See, You Have Jack “on The Verge Of Death, But Everyone Else’s Health And Safety Are More Important

“Oh boy am I glad that silly weird Ralbert ship is finally gone from my dashboard hah I’m so gla-F u c k”

The fact,,, that there was so much discourse around this silly lil ship is still so funny to me. But anyways have some more gangly freckled boyfriends. I love them a lot.

Race: I made you breakfast 🥰😘💞✨️

Spot: it's burnt

Race: yeah well.

Race: it's made with love. Not skill

race collects Cadillac models btw ... his favourite is the 1955 fleetwood

in a hobby shop rn ... anyway crutchie is a board game fan .... race collects model cars .... davey likes making models but isn't too into cars ... race has horrible fine motor skills ... davey makes the models for race to display ....

the crutchie morris in my head is an ASSHOLE and i love him so dearly. go be a dick my beloved u do not have to be all kiss ass innocent in here . never again buddy u are freed from the infantilising disabled dude trope. go smack someone with ur crutch and be a jackass. i love u.

...

why do my tumblr mutuals not understand they are the hottest smartest lovable funniest most groundbreaking people alive 🙄

its my opening night for newsies jr pray for me

@ethereal-bumble-bee this is u 😭

hello beloveds ☺️

hi !

this is so random but can you write abt ralbert?? like literally anything ralbert, i need more fuel for headcannons :3

RALBERT!!!!!! I LOVE RALBERT!!!!!!!

teehee I wrote this in a moment of yearning, sorry it's so short :(

'Albert, seriously.' Race sounds exasperated, holding Albert's left hand gingerly with his own, holding a torn up shirt in the other.

'I'm sorry, okay?' Albert mumbles over his shoulder, away from Race. 'You don't have to wrap my hands.' He sucks in a breath as coarse fabric tightens against his bloodied knuckles.

'You don't have to get in fights protecting people who don't need protecting.' Race glances up at Albert under his cap, eyes hard and cold.

Albert stares back, trying to give his coldest look. But he winces when Race turns his hand over, so his knuckles are resting on Race's warm palm. The sensation hurts, but it's welcome. Race ties the fabric around Albert's wrist, and gently puts his hand down, picking up the other one, dripping blood on Albert's shorts.

'But he called you bad things.' Albert says quietly, scrunching his left hand up. 'He called Jack bad things. He called the newsies bad things.'

'That doesn't mean you should beat him up.' Race says sharply, pulling the fabric a little too taut around Albert's knuckles. 'We can protect ourselves.'

Albert looks away. 'But I care. About you and Jack and the newsies. How else am I meant to show that I care?'

Race ties the fabric around Albert's hand, finishing the wrap. He puts his other hand on top of Albert's, like a sandwich. 'You feel this, Albert? You feel my hands, and how warm they are? That means I care. Soft touches mean you care, not hurting ones.'

Albert bites his lip. Soft touches. When was the last time Albert felt a soft touch?

Race puts his hand up to Albert's cheek, rubs his thumb over the bump of an old scar. 'Soft touches mean I love you, Albert. Soft touches mean I love you no matter what you do or what happens.' He chuckles a little. 'That doesn't mean I condone you beating up Oscar Delancey for almost no reason.'

Albert smiles softly, before wrapping Race in a tight hug.

It feels nice.

Albert hasn't hugged or been hugged in probably years. He feels his insides melt with comfort as Race reciprocated the hug, rubbing Albert's back and tightening his grip around Albert's middle.

Soft touches mean I love you.

love your writing! could you do some more for ralbert?

Aaaa thank you!!! I’m so sorry that this took so long, school has been beating me up lately, lol. Enjoy this little bit of rambling!

There’s a crack in the mirror in Albert and Race’s home.

Neither are quite sure how it got there- perhaps a box was dropped onto it during moving and hit the glass a bit too hard, perhaps one of them had bumped into it and just didn’t remember- but it’s been there for as long as the two of them can tell you. It was there when they signed the lease on the house, it was there when they came home one day with a shining bundle of joy in their arms, after years of waiting, and it’ll be there when the time comes to put the mirror away.

When you stand in front of it, your view of your reflection is distorted a bit where the glass has chipped. Right above your heart lies a star-shaped crack, your skin seeming fragile and broken underneath it. Both Albert and Race have looked into this mirror hundreds of times, a quick glance on the way out to run an errand or for several minutes as they laughed at the faces their kids made in it.

Their youngest barely comes up to the crack, a little puncture mark poked into his face when he passes by. He laughs when he sees it, brushing his hand just close enough to feel the groove where the mirror’s broken, smiling at his reflection.

Race has to blink tears from his eyes when he sees this, his beautiful child so happy with what he saw in that glass. Albert isn’t so lucky- he’s always been sentimental anyways. It had taken a long time for the two of them to find that, for their own reflections to not punch a hole through their heart.

Their children won’t ever have to suffer through those long years of waiting before freedom, trapped in the hopeless purgatory of no support before they finally get the courage to stand up. That mirror will never haunt them. Their names will not be a source of pain. They’ll never be afraid to be who they were- both Race and Albert had promised that long before they’d first adopted.

For now, that mirror will distort their children’s faces, hear their giggles as they stick out their tongues at the warped image. As they grow, they’ll fall into the same routine, ignoring that old crack in the glass as they fix their jacket or comb through their hair, the slight bend in light unnoticeable now. Their hearts will break, just like the glass, and be mended together again with some sort of miracle. When they leave their childhood home, that mirror will watch, still the same as ever yet having bore witness to the molding of two human beings, just as it had done before. They’ll come home for holidays and birthdays, funerals and reunions, their fingerprints left on the mirror and wiped off again, like when they were little.

Sooner rather than later, it’ll become no longer useful, and it will sit in a basement or old antique shop, slowly staining and losing its light. It will heave its final, weak breath, the memories made lost to time and decay, to all except those who lived it- those who still dream of the time spent in that house, with that mirror.

That glass may one day be broken, but those men and their family? They never will be.