#ill prob put it on ao3 eventually but not tonight! lol

[thefactsofthematter]

you know me bruh

“just once.” and “i thought you were dead.” ily!

-💥

omg ok here we go @jack-kellys 👀

this is, in fact, longer than a drabble. but hey when there’s two prompts and a fun idea, you just have to go for it!

here’s some jack + race brotherly shenanigans!! tw for graphic violence - it gets a little intense for a bit there.

pls enjoy!!

-

January, 1900.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind, Higgins!?”

Jack is chasing him down the fire escape on the side of the Lodging House, and Race knows he brought this upon himself, but he’s still going to be an ass about it.

“Have you?” he counters as he darts down the stairs as fast as he can, not looking back. “Christ almighty, you’re hollering like you’re trying to wake the entire goddamn neighbourhood.”

The steps are icy and it’s dark out, so just as he slows down a moment to catch himself and keep from sliding all the way to the bottom, Jack manages to nab him with an iron grip on his upper arm.

“Get your ass back inside,” Jack hisses. Rarely does he get mad like this, much less at his own boys, but Race has apparently done just the right trick to piss him off. “Right fuckin’ now. I’m not messing around.”

Race twists his arm, but Jack doesn’t let go.

“What, a fella can’t even go for a walk anymore?” he snaps. “You ain’t my father, Kelly. I’m grown. Let go of me.”

“Grown?” Jack all-but roars. “You’re fourteen goddamn years old!”

“And you ain’t that much older, so you can’t tell me nothing!”

Race wrenches his arm away and continues down the stairs, but he doesn’t get far. Jack grabs the collar of his coat and yanks him back.

“Where the hell are you going, huh?” Jack demands, a fire in his eyes that’s almost genuinely intimidating. “Ain’t no way you’re headed to Sharkey Athletic Club, is there?”

Race feels himself go pale. Jack wasn’t supposed to know about that. How the fuck did he find out?

As if to answer the question, Jack pulls a little card from his back pocket— the very same one that one of Race’s regular customers handed him a couple of weeks ago, inviting him to come check it out and consider joining.

“We’re short a few featherweights these days; our boys keep gettin’ too big and movin’ up classes,” the man had said, with a wink. “You look like you got some pep in you, kid. Come find us if you want a shot in the ring.”

And it’s not that Race had ever considered prizefighting before then, but it had been enticing— he’s wont to finding trouble and getting in scraps anyways, so why not get paid for it? Or at least, even if he loses, have a few fellas around to pull the guy off him before it gets too hairy? Fighting in a club is safer, as far as he’s concerned, because it’s controlled.

He hasn’t been in a real fight yet— the man who’d invited him had money banked on him and wasn’t about to let him go in completely blind— but he’s been there once to watch a few fights and practice on a punching bag. Tonight is going to be his first time in the bareknuckle ring, against another newcomer who’s close to his age and size.

He must’ve dropped his invite somewhere in the Lodge. Jack found it, obviously, and he’s probably been waiting all night to catch the moment Race tried to get out after curfew.

“I never even heard of that,” Race lies through his teeth. “I’m going to meet Spot.”

“You’re walking to Brooklyn at this hour, in the snow?” Jack scoffs, unconvinced. “Don’t think you can pull a fast one on me, kid. How many times you been to Sharkey’s?”

Race swallows. Jack is genuinely angry, and there’s no use in lying anymore.

“Just once. I only watched.”

“Who invited you?”

“A fella I sell to, down at the races. I dunno his first name, but folks just call him O’Connell.” He pauses, suddenly feeling a little twist of fear in his gut. “I think he’s one of them Five Points fellas, Jack. He’ll stomp me if I don’t show tonight. I gotta go.”

Jack slaps him. It catches Race off-guard enough that his head snaps to the side with the force of it, but he steels himself enough not to react.

“Five Points? You’re in with a fucking gang!?”

“I ain’t knew it was a gang thing until I was already there,” Race huffs, rubbing at his stinging cheek, “but yeah, I guess. I’m not in the gang or nothing, but I’m fightin’ for real tonight, and I don’t wanna know what trouble I’ll be in if I miss it. I’ll come straight back when I’m done, alright?”

Jack is silent for a moment, his stone-cold expression utterly unreadable.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Let’s go.”

Race recoils a little.

“You’re coming along?”

“Ain’t no chance you’re going alone," Jack sighs. “And someone’s gonna have to drag you home when you get soaked.”

Race swats Jack on the ear, and Jack finally cracks half a smile.

“I’m gonna win. Just you wait and see, Kelly.”

-

They get stopped at the door.

