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Chapter Text

They aren't usually involved in this kinda shit.  The Junior Branch is intended to terrorise, to jeopardise, to destroy.  Nothing as high profile as this, and definitely nothing this complex.  Napoleon got some of the younger ones to keep tabs on his brother, two or three got a bruise or two for their efforts and the rest, the better ones, gave him snippets.  It was a shooting, high profile member of the blow industry and someone else who was maybe running the brothels.  Danny said something about a transfer, Napoleon guessed maybe his brother was getting a foot in the door.  The income from those things would be a godsend.  Napoleon wants to hit himself for asking to keep lookout.  Too late to back out now.

The issue was that … well, Napoleon wasn't very good at his job.  He was good at keeping his boys in line, and he could throw crates through a glass window, but he was impulsive and disobedient and forgetful.  His older brother only trusted him with the Junior Branch because he had enough influence and the brats trusted him enough to keep doing what he wanted.  Sometimes what he wanted didn't turn out to be what his brother wanted.

Here's what he knew, officially: Something big was going to happen at Les Inferno, and he had to know what the security was like.  He had to take note of all the people who came in and out, and he had to stay out of sight.  Next to that, he knew it was a shooting of someone high up and he knew Les Inferno was Fat Annie's.  So they were either hired by Fat Annie to take out a guest, or hired by a guest to take out Fat Annie.  Or hired by someone's inside man to take out someone else.  He was just a guard.

It's boring work is what it is.  Les Inferno isn't open during the day and the only people that arrive there are suppliers and dealers.  It's money, alcohol, or blow.

"I'm fucking napping," He ends up declaring, feet propped on a slab of cement and jacket cushioning his skull.  The boys roll their eyes, yeah, okay Napoleon, and continue working.  There's eight of the usual fifteen, Willie and Luke were loud and obnoxious, so they got collection duty, and everyone else was busy with other errands his brother needed done for the night.  He trusts Willie, the kid is an orphan but he never met his parents and his work ethic is admirable.  Luke, on the other hand, was a handful and a half.  Napoleon knows Luke will try and pocket some of their collection and Willie will press the still-healing bruise on his rib as punishment.  He knows they'll end up messing around and Luke will probably drag Willie into an ally and they'll make out for a few minutes.  Luke will pocket some coins while Willie is distracted.  And Napoleon will smack Luke upside the head and collect every piece of hard cash on him.  It's a cycle he's well used to by now.

He knows Luke needs the money because his Moms is sick with some permanent illness and his Dads is out of the picture.  He knows Willie is in love with Luke and doesn't think he'll find a boy any better for him, even though Willie's only a warm body and a pickable pocket to him.  And he knows if all the money isn't there for his older brother, there'll be another burn mark on his arm.

He has to talk to James as well, and Malcolm about school.  He knows they both can read and write, shit he never got taught, and they snatch notes from kids enrolled at the local public school.  And he needed to speak to Connor about bigger clothes.  Shirts and pants that fit okay were hard to come by, but adult clothes that hung off their tiny bodies and didn't reveal Connor's bound chest … that, he could deal with.  Connor was sitting a few feet away, sucking on a cigarette and shifting uncomfortably in his tight shirt.  He catches Napoleon looking, smirks, and taps the ash away.  They fucked a few months ago and Napoleon can't really forget it.

He's drifting off before he knows it, concerned with his boys and conversations that need to be had, questions that need to be asked, things that need to be done.  Two dreamy hours in the shadow of a chimney is all it takes before he's rubbing his eyes and stretching awake.  There's faint arguing, soft and muted so it isn't serious.  It's about graffiti artists, he thinks, about Shaolin Fantastic.

"Is it really disrespect if we wants his artwork here?"

"It's the thought that counts.  You think the richies up in Manhatten would appreciate if the Mona Lisa was painted on their precious gover'ment buildings?"

"That's different.  Rich people don’t care about graffiti.  For us, we celebrate bombing as a part of the culture." Charlie smacks Malcolm upside the head.  Napoleon spits and it lands on Charlie's shirt.  4 points.

"Aren't yall supposed to be doing your jobs?" Charlie sticks out his tongue and Napoleon kicks him where his thigh was grazed last week.  Charlie folds.

"There's a new piece?"

"Yeah up on Charlotte Street.  Shaolin Fantastic, no man braver.  Been bombing all over our territory lately.  We don'ts want  him to stop but it's still disrespect." Napoleon squints a little, frowns in the midday light, then gets up.  Cause, well, Les Inferno isn't that far from Charlotte Street.

