Chapter Text
Jack looked at Les expectantly. They were sitting on a stack of fruit boxes in Jacobi’s deli away from the rest of the newsies. He was seated in front of the kid, and he was getting really worried. The little boy was fidgeting, and was taking deep breaths as if he were to start a difficult speech only to shut his mouth again, which was uncommon for Les - he was quite talkative.
“Y’knows ya can tell me ev’rythin’, right?” he tried saying to ease the atmosphere a bit, slurring his words in nervousness, “I’s yer favorite newsie, and you’s like my brother.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Les glanced up with him with a pained expression, as if he were heading to a pitchfork. “There’s a girl in my road and she’s the prettiest I’s ever seen,” he suddenly rapped while his cheeks grew beet red.
“A girl?” Jack parroted, a playful grin tugging his lips. “Why, Les, you’s come talkin’ to the right man!” He patted a hand on one of his shoulders, and sat next to him. He was relieved that Les’ discomfort didn't prove to be caused by something dangerous or stressful.
He waited for Les to add something, but the boy kept his gaze fixed on the ground, embarrassed and silent - which, again, was weird for Les - inviting Jack to take the conversation into his own hands. “What’s she like?”
“She got brown eyes,” Les mumbled, “And she’s very kind.”
“Really? That’s important in a person.”
“Yeah, but she’s never gonna want ta talk ta me again. I bumped into her and made all of ‘er pencils fly on the ground. She said it wasn’t no problem, but ‘t was pretty damn embarrassing!” the kid whined, digging his head into his hands.
“I think it ain’t no biggie. The best love stories starts with an accident,” he said rubbing the child’s back to console him, but at his words Les scrunched his nose in blatantly exaggerated disgust. His face shone in an even brighter red, though, and Jack fought the urge to laugh at his antics.
“I don’t want a love story. It’s so yucky!”
“Sure ya doesn’t,” Jack teased, barely stifling his chuckle, “Then why’s ya face so flush’d?” Lea groaned loudly, and hid himself even deeper into his crossed arms.
“I hate you,” he stated. Jack finally let out the laugh he so desperately tried to contain, and Les started punching him furiously, denying Jack’s immoral and revolting suggestion. “Okay, fine. I might want to hold her hand, but that’s it! I don’t wanna stick my tongue in her mouth like ya do!” he finally admitted, his voice shrill.
“All right, all right,” he conceded. He ruffled his hair, still smirking a bit, and asked, “So, can I know the broad’s name?”
“Margaret,” Les muttered, averting his gaze once again.
“Jeez, that’s a big name for a lil’ girl.”
“She’s not little! She’s my age!” the other immediately protested.
“So… she’s tiny,” he joked, earning himself another painful punch on the shoulder, which he very maturely ignored. “What does she like? Ya can win her heart by givin’ ‘er somethin’ you casually know she loves,” he suggested.
In his humble opinion, it was good advice, even though he had a hard time following it himself. He didn’t earn enough money to pay every girl he liked a nice gift, so he resorted to flirting with them and shooting cocky smiles, which wasn’t really a piece of advice he could offer a nearly ten year old. Les’ eyes widened, and, for the first time since the start of the conversation, he smiled.
“I saw her picking up flowers in front of school!” he screamed enthusiastically, “Ya think she’d like some?”
“Give ‘er the best ya see, and ya’ll be holdin’ ‘er hand in no time, trust me!” Les nodded, and thanked him as he scurried away to the other newsies. He stopped abruptly, and ran up to him again, “Don’t tell David this,” he pleaded. Jack raised an eyebrow, quizzically.
“Whaddya mean?”
“I know you two tell each other almost everything, but could this be our secret? Please? It’d be soo embarrassing if my family found out.”
He wore a pout. Then he sat on his knees, and joined his hands in supplication. Jack feared he could burst out crying at any given moment, so he quickly agreed. “I mean, sure.”
Les smiled satisfied and spat on his hand, then extended it. He looked at Les strange as he replicated the gesture and awkwardly took the kid’s hand. As they shook hands, he tried to suggest, “But I’s sure my Davey can give ya much better advice. He’s got a lot of brains, and he actually talks to girls from ya side of town, ya dig?”
“David? Girls?” Les repeated in surprise, as if Jack had just told him the most absurd story.
“Yeah, why so shocked, Les? With those looks he has ta have a queue goin’ from Manhattan to Santa Fe!” This time it was the little boy’s turn to look at him like he had grown a second pair of arms. The kid slowly walked away, a troubled expression clouding his eyes. After a few seconds of tense silence, Les asked, “Wait, ya thinks my brother looks good?”
“Yeah?” he answered hesitantly, “Who wouldn’t?” Les shook his head in disbelief, and ran off with a satisfied smile creeping on his face, leaving Jack extremely confused.
Davey really did look good. Sometimes the color of his eyes took his breath away, it was just so clear and unique. In fact, he had a lot of trouble finding the right shade to render them in his drawings. He filled pages and pages with Davey’s face and frame, but only a few were colored in. He just felt like the cheap paints and crayons he owned didn’t do justice to his friend’s vibrant tones, so he limited himself to the gray graphite. But he deeply wished he had enough talent and good material to replicate every single hue that characterized his friend.
He frowned at the thought that others didn’t find him as attractive as he did. It was also to be said that he talked to his little brother, and from what he learned, Les had a passion for bullying Davey and sorts, so it might have just been that. Pleased with his solution, he went back to the gathering.
—
The newsies were used to Davey and Les bickering. They’d quarrel over who had sold more papers that day or over what was the worst food in the world. They’d scream at each other petty but creative insults till they held no breath in their lungs anymore, and Les would often throw hands at his brother.
It was fun, for those not involved. Race would quickly create a betting pool every time he heard Davey tiredly sigh at Les’ provocations, having understood that that was the signal for the imminence of the storm. So the newsies would bet on one of them - only on Les, in truth, the forever winner - and like that the two brothers’ little angry interactions became regular entertainment.
Jack liked when they quarreled, too. It was one of those rare moments when Davey was completely unaware of his surroundings, only focusing on his little brother’s infuriating face. He understood that his friend always felt as if thousands of judging and hostile eyes were on him, making him hyper aware of everything he said and did. His words were always studied, and so were his gestures.
Jack noticed, though, that a few things escaped his morbid control. For example, Davey would unawarely ruffle the edges of the newspapers he held in his hands, or he would nervously play with his shirts’ cuffs when he had to talk to a bunch of new people, or he would bite his lips when he was at a loss of words.
