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Chapter Text

Jack Kelly watches the sun rising in streaks of yellow and red, leaning against the railing of his apartment balcony. His roommates can't stand waking up early, but he revels in the peace of New York at sunrise. As soon as the sky is blue, the serenity disappears.

He always hears tourists say that New York City is the place to be, with rich opportunities and amazing scenery, however, he knows better than to buy into all that. He's used to the hustle and bustle now, everything that comes with living in a place like this in the era of bright colours and flared jeans. Jack has always been a dreamer, finding satisfaction in getting lost in his thoughts rather than keeping in touch with how corrupt reality is.

And here he is, at five-thirty in the morning, soaking up the first rays of morning light while his roommates snooze inside the one-bedroom apartment.

"What are you doing?"

Oh, yes. All his roommates are asleep, save for one.

Jack stares into the alleyway below the balcony and sighs. "What does it look like I'm doing, Crutchie?"

Crutchie Morris appears at the door, his blonde hair falling messily over one of his green eyes. "Watching the sunrise yet again, I bet," he smiles, opening the door further and limping onto the balcony.

Jack glances at him. "You're up early."

"Well," Crutchie leans onto his crutch and tilts his head, "I couldn't sleep any longer. I miss our early morning chats."

Jack scoffs. "Yeah, right."

Silence settles in the air as the boys watch the sky change colour slowly into the pale blue of day. Jack looks out over the dirty city, his blue eyes narrowed.

"I hate it here."

"I know."

"I want to leave."

"I know.

"I'm lonely."

"No, you're not, you have me."

