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"I can see you, you know," Davey says, trying to hold in his laughter so he doesn't ruin his position on the rickety stool.
Here's the thing about figure drawings. They're a breeze, and good practice; Jack tries to do one every day, either one of the other boys, 'cause it delights the kids to see their own faces on the page, or someone passing him by on the street when he has a moment.
Here's the other thing about figure drawings. Jack had missed a chance to get one done today, and had mentioned it to Davey, who was coming by for a visit. He'd also mentioned, maybe, that he'd never drawn a subject down to the skin before, and it was always something he'd been trying to do...
It's just. Well. Davey had offered.
So now he's standing in front of Jack without 98% of his clothes, and Jack's to be drawing him. A Herculean feat.
"You don't laugh at me, David Jacobs." Jack offers Davey a sheepish smile of his own. "I'm tryin' my best."
Davey raises his eyebrows. "I can't help the way I look."
"No, you can't," Jack says ruefully. "God in heaven. Look at you."
Look at Davey. Boy like that was built to be drawn, Jack thinks fitfully. He's not quite as wide as Jack is, a straight shot from shoulders to hips on account of him spending his days in the schoolhouse instead of the streets, but he's taller. Paler. More elegant. Crafted out of pure doll china, in Jack's humble artist's opinion.
Davey's eyes sparkle with mirth. "Am I going to sit here all day while you ogle, or are you going to draw me like you said?"
"Oh, keep your shirt on," Jack says, finally putting pencil to paper and committing to memory the way Davey's brows go up.
He's sitting on a stool Jack had dragged from the bunks with his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes fixed on Jack. The distinct lack of clothes, Jack thinks fitfully, might be a bit new, but he's handling it alright enough. Maybe it's all the school. Though Jack can't imagine they get up to this kind of thing there.
"How is it?"
"Slow goings," Jack says. He swallows. Art can't compare to the real thing, but damn if he doesn't love to pin down the curl of Davey's hair. The cut of his long nose. The lull of his stomach: all angles and sharp points, but soft when he breathes... And the words come out before he can stop them. "You know, we miss you around here."
Davey's smile goes modest and small. "I miss you, too."
"Can't miss it as much as a nice warm bed..."
"I miss the boys," replies Davey. "I miss knowing what trouble you all are getting up to."
Jack breathes out quickly in a short laugh, furrowing his brows as he tries to get the slope of Davey's shoulders right. "Oh, there's a lot of it, believe you me."
They spend the next few minutes in silence, the companionable type. The drawing's—really good, one of Jack's best, if he's honest; it captures the whole of Davey's body in a way that makes him look exactly as he is: soft and strong and lovely. When he tries to pawn it off on him as he's tugging his clothes back on, though, Davey refuses it.
"You keep it," he says softly, brushing Jack's face with a thumb. "So you won't miss me so much."
Jack feels himself smile, a comfortable tightness filling his chest with air. "Shoot, Dave, I'll always miss you."
"Well, then," Davey says wryly, his eyes getting that sparkle back, "I'll sign it for you, how's that."
Davey leaves Jack's room laughing, and the littler boys recognize his presence and swarm him immediately. Even the older ones turn up to talk to him, ask him about school and life outside the nine-to-five, and if they notice the flush high on his cheeks and the rumple to his clothes, they don't say a word about it.