what the hell is wrong with me? I'm not sure. But, I wanted to write a Newsies fanfiction set to Bohemian Rhapsody. And the mood I'm in says: War Time. World War II. And also some Blink/Mush action. Oh screw it, the real reason is that I'm warped, and my severe writers block wanted to write something. So uhm, yeah. This. It's pretty bad. Well, in my opinion. Either way, it's going to be depressing. Harharhar. Another thing: This is reposted, as it got deleted for being a songfic. :( oh well. I've fixed what was wrong with it. I'm really not sure if I can keep the same title though? Hm. Don't know. Either way. Reposted. Legal now. Cheers.
If I owned those lovable Newsies, do you think YOU all would know about them? As well as the theory that I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. In other words, Disney failed kindergarten for not sharing. I also don't own the lyrics to "Bohemian Rhapsody", they, like all great lyrics, belong to their musicians. Said musicians would be Queen. The failed kindergarten too.
His hands are shaking. There's a draft in the small one-room apartment that he and Mush share, and he can't sleep. Mush, on the other hand, is snoring loudly, with blankets tangled around his half-nude body, and a bit of drool dangling from his mouth.
There's a bottle of pills and a revolver sitting on the table opposite him. He frowns and thinks of Jack, handing him the weapon in a dark alley, whispering that he would need it the next day, and then Dutchy laughing hysterically and handing him the bottle. He isn't sure what the contents of it are, and feels no need to find out. Dutchy probably didn't even know that he was handing them to Blink. The gun however, he slides across the table to sit directly in front of him, and stares at it intently. He studies the ridges and the trigger, and thinks of pulling it. He wonders how loud the noise would be, or if it will kill Oscar. He wonders if he'll even have the nerve to pull it.
Mush rolls over in bed.
He looks up, startled from the noise, with his concentration broken. Nervously, he glances around the apartment. There's a poster from a performance of Benny Goodman on the wall, the six records that they had bought together sit on a bedside table, and an old phonograph sits on the table adjacent to it. Mush's and his clothes are strewn all over the furniture, and a fedora with a red feather in it sits cockily on the bedpost. There is a bed and a sofa, Mush is sleeping intently on the bed for the night, and Blink's blankets are set for the threadbare sofa. But his eyes land on Mush.
He feels a pang of guilt thinking about what is going to happen in the coming day. Mush, of course, will not be able to make the rent on his own, and will have to sell the phonograph, the records, and probably give up his fedora to Spot for a few bucks. The pang deepens as Mush squirms in bed, and Blink looks back at the gun. He has to pull the trigger. He has to shoot Oscar. He has to come back. He has to come back for Mush.
Mush rolls over again, obviously exasperated, and even more obviously, awake. He turns his head towards Blink, surprised, if not frightened.
"Whachadoinup?" he slurs, rubbing his eyes and blinking back sleep.
Blink jumps, a little frightened, and leans over, trying to conceal the weapon, "Nothin', just go back to sleep."
"Mmmkay." Mush rolls over and appears to go back to sleep. Blink finds his own jacket and places the gun in the pocket.
His gaze rests on the pills, he picks them up and examines them. He frowns and opens the bottle, measuring one out, pops it in his mouth and swallows.
As the world begins to spin, the only thing he can think is that he has to come back. He has to come back for Mush.
Blink runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, feeling apprehensive as the crowd passes him in the street. Nervously, he holds the revolver in his hand, careful not to pull the trigger in his pocket as a whirl of faces pass him by. Women dragging their children, people he could swear he's seen before, and homeless men begging for money turn to blurs and indescribable noises. The headlines about the war in Europe are flooding through his brain but not connecting.
He runs the scenario over in his head. Step one: See Oscar. Step Two: Wait for Oscar to pull his own gun. Step Three: Duck into the alleyway. Step Four: Shoot Oscar before he shoots you.
He is terrified, and regretting the past two weeks of his life. The pills, the money that he had taken from Mush, the music, the girls, the drinks, the threats, the fight, and the gun.
"We'll finish this tomorrow, Blinkee. Well, I'll finish it, and you'll just lay there."
There had been the flash of a gun from Oscar's pocket and he laughed, leaving Blink and Jack in the bar. There was a cut on Blink's cheekbone, and a faint ringing in his ears as he was handed a gun by one of his best friends.
"Trust me. You're gonna need it."
Faintly in his head, the melody of "Goodnight, My Love" plays. More faces blur by him and he closes his eyes, his head is pained from the night before, and he feels the world beginning to close in on him.
When he feels a hand on his shoulder, the world slips back to normal. His grip on the gun tightens as he turns around.
"Jack? What are ya doin' here?" Part of him is relieved, but the other part is annoyed. He has not factored Jack into his Four Step Plan, "I'm supposed to meet Oscar by myself. As in alone, as in, YOU'RE NOT HERE."
Jack smirks and raises his eyebrows, "Just wanted you to know I got your back. He gets 'ya, and I'll get him. Don't worry."
Blink sighs, "Yeah. That's real comforting Jack," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Now go. If you're here, it's not gonna happen and I wanna get this over with."
Jack's face slips back into the crowd after one last smirk, and Blink swears he can here him yell, "If ya live, I got a filly for ya tonight!"
Blink turns around quickly, surveying the area and the crowd. Oscar is late, and his thoughts drift back to Mush. He's probably just getting to work now. He imagines him wiping down the tables and cleaning up the cafe before it opens for the night. He thinks of Mush doing the same thing he does every night, throwing on his fedora, picking up his clarinet, playing a few sets before he has to bus the tables again. He thinks of Mush at home, having a cigarette in the middle of the night or forgetting that it's Blink's turn to use the bed.
He thinks of the way Mush makes him feel. He never feels that way around Jack or Dutchy or Spot, and certainly not around the Delanceys. Around Mush he feels... relevant. He feels as though he doesn't need the pills or the sex or the drinks or the money. He feels real and important.
He swallows, thinking of that feeling. He wonders if Mush feels it with him too. He wonders if he dies today, will he miss him for more than just the rent? Or will he find a new roommate?
Blink banishes the thoughts. They're irrelevant distractions.
The gun. The Four Step Plan. Oscar. The Alley. The Gunshot. And then, he thinks, you leave.
Suddenly, he tenses. Oscar's face is visible in the crowd, and he's coming quickly towards Blink.
Blink stares, Oscar smirks and pulls something out of his pocket.
Blink nods towards the alley.
Step One: Oscar. Check. Step Two: Oscar pulls gun. Check. Step Three: The Alley. Check.
Oscar is smiling and twirling his gun. He deals out his usual insults. Recounts Blink's expenses to his business. Blink pulls his hand out of his pocket and aiming, closes his eyes and quickly pulls the trigger.
It's louder than Blink expected, and more of a feeling of finality than anything else. Oscar stops mid-word and topples into the street, and his gun falls out of his hand. Blink stares in horror at Oscar's face and at the wound where blood is slowly seeping through Oscar's tattered shirt.
In the street, a woman screams and covers her small child's eyes. People along the street stop in their tracks and all of their gazes fall on Blink.
And he runs. He runs as though he were about to be shot himself.
Which, considering the circumstances, is highly likely.
He hears someone running up behind him and turns quickly to see that it's only Jack. All he can think of is the gunshot. The dead look on Oscar's face. The mother, the child, the crowd, the gunshot, the silence.
And even when he clears the area and the streets of New York City are busily ignorant of his crimes, all he can hear is the gunshot, and the silence that came afterwards that would haunt him for the rest of his life.