Full ; a Newsies drabble
Note: I wrote this about three minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve. Go figure. Reviews are appreciated.
It was a tradition that had been in Manhattan since before Racetrack had become Racetrack- since before the night he had arrived, cold and hungry, to see the bright lights of the lodging house casting sun on the snow and throwing his shadow into the dark. He'd watched from the window as Kloppman- not Kloppman, then, but a bent silhouette- brought the bag in from the back room. Watched the eager looks and expressions as its contents had been distributed to ink-stained fingers.
Over seven years later, nothing had changed about Christmas on Duane Street. Sweet and sticky, the filling was soon dripping onto his small hands; a bright, vibrant gold, with flecks of brown cinnamon. It was burning hot, and the dough itself was flaky and so thin that it melted as soon as it touched his tongue. Across from him, Blink and Mush were sitting against one another, eating silently; Mush had his eyes closed in what looked like ecstasy, and Blink had shoveled it in so fast that he was sucking in air to cool down his tongue. Dutchy ate methodically; he took a bite, savored it, and chewed slowly before taking another one.
The taste of it filled his mouth; heat and apples and cinnamon and something foreign, something that never failed to make him feel that he was somewhere out of New York and the smoke and the cold.
He pushed the last piece of the pastry into his mouth, tasted the sweet, golden filling, and smiled.