David was learning to open up more with the newsies, becoming more and more comfortable in himself, but sometimes it was clear that he couldn’t shake off his back the fear of judgment. Jack liked it when he was spontaneous, he got the impression that his edges were less rough and his eyes a bit softer. That was why Jack enjoyed observing them fight.
But that evening was different. They were spending the last hours of daylight before supper time at the lodging house like they had started to do. Usually they’d play or chat with the rest of them, but that day David was staring silently in horror at Les, who was crying, while he passively received the little boy’s insults. The kid’s tone got shriller at every jab, and David’s clear eyes were starting to fill with tears too.
“I doesn’t get why ya so mad, David! Mad that I took some pennies from the ones ya savin’ to buy plants for ya dream apartment with Jack?” David's eyes jarred as a fierce crimson arrived to his face. Jack was sure that, despite not having a mirror in front of him to see it, his reaction was very similar. He quickly tried to dismiss it, pretending to pick something up from the ground. David looked around the room, lost, as he took a few steps back. He whispered to Les to quit it, but the boy was unstoppable.“Or is you jus’ mad I might have a chance with the person I like?”
David reddened even more, while a teardrop escaped his eye. He quickly dried it away, and he clenched his fists. He suddenly threw himself against Les, trembling with anger. Then, he slapped him hard in the face. A red mark, that must have burned a lot, was left on the kid’s cheek. The newsies made shocked, or, in some cases, amused, faces. David turned to them, and stood there for a few seconds, frozen, and then ran away, covering his face with an arm.
Jack was in total shock. He gestured to the newsies to leave. His friends headed out, mumbling their theories about what just occurred. The newsies he was closer with hesitated before going away, and they looked back at him as if to ask if he would be all right. No one had ever seen them fight so harshly, so what could happen afterwards was a mystery. Jack nodded confidently, so the boys left. He was sure that they still remained nearby, in case any help was needed.
He walked up to Les, who was wailing loudly on the ground, and picked him up to bring him to a more secluded area. He wasn’t sure of what to do, so he just flung an arm around the boy’s shoulders and leant into him. He felt the kid shaking against him, his sobs making him violently shiver. He was weeping so hard he feared Les could be ripped in half by one of his hiccups.
Jack was unsure of what to do, but he vividly remembered how Kloppman had once comforted him when he woke up from a terrifying nightmare about the misery he had lived in as a little child. The old man had traced circles on his back, silent - he was not of many words - and under his soothing silence and touch he eventually calmed down. So, he caressed Les’ arms, quiet, hoping that it would work for him too. And it did, because Les tranquilized himself in a little while, his copious crying developing into slumped shoulders and a miserable face.
“He’s neva gonna talk ta me again!” he whispered, words laced with desperation. Jack turned to face the boy, and was so surprised to see the fear in his eyes. Did Les really believe that? His mouth flew open. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Davey would throw away his life just for Les to smile.
“Aw, kid, don’t be stupid.”
“But I said so many super mean stuff that I shouldn’t have said.” Jack shrugged, and held him tighter. He had forced himself not to think about what Les hinted to - and he was doing a fantastic job at it, until the boy decided to bring it up again. He didn’t like the way his cheeks had blushed at the mere thought of living with Davey. And yet, it didn’t matter how much he scolded himself, because just at the thought of coming home to their little apartment, to Davey, his heart fluttered involuntarily.
“Davey would fight Brooklyn on his own just for ya, I’s sure ya’ll be as grand as before in no time!” he reassured, ignoring his own turmoil. “It happens, y’know, gettin’ crazy ‘n’ stuff. We says things we doesn’t really mean, and end up bein’ as sad as a beaten dog. Ya can always make up for it, though, if ya wanna. Do ya wanna?”
“Of course! What kinda question is that! He’s my brother, and - don’t tell ‘im I said this to ya - I love ‘im.”
“See? Don’t see no problem.” Les wiped his face with his hands, looking up to him in hope. He smiled encouragingly.
“I’ll go talk ta ‘im. But can ya please talk to him first and tell me if he still loves me?” Jack sighed and gave him a hug. He promised him that he would, but he didn’t want to leave the boy on his own, as much as he’d love to see Davey.
The sound of a crutch tapping on the floor arrived in Jack's ears. A few moments later, Crutchie’s face poked from the door. Jack’s eyes lightened up - he could talk to David while having someone looking after Les. It was amazing how Crutchie and him could communicate with each other without any words - hell, without even being in the same room. They had known each other for most of their lives, and he was pretty sure that part of their brains were shared by then. Jack would always thank whoever was up there for sending Crutchie to him.
“Did ya talk to Davey?”
“He’s ya fella, not mine, ain’t he?” Crutchie replied, not really providing him an answer, and also making Jack huff in annoyance. He hated how David’s nickname was replaced by “Jack’s fella” by his closest friends. He hated it, really, because it wasn’t true - they were and would forever be just friends. And besides, even just thinking about something of the sorts was wrong. He heard Sister Ann say so in the streets. He glanced at Les, silently asking if he felt well enough to be left with Crutchie, who sighed exasperated, “If I can handle ya, I can handle anyone in the world! And Les and me, we’s best friends.”
“Ya can’t handle yaself, Crutchie.” His friend menacingly raised an arm at those words, ready to swing it against his torso, but Jack continued nonetheless, “Someone I trust told me ya was ‘cause a bloody pigeon got crushed by a horse.” He wasn’t going to specify that that someone was Race, a very unreliable narrator, but the blush on his friend’s cheeks proved that it wasn’t an exaggeration or a joke. Les bursted out in a little laugh at that, making Jack glow with pride.
“You’s all just a bunch of brutes with no sympathy,” Crutchie snapped back, not even trying to hide his indignation. “Leav’as alone, now, Kelly. Me ‘n’ my pal here got some important stuff to discuss.”
Then, Crutchie shooed him away. Jack chuckled with his arms raised in surrender as he walked out of the room. “Go away, Jack! Quickly! Even because ya fella is waitin’ for ya.”
Jack stopped laughing abruptly.
“Can you guys stop callin’ ma brother Jack’s fella in fronta me?” Les intervened, his nose still runny from crying, but his mouth twisted in a small smile. “Some things I doesn’t wanna know.” While Crutchie threw his head back, roaring in laughter, Jack groaned loudly, not punching his friend on the nose only thanks to the dried tears on Les’ face.
