Newsies Road Trip AU (nope, no creative title)

Well, that didn't last long

Author's note: as I said in the previous chapter, many of these chapters will be overhauled at some point.  This one needs the most editing, but I'm just gonna post it because I've procrastinated this book for long enough and I'm sure that the three people and the shoelace who are reading this book want a new chapter at some point.

***

The Wastes Of Suburbia, Ohio

Day 5

2:30 PM

***

"What the heck happened to my water bottle?" Specs said loudly, rummaging through the cooler.

Les emerged from the bags. "Not in here."

"I think I might have it." Crutchie held up a flimsy plastic bottle, which he had filled with grass, sticks, and half of a cracker. "But Steve's usin' it. You can have mine if ya want."

"You don't even have one!"

"No, I don't, do I? That must be why I used yours." He trailed off for a moment, then smiled awkwardly. "Sorry 'bout that."

Specs threw his hands up in exasperation and promptly hit them on the ceiling. "I swear, this ant's caused nothin' but trouble! Why'd you even bring it?"

Crutchie glared at him. "His name's Steve. Besides, he's a he, not an it, and he's never done nothin' to you."

"Then what's he doin' in my water bottle? I'll never be able to drink outta that thing again!"

"Why not? It's not like I put air holes in it or somethin' stupid like that,"

"No," Specs conceded, "But it's still had an ant livin' in it and probably doin' all kinds a' stuff I don't even wanna know about!"

"He's a clean ant," Crutchie interjected.

"Sure he is," Specs muttered sarcastically. "He's an ant, ya idiot! He's a bug! Bugs can't be clean!"

Crutchie scowled. "Okay, that's it. You can call me whatever, I'm used to that. But insultin' Steve-" his eyes bored into Specs. "-That's too far."

Specs knew what would inevitably come next. "Wanna take this outside?"

Sharp inhale. "Yeah."

In the moments that followed, there was a sudden burst of activity. Spot climbed onto the roof and Racetrack bargained for popcorn rights with Les, who was fishing around for a camera. Specs polished his glasses in what he clearly thought was an intimidating manner, and Crutchie stood behind the van, muttering to himself. After a few seconds of seemingly intense mental preparation he shuffled over to the place where Specs stood, the unusually bright sun glinting fiendishly across his glasses. He shot a timid, I'm-going-to-die smile at the small audience that had gathered to watch the fight, pushed his crutch into a slightly more comfortable position, and looked Specs stoically in the eye.

"I'm already sorry," he whispered.

Specs laughed under his breath. "I don't think you'll do anythin' that ya need to be sorry for." He never saw the first blow coming. He recoiled, and, seemingly in slow motion, his glasses fell into a patch of sunlight.

Steve was having a wonderful time. It was a beautiful day, and someone had set his bottle outside. The sun was bright and it shimmered against the walls. Suddenly, the sun began to brighten uncomfortably. Somehow, he understood what must come next. Resigned, he curled up against the opposite wall and welcomed death with open forelegs.

Crutchie saw the glasses fall and the bridge crack under the force of the impact. He saw the ray of sunlight focus through Steve's bottle. Somehow, though, what happened next didn't register. He picked up the bottle and carefully held it to the light. Steve's small figure did not move, and Crutchie cradled the bottle, sniffing back tears. After a time, he carefully shook out the small body, and, holding it in his cupped hand, brought the bottle to Specs.

"You can have this back now," he said miserably. "I don't need it anymore."

Specs guiltily took it and, as Crutchie carefully dug a small hole with his foot, emptied it of the sticks, leaves, and broken crackers. Behind him, he heard a stifled sob and felt an even sharper twinge of guilt. He turned away and pretended that he hadn't heard.

Jack carefully picked his way through the stunned crowd. "What did I miss?" He noticed, after a few moments, that Specs was shaking out his water bottle. "Ya didn't-"

Specs smiled shyly. "I did my best not to hurt 'im, but sometimes stuff like this just happens. I didn't mean to, honest, Jack." He shook half of a cracker out of the bottle and sighed. "I'll never be able to drink outta this again."

Jack sighed deeply and walked behind the van, where Crutchie was still meticulously scraping out a hole. "You okay?"

Crutchie winced. "Yeah, I'm fine." There was a hollow sort of cheerfulness in his voice, and Jack instantly recognized that he was trying incredibly hard not to react.

"Ya need some help with that?" He asked, trying to subtly change the subject.

"No, I've already got a hole. I just need a box," he said, dragging a few stray grains of dirt into a pile. "I think Race has a matchbox, but I don't think he'd let me bury it."

"I won't be a second," Jack responded, part of him thankful for the distraction. He couldn't bear to see his boyfriend like this, and anything that he could do to both help and get a few seconds alone were a good thing. He approached the backseat, and opened it slowly to give Spot and Race a chance to clean up whatever they needed to. He could hear them scrambling to look natural, so he decided to give them a five-second head start. After the vague noises stopped he opened the door.

"Jack!" Race said quickly, kicking something under the seat. "I, uh, wasn't expectin' you!"

"I know what you an' Spot were just doin' and there's no point pretendin' you weren't," Jack said. "Look, you still got that matchbox you used to carry around?"

"Yeah," Race answered, clearly confused. "Why?"

"Remember Steve?"

"How could I forget about him?"

"We're havin' his funeral out back," Jack explained bluntly.

"Specs set 'im on fire again, didn't he?" Race fished a crumpled cardboard box out of his pocket. "Here," he said, somewhat reluctantly. "Should I come?"

"If ya want to."

Race peered out the back window, then gave his response. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stay here."

Jack smirked a little. "I thought you'd say that. It's fine. I just needed the box." He carefully pushed the dents out of the box and brought it back to the place where Crutchie still stood.

"I got the box," he said quietly. Without a word, Crutchie placed the small body in the matchbox, and Jack placed it into the hole and swept the dirt back over it.

"Steve," he began in a near-whisper, "was a great ant. Now, I never got to know him, not really, but he was friends with one a' the best judges of character I've ever met, an' that's good enough for me. But I just know that if he were still here he'd want us to keep goin', and he wouldn't want you to be sad because he's gone on to somethin' better," he finished, drawing in a deep breath. "Now, c'mon. Everyone's waiting."

Crutchie gave the patch of dirt a lingering look. "You mind if I stay here for a bit longer? I- I wanna be alone for a while," he said quietly.

"Sure." Jack smiled thinly. "Come back whenever you're ready." As he strode toward the van, he noticed Crutchie carefully kneeling to pick up a whitish pebble and place it over the improvised grave.