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The new kid has moxie; Jack will give him that. Not many would be willing to risk angering the Weasel on their first day over a single paper. So, either entitled or headstrong—on the streets of New York, either one can get a fella killed pretty fast.
Jack steps in before Wiesel can build up steam, snatching the bundle from the new kid to double-check. Nineteen, just like he said. Wiesel's still surly, but it's easy enough to get the last paper out of him.
In that first exchange, Jack gets a good read on the two new kids. The older one is anxious and hiding it poorly, stubborn, and proud. The younger one is eager and excitable, still innocent enough to look at everyone the same way, and blissfully naive. Jack resigns himself to a day of showing the ropes to these new kids so they don't cause more trouble. That's the last thing he needs, with things still tense with Harlem after last time.
"I'm Les," the younger boy announces, jabbing a thumb into his chest. Jack's smirk eases into something more genuine—he's always had a soft spot for the littles, and damn if this spitfire isn't worming his way right in there. Les gestures to the older boy, plowing on without noticing Jack's thoughtfulness, "And this is my brother, David."
Jack's entire world screams to a halt in two syllables that resonate in the air, humming like a plucked string. Everything freezes, his heart pounding in his ears, sweat beading on his palms. David... David... David... Jack has met dozens of Davids in his life - it's far from an uncommon name - but this time feels different, warmth curling along his ribs, and some deep-down, instinctive part of him knows.
Only years of practice let Jack hide his shock, his confident smile still there as he looks at the older boy. "Nice to meetcha," Jack falters for a fraction of a moment, unable to bring himself to say the name aloud, and changes at the last second, "Davey."
Jack is four years old when he discovers the mark on his mother's arm. "Momma, you's hurt," he gasps out in horror, unable to take his eyes off the pale lines inside her bicep.
"Oh, no, sweetheart, I'm not hurt," Momma hurries to shush, bundling him into her lap. She uses the corner of her apron to wipe away the panicked tears on his lashes. "Don't you worry yourself, little one. Momma's okay. That's not a hurt. It's my Soul Name."
When Jack gazes up at her questioningly, Momma smiles and kisses his forehead. "See, every person gets a name somewhere on their body when they grow up, and that name is for the person who is theirs. The one person meant to love you more perfectly than anyone else alive."
Wide-eyed, Jack traces his chubby fingers along the shapes on her skin. "It's a name?"
"It's your Papa's name," Momma confirms. "And your Papa wears my Name, too."
"'Cause he loves you," Jack concludes with a delighted grin. Then he tugs at his sleeve, glaring at his unblemished skin petulantly.
"Your Name will come, dear heart," Momma says, wrapping him closer to her chest with a fond giggle. "When you get bigger, you will get your own Name, and then you will know that girl will love you with every bit of her soul." She snuggles him and presses a kiss to his crown. "Now, come along and help me with the washing, wouldja?"
That evening, when Papa comes home from his shift at the docks, Jack pounces on him almost immediately. Papa is tired and sore from a long day, but he indulgently lets the toddler bully him into removing his shirt and baring the pale lines inside his arm. Beaming, Jack brushes his fingers over them in wonder. He can't read yet, but he doesn't need to; Momma and Papa trade smiles full of pure, golden warmth, and Jack knows that's gotta be love.
Jack spends the rest of his childhood eagerly awaiting the day his Name appears. He's enraptured with the idea that out there, somewhere, there is a dame who is his perfect match. A girl who will love him more than anyone else. It keeps him going when he feels sad, when other kids in their building are mean, or when the old lady downstairs yells at him—when food is thin, when Papa drinks too much, or when Momma cries after he storms out.
Someday, Jack'll find a girl who makes him feel better, just like Momma can make Papa smile even when he's hurting from a hard day's work.
Jack is twelve years old when the heat sears across his side, a bolt of lightning that curves around his ribcage. It wakes him in the middle of the night, a pained gasp on his lips, even as his heart leaps because he knows what it is. He contorts himself to try to read the letters high on his side. When he can't get a good look, he excitedly scrambles to wake his parents so they can tell him.
His parents take one look at the Name and promptly throw him out on the street.
During their day of selling, Davey shows no signs of anything out of the ordinary, or at least anything more unusual than a polished schoolboy fumbling through an unknown world. Davey stubbornly throws his all into hawking and is deeply offended to find out he's kinda terrible at it. The only brain cells he spares from that go into keeping an eye on his little brother, which Jack personally finds hilarious because Les is a helluva lot better at all this than Davey.
"Born to the breed," Jack declares proudly when the kid plays the pity card and earns himself a whole dime for it. A tiny part of Jack misses when he was young enough to pull off that one, although the coins clacking together in his pocket remind him this partnership sure ain't hurting his sales any.
But then Les reminds Jack why he can't enjoy this too much. Les—and, more importantly, Davey—aren't like Jack. They have family, a home, and schooling. Real futures. No matter what letters curve around Jack's ribcage, this ain't real or permanent.
Another orphaned street kid with nothing else to lose, well, they might've been willing to risk it on a forbidden Name. But a kid like Davey? Not a chance. The way Davey has completely ignored the subject all day only confirms that.
Then, to top it all off, Snyder shows up. It's not terribly hard to escape him, not when you know the back alleys and side streets of Lower Manhattan as well as Jack does, but it puts a whole different kind of fear in Jack. "Just do yourself a favor, steer clear of him and the Refuge," Jack pants at Davey, desperation roughening the edges of his words. Because even if there can never be something real between them, Davey is still Jack's Match. Jack can at least protect Davey from learning what happens when the warden discovers a fella wears another fella's Name.
Since his parents, Jack has gone out of his way to keep his Name carefully hidden from view. It's a welcome relief that the Name appeared somewhere easy to cover, not one of the unfortunates whose Name showed up on their hands or neck. So, Jack makes sure to wash up only when he's alone so no one sees, keeps his undershirts on even on the hottest summer days, and gets by mostly fine.
In the five years since his Name first showed up, Jack hasn't willingly shown it to anyone else. Of course, that doesn't mean that a few haven't seen it anyway.
One of those few is curled up on the rooftop when Jack finally returns to the lodging house after walking the Jacobs boys to their home. Jack treads carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, but he's barely stepped off the ladder when he hears a bleary, "Jacky?"
"Sorry, Crutch, go back to sleep," Jack whispers, settling into his usual spot.
Ignoring him, Crutchie sits up. "You's back late," he notes. "Thought maybe you wasn't coming back tonight."
Jack pretends not to hear the implications underneath that. "Ran into Spider, had to give him the run 'round before I could get back," he explains. Jack shucks off his shirt and bundles it, along with his hat and vest, into a makeshift pillow. As Jack lies down, he hopes that'll be the end of it, even though he knows it won't.
Sure enough, Crutchie shuffles around a bit and then ventures, "The new kid? David?"
Jack folds his arms over his chest, pressing a hand flat to the spot where his Name sits below his threadbare undershirt. "What about him?"
Crutchie huffs a small laugh. "You really wanna play this game?"
Sighing heavily, Jack tips his head back and glares up at the dark sky. "His name don't matter," he says. "You know that."
"But I saw it on your face," Crutchie counters. "I know your tells, Jack. You felt something. That's what folks always say: that the first time you hear it, you feel it. This one's the one, right?"
He sounds so timidly hopeful, and it cracks the ache in Jack's chest wide open. He turns onto his side to see Crutchie from where he's lying. He could play it off and tell Crutchie that the stories are just stories. That his reaction was just a moment of surprise, not some cosmic hum of fate.
"I felt it," he admits instead because he's tired—too tired to pretend, and he just wants to tell someone. "Was like - like I got this rush of energy all sudden. My heart was pounding so hard I couldn't breathe, and my Name burned hot for a sec. Felt-" Jack pauses, turning the memory over in his head, then shrugs. "Felt like magic." Crutchie's awed smile glimmers in the moonlight.
"But it don't matter," Jack finishes wearily, curling tighter into himself. "Ain't nothing gonna happen, you know that."
"Why? 'Cause he's a fella?" Crutchie asks.
"He gots a family, Crutch," he answers, seeing the flicker of confusion and surprise on the younger boy's face. "He got folks, and he's just selling papes for a bit until his old man gets better, and then he's going back to school. Why would a fella with all that ever wanna throw it all away for someone like me?"
"Did he say that?" Crutchie gasps, puffing himself up indignantly like an angry bird. It's endearingly un-intimidating, and Jack manages a small smile for the gesture.