Jack chuckles, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes and looking over at his brother. "Someday, Crutchie, we're gonna get outta here," he promises, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You, me, Racer, Spot, Albert, Elmer... all of us."

~~~

Apartment 303 may not be much to look at, with its ugly peeling wallpaper, red door, and messy interior, but it's the place Jack and his friends call home. Jack finds comfort in the unwashed mugs lining the kitchen counter, the cracked tiles on the floor, the hundreds of sketches he's tucked away under the couch cushions, into messy cupboards, and under the one bed in the whole place. Spot and Race usually share the bed, while Crutchie has the futon near where Albert and Elmer sleep on the fold-out couch. Jack doesn't sleep often, but when he does he normally takes a threadbare blanket out onto the tiny balcony and stares up at the stars as he drifts off.

It isn't much, but it's enough for them. It's all they can afford as unemployed mostly nineteen-year-olds.

So here Jack is, once again, brainstorming job ideas on a scrap piece of greasy newspaper. He would rather die than go back to the job he had when he was seventeen; selling newspapers for an absurdly low amount of money. A secretarial job would make him want to kill himself of boredom. He isn't qualified to go into medicine. Working at a grocer won't offer much for him. His passion is art, but art wouldn't make him much money, plus it would leave his friends in the dust.

A slightly scratched Beatles record, Abbey Road, to be specific, crackles from the record player in the corner, the familiar hum of Here Comes The Sun lost in the sound of thunder from outside. Jack gets up and paces the kitchen, fingers winding through his dark hair, begging for some sort of solution.

A solution appears.

Well, more of a problem, in Jack's eyes.

Racetrack Higgins stands at the open door, half-crushed by a beat-up electric guitar and an amp. His boyfriend, Spot Conlon, stands behind him, holding a snare drum, a smug but fond expression on his face.

"I told him he was insane," Spot starts to clarify, biting back a laugh.

Jack's jaw drops. "Racer, I never thought I'd say this, but..." he takes the guitar out of the blonde boy's hands, "you are a fucking genius."

Race chuckles, pulling his cigar out of his satchel and resting it between his teeth. "This is why you should listen to me more."

"You have a reputation for being an idiot," Spot points out, depositing the snare drum near the couch.

Race throws a dirty look over his shoulder at his short boyfriend as he sits down on the futon. "Albert, Elmer, and Crutch are bringing up some more. We found this stuff in a charity store a few blocks away and we thought we'd give it a crack, didn't we?"

As if on cue, Albert drags a keyboard through the door, followed by Crutchie with a bag of music books and a bass guitar, and Elmer carrying a saxophone and trumpet.

"We're here!" Elmer sings, closing the door behind them.

Jack stares around the living room. It's even more cluttered now, with all the instruments taking up the little remaining floor space. He gasps as an idea hits him hard.

A way to pay back all the money they've borrowed over the years, to give them a sure path in their lives. A way to keep them busy, bring them all together and keep them all together. A promise.

After all, artists like Jack decorate space. But musicians decorate time.

"A band." The words slip out quietly, almost a question. The plan falls into place in his racing mind. "A band," he says, louder now, more confident, a smile spreading across his face. "We could form a fucking band!"

Spot stares, unimpressed, as Race tugs at his hands. "A band?" he spits

"Just think about it!" Jack says desperately. "It'll get us a bit of money if we find some gigs to play at. We've got all the instruments and enough people, and surely we've all got some level of experience..." He looks around at his friends. "Okay, maybe not."

"I played keys for a while," Crutchie offers.

Jack grins at him. "That's exactly what we need! So, Crutchie on keys..." he glances around the room, "and Spot on drums!"

"What the hell?" Spot laughs.

"Aw, Spotty, that's so you!" Race comments, slightly teasingly. Spot punches him.

Jack's mind races and his mouth can't keep up. "Race could take trumpet?"

"Oh, fuck yes, I'm in," Race says with his signature grin, lighting his cigar.

"And then Elmer could play the saxophone," Jack announces, picking up the brass instrument and handing it to the smiley raven-haired boy.

"This looks hard," Elmer whines, squinting at the instrument.

"I'm sure it won't be too bad," Crutchie comforts him.

"So then," Jack continues, "Al could play bass guitar, and I'll play electric guitar and sing as well!" He sits down on the orange futon, a goofy smile still on his face.

"This is gonna be awesome," Albert says.

"This could be our way out of this place," Jack says quietly, staring out the dirty window at the thunderstorm. "We could make more money and at least upgrade the apartment."

"If we make it big we'll be gone for good," Crutchie smiles.

Jack picks up the guitar once again, its rough strings indenting his fingers.

This could be his ticket out.

"Let's do it."

Chapter Text

"To be honest, I don't know what any of this means, and I don't give a flying fuck," Spot deadpans, peering at the Drums For Beginners book Crutchie handed him earlier.

The six of them are all gathered in the cramped living room that Elmer and Jack have tried their best to clean up. Elmer is still staring at his saxophone, trying his hardest to decipher its many keys. Race is perched on the window sill, obnoxiously hitting a cowbell, much to Spot's annoyance.

"When are you going to shut up?"

"Never," Race says smugly, tapping Spot's nose with one finger.

Albert gags. "You two are really something else."

"Shut the fuck up, Al, you're meant to be writing music," Spot rolls his eyes.

"It's hard, okay?" Albert slams his blank music book closed and looks up, red rimming his eyes. "I'm grabbing some coffee." He stands up from his stool, hissing when his flared corduroys catch on the guitar stand beside him. "Anyone want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks, Al!"

"I'll take some coffee if you're offering."

"Wait, where's the leftover Hawaiian pizza from Romeo's party?"

"We threw that away ages ago, Jack."

"Aww, I was hungry."

"Oh, I want some wine!"

"Race, no." Albert chuckles to himself and heads around the corner to the kitchen.

Jack looks down at his guitar and rests his fingers on the fretboard, pressing down the second string. The only thing he's gained from the hours, the days of practice and figuring-it-out are tiny, painful blisters on his rough fingertips.

He lets his head fall into his hands, his brown hair falling across his eyes. "How the fuck do people do this for a living?"