“Who’s your pal?”

“My brother,” Race replies, and it’s only half a lie. Brothers don’t have to be blood. He offers the bouncer a wry smile. “Says I’m too young to come alone, so I thought I’d let him come watch.”

Jack has the good sense not to speak, just stays tight against Race’s side. There’s a chance this could blow up in their faces and get them turned away, but Race is hoping he’s got just enough youthful charm to pull this off. Everyone he met last week seemed to like him, so the odds should be good.

“You’re a keen one, kid,” the bouncer laughs, “bringing a babysitter to the fight. Get in here.”

Thank god that worked. They walk into the crowded club, hazy with smoke and almost too dark to see.

“I ain’t heard you talk so Irish before,” Jack chuckles, practically under his breath. “That’s new.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Race mutters as subtly as he can, “my name’s Conor when I’m here. Half-Italian ain’t a good look around all these Irishmen, so Antonio’s off the table, and they wouldn’t believe I was really just called Racetrack neither, so I stole my old man’s name and his accent.”

“Good god,” Jack sighs, “I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

Race rolls his eyes.

“Just have some fun. I’m gonna go find O’Connell, but you should grab a drink. Stick to the story if anyone asks— you’re here keepin’ your little brother, Conor Higgins, outta trouble. Folks’ll get a kick outta that.”

Jack, while obviously not too enthused about the situation, is a good sport and an even better liar, so Race isn’t worried about him. Even if he’ll get an earful in the morning for how reckless it was to even be going here in the first place… for now, Jack just gives him a quick hug.

“Good luck. You better win that fight and make this worth all the fuss.”

And then he’s off towards the bar, and Race is headed to the back to get ready.

-

He realizes, once he’s in the ring, that O’Connell has decided to have some fun with him.

He’d been told he was up against another new kid, who was right around his size— it was supposed to be a fair fight.

That’s not who steps up to face him.

The kid— Murphy Gallagher, he’s been called around the club— has to be at least Jack’s age, and twice as broad as Race himself. He seems rather amused by the slight panic that Race is well aware his expression has just given away.

“Surprise. Initiation ain’t fair, kid,” Murphy laughs. “Give it your best shot, alright?”

Race swallows.

Shit.

He wants this. He knows it’s trouble to be getting involved with this scene, but it’s a leg up in the world for when he gets too old for papes, isn’t it? He can read, but he can’t write too well, so he doesn’t have much shot at a respectable career; poor and uneducated folks like himself end up in factories, and that’s the absolute last thing he wants. If he can get good at fighting, he might have a shot.

He offers Murphy the cockiest smirk he can muster, as they shake hands in the centre of the ring.

“You’re on.”

-

For two rounds, Race holds his own. He goes down each time, but the rounds are decently long, and he lands a lot of good hits— the biggest problem is just that this tougher, older kid can last longer. When Race starts to tire out from the effort of fighting someone twice his size, Murphy can easily rain a few more solid hits on him until he’s winded enough to hit the floor.

“Get it together,” O’Connell warns before the start of the third round, as he wipes some blood from Race’s face. “Don’t make me look like an idiot for bringing you in here. Show us what you’ve got.”

“I’m trying,” Race huffs, exhausted.

There’s sweat in his eyes, and his ribs are screaming in pain. He’s sure he’s busted up enough that even the kids back at the Lodge will question it— he gets in his share of fights, but he usually knows when to give up and beat it. That’s not really an option here.

“Try harder,” O’Connell teases. He slaps Race on the shoulder. “Get back in there.”

And so he does.

Murphy hits him in the side as soon as the whistle blows, and Race stumbles. He’s so tired. The crowd is laughing at what’s turning into a disappointing but amusing fight— Race obviously has nothing on his opponent, and there’s no chance he’ll be invited back here. He’s getting soaked for nothing, isn’t he?

His back hits the ropes when he’s struck again, and for a moment, he considers giving in right there and then.

“Come on, Racer!” he hears Jack shout from somewhere in the room. “You’re faster than that! Get up!”

Something suddenly clicks.

Race is faster than this guy. Of course he is. He’s been too stuck in a boxing frame of mind from the fights he’d watched last week, but standing strong and taking hits isn’t how Racetrack Higgins fights. No, he keeps people on their toes, and the fact that he’s in a ring doesn’t have to stop him, does it?

Just as Murphy steps back, clearly thinking he’s won this laughably easy round, Race springs off of the ropes and launches himself forward. He punches Murphy in the face before he’s even got time to react, and then he’s off to bounce against the ropes on the other side of him.