“‘Before ya gets some wrong ideas, kid, ‘tis just a joke,” Jack said to defend his honor, his pride, his name and his reputation. The little boy raised his eyebrows. Crutchie kept laughing, clearly very entertained. Well, Jack wasn’t. He was exasperated, and really tired of the situation.
“And a bad one at that, too,” he spat to end the horrible conversation, and ran away, leaving those two, who clearly had made a deal to make his life miserable, alone.
He knew where Davey usually hid when he was upset or tired, and hoped that that night would be no exception. Jack could picture him clearly, sitting on the frosted fire escape, crying and severely punishing himself. It felt important to him that that was the place where Dave and he started to spend most of their time together, Davey correcting the text for his illustrations that would be sent off to The World while he drew new ones.
He quickly stepped on the escapeway, and the icy air cut him all at once. He shivered. Davey was really stupid to stay there in the cold, he thought, when he noticed him shuddering. He guessed he was stupid too, following him.
“Go away,” David ordered, his voice cracking.
“Nope.” He sat next to his friend. He wailed when the iron’s cold passed on to his hands, and quickly retracted. Davey didn’t even notice his embarrassing yelp, and had that look that hinted that he was worlds away. By the sad dullness in his eyes, they weren’t really hospitable.
Jack leant closer to him, and Davey wrapped his trembling arms - maybe for the cold, maybe for the emotion - around his waist, and sunk his face into one of his shoulders. Jack turned around so that he could embrace him more comfortably. He felt a few tears dampen his shirt, and Jack felt like crying too. It was overwhelming, seeing his Davey so distraught on such a cold night. He held him tighter, trying to offer as much solace he could.
“I’m stupid, so, so stupid. He just wanted some money for a bouquet for some girl, and I got so mad about it! It was stupid, and petty. I’m the older brother, I should help him out with these things, but I just created such a fuss! I should have given him that money without him even asking me! And I hurt him! I got scared that he would-” Dave stopped, but then continued, “I actually hurt him! I.. I.. In front of you all too! When I saw his face, your faces, I just… I just. I don’t know. I’m such a fool, I’m such a piece of shit, hitting my own kid brother,” David rambled, mumbling and barely breathing.
“I mean, no matter how much I love the kid, he did steal some of ya money, ya should always ask first before takin’ some,” he tried reasoning. David fell silent at his words, and for some reason it was more deafening.
He tentatively brought a hand to Davey’s hair, patting his head. When he studied the situation something infiltrated into his heart, like color did when he dipped a paintbrush, loaded with paint, into clear water. He turned his gaze up to the moon, a vague sense of, perhaps, shyness lurching in his guts.
The sky was terse, and the moon and the stars were visible, which was quite rare. The biting frost must have scared off the clouds. He snickered as he boasted in his mind that the cold could make clouds flee, but certainly not David and him. They’d stay there all night, if his friend needed it, no matter if their limbs and nerves would get numb by the end of it.
He kept his eyes facing upwards, as he rested his chin over Davey’s head. It was reassuring, gazing at the night sky without a storm’s looming presence. Rain was hell for newsies: it was cold, the newspapers got soaked, and everyone was in a rush so had no time to stop and buy papers. As his mind drifted away, he noticed that Davey’s erratic breathing had been slowly tuning to his own slow one, so he took some deep breaths to make following his rhythm easier.
Then, guilt suddenly washed over him. He was the root of the problem. If he hadn’t given that piece of advice to Les, that mess wouldn’t have been born. “Davey!” he exclaimed, frantic, “‘Twas ma idea! I tol’im that he could flirt with her with some flowers. I thinked he’d just get some from the field, but I guess he wanted to do sumthin’ big. It’s ma fault.”
“Stop it,” Davey cut in. And Jack did. He sealed his lips, and David hugged him tighter. Time had passed, and it was clear that Davey felt much better, but neither of them shied away from the embrace. It was too warm and pleasant to let go. “I guess I got mad for that too,” David confessed suddenly. When he saw his confused face, he explained, “That he told you and not me. ‘Specially when I told him that I- especially when I tell him everything. But I guess I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t even know where to start with girls.”
“Don’t say that, I know ya got yaself some ladies, ya modest craphead.” Because it couldn’t be true that no one was interested in David.
“Girls don’t even waste a glance on me, Jack.”
It cut, hard and cold. There was no endearment sweetly hanging at the end of his name like one of Mr. Jacobi’s desserts they sometimes managed to bag after a meal. He couldn’t remember when they started adding the “y” to their name, but they did, and it stuck. Jack couldn’t deny not liking it. Calling each other like that had that syrupy taste of the home he never had, but so fervently hoped for.
He looked into David’s eyes and saw that there was much more in those words than shown. He wanted to investigate, to ask “why”, to steal every piece of information he could, but he understood that Davey didn’t want him to, not right then at least. So Jack broke the tension with the first thing that bounced to his mind. “Well, they’s stupid. I think ya look smokin’.”
“Great! Only one person in the world thinks I look good, and it’s you,” Davey deadpanned, but his ears burned up, so his words must have flattered him a little bit.
“I doesn’t like the way ya said “you”, mista’,” he teased. His friend scoffed, and he was pretty sure that, if he hadn’t been too tied up into being a mature teenager, Davey would have punched him. Jack beamed proudly at those hints that indicated Davey felt better. “Also I think ya should keep my words in high value, since I’s considered quite charmin’. Dontcha think?”
“Okay, you son of a gun,” Davey said as he started to stand up, rolling up his sleeves to indicate he was ready to fight. Jack immediately sprung up, guffawing like a little kid, and threw himself at the stairs, ready to climb them. But when his skin scraped the handrail as he flew up, he jolted and let out a little cry. The iron was so cold it burnt. He waved his hand around, but when he looked down at Davey, whose eyes were getting lighter at every second as he ran up the stairs to catch him, he put on a brave face.
Davey jumped in front of him and smacked him hard on the shoulder. Jack grinned sheepishly, and dug his burned hand into a pocket of his trousers as he sat down on the stairs, inviting his friend to sit next to him. Despite it being one of the coldest nights he experienced that winter, he didn’t want his moment with Davey to end, and he was ready to spend it all outside.
“I really meaned it when I said you’s pretty,” he suddenly said to break the silence. He waited for a reply, which never came. Silence reigned between them. Had he said something wrong? His ears rang in panic. He furtively peeked at his friend, just to seek any trace of a reaction, but what was meant to be a furtive glance developed into a stare.
