from his fingers and up his arms, his whole body felt like a stack of cards-
The slot for the food he hadn't been given was pushed open.
Fuck he was hungry. Too out of it to process it.
"What- what're you-"
It felt like the ground was moving under him. All cold stone and brick. If he passed out maybe he'd hit his head hard enough he'd die
"Don't get your hopes up, Oscar. I told you you weren't eating and I meant it. Give me your hand."
"I ain't wanna touch your fuckin' hand-"
"Give me your hand or I can add another day to your stint down here."
Oscar tried to hold out. He really did. But he relented. Reached his shaking, calluased hand and let Snyder grab it.
If the semi-dried blood on Oscar's knuckles from punching the stone wall bothered Snyder any, he didn't show it. Oscar thought he must've been used to the blood on his hands.
Snyder's hand was a little bigger than Oscar's and warm to the touch, soft. Nails cut and manicured, he had a firm hold, painful, almost as he squeezed Oscar's hand.
"Can you feel me? I'm right here, Oscar."
The air came out of Oscar's mouth in quick puffs of cold air. At least he wasn’t being ignored. At least it wasn’t like calling for ma and da.
"Yeah. Yeah I know,"
"How does my hand feel."
"What-“
"Answer the question Oscar."
He hesitated, trying to focus on the feeling of palm pressed to palm.
“Skins real soft," he said. "Like you ain't ever done a days work in your life."
Snyder huffed a laugh. Oscar wasn't laughing, still trying to persuade himself the walls weren’t closing in.
"Good. good. Now can you take a deep breath."
"Fuck you."
Snyder squeezed his hand so tight it hurt.
"Take a deep breath."
Oscar tried, but it felt like he couldn't get enough air into the bottom of his lungs, like they wouldn't expand wide enough. Like his ribs were seizing up with the cold air with every attempt of an inhale.
Snyder's grip didn't loosen up any. when he spoke again, his voice was low. filled with a barely restrained anger Oscar recognised.
"I can hear you pacing from my office and it's slowly driving me insane, so I need you to calm the fuck down, do you understand me."
Oscar tried to yank his hand back. Snyder didn't relent.
"You're not getting out. So do you understand me."
Oscar voice still wavered when he answered, he thought about how his pacing couldn't bother Snyder if he was dead.
"Yes sir." It was low, gravely with cold, "I understand."
Day 12 of @ailesswhumptober
Isolation/sensory deprivation- "can you feel me? I'm right here."
cw. Claustrophobia, dissociation, references to child abuse
(My longest one yet!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morris never meant to tell Snyder that Os hated small spaces.
But it was one of those casual conversations in his office that almost made Morris think about Snyder as some kind of friend. His heart had stuttered in his chest with panic when the guard had first called down to the dorm to get him but upon being shoved into the office he'd been greeted with a sandwich, with real fucking meat in it, and a glass of milk.
Snyder was sat on the far side of his desk, his own meal in front of him, steak and potato's and veg, and a glass of something that smelt like the shit da used to drink by the bottle.
"Sit down Morris, I didn't invite you to stand there."
"Sorry, mr Snyder."
He sat down, the plate of food in front of him. Snyder cut a sliver of steak and looked up again. Stared at him for a moment. Expectant.
"I know you grew up poor Delancey, but I trust you've had enough food that you know how to eat it-"
"Yes. Sorry. Weren’t sure it was for me-"
"I have to teach you not to interrupt as well, apparently." His tone was sharp.
Fuck. "Sorry."
Snyder stared at him a moment longer then turned his attention back to his own lunch. he scoffed slightly, but didn't look over at Morris again, too busy catching a green bean on the end of the fork. He only leant back once he took the mouthful, chewing thoughtfully while he stared at Morris, eyes bright and assessing.
Morris had to try and shrug off his gaze as he reached for the sandwich, trying to remember all the ways ma told him to eat polite and chew with his mouth closed. The bread was soft.
It was hard not to feel on edge. Being invited to Snyder's office was never over anything good.
But Christ Morris was hungry.
Morris was sure Snyder waited until he had taken a bite to ask him question just to be a dick. It was the kind of thing Morris assumed he'd find funny, the kind of thing that reminded him Snyder was in his early twenties at best, only a few years older than Oscar when it came down to it.
"Is it good?"
Morris nodded. Knew better than to speak around the food. The memory of da whacking him round the head at the dinner table at home when he did it was all the reminder he needed. He could still hear his voice ringing, that southern drawl snapping at him to 'have some fuckin' manners'.
He swallowed. "Yeah. S' good."
It wasn't a lie, the bread was fresh and there was butter and ham. The glass of milk was cold.
"Do you know why I asked you here Morris."
He was never sure what the right answer was to Snyder's questions. But it felt the appropriate time to put the sandwich back on his plate, Snyder hadn't touched his own food since the initial fork-full.
"No, sir."
"Your brother had been particularly," he hesitated, searching for a word and seemingly in no particular hurry to find it, "difficult, recently,"
Morris hadn't really noticed any changes, Oscar was as Oscar as he ever was, but he was always good at hiding these things from Morris, he realised as he got older. With every year and birthday he realised he never reached quite as old as Oscar seemed.
"You know why I've been placing you and Oscar on different tasks, don't you?"
Morris didn't, he had been wondering since the start of the week when him and Oscar had been sent to opposite ends of the refuge, with Morris cleaning in the chapel and Oscar down the other end, doing fuck knows what. Morris never really asked. Oscar was his older brother, older and responsible and fine, so it didn’t matter whether Morris asked.
But he didn't know and he knew Snyder knew that. But he shook his head anyway.
Snyder smiled slightly. "In an attempt to break the little codependent habit you and your brother have, I've been trying to seperate you. seems you're doing better without him than he is without you."
And an ugly satisfaction curled in Morris's gut that almost immediately made him feel sick with the guilt of it.
"Os has always looked after me."
"Oh I'm aware. I'm just surprised he can't seem to clear out a cleaning cupboard without nearly passing out-"
Morris spoke without thinking.
"Yeah but he ain't never liked small spaces. Don't think it's got nothin' to do with me."
Something in Snyder's eye glinted, a vague shift to his posture that made Morris want to sink back in his seat and out from under his stare. Snyder's eyes were intense, cold. being directly under them was intimidating.
"Your brother's claustorohobic?"
"He's- what's that mean?"
Snyder's lip twitched, amused. "Scared of small spaces, Morris, like you described."
Morris bit the inside of his cheek till he tasted iron, washing out the taste of ham and butter and bread that wasn't stale to replace it with something copper. Like he'd put a nickel under his tongue.
"Yes, sir."
For a moment Snyder let the silence sit. And then he finally leant back in his chair, satisfied in a way that made Morris nervous.
"Finish your food, Delancey," he said as he picked up his knife and fork again. "Or there won't be a meal for anyone in the morning."
This time the sandwich tasted like sand in his mouth.
…
The next night Oscar never came back to the dorm room. Morris had spent a couple of hours sitting and waiting, had even asked around in the group of boys if anyone had seen him, and the longer he didn't show up the more on edge Morris found himself getting.
It was a last resort to ask one of the guards, because inevitably they'd tell Snyder and Morris didn't know if he could suffer any more of his direct attention.