"He didn't say nothing," Jack says, shaking his head. A nagging suspicion flitting around at the back of his mind resurges again. If it were anyone else, Jack wouldn't say, but it's Crutchie... "I think - pretty sure he don't got my Name."
Crutchie looks at him with wide-eyed horror. It's rare, but it does happen, sometimes; unrequited matches, someone who's matched to someone with the wrong Name. It's the sort of thing people gossip about in whispers or write about in dime-store romance books. Somehow, it's always attached to the word' tragedy.'
"What makes you think that?" Crutchie asks tentatively, scooting closer.
"He didn't say nothing about Names all day, didn't react even a li'l when he heard my name," Jack says. "Never even blinked. And I mean, he still got folks." Jack sees the reluctant concession in Crutchie's gaze at that. They've both seen plenty of what happens to folks with the wrong type of Name. Jack was lucky he was only kicked out; some got much worse.
Clearing his throat, Jack shrugs. "It's fine, he's kinda annoying anyway," he says with a brittle attempt at nonchalance. "Real know-it-all. And get this: he don't believe in lying. Ever."
Crutchie obviously recognizes the plea in Jack's change of subject because he promptly laughs, a little overly loud but genuine. "Never?"
"Never ever," Jack agrees, flopping onto his back again. "Gimme the fish-eye for flashing up a headline. He's lucky he got that li'l brother or he'd be useless at selling."
"The kid's funny," Crutchie says idly. "Reminds me a bit of Buttons."
Jack chuckles appreciatively. "Yeah, a bit. But all that fight, reminds me more of Racer when he first showed up. And oh, you should've seen him selling. He got the biggest damn sad eyes whenever a lady looks his way." As Jack regales Crutchie with the highlights of the selling day, the younger boy slides over and lies down against Jack's side. It's something they usually only do when it's colder out, but tonight, they both know it's nothing to do with the weather.
So Jack just lets himself soak in the warmth of someone nearby and the knowledge that no matter what their Names say, Jack's got one person he knows will always be on his side.
"What's all that about?"
Jack startles at the voice, glancing sideways to see Davey joining him by the distribution wagons. Davey looks so much more comfortable than he did two weeks ago when he first showed up, still clearly out of place among the threadbare newsies but less like he's expecting a fight from everyone who looks his way. And despite all that uptight stubbornness, the guy has grown on Jack as they've worked together—which of course does not help his unrequited Name situation, but Jack tries very hard not to think about that.
"Elmer got his Name last night," Racetrack supplies from Jack's other side.
Davey looks out at the cluster of newsboys in the square, eyes wide, and laughs. "That explains the noise," he says. They watch the newsies roughhouse playfully for a minute, their teasing full of wolf-whistles as they compare Names. "Not used to seeing people show off their Names," Davey admits after a minute.
Racer scoffs. "'Cause folks think it's some sorta secret you gotta hide," he says around his cigar, only a touch bitterly. It's subtle enough that most people wouldn't catch it, but Jack knows him too well for that—on the pretense of adjusting his braces, Racer brushes his fingers below his collarbone.
"Life's already hard enough on the streets," Specs says simply. "No point hiding away the one thing gives you hope."
As Davey hums thoughtfully, Jack desperately wonders if there's a way to escape this conversation without being too obvious. The last thing he wants to think about is Names with Davey right next to him. He internally panics when Davey opens his mouth.
"Never really believed in it, honestly." All three newsies snap their eyes over to Davey in surprise. Davey recoils slightly at the stares, a hint of defensiveness creeping in again. "What?"
"How do you not believe in Soul Names?" Racer asks skeptically.
Davey licks his lips, suddenly nervous. "I just don't think they're as big a deal as everyone says," he answers. "I mean, sure, it's nice for the folks that find their Match, but it's not the only way to be happy, you know? Plenty of folks fall in love without matching Names."
Jack's heart thumps in his throat, head spinning with a dozen new questions he isn't sure he wants answered. (Does Davey actually have Jack's Name but doesn't care because he doesn't believe in them? Or worse, is it because he has Jack's Name that he doesn't believe in them?)
"So, you've never tried to find her, then?" Specs asks.
Davey shrugs. "I'm just saying, if I like someone, I won't stop liking them just because they don't have my Name on them," he says.
"I can get behind that idea," Racer says, twirling his cigar between his fingers. "Too many pretty girls in this city to save myself for one."
"Too bad there ain't a girl in the city that'd touch your ugly mug," Specs jokes. He takes off running when Racer launches at him, and the pair sprints into the madness in the square just as the morning bell rings.
It's midday before Jack and Davey have another moment alone. Les is befriending both the cart owner they bought their lunch from and the man's mangy-looking mutt. Jack and Davey idle in a patch of shade, watching in amusement as Les fruitlessly tries to teach the dog tricks.
"My parents don't have matching Names," Davey says, apropos of nothing, causing Jack to choke on his bite of apple. "Oh, sorry," Davey adds hastily, flushing.
Jack waves a hand dismissively. It takes him a moment to get his breathing under control, and he wipes at a watering eye when he says, "Uh, why you telling me?"
"I just - I know it's not normal, the way I think about Names," Davey explains. "I didn't want to say in front of all the fellas, but you're my partner. My dad, his Name went gray a couple years after it showed up." Jack swallows hard; a Soul Name only goes gray when the person dies. "He never even met them. My mom has a different Name, but my parents still love each other. It's real, whatever some marks on their skin say."
Rolling that over in his head, Jack nods. That makes sense, and it also eases the knot of guilty fear in Jack's gut. At least Davey's skepticism about Names isn't Jack's fault. "Yeah, I get it," Jack agrees, and the stiff line of Davey's shoulders relaxes. "I mean, Names ain't a promise, fo'sure."
"Just because some people don't get that happy ending doesn't mean they don't get a happy ending at all," Davey says fervently. Jack hates how it ignites a spark of hope in his chest. His odds are still long, and what dame will want a guy with another fella's Name on him, but it's a chance.
"We should start heading back," Jack says, jamming his hands in his pockets. "Evening pape is gonna be off the presses soon."
Any lingering doubts Jack might've had about whether Davey is his person die that blazing summer morning when Davey hops up next to him and launches a strike.
Sure, it might've taken a little wheedling from Jack to get Davey on board, but he can tell it was less about disagreeing with the idea and more about being responsible. Jack understands, in a way—unlike the rest of them, Davey has a family to think about, folks depending on him. As soon as those reservations fall away, though, the fiery, righteous rage and indignation that lights in Davey's eyes feels like a reflection. An echo of Jack's own soul.
The whole world says they aren't worth pennies, but they'll show them. Jack's parents said he wasn't worth their love, but his newsies look up to him and think he's worth listening to, and that's enough. Davey is his friend and his partner, and even if they can never have the sort of relationship every kid dreams of for their Match, at least they have this, and that's enough.
It has to be enough.
Of course, then they run into a new problem. A pair of newsies show them to a Brooklyn alley off the docks, where several more teens loiter. Perched on top of a stack of disused pallets, Spot Conlon stares down at them, weighing and measuring with a judgmental smirk. "Cowboy," Spot greets flatly. "And who's this?"
"New selling partners," Jack says. "That's Les, and that's David."
It's subtle, but Jack catches the way Spot's eyes widen slightly as he glances from Davey to Jack. A leaden weight drops through Jack's stomach. Spot is on the short list of people who have seen Jack's Name, and apparently, Jack's hope that Spot would have forgotten after so many years is unfounded. Jaw clenched, Jack subtly shakes his head, eyes pleading.
Spot flicks the ash off his cigarette. "Pleasure," he drawls sardonically. "Now, why the hell you on my turf?"
Jack draws himself up, encouraged by Davey's nod in the corner of his eye. He can do this. So, with the morning's indignant rage still burning in his chest, Jack pitches the strike, with a bit of help from Davey and the occasional hyperactive insert from Les. Spot has always had a damn good poker face, but Jack sees glimmers of interest spark on the faces of a few of the lingering newsboys.
"So," Spot starts once they reach the end of their spiel, "you's come out here to recruit me and my boys for your strike? And came all the way out here yourself, too? Don't I feel special? Woulda thought you'd just send Racetrack like normal."
The faux nonchalance in his tone doesn't fool Jack in the least, and fury wells in him. All too aware of their audience, Jack shrugs flippantly and deliberately keeps his tone neutral when he replies, "I thought I'd spare him. Y'know, after the whole mess last time."