It would be difficult for anyone not to admire Davey, especially when he had his lips parted in surprise. Jack laughed softly at the reaction. His friend turned his head away, directing it to the moon, as a blush crept up his neck. Davey played with the cuffs of his shirt, probably looking for any dignified way of answering.
After a while, Davey pursed his lips, sketching a small frown, and then suggested, “We should get going.” He stood up, and offered his hand. Jack was relieved that he wasn’t weirded out. Distractingly, he took it with his damaged one. He winced. Of course, Davey noticed. He knitted his brows together in worry, and grabbed his hand.
“Ya got burnt from the cold!” he shrieked.
“I wann’d ta stay here witcha.” Davey shook his head in disbelief as he examined his frostburn.
“Um, I’m not a doctor, but I believe you should soak it in warm water or something.”
Jack snorted, and said, “As if we newsies have some hot wad’a.”
“Come home with me, then.” Jack jolted at the force of those words. Davey had said it as if it were something logical and simple, yet it was everything but for Jack. It wasn’t that he’d never been there, it was just the way his friend phrased it, as he firmly stared into his eyes, that made him queasy. “We have some coal, we could boil some,” he explained.
“Ah, no, thanks, Davey. Imma jus’ wave it in fronta ‘f the chimney, ‘n’ see. It ain’t nothin’ serious, happened thousands of times before.” Davey still seemed worried, but he didn’t insist. He still didn’t let go of his hand, though, holding it tight between his own. Jack glanced at him questioningly, but Davey was too busy staring at their intertwined fingers to catch his glance. He smiled as Davey started drawing circles on his burn, probably trying to pass on some heat. It was a miserable attempt, but it was enough to set his heart - and face - aflame.
Time passed in a haze, marked by small laughs and burning cheeks. But eventually, the cold sunk into their bones, stiffening them. Davey started coughing, too.
“Um, I should go and get Les, and apologize to him,” his friend said hesitantly as he detached himself from him.
“He’s pro’lly asleep with Crutchie right now.” Jack didn’t know why he said that. Perhaps to invite Davey to stay and spend the night with the newsies. But he knew that that was a lot to ask. Davey wasn’t rich, but he had a wooly bedcover, which was definitely warmer than the ones Kloppman was able to get. Davey looked at him. Jack took a deep breath, but didn’t retreat from voicing his thoughts. “I guess ya could stay here for a night or two was what I was tryin’ ta say.”
Davey laughed, his eyes shimmering. “Using my brother to make me spend a night? Is that what we’re reduced to?” Jack started stuttering, shifting his weight. He knew Davey was joking, but it was a bit embarrassing, once he reflected on what he said more. “But I have to decline your offer. Our mum would be worried sick. We’re already so late.”
“Hell, it’ll be mornin’ in a few hours.”
“Yeah, so we'll head back home.” Davey looked back at him as he stepped back into the building. “Thanks for everything, Jackie.”
“Thank you for savin’ all that money for our apartment’s plants.” He didn’t know why he pulled that out, but he did, so he could do nothing else but roll with it with a lighthearted laugh. David’s eyebrows shot up in alarm, and then he started fumbling an excuse. Jack kept chuckling. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’d love to have a home with ya.” It was a joke, surely, but when Davey dismissed it so easily Jack felt a little bit disappointed. It wouldn’t be so bad, living together, would it?
Davey left. Jack’s eyebrows knitted together as he was left alone in the unforgiving cold.
Davey came back a few moments later. Jack’s frown broke into a grin, and it seemed as if the air got warmer.
“You were right. He really is sleeping with Crutchie. You should see the poor guy, my brother keeps stealing his blanket,” Davey said with a fond glint in his eyes.
“So ya stayin’ here o’ what?”
“Yes, I’m staying.” Then, he rolled his eyes, exaggerating his exasperation. “I’ll explain everything to Mom tomorrow morning.” Jack punched the air, like he always did when Davey gave in to one of his “unreasonable” requests, making his friend roll his eyes for the second time in the course of a minute.
“You’re ridiculous! Now come on in, it’s freezing outside.” Jack didn’t have to be told twice.
—
After the fight, Jack felt like all he had built in those few months crumbled on him in a fraction of a second. Davey and Les never apologized to each other in the end. Jack tried his best to sew their relationship back together, he really did. He was careful, as if he were walking on a ground covered with shattered glass, but he always failed. Every time they were alone the two brothers couldn’t manage to talk to each other earnestly and calmly. They would eventually clash and leave behind a trail of little pieces that Jack collected and treasured, in hope of stitching them back together.
It was hard for him. The love that flowed between the two brothers became a constant in his life; he felt lost without it. A lot changed for the worst. They didn’t sell together with the same ease, the same banter, that made his yearning for a home more bearable. After a few days, they didn’t even sell all together anymore.
Les started selling with the younger newsies, distancing himself from both him and Davey. It hurt him more than it should have. It gave him more time to spend with his friend, though, which meant having more chances at understanding what really happened.
But Davey ranted about how horrible he was every time they were alone, so all Jack had time to do was whisper words of reassurance and gently wipe his tears off his face the times he wept. Not that he minded it. When Davey looked at him with those tearful and wide eyes that were once so clear, he was sure that he'd do it for the rest of his life.
Jack sensed that there was something bigger going on under the cold glances, that Les held on to a secret of Davey’s that made his friend tremble in fear. The kid desperately hid it, but at the same time it was clear that he was burning with the desire of screaming it to the top of his lungs. Jack tried to allude to it, but Les ran away as soon as he did, and Davey blanched and then started shaking.
Davey got more uptight and irritable with the rest of the newsies, his lips always pursed severely. The newsies often started conversations that ended with a sour remark on Davey’s part, which made it difficult for the boys to include him. Jack was committed to fighting that, but he learnt that it was Davey that was distancing himself, feeling undeserving of their friendship after he slapped a kid, one of them. Jack was stunned.
The situation hurt. And what made it harder was how he wasn’t able to hide how much he was hurting. It was clear that his friends understood. Crutchie tried to pretend that everything was the same, that nothing was changing, so he still joked around with him, but there was always a reassuring smile on his face instead of a cheeky one. He bashed him for it a few times, exploding in rage despite himself. “Will ya quit it with that face like I lost ma motha’ again?” he would snap, and Crutchie would shake his head, and answer him with a soft tone, so different from the one he had used, “Things will get betta’. They loves each otha’. They just gotta realize that they all still do.” He would scoff and walk away.
