Chapter Text
David Jacobs was not a reliant individual. In fact, when it came to helping himself, he was quite an independent person; he refused to take charity or pity from others, anything he wanted or needed, he could work for himself. And he stood by this for seventeen years.
Enter Jack Kelly, the boy who had, in a few weeks, turned Davey's entire life on its head. Jack was smart, charming, and the world's greatest creation known to boot (at least, in Davey's eyes), and when he had proposed this ‘strike’ against The World for the unfair treatment of Newsies and working kids, Davey could do nothing else but follow.
“Oi, Davey. What’re you gettin’?” the aforementioned Jack asked placing a hand on his shoulder.
They were standing in line at a street vendor in Newsies Square, relishing a free hour before starting their day's strike work.
Jack had a big meeting with Queens and Davey had some ‘top-secret’ letters to deliver for Brooklyn.
“Oh. Err…"Davey stammered. He had been so in his head that he had not had the chance to read the menu. “I'll get whatever you're getting.”
Davey handed Jack some money and watched as Jack spoke with the vendor. He then came back with an ear-to-ear grin and two greasy hotdogs in hand.
“Look, I got ’em at half price! C’mon.” Jack motioned for them to sit at the curb before handing a hotdog to Davey.
They sat down with their knees touching, Davey slung his bag of letters to the side not touching Jack and glanced at the street vendor. The street vendor, a young girl around their age, was flushed and staring right at Jack with mesmerised eyes, so distracted that Davey would be shocked if she got the next man’s order correct. He did not need to ask why Jack had gotten their food for so cheap, something in his chest lurched at the thought of Jack flirting with her, an odd but familiar bitter feeling. He did not want to get into why he felt that way; It was simply because, before Jack, he had never had such a friend before, and now the stress of the strike was messing with his head. That was it, he was sure. He glanced at Jack and began eating.
Despite priding himself on being self-reliant, Davey had recently found his days hinging on whether or not Jack would be in them. Suddenly, this unforgiving world didn’t mock him so cruelly when he was in the picture, and Davey found the stress of living was easier to manage with Jack by his side.
They ate in companionable silence. Only when he caught Jack's eyes did he realise he had been staring, he quickly averted his gaze. Something flittered in his stomach, making him feel light and tingly, the same sensation he felt when Jack's hands would linger on his back or when he would crack a joke he knew only Davey would understand. Again, he would rather not get into it.
“What, do I have somethin’ on my face?” Jack queried, rubbing the sides of his mouth.
“No! No, I was just thinking, y’know?”
“You’ve been doin’ that a lot lately,” Jack laughed. “Penny fa’ your thoughts?”
“Oh, no. I’m just revising boring strike stuff, things we’ve already…”
His words died on his tongue at the sight of his best friend. Jack's face fell slightly at the mention of the strike, he had clearly wanted to stay in this bubble where they were just ‘Jack and Davey enjoying breakfast’ rather than ‘Strike Leader and Strike Stratergiser eating food before revolting against The World’. Davey regretted mentioning it, regretted making Jack anything but his usual, cheerful self.
“Right,” Jack said. “Well speaking of, we should probably get back to business. Pulitzer's arse ain't gonna kick itself!” Jack chuckled with an attempt at a grin. They both pushed themselves off the curb to stand.
With each passing day of the strike, more newsies were getting soaked or going hungry and unable to buy food. Jack would never admit it, but Davey knew that Jack felt guilty over telling these kids to strike. He was giving up sleep and food rations just to help some of the littles get by.
“Yeah, I guess we should. Same again tomorrow?” something in Davey squirmed at the thought of not seeing Jack until tomorrow, at not knowing whether or not he was safe until then. Jack had the same thoughts.
“Actually, Dave, do you wanna meet here this evenin’? I should be in ‘Hattan again no later than four, so maybe I could walk ya’ home.”
The unspoken message of ‘I need to make sure you get home safe’ was not missed by Davey.