"I don't know," Elmer whines, inhaling deeply and blowing into the mouthpiece of his saxophone, producing an ear-splitting squeal.

Something in Jack snaps. "Look, at what point are we gonna stop gabbing about this?" He takes a fistful of his hair, blisters tearing open. "We've been slaving away for, what, three weeks? And we haven't gotten anywhere."

"Patience is a virtue," Crutchie sings, pressing an A flat on his beat-up piano. Spot shoots him a deadly glare.

"Look, I'm calling it," Albert half-shouts from the kitchen. "Tomorrow, we're going to a street corner, and we're gonna fucking play the fucking instruments, and if people think we're horrible and throw things at us, well then that's too bad!"

Jack glances up at his redheaded friend, thoughts racing in his head and grooves throbbing on his fingertips.

Albert looks Jack in the eye, and Jack begins to give in. "Surely it can't be that bad of an idea..."

"Thank you, Jackie!"

"Do not call me that. I hate it."

"Sorry. But I think what's holding us back are our thoughts." Albert sits down on the futon, locking eyes with Crutchie.

"That's rich coming from the bassist," Spot scoffs.

"Hey, let me talk." Albert picks up the scratched white bass from its position on some threadbare blankets on the floor and plays a few notes on it, reminiscent of a Beatles song. Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Jack realises, as Albert continues to play.

"I learned this song from my dad before he died," Albert says once he's stopped playing. "He used to play bass as well. Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds was only released in '67, and he died in '68. It was his favorite."

Albert looks down at the guitar. "It wasn't fair, how he died," he says in a small voice.

Spot's smug look softens a little. Jack feels something stir in him, a possibility.

"Anyway, he told me to never overthink playing anything. He said to me, "Al, if you're gonna play it, play it. Don't second-guess; no going back once you've played the notes. Don't think about it too much." And, of course, I believed him."

Albert lets out a sigh and plays the chorus once again. "In short, if you approach it with a positive attitude and focus on how it sounds and how you play, not what you can do wrong or how you might just be wasting your time on a silly little dream, you'll be fine."

"So you're telling me to be positive." Spot lets out a loud laugh.

"No, sweetheart, he's telling you to believe you're capable of doing this," Race tells his boyfriend.

"Look, we're all perfectly capable of doing this!" Albert pleads. "We're just thinking negatively. Keep it light. Play like there's nobody else here but us. Which is true, but you get what I mean."

"Well, duh," Spot says, sitting back down at his drum kit.

Jack looks up at the moldy ceiling and back to his friends. "Okay, so we all have the song we wrote together, don't we?"

Crutchie holds up a messily drawn page of music. "Yep, it's all here."

"I think we go from the start," Jack begins, "and we keep going, and maybe, once we get it together, we can play somewhere other than our living room. Maybe a street corner, or a bar, or even, one day, an arena."

Jack has always thought optimism was a kind of joke, a shaky concept with a million cracks in the foundation, a complete illusion created in mirrors and rays of sun filtering through the clouds, but this time, surely, it wouldn't hurt to have a bit of faith.

"Okay, from the top. El, count us in."

And they play. It's rough, and it needs to be cleaned up a little - okay, maybe a lot - but it's a start.

Chapter Text

The first snow is starting to fall, soon to coat the rooftops and sidewalks with a coat of dusty white. The band instruments, now well-used, sit in various positions in the living room, empty coffee cups and sheet music scattered around. The static crackles from the record player, Abbey Road on vinyl once again. Elmer swears it helps him sleep, but nobody believes him, even though he sleeps soundly every night from seven o'clock, curled around Albert.

Race tiptoes down the hall so as not to wake anybody else, his boyfriend following him. Spot grabs Race's wrist and kisses him softly against the hallway wall.

Race slides a hand into Spot's dark hair, breaking the kiss. "I love you, but you really should go."

"You're right," Spot says softly in a tone nobody but his boyfriend would be allowed to hear, pulling Race closer. "I'll go for a bit of a walk, see if there's anywhere we could do an open mic night."

"That sounds good," Race whispers. "Do you have a jacket?"

Spot shakes his head. "Trust me, I won't be cold."

"Spotty, it's four in the morning, and it's snowing out there-"

"I know, sweetheart. I'll take a jacket if that makes you happy."

"It does make me happy," Race says, smoothing down Spot's vest.

Race loves his boyfriend more than anything. Their relationship started casual, but when Spot called 22 times over the course of an hour, Race knew it had to be something more, so he called Spot up and spent four nights at his place. They never looked back after that.

Spot glances over his shoulder at Race. "I love you."

Race's bright blue eyes stare into Spot's. "I love you too. Be safe."

Spot steps out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Race stares up at the ceiling, placing his cigar in his mouth. He shivers with the cold. The first rays of morning sun won't peek through the curtains anytime soon. Something by The Beatles crackles from the record player in the corner, and Race remembers the winter of 1969, spent on Spot's couch, lazily falling in love the whole time, day by day, somewhere between the freezing cold morning a week before Christmas and the blizzard in the city on New Year's.

Race pours himself a cup of coffee, cursing when he spills a little bit on his thin white vest. He looks around wildly but lets out his breath, seeing Elmer and Albert curled around each other on the fold-out couch, still sleeping soundly. Racer walks slowly back to his room, still in a daze from Spot's lips on his.

Some things never change.

He slips on some warmer clothes and opens up the dusty blinds, surveying the messy room with its unmade bed and dirty carpet. He looks out the window at the snow that is coating the cars parked in the street.

He remembers his time out there, on those streets, with no company except the voices in his head that would attack him until he felt sick. He remembers the newspapers, the banners speaking against queers, the insults hurled at him by his father and the hands on his shoulders, pushing him back through the door of every place he went.

Race shudders. Some memories are best left untouched, he thinks to himself, as he walks through the hall into the living area and then onto the balcony, where Jack sits, freshly awakened.

"Racer!" Jack whispers, patting the extremely small spot on the iron flooring of the balcony that isn't occupied. Race sits down next to him cautiously, staring at the drop from the balcony to the street below.