The newsies tried to help without anyone asking them to. He didn't like that at all. Race once offered him a cigar, which never happened before in his entire life, in hope to lighten his mood. He threw it back at him, irritated. He didn’t need any charity. Albert, too, didn’t talk with the same snark, as if he feared that he’d shatter the already fragile atmosphere. Mush would keep himself closer to him, constantly patting his back and asking if he needed anything. Blink too proposed himself to be punched if he needed to release some tension.
With a sour grimace, he listened to JoJo talk to Les about how lucky he was to have a brother that loved him as much as Davey or else he might have been sent off to the nuns. With an exasperated sigh, he watched Elmer fail every attempt at making Les understand that someone can’t just stop loving his own brother all of a sudden. With a tired eye-roll, he helped Buttons up after Les pushed him on the ground as he screamed at him to mind his own business.
Everything was useless. He didn’t even understand why they all cared so much about it. He voiced his puzzle out loud to Crutchie one evening, when they stood on the fire escape. There they’d usually dream of Santa Fe, and whisper their wishes to the sky, but in those days all Jack desired was for things to go back to how they were. At his question, Crutchie answered like it was the simplest thing in the world, “ ‘Cause ya ain’t the same no more. And if ya ain’t the same, the newsies ain’t the same.”
—
In the end, things slowly got better on their own, or maybe for a reason he wasn’t entitled to know about. He supposed that Crutchie was right, it really was just a matter of time. Davey and Les apologized in front of all the newsies for the petty show they put on those few weeks. Davey rested a hand on one of his little brother’s shoulders with a hesitant expression. Les flinched at his touch, and Jack could see the pain in Davey’s eyes at that reaction, but afterwards the kid hugged him tight. The newsies cheered. Jack cheered the loudest.
After the heartfelt moment, Les felt the need to specify that he would never talk to a girl again, which earned him more pats on the back, but caused some disbelieving sniggers on the face of the older newsies.
—
After Les and Davey went back to usual, Jack’s mind was free to wander to much more mundane topics, such as why girls didn’t think of Davey as good-looking. It was a real puzzle to him. Sometimes he caught himself staring at him, filled with amazement, and wondered how anyone could even start forming such a thought. His smile, when it wasn’t forced, was so beautiful and bright that Jack could be fuming in rage, but he’d still involuntarily form a little grin at the sight. And his hair, combed so that it was straight and tidy, would endearingly curl at the end, rebelling against Davey’s control. Jack wanted to pass his fingers through it. It was impossible that his friend passed unnoticed.
That was why he was heading up to Race’s bunk to clarify the situation. Race had to have an explanation, because he always had one when the rest of them didn’t. He was really smart, despite him acting dumb most of the time. He didn’t see through Race’s bravado immediately, but after a while he pinned him down. Jack might not be able to understand fancy words and math problems, but he was sure as hell good at understanding people.
Race would stick an unlit cigar between his lips with a dumb joke and an unassuming smile, but Jack never missed the way his eyes would dart around, scrutinizing, studying, constantly learning. He was great at strategizing - without him Jack wouldn’t have been able to organize the strike and face its consequences - which made him so good at cards. He calculated odds and favors in seconds, and used everything to his advantage. That was how he got the best selling point in the city, the one at Sheepshead, even if it was in Brooklyn’s territory. The Brooklyn boys underestimated Race. Everyone underestimated him. Jack didn’t. Spot didn’t, and why he let Race stay at Sheepshead despite having caught a grasp of him was a mystery.
So Jack barged into the room, the question already formed on his tongue.
“Ma che diavolo!” Race shrieked as he frantically slipped a book under the pillow, switching to his native language for the surprise. “Will ya please knock befo’ invadin’ ma space?”
Jack smiled guiltily, and stuck out his neck to read the title of the book that peeked out of the pillow. Ancient Greek for beginners.
He sighed. He knew Race was interested in those fancy things; he had caught him reading a few stolen books about them under the bed a year or so ago. Race had flushed in embarrassment, and threatened him to never bring it up again. And he never did in front of the other newsies, but anytime they were alone he would hint at it. Race would always look at him sideways when he did, not understanding that all Jack wanted was for him to feel welcomed.
“Ya could lock the door, if ya don’t want to be caught in yer illegalities,” he excused himself.
“Whateva’.” Race took out a corona, and held it firmly between his theeth, biting on it nervously.
“Racetrack. You’s our brotha’. We doesn’t care if yer interested in those stuff.”
“That ain’t the truth,” Race said with a bitter laugh, “Rememba’ the hard time the kids gived Mouth at the start?”
Jack frowned. He didn’t like how some newsies viewed Davey as an outsider, no matter how much he had helped with the strike. Although most of the kids trusted him immediately, sometimes Davey would use a big word, and they would throw cold glances at him - he had a family, clean clothes, and he rubbed how they had never gone to school in their noses. Jack knew that Davey meant no harm with it, that it was just the way he was taught to speak, but he understood how the smaller newsies felt. He used to get a bit jealous of him too.
But Race had stayed at the lodge house for most of his life, and had built a bond with every single boy that passed through it, even if just for a short while. He told Race so. “You’s different. You’s been a newsie since you was ten. They loves ya.”
“Jack, just let it go. I ain’t neva’ gonna study this. I ain’t got the money, and the gramma’. I can't learn this without even knowin’ English in the first place. ‘Tis just a way to pass time.” It wasn’t fair. For Jack, anyone who wanted to had to have the possibility to go to school. He was about to voice his thoughts, when he saw the tired look on Race’s face, which was clearly meant to end the conversation.
“Anyway, Cowboy, whatcha here fo’ all in a rush?” Racetrack asked, turning the conversation to somewhere else. He laid back on the bed, more relaxed, and crossed his legs without even taking his boots off.
“I wanted to ask ya somethin’,” he said, hating how embarrassed, bashful even, he seemed. A smirk pulled Race’s lips, the weariness and the tinge of sadness completely hidden behind the smile and the cigar. “Why don’t girls think that Davey is, um, handsome?” He nearly caught himself saying pretty, but he tied his tongue just in time. Race raised an eyebrow.
“You’s really created sucha fuss fo' that moronic question?”
“Yes?” Jack answered cautiously, guiltily raising his shoulders. It might seem like a stupid thing to ask, but it wasn’t. It puzzled him a lot, and it disturbed him how he couldn’t find an answer.
