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turtle-steverogers · 6 years

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Fugitives- Chap 8

its 1:30 am and this is trash, so forgive me, but its worth reading to the end because PLOT POINTS!!

also idk why but this chap was really hard to yeet out. i have like the whole fic planned, but i needa get there first if that makes sense so writing the shit leading up to the REAL SHIT is hard but stay tuned cuz it gets really fucking saucy in the future oooooo

warnings: non graphic gunshots and kinda death shit but its really nothing compared to previous chaps so its fine

ship: eventual ralbert

editing: no and its obvious. sorry

Although Albert’s mental state was far from okay, it was in his nature to be optimistic. As much as everything had gone to shit in the past week, he forced himself to get up every day and assimilate as best as possible into gang life. The nightmares hadn’t stopped yet, though. Every night, he was plagued with clear images of Elmer, dead against the wall of Sarah’s apartment, brain matter splattered aimlessly on the eggshell white walls behind his lifeless form. But he learned quickly that a hot shower almost always brought him down, and since the night that Race had confessed his experience with Rockefeller to him, he had learned to keep quiet during a breakdown.

Ever since the night of Albert and Race’s talk, the dynamic between them changed significantly. Albert found himself relaxing around him, and would often join him for breakfast, which for Race never seemed to deviate from a singular banana. They got into the habit of playing various card or board games in the rec room after trades and Albert learned very quickly that Race had a talent for strategy. He rarely won against him, but his competitive disposition forced him to continue game after game.

“Check,” Race exclaimed, eyes glinting triumphantly as he moved his bishop in line with Albert’s king. It was Saturday night, exactly a week after Albert’s arrival in Empire, and trades had been particularly slow that day. Romeo and Jojo had gone to handle the one trade they had in Staten Island, leaving the rest of the group to mill about the theatre lazily. Snow had begun to fall rapidly outside, so the prospect of leaving was quickly shot down.

“Bullshit, you cheated,” Albert countered, squinting at Race, “We’ve been playing for, like, two minutes. There’s no way you already have me in check.”

“Not cheating,” Race said, loftily, “Just really good.”

Albert shook his head, scanning the board for any moves he could make in an attempt to escape Race’s bishop. He sighed when it became evident that he was stuck.

“You’re a motherfucker, Higgins,” Albert mumbled as Race took his king, cackling.

“I may be,” Race grinned, “But I’m a smart motherfucker.”

“In some respects, but don’t give yourself more credit than you’re worth.”

“Rude,” Race pouted. Albert snorted, glancing to the side at the TV, which was playing the local news, as per usual. He frowned when the camera zoomed in on what looked like a crime scene. Race followed his gaze and both boys blanched as the reporter spoke.

“This morning, Soho residents, Elmer Kasprzak and Sarah Wilkinson, were found dead in their apartment,” He said, solemnly, “Officials predict that they had been dead for nearly a week before their discovery. Several gunshot wounds were found during the autopsies, clarifying the cause of death. But perhaps the most disturbing detail, was the graffiti found on the wall at the scene of the crime,” The camera zoomed in on the symbol for death that Race had spray painted that day, “This notorious symbol is known to be used by Empire and Prospect. Two of the warring gangs here in New York City.”

Albert hadn’t even noticed he was shaking until Race reached out and tentatively took the pawn that he had been holding out of his iron grip.

Albert’s tongue felt heavy as he spoke, “Sarah was, uh, she was killed, too?”

Race set his jaw, eyes fixed on the chess board, “I didn’t know. But, yeah, I guess Jack and Davey didn’t wanna risk it.”

Albert closed his eyes, desperately trying to stop the tremors in his chest. He could feel Race watching him, but he couldn’t stand to look at him right now. Sure, he had predicted that Sarah wouldn’t be let off the hook, but seeing it become a reality felt like someone burning an exposed nerve. He felt sick.

“I’m gonna shower,” He said, after another few seconds of tense silence, save for the disturbing murmur of the TV.

Race didn’t say anything as Albert walked out of the room on shaky legs, numbly venturing to the showers. He stopped along the way to grab a towel from the bathroom bin, but frowned when he found a note saying all the towels were being washed. Scowling, he turned down the adjacent hallway to the bathrooms and entered he laundry room.

