A/N: the last of my "I may have posted this on my old account" set. [basically, I've just been going through my flashdrive looking for things to put up on here, and I can't remember what all I posted and what I didn't.
Anyways, have some Javid, my personal favorite pair, and the most organic for me to write
P.S. - Lame title is lame!
Thanks for Everything
Jack's always sneaking newspapers—tucking them into his vest when no one's looking and slinking off to some quiet corner to read in peace.
A lot of stuff plays in to it. There's a want for knowledge, and this looming fact that he's still just street trash that can hardly scrape together a lick of respect from anybody. There's a gentle familiarity that comes with papes, after having handled them for so many years.
There's the fact that David's writing for them now, and the walking mouth always did have a sort of way with words.
It was probably David's fault there was this growing collection of papes stuffed under his mattress.
Dave had a gift. The papers had noticed.
Words always spilled so easily out of his mouth. See, Jack: Jack would work a crowd, but the substance, everything behind everything he'd ever said—it was David. David always knew exactly what to say.
Jack just scans most all the articles, now, flipping through them with vague, forced interest before stripping all the pages except the one with David's article. Sometimes it's a column. Sometimes it's a paragraph. Sometimes it's a page, but that's a rarity and a bit much to hope for.
David's in the papers about once a week, now-a-days. Jack's popping buttons, he's so proud.
Amazed, too. Words came like air to Dave. It was just natural: something he was born to do. If David could keep this up, he could shake worlds.
His expression bounced childishly between awe and joy and something like affection as his eyes traveled the page. He probably should have been used to David's words by now, but they always surprised him. David always surprised him.
"You like it?" He didn't even hear David walking up; he was just there, bright and smiling and glowing like nothing else. Jack liked it when David glowed.
"Yeah," he says, grinning, "Yeah; it's great, Davey. It's great," and that's not nearly enough.
But David beams like the morning sun, standing just a bit taller, looking just a bit less tired even though he's been worked to the bone between school and writing and selling papes on the side.
"Thanks, Jack."
Dave's always the voice of reason. He's always the one following behind Jack on every spur of the moment scheme trying to talk him out of it. He's always the one who goes along, in the end, ironing out the kinks and making all of it work.
Feet skidding across wet pavement as they round another sharp-turn corner to shake a rowdy pack of rival newsies, there isn't much David can do except toss out a handful of breathy "I told you so"s and scattered, adrenaline-charged laughs.
His parents would be furious. But… David's just the voice of reason:
Jack's the one who keeps things interesting.
And suddenly Jack's yanking him into this full-speed, ninety-degree turn that nearly pops his arm out of socket and they go tumbling into some shadowy back alleyway, rolling across muck-incrusted pavement to land in a pell-mell mess against the wall. David's opening his mouth, about to ask Jack just what the hell that nonsense was about, but he's just hushed and ushered farther from the main street by a gleaming smile and a pair of gleeful mahogany eyes.
The pack following them runs by in this chaotic rush, shouting and laughing and trying to catch sight of the targets they've lost. Neither of them moves until the shouts start fading away, and then Jack claps him on the shoulder and laughs. It's one of those singularly Jack laughs: the kind that starts fights and fueled a friendship—the one that sticks around for a little bit longer than the ears can hear it.
"Why do I let you drag me into these things?" He asks; he's laughing, too.
Jack smirks. "You know you'd be bored stiff if you didn't."
"I'd be sane if I didn't, too." He elbows Jack playfully.
"Say's who?"
Dave just shakes his head and chuckles quietly to himself, slumping against the wall and watching the quiet curve of Jack's mouth. "Things always are more interesting when you're around, at least."
Jack's smile changes just a little bit, and he nudges David softly.
"Thanks, Davey."
Jack is a liar. Jack lies about stupid things; Jack lies about lying; Jack lies about himself.
Jack has to be lying about something, because those looks he keeps shooting aren't supposed to be for Sarah.
At least they didn't used to be.