“Of course, Jacky.”
Jack drew Davey into a brief hug before walking in the direction of Queens, leaving Davey with that warm and fluttery feeling again. He quickly suppressed it and grabbed his bag of letters before beginning his way to Brooklyn. He had no time to linger his thoughts on Jack, tempting as that might be, He had work to do.
-
After arriving at the Brooklyn lodging house and exchanging letters and words with Spot Conlon, Davey began the long trudge home. The sun was still bright in the sky, Davey would guess that it was maybe three o’clock, though he had given his watch to Sarah so he could not be sure. He walked along the Brooklyn Bridge. There was a lag in his step from days of constantly being on his feet aiding the strike, which reflected in his staggered pace; though frankly, he did not mind such a slow walk, this was his chance to think about, well, anything, his mind had been so focused on the strike recently that he thought of little else.
For a long moment, he ogled at the river beneath him. The sun's reflection gave his vision swimming dark spots as he stared thoughtlessly. Ten minutes passed without any deeper thought than which foot to put in front of the last, or was it ten seconds? His mind wandered to Les, his poor baby brother had come down with something fierce and was now confined to their home for the next week or ten, or at least, that was what his parents said. Truthfully, Les had nothing more than a runny nose and slight shivers and even that was pushing it, but Davey did not blame his parents for keeping him home. He knew they were concerned with Les’ safety and wanted any reason to keep him out of the strike. Thankfully, Davey had been able to just barely convince them he could fend for himself and was direly needed for the strike. Maybe Davey could bring something home one of these days to entertain Les, though he had no money for books or toys; maybe he could bring Jack in when he had a free hour or two.
Jack… Davey pictured him in their flat, recounting to Les the most preposterous stories crammed with stupid bits just to make him and Davey laugh. He pictured Les fighting sleep just to hear more of Jack's charming words.
He pictured him and Jack alone on the fire escape talking, their shoulders touching, their faces inches apart, Jack's hand resting on his back, his warm and gentle touch…
That jittery feeling was back again, like little moths and butterflies were fluttering around in his stomach. He felt a smile on his lips and his cheeks were stupidly warm. There was a sudden dawning on him, like ice had been poured down his shirt and was now seeping through his flesh and bones. Davey was not an idiot, he knew what these feelings meant, he had seen enough schoolyard relationships to understand that what he felt now for Jack was not just friendship. But Jack was his best friend, he could not risk ruining that! And not only was he Davey's best friend, he was a boy…
Davey was ripped from his thoughts by a piercing, terrified cry.
He was back in Manhattan now, he started running towards where he had heard the screaming. Whoever had made the cry sounded young and panicked.
Davey urged his legs to move faster; his lungs were burning with his short, gasping breaths, but he didn’t care—he had to help whoever was hurt.
He reached a back alley, secluded from the main street, where he found the source of the sounds. Smalls, a little newsie no older than Les, was backed into a corner by none other than the Delancey brothers. Smalls was shaking and curled in on himself, wide-eyed and terrified. The alley they were in was shadowed by the tall buildings that flanked it and had a stack of wooden milk crates, spiked with rusted nails.
“Please…” He heard Smalls whisper.
“If you don’t want to get soaked, you should learn to keep your snivellin’ little nose where it belongs!” Oscar snarled, leaning in and grasping his ugly hand on the chin of the little Newsie Before pushing him back by his head.
Morris raised his arm, towering above Small‘s shrunken, quivering figure.
Davey did not even think, he launched himself between Smalls and the Delancys’, bearing the impact of morris’ fist. Distantly, he felt pain in his shoulder. it would bruise, he was sure; He did not care. He threw his fists, blindly making contact with Morris’ jaw, he stumbled back into his brother.
“Smalls, run!” Dave yelled over his shoulder. Thankfully, the boy did.
Both teams wrestled arms, attempting to gain ground on the other. They punched and kicked and scratched.