"You're up early," Jack says, rubbing his eyes. "Trouble sleeping?"

"Nah," Race says, holding out his hand to catch a snowflake, "Spot woke up about an hour ago and left to go for a walk around. He thought he'd be able to find some sort of place for us to play."

Jack nods, gazing up at the sky. "You think he'll find anything?"

"I sure hope so."

"Snow's lightening up a little as well."

"Times like these, I wish we had a fireplace."

"I could build one!"

"I don't think that's legal."

"Oh, Racer, look at you being the rational one for once."

"You prick." Race laughs, letting a smile grace his face.

Albert pokes his head around the corner. "Keep it down."

"Don't listen then," Jack says smugly. Albert rolls his eyes and goes back inside.

"Do you ever miss it," Race asks, "sleeping out there, with no worries about rent or keeping the flat clean or anything like that?"

"God, no." Jack barks out a short laugh. "I'm happy with this."

"And the band?"

"I think it'll work. What Al said changed everything for me." Jack is never usually this earnest, but for some reason, those words have really lodged in his mind.

"You're a damn good singer too."

"You flatter me."

"We both know I annoy you." Race chuckles softly.

"That is very true, but I still think we're doing okay for a bunch of broke guys who have barely picked up instruments."

Race laughs, twirling the cigar around his fingers. "We'll get there. We could be the next Beatles."

Jack smiles as the sun begins to rise. "If we're gonna do that, we've gotta get to work."

"At least we don't sound like the band at the end of The Music Man now."

Chapter Text

The clinking of glasses and the haze from the stage fill the bar with an otherworldly, unfamiliar feeling. No music is playing, but somehow, the noise carries through the winding hallways, down the busy staircases, through the thick walls, and under the closed doors, all the way down to the backstage area.

The tiny dressing room is painted an offensive shade of green, with grubby mirrors covering one wall. Clothing racks stand along another wall bearing wide selections of brightly coloured costumes and accessories. The benches are cluttered with makeup and tissues. Shoes are strewn across the aging rug, and old clothes are tossed over the stained couch.

Jack runs a comb through his dark hair, catching his own eye in the dirty mirror. He's overthinking and he knows it, but he can't help it. So many things could go wrong so easily. The band could get booed or teased, the bar could burn down, everybody could leave, Jack could have a panic attack onstage and run off, the list goes on.

He looks around at his bandmates. Spot is pacing the tiny room, fiddling with his red bandana with one hand and his drumsticks with the other. Elmer is practising on his saxophone in the corner, and Crutchie is drinking a glass of water and clearing his throat over and over. Race has lit his cigar and is sitting on the couch smoking and watching his boyfriend pace while Albert is at the clothing racks trying to decide between five different - and equally hideous - shirts.

Jack's voice comes out in a croak. "So... how are we feeling?"

Race takes a puff of his cigar. "I think we'll be fine."

"I look like shit," Albert groans, pulling a blue shirt over his head.

"Don't say that, Al," Elmer says, setting his saxophone down on the bench and pulling Albert's shirt down the rest of the way.

Albert studies himself in the mirror. "See?"

"I like that shirt," Jack comments. "It'll look good under the lights."

Albert smiles and pulls his signature vest on over the shirt. He pulls the cigar out of Race's hands. "We're on in 5 minutes. Race, stop smoking."

"Hey, that's my cigar!" Race whines, trying to grab it back. He looks at Spot very pointedly, but Spot simply crosses his arms and smirks.

Jack sighs and turns around in his chair to face his bandmates. "I can't believe this. We're playing somewhere other that our living room," he says, smiling fondly.

"It's pretty amazing," Crutchie says with a grin, "and we'll be great."

The door bursts open, and a woman enters, regarding the band coldly. "You guys are playing?"

"Yes."

The woman scowls. "You're on."

Jack exchanges a frantic glance with Race. "Sure. We'll be there in a sec. Give us a moment to set up."

The woman nods and leaves.

Jack inhales sharply. "Okay, it's now or never."

"I'm thinking never," Elmer laughs anxiously.

"I'm thinking now..." Jack leans toward the mirror and draws a bold line of eyeliner to make a wing on his eye, "and we're gonna fucking do it."

Race, who has reclaimed his cigar, takes one last puff and snuffs it out, and Spot pulls him to his feet and kisses him.

"Okay, let's go!" Albert half-shouts, picking up his bass.

Jack takes a look at himself in the mirror and gasps.

He's wearing bright red cowboy boots, flared jeans, and glittering red suspenders to hold them up. His white shirt is unbuttoned slightly. His dark hair is falling over one of his bright blue eyes. And the eyeliner. The damn eyeliner.

He doesn't look like himself. Instead, he looks like the person he's always wanted to be.

He smiles at his reflection in the mirror and runs out the door. He runs up the stairs, through the hallways, ducking around workers and drunk patrons stumbling around, all the way until he reaches the stage.

Jack turns around to face his friends.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Please welcome to the stage... Jack Kelly And The Paperboys!"

The boys stride onstage confidently, the stage lights bouncing off the sequins on their clothing. Race brandishes his trumpet above his head, tongue out, cigar forgotten. Elmer takes his position at the back of the stage next to the blonde-haired boy. Spot plays a drum fill the second he gets to the shining drumkit, nodding in approval. Albert plugs his bass into the amp. Crutchie takes a seat at the piano, and Jack adjusts his mic to the correct height, front and centre of the stage.

"Hi," he says, his voice booming throughout the bar with a hum of feedback. He draws back a little. "Wow, sorry, that's loud."

He looks out at the audience, surveying their expressions. "I'm Jack Kelly, leader of Jack Kelly And The Paperboys. We're... thrilled to be performing for you tonight. We're a brand-new band from Manhattan... well, most of us are from 'Hattan. Spot's from Brooklyn."

Jack laughs to himself, his sweating hands gripping his guitar.

"Alright, why wait? Boys?"

Spot counts them in.

"This one's called 'Hide'." Jack catches the eye of an audience member as Crutchie plays the introduction on piano.

The crowd is silent. Jack sings into the microphone, the squealing of feedback still in the background. Spot drums louder than Jack has ever heard him, singing backup at the same time. He belts the chorus, his voice seeming to soar above the sound of his guitar as Elmer launches into a saxophone solo. God, Jack is proud.

