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“You’re a traitor, Jack!” David heard someone shout as the newsies scattered, still prominent over the outraged chatter and scurrying footsteps. It almost felt like time had slowed down until he couldn't tell whether he was lost in the crowd or he and Jack were completely alone. He opened his mouth but his words, for once, ran dry—Race would pay to see that, he thought. His mouth may as well have been a separate entity with the near-zero control he had over it right now. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, he watched as Jack disappeared behind the curtain.
“If we disband the union…”
“I say we take the deal.”
“Vote no on the strike. Vote no!”
How could he say that? How was it possible that those words could come from the mouth of Jack Kelly? Sure, that coming from any other newsie would sting, but when it came from Jack it felt like a punch to the gut—no, it was worse. It felt like he’d been stabbed, stabbed by the cold, unforgiving blade of betrayal.
A strike directly to the heart.
It took a rather embarrassingly long time for David to realise that while he’d been stewing in his anger, the other newsies had fled the scene. Ms Medda stood across from him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He expected her to say something, drop some of that all-knowing wisdom she seemed to have, but not a word. Rather, she let out a sigh and tilted her head towards the curtain to their side.
Ms Medda had an uncanny ability to read people. David could simply look at her and she seemed to know his whole life story. By now he knew that if she was telling him to do something, it was probably a good idea—though just because he should didn’t mean he wanted to.
“Ms Medda—”
“I know, kid, I know,” She said, clearly trying to placate him, though he did notice his muscles tense slightly as she cut him off. But if Ms Medda noticed the clench of his jaw, she didn’t say a word. “But he clearly isn’t thinking straight. Go… knock some sense into him.”
A scoff slipped it's way out of his mouth involuntarily. Talk to him? Gouging his own eyes out seemed a more appealing option right now. His fists clenched at the thought—and the look of pity on Ms Medda’s face. She let out another long, tired sigh as she crossed the distance between them, placing a hand on David’s arm.
“If there’s anyone he’ll listen to, it’s you.”
His gaze shot towards the curtain, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders lift. Well, if there was anyone he could trust right now, it was her. Maybe she was right. Maybe he could talk Jack out of… whatever this was. It was his turn to sigh now, Ms Medda giving him a gentle nudge. His eyebrows furrowed as he chewed on his lip, almost feeling the wheels in his head spin.
… Screw it.
With a huff of reluctance, Davey pushed the curtain back, making his way through the maze that was the theatre's backstage. Props and set pieces took up almost every inch of spare space—one of which was the backdrop of trees Jack had painted. Ms Medda had called it "Natural aptitude," and he had to agree. Sure, maybe it was just some trees, but they had to be the most gorgeously painted trees he’d ever seen. Scattered between the tables of props and towering sets were racks of expensive-looking, costumes—most of them glittering in the light. Photos and prints covered what was visible of the walls. It was clear this place was like home to Ms Medda.
As David’s mind wandered, so did his feet. They moved with purpose, directing him swiftly and steadily. It was instinct; his legs knew how to get to Jack. An invisible string was tugging him along, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to follow it. Against his will, he walked, reluctantly trudging down the halls.
Would Jack even listen to him right now, even consider what David was saying? It didn’t seem very likely, to be frank. If anything, Jack was hot-headed, and reasoning with him was… frustrating, at times. David would (most likely) not be very welcomed at the moment, no matter what he said. But… he had to do this, right? Jack couldn’t turn his back on the, now, not after all they’d done. What about Crutchie? Jack had been so withdrawn after that, like he was gone too. He clearly wasn’t thinking this through.
David was so lost in thought that he almost walked right into the door, coming to a sharp stop and stumbling back a little to avoid a crash. It had been so easy to get here, to let his feet mindlessly lead him to Jack, but now he could hardly bring himself to open the door. One hand hovered above the doorknob, the other clenched into an anxious fist, his fingernails digging into his sweaty palm. It was stupid to be so worked up; it was only Jack. And yet he couldn't move.
Come on, David, don’t be an idiot. His hand slowly inched closer to the doorknob. The idea of confronting Jack made his stomach turn—how absurd. He’d gone on strike, organised a rally, and openly criticised one of the most powerful men in the city, and he was scared of talking to his best friend? How pathetic.
Before he had the chance to think it over, he twisted the doorknob, stepping forward and letting it swing shut behind him.
And there was Jack. His back turned to the door, an apron tied around his waist, and a paintbrush in his hand. David had seen that painting before. It was the one of Santa Fe, the newest set for Ms Medda. His muscles had a tenseness to them, his grip on his brush was tense. Paint was splattered over his arms, every colour under the sun could be found on his tan, freckled skin. Some of his hair stuck out from under his hat, the messiness adding to his charm—which already made him irresistible as it was.
How could he stand there and look so beautiful after what he’d done?
