Work Text:
New York City, New York, circa 1895
The city streets that house the kosher market bustle noisily as David Jacobs slips through the kiosks, tired parents, and countless yelling children. He rolls his eyes at that; he knows all about pesky kids now that his younger brother, Les, is in full swing in his “terrible twos” phase.
Not that he isn’t a child himself, but he’s thirteen now, he had celebrated his bar mitzvah that December and was officially a man now. He is at least responsible enough to run to the market for his mother for their Shavuot dinner later that day. He doesn’t mind though, it gives him a chance to not be tempted to steal bites of food from the delicious smelling apartment he had just left.
He fiddles with the shiny dime in his pocket, more than enough for the fruit they would eat for dessert: a pound of fresh cherries and a bunch of bananas.
David ducks under two men carrying a platter of assorted meats, he licks his lips at the thought, having not eaten anything that day except for a small breakfast, preparing himself for the feast they would eat that night.
Finally, David reaches one of the many fruit stands, he chooses this one since it is near the end of the market, wanting to distance himself from the painfully loud noises of shoppers and sellers.
“How can I help you, young man?” the woman behind the wooden stand asks.
She seems young to be a seller, maybe early twenties, David thinks as he admires her distinctly east Asian features. Sadly, he didn’t see many people from other parts of the world besides eastern Europe and America itself at his school. Although there is one colored family in his apartment building since the owner seemed to be lenient on those kinds of things; which he appreciated, he’d met colored people before and there didn’t seem to be any difference between them to him.
“May I have one pound of cherries and three bananas please?” He carefully says the words, having practiced them since he was told what to buy. And for it being the first time he has ever bought anything from the market by himself, it seems to be going quite swimmingly.
“Coming right up!” She smiles warmly and leans over the counter to grab the fruit, placing them all in paper bags before opening a small pouch at her waist full of presumably change, “That will be seven cents, please.” David easily hands over his dime and he is quickly handed back three cents and his fruit.
“Thank you, have a good day!” He smiles and folds over the top of the bag to keep the fruit as fresh and as safe as possible before continuing on his way.
This time, wanting to avoid the crowds, he walks through the open grassy park just behind the market, hoping he won’t be yelled at for trespassing or walking on someone's property.
Luckily, he isn’t and instead enjoys watching the people lounging on blankets on the grass as he walks, quickly making his way to the corner.
It is as he waits for the carriages to pass that he hears someone yelling, "Oscar Wilde on trial! You’s heard it, folks, he’s a homosexual!” David jumps at that, and whirls around to see the yelling coming from a boy, he couldn’t be any older than David himself, he thinks. The boy continues shouting the headline. “Oscar Wilde! A homosexual, read all about it!” David internally curses when the boy approaches him. “Paper for the pretty boy?” He holds out the newspaper to David.
David blushes slightly at the boy's forwardness, yelling headlines about a homosexual and then flirting with a boy himself? He couldn’t be serious.
He is a few inches shorter than David, but he carries himself with a kind of confidence that David could only wish to have. Worn, plain clothes cover his tan skin and his messy hair sticks out at odd angles from where it is tucked under a grey newscap. But his eyes are what stand out to David: a warm hazel, a perfect mix of green and brown that reminds David of when his father will bring home chocolate around Hanukkah and the very trees that shade them overhead.
“I know!” the boy continues, "I was speechless when I heard it too, you’s should really read the full article, it’s a real nail-biter!” His words remind David that he in fact, has not replied and has instead stood there staring like an idiot.
“Oh-oh yeah. You know, I read one of his books, The Picture of Dorian Gray, for my english class, it was really well written! I-I could lend you my copy!” David shifts the bag in his arms nervously.
The boy scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, his fingers spotted with ink. “Nah, I-I couldn’t take ya book from ya. ‘Sides, I’se ain’t much a reader.”
David frowns, “You could be.”
He shakes his head again, almost remorseful, but he starts again, “But if you’s like readin’ so much, then I’se got just the thing for ya!” He shows off the newspaper in his hands once more, nearly shoving the headline Author Oscar Wilde: Convicted Homosexual in his face.
It’s David’s turn to shake his head, “I’m sorry, I can’t, my-my mother will be mad if I buy a paper, especially from a cute boy.” David cringes at his attempts of flirtation, cursing himself for even trying with the boy, he is literally selling a headline about just what happened to queers like himself. “I wish you luck on your selling, though.”
“Oh, s’shame,” the boy deflates and David frowns, wanting his bright smile to return. It doesn’t, though, but David feels the need to make the boy smile.
“Sorry, do you want a cherry, though? I’m sure my mother won’t miss just one.”
“You’s got cherries?” He straightens at the offer and smiles when David nods, he praises himself when he gets the smile back. “I’se never had a cherry, though my friend Racetrack had an orange, once.”
“Well, now's your chance!” David reaches into the bag to pull out a single maroon colored cherry, glistening from the water the seller had sprayed on it. “Put it into your mouth by the stem- yes, just like that and there’s a hard seed in the center, don’t eat that, spit it out.” David instructs, which the boy follows dutifully.
After he spits out the seed, the boy hums, his eyes widening at the sweet taste, “This is the best thing I’se ever tasted!” David giggles at his hyperbole. He swallows, savoring the last of the juice on his tongue, "Thank you, seriously, all o’ the boys at the lodging house, where I live, are gonna be so jealous when I’ll tell ‘em ‘bout my fruit brinin’ angel!”
David giggles again, “I’m happy my fruit can help secure your bragging rights.” David jumps as the crossing guard blows his whistle and crosses into the street to stop the carriages. “I have to go.” David has to stop himself from glaring at the officer, wanting to blame someone for making him stop talking to the boy, probably never to see him again.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” the boy seems genuinely sorry David has to go, but then again, so is David. “Will-will I ever see you again? I-I really liked talkin’ to you,” the boy, almost shy—a stark contrast to the beginning of their conversation—calls as David slowly begins toward the crosswalk.
David turns and smiles sadly, “I hope so.” and crosses the street.