The split-second flash of pain and guilt that crosses the Brooklyn leader's face is only apparent because Jack knows him so well. Spot rubs at his collarbone as he theatrically rolls his shoulder to loosen it—an obvious tell that the Brooklyn boy would murder anyone for pointing out, though few know what the tell means in the first place.
When Spot looks up again, his expression is haughty. "Well, it was a waste either way. Not about to get my boys tangled up in your fight until we know you mean it. I'm bettin' you cheese it at the first sign of trouble. I ain't leading my boys into your mess."
"You can't be serious," Davey protests incredulously. "The price hike affects you just as much as any of us. You can't be fine with them doing this to us. We deserve better than this. We deserve the same rights as any other worker in the city, and if we don't stand together when those rights are threatened, they will take and then keep taking until we have nothing left. You have to see that."
"Do I?" Spot replies, a dangerous note under the mock jovialty. He hops down off the pallets, and despite being nearly half a foot shorter, he stalks toward them with all the confidence of a grizzly bear. "Tell me, schoolboy, you know how to make sure you's the best fighter?" Spot asks daringly. "You don't pick fights you know you can't win."
Davey draws his shoulders back. "That doesn't make you the best," Davey says. "It might make you a safe bet, but it doesn't mean you're the better fighter. The best is the one who doesn't quit even if they lose. The one who learns from failures and comes back stronger. Not the one who runs away from a hard fight just because they can't guarantee a win."
The cold, flat expression on Spot's face is one that Jack recognizes too well. "We're going," he cuts in before any of the gathered newsies decide to jump to their leader's defense or Spot's icy temper snaps. "Just think 'bout it. If you decide you wanna stand with us, you know where we'll be."
"Don't count on it," Spot sneers as they turn away. "Now, get off my turf, and don't come back."
The trip back across the bridge passes in a tense quiet. Even Les senses that something is going on, and he holds back most of his youthful chatter until they are safely back into Lower Manhattan. Jack braces himself to field off a dozen questions from the kid, but surprisingly, Davey speaks up first with a heavy, "I'm sorry."
"What you sorry for?" Jack asks, confused.
Davey shoots him a rueful look. "I shouldn't have said what I did to Spot," he says. "I lost my temper. He wasn't planning to help before, and I just made it worse."
Jack pats Davey's shoulder reassuringly. "Trust me, ain't no words in the world can make Spot Conlon change his mind once he decides it," he says with a soft laugh. "Hoped maybe he was gonna be mad enough 'bout the price hike, but guess the wrong kinda pride won out this time. Could tell halfway in that his mind was fixed."
"You're sure?" Davey checks, and when Jack nods, the line of Davey's shoulders eases. He gives Jack a considering look. "You two know each other pretty well, don't you?"
"Me and Spot?" Jack asks. "I guess. We was never friends, really, but we ran together a while when we was kids." Jack winces, the memories tugging at his heels, and hastily dismisses them. "But that was a long time ago."
Thankfully, Les spares him by interjecting with a curious, "So, why do they call him Spot?"
"He gots a tattoo," Jack says and taps his collar in demonstration. "A little black circle on his chest."
Jack immediately sees that he's not going to get away with the sanitized answer; Davey and Les's brows furrow in the exact same way as they puzzle over that information. "A circle?" Les speaks up first, scrunching his nose. "Why would anyone wanna have a circle on them?"
As much as Spot unflinchingly tells his version of the story to anyone who asks, it still feels blasphemous to Jack to talk about it. It doesn't help that he knows the whole story, the details that Spot purposefully omits—the part Jack only knows because they shared a bed in the Refuge the first time Jack got arrested, when Spot still used to scream himself awake from the memories of a cruel blade carving the forbidden hope from his skin.
The kid doesn't need to know that version, though. The only reason Jack answers at all is that if he doesn't, they will ask the other newsies later and get fed a wild yarn more rumor than truth. "He says the tattoo used to be bigger, but then he got a big scar that messed it up," Jack hedges.
Davey's eyes widen, grim realization tightening his jaw, and Les chirps out, "Oh, it's like your Name, Davey."
The words hit Jack like a steam engine, and he stops dead on the sidewalk as a tidal wave of cold dread wells inside him. Jack turns horrified eyes on Davey, because he can't mean...
"It's not like that," Davey says hastily.
Les hums, confused. "Like what?"
Ignoring his brother, Davey takes a step toward Jack and softens his voice as if Jack is an alley tom ready to bolt. "It was an accident," Davey explains, low and urgent. "I promise, it's not like you're thinking."
The knot in Jack's throat loosens slightly, and his breath rushes out. Jack realizes he's trembling, and he folds his arms over his chest to hide it. "Right, yeah, course," he agrees distractedly. "Not my business. Uh, gettin' late. Should get you two home for supper, yeah?" When he starts walking again, the brothers fall into step with him. Les makes another curious sound, but Davey shakes his head firmly and hisses, "later."
A tense, stilted quiet hangs between them until they reach the Jacobses' tenement building. Before Jack can make his excuses to leave, Davey says, "Les, run on up, let the folks know I'm coming."
Les casts a glance between the two older boys, his nose crinkling petulantly, but he nods. "See ya tomorrow, Jack," he offers, and Jack manages a return smile before the kid takes off up the stairs.
"You should-" Jack starts.
"Jack," Davey interrupts. He looks around and then nods toward the alley beside his building. Jack grudgingly follows him into the relative privacy. Davey surveys him anxiously, a funny little nervous wrinkle above his nose. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Jack says, a knee-jerk response more than anything.
Davey's frown says he isn't buying. "That story, about Spot," he ventures. "The tattoo that got ruined. It was his Name, wasn't it?" Jack doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. "Whatever happened to him, that's not what happened to me, Jack," Davey barrels on fervently. "My Name showed up under a scar that was already there."
Jack blinks, the information cutting through the haze of terror in his head. "Wait, what?"
"It was an accident when I was really little," Davey says with a wry grin. "I fell against the stove door and it burned me badly. When my Name showed up, it came up in that same spot." He lets out a breathless chuckle and shrugs. "Another reason I've never cared much about Names: I can't read mine."
The sharp pain in his chest eases, and Jack sags against the wall as the rush of adrenaline dissipates all at once. "Really? Not at all?" he asks.
"I can kind of make out a couple of letters," Davey admits, "but not a whole name."
Jack huffs out a breath and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Davey says. He leans against the wall beside Jack, their shoulders brushing slightly, and Jack hates himself a little for how much that tiny, casual contact soothes him. "I was a little sad at first, but honestly, I'm mostly glad. When I fall in love, it won't be just because of some letters on my skin. It will be my choice."
"Huh, never thought of it like that," Jack murmurs. "Guess that makes sense." Davey hums an agreement, and they lapse into a comfortable quiet. Jack takes several slow, measured breaths, letting his heartbeat settle now that the panic has passed.
"Can I ask-?" Davey falters, biting his lip nervously. Jack nudges him with his elbow, nodding encouragingly. "I've heard stories before, about what happens when people have a Name folks think is wrong," he says, hushed. "That people will try to remove their Names, or other people will do it to them. Is that what - is that why you looked so scared when you heard about mine? Because you thought I did that?"
Jack cringes, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It ain't like I think you's born wrong or something," he says carefully.
"But that's what happened to Spot, so the thought was already in your head," Davey guesses, once again proving how well he can read Jack. "That's awful. I'm sorry that happened to him. Taking away someone's Name, that's so cruel."
Jack lets out a thin laugh. "Yeah, well, sometimes living with a bad Name on you is just as hard."
Davey scoffs, the sound sharp and caustic. "Who are people to decide if a Name is good or bad?" he says. "The Names are written by His hand," he gestures skyward demonstratively. "If He gives someone a Name, it cannot be a sin. I have to believe He would not be so cruel to give someone a Name and then punish them for following His word."
As Jack processes that declaration, a cautious hope ignites beneath his ribs. "You think?" he ventures. "Even if - y'know, like if a fella got another fella's Name?"
"I may not believe that Names are the only way to be happy, but I would never judge someone for loving their Match," Davey says fervently. "I know people say it's wrong, but how can it be wrong if He says it's right?" Jack makes a soft noise of agreement, fighting back the relieved smile because even if he isn't Davey's Match, at least Davey won't hate him for having a boy's Name. "It's Racer, isn't it?"
Jack startles at the non sequitur, glancing at Davey in confusion. "Racer?"