But Oscar wasn't here.
He was clinging to the hope that when one of the guards, or Snyder if he was feeling like it tonight, took rolecall before the boys were sent to sleep that they'd notice.
And then Snyder walked in the room, cane in one hand and clipboard in the other, and the boys had all lined up by their bed silently, and Morris had affirmed he was there when his name was called.
and then Snyder skipped directly over Oscar.
Morris has to bite his tongue. For the second time in two days he tasted blood. He pressed his teeth harder and stared at a crack in the wood on the floor beneath him-
"Morris did you hear what I said?
Snyder's cane was on the floor next to his feet. All at once his heart was in his chest. He could feel his ribs creaking.
"No, sir."
"I said your brother won't be joining you tonight."
Morris felt sick. Hadn't yet looked up from the wooden slats on the floor, splinters throughout the room. He could feels the eyes of all the boys in the room on them.
"Aren't you curious as to why, Morris?"
"Why, sir."
"I'm trying to help him. A young man still so scared of the dark? Of small spaces? I'm meant to be releasing upstanding young men. Not children."
Morris tasted bile in the back of his throat. He could already hear the whispers that would come later. They weren’t meant to know this about Oscar.
"Would you like to come and see him?"
It was more than da ever offered when Oscar was locked in his bedroom at home for days at a time. When Morris was tiny and would whisper outside his room and wait for Oscar to answer, if he would answer. The first few hours were always the worst, Oscar's awful yelling that tore up his throat so bad that he only stopped when he couldn't yell no more. Slamming his hands on the door and begging when he heard footsteps walk past the door only to be ignored by ma or da or Morris on those days he was too scared to find out what da would do to him if he knew he'd been talking to Oscar.
The silence was the worst part.
Oscar going quiet for hours at a time.
At least if he was sobbing, loud and breathless and so bad it sounded like he was choking on each inhale, Morris knew he was alive.
"Yeah. Yeah please."
Snyder's expression didn't shift, and Morris couldn't read it.
"Come along then. Boys, the rest of you, bed."
Morris could still feels the stares as he followed Snyder out of the room as the others scrambled for their beds. he knew the second the door was closed behind them the whispers would start.
Snyder was silent as they walked through the halls of the refuge. It was disconcerting how quiet it was aside from the sound of Snyder's polished shoes on the floor. The hallways long and empty and dark, not bustling with young boys and coughs and sniffles and crying and arguing and fights-
The stairs as they got further down were covered in even thicker layers of dust, and Morris knew it wouldn't be long till he could feel it when he breathed. He would've stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark if it weren't for the fact that Snyder didn't.
They were almost at solitary and the panic that crept up his throat at the sight of it was unrelenting. And then they walked past it.
A storage closet at the end of the hall.
He could hear Oscar's laboured inhales from here. The door rattling as he slammed against it, so far from everything, so removed.
"Mr Snyder-"
"The best way to overcome our fears, Morris, is to face them. I'm only doing what's best for him.
Then Oscar's voice broke as he yelled out again. He sounded so young, like he had back in the farm.
"Da! Da please- fuck I- I swear I'll stay outta the way just lemme- please-"
Snyder was smiling. Didn't shift his gaze from the door.
"I wasn't expecting him to call for your father, and of course from this I can come to my own conclusions. But I always like having confirmation that I'm right."
Morris sort of. half nodded, knew what Snyder was asking even without the question. He could feel his heart beating in the hollow of his chest.
Christ Oscar sounded so young. He wasn’t meant to sound so young. So scared. It made Morris nervous, the unfamiliarity of it all.
"Da would lock him in," he said, real quiet, like he was telling a secret. And it was, in a way. "Back on the farm. Days sometimes. Just so he was outta the way. Couldn't bother no one."
"A cruel man, your father." Snyder was casual, as if they couldn't hear Oscar. "Did he ever do the same to you?"
"No. No he hit me but they-" his eyes burned. "They didn' want Os. So sometimes they'd just. Put him away."
It was something from childhood Morris remembered and had never questioned much, till now. And the thought made him feel sick.
He ran back the memories again, hazy at best like most on the farm, but there were so many things that just. didn't involve Oscar.
There was one particular memory slowly piecing itself together, like it had been triggered by the sound of Oscar’s fist on the door. Morris had been tiny, Christ not much bigger than four or five, and had sleepily dawdled down the cold hallway of the farm house crawled in with ma and da in the middle of the night because Oscar was in the next room over and wouldn't stop banging on the wall. morris couldn't sleep. So he'd told da. And da had said he'd get him to stop.
Da had clambered out of bed, dragged a hand down his face and came back five minutes later.
Morris was already curled into ma's side, asleep.
He didn’t even remember complaining about Oscar till now.
His vision darkened a little at the edges.
"Let him out?"
Snyder barely spared him a glance at the question.
"Not until morning. How is he going to overcome anything if I give into his endless yelling."
"Please, he's-"
"Nearly 18 now Morris. God, sometimes I wonder how you boys would survive to adulthood if I weren't around."
"Can I see him?" His voice came out a croak.
And for a moment Snyder hesitated, and Morris thought he might actually say yes.
"Wait here." He said instead and Morris wasn't brave enough to disobey Snyder when he said things like that. He wished he was.
"Oscar?” Snyder called out, just a little louder than usual.
The banging stopped.
Then the begging started.
Morris shouldn't be here to hear it. He knew he shouldn't, every fibre of his body, every bone and muscle was telling him to sprint back up the stairs, back to the safety of the dorm room where he didn't have to hear this. This mockery of his older brother. It made him uncomfortable down to the marrow his bones; it was wrong.
"Da, da I'm sorry- please jus'- lemme out. Please. I'll be good i swear. I swear- please-"
Snyder didn't answer. Morris was watching his back but could picture the expression on his face.
Oscars voice wavered. Uncertain at the lack of response.
"Da? Da are you-"
"I'm here."
Morris pressed a hand to his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. The lump in the back of his throat was painful and the burning in the backs of his eyes was turning into a pounding headache-
"Da, pl-" a sob. "Please. I don'- what'd I-"
"I'm turning the doorknob. Can you feel it turning.”
"Yeah. Fuck. yeah. Please-"
"I'm right here, Oscar."
"M' sorry. An’ I- I been prayin' like you said. An' I ain't- ain't talked to Mo-" he went quiet. Just for a moment. Morris noticed Snyder had let go of the door knob. "Da?
Snyder had turned around, face expressionless, hand on his cane.
"Da! Da please come back!” The door rattled. “Fuck. Da - Mo-"
Snyder was close enough to slap a hand around Morris's face. Fingernails digging into his cheek. A hissed "not a word," as he all but dragged Morris back toward the stairs
As if Morris would've been able to bring himself to do anything even if Snyder wasn't there.
In there, that person in that room, crying and yelling and so scared. That wasn't Os. It couldn't be. So Morris would wait until Snyder brought him back.
Just like he would on the farm when Oscar acted like nothing had happened, and Morris had his big brother come back home.
Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
newsies cast the way it’s in my head:
jack kelly — christian bale
david jacobs — david simmons but also he kind of just is
katherine plumber — laurie veldheer
crutchie — andrew keenan-bolger
spot conlon — neither gabriel damon nor tommy bracco. he just,,, exists??
racetrack higgins — ben cook
les — luke edwards honestly
snyder — alex christian (omG)
medda — aisha de haas
oscar delancey — anthony norman
morris delancey — mike faist
i’m not adding the smaller newsies but elmer is anthony zas always and forever
playing guitar, singing phoebe bridgers, thinking about michael sullivan, and eating pringles (that i dropped on my bedroom floor) like a stray cat
here’s part of what i was singing if y’all care
i’m gagging. excellent work.
ai-less whumptober; day eleven
@ailesswhumptober 11 — hallucinations, truth serum, “Why would you even say that?” ↳ the refuge, circa 1896 word count; 1.8k
cw; drugging, mental health issues, caning, abuse, catholicism
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Morris honest to God doesn't know what Oscar had done. He hadn't been involved, not remotely, hadn't even been told about the plan — whatever it was, whether it was planned at all. Whatever had been done, he hadn't seen. Hadn't heard. He doesn't know.
But Snyder doesn't believe him.
He'd watched, just a while earlier, as Oscar had been dragged from the bunk room — kicking and screaming the way he does when he's guilty — and sat and waited for him to be returned. He had no idea what his brother was in trouble for, but he was sure he'd find out when Oscar was tossed back black and blue, suitably (to the Refuge's standards) punished for whatever slight he'd commited against Snyder.
But Oscar hadn't come back. And then they'd come for Morris.
He kneels in Snyder's office now, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, back lit up in bright agony from his neck down to his tailbone, torn open with what was surely a hundred thousand strokes from one of Snyder's rattan canes, each one — and each strike from Snyder's bare hand, his polished shoes — intended to draw a confession from Morris. Honesty, Snyder says. But Morris can't be honest about what he doesn't know, can't confess sins he isn't privy to — and he wails that sentiment again, face inches from the rich maroon rug that spreads across Snyder's office floor, as Snyder's cane cracks down on him again.
It only earns him another kick to his ribs.
"Give it up," Snyder spits, voice cold and vicious in a manner Morris rarely hears, usually reserved for Oscar or Jack. Snyder is gentler with him. Snyder likes him. But right now he is looking at Morris like he despises him, like Morris has spat in his face. A traitor. "You could bring an end to this, Morris. Immediately. All you have to do is confess." Another hit, and Morris howls. He doesn't even really remember what the question was anymore. Perhaps Snyder had never really asked one. Perhaps there isn't one.
"'m'sorry," Morris sobs, just in case it was him. Just in case Snyder, like Da, had just felt the need to hit him, an irresistible target for violence. A lamb for the slaughter. "'m'sorry, 'm'sorry, Sir, p'ease, le'mme…le'mme…"
Let me make it better. Let me atone. Whatever I did to deserve this.
"Have—have mercy on me, O Lord, for I have sinned. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your love; according to your abu—bundant mercy, blot out my tra'sg'essions—"
The cane is tossed down sharply beside his head, and Morris flinches hard but continues his prayers, reciting the atonements and verses that Da and Snyder each have made him memorise. Even as Snyder walks away, shoes a sharp rhythm against the floor, his figure so imposing that Morris can feel him without needing to see him. Over his own voice, Morris hears a cabinet open, hears things being moved against rich wood.
He assumes another cane is being fetched. Or something worse. A knife, a whip, a flame—
"My Lord, forgive me, forgive me, I will withdraw the thorns from my way of life henceforth, my wickedness kept the crown of thorns on your head—"
"Quiet," Snyder says.
Morris goes silent.
He keeps his bleary gaze on the rug beneath him, the dizzying twists of patterns and swirls that seem to suck him in like he's drowning. It's just as hard to breathe. But then Snyder's shoes step into his vision — immaculate polished black leather — and Snyder is crouching, seizing Morris by the chin and lifting his head.
He's holding a handkerchief. One of his own, neatly embroidered, monogrammed.
"If you are so reluctant," Snyder tells him quietly, "To enlighten me, even as I carve you open. Then I have other methods to procure the truth."
The handkerchief is held suddenly to Morris' face, over his nose and mouth, and the air he breathes turns sweet and cold, like mint. He meets Snyder's eyes over the handkerchief in his vision, and Snyder only stares back, eyes dark, expression severe — until Morris' vision blurs only moments later. The world tilts and his brain seems to start to spin in an instant, faster and faster and faster, an endless whirlpool that vies to pull consciousness away from him.
And then Snyder pulls the handkerchief away, sharply.
Morris is left spinning, nauseous, tethered to reality only by Snyder's hand gripping his jaw. It's a feeling he can only liken to waking up after being beaten unconscious, a dazed battle for consciousness that he's losing. The chill of menthol sticks to his nostrils, the back of his throat.
"Morris," Snyder says lowly. "Where did your brother get the clothes? The food, the blankets?"
Morris can't find his tongue. It feels like an impossible task to locate it, to make it do the correct movements to say words — but Snyder slaps him across the face then, so Morris tries.
"I don'…" he slurs. "Wha'…clo's…"
"Morris. Your brother, through methods unknown, brought contraband into my facility. Clothes and food. How did he get them."
Morris wants his mamaí. His head is still spinning, eyes unable to focus on anything, and it doesn't…hurt, nothing hurts, pain feels as if it's a distant memory. But it's scary. He's scared. He wants his mamaí. Doesn't want this man touching him anymore, that awful grip on his jaw that means he can't move at all, can't turn to focus on the blurring figure over the man's shoulder.
That awful piece of cloth, stuffed over his face again to make the slowly fading dizziness reignite like a flame. As his eyes blur once again into oblivion, for a moment he is able to see the figure. A smear of pale skin, dark curls, a long dress.
"Morris," Snyder says. It echoes in Morris' head. The handkerchief is pulled away again, and in its place a hand begins to stroke his matted curls. Brushes them carefully out of his face. It's nice.
In his mind, through Snyder's words — whatever they are this time — washing through him, he finds a memory.
"Cowboy," he mumbles. And Snyder seems, for a moment, to light up. His touch gets gentler. A reward. "Kelly," he breathes. "What did he do?"
"Was…was talkin' to Os. When. Before," it's hard to remember, but Morris wants to be good. His gaze keeps sliding like he's being spun around, but he fights to find his mother again, focus on her. He wants to be good. He doesn't want to be hit again. "'Fore he left last. Cowboy said. Told 'im that…that he'd. Bring. Give…"
"Kelly brought them here," Snyder says. "He got them to Oscar."
It sounds right, maybe. Morris can't do much else but nod, eyelids heavy, mind still swirling like a bathtub filled with water that he's drowning in.
He wants his mamaí. Swears he can see her above the water, staring down at him, not moving as it all falls away.
He wakes up in a bed.
"Mamaí," he mumbles immediately, as soon as he's found his tongue again. "M..mm…m'mmy…?"
"What?" Oscar says, from beside him in bed. His voice sounds strange, deep. It's dark, and Morris can't see. His eyes will barely open. It's freezing cold, like it always is in the farmhouse.
"Mamaí," Morris repeats.