He startled slightly when he found Crutchie, perched on top of the washing machine, pulling towels out of the dryer to fold them. He looked up when Albert entered.

“Heya, Al,” He chirped, smiling too widely for Albert’s liking, “Need something?”

Albert licked his lips, acutely aware of the nausea that still thrummed in his stomach, “Uh, yeah,” he croaked, clearing his voice a bit, “Just, uh, just a towel?”

“Ah,” Crutchie hummed, taking a folded towel from the top of the pile and tossing it to Albert, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Albert nodded his thanks and turned to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie’s voice, “You okay?”

Albert plastered on a fake smile, “Peachy.”

Crutchie studied him for a moment, “You’re pale. You sick? I could get you some-”

Albert waved a shaking hand, effectively quieting the other man, “I’m fine, man, I just wanna shower.”

Crutchie’s looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply shrugged, pulling another towel out of the dryer, “Alright,” he sighed, “Hey, I know we’re part of a gang and soft shit ain’t really, like, a thing. But if you ever need someone to talk to…” he trailed off and Albert shifted uncomfortably.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, hand on the doorknob. He really just wanted to shower.

Crutchie seemed to sense this, “Alright, I’ll letcha go, man. Have a nice shower.”

Albert shot him a thumbs up and left the laundry room. To his relief, the bathroom was vacant and he locked the door, savoring the solitude it provided him. He turned the shower to the hottest setting and stepped in, allowing the water to wash over him. He breathed deeply as the shivers that wracked his body slowed to a stop. Ten minutes later, his mind was significantly clearer and he couldn’t help but think that he was getting better at handling this.

He climbed into bed, stomach rumbling, and with a jolt, he realized that he hadn’t eaten dinner. He considered getting up to find a snack, but decided against it. He’d just eat extra in the morning. Besides, everyone else seemed to have gone to bed while he was in the bathroom and he didn’t really know how to cook.

He settled into his blanket, taking his phone off the floor and clicking into his Snapchat. A lot of his streaks were lost in the last week, but he decided to send out a few just for the sake of it. He didn’t want to lose all connections to his previous life. His friend, York, answered a few moments later, demanding to know where he’d disappeared to. Biting his lip, Albert decided to leave him on read. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Hey, Al, you up?” Albert lifted his head off of his pillow. Through the curtain, he could see the outline of Race’s curly hair propped on his hand.

“Yeah, what’s up? You good?” He whispered back, shifting so that he could hear better.

“No, yeah, I’m good. I was just gonna tell you to follow my meme account.”

“On Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

Albert suppressed the urge to laugh, “I mean, uh, sure. What’s your user?”

“Uh,” Race pulled back the curtain and peered around, making eye contact with Albert, “It’s a shit ton of underscores, then hotdogmilk- all one word- then another underscore.”

This time Albert really did laugh, but more out of disbelief than anything else, “You’re kidding.”

“No?” Race’s eyebrows furrowed, “That’s it.”

“No, no it’s just that I’ve been following you since you were at 400 followers. Good content, man.”

Race was practically glowing, “Thanks!”

“Yeah, no problem,” Albert hesitated, then asked on a whim, “Wanna go make mac and cheese? I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Race smirked, already moving to put on a pair of socks, “Yeah, man, I’m down.”

They tiptoed to the kitchen and quietly got out the ingredients. Albert was reaching for a box of elbow macaroni, when Race stopped him, “Ah, ah, let’s use my stash,” he said, winking.

Albert frowned, “Your stash?”

Race nodded, kneeling on his hands and knees to reach under the sink. He brought out a gallon sized plastic bag, filled with penne pasta.

He held it up, grinning, “No one else knows about this, but it’s a Higgins family specialty.”

Albert’s eyebrows shot up, “You make pasta?”

Race blinked owlishly, “Yeah,” he said, sounding vaguely condescending, “I’m Italian.”

Albert jerked his head back in surprise, “You’re Italian?”