"I'll take some of yall down to Charlotte Street if you shut the fuck up about it."

"Can we, Leon?" Napoleon looks down at his little brother, eyes wide and hopeful.  He's at the age where he thinks it's cool that he can chug beers and cut people with pocket knives but it only lasts so long.  It's the honeymoon period.  He picks his best eyes and ears - Danny - and his most legible writer - James - and tells them to keep up the work.  Then he takes Charlie by the scruff of his neck and pulls him down the cement stairs.  It's cooler inside, the roof was baked in the hot summer sun, but the building is damp and smells like piss.  There's a splash ahead of him, several consecutive curse words, and Napoleon takes a wild stab at where the smell comes from.  Charlie stumbles onto the street, followed by Connor, Malcolm, Jamie, and his little brother.  One, two, three, four, five, six.  Napoleon spits on the ground, brushes his hair over his shoulder and makes for Charlotte Street.

Napoleon feels hot shame wash over his body each second his brother's gun is pressed to his temple.  There's the underlying fear as well, it's loaded as well, the safety is off, but this happens too often for Napoleon to be genuinely worried.  His boys are there, uncomfortable where the trespassers are petrified, watching as his brother cusses him out for slacking off.  His cheeks feel hot under the caked layers of dirt, his brother is screaming and the words are filling the empty lot.  He's incompetent, reckless, he begged to be put on lookout and here he was taking these lil fools out for they lunch money?  There's gunshots that hit cement, water, debris, then Papa Fuerte comes roaring in with a damn microphone.  They scatter, his brother's hand twisted into the denim of Napoleon's jean vest and pulling chunks of his hair with it.  It hurts his scalp, his knuckles are white where they clutch his riding crop.  When they arrive at an abandoned building, Napoleon is thrown to the ground unceremoniously, the rounded bone in his shoulder hitting the cement hard and rattling his teeth.  His brother paces in front of him, throwing his pistol back and forth between his left and right hand.  Napoleon doesn't dare speak until he's spoken to.

The fidgeting stops, his brother pops off the safety and shoots the ceiling.  A chunk of plaster and dry paint land near Napoleon's legs.  He flinches, can feel every muscle in his body drawing taunt.

"We're taking out someone at Les Inferno tonight," he says, Napoleon pretends to absorb this new information.  "Don't be surprised if there are gunshots.  If we aren't out in ten minutes, take the boys and go.  Darius will do the same.  Don't come in acting like no hero cause no one's gonna cover you and you'll get fucking shot." Napoleon feels words bubbling in his throat, he wants them out but his brother's hard stare keeps in place.  "I'm serious, Napoleon.  Don't be a fucking idiot.  I shouldn't have let you in on this operation but it's too late to find a replacement.  I don't want to be thinking about your half grown ass while I'm pulling this off." Then, more to himself than anything, "hopefully this will clear up our debts for a while."

"Do you not want to do it?" Napoleon asks, against his better judgement.  His brother gives him the stink eye.

"Do I want to place myself in the middle of enemy territory with minimal support?  Do I want to shoot up a cartel of high ranking coke manufacturers?  Do I want to win the favour of backstabbing cowards and involve myself with gang politics?" That answers his question.  Then, because self-preservation has never really been his strong suit around his brother,

"If you think it's dangerous why are you doing it?" His brother gives him a withering look and adjusts his headband.  There's a long wound on his stomach that has been haphazardly stitched up.  Must be a few days old, at most.

"The Senior Branch want to get in on Fat Annie's business and the best way to do that is to pull in with Wolf, her second in command.  He's a weak leader, but trusted by her and her kind.  He can be manipulated and Annie won't see it coming." Napoleon doesn't know why he's spilling all this information, but he isn't complaining.  Being aware of what was going on for once was a satisfying feeling.  "And there aren't enough resources for us to rise against the Senior Branch yet.  You and your boys are going to be in the Intermediate Branch soon.  Either you'll be absorbed into my people or we'll be absorbed into the Senior Branch.  Either way, we might be able to do something about the older guys sending us on all these suicide missions." Napoleon thinks he has a greater understanding of the way it works.  He remembers his brother as an 18-year-old, excited to be accepted as the newest member of the Intermediate Branch of the Savage Warlords.  It meant access to the underground bar and motorcycles and higher profit margins.  It also meant more complex and high profile campaigns.  After that, he started shoving pistols in Napoleon's face and coming home bleeding.  Waking up screaming.  Yelling and withdrawing himself.  The soft boy from seven years ago only popped up sometimes.