When they hit the final chord, Jack is puffed out. Scattered applause and cheering echoes from the audience. Crutchie smiles at the crowd and waves at them.

Jack shyly glances down at the people closest to the stage, and he catches the eye of a man, clapping politely.

Easily the most beautiful man Jack has ever seen.

The man looks so out of place in a bar like this; his clothes are clean and his hair is meticulously combed back. The man's hazel eyes meet Jack's, and he smiles. Jack's heart melts right then and there.

"I hope you all come back for more when we perform here again next Wednesday," Jack says.

Jack looks down pointedly at the man, hoping he'll be able to look into the man's hazel eyes again.

Chapter Text

Jack stares out the living room window at the setting sun. His mind is a flurry of activity even though he's been still since he last put his guitar down. The instrument sits beside him on the rug.

He's performed a few times now with the Paperboys. For Jack, there's something about being under the lights, guitar in hand, belting out the songs he's written with his best friends. There's something about all the clothes he wears onstage, completely different to the clothes he'd wear anywhere else. It gives him power, makes him feel like he's something. It's a dream, if he's honest. He wouldn't want it any other way.

They're moving mountains, packing in the venues with audiences cheering and listening intently. Different people show up every night, but one person has stayed consistent, there every time with no exceptions.

Jack can't stop thinking about him, his soft, dark hair, which Jack aches to cast his hand through, his hazel eyes watching Jack play, everything about the man.

Stop being stupid, Jack tells himself. You don't even know his name.

He fixes his gaze on the clouds in the sky and fidgets with the ring on his thumb. There's a feeling in his stomach, almost like nerves, and it scares him.

He's liked girls before, he's sure of it. Many caught his eye sometime during his time on the streets, pretty ones in dresses with long hair and beautiful smiles, flirting with him. Of course, his instinct was to flirt back. That's what boys had to do with girls: fall in love with them and marry them, and be happy with them.

Jack remembers thinking that he wouldn't have minded if a boy flirted with him. He's seen plenty of pretty boys, but not many together. Spot and Race are an exception, obviously, even though they're still very quiet about their love for each other.

He chews his fingernails and thinks back to when he was sixteen and alone on the streets. He remembers fantasising about boys and dismissing the feelings. Shit, Jack thinks to himself. This can't happen. I can't be gay.

Rights for queers have come far, he knows that; he was there for Stonewall. It was tough but beautiful, watching people fight for their rights against authority and conservatism. Reading about the riots and seeing activism all around, it stirred something in him. He should have seen it coming, this realisation. How silly of him.

He knows now, and he's known for a while. Jack smiles to himself. At least he can accept it.

He takes a deep breath. Step one would be to tell somebody, anybody. He thinks Race would understand because he's queer himself. When he'll say it, he doesn't know, and what he'll say, he doesn't know either, but he can try. He'll try.

Step two would be to find out more about that man who stole Jack's heart. Surely Jack could go up and talk to him at the next show tomorrow night, pull him into a corner and kiss him, or maybe just ask his name.

Jack's dreamy smile falters. What about the band? What about fame?

He knows nobody would accept a famous man kissing another man. God, Jack just wishes he could make that aspect of the situation fade away, be with whoever he wants to be, and still be who he wants to be; a famous singer.

So therefore, step three would be to keep it all really fucking quiet.

Chapter Text

"No, Race, we are not writing about that."

The five boys are huddled around Spot, who is holding a pad of paper with scribbled words all over it. They're tired, exhausted to be precise, and the late nights, impromptu cigarettes, and various unnamed and disgustingly heavy alcoholic drinks probably have something to do with that.

"Come on," Jack groans, leaning back and staring at the ceiling in the living room. It's late, we've been at it for an hour, and we haven't really come up with all that much." He leans over and reads what Spot has written down - eyes, ode to the Beatles, something something politics, Race's cigar, life but make it rock music worthy, a song in a minor key but Elmer will kill me for that, Santa Fe fantasy, diminished chords, no money, E G F# B  - and sighs to himself.

"Okay, so how 'bout a ballad? I feel like we need a ballad." Crutchie takes a sip of his tea from a chipped mug.

Spot nods in approval and writes the idea down. "The thing is, we can't write it about random shit. It's gotta be..."

"Purposeful? Meaningful? Deep?" Elmer suggests.

"That," Spot says, writing it down. Race's blue eyes meet Spot's lovingly, and Race shuffles a bit closer, allowing Spot to run a hand through his blonde curls.

"You could write a song about how much you want Race right now," Albert jokes with a smile.

Race tilts his head and winks at Spot. "Is that so?"

"You fucking know it." Spot fixes Race with a fond glare.

Race shuffles closer and looks Spot up and down with his bright blue eyes, a hint of flirtiness in the way his eyes flick from the boy's eyes to his lips. He puts the cigar in his mouth and smirks.

Spot goes red, realising Race's intentions. "I crave your affection, but I crave your silence even more. Shut up."

"Okay, okay." Race smirks, a blush dusting his face. "Write something else down, love."

The next hour passes in a haze. The notepad becomes more cramped. Jack picks up his guitar but tosses it aside after five minutes. The clock ticks over to 1 a.m., then 2. Crutchie falls asleep. Spot and Race make out in the corner, and they soon leave the room (much to Jack's relief). Albert stares blankly into space, holding a cold cup of coffee. The pencil has broken, and Elmer is dancing to The Beatles around the table instead of doing anything productive.

Jack hums to himself, twirling the blunt pencil between his fingers quickly. The moon is high in the sky, barely a sliver, and Jack fixes his eyes on it. Is the man looking up at this moon, right now, like I am?  He catches himself thinking.

Jack blinks and clears his throat, humming the same melody as before. 

Stop it. Don't think about him. Go to bed. Drink some coffee. Open the fucking alcohol cupboard, if you have to. Just don't be stupid. Don't be fucking stupid.

Jack smiles suddenly and writes down a lyric at the top of a new page.

Do you even have a name?