“I know,” Race said, “The blonde hair and blue eyes are off-putting, but yeah, I’m Italian,” he moved to put water on the stove, “Weren’t you there when I cursed Jack out in Italian after he won poker the other night?”

Albert put a saucepan on the stove next to the pasta pot, “I mean, I was, but I thought you were just extra like that.”

“Nope,” Race said, “I mean, you’re not incorrect, I am extra, but that was legit.”

“Wow,” Albert said, starting to melt butter for the cheese sauce, “The more ya know.”

“So, tell me about yourself, Al,” Race said, conversationally as he waited for the water to boil.

Albert glanced sideways at him, adding some flour and milk to the butter to create a bechamel sauce, “What do you want to know?”

Race shrugged, sticking out his bottom lip a bit, “I dunno, what do you like to do? What are your interests?”

Albert stirred the pot thoughtfully, “I don’t really know. I was studying to become a mechanical engineer before all this shit went down, so I dunno. Stuff like that.”

“Damn,” Race breathed, “Mechanical engineering’s pretty intense.”

“Nah, s’just numbers and stuff,” Albert said, nonchalantly, “Couldya pass me the cheddar cheese?”

Race passed him the bag of cheese and watched as he added it to the now thick sauce.

“What about you?” Albert asked, “What are your interests?”

Race scuffed the floor with his toe, looking mildly uncomfortable, “I dunno, I haven’t done much outside of shit for Empire,” he paused for a moment, “But I do like to read. I’m not great at it, but I like doing it.”

“Yeah?” Albert was a little surprised, Race didn’t seem like the reading type, “What do you like to read? Also, the water’s boiling.”

“Shit,” Race scrambled to turn down the stove, then added a fair amount of salt to the water before pouring his pasta in, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Anyway,” Race continued, probing the pasta to break the pieces apart, “I like books that make you, like, think, ya know? Like, 1984, and shit like that.”

Albert clicked his tongue approvingly, “That’s a goodass read.”

“Ain’t it? Like, it’s not like the other shit dystopian novels. It’s got hella depth and is more than just, death and destruction and shit.”

Albert nodded, “I feel,” he brought the cheese sauce off the heat and covered it with a lid, “That’s definitely on my list of favorites.”

“I thought I heard voices,” Albert and Race jumped violently at the new presence. A boy, who looked no older than 10 years old, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a white undershirt and Star Wars themed pajama pants.

“Les!” Race blurted out, “It’s, like, near midnight. You should be asleep.”

“I’m 11,” Les said, looking slightly offended, “I don’t have a bedtime.”

Race floundered for a moment, but Les was already moving to seat himself at the counter, “Anway,” he smiled, “Hi, Albert.”

Albert blinked, “How did you know-”

“I heard there was a new guy and I don’t recognize you. I put two and two together, it’s not rocket science.”

Albert and Race exchanged a bemused look, “Anway, what’re you guys making?” Les questioned, gesturing to the pots on the stove.

“Mac and cheese,” Race said, draining the cooked pasta, “Want some, squirt?”

Les rolled his eyes, “I stopped being squirt when I turned ten, you useless Italian.”

“Geez,” Race looked slightly wounded, “Harsh crowd. Guess you don’t want any.”

“Bitch!” Les squeaked, “Of course I want mac and cheese.”

“Then you better respect your elders,” Race sang, transferring the pasta to the cheese sauce pan and stirring.

Les hopped down, peering over his shoulder at the mac and cheese, “That’s what good pussy sounds like.”

“Les,” Race scolded, as Albert and Les cackled, “No vine references. That’s my thing!”

“Who said!”

“I did!”

“So what?”

“Listen, you tiny shit-”

“Guys!” Albert cut them off, “Can we just eat the goddamn mac and cheese? I’m starving.”

Race huffed, but served three bowls of the dish nonetheless. They all sat at the counter, digging in right away.

“Holy shit,” Albert said, mouth full of pasta, “This is really fucking good penne, Race, what the fuck.”

Race smiled, cheeks stuffed with food, making him resemble some sort of blonde chipmunk, “Thanks!”

They ate in silence, the only sound being the scrape of forks against ceramic bowls. Each of them helped themselves to seconds, then thirds, until it was all eventually gone.