Oscar releases a breath that seems to shake. "Christ," he breathes. In the narrow bed they share, he shuffles closer. "She ain't here, Mo."
That doesn't make any sense. Not only because Ma is always here, but because Morris had only just seen her. She wouldn't have left. She never leaves Morris.
"Jus'," Morris slurs. He scrunches his eyes shut hard and opens them again, but all he can see is a muddle of a room that's much too crowded for their bedroom. "Jus'…mamaí was jus'…"
She was just here. Morris fights to sit up — doesn't understand why Oscar seems instantly so panicked at him doing so, hands hovering around him — and looks around the room. Doesn't recognise an inch of it, but he immediately recognises his mother again, as vague a figure as she is, all the way on the other side of the room. She's wearing her long cardigan, has her hair up in an untidy pile of dark curls. Morris tries to go to her, but his legs don't seem to work, and Oscar keeps a firm hold on his wrist, tight enough that Morris is sure it should hurt. But it doesn't. Nothing does.
"I wan' mamaí," he urges. Oscar's grip gets tighter.
"She ain't here, Mo."
Morris can feel his eyes start to burn, fighting to keep them on his mother, but his vision twists and then she's gone — moved somewhere else, a figure in the corner of his vision that he can't seem to catch. "Can see her—"
"No, you can't—"
"I can—"
"Mo, she's dead. She ain't here. She's dead."
The world seems to stop.
And then it starts tilting again — in the other way this time. Like Morris had reached the apex of a leap and began to fall.
"No," he whispers. His stomach is turning, vision blurring more, but this time it's with tears. "No, she…why…why would you even—say that?"
"Fuckin'—'cause it's true, Mo. Ma's dead. You know that. You—" he stops himself suddenly, like he'd been about to say something that he thinks it's best Morris doesn't hear. He swallows. Morris starts to cry. "Jesus. Fuck. What the fuck did Snyder do to you?"
It's a rhetorical question, asked to the air, but Morris' chest still aches because he doesn't know. He can only sob, feeling as if everything is suddenly crumbling around him, and as it crumbles, his back begins to burn like a fire catching. His jaw begins to ache, fingerprints bruised into it. He weeps as Oscar pulls him carefully back into the bed and lays beside him, pulling a blanket around them both, just like he did when they were really on the farm. When Ma was really alive.
"'m'sorry," Morris sobs. He still doesn't really know where he is, but he knows Oscar is here. Knows Ma isn't. Oscar pulls him closer like they're kids and wraps an arm around Morris as tightly as he dares when Morris' back is an open wound.
"'s'okay," he whispers back, voice scratchy and soft. Deep like he's more a man than a boy. "I got you, Mo. 'm'here."
Morris falls back into oblivion and dreams of nothing.
they're both here. this is lovely. <3
when did you stop loving daisy?
(did you ever?)
POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922
This is an impossible question to answer. You must understand how much of myself I put into her and thus how much of myself I lost the day I realized it wasn't going to happen. Can you imagine that? Building the whole of your world and your vision of yourself on the opinion of the one person on Earth you thought you truly understood, the very first person in your life to want nothing more than to bring you peace—just for that same person to change and withdraw as you, in an effort to retain their attention, concentrated and refined yourself into exactly what you thought they needed?
For once in my life I had someone I could understand, until I didn't. And for a moment I thought for sure that without her I had nothing, that I was nothing and I would die nothing, but—
—well, that's simply not the case. Now, here, anyway. In another life maybe I pursued her until my body gave out and I rotted away to reveal I'd been hollow all along. I still feel that way sometimes, on foggy nights when the green light at the end of her dock cuts through my room.
Only now I don't face it alone. And thank god for that.
I'll always have a fondness for Daisy. I don't think I could fully extract her from myself if I tried, as many times as I've reinvented myself. I don't think that's a bad thing. She's good, you see, old sport. She really is. I don't blame her for my giving up, and you shouldn't either.
I would write more, but I have more letters to answer, a past to put away, a present to appreciate, and I'm already being called to tomorrow.
Sincerely and emphatically,
Jay Gatsby
when did you stop loving daisy?
(did you ever?)
POST: LONG ISLAND, NY. AUG 1922
This is an impossible question to answer. You must understand how much of myself I put into her and thus how much of myself I lost the day I realized it wasn't going to happen. Can you imagine that? Building the whole of your world and your vision of yourself on the opinion of the one person on Earth you thought you truly understood, the very first person in your life to want nothing more than to bring you peace—just for that same person to change and withdraw as you, in an effort to retain their attention, concentrated and refined yourself into exactly what you thought they needed?
For once in my life I had someone I could understand, until I didn't. And for a moment I thought for sure that without her I had nothing, that I was nothing and I would die nothing, but—
—well, that's simply not the case. Now, here, anyway. In another life maybe I pursued her until my body gave out and I rotted away to reveal I'd been hollow all along. I still feel that way sometimes, on foggy nights when the green light at the end of her dock cuts through my room.
Only now I don't face it alone. And thank god for that.
I'll always have a fondness for Daisy. I don't think I could fully extract her from myself if I tried, as many times as I've reinvented myself. I don't think that's a bad thing. She's good, you see, old sport. She really is. I don't blame her for my giving up, and you shouldn't either.
I would write more, but I have more letters to answer, a past to put away, a present to appreciate, and I'm already being called to tomorrow.
Sincerely and emphatically,
Jay Gatsby
ofc! 💖
newsies fic recs (from an english major):
no hate to those who like the 5+1 and just one bed tropes, but they're just not my cup of tea. (i have been called a hater.) instead, here are my favorite ao3 newsies fics, ones with intense originality, lyrical prose, and in-depth character studies. (;
canon era:
among the roses green by TheBarkeep. a jatherine retelling of the ballad of tam lin, featuring a gentle davey, tumultuous katherine, and poignantly-drawn jack. and, of course, whump, always. word count 66k.
Sacrifice by Efstitt. this fic is my roman empire. mayer jacobs and jack kelly have a history riddled with pain, and jack has to battle his demons to let himself be loved. oh, and the refuge has a fight club. word count 15k.
keep the earth below my feet by scarlettroses. i'm a sucker for race & jack friendship, and here, race is a prizefighter. jack is there to drag him out of trouble, forever. word count 2.6k.
tryin' to talk with a fist in ya mouth by Somanywords. jack kelly's full backstory, chronicling his grief, his darkness. featuring intense PTSD, art as a form of therapy, and emotionally charged prose. word count 15.5k.
Jack's Self Portrait in Apologies by Em_313. a different angle on jack's backstory, captured in snapshots of regret. meticulous period research in this one, as well as a whole lot of bloodstains and death. word count 3k.
cardboard crown (jack kelly, a life) by stars_and_sunflowers. this is my own take on jack's story. featuring a fight club, a debt-riddled race, and irish catholicism. in-progress, current word count 16k.
Escapes by Efstitt. jack has just broken out of sing sing, and he lands smack dab in the middle of the pulitzers' summer estate. cue savagery, a pretty heiress, and a compassionate spot conlon. word count 30k.
On the Road by Efstitt. sequel to escapes! ever more whump, this time in the context of a road trip. jatherine is endgame, and the plot is dazzlingly engaging. and, as always, brilliant characterizations. word count 56k.
