Disclaimer: I own nothing and I am not making any profit whatsoever.
Summary: Just because things grow tired doesn't mean you're finished with them. And just because people grow tired doesn't mean they're finished with you. (SpotJack)
Jack Kelly pulls the brochure out of his pocket one more time: the brochure was faded and frayed, permanently molded into the curve of his hip. The brochure with " Santa Fe" just barely legible, and the Mexican man with the thick, flea-bitten donkey and kind smile. Jack grinds his torn fingernail into the man's moustache, imagining that he could hear the picture mutter, "Gringo," good-naturally under his breath every time Jack scratched a new score into the cover or drew it from his tired pants.
He could pick up a new brochure- Jack knows this- a new one with stiff, vibrant pages and a handsome Mexican woman on the cover, with ruby paint on her lips and black, glossy hair to match her steed; charming Jack to her.
But Jack Kelly doesn't want a new brochure, because as long as the man still has his kind smile, and as long as " Santa Fe" was still visible- even just barely- then Jack's dream was still there.
Jack Kelly runs his hand over Spot Conlon's russet hair one last time before returning to Manhattan. Spot's hair is slick with grease and dented from the hat that he keeps pulled low enough so that it casts a shadow over his features: maturing them a handful of years and coloring his eyes the shade of a dangerous current.
Jack swiftly brings his hand around to Spot's face, satisfied with the way his rough fingers easily mold to the smaller boy's jaw. He watches Spot's eyes, affection just barely visible, and the flesh around them contract and crinkle with distaste for corporeal care. Jack tugs at the corners of his own mouth, imagining that he can hear Spot mutter, "Pansy," under his breath each time he rubs the heel of his thumb against the peak of Spot's cheekbone.
He can find somebody else- Jack knows this- somebody who doesn't tighten or tense their muscles when he touches their waist, or build Jack up and leave him assuming and nauseated. Jack Kelly knows that he can find a lover who will croon at affection and gently touch his arm instead of hitting it if any eye strays in their direction.
But Jack Kelly doesn't want anybody else, because as long as Spot Conlon is still hardened and smug, and as long as affection was still visible in his eyes- even just barely- then Jack doesn't need a dream. He can be content with his reality.