“Jesus, you’s serious!” Race exclaimed, laughing disbelievingly. Jack continued looking at him unsurely. “Ok, listen. It’s neva’ ‘bout the looks. It’s ‘bout the… the… Aw, man, I had the word right on the tip of ma tongue!” he whined, and then pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. Jack smiled encouragingly, since he wasn’t able to give any further help. “Charisma!” his friend suddenly shouted, snapping his fingers triumphantly.
“Charisma?” Jack echoed back, confused.
“Yeah, yeah, charisma. You’s got charisma. Y’know, that kinda charm you’s lucky bastard got.”
“Oh, right.” So girls didn’t view Davey as charming. Jack started to wonder if they had ever listened to him talk. Davey could enchant a whole room with his words - he definitely had charisma. He explained his confusion to Race, who just shrugged.
“Well, y’know what peoples say, Cowboy,” he made a vague gesture with the arm that held the cigar, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, ‘n’ all ‘at.”
Jack’s brows remained furrowed, and he was so concentrated on Race’s words that he forgot to filter his words, “I thinks Davey’s the prettiest man in ‘a whole world.”
“Ya does?” Jack nodded, convinced. Race’s expression changed. The amused smile turned into an astonished face, eyes wide open and mouth agape. It felt as if everything around them froze, but Jack couldn’t place his finger on why.
And then, Race’s bafflement broke into a beam, a genuine wide smile that he hadn’t seen on his friend’s face in a long time. Jack was sure he noticed a few tears prickling’s his eyes. He was bewildered by the reaction. He asked Race if he felt well. His friend shook his head as he wiped his eyes, still grinning as if he was in a tub full of hot water. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, and looked at Jack gratefully, in the same way a new kid looked at Kloppmann when they first arrived at the lodge.
“Just scram, Cowboy, I was busy,” he snapped, but there was no bite in his words.
Jack pressed, still a little worried, “Is ya sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’s perfectly fine on ma own.” He chewed on his corona distractingly, as if he were deciding what to do. “I just thinks that some boys are pretty too.”
After that, they stayed there for a while, facing each other, and Jack had a weird feeling that whispered to him to run away, that the atmosphere was too heavy for him to bear. And so, Jack uneasily muttered an excuse, and approached the door, walking backwards. Race smiled, seemingly unbothered, and even thanked him. Jack replied, genuinely confused, “Fo’ what?”
“Ya knows fo’ what!” Race huffed, a light shade of red dusting his cheeks and nose. Well, Jack really had no clue, but he didn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he smiled teasingly, just in case. With that, he walked out, tipping his hat in an exaggerated gentlemanly way.
Once he was out of the room, he rehashed his conversation with Race in his head. He had the inkling that he had missed its central theme, but Jack discarded the feeling with a shrug; Race had always been quite the mystery.
—
Jack huffed, annoyed, and repeated, “Davey! They’s yours. I don’t want ‘em.”
“Take them, Jackie. Please!”
“But I’s used to the cold of this damn city.”
“Stop being a fool. Crutchie said that today would be particularly cold, and you’ve got a frostburn that you have to keep as warm as possible.”
Jack looked at him deadpan, crossing his arms. Davey sighed, not even trying to hide his annoyance. He raised an eyebrow as if to say “test me”, and Jack smirked back - he wasn’t going to let him freeze on the streets. Les whined, in a rush to start selling. After staring at each other for a while, Davey grabbed his hurt hand, all while scowling at him, and slipped a glove on. Jack was too stunned to react, Davey’s hands over his making his brain short circuit, so he just helplessly stared at his friend, who was making sure that the glove was put on well. “There,” Davey said, satisfied, “We’ll split them.”
He felt his skin go red, and not from the cold. He looked around, a little lost, but wished he hadn’t: the newsies were making such amused faces that only made his embarrassment swell. Jack just knew that the teasing about David and him being hitched would intensify from then on.
Just as he formed that thought, Race wiggled his brows knowingly, Crutchie winked, and Albert mused, “Sharin’ a pair o’ mittens is so romantic. Nearly betta’ than exchangin’ rings, dontcha think?” Jack swatted a hand at them in an irritated way; Albert snickered in response. He hoped that Davey was left confused by the interactions. The newsies always made jokes of the sort, but he didn’t know how Davey would take them.
Meanwhile Les was getting bored at those antics, so he huffed, “C’mooon, guys. Let’s go!”
Davey smiled sweetly at him, and patted one of his shoulders. “Sure thing, Les.” The kid didn’t flinch. Jack hinted at a smile, too, when he saw the two brothers finally being back to how they were before the fight. Davey smacked a rolled newspaper against his head when he noticed that he remained still. “Move it, Jackie. We got places to go.”
“Ya parents didn’t teach ya patience?” Jack quipped, stepping into the morning’s crowd. Davey, beside him, rolled his eyes.
“My teacher used to say that patience had a limit,” Les said matter-of-factly, “And then he’d hit our hands with his stick.”
“Ya get hit? Like the Delanceys’ do with’as?” Jack rarely attended school, and when he did he was always sleeping in some dark corner - school had been the only safe place he could afford for a while - so he was always shocked at certain stories Davey and Les told him.
“No, it’s worse,” Les replied, “Because no one comes to help ya, and ya hafta bear it in fronta everyone and try ya best not to cry.”
“Christ, school’s pure hell!”
Les nodded his head enthusiastically at his remark, and said, “That’s why I ain’t neva goin’ back. I’s stayin’ here.”
At that, Davey chided in, shooting Les a disapproving glare, “They only hit you when you give the teachers a reason to. And school is important, Les.”
“I hate it!” At his statement, Davey warned Les with his eyes once again.
“But Dave,” Jack reckoned, “Ya can’t just hit kids.”
Davey’s shoulders slumped down defensively. “You think I don’t know that? But it’s the way things go there.”
Les intervened, “I wanted to create a students’ union, but Davey said we can’t ‘cause we ain’t workers.”
“Why not, Dave?” Jack didn’t get it. “The union thing worked perfectly with the newsies, why wouldn’t it work with students?”
“Because if you want to get out of there alive and with good grades, you just have to endure the abuses in silence, all right?” he snapped, a dark cloud passing over his eyes. As soon as he noticed his reaction, Jack regretted pushing his point further.
He tried to patch up the mess he created. “I’s sorry, Davey, shouldn’t have asked nothing.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Davey stammered, quickly realizing his mis-step, “It’s just, y’know, not something I like to talk about, and I’m sorry if I was rude. I didn’t want to, I just… yeah.”