No, wait, beautiful was the wrong word. Beautiful made it sound romantic—nothing about this was romantic. What was wrong with him? Maybe Jack wasn't the only one acting weird lately.
It wasn’t until then that he realised he’d been staring directly at Jack the entire time. Come on, David, he thought, mentally cursing at himself, focus!
“Jack,” he called, trying his best to speak around the lump in his throat. Jack slowly turned towards him, his shoulders stiffening. Despite his intentions, anger tainted his name, coating it in betrayal and disdain as if it were a curse. “What on Earth was that?”
He saw Jack's jaw clench, watched as he set his brush down and balled his fists. David was not in for a friendly conversation.
“The truth,” he spat, finally meeting David's eyes. “I told the truth.”
David shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. This was, somehow, harder than he thought it would be. What was he supposed to say here? That wasn’t really what Jack thought, he’d seen that wad of cash. Pulitzer paid him to say that, which made his stomach churn because not only had he been paid to say it, but Jack had agreed. The thought of that alone made him want to vomit.
“You know what the truth is? The truth is that you sold us out.” He stepped forward, pointing an accusatory finger at Jack—though his hand was noticeably shaky. The second time he opened his mouth, it looked as if he was about to go off his head, as if he was going to shout at Jack until he lost his voice. But the only word he could choke out was: “Why?”
Jack was at a loss for words this time. David saw the way he opened and closed his mouth, kind of like a goldfish—if a goldfish were irresistibly charming and devastatingly handsome. He was trying to come up with an excuse, wasn’t he? But there was no excuse for this. No lousy excuse could ever make him look like less of a selfish prick than he already did.
“Why would you sell us out to Pulitzer of all people? I tell you we’re holding a rally against a man and you go and make some deal with him? What is wrong with you?”
Jack turned away, picking up a cloth and meticulously wiping at the patches of paint on his arms. Of course. This was always what he did. He didn’t answer questions, he didn’t explain anything, no, he just gave you snarky remarks or pretended you weren’t even there. How typical.
“Jack,” he called, refusing to let the conversation end. But of course, Jack did not turn around. How frustrating could he be? David grabbed his forearm, turning him around by force until the two were face to face. He could count the freckles on Jack’s face if he wanted to, he could see the little flecks of light in his irises.
Jack's eyes had a tight grip on David's heart. He was almost willing to forget about this whole traitor business if it meant he could keep looking at them. There was a deepness in Jack's eyes like no other, a way of looking at you as if you were the only person in the world. David's stomach did what was probably it's hundredth backflip of the day, and yet he could never bring himself to look away. He could spend an eternity just staring into those eyes.
It took everything in him to finally look away, removing his white-knuckled grip from Jack's arm. He sighed out the tightness in his chest, stepping away so they weren't so… close.
As much as he needed to get through to Jack, he also happened to be awfully distracting.
"Please," he begged, his voice pitifully soft. "Just tell me. Nothing you say could make me hate you more than I already do."
Jack's frustration faltered, his eyes growing wider for just a moment, nothing more than a moment, before his lips pursed again. He turned away, facing his back towards David as he continued to scrub his skin clean with the washcloth, but there was no way David was letting him turn his back on him again. Walking carefully around the buckets of water and paint, he stood face to face with him.
"Jack—"
"Go away, David."
David. Jack never called him David. It sounded so foreign coming from him, like he was speaking another language. To Jack, he always was and always had been Davey.
This was not the Jack he knew.
David simply stared at the floor, his tightly-balled fists slowly unfurling as he let out a sigh. All his anger, his frustration, his disbelief had been washed away by that cold look in Jack's eyes, leaving him with an empty pit in his stomach. He wasn't angry anymore, nor was he upset, he was just… hurt.
"Fine." He peered into Jack's eyes one final time, searching for a warmth that he knew wasn't there. "I'll… leave you to it."
David walked away, intentionally bumping against Jack's shoulder out of pure, childish pettiness. His legs ached to turn around and his eyes longed to look back, but he denied himself of those privileges, making a beeline for the door.
As the tips of his fingers brushed against the cold metal doorknob, Jack finally called out.
"Davey, wait." There was a sort of desperation in his voice, the whiny tone pulling at David's heartstrings—as much as he was ashamed to admit it. David was an independent man, but Jack Kelly had a power over him that nobody else did. He turned around, watching as Jack stared at the ground. "I'm… sorry. I really am."
"Don't tell me that. Tell the rest of them." He pointed a finger at the door, taking long, slow steps towards Jack until they were face to face again. David couldn't deny that Jack's 'speech' (if you could even call it that) had created an ache in his chest that he couldn't even begin to describe, but compared to the other boys, he barely knew him. It hadn't even been a week since they met, but Jack had changed his life. The other boys must have been crushed. "You really let them down, you know that? You're supposed to be their leader."