His brother sighs, shoves his gun in his waistband and starts to take off.

"Do you have any spare rags?  Like, shirts and pants?" God could Leon not make this any fucking worse and keep his trap zipped for a half a second of his goddamn life--

His brother pauses at the door, considering.

"Is this for Connor?" Napoleon nods.  "I'll see what I can do."

An hour before the attack, when it's dark and damp, Napoleon crouches beside his brother.  There's a satchel tossed his way, it lands at his feet and he looks up.

"Clothes.  For Connor." Napoleon smiles in thanks.

Chapter Text

He's playing basketball when it happens.  The Junior Branch is being filtered again - James, Luke, Charlie, and maybe Danny will be moved up.  He's seventeen himself, short, thin, queer.  He knows he made it this far because of his older brother.  His older brother who's gone now.  If he gets the boot, he'll be a bum or an addict stuck on the streets without a dime to his name.

His little brother can't play for shit, so he plays hard enough for his brother to need to play dirty.  He's just thrown the ball into the milk crate for the fourth time when a car pulls up beside them.  He keeps his eye on it, plays like nothing is wrong, waits for the two men in the car to approach him and his brother.  As long has he doesn't make a fuss, he has nothing to worry about.

One of the men is Wolf, the guy who, apparently, hired them for the assassination.  He's not sure how it actually went, all he knows is that the Senior Branch is in a spot because of it and his brother is gone.  Permanently.

His little brother seems to notice the men getting out of the car and jumps.

"N-Napoleon those two guys are coming towards us, let's go." Napoleon doesn't look at him and pretends to keep playing.  If they think they're in control, there's no need to shoot.

"No, I know them, it's okay.  Just stay ca-"

"He's got a gun!" His brother starts tearing away and Napoleon curses under his breath.  He can't run after him.

He's approached, cordially, by Wolf and the other man.  He goes to greet them, acknowledge their business history and ask how he can help when the handle of Wolf's pistol comes smacking down.

Napoleon isn't stupid.  He knows Fat Annie is looking for him which means Cadillac and Wolf are looking for him which means Little Wolf and Cadillac's henchmen and dozens of cops, hired goons and drug dealers are on the lookout for a short little prick with long hair down to his ass.

He can't find it in himself to cut it off.  Sometimes he likes to run his fingers through it and plait it.  He can't remember who taught him how to do it or why he feels warm when all the knots are out.  He thinks someone might have done it for him when he was younger.  It might have been his older brother.

He's tired and he's hungry and he knows that you sleep through the early morning and stay awake night, day, and afternoon.  Fat Annie's people wake up at noon and start looking until it's very technically morning, then retire.  Between midnight and 11am he's safe, but he's just so fucking exhausted.  Every time he closes his eyes he can see his brothers riddled with bullet holes and covered in blood, and when he wakes he's just more tired.

He goes to the Junior Branch first, asks for sanctuary.  It's against policy, but he led them for years, they were brothers.  Willie says there's nothing they can do; maybe after they overthrow the Senior Branch.  He goes to his friends in the Intermediate Branch with the same request - help, protection, food, anything.  Luke pushes him out the door, his eyes wild and neck scratched up and raw.  He looks at Napoleon almost desperately, perhaps in understanding and gratitude that he was treated so well.  "Go," he says, voice breaking, "They'll sell you to Fat Annie without fucking blinking." Napoleon's heart hammers in his chest and he adds the Savage Warlords to his list of people to avoid.  He has backups - store owners, dealers, nurses, volunteers at the food kitchens, but none of them want to harbour the kid who attempted Fat Annie's murder.

He ends up parked near an abandoned building, not in it, obviously, but in an alcove that runs parallel.  He sometimes sees Shaolin Fantastic, once every few days or so, or thinks he does, practicing swoops and jumps.  It's only for an hour, usually, and he digs his blunt nails into his own arm to stop himself making a sound.  Shaolin works for Fat Annie, he knows.

After a few weeks, Shaolin starts pushing shit around.  He pulls the plastic wraps off furniture and opens windows and messes around with his sword the whole time.  Napoleon has been good, he's been okay, he's kept out of sight and been as silent as he could.  But he needs to relocate, he knows, and he leaves in the morning, starts looking for other places, keeps his head down.  It's impossible to find places that aren't in heavily guarded territory, taken, or unsafe to sleep in.