“Wow, I have a massive food baby, now,” Les commented, patting his stomach idly.

“Me too,” Race groaned, “And I forgot my lactose pills, so I’m aboutta die.”

Albert choked on the water he was drinking, “You’re lactose intolerant, too?”

“Yeah, wait,” Race said, eyeing him, “Does this mean you also forgot your lactose pills?”

Les looked between them a few times, “Rip,” he muttered.

They cleared their dishes, then got to work tidying up the kitchen. They finished fairly quickly and made to go back to their beds, but were stopped short by a very annoyed looking Davey outside the kitchen.

“Lester Jacobs,” he reprimanded, arms folded at his chest. He looked like a mother. A very terrifying, murderous mother, “What are you doing still awake?”

Les shrugged, pushing past him down the hallway, “Midnight snack!” He called over his shoulder.

Davey sighed, “Kids,” he muttered, addressing Albert and Race for the first time, “Did I miss mac and cheese?”

Albert glared at him, hatred bubbling in his stomach. He hadn’t had many interactions with Davey since the day of Elmer’s murder. Only a passing glance here or there. He still made Albert’s skin crawl. His authoritative and oddly stoic demeanor sat badly in his stomach and that, combined with the fact that he quite literally shot his best friend in the head, made him a candidate for the top of Albert’s enemy list.

“Yeah, sorry, bucko,” Race said, clapping him on the back apologetically.

“Shame,” Davey said with no real emotion behind his words, “Anyway, do you think you two could pick up a trade in Queens tomorrow?”

Albert opened his mouth to snap something, but Race interjected before he could, “Sure, what time?”

Davey clicked into his phone, pulling up a photograph of some graffiti, “It looks like, um, 7:15. Heroin trade.”

Race’s jaw dropped, “7:15 am?”

“Looks like it,” Davey said, “Here, I’ll send you the picture for reference.”

“Thanks, Davey-o.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry.”

XXX

Albert woke up to a faceful of shaving cream. He choked, spluttering for a minute, before gathering his wits enough to wipe the cream off of his face.

He sat up, glaring at Race, who was holding a can of shaving cream, an innocent smile plastered on his face, “I tried to shake you awake, but you were comatose. I had to resort to extreme measures.”

Wordlessly, Albert took a handful of cream off his face and chucked it at Race, who dodged it skillfully, “Bitchass,” he grumbled.

“C’mon, I already letcha sleep in some,” Race said, nudging Albert’s exposed leg with his boot, “We gotta get going. Wash up while I get the shit from Finch.”

Albert flipped him off, but got up nonetheless, getting clothes from his bin, before heading to the bathrooms to clean off his face and freshen up. Ten minutes later, the two of them were exiting the theatre into the snow, bananas in hand. It was 6:45 and still dark, casting a calm atmosphere over the city. They were to be in Corona, Queens in a half-hour, so they opted to take a taxi rather than the subway. Albert was still fairly tired, so he took the ride to doze against the window. They arrived 20 minutes later and trekked through the cold to the location of a trade, teeth chattering in the wind.

“I think it’s in here,” Race said, nodding his head towards an old furniture store on the corner of one street.

They entered the shop and Albert frowned, “How will we know who to give the trade to?” He whispered as they made their way to the back.

“A code for heroin in our circle is ‘powder’, so I’ma ask if they have any and see what the guy responds with.”

Albert nodded, following him to the counter, where a young man, probably around twenty, was sitting. He looked half-asleep, but perked up when they approached, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Race said, “Got any powder?”

The guy raised his eyebrows skeptically, “You Empire?”

Race reflexively looked over his shoulder, tensing up slightly, but he recovered quickly, “Depends who’s asking.”

“Trevor.”

Race relaxed upon hearing the name, “Beautiful, yes. I’m Empire. Got the dough?”

Trevor nodded, opening the cash register and pulling out fifty dollars. Race grinned and held out his hand expectantly. Trevor rolled his eyes and reluctantly placed the cash in his outstretched palm.

“Kay, there’s your shit,” He snapped, “Where’s mine?”

