Ai-less Whumptober; Day Eight

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

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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.

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.

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.”

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

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