Newsies one-shots!

Slushies, swears and suicide -heathers AU

Trigger warning: Death, toxic relationships, graphic violence, murder, suicide
Relationship: Jack x Crutchie, or as I like to call it, Crack

He should be focusing on what the teacher was saying. But, as he quickly discovered, maths and algebra can become very uninteresting when there's a too-cute-to-be-allowed, sandy-haired boy sat in front of him, humming a rather sad-sounding song and tapping his pencil against the table. He wouldn't call himself a stalker, as such, he preferred the word observer. For example, he noticed the unknown boy's ash coloured trench coat, and he noticed the crazy, neon slushie the boy seemed to have at all times. He knew there was more to this stranger than being good-looking and mysterious, and he was going to find out what it was.

"Greetings and salutations," the sandy-haired boy said casually, slouching against his locker and announcing his presence. Not that his presence would have gone unnoticed, in an empty hallway almost any presence is noticeable. Still, the sudden appearance made him jump, clutching his books closer to his chest.

"Who are you? Who gave you permission to be here?" he asked, deciding in a split second to be confrontational instead of showing all the confusing, annoying, unwanted feelings that he was currently feeling. It was the last thing he needed, catching feelings for a stranger he barely knew. I mean, he barely knew if this stranger was gay- he stopped immediately.

That doesn't matter," the no-name kid remarked, taking a big gulp of the ever-present slushie, hands deep in the pockets of the oversized jacket, "What does matter is that you have been staring at me. You're a nerd, obviously, I mean, who reads Thomas Paine for fun and isn't a nerd?"
"Historians. Hey, hey, I didn't catch your name!"
"Well, I didn't throw it, darling."

This was illegal. This was very very illegal. But Charlie (the sandy-haired boy) said it was alright, he had said that a lot of people do this every day, all around the world. And Charlie wouldn't lie to him, of course he wouldn't, he loved him, right? Yeah....But looking at his classmate cold on the ground, fake tan and contour scrubbed off to reveal the pale, stone-cold skin underneath and eyes eternally shut, he realised what he had actually done. It hit him like a ton of bricks. Hard, heavy, guilty bricks. He had done this. Him. Before he could run, hands wrapped around his waist like snakes, trapping and suffocating him, preventing escape. He couldn't run, because running was for the weak. He was a lot of things: a Thomas Paine fan, gay, an artist. But he was not weak.
"At least try and smile for me, darling. We're not doing anything that time wouldn't anyway. Remember, chaos is what killed the dinosaurs."

Two more down. He couldn't do this. He couldn't handle it; the sirens, the police kicking down the doors without even a passing thought of asking to enter beforehand, the screams and sobs, a painful mix of grief, confusion and pain. He tried to run, tried to escape the web of lies that he had created. It's hard to run when half of the town's police force is after you, as he soon found out. But he had Charlie, and Charlie made things ok, in his own toxic, brutal way. He was a lying, cheating, awful son of gun, in more ways than one, but he made things better. Charlie numbed the guilt-stricken pain of his own heart. He slipped on the blood red letterman jacket that once belonged to his classmate, fixing his hair in a way that seemed casual. Murder always seems casual.

He held the pistol in his hand, examining it with such precision that you'd think he was going to be tested on it. Maybe he was. He took aim, heart pounding loud in his ear. He thought to himself, mind desperately disconnecting from what he was about to do, so deeply in denial that he allowed himself to think. It was the only thing he was good for, after all. The trees glared at him judgement, sun shining away from him in horrified disbelief.

If he was going to take one thing away from this experience (that wasn't the ideal word he would've used but he didn't have the time or the want to improve his vocabulary now, it wasn't worth it) it was this; death was never funny. Jack laughed as the gunshots sprayed around him, and Jack Kelly, though once an innocent artist, was gone without a trace.