The Delancey Brothers - Tumblr Posts
On my knees , PRAYING for Morris Delancey
yall notice how they went after Les first?? super uncool
Hi could we have more Delancey drawings 🥺👉🏼👈🏼
They’re so terrible and awful and no good
I love them
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
oh i am so sick
ai-less whumptober; day seven
@ailesswhumptober 7 — field medicine, running out of supplies, “Hold on, we’re going to have to improvise.” ↳ the delancey farm, circa 1891 word count; 1.4k
cw; slurs, physical abuse, mentions of hallucinations and delusions related to mental illness
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Oscar starts hearing the screaming before he's even at the foot of the hill.
He's been out in the fields of the farm since the crack of dawn, doing all the shit Da can't be bothered to do — been out there alone since Da turned in, hours ago, and gave him the sharp order to carry on - and not to bother coming home until he'd done everything. So Oscar's aching all over, and more than a little exhausted. It's taking all his strength just to put one bare foot in front of the other, fighting for purchase in the dry dirt up the trodden route to the farmhouse — but, he has to admit, at least it's a nice evening.
The sun is setting, washing the cloudy sky in beautiful colours, and the cool air is a welcome contrast to the sweat drying on Oscar's skin.
It'd be peaceful if it wasn't for the screaming.
He's assuming it's Ma. It usually is. He can't hear it clearly enough to be able to take a guess at the cause — she screams differently when she's screaming about God talking to her and devils in the walls than she does when Da's laying into her — but, frankly, he can't quite bring himself to care. He's exhausted. He doesn't want to be the one to have to deal with her again tonight, though he always is. Da doesn't have the patience and Mo is only a kid. Oscar is the only option, the backbone of the goddamn household. But he doesn't want to.
He knows dinner isn't in the picture. They don't even have any food in the house, haven't for days. But he wants to lie down. He wants to see Morris — though, if Ma is screaming, Oscar will only have to comfort him. Invent yet another story to tell him under their bed covers to try and distract him from all the noise, but he'd prefer that a million times over to having to get involved.
And then he gets a little further up the hill, and realises it isn't Ma who's screaming.
He starts running.
His legs light up again immediately, burning from overuse. He keeps slipping in the dirt, has to catch himself on blistered hands, he can feel the skin on his knees and elbows and heels grazing away — but he doesn't dare slow down.
His little brother is screaming, and Oscar knows that him running could be the difference between Oscar getting to him alive or not.
He's on the floor of the kitchen when Oscar gets there. Morris, a mess of blood, with Da on top of him — and all in a moment, for the first time in his life, Oscar can understand why Ma sometimes insits Da's got the Devil in him. Possessed. He looks possessed, eyes wild, face splattered with blood, arm raised with his belt in a white-knuckle grip to be brought down for another strike. For all the terror and pain he's ever inflicted on Oscar, Oscar's never felt terror like this. Seeing his brother, pale and bloodied and wailing, and his father, about to deliver what could easily be the final blow.
Oscar throws himself in the middle of them without thought.
The buckle catches him hard, he feels it split open his brow, but it's better than it catching Morris again. He screws his eye shut against the immediate stream of blood, and cries out.
"I got him." He's laying over Morris. His hands are already soaked with blood, his knees sliding in it. "I got him now. I'll deal with him. He'll be quiet. You don'. You don' gotta…"
Da stares at him. His eyes are hazy, dark like the sky when the storms are raging through. The red of the blood on his face is stark against the blue. He smells like rotgut, smells soaked in it.
"Fuckin' good-fer-nothin' little brat," he spits at Morris as he staggers to his feet, words so slurred they're a step from nonsense. Morris sobs. "Wee fuckin' retard—"
"Da," Oscar pleads, voice thick.
Da stumbles off.
There's so much blood.
Oscar can't imagine what his little brother could've done. Morris is shy of ten, littler than six, all jutting bones and a baby face and big eyes that cry at the slightest inclination. He doesn't have a bone in him that could do something worthy of this beating Da gave him. But, Oscar knows, Da doesn't really operate on any sort of justice system. He strikes when he's angry. Strikes harder when he's drunk. There's a large chance Morris hadn't done anything at all except be there. An easy target.
He's crying. Oscar strokes his bloodied hair back from his face, all in matted curls.
"'S'okay," he whispers, in his best approximation of a calm, grown-up voice. "'S'okay, Mo. 'S'over now. 'S'done. He's gone. 'S'done."
Morris can't seem to hear him, or at the very least isn't listening. His top lip is split almost all the way to his nose, and the bridge of his nose is unrecognisable beneath a mess of torn skin. One eye is swollen shut, the other hazy and unseeing but full of tears, shining with them, staring up at nothing.
"'S'okay," Oscar repeats, and wishes to a God he knows isn't listening that it was true. "'m'gonna. Make it better."
Morris starts wailing again when Oscar leaves him.
It's Oscar's instinct to shut him up, but Da's gone upstairs and he's probably unconscious by now. There's no sounds of movement, not even a creaking of the bed or a floorboard, so Oscar thinks they're safe for his brother to cry. He goes as fast as he can regardless. Runs and fetches the dented little tin from the cupboard under the stairs, and brings it back to Morris' side. Goes at it with blood-slick fingers, bitten nails fighting against the little rusted seams of metal until he finds purchase and manages to pry it open, and—
"Shit."