Davey nods. "They both touch the same spot," he says, tapping below his left collarbone. "Racer always touches there when people bring up Names, and then today, when Spot asked about Racer, he touched the same spot."
"You noticed that?" Jack asks, surprised and more than a little impressed.
"I notice a lot," Davey replies with a quiet laugh. "And I was thinking, Racer's real name ends with an O. So, maybe if just that part got left behind, it would look like just a circle, right?"
"You can't say nothing to anyone else," Jack says, because there's no point denying it now. "If folks find out, Racer could get hurt. You know what fellas like the Delanceys would do to him if they knew? Or worse, if he ends up in Refuge?"
Davey scowls darkly but nods. "I won't tell, promise," he says. "Is - is that what happened to Spot's Name?"
"Snyder? Nah. Spot lost his Name 'fore he ever ended up in Refuge," Jack says grimly. He bites his lip, considering for a long moment, before admitting, "Was his old man. But if anyone asks, Spot done it to himself. That's the story he tells folks, that he ain't gonna let no magic letters pick his fate."
"His own father," Davey hisses bitterly, shaking his head. "How could someone do that to their child?"
"We ain't all got folks like yours," Jack says with a flippant shrug. "Some of us get off easier than others." Davey's eyes narrow thoughtfully, and Jack's stomach twists, realizing the truths he betrayed with that. Davey says he doesn't care, but Jack can't take that risk now, on the eve of everything. If Davey turns away from him now, Jack isn't strong enough to keep this going by himself.
So, Jack pushes off the wall and claps Davey's shoulder. "Speaking of folks, you should get up to yours," Jack says. "'Fore they send the li'l one out searching."
For a moment, it seems Davey will push the topic. Then he lets out a breath and straightens. "Big day tomorrow," he says. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning?"
"See you in the morning," Jack agrees. He slips out of the alley and starts the walk back to the lodging house, and the sensation of Davey's eyes on his back lingers all the way until he rounds a corner at the end of the block.
For one glorious moment, Jack tastes victory on the back of his tongue, a rich sweetness like the time Medda gave him a cup of hot chocolate. The boys are a riot of noise and joy around him, and even Katherine cheers excitedly with them, giggling as she and Les toss balled-up newsprint at each other like snowballs. Beneath the blazing morning sun, Davey's grin is radiant, and Jack's seized by a reckless desire to kiss that euphoria off his lips.
Then it all goes wrong.
After it's over, the rest of the morning is nothing more than disjointed snapshots in his head, fragments of memory broken by adrenaline and fear.
Romeo drops like a potato sack beneath the force of a bull's swing. Racer scratches a strikebreaker's face viciously to escape a chokehold, ragged nails bringing lines of blood to the surface. Les shrieks when someone wrenches his arm around, and Specs jumps to his defense with a furious shout. Davey catches a bull's nightstick on his jaw with a sound so visceral that Jack would swear he feels it in his own bones.
As Jack sprints around the edges of the square, frantic to reach Davey, he hears the scream. Crutchie looks so small beneath Snyder's glare, his frail body curling inward at each blow. The iron snaps closed around his wrists with a definitive clang, and as they drag Crutchie's body roughly across the cobbles, the boy finds Jack through the crowd, eyes wet with terror.
Except then Snyder spots Jack, too, and self-preservation wins because Jack can't let himself be caught. Not again, never again, not now that he's seen. Jack turns tail and flees, abandoning the one person who has never left his side.
After Jack's family threw him out of their home, he went eight months without another person seeing his Name.
Winter set in hard over the city, and Miss Medda Larkin found a starving, half-frozen thirteen-year-old sleeping in the alley behind the theatre and brought him inside to warm up. When she told him to get out of his wet clothes, Jack stubbornly refused for nearly an hour, pale and shivering. Medda finally put her foot down, and Jack reluctantly peeled his shirt off, expecting to be chucked back out into the cold. Instead, Medda hung his clothes by the fire to dry and wrapped a spare blanket around him, telling him he was safe to stay until he felt better.
The kindness of not mentioning the Name she clearly saw saved Jack's life more than the night sleeping by the fireplace, although he never could find the right words to tell her so.
Even more than four years later, Jack equates Medda's theater with safety, which is precisely where Davey finds him the day after the failed strike. Jack shouldn't be surprised that Davey manages to talk him back around, despite Jack's best efforts to hold onto his anger and fear. (Of course he does—it's hard to argue with the other half of your soul, especially when your other half is as clever as Davey.)
"Hey, Les," Davey says when they start for the doors, "why don't you and Kath run ahead and tell the fellas about the rally? I wanna talk to Jack about some more plans, what we're gonna say."
Katherine's gaze skips between Jack and Davey, emerald eyes scrutinizing, and then a faint smile tics at the corner of her mouth. "Come on, Les, the sooner we tell the boys, the sooner they can start spreading the word," Katherine says, speaking up over the beginnings of the boy's protest. "On the way, you can tell me more about this girl you fancy. Maybe I can offer some advice, as a girl." Les hops on that idea eagerly, and Davey sends a grateful look to Katherine.
Jack busies himself with cleaning his brushes as Katherine and Les leave the theater. Davey lets the silence hang until the door closes behind them. "Jack," Davey starts, tone softened from the fierce determination of before. "You know, you scared me this morning. When I showed up, and the fellas said you never came back last night, I thought-" Davey breaks off, making an aborted helpless gesture that Jack catches in the corner of his eye. "Thought maybe you were out there somewhere, too hurt to get back. Or that the bulls caught up to you after all."
"M'fine," Jack offers stiffly.
Davey huffs wearily. "No, you aren't," he argues. "Otherwise, why won't you look at me?"
Jack sighs, dropping his brushes in a pile. He rises from his crouch, distractedly wiping his hands on a rag. "I dunno what more you want me to say, Dave," Jack says, glancing sideways to gauge Davey's expression. The other boy looks frustrated, and confused, and a tiny bit scared. "The rally's a good idea. We should get workin' on that."
"I'm not talking about the rally or the strike right now," Davey says. "I'm talking about you. You're my partner, Jack. My friend. I can tell when there's something wrong. Talk to me." Davey pauses, expectant, then probes, "Is it Crutchie?" Jack finally looks up at him, confused by the abrupt guess. Davey flicks his gaze down pointedly, and Jack realizes his hand slipped into the pocket holding Crutchie's letter without his permission. Jack flushes and jerks his hand out of his pocket.
"I'm sorry," Davey says gently. "What I said earlier - I didn't mean to make it sound like I don't care what happened to him, because I do. He's my friend, too. Of course I'm scared." He seems to consider for a moment, taking a half-step toward Jack, then shakes his head and sits down on a stepladder instead. "We will get him out of there, Jacky," he vows firmly.
A broken, scornful noise escapes Jack as he wheels on Davey. "He shouldn't be in there in the first place," he says, raw and anguished. "I'se supposed to keep him safe. I heard him screamin' for me, asking me to save him, and what'd I do? I ran, Davey. Cheesed it outta there and left him alone. And you wanna know the worst part?"
Jack pulls the letter from his pocket, shaking it open as his eyes fall onto that final, painful line (as if he hasn't memorized it by now). There, beneath Crutchie's name, is a simple postscript in a clumsy hand. "P.S. I'm glad you got away," Jack reads aloud, voice quavering, "'cause I don't want you hurt." Jack roughly jams the paper back into his pocket. "I left him, he knows I left him, and he should hate me for it, but he don't 'cause he's a better person than I'se ever been."
Before Jack even sees it coming, Davey grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him into a hug. Jack tenses, startled by the unexpected contact, and then all but collapses into the taller boy's embrace. "It's gonna be okay, Jack," Davey murmurs, rubbing one hand over Jack's shoulders. "He's gonna be okay. I've got your back. We'll figure it out."
Jack gives himself a long minute to bask in the comfort, absorbing the warmth and strength of Davey's body as he wrestles his emotions back under control. Only once he's sure his eyes are dry and his breathing is even does Jack drag himself out of Davey's arms. He opens his mouth, but- "Don't apologize, Jack," Davey says firmly. Jack looks up at him in surprise, and Davey grins knowingly. "We're partners, remember? We're there for each other, for anything."
The words hit too close to that tender spot in Jack's chest, the place that wants Davey to mean those words in a different context. Jack manages a shaky, grateful smile. Davey bites his lip, hesitating in an entirely un-Davey-like way, and then asks, "Crutchie, does he - I mean, is he like Race? Does he have a Name that will get him hurt worse?"