Did you know how you made me feel?
Green eyes, no shame,
Oh, you did something to me

Jack smiles wickedly, biting his lip and scrawling down chord names above the lyrics. He unplugs his guitar so as not to disturb the sleeping boys, and presses down the strings of the guitar, feeling them indent his fingers, just like the boy left indents on his brain.

I could let it go,
I could watch you walk by,

Your dark hair, shy smile, you don't seem to know
What you've done to me

He holds the pick in between his teeth as he pours his whole damn heart out.

Tell me if you see me
In the way I see you,
Tell me if I'm dreaming,
But I'm dreaming of you.

Chapter Text

Elmer fidgets with his shirt sleeves as he sits next to Albert, watching the television. Albert is talking about something Elmer isn't particularly interested in, but he still listens to every word.

It's cold outside, but not cold enough for the windows to freeze over. Elmer shivers slightly. He doesn't like the cold; it reminds him too much of his time on the streets, exposed to the elements. He got sick all the time while he was out there. It was horrible.

Albert, however, was there the whole time. He was there for Elmer from day one, back in 1960, when Elmer stumbled upon Jack's hideaway at the age of seven. Their friendship grew and grew over the years, and when they scraped together enough money to move into a proper apartment, they knew they'd be living together, no matter what.

Albert shuffles a bit closer to Elmer, noticing how the younger boy is shivering. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Elmer whispers, letting his head drop onto Albert's shoulder. He's always loved being close to this boy. They're best friends, always have been, always will be.

"You must be exhausted," Albert says softly. "We've been doing a lot of performing lately."

"No, it's fine," Elmer says. "I'm getting used to it."

Albert smiles. "If only seven-year-old you could see you now."

"He'd be proud," Elmer says. He smiles back at his best friend.

They sit there for what could be hours, Elmer's head on Albert's shoulder, taking the world in, talking, looking at each other, fingers intertwined.

When Elmer shifts a little, resting his head on Albert's chest, Albert realises. Shit.

He runs his fingers through the boy's dark hair and watches a soft smile creep across Elmer's adorable face. 

Albert's thought process goes something like this:

Oh, I like him.

Then, I've liked him for three years. Three fucking years.

☆

"So, what's Elmer's coffee order again?" Jack asks the next morning as they sit in the crappy diner down the street from their apartment.

"He has milk and three sugars," Albert replies quickly. 

Jack nods. "I'll go and order."

Albert watches as Jack gets up to order. He stares out the window at the busy street outside, his heart pounding. He can't stop thinking about Elmer. Albert knows that boy like the back of his hand, from his coffee orders to the way his fingers press the keys on his saxophone. He knows Elmer's favourite colour and his worst nightmares, and he knows how sweet Elmer is. He's always wanted Elmer to end up with someone amazing.

Jack returns to the table after five minutes, holding a bag of donuts. "The idiots have run out of coffee. I got these to tide us over for the next half-hour or so while they get new coffee."

Albert inhales sharply, snapping back into reality. "Oh. Thank you."

"So..." Jack leans on his elbows on the table, "While I was out last night, did you end up throwing a massive party?"

"No," Albert shrugs. "Elmer and I just, y'know, sat around for a bit." He doesn't look Jack in the eye.

Jack nods. "Spot and Race didn't bother you?"

Albert scoffs. "Please. Of course they did. But not for long, they went to bed early." He takes a bite out of the iced donut. "Any luck with the gigs?"

"Actually, yes!" Jack snatches the donut out of Albert's hands and takes a bite, icing smearing across his orange vest. "We can perform five nights a week if we rally want to."

"That's amazing!" Albert grins. "Please tell me you took the offer."

"Duh," Jack says, rolling his eyes.

"Good," Albert says, half-heartedly. 

Jack furrows his brow. "What is up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, all of a sudden, you go all quiet like this, and you stare out the window like you're in a fucking movie, and-"

"It's because of Elmer," Albert says, louder than he thought he would. He takes a breath to compose himself, trying not to look into his friend's eyes. "I think I'm in love with him, and I think I have been in love with him. For, uh, three years."

Jack slams his hands down onto the table. "You idiot. You were the last one to notice!" He laughs. "The amount of tension between you and El is insane. Me and Spot picked up on it ages ago, when you first moved in."

Albert opens his mouth slightly. "Oh."

"So..." Jack leans closer. "Are you gonna tell him, or..."

Albert sighs exasperatedly. "Of course. Yeah. I just have to figure out how."

"Write a song for him," Jack says curtly. "That's what I'd do."

"And where is the evidence of that being a fabulous idea?"

"Just you wait until the gig tomorrow night. Hopefully, my efforts haven't been in vain." Jack shrugs. "And hopefully I magically get some courage."

"Who's that mystery girl, anyways?" Albert asks, trying to deflect attention from his own love life over to Jack's.

"Oh, just someone I keep seeing at our shows," Jack says. "I haven't actually, well, said anything to them. I'm a bit worried."

"Why? You know nobody will care."

Jack sighs frustratedly. "Rock stars can't be gay."

Albert bites his lip. "Oh. It's a boy."

"Yeah. A boy. And I can't be going around doing anything stupid with him, especially because I don't even know his name."

"You should ask him. Tomorrow." Albert smiles.

"Yeah. I will."

Chapter Text

Davey isn't a bar person.

He finds the places intimidating, dark, and cold, filled with people high on liquid confidence. He finds most of the music too obnoxious and loud, and the drunken patrons singing along annoy him to no end. 

For some reason, though, he keeps coming back. He likes the band that's been playing here lately. Their music is good, and their lead singer is hot. 

Davey thinks of that as a bonus. 

When he walks into the bar tonight, wearing a slightly unbuttoned shirt and flared jeans, he has a feeling. He glances over at the empty stage and catches sight of a sign: Jack Kelly And The Paperboys, 9 pm. He bites back a smile.

When the band walks onto the stage, Davey stops trying to keep a straight face. He cheers loudly as the lead singer takes his place in front of the microphone. The singer's blue eyes meet Davey's, and they exchange a smile. 

The singer's fingers are travelling up and down the guitar faster than Davey ever knew was possible, and he's singing while he does it. Impressive.

As they near the end of the set, the singer leans into his microphone. "Okay, Manhattan, are we ready for a brand new song?"