Davey kicked his knee towards Oscar, making contact with his groin. Oscar doubled over with a loud groan, blindly pushing Davey down before falling into his brothers arms.
Davey lost his balance from the push, he was many things, but a fighter was not one of them. He stepped his leg back to brace himself, it caught on the milk crates and twisted.
There was a snap, followed by a sharp and searing pain in his left ankle. He hissed as his body weight fell on his injury before coming to his senses.
This was his chance to get out, he had saved Smalls from being soaked, done his duty, now he had to get out before the Delancys’ recovered and made him sorry.
He limped away from the ally; thankfully, the Delancys no longer seemed concerned with him. The pain in his ankle shot through him as he used it, he forced himself to keep moving.
Smalls was nowhere to be seen, Davey assumed he had found his way to the lodging house.
He found a clear bench near where the street vendor had been in the morning, it was empty now.
He collapsed onto it, the pain in his body eased up.
He hoisted his bad leg up on his thigh; Carefully, he drew his pant leg up to reveal his ankle. A small cut was all he saw, jagged and dirty from the scuffle, but not severe enough to be the cause of his pains. He ran his finger along the skin of it and pushed Down. The dull pain grew astronomically as he pressed on it, throbbing even after he released the pressure, he suppressed a hiss.
He came to the unfortunate realisation that this would not be an injury he could walk off. He had to tell the others, had to let Jack know he could not handle a small ankle injury while there were newsies with broken arms and black eyes working tirelessly.
Another thought came to him, it was only a small injury. Sure it hurt, it hurt like hell, but there were younger, frailer newsies going through worse; and unlike him, they did not have mothers and fathers to coddle them. He was the strikes strategiser, the brains of the operation, Jack had said so himself. Who was he to back down from what might be the most important fight of his life for such selfish reasons as a hurt foot?
“Davey! ‘was afraid I’d missed you,” Jack called from across the square, drawing eyes from the few passersby and pulling Davey from his mind.
As he walked closer, Davey could take him in fully. There was a tire in his step, but the smile that rested on his lips made Davey forget for a moment about the aches and bruising in his body.
“Jack,” he smiled. He stood up to meet him, Any aches and pains were worth it for Jack. He drew him in, enveloping him in a hug and lingering for a moment longer than he really ought to. If Jack minded, he did not voice it.
Davey drew back, staying close and keeping some of his weight on him so as to not stand fully on his ankle.
“Let’s get ya home before Mr and Mrs Jacobs worry their heads off.”
They began walking, Davey leaning into Jack's side.
“Jacky, you know you can call them their first names. They’ve insisted on it!”
“Sure they have. But that’s unproper like. A true business-y strike leader must ‘ave them good ‘n fancy manners.” He straightened his back fully and pulled a serious face.
“You mean ‘Improper’?”
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
Davey just laughed and leaned further into Jack's warm, inviting body.
“Tired, huh?” Jack asked, motioning towards how Davey was resting his weight into him. “I feel ya, Dave. I think I could rest ten moons away and still feel tired.” Jack smiled a crooked, loopy grin at him.
He was so poetic, David thought. If Jack had been fortunate enough to not get caught selling papers his whole life, he really could have made it far as an artist. Maybe that was his sappy brain talking.
Davey stared at Jack, their faces were close, and from this angle he could see the tiresome expression that laced his every feature, like he had been absolutely exhausted since his very first day alive. Davey frowned, that probably was not far off; this burning and passionate star that was Jack had been forced into ceaseless work from the beginning, and now, he was in charge of hundreds of newsboys, caught in meetings and important decisions. Even now, walking to the Jacobs’ household, the air of stress was still prevalent in his expression.
It was decided, then. Who was Davey to abandon Jack? Why would he burden him with the knowledge of Davey's injury? Jack would surely worry about him, tell him to go home and that he could cover his work for him while he recovered. That would just put more stress on his shoulders.
No, Davey would manage this on his own.