Jack's eyes widen, surprised. "A fella's Name?" he clarifies. "Nah, he gots a girl Name."
Davey exhales in relief. "Good, that's good," he says. "At least he doesn't have to worry about that in there." He rubs his hands together nervously and offers an awkward grin. "Honestly, I always thought maybe you and him - I mean, I know you care about all of the newsies, but Crutchie always seemed different for you. More."
"You thought Crutchie's my Match?" Jack realizes. He lets out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh at the ridiculousness of this conversation, his actual Match speculating about the identity of his Match. "It ain't like that. He's my-" Jack flounders, searching for the right word, and settles on, "he's my Les."
Comprehension lights Davey's eyes, and he nods. "Oh, sure, I understand," he says. Jack is most certainly deluding himself by thinking Davey almost seems relieved by the news. "But Jack, you know there's nothing you could've done, right? I saw it happen, too. It was three to one. If you'd tried to save Crutchie, you'd just be in the Refuge, too, and Crutchie wouldn't want that. He said as much."
Jack scrubs his hands over his face. "That ain't - that ain't why he said that," he admits quietly, too drained to keep carrying so many secrets. "I should be in there to protect him, but I - he knows I - if I was there-"
"You do have a fella's Name," Davey finishes for him. "Right? Crutchie doesn't, but he knows you do." Shaking with nerves, Jack can't meet Davey's eyes when he nods. "Then Crutchie is right," Davey says with conviction. "It's better you're not there. No one should ever hurt you for your Name. So, you and me, we're going to win this thing and get him out of there, together."
Jack glances up at Davey again, the hope bright in his chest because Davey isn't recoiling. He said he doesn't care if someone has a forbidden Name, but it's different when it's someone you know. Davey isn't skirting away from him the way Spot did when he found out, isn't looking at him slantwise. He just grins at Jack the same way he did on the day they started the strike, fierce and righteous as an avenging angel, and it steals Jack's breath.
This feeling—this awe and warmth and security—has got to be what Jack always wanted to find with his Match: he's in love with Davey.
Jack mirrors Davey's smile, heart pounding against his ribs. "Yeah, let's go win this thing."
In retrospect, Jack will admit that it was idiotically reckless to confront Pulitzer alone. After a morning of planning with Davey, sitting close as they made a list of points to raise at the rally, Jack was buoyed with joy and fury. So, after escorting Davey and Les back to their building, Jack makes a detour to the World offices.
It doesn't occur to Jack until it's too late that Pulitzer might have reinforcements. Snyder, emerging from the shadows, sends Jack bolting for the door out of instinct, but the Delanceys block his path. "Or your little pal, what's his name?" Pulitzer asks in mock thoughtfulness.
Never breaking eye contact with Jack, Snyder smiles snake-like and menacing as he answers, "Davey," in a slow drawl, as if savoring the word. Jack's heart plummets through the floor in icy dread.
They toss Jack down in the cellar to consider his options, but it's a foregone conclusion: Jack will do whatever he has to do to keep Davey out of Snyder's grasp, even if it means Davey never speaks to him again.
Davey's bitter, disappointed stare when Pulitzer's goon foists the stack of dollars into Jack's hand is going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
Fighting back furious, helpless tears, Jack stumbles through bundling up everything he owns. He wants to be fast about it, but his body missed that headline because his hands won't cooperate, shaking so badly he keeps dropping things. Footsteps rattle the fire escape, heavy strides on the metal rungs, and Jack sighs resignedly. He was hoping to be gone before any of the newsies traded the shock for enough rage to confront him, but when is he ever so lucky?
Bracing himself for the impending fight, Jack turns to face- "Davey?"
Blue eyes flash even in the pale moonlight. Jack was prepared to fight one of his newsies—Race or Albert the most likely suspects, with their whiplash tempers and never afraid to settle scores with fists, but he never would've expected this. Before Jack even thinks to react, Davey shoves him hard, sending him sprawling on his ass.
"I am so mad at you right now," Davey informs him, and it's an understatement because Jack can hear depths of emotion beneath the fury. Davey's eyes fall on Jack's half-packed bag, and his face constricts. "And you were just going to leave?" he asks incredulously. "After everything, you're just, what, using your blood money to run away? Give up on all of us here and start over? Forget us? Crutchie? Me?"
Jack swallows hard and pulls himself together. "I ain't having this fight with you, Dave," he says firmly. He stands and turns toward his bag, but Davey catches him by the shoulder and jerks him back.
"No, you aren't going anywhere until you tell me the truth," Davey practically growls. The usually composed boy towers over Jack, suddenly filling more space than his lean frame should be able to. His dark expression is all the more potent for the targeted focus in his eyes. Davey is a summer storm contained in flesh and aimed like a bullet. For the first time since they met, Jack feels a flicker of fear, not for him but of him.
"There ain't no truth to tell!" Jack snaps, his temper flaring in response to the perceived threat. "I said my bit. Now get outta my way." He grabs his bag, uncaring that he hasn't finished packing—he needs to escape, the animal instinct bred on the streets screaming to flee from danger and pain. To his surprise, Davey doesn't stop him from shouldering past, but before Jack can reach the ladder-
"Katherine came to find me." A new pulse of shock and anger freezes Jack solid. "She had a lot to say."
"Oh, you mean like how she's Pulitzer's kid?" Jack bites out over his shoulder. "How she been telling him 'bout all us since the start?"
Gravel crunches as Davey shifts his weight, but he doesn't approach. "Yeah, she told me that part," he agrees. The flash fire in his voice softens into a low rolling thunder. "She also said when you went to see Pulitzer, he threatened you. That Snyder was there."
Jack tenses, keeping his back to Davey. He wills his feet to move, but they feel like stones, like anchors holding him fast. "That much, I can understand," Davey continues. "I would understand if that's why you did it. I wish you'd have talked to me instead, but I would still understand. I know why you can't go back to the Refuge."
"You don't know nothing," Jack snarls.
"But then she said something that didn't make as much sense," Davey resumes as if Jack never spoke. "She said that they were threatening to arrest more of the newsies, but it was like one name took all the fight out of you." The breath hardens like a knot in Jack's chest, and he silently prays that Davey will let it go.
A soft footstep, a cleared throat. "You should have just told me, Jack," Davey says. "Did you think I would want this? That I'd be okay with destroying everything we're doing here, for every newsie in the city, to save myself? Because I'm not. I believe in what we're doing. I won't pretend I'm not scared, but if they did catch me, I'd still want-"
"You don't know nothing!"
"Then did you think I couldn't take it?" Davey presses, a thread of hurt welling under his frustration. "I know I'm not like the rest of you, that maybe I didn't have to survive on the streets like that, but that doesn't make me weak or-"
"He would break you!" The words burst from Jack with the force of dynamite, an emotional grenade. He rounds on Davey with wild eyes, sending his bag flying off his shoulder to spill its contents at their feet. "I couldn't let that happen 'cause you don't understand. It ain't nothing to do with you. If he got his hands on you, Spider would crush you. He'd keep you in that place and find every excuse to bust you up more and more just to hurt me."
Davey's forehead furrows, a confused V etched deep in his brow. "Why me?" he asks. "If he wants to hurt you, why me? I mean, he's already got Crutchie. You've known him so much longer. He's practically your brother. Wouldn't that be easier and hurt you more?"
"How can such a smart guy be so dumb?" Jack murmurs with a helpless laugh. He takes a long, quavering breath for strength and forces himself to meet Davey's gaze. "I already toldja, it ain't Crutchie's Name I got on me."
"I know, but-" Davey stops mid-sentence, and his eyes widen in shock. He clears his throat again, licks his lips nervously, and prompts, "You mean Snyder threatened me because..."
"'Cause he's seen my Name," Jack confirms. "He knows you's my person. My Match."
By the look on Davey's face, it's a wonder the evening breeze doesn't knock him down. His mouth opens and closes twice without a sound. "Your Name says - you never said. Me? Is that - the fellas said you don't take selling partners. Is that the reason you kept me around?"
"Of course not," Jack protests, offended by the implication. "Maybe the first day, yeah. I always keep an eye on new kids, and maybe I stuck closer 'cause I was hoping. But I figured out fast that I ain't your Match."
"I don't even know my Name. How could you know?" Davey asks.
"'Cause all those stories they say 'bout the first time you hear it, it's real," Jack says simply. "I knew soon as Les said it. Felt it in my bones. And you's good at a lot of things, Dave, but acting ain't one. If you'd felt it when you heard my Name, it woulda showed."
