Chapter Text
Albert DaSilva had two older brothers. Two older brothers who were crude and loud and almost a textbook example of boys will be boys extending into early manhood. That's not to say he didn’t get along with them, but their age gaps made it difficult to connect sometimes. They were two years apart from each other, but he was younger than each of them by six and eight years respectively. In their eyes, Al was their baby brother, never just their brother.
Albert DaSilva had a father. A father who was consistently absent, passed out, or slurring his words, but a father nevertheless. He didn't see much of him. Most nights he was gone, at bars or something. Albert didn't care enough to know the details. He used to, but he's grown distant from his childhood fantasies of having a close relationship with anyone he's related to by blood.
Albert DaSilva had no mother. No mother to give him a hug or teach him how to control his emotions when they became overwhelming. She died from a fever of unknown cause when Albert was five years old. Sometimes he couldn't help but to wonder how having her in his life would have changed it. His father may not have been a drunk. His brothers might be more mature. He might not be in charge of providing the largest income of the house. Maybe he would spend more nights at home rather than the lodging house. Who knows? Maybe he never would have become a newsie at all.
Though, being a newsie wasn’t all that bad. Granted, he scrounged for pennies just so he could eat most days and the working conditions were treacherous, but… well the people weren't all that bad. The Delancey brothers were, of course, and there were a few bad apples among the Manhattan newsboys who he had to keep a watch over his pockets around, but they didn't mess with him much. Besides, if Al was never a newsie, he never would have met his… best friend, Racetrack Higgins.
Racetrack Higgins might have been the most annoying son of a bitch Al ever met, but it worked for him somehow. Something about his lack of respect for personal space and the way he just says shit, even if he shouldn't, just added to his charm. His charm that was completed with tangled hair that he somehow pulled off, soft eyes that were always squinted with a smile and his nose that crinkled when he laughed or got confused or disgusted or… felt anything at all it seemed. Albert found himself noticing more and more about him as they continued living together. His tells when they played poker, his soft snores when they shared a bed (to cut costs, of course), that pouty look he put on whenever someone called him out on his bluffs, his legs that were too long and a little too wide for the pants he wore. Albert noticed those pants a lot. They didn't fit right, it was rare to find a newsie in properly fitting clothes, but these seemed especially small. Tight. They showed his calves, sculpted muscles from his time spent running. They hugged his hips, too slim from his body being overworked and underfed. They outlined his musculature and-
Albert DaSilva had two brothers and a father. Two brothers and a father who were immature and vulgar and liked to torture him with it. Part of the reason he stayed at the lodging house most nights was because every time he went home, he had to live through their stupid routine. He would walk through the door and get tackled by Robert (the younger) who would shout as loud as he could as he drove Albert to the ground. While Albert struggled to get him off, James (the oldest) would come over and lay flat on top of both of them, leaving Albert to be crushed under their weight. When he was finally able to escape, the questions began.
"How much ya got?"
"You didn't waste money on lunch today, right?"
"When are you going to get a real man's job? You'll never find a girl who wants to marry a newsboy!"
"You sell to any girls today? Were they cute? Awww you're red! Little Albie's all grown up! He's got a little crush! What's her name?"
God, it was suffocating. Rapid fire questions with no time to answer. No time to say that he, in fact, doesn't like any of the girls he sells to. Maybe that's for the better. The more girls they assume he likes, the less they think about the truth the alternative.
It didn't make him feel much better.
He just found the company at the lodging house was less invasive. Of course, crass jokes and commentary like this was still a common thing, but it was his friends. He liked them better, so it wasn't as bad. At least he knows most of these guys don't mean the things they say as much.
Especially Race.
Race has said his fair share of vulgar comments, but for some reason it was funny when he did it. Every time he said something about girls it wasn't like when Albert’s brothers did it.
"Ooh~ Albie you's all red! Is it that girl you sold to earlier or am I especially flatterin' today?"
"Ugh, fuck me over the table if I'm wrong but I think that beauty over there just laughed at your stupid motion picture joke! You should talk to her."
"Oh please no girl would be interested in Al! He's got red hair! I got a thing for red heads but girls ain't too fond o' them. Don't worry Al, not havin' a wife is just havin' less mouths to feed and less people in ya life to worry about. Marriage is overrated."
"You know that girl waits for you outside the gate twice a day." The sound of Race's voice cut through the noise in the lodging house. Albert almost thought he imagined it. Race had only briefly looked up from his cards as he spoke. It was cute how focused he got when all he ever did was lose. "I think she likes you."
Albert tried to recall the girl who Race was talking about, but none came to mind. Most of the faces of people he sold to tended to blur together after so long. "What girl?"
Race scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You mean you got a real gem takin' a likin' to ya and you ain't even noticed?"
"You's just messin' with me. There's no girl who waits for me."
Race bites his bottom lip to hide a smile and Albert can't help but to feel warm in the face about it. "I ain't makin' up a thing. Every day we walk outta the gates and every one o' us tries to sell to this girl who's got light brown hair with a red handkerchief in it. It prolly goes down to her mid back. She ain't tall, dark eyes, sometimes has them pigtails in?"
Oh. Albert did know her. He sold to her every day, morning and evening editions, but he didn't think she waited for him. "That's just Ruth."
"Ooh so ya know her name do ya?"
"Shuddup. She's not interested in me, she's interested in the news."
"But she only buys from you."
"That ain't true-"
"You want me to show ya? I'll stick back tomorrow 'fore I go to Sheepshead. Show ya."
Albert shook his head. Not as an answer, but he felt like he needed to knock his thoughts around. Maybe he would be able to grasp onto a good one if he was able to shake it loose. This conversation was making his skin itch all over. "Whatever. You got anything or what?"
"Nah." Race pushed himself to his feet and extended a hand towards Albert. "Let's just go to bed."
Albert DaSilva had a secret. A secret that only grew deeper as he placed his hand into his best friend's freezing fingers. A secret that made him lose his breath for a moment when Race pulled him to his feet just a bit too quickly and they found themselves chest to chest. A secret that made it nearly impossible to sleep because (of the many things Albert DaSilva had, money wasn't one of them. If he was being honest, he was almost certain that money would never be one of them) it was better to split the bed fee between them and just share. A secret that could ruin what the two of them had. A secret that could ruin his life. A secret that could get him killed if it were to get out.
Race was tall. Davey says a bunch of words that Albert doesn't quite understand the meanings of, but they sound right to describe Race's physique. Words like lanky and venerable . He was so tall that he had to curl into Albert's chest so he would fit in the bed.
This, of course, led to a lot of thinking from Albert.
Race may have been tall, but he was skinny. Most newsies were skinnier than they should be, rarely any ate as much as they needed to, but they got by. Race seemed especially thin, though. The walk to Brooklyn and back twice a day every day was brutal on his viciously underfueled body. He used to take a trolley for at least some of the trip, but he can't afford a ticket and (not that he'll admit this) he's terrified of jumping on after they started going after what happened to Crutchie. The toll the journey was taking was really starting to show. Al could probably wrap both of his hands around Race's middle and his fingers would overlap.
Albert squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He needed to stop thinking about things like that, especially with Race right next to him breathing deep, even breaths that he could feel through the thin layers of fabric between them. If he keeps thinking about touching Race then it'll turn into thinking about holding, squeezing, kissing, more Race and that just couldn't happen. Race was too important for Albert to lose.
So he'll settle for feeling the rise and fall of Race's chest against his own. For the time being, at least.