Which means there must be a lie in there somewhere because he can't look that way at both of them and mean it, and David can't help being bitter because he knew Jack first.
The raw flare of hurt is new, though he feels like it may have taken the place of something else. The childish possessiveness is something that's likely been inbred and never grown out of. The stomach aches are inconvenient, usually.
When Sarah and Jack look at each other that way—
The stomach aches aren't inconvenient at all. He feels like a little kid.
He doesn't want to share.
Dave is distracting. Dave's been distracting since the day Jack met him; Dave never stopped being distracting even after they became friends; with Sarah there to wedge herself between them, David is still a distraction.
David pulls his attention from everything, because everything David is is… distracting.
He gives his attentions to Sarah, because he's supposed to, because he's pretty sure he wants to; all the while thoughts are frittered away on David, because there's nothing he can do.
So he stays away from David, because he's afraid of touching David the way he touches Sarah; he's afraid of saying something he's not sure he means; he's afraid of meaning it.
Because Sarah is sweet and she's pretty and soft and warm and she always smiles when she looks at him.
Because David is bright and he's clever and calm and logical and he knows just how to keep Jack from acting stupid.
And he's got these crazy, ingenious ideas and all these brilliant words and this quirk to his mouth that's completely—
Completely, what?
But David... David shouldn't take up his head. The warmth from David's hand shouldn't take more of his breath than the pressure of Sarah's lips.
It shouldn't. It shouldn't. It shouldn't!
It does.
God knows why it does.
He doesn't know what he wants.
They don't see too much of each other, now-a-days. Meetings are brief and impersonal, ending with awkward nods and hurried goodbyes.
The way David looks at him, Jack can hardly stand it. He won't stay when Jack tries to talk to him. He makes brusque excuses, he hunches his shoulders, he wanders away.
His eyes usually stay on his shoes, but they snap up real quick when Jack catches his arm.
"Don't do this, Davey," he pleads, "Whatever I did, I'm sorry." Jack's quick to apologize, because Jack knows it's his fault; because Jack can't take any more of those looks; because Jack doesn't mind taking the blame because this is David and David's always right. David's right about everything.
David wrestles his arm out of Jack's hold with a frustrated expression and a few harsh movements. "It's nothing, Jack," he says, says blankly and bleakly and empty, says in this way that's nothing like the David Jack reads in the papers, "I'm just busy."
"It's not just that." He latches on to David's arm again, and this time David just looks at the hand and doesn't throw him off.
"Jack," he says, and Jack can't understand the tone in his voice.
"I'm sorry, Davey," he says again, because there's nothing else he knows to say. Because David's the one with the words. "Let me make it up to you," he's rambling, but rambling with Jack has a tendency to sound good, "Forget the papes—let's… let's go somewhere. Talk. The way we used to. See a show. Something."
"Jack, it's a job. I can't just—" David's rambling, and rambling with Dave always seems to sound like excuses.
"Thirty minutes," Jack interrupts, "That's all I'm asking; just thirty minutes."
When David's eyes refocus on Jack's hand still there on his arm, Jack lets go with more reluctance than he dares to understand.
"Thirty minutes," David says quietly, "But that's all."
Jack's smile peers out just a little bit sadder than he means it to be. "Come on," he says, and he finds himself torn between slinging an arm around David's shoulders just like he used to, and the voice that keeps telling him it doesn't mean the same thing as before.
He's stuck awkwardly stuffing his hands in his pockets, falling into step alongside David and trying not to get too close.
The sway of David's steps bring him closer, and then farther in a maddening rhythm until Jack's ready to just give in and act on whatever instinct it is that's been nagging at him, when David opens that mouth of his and Jack's whole world stops to listen.
"You're different now, since"—he wavers for less than half a breath, but Jack hears it—"Sarah."
He wants to feign innocence; he wants to pretend David is imagining things and laugh it all off. He doesn't want to lie.
He's so sick of lying.
Of lying to David.