There's a small roll of cloth bandage, and not much else. Not even enough for all of Morris that's hurt. The little glass bottle of alcohol is empty too, even though Oscar knows there'd been some left the last time he'd had to use it — and he's hit with a wave of helpless rage imagining Da drinking even that in his desperation.
Morris hiccups. It's almost a gurgling noise, tight in the back of his throat. But he's looking at Oscar now, Oscar realises, face desperate and terrified. And Oscar knows he has to be a good big brother.
"'S'okay, Mo," he says again. Then, when it feels like too much of a lie, "Gonna be okay. Jus'. Hold on, okay? Gonna. Gonna have to make somethin' up."
He has no idea what. They don't have bandages, or alcohol. They don't even have a safe place to go.
Da could come down at any moment. This time he might decide to kill them both. But Oscar forces himself to put on a brave face, and forces himself to his feet to find something, anything.
The scar through Morris' top lip never goes away.
Nor does the one through Oscar's brow, but he didn't bother stitching that one up. Morris' had had to be — but Oscar thinks it doesn't look half bad for having been done with Ma's sewing thread by candlelight.
"The fuck're you starin' at," Morris asks, jolting Oscar out of his memories, and takes a lazy drag of his cigarette. Oscar takes another moment to watch how his lip moves, lopsided where the scar is. Can't bend that way.
Morris had writhed and sobbed as the needle went through his skin, until he'd finally passed out from the cocktail of shock and blood loss and sheer exhaustion. Oscar had done all the rest of the work then. Cleaned up the blood from his brother and the floor, ripped up bedsheets to make bandages, found a forgotten bottle of Da's liquor to disinfect the wounds. And then drank the rest.
It's a miracle Morris had made it through that night. And every subsequent night that Oscar had had to do the same thing, in that godforsaken house and in the Refuge and in the house they're living in now.
He wonders if there'll ever be a time he doesn't have to anymore.
"Nothin'," he says finally. "Jus' thinkin'."
Morris bumps his shoulder. Rises from his position leaned against the fence and swings down from the fire escape with all the energy of a kid who hasn't been nearly dying since he was born.
"C'mon," he says. "Race you to Snyder's."
Oscar's grateful he's always managed to save him.
He starts running.
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!)
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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.
I have lots of thoughts about Oscar and claustrophobia so here is a second interpretation of todays whumptober prompt
cw suicidal ideation
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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."
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.
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 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
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
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.
If Newsies characters had tiktok:
Jack- probably trying to start a strike on the app
Davey- doesn’t post just has it
Race- re-enacts encounters he’s had
Crutchie- one of the people who comes up on your fyp and makes your day
Spot- honestly probably thirst traps
Albert, JoJo, Mush, Specs- share a group account and either post memes or dance
Katherine- posts daily news
Sarah- dances and posts transition videos
Delancys- posts basic white boy shit and are problematic
Medda- one of the voice and acting teachers who makes short tip videos
Ik I missed some bare with me :)
NEWSIES FANDOM HELP ME. I genuinely don’t know if I dreamed this or not, but I SWEAR on my LIFE that I saw either a Pinterest post or a tumblr post about the delancy brothers having newsies names because they used to be newsies when they were younger after they got abandoned by their dad. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS REAL??? I remember that Morris name started with like- rat? Or something like that maybe. And Oscar’s newsies name was kinda like jojos where it repeats itself but I don’t remember what it was. Please god if anything can confirm or deny this happened I would be so happy
Okay so…ive come to the conclusion that it was fake..SO IVE DECIDED TO GIVE THEM NEWSIE NAMES MYSELF. So far I have Morris as Brass, I have this idea in my head that Morris has always owned those brass knuckles and so everyone called him Brass for it. Oscar I ain’t so sure, but would love recommendations!!
NEWSIES FANDOM HELP ME. I genuinely don’t know if I dreamed this or not, but I SWEAR on my LIFE that I saw either a Pinterest post or a tumblr post about the delancy brothers having newsies names because they used to be newsies when they were younger after they got abandoned by their dad. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS REAL??? I remember that Morris name started with like- rat? Or something like that maybe. And Oscar’s newsies name was kinda like jojos where it repeats itself but I don’t remember what it was. Please god if anything can confirm or deny this happened I would be so happy
Hey yall, Jack Kelly fictive here, just wanted to let yall know my boyfriend, a spot conlon fictive, FUCKING MISREAD WILLIAM RANDOLF HEARST AS FUCKING WHITECLAW?????? LITERALLY BROOKLYNS LEADER AND CANT EVEN FUCKING READ /T /LH
Sorry yall just realized he wasn’t talking about William randolf Hearst. No it’s worse. HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WHITLAW RIED THE OWNER OF THE TRIBUNE
Hey yall, Jack Kelly fictive here, just wanted to let yall know my boyfriend, a spot conlon fictive, FUCKING MISREAD WILLIAM RANDOLF HEARST AS FUCKING WHITECLAW?????? LITERALLY BROOKLYNS LEADER AND CANT EVEN FUCKING READ /T /LH
The urge to make a newsies account just so I can be autistic about newsies there… what do you guys think?
Here is our newsie account!! For all things newsies