He sleeps under garbage bags and gets kicked enough times for him to return to the building, if just for a night.

It's the wrong night.

Shaolin Fantastic has turned the place into a dreamland, with carpets adorning the floors and bright lights illuminating the space.  He can see other people, boys, dancing and singing and talking while Shao messed with a pair of turntables.  He was going to leave, he was, he was going to find a bridge or something to curl under but it was warmer here and they were reciting poetry and laughing and smiling and it looked so good, so completely out of his reach that Napoleon couldn't help but mourn for it.

If he squints, he can see that the boys are the ones he terrorised on Charlotte Street, before the entirety of Les Inferno went down.  Weirdo, Skinny Twins and Half Grown, he'd named them.

He ends up falling asleep there, he doesn't mean to, dreaming of someone running his fingers through Napoleon's hair and talking ecstatically about comic books and films and television.  His voice is soft even when it's loud, his fingers are warm and gentle and it takes a while for him to understand that he's grieving for his older brother.

He's jolted awake with a foot on his temple and a cruel sounding "Rise and shine, Napoleon; the fuck you doing on our turf, punk?"

He's going to be hit, he's going to be hit, he's going to be hit.

Half Grown is going to smack him and someone is going to get shot, his brother will be shot again, he can hear that awful music in his head, but it isn't in his head anymore.  It's playing on a turntable beside him, crooning, unmistakable brass.  The fairy lights flicker around the room as a train goes by, and the reds, the yellows, the bright lights force the image of a stained disco ball into his mind -- one covered in his older brother's blood and the last thing his younger brother saw before he-  before-

"Alright, alright!  Stop!" Half Grown's hand is drawn back, Napoleon isn't even sure if he's been hit yet but he can't take it.  The song, the lights, the hand in his hair, restraining him.  It's too much.

"Smack him Boo, c'mon c'mon." The grip loosens and Napoleon falls to his knees, undignified and vulnerable.  He kind of hates himself for it.

"Not this song," he sobs quietly, choking on the words and holding his hands close to his chest.  He hears, distantly, Half Grown arguing with Shao, but the ballad progresses into vocals and all he can do is rock back and forth, reliving every second of that night at Les Inferno, every second of the interrogation.  He doesn't even know what he's saying, but his mouth is moving and his throat is stumbling over half sobbed sentences.

"Yo man, hey look, this ain't right." Skinny Twin No.1 speaks up from across the room, and he feels a stab of gratitude.  Shaolin shoves at his husk of a body, demands to know why he's crying.   Napoleon just keeps babbling.  He looks right into Shao's eyes, begging for some kind of mercy.  Eventually he forces out some information, he manages to be useful.  He can't bring himself to say the name, but he pushes out descriptors - his red Buick, his love of cigars, his obsession with this fucking song.

Shaolin leaves after the interrogation, probably making for Fat Annie's to snitch on Wolf.  Napoleon is curled on the couch, shaking like a leaf.  Half Grown and Skinny Twin No.1 are still in the room as well, looking at him with infuriatingly sympathetic looks.  They look uncomfortable.

"Just so you know, I was here first.  I called dibs before Shao took it." Though his voice wavers slightly, he feels okay mouthing off to the two kids in front of him. There was no way he was raising his voice at a guy with a sword cane.

"I can talk to him about it," says Half Grown, then he stands up.  C'mon, Ra, he thinks he hears, we gotta head home.  Napoleon feels that word echo in his own chest, home.  He sinks into the cushions, Shaolin Fantastic is probably sorting out the entire Les Inferno mess and Napoleon hasn't slept properly in months and-

When he meets them again, Fantastic Four Plus One they call themselves, he's reined all the way in.  He's not brittle or on the verge of an attack, which means he isn't irritable and more aware of the fact that he beat these guys up not two months ago.

He's known of Shao for as long as he can remember, and it's him he really meets first.  It's a few days after the brothers tugged him in, yelling at him and preparing to beat his ass.  After he whimpered and begged them to stop before they'd even begun.

The next day, Shao sits him down and has a talk with him.  It's kinder than Napoleon was expecting, it's things like you know if you need a place to crash, you can come here.  Don't expect me to feed you or nothin, but the space is yours.  Napoleon doesn't know how old Shaolin is but it feels like he's a kid.  Like him, maybe.  Street rat who made something for himself.