Davey's lip pinch, confirming Jack's theory. "Even knowing that, you kept - I know I'm not the best at selling. Did you keep me as your partner just because my name is on your skin?"
Jack lets out a ragged, half-frantic scoff. "I kept you 'cause after knowing you, I can't think about not knowing you," he says. "'Cause you're stubborn as a goat, and you never stop runnin' your mouth. You's so smart, and you got this fire in you, but there's this - kindness, too. Light. The sorta kind kids like me don't see. You're good. So, even if I ain't your Match, you're still mine 'cause I'm a better person since I met you, and I wanted to keep you whatever way I can."
Davey's expression sharpens, a fierce, blazing determination, and before Jack can process the change, Davey kisses him. Jack tenses at the sudden intrusion in his space. Davey draws back a fraction, uncertain, and that's when Jack's brain catches up to him. He fists his hands in Davey's vest and clumsily reels him back in with a desperate noise. Davey makes a sound, half squeak and half moan, and he grips Jack's bicep in one hand, the other settling warm along the curve of his jaw.
Jack breaks away when he needs to catch his breath, panting as he stares at Davey in shock. "Wha-?" Jack falters, confused, and then regathers himself. "I don't - but you don't have-"
Davey shakes his head, wry and fond at once. "You are also a very dumb smart guy, Jack Kelly," he says. "I told you, I don't care what Name is on my skin. All I want, all I've ever wanted, was to fall in love with someone because it's real—because it's my choice."
"And you-" Jack shudders when Davey sweeps his thumb over his cheek, the simple gesture so tender his chest aches. He clutches the hand to his cheek, searching Davey's expression for answers to questions he doesn't know how to ask. The one he finally settles on is, "Me?"
A soft burble of laughter escapes Davey, and he drops his forehead to Jack's. "You," he agrees. "Name or not, you are my person. The Match I choose. If you choose me, too?"
Jack breathes out his name, a tremulous hope rising inside of him. "You know it ain't that easy," he says. "Folks still gonna give us trouble, 'specially if they find out we ain't really Matched. You got a chance. You got your family and your schooling. You could find yourself a nice girl to love, have a good, normal life."
"Why would I want normal?" Davey replies with a playful grin tucked into the corner of his lips. "Jack, you are arrogant, and foolish, and full of wild dreams. You are an incredible painter, and you take care of all these kids who have no one else. You are brave, and reckless, and you gave your heart to someone with no promise of return. You're my partner and my best friend. Why would I ever want someone else?"
Overwhelmed, the only thing Jack can think about is kissing him, so he does. He draws Davey in, trying to convey every ounce of feeling into the contact, so it can say the words he can't find for himself. A thin sound, halfway to a sob, escapes Jack and separates them again. "Kids like me don't get this kinda thing," he murmurs. "I don't get good things like this. Please, don't promise nothing you's gonna take back tomorrow."
"Is this what you want?" Davey asks. Despite the expression of steady calm, Jack hears the glimmer of nerves beneath, and his heart lurches.
"Course I do," Jack says immediately. "Jesus, Dave, want this - want you - more than anything."
"Then that's all that matters," Davey says earnestly. "We both want this. We will figure out the rest." Cradling Jack's face in his hands, Davey pulls him in for a sweet, soulful kiss. "Don't think this means I'm not still mad at you, though," he finishes with a grin. Jack can't stop the surprised giggle, smoothing his hands over Davey's now wrinkled vest. "Now, let's go. We've got plans to make."
That shakes Jack from his bemused fog, cold reality leeching the happiness from his chest. "Plans? Dave, I can't," Jack says urgently. "If I got back on my word, they'll come for you. Snyder will come for you. I can't lose you."
"Unless we end this," Davey says, sliding his hands down to thread with Jack's. "If we put a stop to this, they have no reason to come for us anymore."
"And how the hell are we supposed to do that?" Jack asks hysterically. "'Cause in case you forgot, we's got stomped every step the way here."
"Katherine has a plan," Davey says. He starts walking backward, tugging Jack along with him. "A way to make this bigger, so big they can't stop it. Bigger than even just the newsies. A way-" Davey yelps and stumbles when he trips over Jack's discarded bag, clinging to Jack to stay upright. "Sorry," Davey says, glancing down at the spilled contents. He crouches down to start gathering the mess. "I didn't mean to step on your stuff. I hope I didn't break any-"
Jack frowns when Davey falls silent, crouching to be level with him, and that's when he sees what Davey is holding: rolled-up sketch pages that fell from the oiled cylinder. "Davey," Jack prompts nervously.
"This is the Refuge." It isn't a question. Davey's hands shake, the paper fluttering in his grip. Then the horror in his eyes hardens into righteous determination. "This is it, Jack," he says. "The last thing we needed to make Katherine's plan work. Show the whole world that not just the newsies, but every working kid in the city, will no longer be treated as less." Grinning triumphantly, Davey stands, still clutching the sketch in one hand, and he holds out his other to Jack. "C'mon, we got a strike to win."
And they do win.
Just like Davey promised, they win the fight. They get a fair deal for the newsies. They land the backing of the damn governor. They not only get Crutchie out of the Refuge, but they get the place closed for good, and Snyder clapped in irons. Jack lands a job offer, a way to make extra money for his art.
"I'm surprised you accepted my father's offer so quickly," Katherine says as they watch the newsies lining up to collect the morning edition. "What happened to all those plans of heading out west?"
Jack can't stop his gaze from jumping across the square to Davey, radiant with joy as he hugs Crutchie for a third time. "No hurry," Jack replies with a faux-nonchalant shrug. "Santa Fe ain't goin' nowhere. Be mean to dump this whole union thing on Dave now it's got so big. Figure I can stick around and take some more of your old man's money while we figure all that out."
The knowing slant of Katherine's smile makes Jack uneasy, and she follows his gaze pointedly. "Of course," she agrees. "Wouldn't want to leave your partner on his own." Her expression softens slightly, and she adds, "He's a great person. You're lucky. Hold onto him, Jack."
"Hey, Jack!" Davey's voice cuts across the square, grinning daringly. "You coming? These papers won't sell themselves." Jack laughs, and his boys all clap his back and shove him playfully as he crosses to the distribution tables. Digging out a quarter, Jack holds Weasel's surly gaze as he slaps the coin down onto the table amid a chorus of cheers.
And as Davey passes over his bag, his conspiratorial grin slipping into something a touch softer when their hands brush, Jack doesn't regret a single moment that led them here. This? This is victory.
The evening sun casts long shadows across the rooftop, the late-summer air thick, and the sounds of the city seem far below. Lounging in the shade of a chimney, Jack's sketchbook lies ignored on his knee as he distracts himself with combing his fingers through Davey's hair, where the taller boy dozes with his head on Jack's lap. Davey cracks an eye to look up at him. "Jack, you're never going to finish your sketch in time if you don't work on it," he notes in amusement.
"Hey, I'se an artist, and I gotta appreciate art when I see it," Jack replies. He brushes a loose lock off Davey's brow, the hair curling up slightly in the humid heat. "Inspiration and all that."
The blush and shy smile undercut Davey's chiding look. "If you're getting inspiration for political cartoons by playing with my hair, I think you're doing it wrong."
"Getting inspiration by lookin' at the co-president of a worker's union," Jack corrects. "Youngest ever union head in the whole country, maybe even the world. Why would I wanna look anywhere else?"
"Sweet talk doesn't get you a paycheck, Jacky," Davey teases. At the same time, he catches Jack's hand and kisses his wrist gently before settling their joined hands on his chest. "Oh, that reminds me, did you see about Racer?"
"That he started going out to Sheepshead again?" Jack checks. "Yeah, guess him and Spot's talkin' again."
"You never did tell what happened there," Davey probes curiously. "Why he stopped going."
"Spot's an ass," Jack mutters bitterly. "It's what you can guess. Racer found out they were Matched, and Spot showed him the door. Threw 'round a bunch of shit about how he can't be Matched to a fella, that he got a reputation to protect. They were close before that, been friends for a while, so Race took it hard."
Davey hums a considering noise that means he's thinking hard about an idea. "That's awful, but I guess it makes sense," he says. When Jack shoots him a wounded look, Davey hastily adds, "Not saying it was right. It's just, thinking about what Spot went through with his Name, I can see why he might be scared about it."