"I know, I—"
"No, you don't know!" He shouted, his frustration getting the best of him as he once again jabbed his finger into Jack's chest. Usually he would find himself oddly flustered standing this close, but right now he could barely see through his anger. "You have no idea how much you've crushed these boys!"
"Davey—"
"No, Jack, just listen to me for two seconds! You have seriously hurt our cause with this whole parade and I have no idea how you plan on making it up to everyone. Honestly, what were you thinking? Why would taking a deal from Pulitzer ever be a good idea?"
"Davey."
"I don't think Spot is ever gonna trust Manhattan ever again because it took so much convincing for him to show up and when he finally does you pull that ridiculous stunt? He's never—"
Jack's rough hands gripped onto the collar of his shirt, and before he could question it, Jack's lips were pressed against his. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and it took him a moment to realise how desperately he had been waiting for this. He shut his eyes, feverishly grabbing at the back of Jack's neck in attempt to somehow pull him even closer. David can't help but lean against his body, sending Jack stumbling backwards until he was pressed against his half-painted canvas. Their chests were so close, and David was almost certain Jack could feel his heart pounding at almost light-speed levels.
David finally pulled away for air, both of them practically panting like dogs, but he couldn't bring himself to move away from the warmth of Jack's body. His cheeks were flushed bright red and his collar was all twisted and messy, though his eyes were still locked on to Jack's. God, those eyes were hypnotising.
Oh my God, am I in love with Jack Kelly?
"I did it for you, Davey," Jack mumbled, scratching the back of his head. His gaze glued itself to the floor, his ears burning sheepishly. "I know it wasn't smart, but Pulitzer, he— he threatened you. Said he'd lock you 'nd Les up in the Refuge unless I disbanded the union. Gave me cash too, so's I could go West like I wanted—but I promise that's not why I did it. I didn't want 'im to… hurt youse."
Oh my God, is Jack Kelly in love with me?
David couldn't help but stare, feeling his lips part slightly. What was someone supposed to say to that? He couldn't deny that it made him feel a little guilty. Jack had betrayed everyone… for him. If he had it his way, David would just kiss him again right now—and it was ever hard not to. He dug his teeth into his lips, hands twitching as he resisted the urge.
But David Jacobs had never been known for being strong-willed.
He smacked his lips against Jack's before he had time to chicken out, pulling him forward by his suspenders until their noses collided. His hands snaked their way around Jack's waist, resting on the small of his back as Jack's palms cradled his cheeks. Almost every inch of their bodies were pressed against each other as they stood there heart-to-heart. Jack's warmth was comforting, fuelling the burning fire of desperation sitting in his chest.
But Jack wasn't having it, forcing David away from him before the kiss could get any deeper. David almost stumbled backwards into the paint cans.
"Davey, you know we can't be like… this. I mean, if the boys found out—"
"They don't have to," He whispered, twining both their pinkies together. "This can just be ours."
David didn't know what would happen if people found out. Love in itself was a strange thing, but he knew people would see this as even stranger. He'd heard the priests preaching of sins between men, but how could something so very beautiful be sinful? If he was a sinner for this, Jack was his saint. If he was the devil, Jack was his angel. David didn't know what would happen if people found out, but what he did know was that he loved Jack.
"I should go," Jack sputtered out suddenly, hesitantly loosening his grip on David's pinky. "Gotta apologise to the fellas 'nd all that."
He nodded, not knowing what else to say. In all the books he'd read, confessions of love were always so magical and beautiful, the characters always knew exactly what to say. This wasn't the first time David wished he were in a storybook, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but there was also something charming about the awkwardness of it all—well, maybe Jack's awkwardness was, he couldn't say the same for himself.
"Wait." Just as Jack's finger was about to slip away, David grabbed his wrist tightly. He pulled him away from the exit, the two of them ending up near the beat-up piano sitting in the corner. David sat down on the lumpy stool, gently tugging Jack with him. "Now might not be the best time, but maybe… maybe we could just stay here for a while. Just us. Might give everyone else a chance to cool off too."
Jack hesitated, but nodded. The crease between his brows had faded, for now, and his breathing had slowed. David knew that he was worried. Beneath his confident, annoyingly charming, and devastatingly handsome exterior, Jack really was just a scared boy, no matter how deep he buried it.
"You know how to play? Les told me you do." He gestured towards the piano, lifting the lid up carefully. David pressed a finger against one of the wooden keys, a soft C ringing out. Lovely, it was in tune. Clearly exteriors were not everything.
David placed his hands over the keys, starting to play some gentle chords as Jack leaned into his side.
"I was no good at romance.
Was never good at love.
Never thought I'd see heaven,
Until you came from above.
You and I,
Don't know why,
But I know something grew.
I never planned on someone like you."