Just Hold On Kid by flyinghome21. another jack kelly backstory (do you see a pattern?) flashes of years gone by; i was really captured by the way the plot moved, the highlights of what made jack tick. word count 27k.
melt your headaches, call it home by floodlights. latino jack kelly. jatherine. classism/racism, violence, startlingly lyrical prose. do i even need to SAY more. i want to eat this fic. one of my all time faves. word count almost 5k.
Best Laid Plans by TheBarkeep. ashkenazi jewish jacobs family rep! this one features a soft davey jacobs falling in love with a sex worker, jatherine sweetness, and teenagers bearing the weight of the world. word count 128k.
Jack and the Baby by tuppenny. cute one-shot told in jack's vividly unique, endearing voice -- he steals a baby in the summer of 1891. carefully researched, wonderfully executed. word count 5.6k.
of cowboys and princesses by TheBarkeep. little jack and charlie meet each other in an orphan asylum. jack is a fierce protector, charlie a wistful dreamer. this one made me cry. word count almost 3k.
honorable mention: for you are my fate, my sweet by TheBarkeep. cupid & psyche retelling featuring organized crime, meticulous period piece research, and a villain more horrific than snyder. this is one of my favorites, but i skimmed so much of it because it gets very dark. word count 149k.
(now would be a good time to get up, stretch, drink some water. will i ever stop yapping? eventually.)
modern au
No Way by Efstitt. this and the sequel have my brain in a stranglehold. foster care au ft a severely traumatized jack, charlie and jack gorilla glue familial love, stunning plot twists, horrific whump, mayer jacobs for king of the universe now and forever. this one made me cry like a baby.
Just Hold On, Kid by Efstitt. the sequel. i am getting these two as bound books by the end of the year. davey is doing an investigative report on the refuge just as jack gets sent back, and mayer won't let something like trauma or distance stop him from loving his boys. in-progress. current word count 56k.
Medda Crusade by sunkissedstar. this series is the perfect blend of fluff and angst, focusing on baby jack and his trauma in foster care, and medda showering him with mother love. series word count is 10k.
to be updated! i am currently reading hell is a sober crawl by glitter_ink which came highly recommended. thanks for coming to my ted talk enjoy <3
lipstick/kombucha/doritos salsa con queso dip/rings/extra cheddar goldfish
ok i’m interested. what non-necessity do you buy whenever you get the chance? like what’s something you love that you always feel you need more of? mine are phone cases and stuffed animals.
Bonus non-whumptober delancey fic bc apparently it’s necessary.
cw. Mention of/allusions to suicide
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morris wasn’t sure what time it was, but it must’ve been late, or maybe the early hours of the morning; the low hanging moon shining just enough light into the room through the gaps of space between the rotted wood of the roof Oscar hadn’t got round to fixing yet.
His breath was caught in his throat, and he was cold, his thin blanket that had been patched up several times over a tangled mess on the floor. He must’ve kicked it off in his sleep.
Nightmares weren’t unusual, and he couldn’t even remember this one, not really, grasping at smoke as he tried to slot the foggy images back into place, but he felt it in his chest, something hollow that made him aware of what felt like empty space in his ribcage.
It was something about Ma, maybe. When he closed his eyes he pictured her face, her features a little distorted maybe, from so many years without her, but it was easy to piece together when he looked so much like her. He saw her most of the time when he looked in the mirror.
It was the little things he forgot, whether the freckle on her chin was on the right or left of her lip. Whether the scar just below her eye was white or pink.
And she always looked happy, when he imaged her. He doesn’t remember her ever looking happy.
He had an old picture once. When da had told them to pack, Christ, near 10 years ago now, he’d not known what to bring, but shoved the picture of mammy from his bedside table into his pocket before da shoved them out the door and in the back of the cart and abandoned them to Snyder like the shit father he always had been.
Morris remembered being scared, then. Clinging to Oscar’s hand. And in retrospect he realised Oscar must’ve been scared too, a little kid still. He’d held onto Morris’s hand just as tight in return.
It wasn’t long after they were out of the refuge that Oscar had burnt it, the picture.
Morris couldn’t remember what the argument that prompted it was about anymore, he just remembered the flames licking up the side of the crumpled photo, more creases than it was her image anymore with the amount it had been shoved in his pocket and taken out and unfolded and held so tightly he was sure he accidentally tore it.
He thought about the photo (ma sat down next her husband, a bruise shadowing her cheek) as he leant down to grab his blanket from the floor. The rotting wooden frame of the bed creaked. It was loud in the silence of the room, the only noise aside from Oscar’s level breathing, and then that shifted.
“Mo?” His voice was low and rough and so southern that for a moment Morris was sure he was da.
“Go back to sleep, Os.”
A few second of quiet. And then the shitty mattress gurning as Oscar turned over, pushed himself up onto his elbow to stare at him.
Morris couldn’t help the fond twist of his lip despite the circumstance. Even through the dark he could see that Oscar’s curls were a mess, and he was wearing an expression that Morris recognised from the street cat he disturbed the other week while it was napping on a sunny patch of cobble. Disgruntled.
“Wha’s wrong with you?”
Morris pulled his legs up to his chest, ignoring the goosebumps dotting along his skin. “Nothin’.”
“Shit liar.”
“I’m not lyin’.”
“You’re cryin’.”
Morris furrowed his brows and swiped the heel of his palm underneath his eyes. It came away wet.
He hadn’t even realised.
“Seriously Mo.” Oscar shifted and the bed creaked again. “Know I hate it when you lie.”
“Dreamin’ ‘bout ma. I think.”
The admission felt dangerous. There was never any way of knowing Oscar’s reaction to things like this. Whether he’d blow up or ruffle Morris’s hair or ignore him the rest of the night.
Oscar never liked talking about their ma. Morris couldn’t remember the last time Oscar had brought her up first.
He was all too aware of the ways Oscar’s jaw hardened as he swallowed, of the way he flexed his hand.
“I don’t remember what,” he continued, “but I- I don’t think I can remember her face proper.”
Oscar fell back onto his mattress, elbow shifting from under him and Morris noted how he pulled a face at the sound, noted how he didn’t close his eyes but stared up at the ceiling instead.
“You’re right. Should just go back to sleep Mo.”
Morris swallowed hard and pulled the blanket closer around himself. His throat was aching.
“Was she greying when she-“ he couldn’t quite say it, even though it was years ago, and he’s said it before, hundreds of times. “I remember her hair bein’ real dark but sometimes I think about it and-“
“Startin’ to. Grey roots.”
“She was only young though.”
“Stress, Mo.” His voice still sounded all too much like da’s. Low. A quality of gravel to it.
Oscar was starting to grey a little too, in the same spots their da had, only a couple hairs, but Morris was growing more and more aware of it. He’d never thought his brother as old. There was only two years between them.
But ma hadn’t been old either.
“You’re not ever. you’re not ever gonna kill yourself, Os?”
“Jesus-“
“Cause you- ma weren’t even much older than you when she-“
“Morris-“
“-did it and I don’t think I’d be good, at bein’ on my own.” He swiped at his eyes again. “You could. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be good at it-“
“Christ Mo.” Oscar pushed himself up again and glared at him from across the room, if it weren’t for the late hour, Morris would swear there was a sheen to his eyes. But he knew better than to mention it. “I ain’t gonna kill myself, okay?”