The crowd screams, and Davey applauds. Can't lose my voice from cheering if I'm gonna talk to this boy.

The band plays the song slowly, and the singer sings beautifully. Davey is drowning in it all; the boy's bright blue eyes, the eyeliner boldly drawn, his smiling mouth and soft lips, his sharp jaw, his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, the dexterity of his hands as they pluck at the guitar, the line of his collarbone under his open shirt, everything about him. He wonders what it would be like to talk to the boy, have his eyes on him and him only, to go somewhere just the two of them, and have the boy's hands in his hair and on his waist and everywhere, all at once.

As the boy is singing, he looks over the heads of the crowd at Davey and smiles.

Goddamnit. 

He smiles back. He doesn't know how, but he does.

☆

Jack pushes his way through the crowd. He's still on the high of performing, a smile gracing his face. He's ambitious, he knows that, and possibly delusional, and maybe way too sober to even think of doing something like this, but he's gonna go for it. 

God knows where everyone else is. Jack doesn't particularly care right now.

He scans the crowd for the beautiful boy and blushes hard when he finds him sitting alone at the bar, resting his chin in his hands.

And so he walks over to him. "Mind if I sit?" Jack asks the boy, wiping his hands on his vest.

The boy looks up and initially smiles shyly, but soon he's staring up at Jack like he can't believe his fucking luck. "Of course."

Jack returns the smile and looks at the boy's face, trying to memorise every detail of his dark hair, hazel eyes, and long eyelashes. 

He can't take the silence. "You got a name?"

The boy takes a sip of his drink. "David Jacobs."

"David Jacobs," Jack repeats. "Pretty name. I'm Jack Kelly."

"Nice to meet you," David says with a smile.

"You too, Davey. Did you like the show?" Jack asks awkwardly.

Davey nods. "Yes, I did. I find places like this a bit discombobulating, but your music was amazing."

Jack flushes an embarrassing shade of pink. "Thank you! We've been working hard."

"I can tell. You should cover 'Sweet Caroline'. It's my favourite song. But I did really love your last song, the ballad... beautiful." Davey smiles.

"Thank you." Jack winks.

"Is music what you do for a living?" Davey asks, a hint of judgement in his voice.

"Yeah." Jack shrugs. "I don't have much of a choice with what I do."

"But you love it?"

"Sure. It doesn't pay much, but I do love it." Jack sighs and tilts his head, gazing at Davey, who nervously blushes and looks away. Jack wants to know more. "What do you do for a living? I assume you've got a job."

"Yes, I do, actually. I happen to work for a record label."

Jack's eyes widen. That pretty, and working at a place like that. "Really?"

Davey nods. "Pulitzer Records. The manager - don't tell him I said anything - is one of the most horrible people I've met, but the job pays well and I meet a lot of musicians..." 

Davey makes eye contact with Jack. "But none of them are quite like you."

Chapter Text

"So then you talked to him?" Elmer is asking, cuddled up to Albert on the floor.

Jack sighs exasperatedly. He cannot stop thinking. "Yes, I talked to him."

"Ooh, Jackie's in love," Albert teases. Elmer giggles.

"I'm not in love," Jack specifies, the words heavy. "It's probably just a bit of a fling. Nothing you haven't seen before."

Jack feels disgusting saying that.

The truth is, if it were to go any further than a friendship, Jack would never let it just be a fling. He'd want it to be a secret, first; kiss him backstage, pull him by his waist into places where nobody can see them, shoot flirty glances at him while other people are around. He'd want to wake up beside Davey, make breakfast with him, see the sun's weak beams spill across his face, and it would just be them in a quiet place, Davey and Davey and nothing but Davey.

Then, Jack would want to make it more permanent, more public. He'd want to pull Davey onto the stage and kiss him when everyone's watching. He wants to go to a Bowie concert with him, introduce him to everyone he knew as his boyfriend. He'd dare to make it public, show his pretty boy off to the whole world.

But now, Davey's name on Jack's cracked lips and the words in love sitting right there beside them could so easily slip into the perfect order that would mean... so much. Too much for Jack to deal with.

"You're down pretty bad though," Albert comments, running his fingers through Elmer's hair. "You sound like Race when all Spot would do was invite him over and then send him home the next morning."

A knock sounds at the door. Elmer frowns. "Who'd be coming around at this time of the morning?"

Albert groans. "Oh my god, wait, it could be the fucking landlord! Did we pay our rent?"

"Yeah, we did, don't stress," Jack says as he runs to the door.

When he opens it, Davey is standing there, a cardboard box under one of his arms. Jack's heart speeds up, and he immediately feels inferior as he's wearing his normal clothes, not the clothes of the rockstar version of himself that Davey was hopefully crushing on. 

Davey, however, immediately feels overdressed, but looks at Jack - the real, authentic, glitter-free Jack - and smiles. 

"It's good to see you, Davey," Jack attempts, opening the door fully. "Do you want to come in?"

"No, thank you, I'm in a bit of a hurry," Davey replies. "Look, I came to ask if you could help me do something."

Oh, the things I'd do for you, Jack wants to say. He settles for a short, casual, sincere, but awkward, "Of course. Anything."

Davey sighs, pursing his lips for a second. "Well, my best friend just had a huge fight with her pa. She didn't want to follow the family career, and she's deviating from pretty much all of her father's, um, conservative expectations for her, so he hit her and kicked her out."

Jack's mouth falls open. "Fuck, I'm sorry. That must be horrible. For her, obviously, and also for her pa, cause, like, she sounds like a cool person, and... it's his loss, cause... okay, I'll stop talking."

Davey smiles, slightly amused. "She is a cool person, and you'd love her. She scraped together all the money that she hadn't borrowed from her dad, and she bought the apartment on the level above yours." Davey runs a hand through his dark hair.

Elmer runs up to the door, poking his head through. "Hi! I'm Elmer! Wait, Jack, is this the boy that-"

Jack shoves him out of the way gently, plastering a smile onto his face that he's sure looks more like a grimace.

"Hi Elmer," Davey smiles. Turning back to Jack, he continues talking, "He seems nice. Anyway, my best friend is moving in today, and I can't lift half of these boxes - hell, she can lift heavier things than I can - so can you help us?"