The crowd goes wild, and Race finds himself smiling. Murphy lumbers towards him to throw a right hook, but all Race can think is keep fucking moving, so he darts out of the way and lands a hard jab at the guy’s exposed ribs. He comes around the back before Murphy can even spin, and in what might be a rash decision, opts to jump onto his back and try to pummel him from there.

If there are rules to this fight, he’s not following them anymore… but it wasn’t exactly within the rules to throw him up against someone well out of his weight class, was it?

They end up on the floor somehow, Murphy having twisted onto his back, with Race’s legs locked over his hips. Race rains punches down on him while he’s still disoriented, taking a sick satisfaction in the way the bigger kid has started gasping— the wind has been knocked out of him, and there’s blood all over his nose and mouth.

For one glorious moment, Race thinks he might’ve won this round… until Murphy gets his bearings, grabs him, flips him over onto his back, and promptly knocks his lights out with one brutal punch.

-

Jack is in front of him when he comes to.

He’s sitting on the floor, propped up against the outside of the ring, surrounded by people. Someone is wiping up the blood from his shirtless chest, and another set of hands are holding his head, obviously trying to inspect some kind of damage. There’s someone else waiting next to him with a glass of water, ready to hand it to him when he wakes up.

Jack is there, though, knelt in front of him, looking absolutely terrified.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Race laughs, his words coming out a little slurred. There’s blood in his mouth, and one of his teeth feels a little wiggly. “I’m fine.”

“I thought you were dead,” Jack snaps. “When you just laid there and ain’t even twitched, I thought that fucker killed you. You ain’t never allowed to do this again, Conor, you hear me?”

One of the guys cleaning him up— a lackey of O’Connell’s— laughs quietly at that.

Jack is probably right, at least. After that miserable defeat, any shot Race might’ve had at a prizefighting career is good and gone.

“It was fun,” Race grins. He takes a sip from the water that’s been given to him. “At least I tried it.”

“Atta boy,” the guy who’d been holding his head chuckles. “You seem fine. There’s just a scratch up there but they bleed like hell. Nothing to worry about. Good hustle, kid.”

He leaves, and Race lets his head loll for a moment as the exhaustion truly hits him. Hopefully he can at least grab a drink before he’s kicked out of here— he deserves one, he figures. He fought hard.

Jack seems about to say something else, but before he can, they’re interrupted by O’Connell himself striding over. He takes a knee next to Race; he’s grinning, a cigar between his teeth, and a little bundle of something in his hand.

He holds it out to Race— it’s a membership card to the club, and four whole dollars.

“Welcome to Sharkey Athletic Club, Higgins. Here’s your prize.”

Race’s eyes go wide.

“But I lost.”

O’Connell shakes his head and laughs.

“Course you did. You had no shot. You weren’t supposed to win.” He holds his cigar between two fingers to gesticulate with it. “You gave us a show and you fought dirty— that’s what initiation’s all about. I knew you had it in you.”

Race takes the card and the money, still sort of stunned.

“Your brother’s a real live-wire, ain’t he?” O’Connell continues, patting Jack’s back as he stands back up. “If you wanna try your own fight sometime, let a fella know. Maybe there’s something in Higgins blood, eh?”

Jack is obviously pissed at this outcome, but he pulls himself together and nods, so as to not break his cover.

“I think I’ll let Conor handle the fighting, sir,” he chuckles. “He gets in enough trouble for the two of us. Someone’s gotta drag him back home at the end of the night.”

Race grins. He’s always loved watching the way Jack can effortlessly sell any lie he needs to; he even slips his voice into the Irish lilt that he probably picked up from his own father, just like Race. They’ve got a lot in common, the two of them.

“Better he fights in here than out on the street somewhere, hey? He’s got a good head on his shoulders. This kid’ll go far.”

O’Connell walks away. Race and Jack are left alone in a crowded room.

“Was I good?” Race asks. His head is still spinning a little. “Like, actually?”

It seems Jack can’t help but nod.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I was impressed. I ain’t happy about it, but you were damn good.”

Race grins.

“So you’ll let me come back?”

Jack considers it for a moment.

“There’s no stopping you, is there?”

“Nope.”

Jack sighs.

“Fine.” He reaches a hand out to help Race up. “But you owe me a drink or ten with that prize money of yours.”

Race laughs as he gets to his feet. Everything hurts, but he’s satisfied.

“You got it, boss.”

#ill prob put it on ao3 eventually but not tonight! lol #this is a tumblr exclusive folks #so that being said pls comment or rb if you feel so inclined <3 i love feedback #jack kelly #racetrack higgins #newsies #my writing #violence tw