Morris was afraid that if he spoke, no sound would come out. Instead he studied Oscar’s face as best he could through the darkness. His cheeks looked gaunter with all the shadows, his deep set eyes even darker, high cheekbones like da, a strong jawline, handsome. His hair was still a mess.
He looked tried.
Had looked tired for as long as Morris could remember. And Morris wondered if this was the image of Oscar he would remember, or if he would make him smile like he did with ma when he thought about her.
“I just.” His voice was quiet, but it felt like he was breaking something by talking. “I don’t wanna forget your face too.”
i stumbled across these like oct 3 or something and i have been drooling over them ever since. like. highlight of my day. both of you are incredible
staring at the AI-less whumptober prompts absolutely terrified for what @noxexistant and @i-didnt-do-1t have in store for the rest of the month :D
Alex Snyder you will always be famous
the penguin! idk what episode (possibly opening flashback)
is THIS your man? [shows an image of a malnourished injured exhausted man with big sad eyes looking up at the camera with blood smeared all over his face and mouth. and he is visibly trembling]
apparently livesies oscar helped originate this! but how many people who are using the hc know the origins? i'm not sure. we're such a hive mind.
stupid question friday:
why did we as a fandom decide that the delancey boys grew up in the refuge until they were ‘rescued’ by wiesel? i’ve seen variations on this plotline in a lot of fics and i feel like i missed out on some source material. is this on their trading cards? or in a fandom wiki? please someone enlighten me
newsies fic recs (from an english major):
no hate to those who like the 5+1 and just one bed tropes, but they're just not my cup of tea. (i have been called a hater.) instead, here are my favorite ao3 newsies fics, ones with intense originality, lyrical prose, and in-depth character studies. (;
canon era:
among the roses green by TheBarkeep. a jatherine retelling of the ballad of tam lin, featuring a gentle davey, tumultuous katherine, and poignantly-drawn jack. and, of course, whump, always. word count 66k.
Sacrifice by Efstitt. this fic is my roman empire. mayer jacobs and jack kelly have a history riddled with pain, and jack has to battle his demons to let himself be loved. oh, and the refuge has a fight club. word count 15k.
keep the earth below my feet by scarlettroses. i'm a sucker for race & jack friendship, and here, race is a prizefighter. jack is there to drag him out of trouble, forever. word count 2.6k.
tryin' to talk with a fist in ya mouth by Somanywords. jack kelly's full backstory, chronicling his grief, his darkness. featuring intense PTSD, art as a form of therapy, and emotionally charged prose. word count 15.5k.
Jack's Self Portrait in Apologies by Em_313. a different angle on jack's backstory, captured in snapshots of regret. meticulous period research in this one, as well as a whole lot of bloodstains and death. word count 3k.
cardboard crown (jack kelly, a life) by stars_and_sunflowers. this is my own take on jack's story. featuring a fight club, a debt-riddled race, and irish catholicism. in-progress, current word count 16k.
Escapes by Efstitt. jack has just broken out of sing sing, and he lands smack dab in the middle of the pulitzers' summer estate. cue savagery, a pretty heiress, and a compassionate spot conlon. word count 30k.
On the Road by Efstitt. sequel to escapes! ever more whump, this time in the context of a road trip. jatherine is endgame, and the plot is dazzlingly engaging. and, as always, brilliant characterizations. word count 56k.
Just Hold On Kid by flyinghome21. another jack kelly backstory (do you see a pattern?) flashes of years gone by; i was really captured by the way the plot moved, the highlights of what made jack tick. word count 27k.
melt your headaches, call it home by floodlights. latino jack kelly. jatherine. classism/racism, violence, startlingly lyrical prose. do i even need to SAY more. i want to eat this fic. one of my all time faves. word count almost 5k.
Best Laid Plans by TheBarkeep. ashkenazi jewish jacobs family rep! this one features a soft davey jacobs falling in love with a sex worker, jatherine sweetness, and teenagers bearing the weight of the world. word count 128k.
Jack and the Baby by tuppenny. cute one-shot told in jack's vividly unique, endearing voice -- he steals a baby in the summer of 1891. carefully researched, wonderfully executed. word count 5.6k.
of cowboys and princesses by TheBarkeep. little jack and charlie meet each other in an orphan asylum. jack is a fierce protector, charlie a wistful dreamer. this one made me cry. word count almost 3k.
honorable mention: for you are my fate, my sweet by TheBarkeep. cupid & psyche retelling featuring organized crime, meticulous period piece research, and a villain more horrific than snyder. this is one of my favorites, but i skimmed so much of it because it gets very dark. word count 149k.
(now would be a good time to get up, stretch, drink some water. will i ever stop yapping? eventually.)
modern au
No Way by Efstitt. this and the sequel have my brain in a stranglehold. foster care au ft a severely traumatized jack, charlie and jack gorilla glue familial love, stunning plot twists, horrific whump, mayer jacobs for king of the universe now and forever. this one made me cry like a baby.
Just Hold On, Kid by Efstitt. the sequel. i am getting these two as bound books by the end of the year. davey is doing an investigative report on the refuge just as jack gets sent back, and mayer won't let something like trauma or distance stop him from loving his boys. in-progress. current word count 56k.
Medda Crusade by sunkissedstar. this series is the perfect blend of fluff and angst, focusing on baby jack and his trauma in foster care, and medda showering him with mother love. series word count is 10k.
to be updated! i am currently reading Hell Is a Sober Crawl by glitter_ink, rereading for you are my fate, my sweet (TheBarkeep), and beginning Five (stress), all of which came highly recommended. thanks for coming to my ted talk enjoy <3
Day 8 of @ailesswhumptober
rope burns/ gags- "You look so much prettier this way."
cw. child abuse, violence, allusions to self harm, blood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snyder's office was gorgeous, dark green walls and a large, heavy, mahogany desk sat in front of the window at the end room that overlooked the court yard. It was almost cosy, lit dimly with yellow lamps, and a thick red woven rug covering most of the floor; the walls were lined with pictures too, various art pieces interspersed with portraits of the men that used to run the Refuge. Alex Snyder's father, Nigel, and his father before him.
It was a family name he took pride in, even if he hated the men themselves, so old and so behind and so awful at understanding how boys today worked, the firm hand you had to direct them with.
Snyder never considered himself a cruel man; he was young and smart, a businessman. That's what his father never understood when he ran this institution. Snyder knew that to keep the Refuge in business, and to make sure the boys listened, you had to be willing to do what it took. He knew that to turn out a genuine, real, rehabilitated young man, sometimes it took violence. It was hardly like Snyder shifted the world to be this way, he just understood how it worked. The world spun, and masters hit their charges and the government sent money his way for every upstanding young citizen he sent back out into society.
Snyder had a firm hand, but he never considered himself unfair. There were just some boys who just refused to behave, who just refused to listen, Who had several notches next to their name and Snyder couldn't allow it, couldn't allow this behaviour and the ruin it would bring to his reputation if he wasn’t able to discipline them while they were in his care at the very least.