Race pocketed the money and reached into his jacket, pulling out a neatly folded paper bag and placing it on the counter. He waited while Trevor poured out the contents and studied it for a moment before nodding. He looked pleased as he spit into his palm and held it out for Race to take, who returned the gesture.

“Thank ya,” He said.

“Welcome,” Race said, pumping his hand too enthusiastically for 7 am, “Pleasure doing business.”

“Likewise.”

They exited the store, delayed only briefly by Race getting sidetracked by an ugly carpet purse, claiming that Romeo would love it. Eventually, Albert was able to drag him out and down the street, but before they could hail another taxi, Race let out a yelp and pulled Albert into a small bodega.

“What are we here for?” Albert hissed, tugging on Race’s sleeve as he browsed the aisles.

“I’m tryna get high tonight,” Race said distractedly, plucking a bag of jalapeno cheetos off a shelf, “And these,” he held up the bag for Albert to see, “Are wonderful when the munchies hit.”

Albert bit his lip, annoyance and vague fear pricking the back of his neck, “And we couldn’ta done this, I don’t know, in our own turf where we aren’t at risk of getting fucking killed?”

“Please,” Race scoffed, “We’re always at risk of getting killed.”

“What if some Prospect guys catch us?”

“I’ve got a gun and a knife, we’re fine.”

“Okay, but what if-”

“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me buy fucking cheetos, it’ll take two seconds.”

Albert squinted at him, but stopped talking nonetheless. Race began to scan the shelves again and Albert glanced around, zeroing in on a packet of gum. In a sudden moment of impulse, he reached out and opened it, taking a singular piece of gum out and popping it into his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Race asked, cocking his head, making him look like a confused dog.

“I’m a criminal now,” Albert said, chewing, “May as well live up to it.”

“By stealing gum?”

Albert blew a bubble, popping it loudly, “Yes.”

“Alrighty then,” Race said, slowly, “Lemme check out, I’ll be right back.”

Albert wandered around the store for a few more minutes before Race met him by the milk, “Ready to go?”

Albert nodded, putting the gallon of chocolate milk he had been studying back in the refrigerator. They got out of the bodega to see that the sun had risen completely and Albert had to squint to see clearly.

Race clicked into his phone, mumbling something about ordering an Uber this time, because they’re cleaner, but shouts from the alley they were next to put them on alert. Race and Albert frowned at one another before scooting closer to hear.

“What the fuck is this?” A low, gravelly voice, thick with a Brooklyn accent, growled.

“Uh, it’s uh, it’s weed, man, like I said,” Another voice said, fear dripping in their tone.

“No, asshole,” The Brooklyn accent snarled, “This is fucking oregano.”

“I didn’t know, man, I’m-”

“Save it. Hotshot, take care of him,” Brooklyn accent barked, “Motherfucker really thinks he can trick the King of Brooklyn.”

“You got it, boss,” A new voice said. Albert spared a glance at Race, who had turned a scary shade of white. He looked like he was shaking and Albert frowned. What was happening? A gunshot brought both of them out of their trances and Race cursed under his breath, grabbing Albert’s arm and running in the opposite direction. As they sprinted, Albert couldn’t help but be reminded of the day they met, when Race was running from the police. Albert grimaced to himself as he thought about how simple his life had still been then. He missed it, but this was his life now and there were more pressing issues at hand.

They stopped in a new alleyway, several blocks away. Albert leaned against the wall, sucking in air in an attempt to catch his breath.

“So much for an Uber,” He panted, “What the fuck just happened? Were those Prospect guys?”

He looked up at Race, who had his back against the bricks, eyes squeezed shut and arms laced behind his head. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, before opening his eyes and locking his gaze with Albert. His expression was indescribable and Albert couldn’t help the wave of dread that flooded his body like ice water.

“That was Prospect alright,” Race said, swallowing, “That there,” He paused, taking a deep breath, “that was Spot Conlon.”

OOO SPOTTIE BOY IS HERE (BROOKYLNS HEREEEE)

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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#newsies #newsies fic #ralbert #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #fugitives #ooo #wild shit #omg im sorry this chap was bad

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