Chapter Text
Systems are cruel.
That's one of the first lessons any of the Newsies learned.
Systems are cruel.
The system that could get any of them them thrown in the Refuge for no reason if they weren't watching their backs 24/7.
The system that treated half of the world like objects, and the other half like machines.
The system that could beat someone to death for doing nothing more than existing and get away with it.
The system that ensured that the only people who would ever hold power were the ones who would abuse it.
Systems are cruel.
But there was one system that Patrick Cortes had never thought would be cruel.
The system inside people that gave them someone they were destined to be with.
The soulmate system.
He was proven wrong at the age of seven.
*-_-*-•-*-_-*
"Patrick?" A woman's voice called through the tiny apartment. "Where are you?"
There was a thud and a crash, and a seven-year-old with a missing front tooth came barreling into the kitchen, skidding to a stop in front of his mother.
"I didn't do it." He declared factually.
His mother — a short, loud woman with a quick temper — smiled uncharacteristically brokenly at him. "Nothing for you to have done, mo bhuachaill beag. I need to talk to you about something."
Her speech was cut off by a coughing fit. She leaned over the sink and — to Patrick's horror — coughed up some blood, along with a fistful of petals and a flower.
"Ma?"
She turned back to him, jaw set, but a tear in her eye. "I'm dying, Patrick."
Patrick processed the statement. It hadn't quite settled yet. "Are you sick? Do we need medicine?"
"I am sick." The woman confirmed. "But medicine can't help. I have something called the Hanahaki disease."
"Is that where the flowers come from?" Patrick asked innocently, referring to the petals now in the trash.
"Yes, it is." She replied with a proud smile. "That's my smart boy."
Patrick sniffled. "H-how did you catch it?"
"You know how your father and I are soulmates, right?" She prompted.
The little boy nodded. "'Cause he said the words on your wrist."
"And do you know what those words mean?"
He shook his head.
The woman rolled up her long sleeves to show him the sentences on her wrists.
"He said this one-" She gestured to her right wrist. "-when we were teenagers."
Patrick slowly read the words — 'Come with me?' — written on her wrist in fancy, calligraphy type writing.
"And he said this one-" Her voice shook slightly, as she indicated her left wrist. "-a month ago, when I told him I'd caught Hanahaki."
He read the scribbled words with a sick feeling in his stomach. 'Not anymore.'
Patrick still looked confused. "What do they mean, Mam?"
"These two sentences are the two times your father has broken my heart." She explained simply. "That's how I know he's my soulmate."
Patrick looked down at the words again.
'Not anymore.'
"How did that break your heart?"
She lifted her chin ever so slightly, determined not to let her son see her cry. "You see, someone can only get Hanahaki if they love someone who doesn't love them back. And your father... doesn't love me anymore."
Patrick's little mind whirred. "What are we gonna do?"
"You're gonna be okay, sweetheart." The woman knelt down in front of him. "Your Aunt Riley will take care of you."
The little boy just shook his head. "I don't want Aunt Riley, I want you!"
"I know." She wrapped her arms around him. And maybe a singular tear made its way down her cheek. "I'm so sorry."
*-_-*-•-*-_-*
That was a terrible day, but the one that followed, a week later, was much, much worse.
He remembered it vividly.
He had been sitting on the bed next to her, trying to get her to drink a glass of water while she wheezed and coughed, barely able to draw breath.
"Come on, Mam." He smiled at her as best he could. "Drink your water."
She sat up as best she could. The woman was an inch from death, but she'd be damned if she didn't do one last thing for her son.
Before she could reach for the water however, she tipped onto her side, hitting her sternum weakly in an attempt to breathe.
"Ma!?" Patrick exclaimed worriedly.
She looked to her son one last time and smiled. She couldn't help it.
"I..."
Her voice was almost too faint to hear.
"I love you..."
Each word sounded like it pained her.
"Patr-..."
Then her voice was gone.
"Mam?" Patrick's voice cracked. "Wake up, Ma. You gotta drink your water. Mam? Dúisigh le do thoil. I don't like it, please wake up. Please? Ma?"
But she didn't wake up.
*-_-*-•-*-_-*
Patrick remembered many things about that day.
He remembered crying over his mother's body until he fell asleep.
He remembered waking up and realizing there was no one to take care of him.
He remembered running, away from the place his mother had died, away from the place his father would never return.
But what he remembered most about that day — and the memory remained with him for a very long time — was that it was raining.
Not thundering. Patrick hated thunder.
But he loved rain.
He loved the smell of it. He loved the feeling of it on his face. He loved how clean it felt.
And as he ran through streets and back alleyways, all he could think was...
Freedom.
Fresh start.
Ma.
He ran for what felt like years, until his chest was burning and he was sorely thankful for the cool rain.
WHAM!
Patrick was knocked flat on his back from the force of the impact.
He looked up to find three boys looking down at him, including the one he'd just run into.
"Woah, slow down, kid." A tall boy with a flat hat knelt down next to him. "Who's after ya?"
Patrick's eyes narrowed in confusion. "No one."
The boy didn't seem to believe him, but he dropped it. "You got a name?"
Patrick looked out at the rain.
Freedom.
Fresh start.
He wasn't Patrick Cortes anymore.
"No."