Napoleon nods, grabs the moldy sheets he'd been sleeping in and takes off.  He knows he can't go back to the Savage Warlords.  He isn't safe in their ranks, and there's a political struggle happening as well.  There has to be somewhere else.

There is one place he hasn't been yet.  He tries the club he used to sell at, the gay club with plenty of orphans and, well, those whose parents may as well be 6 feet under.  He looks to the surrogate families that have started springing in their wake, fondly known as 'houses'.  He knows some of the people there -- in fact, he probably sold any number of narcotics to several parents of esteemed families.

It's not worth it.  The fathers aren't prepared to let a Savage Warlord into their families, and the mothers most certainly won't take someone who deals crack to their children.  He doesn't get the boot - they know how it is, all of them, how hard it is to make it on your own - but he's told, sternly, that he's not part of the family.

He reaches out again.  It's been a little while, so he talks to Debbie, the nurse whose college textbooks he managed to lift from the store and get to her for free.  She looks at him pityingly, then makes an excuse.  It's fine the first time.  Then Ivan from the butcher does it, his brother's old coke dealers, Sally and Denise at the food kitchen.  He, for once, wishes he was like his brother.  Grown, intimidating, powerful.  His backups crumble one by one, all over again.

He's outside an electronics store downtown, looking through the window as the shop owner throws something at some kids.  And he knows he's gonna get the same treatment without a mob of armed brats on his arm or his older brother holding a gun.

He thinks about Shao's offer, thinks about how happy he looks there and the grinning, dancing, singing boys.  It’s really his pride that's keeping him away, he thinks.

He meets Zeke second, after holding his fist in front of the door for half an hour, debating whether this is a good idea.  There's a muffled it's open when he works up the nerve and he walks in on Skinny Twin No. 2 reciting poetry to the record Shao is spinning.  He stutters when he sees Napoleon there, but to his merit he keeps going, barely missing a beat.  They keep going for a while, Shao's buddy watching carefully as Napoleon grabs some pillows and a blanket from beside the couch.  He'd tossed his old blankets in a burning trashcan on the way over, and once he gets a gun he'll be able to provide his own food, clothing, bed dressings, but for now, he let himself rest.  It was exhausting living on the streets, and it was exhausting chipping away at his pride for a place to sleep.

When Shao finishes up, he gestures to Napoleon.

"Zeke, this is Napoleon.  Napoleon, Zeke." Napoleon nods his way, shoulders tensed in preparation for a confrontation.  Zeke turns to Shao, speaks to him in hushed whispers and Shao says something back that seems to satisfy Zeke, so he leans forward and extends his hand.

"Nice to meet you, man," he says, as Napoleon takes his hand.

Ra comes afterwards, later in the same day, and acts skittish around him for hours.  He doesn't even do anything, just smiles at him and Ra takes it as some sort of threat.  Napoleon doesn't care - he owes Shao a big debt for letting him crash there, but the other four weren't of his concern.  Or so he thought.

He meets Dizzee next, who's the first exception.  They cross paths at an unambiguously queer club - Napoleon is picking up some records from Frankie Knuckles and Dizzee is dancing all but on the lap of a long-haired white boy.  He's on his way out, as well, but the afro, the button-sewn jacket, the smile on his face is far too familiar.  Dizzee notices him staring - he's the only one stilled one in a crowd of moving bodies - and tilts his head in surprise.  Then he nods in Napoleon's direction, yeah, I recognise you too, and goes back to grinding on his boy.  Napoleon smiles to himself and takes off, the clubs really weren't his scene to begin with and Hector Xtravaganza was gonna give him another "talk" if he stuck around.

Napoleon sees him walking up the steps to the temple a week later and he grins at him.

"Napoleon, right?" He nods, that's him, and they make their way towards the door together.  "I'm Dizzee."

It's another week before he meets Boo Boo, and when they're all in the same room together - Shao, Zeke, Ra, Dizz and Boo, Napoleon feels less like a stranger.  Shao introduces them, and up close, gripping his hand, Napoleon stills for a moment.  Boo is so fucking pretty it's ridiculous.

"Can I call you Leon for short?" Don't call me anything else, he wants to say.  In lieu of this, he grins, big and wide, hand still gripping Boo's.  There's a flicker of surprise, then he grins back.  "Never seen you smile before," he says, drawing his hand away.  Fuck.