It was his hair that did me in, every time. I could resist his long black eyelashes and pouting pink lips, but whenever he shook his brown hair, I was a goner. Lost in a world of soft, soft brown strands, floating against bright sunlight that reminded me of laughter. The light loved his hair - it embraced the silky brown mass and danced off of it, creating a spectacle that made me wish I could stare forever without blinking.
His eyes were beautiful, yes, but they held no warmth in them. They were hard, so cold that they were fascinating, but in an untouchable way. Sometimes he could shut someone up with a glare, and not even have to blink. He had such power in his sinewy muscles, and there was so much passion in his voice whenever he spoke, that no one questioned him.
The passion of his voice was echoed as we made gentle ministrations at night. Jack needed to be touched, needed to be held. As strong as he tried to be in front of the other boys, he and I knew that there was a soft underbelly to the scales he wore on his heart. I tried to touch him as much as possible, to comfort him by resting a hand on his shoulder or arm perhaps a moment longer than necessary. None of the other boys knew, a fact that we were careful to maintain. What we did was never wrong, but sometimes other people cannot understand.
We met late at night, never in the Lodging House. Kloppman slept soundly and the locks of the door were so simple to pick that we could have been robbed a thousand times in our sleep. There was a cheap, ugly boarding house around the corner that we visited. For only a few cents we had the night to ourselves, and could return in the morning without anyone the wiser.
I know some of the others saw the change in Jack. I can function just fine with only a few hours of sleep, but Jack wore his weariness without even knowing it. The circles around his eyes were dark, so dark that sometimes they appeared to be bruises. He grew even coarser to make up for the tired quality of his voice. His movements were lethargic, his every step sluggish.
We had to stop.
We came to the agreement without using words. Both of us avoided conversation unless there was another person in the room. I could hardly meet his eyes, but sometimes I found my gaze lingering on the beautiful, luxurious wilderness of his hair.
Months later I woke early, and found that there was no way I could return to sleep. Try as I might, my eyes were heavy and yet stubbornly refused to shut. I sat up with a muffled sigh and fumbled for my glasses, noticing another empty bed.
It was still dark out, but I headed up the stairs to the roof of the Lodging House. On the edge of the roof slouched a boy with a red handkerchief twisted around his neck, his shoulders hunched. His hair was sleek in the starlight. He heard me come up the stairs, and yet he did not turn.
As I silently moved closer, I realized why. His cheeks were slick, his face wet with salty tears. His eyes were rimmed with red, his lips trembling.
"Hold me, Dutchy," He requested softly, his voice cracking.
And I did. We sat there until the sun threatened to rise out of the muggy night sky. I kissed his tears away.
"I'm just so tired," Jack admitted, his voice no louder than the rustling of silk in a warm breeze.
I watched him, noticing for the first time that his hair wasn't quite so burnished as I had remembered. His mouth was chapped and his eyelashes were thick with tears.
"Love me, Dutchy," Jack whispered.
And I did.
Author's Note: I did not just write that.
Oh, wait, I did.
That's right, folks. Jack/Dutchy. And I'm damn proud of it. I've been poked at to write a happy story to shove amongst my creepy morbid ones. So I did. Go me!