“Davey always gets his panties in a twist when we talk about school!” Les exclaimed joyfully, and then moved on with the conversation. “Look at that lady’s dog! It’s huge!” Immediately, Les jumped in front of said woman, newspapers visible in his hand as he scratched the dog’s head. The lady handed him a few pennies in no time.
Jack looked at the frown that remained like a shadow on Davey’s face for the next few minutes, and his heart panged with guilt. He shouldn’t have pressed further as soon as he noticed his friend’s change in demeanor, but he was curious, so curious that he felt like the questions he had about Davey were devouring him alive. So, albeit he knew that school was a delicate topic for him, he didn’t shut his mouth. All he could do to help Davey was make sure that he wore a smile, and he butchered the one thing he could do for him - usually with a certain ease too, he added in his mind with a tinge of pride.
So the day passed, the cold wind scraping against him almost as hard as his guilt feelings. He caught Davey’s gaze in the crowd a few times, and everytime his friend grinned at him, obviously trying to reassure him that all was forgiven, but he still couldn’t help the sheepish and guilty looks. His eyes kept wandering to him, and not like they usually did, to fluster him, to catch the color of his eyes in the sunlight, but to ask if he were all right, if he didn’t mess up completely. Davey showed that he didn’t hold any grudge on him, but he still couldn’t put his mind at rest.
While he rotted in his guilt, he sold his papers easily, between violent shivers and painful coughing due to the cutting cold, to which he still hadn’t gotten used two in his seven years of selling. On that day, he was glad that Davey offered him that glove. He wore it on both hands, alternating it between them, so his skin didn’t get as damaged as it usually got.
He still felt guilty that he had deprived Davey of one, but he had to admit that his frostburn did hurt when it wasn’t covered. He figured he wouldn’t tell his friend that he didn’t always keep it warm, or else he would have to undergo one of Davey’s worried rants, which was usually fun but he felt much too tired that day.
He caught himself longingly staring at those covered with warm coats and scarves, who were probably headed to an office with a heater. He wondered if he could ever afford a job that meant working inside, where his teeth didn’t have to clatter all day. Probably not, he thought gloomily.
Once he had finished, he walked up to Davey, ready to clear any misunderstandings. But when he tried to, Davey ignored his attempt, diverting his gaze. So, to avoid any embarrassing silence, he promptly started narrating the only selling mishap that occurred to him that day. “I tried sellin’ these bloody papes to this nun, right?” he mouthed off, gesticulating fervently. Les nodded eagerly, while Davey rolled his eyes, even if he couldn’t hide his fondness. “And I did make up a headline, but, hey, that’s the job. But instead of gettin’ the pape, she lectured me on how I shouldn't tell lies.”
Davey threw his head back in laughter at that. “I wonder where we heard that before, mh, Jackie?”
“Shaddup, Dave, ya should take my side,” he growled, faking his irritation. Les called his brother a traitor, then tutted disapprovingly, causing a wide grin on Jack’s face. “Well, anyways, I listened to her blabberin’ for, say, two hours. And then she went away! Without givin’ me a penny! Like, thanks, sista’, but I doesn’t think I can eat ya words fo’ suppa’.”
“Stop being a liar, and all the nuns will be throwing bills at you in no time.”
“Davey, we’s covered this point a thousand times,” he said, acting exasperated, “Ya can’t sell papes without a little lying’, can ya, Les?”
Les shook his head solemnly. “Ya can’t. I pretended I had a fever and I sold all my papes in two hours.”
“Les, you filthy liar!” David exclaimed, feigning shock. Jack laughed, as he ruffled the kid’s hair. After a while, though, his friend continued, “And that was another lie, Les. I’m pretty sure I saw you with some newspapers in your hand up around noon.”
“You’s a party pooper,” Les retorted with a frown.
“You’re,” Davey absent-mindedly corrected.
Jack smiled. Everything was back to normal.
—
“I need to stop by the theater this evening. Medda said she wanted ta show me something. ”
Mush, who had sold with him that day since Kid Blink started fighting against a fever and Davey and Les insisted they wanted to have a solo experience - only God knew why - shrugged next to Jack, “Aight. I’ll tell the ol’ man.”
“Thanks.”
“What about the glove?” his friend asked, a smirk appearing on his face. Jack couldn’t help but burn up at the question. He glanced down at his covered hand, and smiled a little. Mush snickered at that. Jack turned around to face him, trying to look annoyed, and took the glove off. Mush kept laughing, and shook his head. “Keep it on, Jack, ya fella won’t be happy at all knowin’ that yer hurt hand is cold.”
Jack scoffed. “Stop it, it ain’t funny.” Mush just chortled over his words. Once his laugh died out, he advised him, locking their gaze to make it more difficult for Jack to dismiss what he said, “Make sure ta rememba’ ta go ta sleep. We need ya alert.”
“I’s sure Medda will make all tha remembering fo’ me,” Jack muttered, exasperated. He was seventeen, nearly eighteen - god, how he hated thinking about it - he could manage himself just fine. Mush gave him a friendly pat on the back, and set to turn away but Jack stopped him.
“Take this,” he whispered as he shoved a bottle of brandy in his hands. He’d stolen it earlier that day, and kept it hidden in his sack. When one of his boys was sick, he’d always grab some liquor to keep Kloppmann’s medicine cabinet always full without it weighing too much for the man.
“Liquor! Fo’ what?”
“Fo’ Blink.”
“He needs bloody medicine, not somethin’ ta raise his spirits,” Mush spat. Jack was amazed by how quickly the atmosphere went sour, and how good they had been to pretend they were fine all day.
“What? Ya think Klopp can buy that pricey shit? ‘N’ besides, those doctors use this anyway, they just add vinegar to it ta make it taste bad.”
Mush stilled, and held the bottle closer to his body. He then disappeared without a word into the chaos of New York’s night, his steps unusually heavy. His heart tightened in worry too. He had seen too many little bodies consumed by the fever in his life, he couldn’t bear another one.
Jack walked alone up to the theater, trying to distract himself. He didn’t get in through the main entrance - all the gentlemen would be horrified by seeing a guy like him there - but through the back door, landing backstage. Medda was already waiting for him, still dolled up for the show that must have just finished, with a warm smile on her face.
“Jack, my boy, glad you made it!” She pulled him into a hug. Jack, as usual, pretended to hate it. Medda, as usual, brought him closer at his reaction. “Now, follow me,” she urged him with a conspiratorial wink, once she stepped away from him.