Jack grumbles a grudging sound. "Still don't give him an excuse to stomp on Racer's heart like that. Guess he apologized, and Racer made me promise to drop it, but I ain't happy about it."
"Of course you're not," Davey says, more fond than exasperated. "Anyone who says the Manhattan newsies don't have a mother has clearly not met you." Jack flicks his pencil against Davey's forehead in rebuke, triggering a burst of delighted laughter. Jack rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, but he's powerless against the force of Davey's unbridled happiness.
Twirling the pencil stub through his fingers idly, Jack notes, "So, the ol' man's back on his feet. Looks like he's doing good. He gonna be back to workin' soon?"
"Probably," Davey agrees. "Momma's worried about him, but not sure how much longer we can get by with what we're making between Momma's work and the papers. He started looking, so we'll see."
Jack hmms thoughtfully. "Mayer finds a job, that mean you can get back to schoolin', huh?"
The knowing look Davey sends up at him says Jack's attempt at nonchalance didn't land. "Well, don't start hunting for a new selling partner just yet," Davey says. "He has to find a job first. Things will still be tight for a while after, anyway, depending on what work he can find. I think I've still got a few more months of papes ahead of me."
"I mean, sales wise, I'm more worried about losing the little one," Jack teases. Davey huffs and swats at him playfully. "But suppose it's good anyway. For the union and all."
"Hey." Davey sits up and turns to face him directly. "Even if I do go back to school," Jack raises an eyebrow at the if, but Davey barrels on, "you know you've still got me, right? Not just for the union. For everything. You're my partner, no matter what."
Jack knows the smile on his face must be downright soppy, but he doesn't care. He tugs Davey in by his loosened tie and kisses him, basking in the affection so freely given. After a minute, Davey pries the sketchbook from Jack's hand and sets it aside so he can claim Jack's lap for himself. "Thought I'se supposed to be working," Jack says, amused, even as he wraps his arms around Davey's waist to keep him in place.
"As if you were actually working anyway," Davey replies slyly. "So, maybe a little break will help spark that inspiration."
Jack snorts a laugh. "Don't think inspiration is what you's gonna spark of you keep this up," he says, but he eagerly kisses the laugh from Davey's lips.
Jack has kissed other people before, but nothing compares to the thrill of kissing Davey, kissing his Match. Every touch fires off his nerves like gunpowder, but there's a strange comfort in it, a familiarity despite how new everything is. Davey curls his fingers in Jack's shirt, pulling him closer and tugging Jack's shirt tails from his waistband at the same time. Jack sucks in a surprised breath when nimble fingers slip beneath his shirt, sweat sticking skin together as Davey's grip settles warm and grounding on his waist.
"S'too hot for this," Jack whines without making any move to dislodge the contact. "Is summer over yet?"
Davey grins against his lips. "As soon as it is, I bet you'll complain about the cold," he replies. He hesitates for a moment, a pause Jack only notices because they press so close together, and then Davey slides his hand free to thumb over the buttons on Jack's shirt. "If it's too hot, you could always lose this," Davey says, shy beneath his (adorably bad) attempt at seduction.
"The scandal, Mr. Jacobs," Jack jokes. "You ain't even gonna make an honest man of me first?"
"Jack, I don't know what holy powers you think I have, but it would take a miracle to make you an honest man," Davey answers dryly, prompting a burst of laughter from Jack. Davey smooths his hand over Jack's chest, broad palm flat above his heart, and says, more earnestly, "You're my Match, in every way that matters to me. And I-" He bites his lip, nervous, before finishing, "I want to see it."
Jack's eyebrows jump at the request. "My Name?" he checks.
"If you're okay with it," Davey hurries to add. "I know some people like to keep them private, and I know I don't have-"
Jack interrupts him with a soft kiss, folding his hand over Davey's. "Course you can see," Jack says. "I mean, it's yours, after all." His heart drums wildly against his ribs as Jack fumbles the buttons of his shirt open. He shrugs off the braces and shirt, then, with a steadying breath, he tugs his undershirt over his head. He holds his arm across his chest and twists so Davey can see the letters inked high around his ribs.
"Oh." The word drops from Davey's lips at barely more than a whisper, an exhalation more than a tangible sound. A shiver races through Jack as Davey traces his fingers over the individual letters, spelling an inexorable truth on his skin. "You're mine," Davey breathes. Then a blinding smile blooms as he meets Jack's gaze again, his hand splayed possessively over the letters. "You're mine."
Heat surges in Jack's gut, and he nods. "I'se yours."
Davey lunges, dragging Jack into a bruising kiss that turns his brain fuzzy at the edges. Davey keeps one hand over the Name, the other cradling the back of Jack's neck to hold him in place as he stakes his claim. It's only when Jack whimpers breathlessly that Davey pulls back enough for air. "Sorry," Davey pants against his cheek, still not loosening his grip. "I didn't - I don't know why, but seeing my name on you, it just-" He shrugs, the Walking Mouth at a loss for words.
Chest heaving, Jack shakes his head. "Don't apologize," he says. "Not for that. You's welcome to do that whenever, promise." Davey laughs, the coiled tension spooling from his shoulders. At the same time, a bittersweet ache forms in Jack. He bites his lip, deliberating. "Dave, can - never mind."
"What?" Davey prompts encouragingly. "What were you going to ask?"
"Nah, it's dumb. I don't wanna ruin the moment. Just forget it."
Davey's lips part on a surprised gasp. "Oh." His fingers flex on Jack's side, pads pressing into the dips between ribs. "I meant it, Jack," Davey says. "When I said I don't care what my Name says. I choose you. You know that, right?"
"I know," Jack says, shoving down that nagging doubt in the back of his mind. Davey is here, Davey is his, not by some twist of fate but because he wants to be. That's all that matters. "Like I said, was dumb."
Davey brushes his thumb over Jack's skin, and he flinches when it tickles the sensitive skin beneath his arm. Davey smiles, delighted, but he lets Jack bat him away when he tries to tickle the spot again. Squaring his shoulders in the way Jack recognizes from rallies, Davey takes a deep breath and tugs his tie over his head. "You can't read it anyway," he says, starting on his buttons. "Even the part that isn't scarred, it's not in English."
Jack looks up, surprised. "It's not?"
Davey takes off his shirt and undershirt in one. The black marks are on the side of his ribs, in almost the same place as Jack's. Rippling, red skin shot through with misshapen black smudges obscures most of it, but the three shapes visible at the trailing edge are entirely unfamiliar to him.
"It's Yiddish," Davey explains, although he lowers his voice slightly when he says it. It feels nonsensical, considering what they are doing, but Jack has heard the hateful words tossed around on the streets, so he knows why Davey wants to keep it quiet. One more reason Jack needs to keep Davey safe, one more reason to protect this other half of his heart from their cruel world. "I spoke English by the time my Name showed up, but I guess they always come in your first language."
Jack glides his fingers over the letters and then over the scars, his callused fingertips a strange contrast to the glossy burn marks. The burn itself is easily the length of his hand, a thick line that starts an inch below his nipple and cuts diagonally down around his side. "That must'a hurt," Jack remarks sympathetically.
"The infection was worse," Davey answers. Jack's chest tightens, all too aware of how easily those sicknesses can sweep even the strongest people away. "After the blisters tore, the fever set in. It took weeks before it broke."
"I coulda lost ya," Jack realizes with a pain like a knife in the chest. "Coulda lost you 'fore I even knew you. Woulda just been a gray Name and I'd never-"
Davey cups his face in his hands and holds Jack's gaze firmly. "But you didn't," he declares. "You didn't lose me. I'm here. We're both here, together. And we are too good a team to ever separate, you hear me? I am yours, Jack."
Jack clutches at Davey, forcing several deep breaths to calm the irrational panic. "You's mine," he repeats, nodding. "And I'se yours."
"Exactly," Davey agrees. "You're mine, and I'm yours, and nothing is going to change that."
Miraculously, nothing does change it, either.
Not when Davey finally goes back to school the following year, passing his tests to graduate a year late but with high marks. Not when Jack moves on from selling papers, picking up one of the seemingly countless jobs building their ever-growing city. Not through times when the pursestrings are tight, trying to get set up on their own and still helping support Davey's parents, when rough weeks leave the cupboards bare. Not when the family and friends around them grow, change, and move on with their lives.
They might not have the fairy tale life most kids dream of for their Match, but it's good, and they're together, and that's enough.