Jack leans against the doorframe, startling himself when he nearly topples onto Davey. "Of course. I'm happy to help." My God, I have to draw this guy, immortalise him on paper, Jack thinks, as he's led into the hallway, past the broken elevator, up the stairs, and to the second door in the hallway of the fourth floor. Boxes are piled in the hallway, and even some furniture is among them. A cockroach runs across the carpet and under the red door of apartment 412, and Davey wrinkles his nose, opening the door.

They're greeted with boxes piled high and the contents of some of them strewn across the floor of the apartment. The window in this place is larger than the one in Jack's; pretty much floor-to-ceiling, covered by a thin curtain. 

The girl Davey has been talking about is nowhere to be seen. Davey turns to Jack. "She'll be here somewhere." 

He clears his throat before calling out, almost tentatively. "Katherine, it's me! I found the guy, he can help us."

A young woman in a fitted orange top and flared jeans appears from behind one of the stacks of boxes. Her hair is a reddish-brown, curly mess, barely held back in a topknot. She narrows her hazel eyes when she catches sight of Davey and Jack. 

"Are you sure this one's not a creep who's going to murder us both?" she asks Davey, pointing to Jack. Jack's face reddens.

"No, no, he's not. He's a nice guy," Davey gushes. 

Jack shouldn't be blushing.

The girl's pretty face is now accessorised with a smile. "Alright then, I'll take your word for it." She turns toward Jack. "I'm Katherine."

"My name's Jack Kelly. I live in 303, the floor below yours, second apartment on the right."

"Right. Nice to meet you, Jack." Katherine puts the boxes down. 

Davey gestures to a heavy box for Jack. "We need that over in the bedroom, can you take that?"

Jack picks up the box and takes it into the room, just like Davey instructed. He can almost feel Davey staring at him as he leaves.

"David, would you mind grabbing the record box from the hallway? Jack and I can put together the furniture," Katherine says. Davey leaves, and Jack approaches Katherine. He curses as he trips over a box and nearly knocks the poor girl over.

"Okay, so... where should we start?" Jack asks.

Katherine reaches out to unbox the flat-pack, and Jack notices a bruise on her wrist, more littered up her arms, and a half-faded one on her exposed collarbone. He decides not to ask questions.

"This one is the dining table. So, Jack..." Katherine crouches down and looks up at him, "David tells me you're a musician. Pass the touchknife?"

Jack grabs the knife off the top of one of the other boxes. "Yeah, I am. I play gigs all the time with my band. We're called The Paperboys. I met Davey at a gig, actually. He caught my eye from the front row."

"Ooh, a love story!"

Shit, she's onto me. 

"I'm just jiving, don't worry," she laughs, sliding the knife through the cardboard of the box. 

They chat and assemble furniture, and Davey comes in and out, ferrying boxes backwards and forwards. By the time the sun sinks low over the skyline of New York City, Katherine's apartment is feeling a bit more like home. 

Katherine waves Jack and Davey off with a smile. "David, come visit as often as you can!"

"Of course," Davey says, smiling back.

A pretty boy, visiting his best friend who is now living on my floor? Jack laughs to himself as he says goodbye to Davey and heads back to his own apartment. 

A perfect storm.

Chapter Text

Winter slips into spring, which slips into summer, and Jack's life is... ideal.

His band is a raging success, two steps away from a record deal. They've been getting paid for playing, and they've been able to pay rent and bills to support themselves. Music is coming easier to all of them, plus Spot knows how to restring a guitar, so Jack was forced to spend some 'quality time' one-on-one with Spot learning how to do it. (He secretly loved the whole thing.)

Every time Davey comes to Manhattan to catch up with Katherine, Jack takes them both out for coffee or a burger. He's really bonded with Kath, they have a lot in common. Kath's getting back on her feet after all the things she's gone through, and Jack's proud of her. She's become The Paperboys' biggest supporter alongside Davey, and Jack couldn't be more grateful.

And Davey. Davey is wonderful. He works at Pulitzer Records by day and supports The Paperboys by night. When he came running into Jack's apartment on a Tuesday afternoon, slightly tipsy, Jack offered him to spend the night on the couch. As Jack felt the rhythm of Davey's breaths in sleep, he fell more and more in love with every moment.

Today, Davey stumbles into Jack's apartment, completely sober, carrying his briefcase, all bundled up in his work clothes; blazer, tie, the whole lot. 

"Fucking hell," he groans, untucking his shirt and loosening his tie.

"Good evening to you, too," Jack says, catching a glimpse of Davey's hip beneath his shirt.

"My God, work was terrible today!" Davey runs to the fridge and gets some iced tea. "Mr Pulitzer was furious because we lost one of our best bands, and now we aren't going to make as much money if we don't have them, and we need a new band to sign, and-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Jack says, guiding Davey by the wrist to the couch. "Start again. You're not making any sense."

"Okay, so the band that makes us the most money left the label, and Mr Pulitzer was furious. He fired half of us, he was that mad." Davey sips his tea. "It's a hot day today, too, and Mr Pulitzer was literally making my sister bring him cold drinks and things all day."

"Isn't she his secretary?"

"Yeah, but she usually gets breaks in the day; today she didn't."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I nearly killed him. She's got a migraine now, so she's on the couch at home." Davey flops backwards, setting his empty glass down on the floor, fanning his face as he reclines on the couch. "God, I could have killed him! It's 1971, for Christ's sake! You can't be like that!"

Jack can see more of Davey's hip, and he's not sure if he'll be able to speak for the next ten minutes.

Regardless, he does. "Do you wanna stay here tonight?"

"Oh my God, yes please. I did not want to walk home."

Jack smiles and offers to make dinner. It's fun, looking at Davey's pretty face and listening to a record and chatting to the boy in front of him. 

☆

The next morning, when Davey leaves, Jack does too. 

He ducks around the people filling the streets, the heat of the sun and the noise from the cars suffocating him. He regrets wearing the outfit that Davey recommended for him, a blue button-down underneath a grey vest, and a cap that looks suspiciously like the one Jack wore as a newsboy when he was younger. 

Eventually, he finds himself standing in front of one of New York's numerous high-rise buildings. He looks up to the top floor, the windows of the building shining in the early morning sunlight. 

He takes off his cap, smiles, and strides through the doors.