Kelly was one, a deliberate and consistent problem child who Snyder was sure existed to make his life and his job difficult. So strong in spirit and backbone that Snyder had yet to completely break down but he was sure he was slowly getting there in some capacity if the lack of yelling from down in solitary had anything to say about it.
The other problem developed with the Delanceys. When he had taken up the post he had assumed that given how long they'd been here they'd be able to understand how to take an order, but it was a nigh impossible task to tell them anything.
It had only been this past Monday that the Older Delancey and Jack Kelly had made his blood boil, with an unfamiliar fury; and Snyder would never consider himself an angry man by nature.
It had been an insepction they knew was approaching for weeks, that he had sharply told the boys about the night before, cane resting on the wooden dorm room floor as he instructed them to be on their best behaviour as he showed the inspector around.
But as they'd walked into the dorm the Delancey boy was hunched over with Kelly on the ground and a hand viciously wrapped around his throat, nose dripping blood onto the boy writhing viciously beneath him. It wasn't the first time Snyder had seen a fight between the two of them. But it was the first time he'd lost marks in an inspection, had watched the man frown and lean his head down to write something in his notebook that Snyder couldn't quite read from over his shoulder. The anger was all consuming, he almost felt calm with it, relaxed into this state of fury.
He'd pulled the boys apart of course, had hissed in their ears that they would regret this and had been somewhat satisfied with the sheen of fear in both their eyes at the promise of punishment.
Kelly had been dealt with now, dragged into his office in the early hours of the morning and sent away close to, Snyder checked his watch, an hour ago now. Snyder had sat back at his desk, ignored the splatters of blood on his floor and eaten his lunch, a glass of red on the side. Dry and not his favourite but it's what his father had kept in the cool basement.
He had asked for the Delancey boys to be brought in just after two, Oscar had been the only one fighting, but his brother frequently followed in his footsteps. Snyder had been watching them, the last few months since he had taken over, and he had come to a conclusion he finally had time to test.
As of yet, he hadn't been able to force an apology out of Oscar, despite the beatings and the days in solitary and all the things that usually got Jack to spit the words at least. But two thirds of the fights Oscar got in, the food he stole from the pantry, almost all of it was on behalf of his younger brother. If Oscar could hold his tongue at his own beatings, he wondered if it would be the same if his younger brother was the one under the belt.
The door clicked open and Snyder didn't bother to stand from his chair as the two boys were shoved in. Oscar looked old, like a man, if maybe a little underweight. He was 17 now Snyder knew, and he'd be aging out of the Refuge next year. Snyder wasn't about to let a dangerous miscreant out of his institution without at least teaching him a few lessons first.
They looked nervous, despite the similar glares they sent his way. It was almost sweet how their expressions matched given how different they looked, Morris was gaunt and dainty, with a sharp nose and sharp jaw; Oscar was a little firmer in features, a strong nose and strong cheekbones, deep-set eyes that were blue to Morris's brown.
If he didnt know they were siblings Snyder didn't think he would ever guess it.
He waited for one of them to break the silence, settling into the uncomfortable quiet draped across the room like a blanket.
It was Oscar who spoke eventually, and Snyder's lip twitched. He knew it would be.
"Why the hell is Mo here? He ain't done nothing."
"I was hoping you would ask Oscar, I'm sure Morris here is curious himself, aren't you."
Morris glanced at Oscar, hesitantly, and then at Snyder, like he was checking for permission to speak.
"Yessir."
He knew at the very least their father had had them well trained.
"I'll be happy to explain as soon as I get a few things sorted." He took note of the way Oscar swallowed, and pulled open the heavy drawer of his desk, winding the length of rope casually around his wrist as he lifted it out and stood up, finally. "Oscar come here won't you, turn around."
Oscar's line of sight was fixed on the swath of thick rope. He didn't move, and Snyder felt that same anger he felt on Monday curl in his gut, like it had never faded in the first place.
"What's that-"
The backhand was swift and the crack reverberated around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the the way Morris flinched and the satisfaction at it fanned some of the flames back.
"I didn't tell you to ask ask questions, I told you to come here, and turn around."
Oscar's cheek was already blooming a splotchy red, and he glared, but he listened, took that final step closer to him and turned around.
He only resisted for a moment when Syder grabbed him none too gently by the wrist and twisted one arm behind his back, and then the other, securing his wrists together and ignoring the groan of pain through gritted teeth that Oscar breathed. He tied it just tight enough to be uncomfortable for his shoulders. Just tight enough that he couldn't writhe out.
Snyder shoved him forward and the boy stumbled over the deep red carpet that decorated the floor, the orante, woven designs working to hide so much of the brutality he was unfortunately forced to enact in here. He almost sighed.
"Stand in the corner, and turn to face me. Morris, heel."
"Mr Snyder-"
It was Oscar's voice from the other side of the room. Scared and trying so desperately not to be.
"He aint even done nothin'- fuckin'- tried to stop me from goin' at Kelly-"
"Stop talking, or you'll only make it worse for your brother."
"Mr Snyder-"
"And that's three extra strikes."
"Shut up, Os."
It was a hiss from Morris, now stood in front of him, and that was all the reminding Snyder needed before he grabbed a clean handkerchief from the bottom of the same drawer, neatly folded next to a quater drank bottle of whiskey.
"Open your mouth,” he directed, voice cold, and Morris listened.
It was a simple task to loop the fabric around the lower half of the boy's head and tie a firm knot at the back. It wasn't a perfect gag by any means, but it would work enough to keep any questions off his back, would prevent the screaming from getting too loud.
And instead of sending him away like he did Oscar, he spun Morris to face him. A hand on his jaw, holding him.
He could feel Oscar's eyes on them, from the corner of the room.
"You know why you're here, don't you?”
Snyder revelled in the fact there was no answer, just Oscar's terrified silence and Morris's terrfied gaze staring up at him, eyes wet with fear already.
"I got the report back from the inspection on Monday," he continued, and the pocket knife he reached for in the inside the breast pocket of his blazer was heavy and expensive. He pulled it out in one slow movement. "And it would've been the best score this institution had achieved if it weren't for one, discerning factor."
Their breathing matched too, Snyder realised with vague amusement, not just their glares; their panicked inhales, admittedly harder on Morris's part, were the same.
"Snyder-"
He flicked up the sharp end of the knife.
“Infighting in my Refuge. I have a reputation, you understand Oscar, and I can hardly have people believe that I don't have my wards under control. But you just refuse to listen."
He grabbed Morris's arm, grip far too tight.
"I like this think that maybe this will make you understand the consequences of ignoring me."
"What the fuck- Snyder he ain't do nothin'-"
The first slash was deep, Snyder had to admit, deeper than he intended, and it cut through several of the healed smaller scars that Morris had built a collection of over the years.
"Snyder-"
Oscar's voice was coated in panic and Morris's gasp of pain was nearly completely silenced by the gag as he tried to yank his arm away.
Snyder dug his fingers into his wrist so tight his nails nearly drew blood and added another.
It was hardly neat work, he'd blame that on the anger that consumed him every time he glanced at the report sat open on his desk-
"Oscar if you take one step closer I'll cut his tongue out do you understand me."