He doesn't say anything, because without lying, there's nothing he can say. When enough of a silence crescendos between them, David turns his gaze—quietly glaring—on Jack.
"You wanted to talk, so talk." There's an edge to his voice.
He already wields words so well already. The bite turns sting to thick, viscous pain.
"I can't figure out what to say." He keeps his voice low.
David makes a frustrated sound. "I don't have time for this." Jack catches him by the shoulders, this time so that David's is looking him straight in the eyes, even when he wasn't intending to.
"You promised me thirty minutes, Dave. Give me that much, at least."
David wrenches his shoulders away from Jack more violently than he needs to, but he falls back into step beside him without a word of protest. There's an aching quiet stretching between them, punctuated by the slap of shoes against cobbles and the clamor of surroundings that don't seem to matter.
"So, what's changed, Jack?"
"Nothin's changed," he mumbles, and that get's David raving.
"Damn it, Jack; you know it has!" He takes a step back, irritation coloring his face.
"I mean it, Dave!" Jack's all but yelling now, too. "Somethin' should have changed—nothing did! It don't make sense!"
David's eyebrows knot together and he looks at Jack with a wary confusion. "I don't understand."
Jack sighs. People are staring, now, and he motions for David to follow him. They go wordlessly for a good while, until they come across a back alley remote enough to talk without an audience. He keeps his voice low, regardless.
"Sarah should've changed something. I wouldn't have wanted her to, but she should have. She didn't. She's not—" He stops with a flustered sound, and he's stuck between being too ashamed to look at David, and too proud to look away. "It's different with you, Davey."
There's this look in David's eyes that Jack can't figure out no matter how much he wants to.
"You're not making sense, Jack!"
"I'm trying, I'm trying!" What he's really trying is not to start yelling, because he hates being at odds with David like this, because he hates having so many secrets—secrets from David, secrets from himself. He struggles to reword things: to express something he can't even understand, but a murmured sentence from David breaks every line of thought and every ounce of composure Jack had managed to collect.
"I hate seeing you with Sarah."
"You... what?" Jack can't seem to make his lungs start working again.
"I don't—I don't know." He laughs: this nervous, almost pained laugh. "I don't even know why I said that." He instinctively starts to walk away, but Jack grabs for him. In the rush to catch hold of David's shoulders, Jack's hands brush David's jaw, and he can feel the sharp intake of breath more than he can hear it.
He's trying to figure out what to say—how to explain things to David, how to keep David here, how to make everything make sense.
But Dave is distracting. The line of his lips, the blue of his eyes, the stupid, perfect spring of those curls.
"There's gotta be something wrong with me, Dave." Jack can't remember when the hands on David's shoulders eased up to cradle the back of David's neck.
David's hands are trembling, scrabbling to find purchase on Jack's chest. They fist in his shirt, for all extents and purposes dragging Jack closer, even if that wasn't what he intended.
Dave seems to do a lot by chance.
He draws a thumb across David's cheek, his heart jumping at the way David's hold on his shirt tightens and the way they each pull just a half a step closer until there's hardly room to breathe.
It's impulse now: the way David's arms inch up to wrap around Jack's shoulders, the way Jack's breath hitches when he's brushed full against David's chest. Jack runs fingers through David's hair, distracted—always distracted—by the presence of David's lips half a centimeter from his.
And he's afraid—of what kissing David would mean.
But David is David, and David's never afraid.
He hardly has to lean forward to bring their mouths together. David's arms tighten around his neck as their lips nudge each other—softly, nervously. Some kind of electric jolt runs down his spine and he's pulling David in so their mouths melt together.
Jack's palms travel down David's chest, then curve back out and up to follow the path of David's ribs, easing back to the smooth contours of David's waist. It's broader, less cinched, than the lines of the waist he's used to. David is solid. David has always been solid. David is the only thing that's constant.
Dave is a distraction. The steady weight of his head on Jack's chest is warm, and wonderful.
And distracting.
Dave makes it awfully hard to fall asleep.