“Whatcha want me to do?” he questioned, suspicious.
“Nothing! Well, not nothing, but whatever ya want to.” Medda leant into him, excitedly swatting a hand, “You’ll see when I show ya.”
Jack walked close to Medda, who brought him into an empty room, with a tingling excitement pooling in his stomach. The woman turned on the light to reveal a set of paints, brushes and a canvas. Jack’s jaw fell on the floor. “Medda! What’s this?” he asked, the surprise making it hard to speak clearly.
“It’s obvious what it is, ya chowderhead,” Medda replied as she pinched his cheek, “Do ya like it?”
Jack shook his head in amazement, and said to her, his tone loud due to his happiness, “Like it? I love it!” Medda laughed at his reaction, and pushed him towards the art supplies, encouraging him to take them. As he ran his fingers over the paintbrushes, it occurred to him how expensive it all must have been, how he could use the money for the paint set to help Blink. He quickly backtracked, “Medda, I can’t. Thank you, but it’s too much. Others deserve this money mo’ than me.”
Medda rolled her eyes, and threw an arm over his shoulders, making his guilt flee. “There’s no such thing as “too much” when you love someone. And b’sides, you’ve done so much for this theater that I think this is a worthy reward, isn’t it?”
In a normal circumstance, Jack would have replied that he didn’t want any payment from her, but that evening he couldn’t bring himself to fight back. “I- thank you. Just, thank you, Medda. Not just fo’ this, but fo’ ev’rythin’.”
“I would do it all again, honey.” She squeezed him tighter, and they stayed close for a while, basking in the warmth they provided each other. Jack added Medda to the list of people he had to thank whoever was up there for. And a thought started crawling through his brain, slowly, but constantly. I need to tell her how much I love her.
He nervously started to pick at his fingers. He hated how difficult it was for him to say those words, but his heart just couldn’t make the process easier. Just realizing he was attached to someone made him sweat, but the way Medda wrapped her arms around him made him resolute. He nearly cried at all the love he was receiving. He wondered if that was what having a mother felt like.
“Medda?” he started tentatively, “I loves ya too.”
“I know, baby, I know.” Medda hushed him, caressing his hair. They stayed silent for a while longer, then Medda stepped back and said, smiling widely, “Now, I’ll leave ya to it.” She headed out of the room, the smile still adorning her face. Jack beamed back at her.
When Medda disappeared from his eyesight, he started jumping around the canvas, and he had to concentrate not to squeal. He grabbed the paintbrushes, his hands tingling with eagerness, and started to pass their bristles over his skin. He giggled at the tickling contact.
He started spreading some paint on the wooden palette. Blue. He had so much blue. He smiled, and added some white to the rich ultramarine tint, turning it into a pretty cobalt. He kept putting on white over the paint, until he was satisfied with the celestial blue that appeared. It was similar to the shade of Davey’s eyes.
He hummed. He tried to make out in his mind every single component of his friend’s eye color. He dipped his paintbrush’s tip into the bottle of yellow paint, a weird sense of apprehension lurching in his guts - what if he created a horrible color and wasted all that paint? He tentatively immersed the paintbrush at the side of the blue splotch on the wooden board. With the addition of the yellow, a shade of green so cold it seemed gray was born. Jack passed the light blue over it again. “Got it,” he mumbled.
He stared at the canvas, and the blue he had obtained. He laid the tools on the floor. He fetched his sketchbook and flicked through its pages, the paint that got on his hands transferring to the paper. He had so many drawings of Davey, all in gray graphite. Determined, he mixed red and yellow, and spread red all over the canvas, leaving a blank space that roughly had the shape of a face.
Jack painted with force, his brushstrokes violent and firm. But despite the roughness of the strokes, Davey was pictured on the canvas with gentleness. No one could have guessed the tremor of Jack’s hands, the tumult of his heart, the strength he put in spreading the paint just by glancing at the painting, where Davey was staring dreamingly out of the page, his eyes serene and his edges blunt.
Jack stared at the painting, and a realization hit him. He loved Dave. Registering it was like stepping in the sunlight for the first time. Everything assumed a new shade, a warmer, lighter one. A small smile appeared on his lips. He was in love with Davey. It felt so natural, like he was destined to fall for him, that the wrongness of the feeling didn’t occur to him until someone knocked on the door.
Jack panicked. The little backstage room quickly morphed into a prison cell that looked too much like the Refuge. He saw, as clear as day, rats devouring the hard mattress thrown on the floor as they cackled, and he heard, just as clearly, shouts, tears and whippings echoing from the narrow corridor he imagined ran next to his cell. He frantically threw a piece of fabric over the canvas to avoid his vision becoming reality, blood pumping in his ears so loud it whistled.
Medda appeared. Jack looked at her, scared, as she walked closer. His thoughts spun. Medda continued getting closer. Jack watched her doing so in silent horror.
“Jack, ya should go to sleep now. Ya can stay here if ya want, it’s quite chilly outside.” Medda walked over to the canvas, reaching out a hand to reveal what was under the fabric. Jack was petrified.
“No!” Jack screamed as he threw himself in front of the canvas. “ ‘Tis nothin’.”
“Why, Jack, did ya draw one of my girls?” Medda joked. Jack couldn’t even answer, he just stared into her eyes. “Look, Jack, ya don’t have to be scared that what you’ve drawn is bad. Whatever you painted, I know it’s great ‘cause you did it. You don’t have to show it to me, but just know that I love it anyway, all right?”
Jack nodded. Just as he did so, the curtain he threw over the painting fell on the ground with a thud. Jack’s breath hitched.
“Why were you so secretive of this lovely piece of art? It’s beautiful,” Medda exclaimed, and Jack could swear she was honestly surprised. Jack blushed at the compliments, as he reassured himself that his love for Davey wasn’t as palpable as he thought.
“It’s not that great, but thanks.” Medda flicked a finger on his forehead at his modesty, which was actually genuine. He didn’t think that his drawing was worth how Medda described it.
“Is this your friend David?”
“Yes,” he answered curtly.
Medda studied the painting, pensive. Jack started trembling the longer she gazed at it. After a few beats, her lips parted and her eyebrows raised in surprise. She turned around and whispered, “Oh, Jack.” She hugged him tight, and Jack broke down. Tears started to stream down his cheeks. “It’s okay, baby, it’s going to be okay,” Medda said in a soothing voice to calm him down.
Jack wasn’t as sure.