Body aching, Jack fights the sticky lock and shoulders open the door to their small apartment. He shrugs off his coat, his eyes jumping toward the sound of voices. "Ah, Miss Sarah," he greets. "What brings you down to our humble abode?"
"Look who's breaking out his ten-cent words for me," Sarah teases. She stands and pulls Jack into a warm hug. "Good to see you. I was trying to steal my brother away for a bit to help me pick out some things for Momma's birthday, but he won't budge."
Seated at their cramped dining table, Davey glances up from the stack of papers in front of him to shoot his sister a weary look. "I told her I need to have these reports graded by morning, but she's ignoring me, as usual," Davey says, grudging fondness beneath the exasperation. Then his gaze slides over to Jack, and his smile softens. "How was your day?"
"Same as always," Jack answers. "Scraping skies. Ronnie dropped a hammer, damn near brained George. Think he did it on purpose to stop his singing. So, same ol'." Davey smiles indulgently at the familiar anecdotes from Jack's job.
"Well," Sarah starts, and Jack can instantly tell what's coming, "if I can't steal my brother away, what about my brother-in-law?"
Any protest Jack may have prepared dies at the term, exactly as Sarah knew it would. Their world won't allow them to marry, even if they were a true Match, but the reminder that Davey's family considers them as good as always turns him to putty. "Sarah," Davey interjects, "leave him alone. He just got home."
"It's fine," Jack says. "For Momma Esther, I can handle carrying a few packages." To Sarah, he says, "Gimme a minute to wash up." He slips around the table, ducking in to press a quick kiss to Davey's cheek, which earns him an adoring smile. When he steps into their bedroom to change out of his work clothes, he hears Davey chiding Sarah in a carrying whisper.
The truth is that there isn't much Jack won't do for the Jacobs family as a whole. After his own parents' reactions, Jack was nothing short of terrified to let the Jacobses know about their relationship. It was bad enough that Jack wore Davey's Name, something entirely outside of their control—the fact that Davey chose him, regardless of Name, felt like an unforgivable blasphemy. Jack never wanted Davey to experience the same rejection he had.
Instead, the Jacobs welcomed him with open arms. They never even asked for proof that what Jack claimed was true, accepted the idea that he wore Davey's unMatched Name without hesitation. He loved Davey, and Davey loved him, and that was enough to earn him a permanent place in their family. It's the exact opposite of his own family, and Jack will never be able to repay the debt of gratitude.
So, if that means helping Sarah cart around some shopping after a long work day, it's the least Jack can do.
After washing up at the basin on the dresser, Jack emerges freshly dressed to find the elder Jacobs siblings locked in a stubborn staring contest, Davey glaring darkly at Sarah's guileless smile. Jack chuckles and drops another kiss to Davey's cheek on his way past. "We need anythin' while I'se out?" Jack asks, reaching for his coat.
"I don't think so," Davey responds, his annoyance at his sister fading once his attention shifts to Jack. "I got the milk yesterday."
"Alrighty, then. In that case, Miss Sarah, your escort awaits," Jack says, opening the front door for her and sketching a mock bow. Sarah laughs as she exits the apartment, and when Jack offers his arm, she takes it gratefully. "So, how goes the women meetings?"
"The suffrage meetings," Sarah says, emphasizing the name deliberately, "are going well, thank you. We had another march at the mayor's office last week, you might've seen the article Kathy wrote?" Jack nods to confirm it, and Sarah launches enthusiastically into relaying the goings-on of the group.
There is comfort and familiarity, letting Sarah drag him through a shop as she prattles about her work and rallies, and asks for updates on Jack's job and Davey's teaching position. "Oh, Davey told me you took some more sketches to the paper," Sarah says over her deliberation of two lace handkerchiefs. "They bought some of them to publish."
"Only two," Jack counters. "Ain't a big deal. Not like I got time to do that much no more, and it barely pays pennies when I do."
"That's not the way Davey tells it," Sarah says, flashing him a knowing smile. "He's proud of you, you know. He doesn't care about the pay. He's just proud you are still using your talents to make a point. Speaking up against the rich and powerful." Jack wills himself not to blush like a schoolgirl in the middle of the shop. "You know, I'll admit, I wasn't sure what to think of you when Davey first brought you around," Sarah continues. "This cocky cowboy dragging my brother into trouble."
"Hey, maybe the first time was me," Jack says, "but he drags me into trouble just as much."
Sarah laughs and tips her head to concede that. "He was right about you, though," she says. "And that boy loves you more than life itself. You know that, right?"
Jack's heart skips in his chest. "I know," he says. "And I do too."
Nodding, Sarah sets the kerchiefs back on the table and moves over to the next display. "Good. I'm glad you have each other. He always wanted to fall in love with someone without worrying about Names, and you gave him that. Even if Franny did show up now, there's nothing that would make him leave your side, and - Jack?"
Frozen in the middle of the shop, the word echoes in Jack's skull like a bell. "Franny?" he asks breathlessly. "Is that-?"
Sarah's eyes widen. "Oh, he never told you?" she asks. "That's just what he always called them when we were kids. He can only read the first few letters, so we called them Fran for short."
"The start of his Name is burned," Jack says in confusion.
Glancing around them, Sarah steps closer and lowers her voice. "Yiddish goes right to left," she explains. She grips his arms bracingly. "I mean it, though, Davey would never leave you for them. For anyone. He loves you."
Her platitudes and reassurances flow over him like a fog, his brain stuck on that simple syllable, the fraction of a Name. "I gotta go," Jack says. He tugs free from her grip, ignoring Sarah's alarmed expression, and staggers back a few steps. "Sorry, but I gotta-" Sarah calls out for him, but Jack turns tail and flees.
He sprints out of the store, not bothering to apologize as he elbows his way through the evening crowds. As he runs, the name rings in his skull. Fran...Fran...Fran... It can't be. Of course it's not, and yet-
Jack's gasping for breath by the time he reaches their apartment, and he practically falls through the door. "Back already?" Davey asks, looking up from his papers. When his gaze lands on Jack, his expression immediately falls. "Jack, what's wrong?"
"Fran," Jack pants.
Davey flinches as if he were struck, his jaw clenching. "Sarah told you," he says tightly. "Jack, it doesn't matter. I told you, I don't care what my Name says. I love you."
Jack shakes his head, stumbling forward until he hits his knees beside Davey's chair. "I know, but is that what it says?" he presses. "Please, I just gotta know."
"Jack, it doesn't-" Davey's face constricts, features tightening the way they do when he's stubbornly trying to keep up a brave front. His Adam's apple bobs with a shaky swallow, and he lifts his chin before meeting Jack's eyes again. "I can only read the first couple letters," he admits. "It starts Fra. The next letter, it might be an N, but it's hard to tell. It's just something we called them when I was little, though, it doesn't matter. It - Jack?"
Because Jack can't fight back the tears, shaking all over under the surge of emotion. Davey drops from his chair, cradling Jack's face in his hands as he surveys him with panic in his eyes. "Jack, please, don't worry about this," Davey begs. "Talk to me, bashert. What's wrong?"
"I'se so dumb," Jack gasps out, clutching Davey's wrists as he leans into the contact. "I never even thought. 'Cause, y'know, folks only ever called me Jack my whole life. See, was named for my old man. Ma called me Jack, after her dad, to tell us apart. Done it since I was born, so much I'se almost forgot. So, I'se always been Jack, but Davey, I was born Francis."
Davey jerks back with a gasp, his hands jumping to his side. A second later, reality sets in, and Davey's eyes go wide. "I felt - it was like sparks in my chest," he says with an airy laugh. "I felt it, but it was also more than feeling. It was-" Davey shakes his head and looks up in awe, his eyes welling above a shaky smile. "I felt it, Jack."
"You're mine." Jack means it as a statement, but the end ticks up into a question.
"I'm yours," Davey responds, his face breaking into an ecstatic smile. "It was you all along. You were my Match from the beginning. I'm yours, Jacky. You're mine, and I'm yours." With a sound shockingly close to a giggle, Davey drags him into a searing kiss, with all the same fervor and joy as the first time four years ago.
Later, when Sarah returns to check on them, they will explain everything. They will marvel that Jack gave Davey exactly what he wanted—a chance to fall in love on his own, without the pressure of a Name. That they are bound together by a forgotten name in an abandoned language, but drawn together by something more than fate.
In the moment, they bask in the thrill of connection, in being precisely where they want to be—united, as always.
"You are so far engraved into my soul and into my existence that no one
can ever truly understand me without, at the very least, hearing your name."