It wasn't an empty threat. And Morris barely spoke anyway. It would hardly be a loss. He was sure he could persuade Oscar to thank him for it if he tried hard enough, that he blessed him with not having to listen to his little brother's rambles about home and ma anymore.
Oscar froze where he got halfway across the room. Arms still wrenched painfully behind his back, skin already going red with rope burn from his struggle in them. Eyes pink and jaw hard and utter hatred coursing through him.
"You're sick." It was spat, but he didn't step any closer, and Snyder found himself glancing back to Morris's arm, something like satisfaction curling in his stomach, and then to the thick carpet again under Morris's feet. Blood was streaming in rivulets from his wrist, still enclosed in Snyder's grasp so tight he knew it would leave bruises, cheeks wet with tears, both dripping onto the floor.
Snyder wasn't worried about the mess. The blood was already blending into the rug. He had always thought the deep red of it went with the dark green of the walls.
"Maybe. But don't you think the room is so much prettier this way?
ai-less whumptober; day eight
@ailesswhumptober 8 — rope burns, gagged, “You’re so much prettier this way.” ↳ the refuge word count; 1.1k
cw; grooming, manipulation
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Morris hadn't meant to freak out.
Truly, he never does — it just happens. Always has, ever since he was tiny, whenever he's feeling too much.
And he's been feeling on edge for days.
Oscar has been ignoring him completely ever since getting back from solitary a few days ago, not talking to him or even looking at him, so Morris has been alone. He doesn't deal well with being alone. He's not supposed to be on his own. He can't sleep when he's alone, so he's tired, and he hasn't eaten because Oscar hasn't been making him, and his throat hurts from all his talking.
He'd been attempting to rectify the loneliness.
He'd talked and talked the first couple of days, desperately rambling and chattering and babbling to try and get something out of Oscar, engage him in conversation or annoy him into anger or anything, but none of it had worked — until finally the words had seemed to dry up in Morris' throat after endless attempts with no results, and he could no longer speak at all, no matter how desperately he wanted to. He'd been helpless, utterly silent then.
Silent, at least, until one of the other boys had tried to strike — trying to take advantage of Morris being devoid, for once, of his older brother's protection.
Morris can't remember much of it. The details. But he remembers being grabbed by his hair and dragged to the floor, pinned. He remembers being called awful things, things Da used to call him, and hit and slammed down and and strangled.
He remembers turning and going at the boy like a dog the first moment his hold had slipped.
He remembers hitting him, over and over, again and again, as hard as he possibly could. He knows he'd been screaming — he'd kept screaming, unable to stop, even as two guards came in and wrenched him from the boy, tossed him aside like a sack of grain. But Morris had started on himself then, hitting and scraping as deep as his worn-down nails could get into his skin, still shouting and screaming. He'd slammed his head into the leg of the nearest bunk, then the floor, again and again until the guards had managed to get ahold of him again and restrain him.
They'd dragged him off then, legs being scraped bloody along the filthy ground, and when he'd started to wail again, a swift hit had knocked him unconcious.
He doesn't know where he is now, but it's quiet.
There's a gag in his mouth.
It's soft, Morris thinks. Cotton, maybe, and it smells like Snyder's clothes do — rich and clean, like it's been freshly washed, though it's tied no less tightly at the back of his skull than any other gag has ever been. He tries to move, tries to reach hazily for the knot to see if he can work it loose, and finds his hands won't go where he wants them to. Won't move at all.
They're behind him, he realises. Another hazy pull triggers another scrape of something around his wrists, so he pulls again, and again, wrists beginning to burn —
"Morris," Snyder tuts. "You should know by now that you're only wasting your energy when you fuss like this. And you're wearing your poor skin away. You'll have yet more scars."
He's close, Morris realises. Somewhere behind him. He flinches when a hand touches him suddenly — an instinctive reaction, trained. But Snyder's touch is gentle. An uncalloused hand clasping carefully around one bony wrist, a thumb tracing the warmed skin where his bindings end.
It's rope, he realises. Thick, awful rope. Snyder makes a sympathetic noise.
"It is a pity," he soothes. "But you were causing yourself needless injury — and we can't have that, can we?"
Morris hears him stand, and then a few, rhythmic clicks of his immaculate leather shoes as he walks slowly around to Morris' front. Snyder's eyes are dark, looking down on him with something indescribable in his face.
"And you're so much prettier this way."
It's a whisper, like something private. Something he perhaps wasn't meant to hear.
Morris doesn't…feel especially pretty. Not right now.
His skin feels raw all over. He hurts, not at all helped by how he'd scratched and scraped at himself just earlier. His head is pounding from him hitting it — or maybe it's from that hit that had knocked him out. He tries to speak, though he has no idea what there is he could say, but all he manages is a muffled, garbled noise behind the gag, all too aware of how drool is pooling in his mouth.
The very corner of Snyder's lip twitches.
He reaches out with the back of his hand, like Morris is a dog to be tamed, and traces his knuckles softly along the side of his bruised cheek. Then dares to turn his hand, cradle Morris' jaw just beneath where the gag runs across the softness above it.
"You are quieter than your brother. None of his mouthiness." It's praise, from a line of thought Morris hasn't been a part of, though he soaks it up regardless. "But the awful wailing, the screaming. We'll have to curb that. And then..."
Then what?
Snyder must see the question in Morris' face, because his lip twitches again.
He doesn't say anything more.
Morris spends that night in solitary, but Snyder comes and fetches him first thing, and Morris spends the morning sat in Snyder's office. He perches on a chair with his wrists still bound behind him, gag still in place to keep him silent, and he simply watches as Snyder eats his breakfast, reads the morning paper, looks over some paperwork.
Snyder looks pleased when he's finished and Morris has been sat still and obedient the entire time. The look makes Morris' chest bloom with pride, and something else he doesn't recognise as Snyder approaches. He leans down and gently unties Morris' wrists with effortless experience, soothes his thumbs over the reddened burns that remain when the ropes are gone.
And, for the first time in his life, Morris has his minor injuries tended to with expensive medicine and proper care. Herbal-smelling salve rubbed into his wrists by gentle hands, and a clean towel soaked with cool water held to his bruised cheek.
When he returns to the bunk room, it's with a stomach full of fresh, buttered toast, and a clean face, bandaged wrists. And Oscar talks to him immediately. Drags him close and demands to know what happened, what Snyder did, if Morris is okay.
Morris tells him, but not everything. Too betrayed by his brother to let slip the promises Snyder had made, about more rewards if Morris is good. The quiet remark that there's something special in him, something Snyder wants to cultivate.
For the first time, Morris keeps something to himself.
thank you?! oh my gosh
I see a man (fictional), I am generally like "okay". I see the same man (fictional) being put in a situation, covered in dirt and blood, perhaps soaking wet, actively sobbing and shaking like a chihuahua, and I am saying "yay" and "yippee" and things of this nature
hey actually where is this ben cook pic from i need to know
I see a man (fictional), I am generally like "okay". I see the same man (fictional) being put in a situation, covered in dirt and blood, perhaps soaking wet, actively sobbing and shaking like a chihuahua, and I am saying "yay" and "yippee" and things of this nature